Kitabı oku: «Take It Back», sayfa 5

‘What is up with you anyway?’ She glanced at Jodie in the corner. ‘You’ve been totally deranged lately. I know your mum’s been ill but FFS.’ When Jodie said nothing, Nina sat up in exasperation. ‘Come on. It’s not like she’s got cancer; she’s ill coz she likes to drink. Why should you have to stay home and suffer for it?’

Jodie grimaced. ‘She’s going through a rough patch.’ In truth, she was no worse than usual but Jodie needed a reason to hide.

Nina sighed ostentatiously. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just that there’s nothing to do in this shitty place. I’m bored and I’ve missed you.’

Jodie stirred in surprise. She felt a sudden warmth for her friend, normally so poised and aloof.

‘Christ, don’t get all emosh on me.’ Nina rolled her eyes but then gestured to the bed. ‘Come on, tell me what’s up.’

Jodie walked over and sat gingerly. Nina, for all her bluff and bravado, showed a keen sense of awareness whenever things were wrong. At school, she wielded this power for both good and evil, lending succour to the girls she liked and cruelly skewering those she did not. In year eight, she would pick out the girl who’d started her first period, or the one wearing a bra for the very first time and use it to tease them without mercy. Now, eager to learn what was wrong with Jodie, she honeyed her voice so that it was soft and warm, and encouraged her to speak.

Jodie shifted on the bed, wanting to please her friend but sick at the thought of sharing her story.

Nina placed an arm around her. ‘Come on. Whatever it is, I’ll help you fix it.’

Doubt lanced through Jodie’s stomach, mixing with the dead weight of fear. She opened her mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again. She took two rapid breaths, then gathered her strength and said, ‘You remember Kuli’s party?’

Nina’s interest was piqued, her brows arching over jade green eyes. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

‘At the party, the last time I saw you, you were dancing with that boy from Redbridge.’ Jodie’s words were soft and stilted. ‘After a while I couldn’t find you so I went out to the canal. I felt stupid in your clothes and wanted to be alone. After a while, I heard footsteps.’ Jodie tensed, fearing Nina’s reaction. ‘It was Amir.’

Nina’s face flushed red. ‘Who was he with?’

‘No one.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Okaaay. And then?’

Jodie picked at a thread in her quilt. ‘He came up to me and started talking.’

Nina frowned but said nothing.

‘I told him that I couldn’t find you and he said he knew where you were; that you had gone to a private party.’

Nina stiffened. ‘That bastard. What rumours was he spreading about me?’

‘It—it wasn’t about you,’ stuttered Jodie. She searched her friend’s face for clues. Nina acted indifferent to Amir but she had once pondered to Jodie that since both she and Amir had green eyes, their children would certainly inherit them.

Jodie was tempted to backtrack, to bury her worry and tell Nina nothing. But wouldn’t it all be revealed regardless? And wouldn’t Nina be angry that she hadn’t been honest? Jodie laced her hands in her lap and cautiously continued. ‘He told me he would take me to the party. Instead, he took me to this warehouse a few metres down the canal. I don’t know if you know it – the tall one with all the broken windows?’

Nina shrugged impatiently.

‘When we got inside, the others turned up.’

Nina threw her ball against the far wall. ‘They had a party without me? And you were there?’

‘Nina, please, that’s not what happened,’ said Jodie, needing her friend to listen. ‘Hassan, Mo and Farid came out of nowhere. They were all drunk and rowdy.’ There was a catch in her voice and she willed herself to be calm, for Nina couldn’t stand theatrics. ‘They started to tease Amir, egging him on, and he … he started touching me.’

Nina’s eyes grew impossibly wide. Then after a pause of breathless silence, she burst into peals of laughter. ‘Ha, good one!’ She pushed Jodie’s shoulder in jest. ‘You’re such a fucking psycho sometimes but you know what? I fucking love you.’ When she saw that Jodie was silent, her laughter grew shrill. Then, it came to an abrupt stop. ‘Jodie?’

Big glassy tears welled in Jodie’s eyes. ‘They took turns.’

Nina stiffened. ‘Doing what?’ Her voice was suddenly hard. ‘What did they do?’

Jodie pulled her hoodie tight around her body. ‘They raped me.’

Nina’s face grew pink. ‘Jo, tell me you’re kidding.’

Jodie shook her head, blinking quickly so that her tears would spread on lashes and not across her cheeks.

Nina shot up from the bed. ‘What the fuck?’

