Good Bait (4 page)

‘Right.' Cordon kicked his toe against the underside of the youth's worn trainers and hauled him to his feet. ‘Now then, Billy, what's it to be?'

Mullins blinked at him once and his head lolled down towards his chest.

Christ, Cordon thought, I don't have time for this. He dragged a straight-backed chair across with his foot and sat Mullins down on it hard.

‘Possession, is it? Intent to supply?'

‘Fuck off,' Mullins said, but his heart wasn't in it.

Behind them, a sigh slipped from the girl's mouth like air escaping from a balloon, and she slumped sideways on the bed.

‘New girlfriend, Billy?'

‘What's it to you?'

Her arms were thin, barely flesh on bone, breasts that seemed to belong to a body other than her own. He could have encompassed her thigh, almost, with the span of his hand. There were used condoms, two of them, close by on the floor: Cordon supposed he should be grateful for that at least.

‘How old is she?'

‘How should I know?'

‘Come on, Billy. Fourteen? Fifteen? Younger?'

‘Old enough to fuck.'

Cordon kicked the chair from under him and he went sprawling, striking his head against the skirting. Bruise like a blackened egg, Cordon thought, come morning; some smart young duty solicitor waving the Polaroids around like they were Get Out of Jail Free cards.

He helped Mullins to his feet, read him the riot act, watched as he bundled together his few things before skedaddling down the stairs. The girl dressed slowly, as if dazed, as if everything that touched her skin caused her pain. When he reached out a hand to help, she pulled away.

He took her to a café just beyond the street's end, the girl walking half a pace behind. When he asked her what she wanted, she made no reply, so he ordered her a mug of tea and a bacon roll and when she'd wolfed that down he ordered the same again. Dredging up a smile, she bummed a cigarette from someone at the next table. She still hadn't looked Cordon square in the eye.

‘Known him long?'

‘Who?'

‘Billy.'

She wafted smoke away from her face. ‘He i'n't so bad. Not so bad as some.'

‘He know how old you are?'

‘How old am I?'

Cordon shrugged. ‘Fourteen?'

‘Next birthday.'

Jesus! The word loud inside Cordon's head. ‘You living at home?'

‘When I can't find nowhere else to go.'

‘Family?'

‘Mum, sometimes.'

‘Social worker?'

‘Count 'em, shall I? Bastards every one.' She laughed, showing teeth that were small and sharp. ‘This new un, likes to see me down on my knees, praying God to show me the error of my ways.' She laughed again and the laughter turned into a fit of coughing. Cordon went to the counter for a glass of water and when he looked back towards the table she'd gone.

She was outside on the pavement, head down, squatting.

‘Thought you were doing a runner,' Cordon said.

‘Fat chance. Needed a bit of air.'

When she stood, her head came almost level with his shoulder: tall for her age.

‘This social worker, she have a name?'

‘Apart from Fuckface, you mean?'

‘Apart from that.'

She laid a hand on his arm and let it slide down towards his wrist. ‘Look, we could just forget about it, right? No skin off your nose. All the other stuff you must have to do, no sense wastin' time on me.' Her fingers were gently stroking the back of his hand. ‘We could go somewhere first if you like.'

Cordon shook her off and stepped away.

The social worker recited the whole sorry tale: Rose's mother, Maxine, was a registered heroin addict with three children by three different fathers; the two youngest, both boys, had been taken into care when they were seven and five. Rose herself had had periods of temporary fostering, but had been allowed back home when her mother had turned a corner at the beginning of the year.

‘Which particular corner was that?' Cordon asked.

He nodded towards where Rose sat gouging the dirt from beneath her nails with a paper clip that had fallen from the desk. ‘What's going to happen now?'

‘I'll take Rose home. Lay down a few ground rules. Make sure they're understood.'

‘Ground rules?'

The social worker was getting to her feet. ‘We like to keep families together, Detective Inspector, wherever it's humanly possible. If you'd care to come along to Rose's next case conference, I'm sure it can be arranged.'

‘Wouldn't miss it for the world.'

