The charity where Benton had worked as an admin assistant was called Hope North-East and its base was a little house in a rundown street just off the main drag. The front door was open and she walked into a narrow lobby. To her right she looked through a glass door into a social space with a kitchen area beyond. There it seemed that a discussion group was taking place. Half a dozen people, mostly men, were sitting in a circle on beaten-up chairs. In the middle of them was a low table holding mugs. Nobody was smiling and the conversation seemed very intense.
Just inside the front door a laminated sheet of paper had been fixed to the wall with a drawing pin. It said ‘Office’ and an arrow pointed up the stairs. Holly followed it and came to an empty reception desk. She hesitated for a moment when somebody shouted from a room to the right. ‘Can I help you?’
Holly followed the voice into an untidy space. Two desks piled with files, a couple of computers that looked as if they’d been there for a decade. And two women, one large and confident, one skinny and nervous. A window looked out towards the main street and there was a background rumble of traffic.
Holly identified herself. The skinny woman looked even more nervous. Holly heard Vera’s voice in her head: You shouldn’t read anything into that, Hol. In some communities bairns are brought up to see the cops as the enemy. It doesn’t mean they’ve got anything to hide.
Still, Holly couldn’t help feeling suspicious. ‘Hope North-East. What’s that?’
‘We’re a registered charity,’ the skinny one said, too quickly. ‘We’re all above board here.’
Holly didn’t answer and turned to the larger woman. She had an official-looking name badge that read ‘Shirley’, and wore smart black trousers and a blue silk top. Holly thought she’d get more sense out of her.
‘We provide support and assistance for offenders newly released from prison or young-offender institute.’ The words came easily. Shirley had given the same explanation many times before. ‘We also give help to the offenders’ families.’
‘What kind of service do you provide?’ Holly felt more confident now. Shirley was a professional and she could relate to her. ‘Specifically.’
‘Sometimes all people need is information. If the wage earner suddenly disappears from the scene, partners flounder when it comes to applying for benefits. Just the business of organizing visiting orders and transport to the prison can be a nightmare. And you can find that your friends suddenly disappear, once a family member is sentenced. When offenders are first released, we try to provide friendship and company. Practical help with housing and money. In prison it’s easy, in lots of ways. The inmates get fed, clothed, and if they’re lucky they’re given work. When they first come out some people flounder.’
‘What’s going on downstairs?’ Holly thought the victims could do with a bit more support, and these do-gooders should direct their efforts in that direction.
‘A support group for people who have a problem with alcohol. The traditional AA approach doesn’t work for everyone. Our approach is a little less formal.’
‘Did a man called Martin Benton work for you?’ Holly took the photograph of the dead man and placed it on the desk in front of Shirley. The skinny woman stood up to look too, more curious now than worried.
‘What’s happened to him?’
Holly didn’t reply immediately. ‘You do recognize him?’
‘Yes,’ Shirley said. ‘That’s Martin.’
‘He died yesterday in suspicious circumstances.’ She thought the information would be all over the news by that evening, and besides you could tell from the photo that the man was no longer hale and hearty. ‘We’re trying to piece together as much information as we can about him. I understand that he worked here with you.’
There was a moment of shocked silence, before Shirley started speaking. ‘He came as a volunteer first. Then we put in a funding bid, so we could update our IT. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everything on card indexes, no attempt at data protection. Martin applied for the admin post and got the job.’
‘Were there any problems?’
‘None at all. He was a dream employee.’
‘What do you mean?’ For the second time that day Holly found her attention wandering. I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to be in a scuzzy office in a scuzzy town asking questions about a man I don’t care about at all.
‘He was punctual, reliable and very effective. A whizz at anything to do with the computers. In the end he was helping the clients. He ran a series of workshops for us in the local library, showing people how to register online for work and for benefits. Lots of them don’t have computers at home.’
Automatically Holly took out her iPad and began to write notes.
‘How long did he work for you?’
‘He was here on a six-month contract,’ Shirley said. The skinny woman had moved back to her desk, but made no pretence of working and was listening to every word. ‘After that, our funding dried up and we couldn’t afford to keep him on. He still came in once a week to help out as a volunteer. I’m the only paid worker in the place, and I’m on the minimum wage.’
‘What’s your background?’
‘I did a social-work diploma and worked as a probation officer for twenty years,’ Shirley said. ‘But I didn’t fancy working for a company more interested in profit than in befriending clients, when the service was reorganized and put out to private tender. Here I’m doing what I’m good at.’
Downstairs the group seemed to be breaking up. There were shouts as people wandered out into the street. The buzz of more animated conversation in the room below.
‘Did you know that Martin collected moths?’ Holly wasn’t sure how that could be relevant to the man’s death, but Joe had made a big deal about it.
‘Sure. He was very quiet. Shy. But when he talked about moths he seemed to come alive. Moths and computers. The loves of his life.’ Shirley smiled.
‘There was nobody special then?’
‘He never mentioned anyone. But then he probably wouldn’t. As I said, he was very shy. Anyway, he found dealing with people tricky. Martin ran the taster computer sessions with clients because he knew they were useful, but he was happier tucked away here in the office.’
There were footsteps, heavy on the bare stairs, and a man stood just inside the office door. Middle-aged and enormous. Shaved head. Tattoos. Hands the size of shovels, with dirt ingrained under the fingernails. ‘This is Frank,’ Shirley said. ‘He’s just been running the group. Another of our regular helpers.’
They sat in the window of a cafe. Frank drank a double-espresso and asked for a Coke to go with it. Holly had tea, too strong for her taste. Frank did most of the talking, a continuous monologue fuelled by caffeine and sugar. ‘I’ve got an addictive personality. Better coffee than booze. That’s why I got into bother when I was a kid. I wasn’t into thieving because I needed stuff. It was the buzz, the excitement. Knowing that I might get caught.’
‘And you did get caught.’
‘Of course I did. I was stupid. Detention centre, young offenders, prison. I worked my way through them. Didn’t stop me stealing, though, and by then I’d found other stuff to give me a buzz. Heroin. I got into that inside. By that time I was needing to thieve to pay for it.’
‘But you’re straight now?’
‘Yeah. Clean and straight. I’ve got my own little business. Gardening. I was never going to be any good working indoors. And I help out at Hope when I can.’