Damaged Goods Read online

  When she finally arrived, Jack was surprised to see Lilly’s unruly hair raked back. He didn’t like it at all, not because it didn’t suit her but because he loved the mass of waves that usually tumbled around her face.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, I had a coffee morning,’ she said.

  He winked. ‘Top priority, eh?’

  ‘What would you know about my priorities?’ she barked.

  Jack took a deep breath. Lilly’s mood was as severe as her hair.

  They moved through the building to a waiting area. Dr Cheney was already there, rocking on his heels and glancing at his watch. He was a tall man with hair almost as wild as Lilly’s, a haystack that slipped past his shoulders, tucked behind his ears to reveal a shooting gallery of piercings. On his nose were perched black glasses, the standard issue of the NHS in the Seventies. Jack couldn’t easily picture him poring over photographs of blood-splatter patterns or checking particles of dust under a microscope, but knew that this was precisely how Cheney spent his time.

  Jack had first met Cheney five years ago at a leaving party for a mutual acquaintance who had been promoted to the Drug Squad. They had argued over a technician called Debbie, who they both claimed had given them the eye and for whom they had both bought a rum and Coke. When she finally left with her lips wrapped around a recently divorced dog-handler from Essex, Jack and Cheney went on a bender that finished the following lunchtime in a twenty-four-hour café next to King’s Cross. They’d been friends ever since.

  The doctor pulled off latex gloves. A tribal tattoo encircled his left wrist. ‘Officer McNally, Ms Valentine. How can I help you?’

  It was usual for the police officer to explain their visit, but Lilly was obviously in no mood for niceties.

  ‘I represent Kelsey Brand, the daughter of Grace Brand. The court is in the process of deciding whether a Care Order should be made.’

  ‘Judging by the condition of her mother I think that’s inevitable, Ms Valentine,’ the doctor said.

  One of the things Jack liked about Cheney was his sense of humour. Dark, irreverent, like his own.

  Lilly smiled politely. ‘I’ll be frank, Doctor Cheney, her mother’s death is the least of my client’s worries. If the police have their way she’ll be locked away until she’s too old to have children of her own, presuming she survives prison at all. They think Kelsey murdered her mother.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true,’ said Jack.

  Lilly’s eyes flashed. ‘Bullshit. You’re not investigating anyone else.’

  Dr Cheney coughed. Jack knew he would be amused by the scuffle, only too happy to see his friend snubbed, particularly by an attractive member of the opposite sex.

  ‘And you want to head them off at the pass,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes. I need them to drop this nonsense so I can get the poor kid into a decent foster placement. If you have any information in advance of the autopsy report I’d appreciate it,’ Lilly said.

  ‘How about confirmation that a fourteen-year-old couldn’t have committed this crime,’ said Cheney.

  Jack was irritated to notice that, despite herself, Lilly’s shoulders relaxed and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘That would be great, but anything at all would do.’

  The doctor laughed and flopped into a chair. Lilly and Jack followed suit.

  ‘As you know, the cause of death was a trauma to the base of the skull.’ Cheney touched the hairline at the nape of his neck. ‘It was made by a blunt instrument, and by my estimation there were two blows, both hard, both clean.’

  ‘What about the knife wounds?’ asked Jack, determined not to be excluded from the discussion, which was in danger of becoming a cosy chat á deux.

  Cheney answered Jack’s question but kept his eyes firmly on Lilly. ‘They’re extensive but not deep, without the blow to the head I doubt any would have proved fatal. In any event, they’re all post mortem.’

  ‘Is it possible that the killer didn’t know she was dead and simply continued the attack?’ asked Lilly, lifting her knotted hair and rubbing the pale skin of her own neck, an action so unintentionally sensual it mesmerised both men.

  Cheney recovered first and spread his palms. ‘Anything’s possible.’

  Jack forced the doctor’s attention from Lilly. ‘But you don’t think it happened that way.’

