Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3) (26 page)

Marnie nodded. ‘Let’s seal it off. I’ll call Forensics.’ She tied a knot in the neck of the carrier bag and put it down on the tiled floor with the rest of the litter. ‘Fran will want to know we’ve found this place. She might even be able to rush the results for us.’

Noah didn’t question the decision, looking relieved to be doing something, even if it was only unwinding tape to keep any more kids from finding their way in here next time it rained.

After she’d put the call in to Fran, Marnie rang Debbie at the station. ‘We need a uniform.’ She gave the location of the subway. ‘We’ve taped it, and Forensics are on their way, but we need to keep it sealed off until they’re finished. Anything on Grace Bradley?’

She wanted Debbie to say no, but …

‘There’s a Grace Irene Bradley in the Missing Persons database. She went missing from care a year ago, when she was fourteen. I’m trying to get hold of a decent photo. The one they have could be anyone. It
could
be Traffic’s girl.’

‘Where was she in care?’

‘Wolverhampton. No connection that I could see to Ashleigh or May.’

‘Send me whatever you’ve got. How about the other girl, Christie Faulk?’

‘She’s next on my list. Ron’s going to call you. The Garrett’s getting to him.’

‘Keep digging. I want everything you can find on Grace and Christie.’

Marnie ended the call, looking at Noah. ‘Uniform’s on the way. We’ve got a possible lead on Traffic’s girl. Grace Bradley went missing from care in Wolverhampton a year ago. DC Tanner’s double-checking and sending through the Misper record.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Noah saw her frowning. ‘If we’ve got a name for her? That’s good.’

‘Let’s see what comes through.’ Marnie wiped her thumb at the screen of her phone, waiting for it to deliver the message from Debbie, or the call from Ron.

Debbie’s text came first.

The photo of Grace Bradley was poor quality, black and white, her face in shadow. Marnie searched for a resemblance to the e-fit, the barefoot girl in the CCTV footage. ‘Is it her?’

Noah bent his head close to look. ‘Maybe. Yes.’ He pointed at the girl’s jawline, strong, with a forward slant. ‘I think it’s her.’

Marnie was silent long enough for him to ask, ‘Where did the lead come from?’

‘Stephen Keele. He called this morning from Sommerville. One of the girls there, Jodie Izard, was living on the streets with Grace. He says. Jodie recognised her from the e-fit on the news last night. She’s also claiming to know Ashleigh and May.’

Noah’s face thinned, frowning. ‘What else?’

‘According to Stephen? Grace was kidnapped, and Jodie can describe who took her. Our killer, perhaps. If Grace is Traffic’s girl, then we should interview Jodie and get the full story.’

‘I could go.’ Noah waited, wearing a neutral expression. ‘If you prefer.’

‘I’ll go,’ Marnie said. ‘I want you here, looking for Grace. And Christie Faulk.’

37

Marnie left as soon as the PCSO arrived to guard the subway. She took the car, leaving Noah to catch the tube back to the station. He briefed the PCSO, warning him to keep everyone out of the subway until Forensics had finished. ‘Look out for kids, especially. They like to hang out here.’

The PCSO peered into the tunnel and pulled a face. ‘Rather them than me.’

That had been Noah’s thought, seeing Corin and the others sitting inside the subway, albeit on a picnic blanket with pricey beer and crisps to keep them happy. He knew what his dad would say, ‘Kids like that don’t know they’re born,’ but it shouldn’t have spelt death for May and Ashleigh. He headed back towards the tube station, counting his blessings. His mum and dad, Sol. Dan. He was lucky not to know what it was like to live in a family that had ceased to function. Look at Marnie. Her foster-brother had destroyed her parents, changed her life.

This offer of help from Stephen – Noah didn’t trust it. He doubted Marnie did. She’d gone to Sommerville because Jodie Izard was a potential witness who had to be interviewed, but was Stephen following
every
case where Marnie was SIO? Was this the first time he’d offered his help? What was he playing at?

As he passed through the ticket barriers, his phone played Marnie’s tune.

‘I’m stuck on the M25.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘How quickly can you get to the Garrett?’

‘Twenty minutes, tops.’ Noah headed back into the Underground, fishing with his free hand for his Oyster card. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Assault and arson. Emma Tarvin’s been taken to hospital.’

