Murder on Page One (9 page)

‘I don’t know. She certainly wasn’t what I expected. I think we should visit that hostel. And the sooner the better.’

* * *

‘That woman is a saint.’ Maggie Locke was definite. She did not hide her surprise that two detectives should be interested in Candy Dalton. ‘Monday and Tuesday are her nights here, but yes, she did Thursday and Friday last week, so she’s off today.’

The hostel office was cold and uncomfortable. Maggie’s ample frame was covered by a variety of shapeless woollen garments. She frequently glanced through the internal window overlooking the dormitory, where two rows of metal-framed beds faced each other across a long hall. Most were unoccupied. A few held shapeless lumps huddled under blankets. An earnest-looking man carrying a clipboard sat on the edge of one bed. Beside him, a skinny youth with a shaved head jabbed his finger to make a point.

‘We have three volunteers on each night,’ Maggie explained. ‘We always have two in the hostel. The other one is either here or out and about. This place is only a stop-gap, but we have positive interaction with other agencies. Our clients have complex needs, and even after we’ve passed them on, we try to give some of them continuing support. That often involves going out to find them if we know they are in crisis.’

‘Do you know what Mrs Dalton did on Friday?’ Flick asked.

‘She was out most of the day. Patrycja, one of our many Polish clients, needed a lot of support. Candy was with her.’

‘Where was she?’

‘At court in the afternoon. Patrycja’s brother, Pavel, had got into trouble. He’s a decent lad, really, but life got difficult for him and he was led astray. He was sentenced on Friday. Eight years. It’ll be very damaging.’ She shook her head. Both detectives kept quiet. ‘Patrycja was shattered, so Candy stayed with her.’

‘When did she return here?’

‘I’m not sure. I was off. But we keep a log. Here.’ She consulted a frayed jotter. ‘Yes. She was back by nine. We have a car which we use to pick up clients and she had it.’

‘You’re a charity for the homeless?’ Flick asked.

‘Yes. We get them off the streets and steer them towards appropriate longer-term accommodation. With some it’s addiction, others poverty. An awful lot have mental health issues.’

‘Can you tell us about Patrycja?’ Flick asked.

‘It’s pronounced Pat-rees-ya,’ Maggie corrected. ‘She and Pavel arrived in Britain over a year ago, and Candy got to know them then. She and Patrycja became quite close. They shared an interest in books. But Patrycja and Pavel were in debt to a gangmaster. He found a poorly-paid job in a warehouse for a short time, but she was so desperate … Well, you can guess. She worked in a high class brothel, but hated it. Pavel’s a good-looking boy and could have done the same, but preferred to work for the gangmaster as a heavy. He felt he could watch out for his sister that way. A couple of months ago, he got arrested for an armed robbery. He’s been in jail ever since. Patrycja couldn’t take prostitution any longer and one night she ran away. Candy found her under a bridge and brought her here. We arranged accommodation for her. But she was in pieces over Pavel. So, on Friday, Candy wanted to support her.’

Baggo asked, ‘Where can we find Patrycja?’

Maggie scribbled down an address off Tottenham Court Road. ‘That’s it. Her surname’s Kowalski. But I doubt if she’ll cooperate with the police after what happened to her brother. She’s very damaged.’

‘Can you help us regarding Mrs Dalton’s movements during the early evening of Monday seventh December last?’ Flick asked.

After consulting the same frayed jotter, Maggie shook her head. When asked about eighteenth January, she looked at several pages, tut-tutting and shaking her head. ‘Our records aren’t always as good as they should be,’ she said.

Thanking her, the officers left.

‘I bet she could have told us more than she did,’ Flick commented as she drove back to the police office. ‘Let’s just hope that Patrycja is more helpful. We should try to see her tomorrow. Sorry we’re so late, by the way.’

* * *

As Baggo left work, putting his head down against a gusty wind that felt as if it came from Siberia, he did not relish a solitary night in his tiny flat. The tube was busy with late workers whose body language shouted ‘do not approach’. A few read, but most looked blank and miserable.