  Cheney paused, but Jack knew it would not be in hesitation. His shambolic appearance belied a precise mind and he was a man who measured his words with care. When his answer came it was emphatic.

  ‘No. The victim would have fallen to the floor almost immediately after she was struck. Even if the killer didn’t realise she was dead he must have known she was unconscious when he began cutting her. There would have been no reaction.’

  ‘Maybe he was in a frenzy and couldn’t stop,’ said Lilly.

  ‘As I said, anything’s possible, but the person who inflicted the knife wounds wasn’t out of control. He wasn’t slashing or stabbing wildly, he moved the body, laid it on the bed and began his task in a careful manner.’ Cheney drew lines in the air with his forefinger. ‘The wounds are virtually all the same length and depth, and most are evenly spaced.’

  ‘They’re all on the torso,’ said Jack unnecessarily.

  Cheney smirked, clearly aware of his friend’s efforts to redirect both his words and his gaze. ‘Yes. Nothing on the face or neck. Our assailant wanted to make his point but he didn’t want to rip her apart. There’s a degree of respect shown that’s intriguing.’

  Now they were getting somewhere. ‘Maybe the killer knew Grace, had feelings for her,’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s highly probable. There was no sign of a forced entry or a struggle and there are no defensive injuries. It seems she let the killer in, suspecting nothing,’ said Cheney.

  Lilly shook her head. ‘Isn’t it just as likely the killer was a punter? She was expecting him, she lets him in, he gives her the money, she turns round to count it, and bam.’

  ‘Why cut her up?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Who knows what people get off on? Some like shagging dogs, some like being whipped. Men are a curious breed, maybe some like cutting people up,’ said Lilly.

  Dr Cheney considered this for a moment. ‘That would be a good theory, except the body has no evidence of any sexual activity, nor were any traces of semen found at the scene.’

  Lilly snapped open the top button of her suit and scratched her throat, leaving vicious welts. Jack resisted the temptation to move her hand.

  ‘Surely we’re looking at a man? From a purely practical point of view he’d need to be strong enough to kill her outright and then move the body,’ said Lilly.

  ‘The blow to the head could have been caused by anyone strong enough to swing a pan or a hammer, male or female. It’s the density of the weapon that proved fatal,’ said Cheney, ‘and I’m afraid the deceased weighed only six and a half stone when she died.’

  ‘Junkies don’t eat much,’ said Jack.

  Cheney nodded. ‘Anyone could have dragged the body out of the kitchen.’

  ‘Even a fourteen-year-old girl,’ said Jack.

  Lilly jumped to her feet and shook Cheney’s hand. ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  Then she left without giving Jack so much as a sideways glance.

  Cheney reached for his gloves and chuckled. ‘If you were hoping for your leg over, Jack, I think you can forget it.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  At 7 p.m. Miriam arrived at the Batfield Arms to meet Lilly. She bought two gin and tonics at the bar and made for their usual table.

  Lilly gratefully accepted the drink. It was her fourth. She took a long gulp and pushed the letter across the table.

  ‘This is a copy so I’m assuming you have the original.’

  Miriam shook her head slowly. ‘It was sent to Kelsey’s mum at her request.’

  ‘You took a copy for your records and sent one to me with the other documents relating to her time in care,’ said Lilly.


  Miriam nodded. ‘Standard procedure.’

  ‘Has anyone else seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  Lilly put her forehead on the sticky table. Part of her had hoped social services, the police and the pope himself had already seen it.

  ‘It doesn’t mean she did it,’ Miriam said.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but it’s material evidence that points in her general direction.’

  ‘I think it’s just a bit of ranting from a distraught child.’

  Lilly banged her head repeatedly against the hard wood of the table. ‘Of course you do, Miriam, which is why you’re so brilliant at what you do. You see the good in all these lousy kids no matter what they’ve done.’

  A look of deep sadness followed by quiet resignation fell across Miriam’s face. ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘But not me. I have to remain objective. I went to see the pathologist today and there’s no good reason why Kelsey couldn’t have done it. In fact, it’s likely there was a close bond between murderer and victim. I have to imagine what other people will make of that, coupled with a letter that looks like a bloody confession,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Do they have to see it?’ asked Miriam.