Jodie registered her anger and worried about what she might do. ‘Nina, please don’t confront them. The police are going to—’

‘You’ve gone to the police?’ Nina’s mouth goldfished open and closed. ‘Jesus Christ, Jodie. Everyone always said you were a freak but I’ve always defended you. What the fuck are you doing?’

Jodie flinched with surprise. ‘That’s not—’

‘Those boys didn’t touch you!’ Nina was suddenly furious. ‘Our whole school knows you’ve been mooning after Amir for years. I’ve seen the way you look at him, the way you sidle up to me when he’s in a three-mile radius just in case he should come up to me and notice that you exist!’

The last three words hit Jodie like blows: a strike to her head, then one to the neck and the last a punch in the stomach.

‘My God,’ spat Nina. ‘How did you come up with something so twisted?’

‘Nina.’ Jodie’s voice was pleading. ‘I’m not making it up.’

‘Look, no one’s going to believe you and you’ll make a fool of yourself, not to mention me who’s always defended you.’ She flung a hand at the door. ‘Does Massi know about this?’

Jodie bridled at Nina’s affectionate name for her mother. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘And?’

Jodie felt her heart contract. ‘She reacted like you.’ She closed her eyes so that hot tears now spilled across her face. She felt her resolve bend beneath the pain almost until it was broken. Desperately, she willed her friend to believe her. She could accept that her mother in a stupor of drink couldn’t see right from wrong, but not that Nina – who had only ever seen Jodie do good – would accuse her now of being a liar.

Noting Jodie’s distress, Nina firmly gripped her shoulders. ‘Look, Jo, I’m not doing this to be a bitch but if your own mother and your own best friend are telling you something, you should listen to them. If you told me that those boys got you in that room and slagged you off or called you names or pushed you around, I would have gone and ripped their fucking heads off. But everyone knows you’ve been in love with Amir for, like, ever. No one’s going to believe you. Plus …’ Nina shrugged, ‘they’re good boys, they pray and they respect their families. No one would believe they’d do what you’re saying – even to a normal girl.’

Jodie’s stomach lurched with a deep-seated anger for trusting her friend.

Nina tossed a glance at the wall clock. ‘Look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get home. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.’ She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Jodie’s head. ‘We’ll fix this. I promise.’

Jodie watched Nina saunter from the room and close the door with a flourish. With shaking fingers, she reached for her phone and switched it off with a sob.

Chapter Four

The train slid to a stop at Greenwich DLR station. Scores of revellers spilled forward in keen pursuit of rare Saturday sun. They moved as one, pale limbs protruding from too-short shorts and sandals criss-crossing week-wearied feet.

Zara weaved her way through them and stepped onto the train moments before the doors slid shut. Immediately, she felt the draw of attention, a dozen pinpricks piercing skin. She took a seat and made involuntary eye contact with the passenger opposite, an athletic man in a dark green bomber jacket and pepper-coloured crewcut. They both looked away. A second later, his gaze flitted back and seemingly undetected took rest on her face. Over the next three stops, he stared at her body, darting from breasts to lips.

It took her back to the day she was waiting for a friend outside Mile End station. A group of Asian men, all in their early twenties, catcalled from a passing car. Zara scowled and averted her gaze. They laughed derisively and one leaned through a window. Oh, please! he shouted. Look at what you’re wearing!

A red dress, yes, and three-inch heels, but there was no hint of cleavage. She hated herself for making that distinction. Would she otherwise be fair game? The compulsion to bargain with her own sense of decency was a relic of her pious childhood. Now, under the glare of the crewcut’s gaze, she struggled with it once again.

When the train stopped at Bow Road, she stepped onto the platform and with practised speed gathered up her hair in a bun. She no longer wore the headscarf but the censure linked to free-flowing hair still bubbled beneath her skin, because of course a woman’s mane, full of seduction and deceit, was not to be flaunted lest it tempted men to think about fucking her.

Zara thought about this bitterly as she wrapped a pashmina around her shoulders and, modesty resealed, walked briskly down the stairs and across the street to her childhood home. It was a neat two-storey house wedged between a pair just like it. Pure white curtains hung in all the windows and a row of immaculate plants sat in the little garden out front.

Despite clear effort to the contrary, the place gave off an air of poverty. Perhaps it was the dark brown brick so pervasive on East London estates or the drooping gutter the council refused to fix, but the house felt sad and heavy above Zara’s silhouette.

She reached forward and rang the bell. She was the only child of four who didn’t have a key. She had left that behind with everything else.

