She crosses her legs, shows a bit of thigh, and leans forward. And there’s the cleavage. Boom. ‘Would you like some tea?’
He shakes his head once, looks away.
‘I’ve got some herbal blends,’ she says, in her smoky voice. She’s been doing it so long now, this voice, that she hardly thinks about it any more. She got training from an acting coach. He wasn’t a straight boy, so it was payment in cash. ‘Peppermint’s very relaxing,’ she tells the kid. ‘And chamomile.’
He shakes his head, looks like he wants to cry.
Paula sits and waits. Sometimes that’s the best thing.
Looking at the floor, the kid says, ‘It’s my dad.’
‘Oh, love,’ she says. ‘What about him?’
‘He sent me. He wants you to come round our place.’
‘Does he have a disability?’ Paula says. ‘Because that’s not a problem. The building’s got wheelchair access.’
‘It’s not that.’
She makes a concerned face, and the real emotions follow. This was taught to her by an acting coach too, and the funny thing is, it doesn’t make her feel like a fraud. It makes her feel like a better person. ‘Is he bedridden?’
‘No.’
She waits for more, begins to doubt it’s ever going to come. Fighting the urge to look at her watch she says, ‘Then what is it, love?’
He taps his foot, plucks at one of the sparse blondish hairs on his spindly forearm.
‘We’ve got a baby that needs feeding.’
There’s a silence. Paula hears cars go past, like the sound of blood in her ears.
As a girl, working the streets, the first sign that something was wrong was your hearing suddenly got very clear. It was your body, getting ready to react before your brain knew anything was amiss.
Hearing the traffic now, she knows she should have followed her first instinct and not invited this young man in. But he’d sounded gentle and personable on the phone, and she didn’t see the harm in starting an hour or two early; she could always take a nap afterwards.
None of this shows in her voice or in her body language. She just says, ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘We’ve got a baby,’ he says. ‘It needs feeding.’
‘A little boy or a little girl?’
The kid hesitates, as if thinking about it. ‘Little girl. Emma.’
‘Can’t her mum feed her?’
‘Her mum’s dead.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, love.’
‘That’s all right. She wasn’t my mum or anything.’
The kid squeezes his eyes shut as if silently rebuking himself for something. He blushes.
Paula says, ‘How old is she? Little Emma?’
‘Very young. Just a baby.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘My dad doesn’t trust doctors. He says a baby needs proper milk. From a woman.’
‘Well, there’s a lot of people who’d agree with him,’ she says. ‘My special friends think that’s true later in life, too. There’s something about a woman’s milk.’
The kid nods.
‘But formula milk’s safe for a baby,’ she says.
‘She won’t take a bottle. She just spits it out.’
Paula smiles, tenderly. ‘They do that. You’ve just got to be patient.’
‘Dad thinks she’s sick.’
‘Then he should go to the doctor. I think it’s lovely that you’ve come to me: it shows that your dad loves your sister very much. I’m touched. It’s a special bond, nursing a child. And it’s wonderful to think we could share that together. But it’s not the right thing to do. The right thing would be to go to the doctor’s. Then maybe contact your local breast-feeding support network. You might find some young mums who offer to help. They call it cross-nursing now, but that’s just a newfangled way of saying wet-nursing. That’s what I think you should do.’
The kid grows more agitated. He digs in his other pocket, produces another fistful of money. ‘This is all I’ve got.’
‘This isn’t about money, darling.’
‘Please. He’ll kill me.’
‘Tell you what,’ Paula says. She’s aware that her palms are damp. She needs to get this kid out of the flat. She’s angry at herself for letting him in, but she hides it.
‘Please,’ says the kid. His face is grey with wretchedness and fear.
‘Give me your dad’s phone number,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a little chat with him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then why don’t you call him yourself and pass your phone to me? I’ll have a word with your dad, tell him how great you’ve been.’
‘He’ll kill me.’
‘Come on. Don’t cry.’
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I mean he’ll actually kill me. He’s done it before. Please.’
Now Paula can’t hear or see anything except the abject, unhinged kid at the end of her tunnel vision.
In a false back of the left-hand drawer in the small dresser is a pepper spray and a taser. On top of the dresser, next to the landline, is a small pad of scented paper.
The kid says, ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to write your dad a little note.’
The kid leaps to his feet. Shrugs narrow shoulders.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘please. Just once. Just come to our place for one time.’
‘I can’t love,’ Paula says. Her voice is still calm, a little firmer now. But her hand is shaking as she pretends to look for a pen. She makes a face. She tries to underplay it but her features feel grotesque and exaggerated. ‘I’m sure when he reads the letter, you’ll be okay.’
The kid paces, muttering to himself. Paula doesn’t dare look back, but she thinks he might be tearing at his hair.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘please please please.’
She opens the drawer. Takes out the little can of Mace and turns to him.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘I’ve asked you nicely and I’ll ask you nicely one more time. Please leave.’
The kid looks at her, aghast.
He backs away, trips over the furniture.
‘Get out,’ she says.
The kid scrambles to his feet, reaches into his other pocket. It takes her a moment to recognize what he draws from his pocket.
It’s a torque wrench.
The kid draws back his hand, still snivelling.
No, Paula thinks, Not like this.
Luther and Howie step into the interview room.
Sheena Kwalingana sits behind a dilapidated desk, holding a cup of milky tea.
Luther slows down, makes himself relax. He nods at a chair. ‘May I?’
Sheena Kwalingana says yes.
Howie cracks open fresh audio tapes, loads them into the recorder, switches on the machine. Makes sure Mrs Kwalingana knows the interview is being recorded.
Mrs Kwalingana gives her permission.
Gently, in a voice designed to calm the witness as much as give information, Luther repeats his name and rank. He asks Mrs Kwalingana to confirm her name, address, and date of birth, which she does after clearing her throat and sipping stewed tea.
Knowing her throat is dry with nerves, Luther gets her a cup of water from the cooler on the other side of the door. She takes it with a look of bashful gratitude.
Then, just as gently, Luther says, ‘Can you tell me what happened on January seventeenth of this year?’
‘I already told you.’
‘For the record. Just once more, please. It could be very important.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Please,’ he says.
‘I was burgled,’ says Mrs Kwalingana. ‘A man broke into my flat. He took a few things and ran away. No big one.’
Howie steps in. ‘But that’s not quite it, is it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Please, tell us everything you told the other officers about what happened that night.’
She sighs. ‘I turned off the TV. I went to bed.’
‘What time would this be?’
‘I don’t know, usual time. I work early. I’m up before the dawn. So not too late, ten-thirty, maybe?’
‘You live alone?’
‘Since my husband died.’
‘No children, grandchildren?’
‘In Manchester. Apparently it’s fancy.’
‘And you live in a flat in a local authority development, that’s right?’
‘Nice place,’ she says, ‘modern, very clean. Nice neighbours. Old fashioned.’