  Lilly sighed. ‘It might not be down to me. The police might find the original.’

  ‘This is a murder investigation, the police will have been through everything in the flat. My guess is the mother destroyed it.’

  They sat in silence. Lilly knew that Miriam had destroyed her copy as well. She drained her glass and accepted that the ultimate decision did indeed lie with her.

  ‘I would never ask you to do anything wrong, Lilly, but you know what this would mean,’ Miriam said.

  Lilly squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the aftermath of disclosing this piece of evidence. The police would have enough to pursue Kelsey. With Mrs Mitchell’s statement they might even secure a conviction. A child locked away with adult criminals. It was a pressure some kids couldn’t bear.

  ‘My duty to the court in care proceedings overrides everything else. If information comes my way that may affect the child’s wellbeing then I must disclose it. It’s then a matter for the judge whether or not the evidence is passed to the police.’

  ‘But you have a different duty in criminal proceedings,’ Miriam pointed out.

  ‘The client’s confidentiality is paramount in those cases. I’m not obliged to assist the prosecution in any way. I certainly shouldn’t actively help them build their case,’ said Lilly.

  ‘That’s a pretty heavy conflict,’ said Miriam.

  Tears stung Lilly’s eyes. ‘At the moment this is a care case so I ought to show the letter to the judge …’

  ‘But,’ said Miriam.

  ‘But I get the feeling it won’t be long before the police make their involvement official.’

  ‘Arrest her?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Bound to,’ said Lilly. ‘And I wouldn’t want to make matters worse by waving around a letter they’ll just use against her.’

  She had no idea what to do.

  Finally she sniffed and said, more to herself than to Miriam, ‘Maybe the police will find out who killed Grace before I have to decide.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Friday, 11 September

  Lilly arrived at The Bushes at 10 a.m. with the sun already soaring high and clear. After the discomfort of the previous day she’d dressed in a T-shirt, but when she got out of the car she rubbed her arms as the chill of the shadows greeted her.

  Her plan was to find out what her client knew. Although the law made it clear that the child’s welfare was paramount, Lilly wasn’t about to abet a serial killer. Some straight talking was called for. She checked herself. Kelsey, of course, couldn’t talk.

  In Lilly’s bag were a paper and pen. Not great, but it would have to do.

  Lilly looked down at the photograph. It was a police mugshot taken a year before Grace’s death, when she was picked up in a sweep of the red-light district. The mother of four had been twenty-nine when she died but looked nearer to forty. Her face was thin with eyes buried deep in their sockets, her skin pulled taut over her cheekbones. She had spots and wrinkles, the remarkable combination a result of long-term abuse, both physical and emotional. Her name was Grace, but never had a person been so misnamed.

  Lilly wondered whether the poor soul had ever been truly happy.

  She thought of the photograph taken by the sea, of the picture pinned to the fridge. It didn’t need a detective to realise the only thing of any worth in Grace’s life had been her family.

  She pushed the photo towards Kelsey, who sat in silence at the other side of her bed, a notepad and pen beside her. All Lilly’s harsh thoughts subsided. This was a child, and a traumatised one at that.

  ‘Tell me about your mum.’

  Kelsey shrugged and began to pick the scabs around her mouth, lifting the edges with the nail of her little finger.

  ‘Okay, tell me about your sisters. Were you close? Did you fight?’ Lilly asked.

  Kelsey couldn’t smile because of the scabs but a light danced in her eyes. It was the first Lilly had ever seen there and it answered both questions.

  ‘Big families are like that. My brothers used to beat me up every afternoon so they could watch their programmes on the telly,’ said Lilly, who was an only child.

  Kelsey’s nod was emphatic.

  ‘I bet you used to let the little ones get their own way in the end.’

  Again, the twinkle in her eyes was fleeting but it was there.

