Throwaways (6 page)

“I’m sorry, but Ms. Chanderpaul can’t talk to you right now.”

We were back at the Helping Hands and it was the same receptionist from before and this time her smile was less than friendly. Luckily for us, there was no sign of the two security guards.

“Oh, I think she will,” said Tommy, flashing her a smile.

This time she was immune to his charms. “I can take your number and have her call you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, striding past reception, heading towards a corridor with rooms on either side. Her office had to be this way.

“Hoi, you can’t go down there,” a man shouted.

The figure of a security guard appeared. He must have been in the staff toilet because he was hitching up his trousers and buckling his belt. The desk where the other one usually sat had been empty.

He glared at us then turned to look at the receptionist who was trailing behind us. “Is there a problem here, Katie?”

The receptionist’s unlined face creased. “These two people want to see Ms. Chanderpaul. When I told them she was busy, this one…” She pointed a scarlet nail in my direction, “barged on through.”

At this point, two doors opened. A man with grey hair and glasses came out of his office with a bemused expression on his face as he took in the view. A tall, dark skinned woman appeared in another doorway. She walked the short distance down the hall towards us, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Can I help you?” She had a warm voice.

“Yes,” I said. “We’d like to talk to you about Sheena Andrews and Donna Di Marco.”

Any trace of a smile was gone. “Sorry, but I cannot discuss the
people who come here.”

“Oh,” said Tommy with a smile. “That is a pity. We’ve just been talking to a friend of yours, Donna. She had some interesting things to say about you and she’s waived her right to client confidentiality.”

The counsellor’s smile didn’t even dim. “Okay, very well.” She beckoned us into her office. “I can spare five minutes.”

She nodded in the direction of the security guard. “It’s okay, Graham. I appreciate your diligence, but I can handle this from here.”

Although he didn’t look too happy about it, he did as he was told and padded back down the hall, muttering as he went.

In contrast to the reception area, Lorna’s office was more befitting a charity. There was a row of battered filing cabinets along one wall and posters warning about the dangers of HIV and hepatitis above the cabinets. Next to the big bay window was a battered wooden desk. Stacked neatly in two plastic trays were files and there was a
World’s Greatest Mum
mug filled with pens sitting next to a laptop computer. Somehow knowing that she had children made her actions seem worse; Sheena and Donna were just children.

Instead of chairs for visitors there was a dark blue beanbag sofa. Lorna motioned towards it and we sat down as she deposited herself in the chair behind her desk.

“Who are you and how can I help you?” She had a singsong voice that was a mixture of West Indian and Scots. The fuchsia suit she wore made the best of her mocha colouring. Monster or not, she was a striking woman and I could see why vulnerable young women would hang on her every word. She must have seemed glamorous and exotic to them.

Tommy’s face was set in hardened lines. “We know about your little sideline, Lorna.”

Lorna’s eyebrows slightly furrowed as though there was an item on the menu at a fancy restaurant that she wasn’t quite sure
about.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said, her steely gaze falling on Tommy and then moving onto me.

I leaned over towards her and said in a low voice, “If your security guard is standing outside you might want to ask him to step away from the door in case he hears something he shouldn’t.”

I’d heard someone creeping around outside the door and assumed it was him.

“Very well,” she said, pulling herself out of her chair and walking towards the door. There was a click as it opened and from our position on the couch we listened as Lorna spun Graham a line about us being the worried parents of a runaway. Then she asked him to leave.

We heard him say something like, “If you’re sure, doctor.” Then the clump of footsteps as he tramped back down the hall.

Lorna came back into the room.

“Now, where were we?” she said, lips set in a thin line. “Oh, you were about to tell me who the hell you are and what you’re trying to imply.”

Lorna remained impassive as we introduced ourselves as Tanya Baker’s cousins. If we told her who we really were she’d probably have thrown us out of her office.

We’d already got her attention with our allegation, but it seemed wise to calm things down; for now.

I finished the introductions by saying, “we just want to find out what happened to Tanya.”

Lorna nodded. “That’s understandable, but I don’t think I ever met…” She paused for a moment as if she’d forgotten who were talking about. Maybe that’s how she dealt with the guilt; if she felt any guilt.

“Tanya. We have a picture of her if that’d help.” Taking out the small wallet I carried instead of a purse, I flicked to the photo of Tanya. Although she was 22, she looked years older thanks to
her sunken cheeks and lanky hair. The photo had been taken for a bus pass.

Lorna shook her head. “I think I saw that picture in the newspapers, but I didn’t recognize her. A trace of sadness that might have been regret crossed her face; if people who pimp out kids can feel regret.

“I see so many young women in this place, you see. We try to help them, but it’s not easy. You think you’ve got through to them about how dangerous their behaviours are; how it can only end one way, but they keep coming back again time and time again. So many are addicted to drugs, others are pimped out by their own partners or by men they owe money to. We even had a client last year who was forced onto the streets by her own mother who was hooked on crack cocaine and needed her daughter to make the money to pay for it. Can you believe that?”

