Copper. Filth.
But that was OK. Because Rose had made equally strong, instant assumptions about the woman before her too.
Druggie. Whore.
She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Rose Martin. Donna Warren?’
The woman gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement.
‘Could I come in, please?’
The woman’s attitude was aggressive, confrontational. Strong as a physical barrier. Her body language tensed and rigid, preparing to fight.
That’ll all change when she hears what I have to say, thought Rose.
‘I ain’t done nothin’. I ain’t been out.’
Rose looked round. A small, shabby house in a nondescript street just off Barrack Street in New Town. Terraced houses squashed together, old cars and vans bumper to bumper either side of the road. The street was gated on one side by a convenience store, its windows barred, a chalkboard advertising the latest cheap deals on full-strength lager and cider. And opposite that a fried chicken and pizza fast-food restaurant, closed, the smell of cheap stale oil perfuming the air. Gang tags adorned the walls. A big, dark sedan, expensive-looking, sat incongruously amongst the MOT failures and dodgers that filled the street. The local drug dealer’s, Rose assumed.
She felt anger rise at this woman’s attitude.
‘Could I come in, please? It’s best if we talk inside.’
Without removing her gaze and without seeming to move, Donna Warren let Rose in. Closed the door behind her.
The inside didn’t look any better. Rose had felt nothing but disdain for this woman since knocking on her door, but now she felt that disdain was justified. The place was a mess. The front door led straight into the living room. A sofa sat against one wall, old with ingrained dirt; the armrests were shiny and threadbare and had been used as ashtrays. Pizza cartons sat open and festering on the sofa. Stained mugs and empty bottles lay on the floor. Dirty ashtrays with dead fag and spliff ends were dotted about. And in amongst all this were a scattering of children’s toys, old, used, broken. Underneath, the carpet was filthy. A big old silver box of an off-brand TV dominated one corner. DVDs spilled out underneath it.
Rose wasn’t asked to sit down. She didn’t want to. She stood, facing Donna Warren. The woman had her arms folded across her chest. Rose looked at her.
She had been on plenty of police training courses. Diversity. Ethnicity. Equality. Treating everyone she came into contact with as a police officer with respect no matter what the circumstances or how the individual behaved. She had nodded along with the rest of them, paid lip service to the idea, as was expected of her. But she hadn’t believed it. Not one word of it. Because, as the sort of people she came into contact with realised, that respect had to be earned. And they did very little to earn it.
Like Donna Warren. The hardness of her features, the tension in her posture. Her Primark clothes and her home-dyed hair. Her indiscriminate racial origins, her mongrel skin colour. She reeked of substance abuse and her body looked well-used and sold. Rose wondered just how desperate a man would have to be to pay to have sex with Donna Warren.
‘Had a party in here?’ she asked.
‘What d’you want?’ Donna Warren’s voice was still strident, but now there was a slight shake to it. Like she’s worked out why I’m here, thought Rose.
‘You might want to sit down.’
Donna Warren remained standing.
Rose made a play of checking her notebook. ‘Does… Faith Luscombe live here?’
‘Yes.’ Another waver to her voice. ‘Have you… where is she?’
Rose looked at her notebook. Donna Warren spoke before she could say anything further.
‘Have you run her in again? That it?’ Her voice getting stronger, feeding on the anger of her words. ‘Come to take her kid away, that it?’
‘She’s got a child?’ said Rose.
‘Little boy. I’m looking after him.’
‘Well you might have to look after him a while longer.’ Rose hated the next bit. Even with people like Donna Warren. She slipped into the voice she had been taught to use on another course. ‘I’m afraid Faith’s dead.’
21
‘What? What you talkin’ about, dead?’ Donna spat the words out rapidly, another shield. ‘She’s not dead.’
‘I’m afraid she is, Donna. Would you like to sit down now?’
Donna was about to sit down, then stopped herself. ‘What for? Ain’t gonna bring her back, is it?’
‘No. But we could talk about it.’
Donna, not wanting to give ground or show weakness before a police officer, reluctantly lowered herself into an armchair. Rose perched on the edge of the sofa, hoping she wouldn’t stain her clothes or catch something.
‘What… what happened?’
‘She was hit by a car. Out in Wakes Colne. On the way to Halstead.’
Donna frowned. ‘Wakes Colne? Halstead? What was she doin’ out there?’
‘I don’t know, Donna. Perhaps you could tell me.’
Donna looked at her, about to speak. Then changed her mind.
Rose tried to prompt. ‘It’ll help if you can tell me where she was last night.’
‘Help how? Won’t bring her back, will it?’
Stupid bitch, thought Rose. She was getting angry all over again. She felt like getting up and leaving, but stopped herself. This was a chance, a case. She could prove she was fit to return to work, that she was worthy of the rank of DI. She stayed where she was, bit back her natural reaction, kept her voice calm and consoling.
‘I know this is difficult for you, Donna, but if you could cooperate with me, it would be a great help.’
Donna said nothing.
‘Where was Faith last night, Donna?’
Rose watched the battle being fought on Donna’s face. Talk or not talk. Go against years of conditioning, of not helping the police, in order to help her friend. She didn’t let it show, but she quite enjoyed seeing it.
‘Please, Donna. I know you haven’t had good experiences with the police in the past-’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘Yes. I know that. I’ve read your record. And I’ve read Faith’s too. But this isn’t about that. This is about finding out what she was doing in Wakes Colne last night.’
Silence from Donna. Rose waited.
‘Tell me,’ Donna said eventually, her voice weary. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘She was killed early this morning. She ran out of a clump of trees on to the road. By the viaduct. She was hit by a car. She died almost instantly.’ She thought it best not to mention the second car.
Donna’s eyes glazed over. She blinked. Hard. Her lower lip trembled. Her breathing changed.
Here it comes, thought Rose.
But it didn’t. Donna took control of herself, looked up. Shields down, composure regained. Still blinking, but clearly willing the tears not to fall.
A tiny part of Rose admired her for it.
‘What was she running from?’ Donna’s next words.
Rose’s grudging admiration for the woman increased slightly. Whatever else she was – and a glance round the living room showed that – she was bright.
‘Well that’s what I hoped you might be able to help me with.’
Donna said nothing, retreated into silence.
Rose leaned forward, nearly toppled off the edge of the sofa. Hid her irritation. ‘Come on, Donna. Just tell me.
