‘’Kay.’ Looking back to her mates, to the fire. She shook with cold.
‘The assault, the rape…’ Rachel said, seeing the girl stiffen immediately. ‘It was someone you knew?’
‘No,’ the girl said quickly.
Rachel didn’t believe her. ‘I think it was,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s why you refused to make a statement, why you wouldn’t press charges. You were frightened of him. Frightened he would make you pay if you shopped him.’
The girl shook her head, then sucked hard on the cigarette.
A train rattled past somewhere close, making it difficult to hear anything else. As the racket faded away, Rachel said, ‘I’m investigating another case. It might be the same bloke.’ She studied the girl, who just sat shivering, staring across the canal, tapping nervously at the end of her cigarette with her thumbnail. ‘Does the name Sean Broughton mean anything to you?’
Rosie shook her head slowly. No reaction, no increase in stress as far as Rachel could see.
‘This other girl, she was in Ryelands, too.’ Rachel caught the flinch that the name of the home provoked and felt her own heartbeat quicken. ‘Was it someone you knew from Ryelands?’ Rachel asked. ‘Just tell me that. I don’t need a name, I can find out.’ Speaking fast, rushing to convince her.
Rosie turned. ‘No, it wasn’t. No, it wasn’t,’ she cried. ‘Why have you come back?’ Her face white with anxiety, eyes wide, the pupils huge from the drugs or the drink. She was shuddering, her breath catching and uneven. ‘I didn’t see his face. I just want to forget it, I told you before.’
‘How? Look at the state of you,’ Rachel said. ‘You’ve not forgotten. You let them get away with it. And now they might have hurt someone else.’ All things she should have kept to herself, unhelpful, unprofessional. ‘We can protect you,’ Rachel went on.
‘I never seen him,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Just go, will you, fuck off.’ She leapt to her feet and walked unsteadily back to her friends, and Rachel heard the hubbub of questions and remarks as she reached the tunnel.
Rachel lobbed her cigarette into the canal, retraced her steps. Rosie didn’t know Sean, she trusted her on that, but Ryelands? There was something there, but she needed to find a way to introduce it to the inquiry without getting a total bollocking or being laughed out of court.
16
JANET WAS SHATTERED at the start of the day. She’d arrived home the night before to find Elise and Taisie going at it like something off Jerry Springer. Ade out at a leaving do for someone at school. As Janet came through the door, she could hear thumping from upstairs and Taisie screaming, ‘Give it me back, you slag. You bitch. Give it me now.’
‘Oy!’ Janet called out. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Give it me!’
Janet got halfway upstairs in time to see Taisie land a kick on Elise’s bedroom door. Taisie was incandescent, her face red with exertion, eyes wild.
‘What’s going on?’ Janet said again.
Taisie, only now aware of her there, rounded on her mother, as though Janet was also to blame: ‘She’s got my phone and she won’t give it back!’
‘Elise?’ Janet called. ‘Open the door.’
‘She tried to hit me,’ Elise said, slightly muffled. ‘Tell her off.’
‘Why did you hit her?’ Janet asked Taisie, who was unable to stand still, seething with outrage.
‘I didn’t, I missed,’ snapped Taisie. ‘And she took my phone, I told you, dumbo.’
‘Hey!’ Janet glared at Taisie. ‘Open the door, Elise,’ she said again.
She heard Elise fumbling with the lock. She had seen it so many times before. Taisie wronged by her bigger brighter sister, going off like a warehouse full of firecrackers while Elise, sensible and clever and sometimes a little holier than thou, took the moral high ground.
Elise opened the door and Taisie lunged, but Janet caught her arm. ‘Cool it, lady,’ she said. Then turned to Elise, ‘Give her the phone.’
Elise was flushed, a righteous look on her face. ‘But she-’
‘Give it,’ Janet said firmly, ‘and then you can explain.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Elise protested, all wounded innocence. ‘Anyway, she’s-’
‘Elise,’ Janet cautioned.
Elise thrust out the phone, which Taisie snatched, snarling, ‘Loser.’
‘Taisie.’
‘Well, she is,’ Taisie retorted. ‘She’s no life of her own, so she’s spying on me.’
Janet looked to Elise for an explanation.
‘Why don’t you ask her what she’s got on her phone?’ Elise said. ‘You’ve heard of cyber bullying?’
Janet turned to Taisie.
‘It’s not, it’s just a joke,’ the younger girl said.
‘Unless you’re on the receiving end,’ Elise said sharply.
Janet held out her hand for the phone. Taisie coloured and Janet could see her gauging whether to refuse. ‘Give it.’
‘I hate you, you sad cow,’ Taisie yelled at Elise, as she plonked the phone in Janet’s outstretched hand.
‘Hate you more,’ Elise said.
Janet wasn’t sure what she was looking for on the phone but needed to appear in control. ‘I’ll keep this for now,’ she stalled. ‘You both must have some homework to do.’
‘It’s in the picture files,’ Elise said smugly.
Taisie stamped off to her room, banging the door hard.
Don’t slam it, Janet thought, but let it go.
She ate the warmed-up remains of beef curry as she navigated the phone. Found the picture directory, spotted the file name: Mr Fairy. It was Taisie’s form tutor, doctored to show the man with breasts and a tutu. It was crudely done, but effective if you wanted to lampoon the bloke. Janet could take him or leave him but had gathered he was unpopular with the kids. All the same, there was something cruel and distasteful in what they were doing. Eleven-year-olds!
Leaving Taisie to stew, Janet ran a bath. She thought about Lisa Finn’s missing phone. What might be on there, what it might tell them? Someone had taken it, concealed it. Because of what it might reveal? Or something more basic? Phone equals dosh. Sean would have reason to take it if he needed money for drugs. Or the killer might have stolen it, knowing it betrayed clues as to his identity. Was Sean the killer? She couldn’t tell. And that was OK; early days. You couldn’t rush an investigation, you’d be likely to muck it up if you did.
After her bath, Janet went to Taisie, the phone in hand. Taisie was sitting on her bed, school books spread out around her, but Janet had no idea whether she had done any work or simply arranged them for effect. Parents’ evenings, the ones she made it to, and the ones Ade had reported back on, brought less-than-glowing reports on Taisie’s work. She was slapdash and careless. Her reading and numeracy levels were almost a year short of the average for her age, though the school couldn’t find any specific problem to account for it, no dyslexia or other learning difficulty. Her attitude was found wanting too. They had hoped that the move to High School would be a fresh start, a turning point, but this didn’t bode well.
Janet sometimes thought it was as if Taisie, realizing Elise was a high achiever, motivated and hard-working, the swot of the family, had decided to carve out a different niche for herself in reaction. Wayward, bolshie, bold. At the end of the day, Janet wanted both her girls to be happy. Unlike Ade, she didn’t care overmuch if Taisie shunned the academic route, but she passionately wanted her to do well in some field, to know the sense of achievement, the boost to self-esteem, the sheer engagement that came from a job well done, from having skills and being a success. Whenever Taisie showed any glimmer of interest in something: street dance, ice-skating, guitar, woodwork, Janet was 100 per cent behind her: encouraging, interested, shelling out for all the gear. And all too often Taisie’s interest faded as quickly as it had blossomed. The roof space was half-full of discarded tennis racquets and jewellery-making kits, magic sets and martial arts outfits.