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‘Sex worker,’ said Jo.
Martin nodded and took a swig of his pint. The head of his beer left a foam moustache along his top lip. It suited him, matched the white of his hair. ‘Sex worker. Like it. Anyway, that was as far as they got. A body. A sex worker, they decided. No one ever came forward to claim her.’
‘Murdered?’
Martin popped a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and crunched. ‘She was dead. That’s about the only fact. Police decided it was suicide although they never found a note. Pathologist said somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five. Autopsy showed she’d carried a child. Slip of a thing. Bruises that looked like she’d had some kind of fight, but they were old – not related to her death.’
‘Suicide?’ I know I’ve got an issue with suicide. To me, it’s selfish and passive-aggressive – a way of handing on your problems to someone else. It’s the easy way out. Jo gives me hell for my views but I can’t seem to change them. It’s like they’re ingrained in me. I took a sip of my blackcurrant and tried not to gag. ‘How she do it?’
He slapped me on the knuckles. ‘Not proved.’
‘Well, how’d she die?’
‘Poisoned.’
‘Poisoned? What, like an overdose?’
‘Strychnine – know how that works?’
I shook my head.
‘Starts with twitching. Facial muscles go first.’ Martin clenched and unclenched his fingers, balling his hand into a fist, then flinging his fingers back. He still wore his wedding ring and it squeezed the flesh of his third finger. ‘Spasms spread throughout the body, progressing to convulsions as the nervous system runs out of control.’
‘Weird way to kill yourself,’ said Jo.
‘Eventually the muscles that control breathing become paralyzed and the victim suffocates,’ Martin continued. ‘Stays conscious and aware the whole time up to death – in fact the nerves of the brain are stimulated, gives heightened perception.’
‘Christ,’ said Jo.
He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Hard to think of a worse way to go.’
‘Where’d she get strychnine from?’ I asked. ‘Is it legal?’
‘It was. Used by mole-catchers – but you had to be a licensed pest controller to get hold of it. Police never found where she got it from, least not that they told me.’
‘You don’t think it was suicide?’
‘She was found in the communal garden of a block of flats, overlooking Roundhay Park.’
I’d never been to Roundhay Park, but I’d heard of it. It was out to the north of the city, only about four miles away; but we’ve got Hyde Park right on our doorstep, so why travel?
‘She killed herself outside?’ asked Jo and I knew by the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe it. I could see where she was coming from – when you think of suicide, especially women, you think of pills in the bath, head in the oven. But then there were the jumpers, I thought. Beachy Head and that bridge near Hull. They were outdoors.
‘Perhaps she didn’t want a relative to find her,’ I said. ‘I mean, if it was suicide, and she’d killed herself in her own flat, chances are it would have been someone she knew who discovered her. Perhaps that’s why she went to the garden – she wanted a stranger to find her.’ Which, I thought, although I didn’t say aloud, made her more thoughtful than your average suicide. I don’t know how the tube drivers ever recover from what they must see when someone decides they can’t go on.
‘She didn’t live in the flats,’ said Martin.
‘Oh.’ I considered this for a moment. It didn’t make sense. ‘Why would you kill yourself in someone else’s garden?’
‘Where did she live?’ asked Jo.
Martin shrugged. ‘That’s the trouble. We don’t know. No one knows who she is. No ID on her; all they found was a train ticket from Nottingham. Like she’d travelled all the way from Nottingham to kill herself in the garden of this particular block of flats.’
‘She must have known someone in the flats,’ I said.
‘She’d tied herself to a statue. Right in the middle of the grass.’
‘If they didn’t know who she was, how did they know she was a sex worker?’ asked Jo.
Martin shrugged again. ‘Don’t know. And I’ve got to tell you here, after …’ He paused, looked at Jo again. ‘After last time. I want to put my cards right out there on the table, so you know what you’re getting into. I didn’t like the way the investigation was handled, if you catch my drift.’