  ‘Did you have to help out a lot?’

  Kelsey put out her hand and rocked it to and fro.

  ‘I suppose everyone had to chip in?’

  The girl nodded.

  Now for the hard one. ‘Someone killed your mum, Kelsey, and the police think it was you.’ Lilly swallowed. ‘Did you kill her?’

  Kelsey shook her head very slowly. Lilly watched intently for any sign of deceit.

  ‘So who did?’

  Kelsey looked down and went back to the scabs.

  ‘How about a punter, did they ever come to the flat?’ Lilly asked.

  The girl held up her hand and seesawed it again. Sometimes.

  ‘Were they ever strangers?’

  Kelsey frowned and shook her head vigorously.

  ‘So the only punters allowed at the flat were regulars – and the others, where did she service them?’

  Kelsey picked up the pen and scribbled the word message.

  ‘Message?’ Lilly shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Kelsey put down her pen and stroked her arms and legs.

  ‘You mean massage! Your mum saw clients at a massage parlour,’ said Lilly.

  Kelsey nodded.

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  Kelsey spread her arms wide.

  ‘Lots of different ones.’

  Lilly wasn’t surprised. Working girls often spread themselves thinly.

  ‘Now tell me about Max,’ said Lilly. ‘Was he your mum’s pimp?’

  A single but firm shake of the head. A definite no.

  ‘What then? A friend?’

  Kelsey shrugged.

  God, this was hard going, but Lilly tried not to show it.

  ‘How did they meet?’

  Lilly was shocked when Kelsey pointed to the floor and to the walls.

  ‘Here! Grace knew Max when he lived here?’

  Kelsey nodded.

  ‘Did she visit him here?’

  Kelsey looked puzzled and shook her head.

  Lilly tried to grasp where she’d gone wrong. ‘Not here. Your mum didn’t visit Max here.’

  Kelsey knitted her brow. She was adamant. Grace had not visited Max in The Bushes. She picked up the photograph of her dead mother and pointed to the bed.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Lilly. ‘Write it down for me.’

  When Kelsey finished scribbling Lilly almost shouted out.

  Mum was in care as well.

  Grace h
ad lived here too. She and Max went back years and had stayed in touch all that time. Could this be the close relationship Dr Cheney had described?

  ‘Was he ever violent to your mum?’

  Kelsey nodded then shook her head. Her eyes were bright with tears as if the truth were unfathomable.

  Lilly wanted to shake Kelsey. Couldn’t the kid see how important this was? But one glance at Kelsey told Lilly she didn’t see that at all. She had lost her mum and everything else was of no consequence.

  Lilly leaned over and gently moved Kelsey’s hand from her mouth, which had started to bleed.

  ‘I am truly sorry about your mum. It must be the worst thing that has ever happened to you.’

  Kelsey held Lilly’s gaze then picked up the notebook again.

  The worst thing was when we got split up.

  Charlene scrambled through the contents of her rucksack to locate her phone. Another text had come through, the fourth in so many days. When she had received the first she thought he was taking the piss but she had been wrong, he meant what he was saying. She reread all four and glowed. Apart from him, no one had ever said she was special.

  Max parked his car across from the market. He wound down his window and waited for the girl to arrive.

  He’d sent numerous texts but it wasn’t a prearranged meeting. Most of the kids from The Bushes headed down here at lunchtime to mooch around the stalls and eat chips from white polystyrene trays.

  He and Grace had done it themselves, laughing hysterically, arms linked, sharing their food if they were skint, which they were more often than not. If Gracie’s dad had had any luck on the horses he’d send her some cash and she’d treat them both to a battered sausage and chips. Since Grace could never manage more than a few mouthfuls before handing on her tray, Max would end up with a lunch fit for a sumo wrestler.

  ‘You’ve got hollow legs,’ she’d tease, trying to pinch the skin around his ribs.

  Max had often wondered why Grace didn’t live with her dad, since he obviously loved his daughter enough to share his good fortune, even if he was a bit handy with his fists.