‘At least spring is in the air,’ Baggo said to the casually-dressed young man next to him.

The man ignored him.

‘At least you can wrap up against the cold, unlike the heat of the summer.’

The man flinched and moved along the compartment. For the next ten minutes till he got off he pretended to ignore Baggo, while watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Baggo realised his non-friend thought he was on the pull, and decided not to follow him out at Leicester Square. The train went on to Tottenham Court Road. On a whim, he hopped out there. As he battled his way through the bustling, cheerless horde of individuals, along windy tunnels where the only smiles were on advertisements, and up to the cold pavement, he thought of Mumbai, so much warmer in every way, and a sense of longing hit him like a bolt of lightning. Eyes watering, he put his hands in the leather gloves his mother had given him and walked. He soon found he was a few hundred yards from where Patrycja lived. Sheltering in a doorway and puffing one of the small number of cigarettes he allowed himself, he gave himself a pep talk and decided he would do something positive. Thinking hard, he walked slowly but purposefully towards Patrycja’s building. On the street outside the block of flats, he told himself he was making a mistake; that the investigation should be done correctly; that he might get into trouble in a number of ways. But by now, his feet had a mind of their own. They carried him to the communal stairs and up to the first floor. Baggo walked along the row of doors, checking names, then tried the second floor. He rang the bell of the only flat without a name.

‘Who is there?’ The female voice was heavily accented.

‘Is that Patrycja? It’s Joe, from the hostel. Candy sent me.’

The door opened a fraction and an anxious face peered out. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Ring Maggie. She will tell you about me.’

Baggo decided to run away if she did phone, but the ruse worked and the chain was released. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. Patrycja closed the door quickly and they eyed each other across the hall.

She had a flat, round face. Her eyebrows were painted darker than her hair, and her lipstick was scarlet. Her small breasts could be seen clearly in outline under a light blue, sleeveless top. Her short skirt was stretched round her hips and she tottered on high stilettos. She smelled of gin and musky perfume. ‘What is it?’ she said.

‘They are worried about you.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Can we sit down? They will want a full report.’

‘Right.’ She led the way into a sparsely-furnished kitchen/sitting room with thin curtains that failed to close. Baggo sat on a hard, wooden chair and loosened his leather jacket. Patrycja sat in the stained and lumpy armchair facing him.

‘I am sorry about Pavel,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I am getting my head round it, as they say.’

‘Candy was very worried.’

‘She has been good to us.’

Baggo saw a fellow-immigrant, struggling in a country often less welcoming than it should be. ‘You were not expecting me, but you are expecting a client,’ he said gently.

She nodded.

‘Did you select some from the brothel and take them with you?’

‘What if I did?’

‘You will be in danger. But I am not here to judge you.’

‘Candy does not judge. I could tell her things.’

‘About the pimps?’

‘Yes. And about the men. I can say to you, that the English men are very funny. Drink?’ She got up and bent to take a bottle from a cupboard beside the sink. Baggo saw the tops of her stockings and suspenders. She did not wear knickers. His mouth dry, he wanted to kiss her, perch her on the edge of the table … She poured a generous quantity of gin and added a splash of water from the tap.

‘Yes. Thanks,’ he said.

She poured a less potent measure and handed it to him. He sipped it, trying not to be put off by the marks on the tumbler.

Patrycja resumed her seat and took a swallow. ‘Do you say to people you are English?’

‘I am Indian-English. I was brought up in Mumbai.’

‘I am Polish, and I will never be English.’

‘You have had a bad time here?’

‘Yes. Many English are bastards.’ She swallowed a mouthful of gin then looked at Baggo and grinned. ‘But many are funny; they like to be tied up and spanked.’ She paused and added, her voice soft, ‘Some like to hurt women, perhaps a little, perhaps a lot.’ She was silent for a moment, then drank again. Suddenly, she smiled. ‘An old man liked me to pee on him. A businessman. Important, big man. Another wanted to suck my toes. A lot only talk. What do you like?’ She gave him a siren look.