Of course, he did. As Rose herself had said, all that other stuff he had to do … and one kid among many, what business was it of his? Let Social Services earn their keep as best they could.

If he saw her at all in the next eighteen months, two years, it was a face glimpsed amongst others, a group of girls giggling their way from pub to pub, jousting with some lads down by the harbour where the
Scillonian
came into dock, her voice loud and shrill, giving as good as she got, sharp little features fleshing out. Once, someone who might have been her, touting for business along the Promenade, spangled top and skirt up to her behind; before he could make his way along to check it out, a silver Mondeo had pulled in and, after a brief negotiation, whisked her away with a fishtail of wheels.

Then, one summer evening, there she was, arm in arm with a woman dressed just like her, the pair of them parading up Market Jew Street, head to toe in black save the silver rings catching the last of the sun as they walked. Rose's hair was henna red, her companion's bright green.

She didn't just recognise him: she stopped.

‘Cordon, right? Detective somethin'-or-other. The bacon-roll man.'

‘Detective Inspector. And you're Rose.'

‘Yeah. And this is my mum, Maxine.'

‘Good to meet you,' he said and held out his hand.

He could see now that she was older, Maxine. Could have passed herself off as an elder sister and on a night out that was probably what she did. Up close, it was the heavy smoker's lines around the mouth that gave her away, that and the residue of a life hard-lived behind the eyes. What was it? Three kids, two in care. She'd be all of thirty-four, thirty-five.

‘Still a copper, then?' Rose said.

He nodded.

‘Putting people away.'

‘A few.'

‘My mates.'

‘Maybe.'

She laughed; he remembered the laugh.

‘New leaf, me. Straight an' narrow.' She was mocking him with her voice, her eyes. ‘Workin', too. Caff down the arcade. Evenings. Weekends. Thinkin' of goin' to college, right, Mum? Qualifications. NVQs. Veterinary assistant, that's what I fancy. Somethin' like that.'

She said the word veterinary as if she were trying it out, each syllable stepping carefully off the tongue.

‘Like animals, then?' Cordon said.

‘Better'n people. Most people.'

‘Dogs?'

‘Yeah, dogs are all right. Why d'you wanna know?'

‘I've got this springer spaniel. Never gets enough exercise. If you want to walk her some time …'

‘How much?'

‘Huh?'

‘For walkin' her, how much?'

‘I don't know. A fiver, maybe?'

‘An hour?'

‘I was thinking more, each time you took her out.'

‘Bog off!' She gripped her mother's arm tighter and started to walk away.

‘All right, then, five pounds an hour.'

She turned back, grinning. ‘Fifteen minimum.'

Cordon looked at her mother. ‘Strikes a hard bargain.'

‘Likely had to.'

Cordon nodded. ‘Okay, your terms. Agreed. Here …' He took a card bearing his police details from his pocket and wrote his home address and number on the back.

‘How d'you know I won't turn up with all me mates when you're out, break in, rob you blind?'

‘I don't.'

She took the card without another glance and tucked it out of sight. ‘Come on, Mum. Stand here talkin' to the likes of him, get ourselves a bad name.'

Cordon watched as, laughing, they headed for the Wetherspoons across the street. College. Qualifications. A proper job. Who was she fooling? Herself? Him? He thought about Rose's leggings and the long sleeves covering her arms, wondering if she and her mum shared needles at home. Still time to follow in her mother's footsteps, an addict and a mother just this side of sixteen: next time he saw her on Market Jew Street, she could be pushing a buggy slowly uphill. Who did he think he was, some kind of benefactor? Guardian angel? Come and walk my dog – what kind of bollocks was that?

6

He didn't see her again for a couple of months. Why did he think he ever would? He was in the middle of scouring out a pan in which he'd been making scrambled eggs – the phone drawing his attention away at the crucial moment and egg adhering to the pan like a second skin – when he glimpsed her face at the small window alongside the door.

‘Come for the dog, okay?'

Cordon wasn't certain if she was still in her Goth phase or not: most of the henna had gone from her hair, black waistcoat though, white shirt, black jeans, studs and rings; white lipstick, purple fingernails.