‘Assalamu alaikum.’ She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, something that only now, at thirty, felt halfway natural.

‘Walaikum assalam.’ Her mother beckoned her inside.

Fatima Kaleel was a tall woman once, the formidable matriarch of the family. Now the streaks of grey, the burden of age and the weight of bereavement pressed heavy on her shoulders, reducing her to a frailer version of her former self. Her harsh features had softened, her cut-glass cheekbones swallowed by aging skin. Even her frown lines of anger now looked like wearied wisdom.

Zara was not yet sure if this softer incarnation comforted her or terrified her. Her mother was now ‘elderly’ and one day soon they would have to talk about the past and they would have to exchange forgiveness. But not today. Today would be another of words unsaid.

Zara slipped off her coat and hung it by the base of the stairs. She paused for a moment and picked it up again. Sure enough, there was the distinctive dark blue coat that belonged to her older brother, Rafiq.

She turned to her mother. ‘Is Bhaisaab here?’

Fatima nodded, her lips tight with tension.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t come.’

Zara swallowed her reaction. ‘Where is he?’

‘Upstairs.’

Zara sighed. Kicking off her shoes, she marched into the living room. First, she greeted her sisters. Salma, the eldest, sat with her legs crossed primly at the ankles. She tilted her face upwards to accept Zara’s kiss and checked her watch while doing so. Salma’s life was measured in one-hour slots, always racing against an invisible hourglass. It was Saturday, which meant her kids were at Arabic class, to be collected in precisely twenty-five minutes. After that, an hour for lunch, then the drive home to Ilford, so that her husband could have the car for the second of his split shift.

Lena, the youngest, sat with her legs curled beneath her. She caught Zara’s eye and rolled hers discreetly, a signal that their brother was being especially tiresome. Lena was naturally quiet, but nursed a spiky wit. When an uncle recently marvelled that her husband was minding her child, she smiled sweetly and said, ‘Yes, Jash is very excited to continue being a father’. Of course, where Lena used wit, Zara used force and she now turned breezily to their brother in the corner.

‘Hi Bhaisaab, how are you?’ she asked evenly.

He leaned back on the kingly sofa while his wife, Amina, fussed over tea. A faint smirk settled on his features. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘Sit down.’ His words pulsed with an imperiousness found only in cosseted Asian men and their rich white peers.

Zara leaned on a wall instead, not yet too old for these small acts of defiance.

Rafiq took a bite of bora, a puff of steam curling visibly upward. He chewed slowly for a full minute. ‘So where are you living now?’

‘The same place I was living last time you asked.’

His face grew tight. ‘You can never answer something simply, can you?’

‘Is “yes” simple enough for you?’ She watched a vein contract in his temple.

Salma sighed. ‘Would you two give it a rest?’

Rafiq ignored her. ‘How much is your mortgage?’ he asked.

Zara shrugged. ‘The same as the last time you asked.’

‘Why don’t you rent it out and move back in with Mum? You could be making thousands.’

‘If we’re going to use that logic, why don’t we all move back in with Mum?’

His eyes grew wide, surprised as ever by her gall. ‘Tafa kayteh?’

Zara almost laughed at the predictability of his catchphrase. Do you want a slap? She straightened. ‘Rather not, but thanks for the offer.’

He pushed the table away from him in a single forceful blow, making his teacup rattle on its saucer.

Salma held up a hand. ‘Rafiq, that’s enough.’

He turned his anger to a more amenable target. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he growled at Amina. ‘Don’t make my tea so fucking strong! This isn’t Bangladesh. We get our milk from Tesco, you understand? We’re not gonna send you to the fields to milk the cows at dawn.’

‘Rafiq,’ Salma’s voice grew stern. ‘I said that’s enough.’ She, though benign in nature, was never scared to step in. As the eldest child, she had the advantage of age, which in their culture, superseded gender. She could scold him with impunity, but she used this power sparingly, aware that allowing some transgressions prevented the ones that mattered most.

Like a defiant child, Rafiq pushed the table again, now spilling tea across the shiny mahogany.

‘I am sorry,’ said Amina, dabbing at the tea with the corner of her sari. The heavy roll of her ‘r’ grated on him, she knew, but it surfaced at times of stress despite her best efforts. ‘I will make you another one.’ She gathered the debris and hurried from the room.

Zara closed her eyes to calm herself. With a slow, deep breath, she followed her sister-in-law to the kitchen.