Baggo shifted on his chair. ‘Just the usual.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked. Very un-English to talk about sex.’

Another silence followed. Baggo broke it. ‘Have you been to visit Pavel since Friday?’

She nodded.

‘How was he?’

‘Bad. He expected only six years. My little brother.’ Her voice caught.

‘It was lucky Candy could be with you on Friday.’

‘Yes…’ The doorbell sounded. Patrycja sniffed then jumped up, put her glass by the sink and opened a door leading to a walk-in cupboard. ‘He’s very early. Quick. You go here. I’ll take him to the bedroom and change his nappy. Don’t worry about slaps. Just go. And close the door.’ She poured Baggo’s gin down the sink and pushed him into the cupboard.

The space was cramped, dark and smelled of damp. Baggo felt for the door handle, fearful of touching anything that might make a noise. He wished he had gone straight home.

There was a crash. A high-pitched scream was cut off abruptly. There were thumps and the noise of something being dragged. A male voice spoke harshly in a guttural tongue. Just outside the cupboard, a thud was followed by a stifled cry and a second thud. Two men were speaking. Baggo could not understand what they said, but their voices were angry, cruel, insistent. Patrycja’s cries were muffled but her panic was unmistakable. A scraping noise was followed by hard slaps on bare skin. Her cries became a low, keening whine. A man grunted and there were more scrapes and slaps.

Baggo tried to picture the furniture in the room. Then he felt carefully to his right. He had seen bottles there as he entered the cupboard. The noises of violence outside continued. He tried to control the tremor in his fingers as they moved along the shelf. At last, he touched smooth, cool glass. Like a blind alcoholic, he assessed the shape and weight of the bottle then firmly grasped its neck.

Ready for sudden light to hit his eyes, he took two deep breaths. As a sort of prayer, he thought of the God, Shiva, dancing on demons and killing them. Then he turned the handle and burst out of the cupboard.

Patrycja’s back was on the table, her legs spread out. She was being attacked by two men, both with shaved heads and leather jackets. One man leaned across the table, his weight holding her down. His back was to Baggo. Without hesitation, Baggo hit him as hard as he could. The man half turned into the blow. The bottle smashed against the side of his head with an explosion of red wine and glass fragments, leaving a jagged bottle neck in Baggo’s hand. The first man slumped lifelessly as Patrycja wriggled clear.

The second man had jerked back. He stood between Patrycja’s legs, his trousers down, his erect penis continuing to spurt. He bellowed in shock and rage. Baggo dropped the bottle neck and launched himself at the man, who fell to the floor, banging his head on a chair leg. Baggo scrambled until he sat astride him, then began to pummel the ugly, unshaved face. A vivid image from his childhood came back to him; Shilpa, his elder sister coming home late, her face bruised, her clothes torn. He had been sent to bed, only after hearing a new word: rape. Now, a red mist descended. Using both fists, he kept punching, left, right, left, right. He took a visceral pleasure in inflicting punishment till, his face a bloody, spongy mess, the man ceased to react, and the pain in Baggo’s knuckles forced him stop.

As he got up, he heard a cry behind him. He threw himself sideways to dodge a knife-thrust and found himself crouched in a corner. The first man, though groggy and unsteady, came at him. He lifted his right hand, ready to deliver a fatal stab, but the fury in his eyes changed to wide-eyed surprise. Making an obscene gurgling noise, he half turned then collapsed like a rag doll, blood spurting from his neck. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth and his eyes stared. Behind him, Patrycja stood, a large kitchen knife in her hand. Dishevelled, her clothes stained red with blood and wine, her battered face burned with hatred.

‘I should have known they would find me one day. Now we must go,’ she said.

‘The police …’ Baggo panted. He stepped round the spreading red pool, and reached for his i-Phone.

‘No police. No police.’ She held the blood-smeared knife at his throat, her hand shaking.

Baggo saw the desperation in her eyes. He judged she would not hesitate to use the knife again. He also realised he would not be able to explain what had happened. ‘Okay,’ he said. He put his i-Phone away.