Was she out working? Seeing punters? Scoring? What?’
At the mention of scoring, Donna gave Rose a fierce deathray stare. ‘She wasn’t an addict.’ Her voice rising, a growl at the edges.
Course she wasn’t, darling, thought Rose. ‘I’m not saying she was, Donna. I’m just asking you where she went last night.’
‘She was getting help, that’s what she was doin’. She wasn’t a junkie.’
‘Getting help? Last night?’
Donna paused. ‘No. Not last night. She was goin’ to get help. St Quinlan’s Trust. Down there. Had a place booked.’
Rose felt a tiny victory inside. She had caught Donna in a lie. She tried not to rub it in. ‘So she did have a problem with drugs?’
‘No.’ Another pause from Donna. ‘She has a kid. She was usin’. Just a bit, on an’ off. Wanted to get clean, properly clean, for him.’
Rose nodded. ‘Right. And where is this child now?’
Donna nodded towards the stairs.
Silence fell once more.
‘So,’ said Rose. ‘Last night. Where was Faith? Not at St Quinlan’s, I take it?’
Donna shook her head. ‘She went out. One last time, she said. I told her not to bother. But no. One last time. Just to make a bit. Tide her over. Till she got clean an’ could get a job.’ Donna’s head dropped, her shoulders slumped. ‘One last time… ’
Rose waited while Donna composed herself. She felt nothing positive for the woman before her. She didn’t see her as someone who had lost a friend. She felt no sympathy. Rose had a strict definition of right and wrong. If a woman sold her body – for whatever reason – that was disgusting. If she willingly offered herself up to the kind of man who did what he did with her, then she had no one to blame but herself for what happened. And Rose felt nothing for that woman but anger.
Then she thought of her ex-lover, DCI Ben Fenwick. She hadn’t found him particularly attractive, but she’d still slept with him. Willingly offered herself up to him. But that was different, she told herself. She had something to gain from that.
She shook the thought from her head. It only made her feel more angry.
Donna was getting a grip on herself. It took longer this time, was more of an effort. But she managed it. Thinking she might not make such a good recovery next time, Rose hurried her questioning along.
‘So do you have any idea who she could have seen last night?’
Donna shook her head.
‘Did she have regulars? Did she say anything about seeing one of them?’
‘No. Nothin’ like that. Just said she was goin’ out. Makin’ a bit of money.’
‘And what did you do last night?’
Donna sat immediately upright. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
I’ll bet, thought Rose. ‘What about boyfriends? Pimps? Anyone like that?’
Something passed across Donna’s eyes. Too quick for Rose to read it. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘There was an ex. Used to turn her out sometimes. Make her go out to work. He was the one got her on the pipe, know what I mean?’
Rose felt that familiar burn inside. She was on to something. ‘Got a name?’
‘Daryl. Daryl Kent.’
‘And where can I find him?’
‘What, now? The Shakespeare. He’s always there. Playin’ pool.’
‘Right.’ She stood up. Glad to have a focus for her anger. ‘I’m sorry, Donna. Did Faith have any family?’
Donna shook her head, kept her eyes averted. ‘She had me. I’m all she’s got. An’ Ben.’ Voice small, cracked.
‘Family Liaison’ll be in touch soon.’
Donna shrugged: whatever.
‘I’m… sorry.’ The word dredged reluctantly from her.
Donna said nothing. Crossed to the door, opened it.
Rose left.
Out on the street, she gulped in what passed for clean air off Barrack Street then set off walking to meet Daryl Kent. The big car was still parked opposite. She ignored it.
Just glad to get away from the place.
22
The man behind the desk was nervous, Mickey thought. But he doubted it was because the police were there to see him. More to do with his firm losing money.
‘Look,’ Colin Byers said, sitting back, ‘it’s awful and all that, but I don’t see what I can do for you. I mean, we were just contracted for the demolition.’
‘But you can tell us who contracted you.’
Mickey Philips sat opposite the desk. George Byers Demolition was the first place on his list. It was a one- storey brick building on Magdalen Street in New Town. Low and open-plan, it sat between a car dealership and a fireplace and door reclaimer. It had a cracked concrete forecourt with lorries and vans on it, and the building itself was just like Mickey had expected. Office-surplus furniture, tabloids lying round, a calendar with a semi-naked girl on it. No finesse. Stripped to the bones.
Colin Byers looked like the product of his environment. The son of the owner of the company, as he had explained, and now running it since his father’s retirement, he was a heavy-set middle-aged man, thinning on top, wearing metalframed glasses and a maroon polo shirt with the company logo on it.
He sighed, scratched his ear. ‘Look, Detective Sergeant, all I can give you is the name of the buildin’ firm. We’re subcontractors. You’d be better off contactin’ the Land Registry.’
‘I have,’ said Mickey, strictly speaking telling a lie. He hadn’t contacted them; Milhouse had done it for him. ‘All they could tell me was that the property is registered to a holding company in London. We’re looking into that now. In the meantime, Mr Byers, I’d just like a little help. I appreciate you’ve got your job to do, but so do I. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I’ll be off.’
‘Yeah. And I’m out of pocket now because of this.’ Byers sighed. Put his hands behind his head, smoothed down what remained of his hair. Came to a decision. ‘I know this one, as it happens. Took it myself. Lyalls. The builders. Wanted a couple of semi-derelict properties dismantled down East Hill. Area cleared for a new housin’ development. Easy job, really. Might be a bit of asbestos removal, uprooting some trees, landscapin’, nothing worse than that. And now this.’
Mickey made a note of the building company’s name.
‘So now we can’t work there, can we?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘How long you gonna be, then?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mickey. The area’s going to be thoroughly searched. Could be days. Could be weeks.’
The expression on Byers’ face told Mickey what he thought of that.
‘Thanks for your time,’ Mickey said, and let himself out.
Outside he checked his pad, looking for directions. The day had turned colder, chilly autumn notes carried on the wind.
He turned right, going back to where he had parked the car. Magdalen Street was the main stretch of road linking New Town to the town centre. He walked past tattooists, Afro-Caribbean hair stylists and corner shops. Most of the people on the street paid him no mind, although a few gave him sharp, furtive looks then dodged out of his way. He recognised a few faces. Knew he had dealt with them on a professional basis.
He walked to where Magdalen Street turned into Barrack Street. The area became more run-down, the buildings less well-kept, the shops dirtier. He was standing at the lights, about to cross and head down Brook Street
