‘It’s empty. Check it out yourself.’
Riedwaan opened it. Kenny was right. Except for a bed, the room was empty. Kenny went over and closed the window, shutting out the cold wind billowing the tattered curtain.
‘That’s all, folks,’ said Kenny, shepherding Riedwaan and Joe down the passage. ‘You came, you checked it out, there was nothing to see. You did your job. Now fuck off.’
Clare slipped back into the empty room. Her nostrils flared: she could smell the trace of someone who’d recently been there. She pulled back the cheap floral quilt. Beneath it was a naked mattress streaked with drying blood. She put her hand down to feel between the wall and the mattress. Wedged there, was a single earring. She slipped it into her pocket as she stepped over to the window. There was a three-metre drop to the roof below. It was possible someone had made that leap. Someone very desperate. A fragment of cloth caught on the razor wire whipped wildly in the rising wind, alerting Clare to a narrow alley snaking up behind the buildings. About halfway up the hill the filthy passageway led to a flight of steps, but Clare couldn’t make out any movement.
‘Clare,’ called Riedwaan.
She turned away reluctantly and closed the door behind her. Riedwaan propelled her towards the front door. ‘Your little bird has flown and we can’t do anything more without a fucking warrant,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want me to get into more shit with your crusades?’
‘You know as well as I do that there was someone there,’ Clare retorted, furious at the rigmarole of laws and warrants and having to be fair to scum like Kenny. ‘There’s blood all over that mattress.’
‘And there is nothing I can do about that or the so-called cousins from Malmesbury without a search warrant. And there is no way we will get a warrant without your mystery Giscard. Now let’s go, before Kenny decides we are infringing on his undeserved civil rights.’
‘Where has she gone?’ Clare wondered aloud as they went down the stairs.
‘She could be anywhere,’ said Joe. ‘If she is still alive she’ll be terrified beyond speech. She’s not going to come to us.’
Riedwaan slammed the car door in impotent fury.
‘I’m sorry, Riedwaan,’ said Clare.
‘It’s nobody’s fault. Those guys would have cleared things up in seconds after they realised that your friend had taken off. But without him there will be no case. No witness, no warrant, no evidence.’
‘No girl,’ said Clare.
‘That too,’ Riedwaan said. ‘No bloody girl. Not yet. I’m going to put out an alert so that everyone is on the lookout for her. She’ll need help if she’s been with these guys for a while.’
‘I wonder if she looked like the other two,’ said Clare. There was no need to elaborate.
‘She’ll turn up. Alive, I mean,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t think these gangsters killed the other two. They didn’t look like initiation victims to me: there usually isn’t much left of them when we find them. And pimps don’t like destroying their assets. Beatings, yes, torture for fun, but killing a girl usually means things got a little out of hand. Nothing was out of control when Charnay and Amore were murdered.’
‘I hope you’re right, Joe,’ said Riedwaan. He started the car. ‘Are you coming back to the station, Clare?
She looked at her watch. It was past one. ‘No. Not now. It’s so late. I think I’ll just go home.’
‘Okay, see you,’ said Joe.
Riedwaan didn’t try to dissuade her. Clare got into her car, automatically pushing down the central locking. Maybe whoever had been with Riedwaan earlier was waiting for him. Maybe he had just been watching the late- night movie. She watched as the two men drove off.
25
Clare sat in her car, thinking of that scrap of material whipping back and forth on the razor wire. The girl must have escaped along the passageway and up the hill. Moving away from people, as a wounded animal would. Then Clare’s heart lurched as she saw a hand pressing on the passenger window.
‘Madame, is me, Giscard.’ Clare looked again.
‘You gave me such a fright.’ She rolled down her window. ‘We didn’t find her. I don’t know where she is.’
‘She got away,’ said Giscard, quietly. ‘I saw her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I come back here after I see you. I watch to see if you come with the police. That is when I see her climb out the window.’
‘Where did she go?’ asked Clare.
‘I followed her but she ran when she saw me.’
‘Yes, but where did she go?’ Clare’s voice was a low, urgent mutter.
‘I followed her to Glengariff Road. There is a building site halfway down. Maybe you look there?’
‘Thank you, Giscard.’ Clare did an abrupt U-turn, driving up steep streets through sleeping mansions snug behind walls and electric fences. Alarm systems winked their red Cyclops eyes as she passed. A security guard shifted in his chair, raising his arm in a tired salute. She turned left into the late-night emptiness of High Level Road. The houses here were smaller, the security more makeshift. She stopped at the red light on Glengariff Road. The street was shrouded with trees, their branches hanging low over the pavements. The lights changed and Clare turned down the hill. The building site was on the left. Clare parked, feeling inside the cubbyhole for a torch. To her relief, it was there. She got out of her car and picked her way through the debris. The old house was gutted, the ribs of the roof eerie against the sky. Clare checked the exposed basement. It was empty. She was about to return to her car when she noticed the partially covered skip. She picked her way over to it and called softly.
‘Hello? Are you there?’ she called softly. There was silence. Clare shone her torch past broken floorboards and lumps of cement. The beam caught a pair of eyes gleaming in the dark like a terrified cat.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ said Clare. The girl shrank back into the shadows. Clare climbed into the skip and crouched next to the girl.
‘Come with me,’ said Clare. The girl shook her head, but did not resist when Clare put an arm around her and helped her to the car. She collapsed onto the seat, her long hair matted over her shoulders. Clare reached over and buckled her in. The girl winced.
‘I’m taking you to a hospital,’ she told her as she got back into her seat. She spread a coat over her. The girl’s legs were streaked with blood, her left eye swollen shut, her hand a bloodied pulp. And the familiar tattoo on her back.
‘What is your name?’ asked Clare, more to keep the girl conscious than anything else. Her shaking hands were slippery on the wheel.
‘Whitney,’ was the whispered reply.
‘Who did this to you?’
‘Nobody. Nothing happened.’ She scrabbled for the door handle with her good hand; the left one she kept cradled against her bruised body. ‘It was an accident.’
‘I won’t hurt you,’ Clare reassured her. ‘I’m taking you to see a doctor.’ Whitney fell back into her seat.
Clare drove to the emergency entrance of the private City Hospital. She half carried Whitney from the car into the admissions room. Whitney answered none of the questions put to her so Clare gave her own details and signed endless forms before Whitney could be seen by a doctor. Then Whitney was wheeled away, leaving Clare bereft in the chilly room. A night nurse brought her a cup of tea and told her that the doctor would be out soon to tell her about her daughter. Clare did not correct her about the relationship. She sipped the lukewarm tea with gratitude, exhaustion starting to bite.
Clare was almost asleep when the doctor came to find her.
‘We’ve patched her up and sedated her. I’m Erika September.’ She shook Clare’s hand. She seemed too young to be doing this work. ‘She has been very severely assaulted. The extent of her injuries points to a sexual assault perpetrated by several different people. A gang rape. There are signs of healing, though, so my guess is that this took place over a number of days.’ The doctor paused, waiting for Clare to explain. When no explanation was forthcoming she continued. ‘Whitney will need emergency trauma counselling. I have set something up for tomorrow morning. This also needs to be reported to the police.’
