The Circle

'Yes, it's kept locked in one of the filing cabinets with all our papers.'

'Do you have a key? I'd like to see.'

'I don't actually carry one, but. .' Flushing a deep pink, she bent over and unrolled a corner of the carpet and picked a ring of keys out of a large knot hole in the floorboards. 'Not the best security, I have to admit, but what can you do when about twenty of us come and go and all need to get into the cabinets at some stage?' She unlocked the first cabinet. 'It's this one, I think. The others contain all the guest files. We call our ladies guests so that they don't get the idea they are residents.'

'Everyone is given a file?'

Yes, but I can't allow you to look at them. We ask for everything, personal papers, passports, the lot. The information here is highly confidential.'

'And compromising,' Hen said.

'In certain cases, maybe. We've looked after hundreds of women since we opened ten years ago.'

You're not on computer?'

'No, and I think it's sensible. This is more secure.'

DC Shilling's eyes popped wider. 'What, with the keys under the carpet and twenty helpers using the system?'

'Anyone can break into a computer,' Mrs Courtney-Andrews said as if to a child. 'Besides, this is easier for volunteers to manage. Imagine trying to read a doctor's handwriting. It's all stuffed into the files.'

You have medical records here?' Hen said in surprise.

'Dr Borzukowski holds a special surgery one afternoon a week and Mr Wheatley-Smith the dentist comes fortnighdy and we keep their records here because — between ourselves — it's done from the goodness of their hearts.'

'On the q.t.?'

You could put it that way, I suppose. A number of our guests are scared of using the National Health Service.'

'What if they need hospital treatment?'

'Then they go to a private clinic, and we negotiate a fee. Listen, what I'm telling you mustn't go beyond these four walls. It's all done from the very best motives.'

'We'll take your word for that. Have you found the chequebook?'

Mrs Courtney-Andrews pulled open the bottom drawer. 'Here we are. Account books, bills, chequebook.' She lifted them out.

Hen took them to a desk and opened the main account book. It had been kept in a neat, small hand, each decimal point precisely positioned, the last entry eleven days ago. Tidy bookkeeping didn't automatically mean everything was in order, but Hen didn't have the training or the time to look for anything irregular in these figures. Still, she was glad she'd asked to examine them. Just seeing the neatness of the entries brought her closer to Amelia Snow. She reached for the chequebook and examined the stubs. Each one was fully completed, right down to the current balance, and that told her that the account was over two thousand pounds in credit.

She returned the books to the filing cabinet. 'Did Miss Snow ever speak about the writers' circle?'

'Was she a writer?' Mrs Courtney-Andrews said with interest. 'Well, you learn something every day. No, I had no idea. She never spoke of it. What kind of writer?'

'She was doing a book about the Snows, famous people who shared the same surname.'

'Fancy that,' she said in a tone that said she didn't fancy it one bit as a good read.

'I want to ask you about the charity shop, and how it works. You must have a schedule of helpers to run it. Is that organised from here?'

'No, it's all done at the shop. They do shifts of half a day each, usually two volunteers together. When there's a problem through illness or something we can send someone from here. Some of our guests have enough English to help out, and they enjoy it.'

'So Miss Snow didn't mind working with asylum seekers?'

'Why should she?'

'I didn't meet her,' Hen said, 'but you were suggesting she was rather a private person.'

'True, but she had a heart of gold. I know for a fact that she'd often invite them back to her house for supper before they returned here.'

Hen couldn't hold back any longer. That 'heart of gold' remark got to her. 'You people mean well, I'm sure, but do you have any idea of what you're encouraging? You talk about asylum seekers arriving in containers. Who put them there? Human traffickers, some of the nastiest criminals anywhere. Word gets around that there's a place like this where illegal immigrants can be quietly absorbed into the system. Organised crime gets to know about it and before you know where you are, you're being used by vicious, callous crooks who'd snuff you out as coolly as they kill anyone who threatens their operation. I'm sorry, I didn't come here with the object of closing you down, but I'm going to have to report what I've seen this morning.'

On the drive back, she was silent most of the way apart from a sigh or a shake of her head. Alert to her mood, Shilling said nothing until they drove into the police station car park. Hen already had an unlit cigar between her lips.

'Are you thinking Miss Snow was killed by a trafficker, guv?'

'No,' she said. 'I'm not' The cigar jiggled as she spoke.

'An illegal?'

'No.'

'One of the volunteers?'

'Good Lord, no.' She had the lighter in her hand.

'Are we back to the circle, then?'

She lit the cigar and smiled. 'We're back to the circle.'

Bob Naylor was waiting in the East Street office of Steadfast Assurance. He'd just delivered six boxes of stationery sent down from their London head office, and he was supposed to pick up a parcel that wasn't ready.

'I'm sorry, Bob,' the receptionist said. She'd been in the job for years, and she knew him well. 'It's been one of those days.'

'How long will you be, love?' he asked. 'I'm up on the pavement in Little London. If a warden comes by, I'm shafted.'

She said, 'I thought you were sitting on the edge of my desk.'

'Ooh, we're sharp this afternoon.'

'It's Mr Hackenschmidt, my branch manager,' she said. 'He promised he'd have a package ready for collection. It's important, he says.'

'Hackenschmidt — is he new? I thought it was Mr Burnley who ran this place.'

'Not since last July. He retired.'

'Lucky man. And before that' — Bob started fishing — 'the Welsh guy, Tudor.'

'Tudor? He was never manager. He's just one of the agents.'

'I thought he was the chief honcho.'

She laughed. 'He acts like he is.'

'Doesn't he bring in most of the business, then?'

'You're joking.'

'He was telling me about some policy he sold to Edgar Blacker, the man who was killed in that fire at the cottage along the Selsey Road. Seemed to think it was a big deal.'

'That was four or five years ago,' she said. 'Anyway, it led to a hefty claim. Mr Blacker did very nicely out of it.'

'A fire?'

'No, a manuscript that was stolen from him. We'd insured it for a five-figure sum, over twenty grand, I think.'

'Must have been special.'

'It was a public school story by the writer of those Jeeves stories, about the butler. Do you remember his name?'