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Authors: Patricia Hall
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There’s no one official in at the moment.’
Mower offered her the artist’s impression of the dead girl.
‘Do you know this girl?’ he asked.
Rosemary hesitated. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, suspicion suddenly closing her face tight.
‘I’m trying to identify her,’ Mower said, keeping his voice level. ‘She’s been found dead.’ Rosemary’s face crumpled slightly and she turned even paler as she shook her head.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, with a catch in her voice. ‘I thought…it’s just that we meet so many people here who don’t want anything to do with the police.’
‘And you cover for them, do you?’ Mower snapped.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. But you have to be so careful. We need people to trust us if we’re to help them. So many of them are so very frightened…’
‘This girl isn’t frightened. Not any more, anyway. She’s been murdered, drowned in the canal,’ Mower said more quietly. ‘She’s not going to need your help, if she ever did. But we owe her ours. And first, we need to know who she is.’
Rosemary took the artist’s impression and studied it carefully for a moment, then handed it back to Mower, who took hold of it irritably and slammed it down on the counter with the flat of his hand.
‘That’s for you – to keep, to help trace her,’ he said. ‘Have you ever seen her before?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know her. Do you want me to ask my colleagues when they come back?’
‘I want you to ask everyone who comes in here,’ Mower said. ‘Colleagues, clients, legal, illegal, everyone. This is a murder inquiry and so far we don’t even know who the victim is. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Rosemary said, flinching slightly from the Sergeant’s vehemence.
‘Do you deal with many African clients?’
‘Some, from Somalia and Eritrea, asylum seekers who’ve been dumped – I mean moved – here from London,’ Rosemary said. ‘But this girl looks more like a West African. We don’t get so many West Africans.’
‘Sierra Leone, someone suggested.’
‘Maybe, or Nigeria. I’ll make sure we show the picture to all our black clients. Someone may know her.’
‘
All
your clients,’ Mower said again. ‘Including illegals we may not know about?’
‘Yes, all our clients,’ Rosemary agreed quickly. ‘But if they’re here illegally they don’t necessarily come near us. Or anyone else for that matter.’
‘You’ve got the phone number,’ Mower said. ‘Get in touch if you hear anything. Anything at all. Right?’
‘Right,’ the girl said, and watched, pale-faced, as Mower spun on his heel and left the shop before picking up the phone on the desk to make a call.
The girl ate the loaf she had stolen ravenously. She had not eaten for two days and had drunk only the rainwater she had been able to scoop up from the puddles on the roof of the condemned block of flats where she had taken shelter. She had slept on the floor in one of the empty flats where she had found an abandoned mattress, but she preferred it up here on the roof, in spite of the biting wind. Most of the flats stank of urine or worse, and she knew that there were rats. She had heard them scuttling in the night, waking every half hour or so and listening until her ears rang for any sound that might tell her that her pursuers had tracked her down or that the rodents were close enough to threaten her. But there had been nothing but distant rustling, and as grey daylight woke her for the final time, she had crept down the filthy stairway and slipped outside briefly, long enough to find the single shop which served the estate, still shuttered and closed but with a couple of trays of that day’s bread delivery left outside the back entrance. She had grabbed a loaf and run back to the safety of the fenced off block, slipping through the gap shehad found between the wooden boards and pushing open the heavy glass doors that no
Mower offered her the artist’s impression of the dead girl.
‘Do you know this girl?’ he asked.
Rosemary hesitated. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, suspicion suddenly closing her face tight.
‘I’m trying to identify her,’ Mower said, keeping his voice level. ‘She’s been found dead.’ Rosemary’s face crumpled slightly and she turned even paler as she shook her head.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, with a catch in her voice. ‘I thought…it’s just that we meet so many people here who don’t want anything to do with the police.’
‘And you cover for them, do you?’ Mower snapped.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. But you have to be so careful. We need people to trust us if we’re to help them. So many of them are so very frightened…’
‘This girl isn’t frightened. Not any more, anyway. She’s been murdered, drowned in the canal,’ Mower said more quietly. ‘She’s not going to need your help, if she ever did. But we owe her ours. And first, we need to know who she is.’
Rosemary took the artist’s impression and studied it carefully for a moment, then handed it back to Mower, who took hold of it irritably and slammed it down on the counter with the flat of his hand.
‘That’s for you – to keep, to help trace her,’ he said. ‘Have you ever seen her before?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know her. Do you want me to ask my colleagues when they come back?’
‘I want you to ask everyone who comes in here,’ Mower said. ‘Colleagues, clients, legal, illegal, everyone. This is a murder inquiry and so far we don’t even know who the victim is. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Rosemary said, flinching slightly from the Sergeant’s vehemence.
‘Do you deal with many African clients?’
‘Some, from Somalia and Eritrea, asylum seekers who’ve been dumped – I mean moved – here from London,’ Rosemary said. ‘But this girl looks more like a West African. We don’t get so many West Africans.’
‘Sierra Leone, someone suggested.’
‘Maybe, or Nigeria. I’ll make sure we show the picture to all our black clients. Someone may know her.’
‘
All
your clients,’ Mower said again. ‘Including illegals we may not know about?’
‘Yes, all our clients,’ Rosemary agreed quickly. ‘But if they’re here illegally they don’t necessarily come near us. Or anyone else for that matter.’
‘You’ve got the phone number,’ Mower said. ‘Get in touch if you hear anything. Anything at all. Right?’
‘Right,’ the girl said, and watched, pale-faced, as Mower spun on his heel and left the shop before picking up the phone on the desk to make a call.
The girl ate the loaf she had stolen ravenously. She had not eaten for two days and had drunk only the rainwater she had been able to scoop up from the puddles on the roof of the condemned block of flats where she had taken shelter. She had slept on the floor in one of the empty flats where she had found an abandoned mattress, but she preferred it up here on the roof, in spite of the biting wind. Most of the flats stank of urine or worse, and she knew that there were rats. She had heard them scuttling in the night, waking every half hour or so and listening until her ears rang for any sound that might tell her that her pursuers had tracked her down or that the rodents were close enough to threaten her. But there had been nothing but distant rustling, and as grey daylight woke her for the final time, she had crept down the filthy stairway and slipped outside briefly, long enough to find the single shop which served the estate, still shuttered and closed but with a couple of trays of that day’s bread delivery left outside the back entrance. She had grabbed a loaf and run back to the safety of the fenced off block, slipping through the gap shehad found between the wooden boards and pushing open the heavy glass doors that no
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