Amina busied herself with the kettle. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

Zara frowned. ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do. God knows you get enough of that from him, but you’re a smart woman, Amina. You taught yourself English in two years and you speak it better than he does. If you want your own life, I can help you.’

Amina shook her head. ‘Zar, I don’t need the freedoms you do.’

‘But don’t you want them?’

Amina smiled wistfully. ‘I have more than I could ever have imagined. It’s enough for me.’

Zara blinked. ‘And him? He is enough for you?’

Amina placed the small white teacup in the centre of the saucer. ‘He is a good person at heart. He just expected more from life.’ She lifted the teacup and dabbed it with a kitchen towel, absorbing the extra moisture. ‘He thinks a lot of you, you know. When you’re not there, he tells people about his sister, the successful lawyer and property owner. He tells them how you used to beat him at chess when you were only six years old, or how you knew every word he picked from a dictionary.’

Amina spun the cup around, lining the handle in a precise horizontal line. ‘In your presence, however, he remembers everything he should have been. He knows he was given every chance to excel when you had to fight for it all and I think that makes him feel small. He uses piety as a shield, but he does think highly of you.’

Zara swallowed. ‘Maybe he can learn to feel big without stepping on me to do it.’ She sighed. ‘Look, if you ever change your mind, promise me you’ll call me. I have space, money, whatever you need.’

Her sister-in-law kissed her cheek. ‘I know, Zar. Thank you.’

Zara wanted to say more, but knew that dogma was tiresome. Amina knew what was best for her and Zara had to respect that. She said goodbye instead, then turned and left the kitchen. She retrieved her coat and pulled it on with grim determination.

‘Deka oyboh,’ she said, a perfunctory parting tossed inside the living room.

Her mother walked into the corridor. ‘Why are you going?’

‘I can’t deal with him.’

‘Why don’t you just ignore him?’

‘Why doesn’t he just shut his mouth?’ The words sounded churlish to even her own ears but it was too late to rein them in. She blinked beneath her mother’s gaze, wishing she had the words to explain why she couldn’t just ignore him, why she couldn’t just be okay with another man controlling the women around her. Perhaps her mother would never understand. After a lifetime of outsourcing her choices, could she appreciate the value of making her own?

Zara took a stiff breath. ‘I’ll come round another day.’ She walked out and closed the door with a decisive thud. The wind snapped at her face, making her eyes water. She clasped her hands together and held the tips to her lips, breathing deeply once, twice, thrice. Then, she walked away just like before.

The dark brick exterior of the Wentworth Estate held the stench of peaty damp mixed with stale urine. Cracked white trim lined the balconies while a heap of rust-red bicycles lent the place an eerie dystopian feel. Zara sidestepped a bag of rubbish, ripe in the summer sun, and started up the concrete stairwell. She slipped on a slushy piece of greying cardboard and steadied herself on the black iron banister. Carefully, she rounded the corner onto the communal first-floor balcony and knocked lightly on a brown door marked seven. It swung open with a long whine.

In the corridor stood a woman in her late thirties, rail thin, dressed in leggings and a baggy brown jumper. Her thin lips stretched across a tight face and her hair, gathered in a messy bun, was platinum blonde with streaks of black. She tapped her cigarette and the ash floated down to the grey linoleum floor.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the woman rasped.

‘Ms Wolfe?’ Zara’s tone was neutral. ‘I’m Zara Kaleel from Artemis House. Has Jodie spoken to you about my visit?’ The question was met with silence. ‘May I come in?’ Zara hazarded a step inside.

The woman jabbed a thumb at the living room. She took a deep drag of her cigarette, her cheeks growing concave like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Zara stepped around her through a cloud of nicotine. She pushed open the living-room door and spotted Jodie on a sofa, knees to her chest and arms wrapped around them. ‘Everything alright?’

Jodie glanced up. ‘Yes.’

Zara closed the door behind her. ‘I take it that’s your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘She seems angry.’

Jodie nodded plaintively. ‘She usually is.’

Zara perched on the sofa. ‘Has she spoken to you about what happened?’

Before Jodie could answer, her mother entered the room.

‘So,’ said Christine. ‘Are you the one putting these grand ideas into her head?’ She tapped her cigarette and sent another wisp of ash floating to the floor. She didn’t wait for Zara’s answer. ‘That girl’s been nothin’ but trouble since the day she was born. You wanna make sure you watch her. She ain’t so fuckin’ innocent.’

Zara gestured at the sofa. ‘Ms Wolfe, please sit down.’