‘Abi Gull?’

‘That’s what it looks like. DS Carling’s on site, so check in with him. I’ll join you when I can, as soon as I’ve taken the statement from Jodie Izard. Call me when you’re on the estate and let me know how bad it is. I need to keep Welland one step ahead of the press.’

At the Garrett, Community Safety officers were unloading riot gear from the back of a van. One of them, armed with a loudspeaker, was trying to clear the crowd for the fire crew.

Smoke uncurled like a fist from the sixth floor. Noah felt its sting in his eyes even from a distance. He started towards the tower block, showing his badge to anyone who got in his way, looking for the boy on the bike, but he was either not here or well hidden.

Ron was at the main entrance, talking on his phone. ‘He’s here now. Yeah … will do. Thanks, boss.’ He ended the call. ‘Well, this’s gone tits up.’ Flecks of soot under his eyes, blood on his hands. ‘Emma’s. She’s a right mess. Vicious little cows.’

‘They took her to hospital?’ Noah asked.

‘And Abi Gull’s in the back of the custody van.’

They stood aside for the fire crew going into the building.

‘Where’s the fire? Not in her flat?’ Noah was picturing net curtains ablaze, Emma down on the floor, trying to stay under the smoke as Abi and her friends put their boots into her.

Ron shook his head. ‘Little buggers lit it on the floor below, must’ve known she’d come out for a nosy. They were waiting for her.’

‘They smoked her out.’

‘That’s exactly what they did.’ Ron looked sick with disgust. ‘You know what Abi said when I arrested her? “It was worth it.” At least now we get to lock her up.’

‘Were her friends involved? How many arrests did you make?’

‘Just the one, for now. I’m betting Natalie Filton was part of it, but she’d cleared off by the time we got here. Abi was having too much fun to stop until we made her.’

‘How badly is she hurt? Emma, I mean.’

‘The paramedics got here quickly, and she’s a tough old bird. I’m hoping she’ll be okay. I don’t want to miss the look on her face when we tell her Abi’s going down for this, at last.’

Perhaps Emma would say the same thing Abi had said:
It was worth it.

The fire crew were coming back down the stairs. Noah asked, ‘How bad is it up there?’

‘It’s out,’ the crew manager said. ‘Arson again. Someone said you got them this time?’

‘In the custody van.’ Ron nodded. ‘How bad’s the damage?’

‘To the flats? Not bad. Mainly along the deck access. Like every other time. You’d think they’d get bored of it, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not this one,’ Ron said. ‘But we’ve got her now. No way she’s walking away from this.’

‘Is it safe to go up?’ Noah wanted to see the damage for himself.

The man nodded. ‘As long as you stay wide of the investigation crew.’

Noah thanked him and left Ron at the main entrance.

He climbed with the aftermath of the fire black on his tongue and his head stuffed with the image of Emma fighting her way through thick smoke to where the girls were lying in wait.

On the sixth floor, there wasn’t much to see.

A shallow slick of water from the hoses, pieces of burnt cloth and paper floating on its surface. Brown stains reaching up the walls. The estate was already absorbing the mess. Arson left a scar, but this one was hidden by all the others, just an extra layer to the Garrett’s natural camouflage.

Noah kept going to the seventh floor, counting the time it would have taken Emma to reach the spot where the girls attacked her. Less than a minute, even allowing for the fact that she’d have moved more slowly than he did. No time at all.

Emma’s flat, when he reached it, looked the same.

He curled his hand and blocked the light to look through the wide window into the sitting room. Net curtains filtered the view to sepia, as if he was peering into an old postcard. He could see the notebooks on the low table where Emma kept her one-woman neighbourhood watch.

From inside the flat, he could hear …

Knocking?

The fridge, or the boiler, perhaps. He listened to its irregular beat before trying the handle of the door, expecting to find it locked.

The door was on the latch, but awkwardly, as if it’d been closed in a hurry. It almost clicked shut, but he sensed the delicate pressure of the latch and eased it open.

Stepped into the hallway to the smell of burnt milk and smoke. ‘Hello?’

The knocking was louder now. Not a fridge or a boiler, more like …

Feet, or fists.

Noah’s scalp tightened. He followed the sound to the bedroom at the back of the flat.

‘Hello? Police. I’m Detective Sergeant Jake.’