‘Fine, as far as I'm concerned. Dog might need some convincing, though. Doesn't take easily to strangers.'

But even as he spoke the springer was energetically wagging her tail and reaching up to lick the girl's hand.

‘Yeah,' she said, with a small look of triumph. ‘See what you mean.'

‘Here,' Cordon said. ‘Here's her lead. Take a couple of bin liners for when she does her business. You can let her off past the Tolcarne Inn. That patch of grass by the gallery. Then down on to the beach.'

The girl was crouching down, stroking the dog behind the ears. ‘She have a name?'

‘Kia.'

‘I'll get some treats for her next time. You can pay me for 'em later. Oh, and yeah, know how long it takes, all the way over here from Penzance?'

‘Twenty minutes?'

‘And the rest. So that's all included, right? My time.'

She slipped on the lead and the dog half-dragged her towards the door. ‘Hour or so, maybe, first time. You'll still be here?'

‘Sunday. Bar emergencies, my day off.'

‘Course. No crime of a Sunday. I forgot.'

When they'd gone Cordon took one more look at the pan, shook his head and dumped it in the bin; next time he went into Lidl he'd buy another.

After that, she stopped by most Sundays, a few summer evenings; it got so the springer could recognise her step before Cordon knew she was even close. From time to time, he'd ask her about home or college, just making conversation, little more: blood out of a stone.

One particular evening, a Tuesday, Cordon not long back from sorting a domestic that resulted, as they often did, in both parties turning on him and telling him to fuck off out, she arrived with a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and wearing what Cordon assumed was one of her mother's cast-offs, either that or a charity shop special, pale purply chenille with a slit skirt and ruched front.

‘What's this in aid of?'

‘Celebration. My birthday. Sixteen.' She threw herself in the direction of the small settee. ‘Means I'm legal.'

‘Means you're sixteen.'

‘Jesus! Don't you ever lighten up?'

‘Rarely.'

‘Here …' Holding out the bottle. ‘Help me get this open.'

He found two glasses and poured the wine, getting only a little on the floor as it fizzed up. It tasted like he remembered: cream soda, but cream soda that had turned sour.

‘This really your birthday?'

Dipping her finger into the glass, she made a crossing motion, anointing her breasts through the material of the dress. ‘Christening, too.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Got a new name, haven't I?'

‘Fed up with the old one?'

‘Rose, it's not me. Not anyone. Anyone I know.'

‘So who are you now?'

‘Letitia.'

Cordon did a small double-take.

‘You like it?' she asked.

‘Different, I'll say that for it.'

‘Joy and happiness. What it means. My dad told me.'

Cordon had never heard her mention her father before; hadn't imagined them to be in touch.

‘He chose it for you?'

‘Sort of.' Head back, she drank some more wine. ‘Suits me, don't you think?'

‘Maybe.'

‘My dad thinks so. Looked right into me, didn't he? Joy and bloody happiness. Saw deep into my soul.'

Cordon waited for the laugh, but it didn't come.

When she left, just a short while later, there was still a good half a bottle remaining. After due deliberation, Cordon poured it down the sink. When she came back to walk the dog a week or so later, Letitia now, neither of them referred to the occasion at all.

She didn't mention her father again, either, only the once, Cordon getting on his high horse and launching into something of a lecture about the values of doing a little reading, studying – the kind of thing students were supposed to do, though, from his perspective, it seemed few of them did.

‘Fuck off!' she said. ‘Stop naggin' at me all the bloody time. You're not my bloody father, you know.'

Cordon knew. His own fatherly responsibilities were scattered halfway across the world: a son, Simon, fully grown, who had used his gap year to put ample distance between the pair of them and decided he liked it that way best. The only contact Cordon had – the terse, almost formal requests for funds aside – was the occasional postcard from Santo Domingo, Bogotá or La Paz, just letting him know he was still alive. After Bolivia he'd heard nothing, six months of worry, and then the cards had resumed – Pangai, Lautoka, Auckland, Hobart, Sydney. Pins stuck in a notional map, marking a journey that never seemed to point home.