Bloated and fucked before he even got to her.
Married twice, two kids up in Glasgow.
Previous convictions for soliciting:
Wound up in St Mary’s hostel, Preston, living with fellow prostitutes, drug addicts, and alcoholics.
On Thursday 20 November 1975, Clare had had sex with three different men, only one of whom had ever been traced.
And eliminated.
The morning of Friday 21 November 1975, Clare was dead. Eliminated.
A boot up her cunt, a coat over her head.
I look up at Rudkin and say, ‘I want to go to the hostel, then the garages.’
Ellis has stopped writing.
‘What for?’ sighs Rudkin.
‘Can’t picture it.’
‘You don’t want to,’ he says, putting out his cig.
We tell the Sergeant on the desk where we’re going and walk back out into the car park.
Frankie comes tearing out after us. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he pants.
‘You’re all right,’ says Rudkin.
‘Boss says I better. Show some hospitality.’
‘Going to spring for lunch are you?’
‘Think we could manage something, aye.’
‘Magic,’ grins Rudkin.
Ellis is nodding along like,
Me, I feel sick.
St Mary’s hostel is one hundred years old or more, up the road from Preston Station.
‘Any of the same staff still working here?’ I ask Frankie.
‘Doubt it.’
‘What about residents?’
‘You’re joking? Couldn’t find anyone a week later.’
We walk through a dim stinking corridor and peer into the reception cubicle.
A man with lank greasy hair to his shoulders is writing with a radio on.
He looks up, pushes his black NHS frames back up his nose, and sniffs. ‘Help you?’
‘Police,’ says Frankie.
‘Yeah,’ he nods, like,
‘Ask you a few questions?’
‘Yeah, sure. What about?’
‘Clare Strachan. Where can we talk?’
He stands up. ‘Lounge through there,’ he points.
Rudkin leads the way into another shitty room, draughty windows and rotting sofas covered in cig burns and dried food.
Frankie keeps going, ‘And you are?’
‘Colin Minton.’
‘You the warden?’
‘Deputy. Tony Hollis is the senior warden.’
‘Is Tony about?’
‘He’s on holiday’
Softly-softly: ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Blackpool.’
‘Close.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sit down,’ says Frankie.
‘I wasn’t here when that happened,’ says Colin suddenly, like he’s had enough of this already.
Rudkin takes over: ‘Who was here?’
‘Dave Roberts and Roger Kennedy, and Gillian someone or other I think.’
‘They still about?’
‘Not here, no.’
‘They still work for Council?’
‘No idea, sorry.’
‘Did you ever work with them?’
‘Just Dave.’
‘He talk about Clare Strachan and what happened?’
‘A bit, yeah.’
‘Can you remember anything he said?’
‘Like what?’
It’s Frankie’s town so we don’t say anything when he starts up again, saying, ‘Anything. About Clare Strachan, the murder, anything at all?’
‘Well, said she was mad like.’
‘What way?’
‘Crazy. Should have been in hospital, what Dave said.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Used to stare out the window and bark at the trains.’
Ellis says, ‘Bark?’
‘Aye, bark like a dog.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’
Rudkin catches my eye and I take over with, ‘Dave say anything about boyfriends, stuff like that?’
‘Well I mean, she was on game like.’
‘Right,’ I nod.
‘And he said she was always pissed and she’d let all the blokes here have it off with her and there’d sometimes be fighting and stuff because of her.’
‘How was that?’
‘I don’t know, you’d have to ask them that were here, but like there was some that’d get jealous.’
‘And she wasn’t right choosey, yeah?’
‘No. Not very.’
‘She was fucking the staff and all,’ says Rudkin.
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ he says. ‘Afternoon she was murdered she’d had a session with your man Kennedy, Roger Kennedy’
Colin doesn’t say anything.
Rudkin leans forward and smiles, ‘Still go on, that kind of thing?’
‘No,’ says Colin.
‘You’ve gone red,’ laughs Rudkin, standing up.
I say, ‘Which was her room?’
‘I don’t know. But I can show you upstairs.’
‘Please.’
Just me and Colin go upstairs.
At the top I say, ‘None of the same residents still here?’
‘No,’ he says but then, ‘Actually, hang on.’
