‘I’ve not touched a drop.’
‘Very well.’ Katrina opened the door. On the other side stood a small, hunched-over man, a blanket wrapped around him. ‘Doug, what is it?’ she said.
‘The police moved us on. I need a bed.’
‘It’ll be daylight in a few more hours.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve come late,’ Doug said. Katrina had known him for a few years, and he was not a man who drank much, other than to keep warm. Most times, he just wandered around the area, minding his own business, looking in shop windows, ferreting through rubbish bins looking for food, and picking up discarded cigarettes from the ground. Bob Robertson, she knew, would not have a problem with Doug, one of the more harmless.
‘Okay, but you’ll need to be quiet.’
‘As quiet as a mouse, you know me.’
The two walked back up the stairs to where there was a spare bed. Katrina knew that Bob would want to sign him in, and he’d not complain if she knocked on his door to tell him that Doug was staying the night. ‘Bob,’ she said as she gently tapped on his door.
It was unusual that he had not opened the door to Doug, and as far as Katrina could remember, it was the first time that he had failed to do so. She checked in his bedroom, no Bob. She walked around the hostel after making sure that Doug was bedded down.
Eventually, she decided to look around the adjoining streets. As she rounded the front of the hostel, she saw him lying on the ground. ‘Bob, what is it?’ Katrina shook him, no response. ‘Help,’ she shouted.
The two men who had been sleeping nearby stirred. ‘Keep quiet, we’re trying to sleep,’ one of them said. The other raised his head, looked at the woman apparently hovering over another man sleeping rough.
‘He’s dead,’ Katrina shouted.
The first of the men came over, his blankets still draped around him. He smelt awful, the reason that Bob had not let him in that night. ‘Call the police in the morning. They’ll deal with it.’
‘It’s Bob.’
‘The hostel manager?’
‘We need an ambulance now.’
‘In the morning,’ the vacant reply. ‘I need to sleep.’ The man went back to where he had been sleeping. Katrina, frantic and unable to concentrate, the withdrawal symptoms exacerbated by the stress of the situation, shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Help!’
A couple out walking their dog, even though it was very early, came over to see what the disturbance was about.
‘He’s dead.’ Katrina pointed to the man on the ground.
The man bent down close to the body. ‘He’s been smashed across the back of the head,’ he said.
The man’s wife made a phone call to emergency services. Ten minutes later, an ambulance arrived. The police were already on the scene. Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, woken from his sleep, was on the way.
Chapter 2
By the time, DCI Isaac Cook arrived at the crime scene, the uniforms had taped off the area. The two men sleeping rough not far from the body were sitting up and semi-coherent. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone and Detective Inspector Larry Hill were also on their way. Isaac knew that the death of Bob Robertson would send shock waves throughout the community.
Isaac had met the man on many occasions, shared the occasional coffee at a local café, never alcohol. Isaac knew the man was a recovering alcoholic, probably the reason he could be so empathic with the people at the hostel. Whatever the reason, Robertson had been able to secure the patronage of a couple of the leading businessmen in the area, as well as the local church’s assistance in setting up the hostel. It wasn’t in the greatest of locations, but it was central to where the majority of the homeless congregated. As a favour Robertson had rounded up those sleeping in the park opposite Isaac’s flat, although two nights later they were back. ‘Not much I can do,’ Robertson had admitted.
The DCI also knew Katrina Ireland, although when they had first met she had been Kat and she had been hawking her wares. Isaac had seen her at the hostel a few times; he never felt the need to remind her that he had arrested her when she had been underage and he had been in uniform. The woman in front of him at the crime scene, distraught as could be expected given that she owed her life to Bob Robertson, was not the same person that he had known previously. The marks on her arms were still visible from when she had injected herself, the tattoos still obtrusive, although now they were concealed by a coat. He had to admit that her attractive looks had returned, although she still had the look of someone who had led a rough life.
‘You found the body?’ Isaac asked, back in the confines of the hostel. Most of the patrons were now out on the street, huddled in blankets, some with bare feet, some upset, some of the others not conscious of what had happened.
‘Yes,’ Katrina Ireland said.
‘Are you able to talk?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I knew Bob well, if that helps,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ve seen you with him. You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘I’ve always assumed you’d prefer to forget the past.’
‘Thanks. You’re right, the past is the past. Bob had found me a place to stay, and I’m clean.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Always, but I was going to stay clean, and no more selling myself. I wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint Bob, and now he’s gone.’
‘The best we can do is