‘Don’t you tell me to sit down,’ she snapped. ‘This is my home. Who said you could sit down?’ She stubbed her cigarette into a glass ashtray. ‘Tellin’ me to sit down in my own home. This is my home.’

Zara held up a palm. ‘Ms Wolfe, it is perfectly normal to feel what you’re feeling. Many parents of victims feel disbelief, denial or even rage.’

The woman laughed – a high, amused trill you might hear wafting from a fairground. ‘“Victims?”’ She laughed again. ‘Jodie ain’t no victim. Jodie wants attention. It’s always been “me me me” with her.’

Zara glanced at Jodie with a fierce tug of pity. It was little wonder she had tried to keep her from Christine. She appealed to her now with gentle sincerity, ‘Your daughter needs your support, Ms Wolfe. She needs you.’

The woman glowered. ‘I love that girl. I gave up her father for her. Love of my life he was but I let him go. Don’t you tell me what I need to do. I done everything for her but I ain’t to be made no laughing stock.’ She turned to Jodie. ‘You need to get your head straight ’cause I ain’t havin’ no part in this.’ She shoved the ashtray away from her. ‘I told you, didn’t I? You’re on your own.’ With that, she turned and stalked to the balcony.

Colour washed through Jodie’s face. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, aiming for upbeat but sounding sad and small.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Zara. ‘It’s not unusual for parents to feel anger and denial. It’s a coping mechanism.’

Jodie grimaced. ‘Mum’s not trying to cope. She thinks I’m a liar.’

Zara blinked. It was the second time that day that Jodie’s story had been questioned. Zara moved onto the seat of the sofa and turned to face the girl. ‘Listen, Jodie, I’m here to take care of you. If your mother won’t do it, I will. If those boys raped you, they will face their day in court.’

Jodie pulled away. ‘If they raped me?’ She gripped the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I thought you believed me.’

Zara exhaled slowly. ‘I do believe you and I want to make sure that we can prove you’re telling the truth.’ She paused. ‘Jodie, we are making very serious allegations against four people so we need to be absolutely sure that we are clear on the details of what happened. We have to be certain that your recollection of events is unmarred by alcohol or drugs or hazy memory.’

Jodie caught the undertone in her voice. ‘Something’s changed,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

Zara moved aside a cushion that sat in the gap between them. ‘When I first took this role, I wasn’t sure that it was right for me. I don’t tiptoe around sensitive subjects, offering tea and sympathy, but I soon realised that I’m perfect for it. I understand what the law needs to prosecute a case and I can help tease it from my charges. I can give them the best chance at justice – but I need to know everything, not just an edited version.’ She paused. ‘I believe you. I will always believe you but I also need to assess what others see and think.’

Jodie threaded her fingers in her lap. ‘What happened? Did you speak to Nina?’

Zara pulled back in surprise. Did Jodie’s best friend doubt her too? ‘I’m going to be honest with you,’ she said. ‘One of our investigators met Farid last week. I don’t know exactly what he said, but our investigator asked me to double-check all the details. She said there were some inconsistencies and she wants to make sure we have everything right.’

Jodie shifted in her seat. ‘Your investigator – was she that tall girl in reception with the dark hair?’

‘Yes.’

Jodie nodded knowingly. ‘She’s beautiful.’

Zara pictured Erin’s porcelain skin, her jet black hair and long, dark lashes. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘She dresses like she knows it.’

‘Yes, she does.’

Jodie considered this. ‘Was life always easy? Being pretty?’ she asked.

‘I wasn’t always pretty.’

She scoffed. ‘Your investigator doesn’t believe me because when she’s around, men don’t look at other women. She goes through life knowing that she’s better than others around her so she lowers them in her mind – maybe without even knowing that she’s doing it. Me? I’m the lowest you can get. I’m a piece of fluff on her jacket, I’m a stick of gum on the floor. I’m someone she wouldn’t even notice if I wasn’t so ugly.’ Jodie’s voice grew hard. ‘Things happened the way I remember them and, no, they’re not “marred” by alcohol or drugs or hazy memory.’ She met Zara’s eyes. ‘I am not a liar.’

Zara felt a wash of relief. She reached out and touched the girl’s hand. ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’

DC Dexter smoothed down his jacket and desperately wished the next resident wasn’t Asian. With his reddish brown hair and generous sweep of freckles, he was so conspicuously white, so conspicuously different that every potential witness had rejected him without thought. Door after door had been shut in his face – quietly and respectfully but always without pause. One family after another refused to talk to him, refused to even acknowledge what had happened in their midst.