‘Come on, Martin,’ I said. I banged my drink down on the table harder than I expected and caused the table to wobble and Jo’s pint to slop. I lowered my voice. ‘You can’t put your cards on the table and then ask us to catch your drift. What do you mean?’
Jo mopped at the spillage with a beer mat.
‘The policeman in charge. I had my doubts. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a feeling that perhaps he wasn’t as committed as he could have been.’
‘Wasn’t committed or was bent? Massive difference.’
‘Lee,’ Jo said. She put a hand on my arm. ‘We’ve got to come to each case blank, you know that. Empty.’
I reminded myself to breathe. Martin looked at me and then at Jo, like he was watching a tennis match.
‘I don’t know why he decided she was a sex worker. That’s all. Maybe she was known to the police, or him; maybe he was working from the fact that no one ever claimed her, the bus driver’s impression … I don’t know. It might not be important. Anyway, to me it felt like she was trying to tell someone something. She was naked. Did I say that?’
‘She committed suicide naked?’
‘Bollocks,’ said Jo.
‘The report said she was naked as the day she was born except for a necklace,’ said Martin.
‘If she was naked, where was her train ticket?’
‘All her clothes were folded neatly next to the body. The train ticket was found in bushes less than three metres away.’
‘Might not be hers then?’ Jo said.
‘It had her fingerprints on it. And they found a bus driver who thought he remembered her getting the bus from the station.’
‘Did they check the CCTV?’
Martin nodded. ‘Nothing.’
‘Not a lot to go on,’ I said.
‘I looked into the residents. Posh flats, owned by the well-to-do. Rob Hamilton was one of the residents.’
Even I’ve heard of Rob Hamilton and I don’t watch TV.
‘If in doubt, deal,’ said Jo.
I frowned at her.
‘That’s his catchphrase,’ she said.
‘And Jimmy McFly lived there too – the celebrity chef. Before he got done for drunk driving.’
‘Didn’t he go out with Gabby Fairweather?’ asked Jo. She pointed a finger at me. ‘She left him when he went to prison. Before she met that singer from that boy band.’
I was totally lost.
‘The Wranglers. God, what was his name? Chris somebody.’
For a radical feminist socialist, Jo is surprisingly well-informed on celebrity culture.
I turned to Martin. ‘Anyone with any links to the body?’ I said, my voice a little pointed.
‘I’ve got the full list here.’ Martin bent to pick his briefcase from the floor, opened it and took out a reporter’s spiral bound notebook.
I read the neatly written label on the front. Jane Doe; 29 August and the year. I did the maths. Almost seven years ago.
‘There were a couple of people of interest. One resident who’d been prosecuted for tax evasion.’ He flicked through the pages of the notebook. ‘There.’ He pointed to a name that had been highlighted. ‘And Blake Jeffries – the whisper was he’d made his money on the club scene … and not just through door entry charges, if you know what I mean.’
Jo grabbed for the notebook before I could get there and settled herself to read its contents.
‘You mean drugs?’ I said.
‘According to a source. I looked into it but nothing provable.’
‘We’re a missing persons’ bureau,’ I said. I folded my arms. ‘She’s like the opposite of missing. She’s found. I mean, all right, she’s dead, but she’s not—’
Martin opened his mouth to say something but Jo got there before him. ‘Somewhere she’s missing,’ she said. ‘That’s the thing. These women, they’ve been isolated—’
‘What women?’ I asked.
‘Cut off from society, precisely so no one cares when they’re abused, raped, killed … whatever.’
‘What women?’ I said again.
‘Sex workers,’ said Jo.
I knew her patience was stretching and truth was I was trying to stretch it on purpose. Don’t ask me why. I get like this sometimes. You’d think I’d learn, but no.
‘Somewhere,’ Jo said, ‘they’re missing.’
‘Somewhere there has to be a family or a past lover,’ Martin explained, and I noticed the similarity in the two pairs of steely blue eyes staring at me. ‘Or a friend. Someone who’s missing her. She had a child. That child must be somewhere, wondering where their mother is. She died anonymous. Seven years later, no one even knows her name.’