The bed had a floral duvet cover, matching pillows. Curtains were drawn at the window, their thin cotton pulling flower-shaped shadows into the room.

The knocking was coming from a cupboard built into the back wall. The cupboard doors were fastened with a length of yellow nylon washing line, wound around the handles and knotted off. A good knot, naval.

Noah struggled with it.

‘Hang on. Police.’

The knocking didn’t stop, but nor did it get louder or more urgent, not even when he repeated his rank and name in a bid to reassure whoever was shut inside.

The bedroom smelt of talcum powder, a pink scratch at the back of his throat. He struggled with the nylon knot, thinking of Emma Tarvin’s big hands. His fingers were sweating with the effort.

‘It’s okay, I’m police, hold on …’

He got it undone at last, dragged the line through the handles, threw it behind him to the floor …

She fell out at his feet, sucking for breath.

Yellow rope at her wrists and ankles, elastic bandage gagging her mouth.

Skinny, half dressed, her bound hands holding on to his feet, pulling at him as she lifted her head and tried to focus on his face. He crouched to her level.

Sharp bones, and a wild scream in her eyes.

Red hair, white skin written on in black pen, blue bruises …

Traffic’s girl.

The girl they’d been looking for since the night of the crash, the one Kenickie wanted to arrest for the manslaughter of Logan Marsh.

The girl whose name had come from Marnie’s foster-brother, Stephen.

Grace Bradley.

38

Sommerville hadn’t changed. The same stew of light from fittings filled with dust and dead insects. Same acoustics, making Marnie’s footfall punchy. Same wait for Paul Bruton to authorise her access to the centre, even after she’d called ahead to say she needed to see Jodie Izard as a matter of urgency.

Only one thing had changed. She might have come and gone without noticing if she hadn’t been made to wait for Jodie to be brought to the visitor room.

At the end of the corridor, a glass door looked into the main body of the detention centre. Marnie had been through the door more than once. She had no intention of going through it today. She intended to take a statement from Jodie and get back to London as quickly as she could. Noah would be on the Garrett estate by now. She was expecting his report.

As she waited for Bruton, she saw a man standing the other side of the fireproofed glass. Her height, perhaps a shade taller, in jeans and a grey sweatshirt. Broad-shouldered, his hair buzz-cut to a dark shadow on his scalp. Standing very still, watching her.

It was only by the stillness that she recognised him.

Stephen Keele.

Marnie tensed in alarm, her skin pricking everywhere, the way it did when she caught sight of a stranger as she walked home alone late at night – a cold punch of fear through her veins.

She knew him, but she didn’t.

A grown man, a new stranger.

Stephen Keele.

Acid burned the back of her throat, blood beating in her ears. He was strong, she could see it in his shoulders. He could take her. His shadow reared up the wall.

They stared at one another across the empty length of the corridor.

He was nineteen years old. He’d been a boy the last time she saw him, still skinny, with black curls and a red mouth.

She hardly recognised the man behind the glass.

How had he changed so much in six months? She didn’t need to ask
why
he’d changed. He was being moved to an adult prison – working out, getting strong. Ten years ago, she’d been able to lift him on to a swing in her parents’ garden. Now he looked dangerous, immovable. It wasn’t just his new bulk and the buzz cut. It was the dip of his head, his warrior stance.

The pulse of his hostility reached her from thirty feet away, and she had to struggle to control her fight-or-flight response, the skin at the back of her neck and knees flushing damply. Like a flush of shame, except she wasn’t the one who should be ashamed. She’d done nothing but grieve the loss of her parents and ask questions, holding out for answers past the point when it became obvious he wouldn’t or couldn’t give her any. A lick of anger in the back of her throat, salty like tears …

He’d lost his disguise. No – he’d stripped it away. The last signs marking him out as a child. His curls, his narrowness, the limpid way he’d used his stare to pull her back into that past where she’d made promises to her parents to take care of her new brother. A boy they’d rescued from a broken family, wanting to make him whole again. Six years they spent trying to love him. There wasn’t any trace of that boy in the man standing on the other side of the glass. Gone …

He’s gone.

Good.

I can hate him now.

The ferocity of it shook her. For a second she was in free fall, euphoric, her head light and empty. She was dimly aware of moving in his direction, towards the glass door.