He approached the next house and knocked lightly on its door, recently painted a burgundy brown. He waited as the person inside undid a series of locks and bolts. Finally, a woman in her mid-forties peeked out through the gap. Dexter noted with dismay that she was indeed Asian.

‘Yes?’ she asked haltingly.

Dexter recalled Zara’s instructions. ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ he greeted her.

The woman opened the door a few inches wider. ‘Walaikum assalam.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Afternoon, madam. I’m Detective Constable John Dexter from the London Metropolitan Police. I was hoping to ask you some questions about a party that took place in the area on Thursday the twenty-seventh of June.’

The woman frowned. ‘What about it?’

Dexter was pleased to hear her clear London accent. ‘I’m investigating an incident that happened at the party and would like to know if you saw anything.’ He embellished his glottal stops, hoping to show that he was a local too. ‘May I come in?’

She guarded the entrance. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ She nodded at his badge. ‘Sorry, but those things can be bought on the internet for a fiver. My son got one for his end-of-year school play.’

Dexter broke into a smile. ‘That’s alright, madam. Here’s absolutely fine.’ He was just happy to have someone engage. Notebook in hand, he asked: ‘Does your son go to Bow Road Secondary School down the road?’

A bolt of fear flashed across her face. ‘Akif? Has something happened to him?’

Dexter held out a hand. ‘No, no, madam, he’s fine. This is about something else. Has Akif ever mentioned a girl in his school – a Jodie Wolfe?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘She, uh, has a few facial differences?’ Dexter prodded.

‘Ah, yes.’ She nodded in recognition. ‘That poor girl. She passes this way sometimes.’

‘Do you remember the party? It was Thursday the twenty-seventh of June?’

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Akif was in a black mood because I didn’t let him go.’

‘Did you see any of the kids who went to the party?’

‘Ha! See them? I saw them, heard them and cursed them! They were shouting and singing and being fools all night. I can’t think what the parents of these children must be like.’

Dexter nodded sympathetically. ‘Did you see Jodie?’

‘The girl with the face? No, I don’t think so. I can’t think what she’d be doing at a party anyway.’

Dexter persevered. ‘Jodie was dressed in blue jeans and a lacy red top. Did you see anyone fitting that description?’

‘A lacy top!’ The woman threw back her head and laughed. ‘No, I certainly did not see that girl in a lacy red top anywhere. I’m sure I would have noticed it.’

Dexter made a note. ‘Did you see anything that was unusual or out of place?’

‘No. Why?’ The woman grew serious. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re investigating an incident that happened that night.’

‘What kind of incident?’ she asked.

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

She frowned, annoyed. ‘Well, I didn’t see anything. There were a few kids throwing things around later at night and the noise went on ’til all hours but that’s it.’

Dexter probed her further but discovered nothing more. Finally, he handed her his card and thanked her for her time. Wearily, he moved next door. There, he found no answer. In this community the police brought only bad news. No good would come of helping them, so most didn’t deign to try.

It was three houses later that he saw the woman from the burgundy door again.

She approached him tentatively. ‘Officer, did the girl with the face have her hair tied up?’

Dexter brightened. ‘She did, yes.’

The woman’s jaw fell open. ‘Would you believe that from the back, that girl looks like a model? I did see her that night. I just didn’t realise it was her, though now that I think about it, she did have that strange limping walk.’

‘Where was she? What was she doing?’

The woman gestured at the big warehouse by the canal. ‘They were walking towards there.’

‘“They?”’

She smiled. ‘Your girl was with a boy. They were holding hands and he was leading her towards the canal. I was putting out the rubbish and I saw them. Unbelievable what kids get up to these days. I tell you, I wouldn’t expect it of her. Can’t think who’d want to …’ She paused. ‘Well, you know,’ she said, sotto voce.

Dexter ignored this. Instead, he asked, ‘They were holding hands?’

‘Yes.’ The woman arched her brows in judgment.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, completely.’

Dexter made a note, his features knotted in a frown. ‘What happened after that?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing. I just saw them go off and disappear. That was it.’

‘Okay, thank you.’ Dexter took the woman’s details and warned that he’d be in touch. He turned the corner and called the office.

Zara held up a forefinger. ‘I just need to finish this section.’

Erin pulled out a chair and took a seat opposite. She stretched out her long legs and propped one ankle on top of the other. The silver buckle of her sturdy boot glinted in the sunlight and though it made her squint, she watched it while she waited.