Jo continued to flick through the pages of Martin’s notebook. There didn’t seem to be many, perhaps half a dozen, the rest of the pages virgin white. I knew from the way she closed the front cover I wasn’t going to get much say in this one. Resistance was futile. ‘And that’s all you got?’ I asked. ‘A list of people who lived in the flats and a train ticket?’
‘They’re a subclass of people,’ said Jo. ‘Cynics might think these women are bred for abuse and murder. Most sex workers grew up in care.’
‘We don’t actually know she was a sex worker.’
‘Abusers, murderers know they stand a good chance of getting away with the shit they get away with—’
‘She wasn’t murdered. And we don’t know she was abused.’ Jo obviously wasn’t going to let any of the facts stand in her way.
‘Because no one cares,’ she said, her eyes boring into mine. Her voice was so loud the people at the other table had stopped speaking.
‘I do care,’ I said. ‘I just think we need to be clear—’
‘They’re the world’s missing, the world’s lost.’
‘OK.’ I held my hands up.
‘They’re so missing, so off radar, no one even knows they’re missing. They’re more than missing, they’re fucking invisible.’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Martin, nodding with approval at Jo. ‘There was no one stamping feet, demanding answers. The case got pushed aside. She had no one. That’s why it won’t let me go.’
‘If the kind of men who prey on these women knew there were people like us out there, people who care and want to find out what happened, maybe, just maybe, it might make them think twice before they do the fucked-up shit that they do.’
‘OK,’ I said. The expression on Jo’s face made me feel like crying. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt, having a look at it.’
I turned to Martin because I couldn’t bear to look at Jo anymore. ‘You don’t have to pay us though, we owe you one.’
‘We owe you more than that,’ said Jo.
He drained his pint and waved at the barman, indicating another round, the same again. I wanted to point out it wasn’t waitress service, but the barman smiled and reached up for a pint glass from the rack above his head. Martin turned back to us.
‘I do have to pay you. And I’ll tell you why. If I don’t, I have to be nice to you because you’re doing me a favour. There’s no pressure on you to succeed.’ He grinned at me and the twinkle returned to his eye.
‘You want to be able to boss us around, is that what you’re saying?’ said Jo.
‘Precisely.’ Martin patted Jo on the hand. ‘And besides, that battleaxe you’ve hired as your receptionist, sorry, office manager … she’d kick all our backsides if you said you’d taken on a freebie. I need to be able to stand my ground with her.’
Jo shook her head. ‘You’ll learn. Complete surrender is the only way with Aunt Edie.’
‘Yes, well, I’m too old. And you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. I don’t surrender to anyone. Never have, never will.’
Jo laughed and it struck me that I hadn’t seen her laugh for ages. Not like that, head back, square white teeth on show.
Chapter Five (#ud7c14415-832b-5bc3-b3fb-7c2ec38c1dd8)
We stayed in The Brudenell till closing time. Martin had booked himself a couple of nights in a B&B on Cardigan Road in order to watch the cricket. As Jo tried to wheedle another round out of the barman I noticed the skin on my forearms was scratched red and tugged my sleeves down. Once the barman had convinced Jo there wasn’t going to be any after hours, we poured Martin into a taxi from the rank opposite and I linked arms with Jo as we waved him off, Jo swaying as I held onto her. When the taxi turned the corner, I half-pulled, half-pushed her up the hill towards our flat on Hyde Park Road.
She stumbled over the kerb on Royal Park Mount and fell on her arse. I tried to pull her up, but Jo found it too hilarious for words and I gave up and sat next to her at the roadside. We shared a fag, which got so damp from the tears streaming down her face I had to light another. I put my arm around her shoulders and her body warmth seeped into me. Must have looked like a right pair. Just as I thought she’d fallen asleep and I’d have to roll her up the hill, she clambered to her feet.
‘Chris Goodall.’
