‘It came up earlier in a different part of the inquiry. Given the context, we thought it was a bloke. Kerry, it could be a bloke’s name.’ She frowned. ‘That makes no sense.’
Dean smiled. ‘You can check it out for yourself. You’ll find her most nights down the bottom end of Campion Way. Near the roundabout.’
‘Do you know anything about her?’ Paula scribbled the name in her notebook, opening up her email program and starting to type a note to Stacey.
‘I know what she told me about herself. How much truth there is, who knows? They all make stuff up. Good stuff and bad stuff. Whatever they need to feel all right about themselves.’
‘So what did Kerry tell you?’ Paula liked a bit of job-related chit-chat as much as anyone, but right now the only thing she was interested in was Kerry Fletcher.
‘Well, she’s a local lass. I suspect that bit’s true, because she’s got a broad Bradfield accent. She was born in Toxteth Road, round the back of the high flats in Skenby.’
Paula nodded. She knew Toxteth Road. What the local cops said was that even the dogs went round mob- handed down there. It was also in the area Stacey had identified from the number plates. ‘Desolation Row,’ she said.
‘Bang on. Then when she was five or six, they moved to a sixteenth-floor flat. And that was that for her mother. She never left the flat from the day they moved in. Kerry’s not sure if it was claustrophobia or agoraphobia or fear of Eric – that’s the dad. But whatever it was, she became a prisoner in her own home.’ The sergeant paused for dramatic effect. It was clear that she relished her stories.
‘And that made her the perfect bargaining chip for Eric Fletcher,’ Dean continued. ‘He began sexually abusing Kerry when she was about eight. If she didn’t do exactly as she was told, Eric took it out on her mother. He’d batter her, or push her out on the balcony and leave her there till she was a gibbering wreck. And little Kerry loved her mum.’
Paula sighed. She’d heard variations on this tale so many times, but every time had the force of the first time. She couldn’t help imagining what it must have been like to feel so powerless. To endure a poverty of experience that meant this was a child’s only exemplar of love. When that was all you knew, how could you believe anything else was achievable? The relationships you saw on TV shows must have felt as fantastical as Hogwarts. ‘Of course she did,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t she? Until she learned to despise her.’
Dean looked slightly pissed off. This was her story, after all. ‘And so it went on. Even after she left school and started working at the petrol station on Skenby Road. She had no life of her own. Eric saw to that.’ She gave Paula a shrewd look. ‘It’s what your Tony Hill would say. People become complicit in their own victimhood.’
‘You know a lot about Kerry Fletcher.’
Dean gave her a wary glance. ‘I make it my business to know as much as I can about all of them. A cup of coffee and a motherly attitude goes a very long way on the shit side of the street, Paula.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The mother died. About four months ago, as far as I can make out. It took a few weeks for it to dawn on Kerry that she was free at last.’
‘So she went on the streets? What happened to the job at the garage?’
‘When the scales fell from Kerry’s eyes, they made a right clatter on the pavement. She didn’t just want to be free, she wanted to rub Eric Fletcher’s nose in it. He wasn’t getting her for free any more, and she was making other men pay for what had been his.’
Paula whistled. ‘And how did Eric take that?’
‘Not well,’ Dean said drily. ‘He kept turning up where she was working and begging her to come home. Kerry refused point-blank. She said it was safer on the streets than in his house. We warned him off a couple of times, he was making a scene in the street and it was shaping up to turn nasty. Since then, he’s kept a low profile, as far as I’m aware.’
‘She said it was safer on the streets than in his house,’ Paula repeated. ‘That sounds like the perfect fit for what Tony was talking about. And he must have used her email address. Of course he did.’ Energised now, she was tapping on the computer keys, composing an urgent message to Stacey to look for an Eric Fletcher in the Skenby flats, probably the sixteenth floor.
As she sent it, she noticed a message had arrived from Dr Grisha Shatalov. ‘Bear with me a second,’ she said, momentarily abstracted.
Sometimes a case reached a point that was like turning a key in a complicated lock. One tumbler would fall, then another, then it felt like an inevitable matching of pins and key, and the door would swing open. Here, now, late on a Saturday evening, Paula knew it was only a matter of time before MIT would be able to point to their last case with pride in the result. Carol could walk out with her head high, knowing she’d created something, whereas Blake could only destroy.
It would be a moment to relish.
Ambrose’s voice had risen to a bellow. ‘She’s what? Who the fuck told Jordan where Vance is hiding?’
‘Stacey, of course,’ Tony said, sounding far more patient and reasonable than he felt.
‘What the fuck was she thinking? That’s operational information.’
‘And Carol Jordan is her boss, not you. She turned her expertise to this problem for Carol, not for you. You shouldn’t be surprised that she is loyal to the person who gave her the chance to shine.’
‘You need to stop Jordan,’ Ambrose said, his voice hard and rough. ‘I don’t want her blundering into this. He’s too dangerous to confront single-handed. You need to stop her before something terrible happens.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m hammering up the motorway right now,’ Tony said, keeping his tone level to try and take the heat out of the situation. ‘When are you leaving?’