“Look,” said Tommy, “that’s all very tragic, but we’re not here to save every woman on the streets. We’re here to find our cousin and I think you can help us with that.”

The counsellor made a harrumph noise as Tommy went on. “We spoke to Donna Di Marco. You may know her; she’s a friend of Sheena Andrews.” He shot her a scornful look when she shook her head. “Please don’t lie to us about not knowing them because we know for a fact that you do. You even offered them work.”

Tommy stopped talking and eyed me. “What kind of work was it again, Nancy?”

“I believe the old fashioned word for it is prostitution, although Donna called it…” I paused to flick through the notebook I had. “Putting on a lesbian show. She said it was for a man you set her and Sheena up with. She also says – Donna that is – that you also set Sheena up with other men.”

Lorna stiffened in her chair. “Donna Di Marco is a lying, conniving little tart. You can’t believe a word that the girl says.”

“Oh,” I smirked, “so you know her then? She says ‘you know’ all the time, doesn’t she? Very annoying.”

Lorna moved back in her chair. “What do you want?”

“We want to know who Sheena’s last client was and whether you set up Tanya as well.”

“And, if I don’t know?”

“Simple. We go to the police. If they don’t act, there’s a very good investigative journalist that I know. Before you know it your part in prostituting young, vulnerable women will be all over the papers and the police will have to act. Your career and reputation will be in tatters and you’ll have plenty of time to think about that when you’re behind bars in an orange jumpsuit serving time for profiting from prostitution.”

My eyes bored into hers as I repeated my question. “Who was Sheena’s last client?”

“Donald Cassidy.”

At first I didn’t know why the name sounded familiar. Then it clicked. It was the name of Sheena’s therapist; the one she had supposedly told about Maria Fredericks abusing her.

At that realization, my gut tightened. Cassidy would have had to kill Sheena to stop it from coming out that a well-known child psychologist liked to get his rocks off watching schoolgirls writhing around.

Lorna went on, “But I don’t know your cousin. I’ve never met her before.”

We’d had enough of Lorna and were heading out the door as she bleated away, when she stopped us in our tracks. “I’m not the bad one in this.” Her once warm voice was filled with self-pity. Those girls were getting into cars with strangers. At least my way I knew they’d be safe.”

I knew that we’d more important things to do; that the callous bitch could keep, but her whiny words made me want to belt her one.

I marched over to her chair as she watched me as though I was pond scum and she was so damn smart. My face was now so close to hers she must be able to feel my breath on her face.

“You’re a fucking pimp, Lorna.” I spat out the words, saying her name as if it were two words. A stinking, rotten, greedy pimp. Those girls came to you for help and instead you had them working for you. How does that not make you the bad guy?”

There was no shame on her face; just self-pity that she’d been caught out. My hands were raised, about to smack her across the face when Tommy grabbed my arm.

“She’ll keep,” he said. “It’s Cassidy we need to find. Maybe the connection he had with Sheena saved her life.”

His words stopped me from wiping the holier than thou look off Lorna’s face. But, the lady didn’t know when to shut up.

“If it weren’t for me those girls would be getting into strangers’ cars for the price of a packet of cigarettes. I offered them a safe way of making good money.”

She had to be kidding.

“Safe? You probably sent Sheena Andrews to her death, you callous cow. And Suzy Henderson.”

Tommy had got up and opened the door, but I wasn’t finished yet. “Soon everyone is going to know what you are. A shitty pimp.”

And I meant it. If there wasn’t enough for the police to go on, I would go to the papers. There was a grubby little journalist I knew who’d be more than happy to do a bit of digging; who’d pay Donna Di Marco for her story.

If there was any more evidence needed to nail the bitch, he’d find it and splash it all over the newspapers.

“We need a plan. We can’t just burst into his office, slam him against the wall and demand to know where Sheena is.”

Tommy was right: that would have been way too much fun.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to leave any marks. We can beat him on the soles of his feet using a copy of the yellow pages.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Christ, Nancy, who puts these ideas into your head?” His lips moved into a smile. “Course, I know you’re not serious. You’re not that stupid or psychopathic.” He paused, probably remembering my DIY tattoo on the killer-rapist. “Nah, you are a bit psycho.”

He knows me. That’s why we get on so well.

* * *

Dr. Cassidy had a practice in Great Western Road, one of Glasgow’s longest streets. When we dialled the number we got a recorded message telling us he was on vacation and giving the number for two other psychotherapists if we were patients facing “a crisis.”

“What do we do now?” said Tommy teasingly. “Do you think the good doctor might be playing hooky?”

“Nah,” I said,” I think he may be too busy torturing the poor women he keeps in his basement to go to work.” I shivered when I said it because I hoped it wasn’t true.

We decided to pay him a visit on the off chance he was there and reluctant to answer his phone.

Before we’d even got to his office we heard the sirens. When we turned the corner, the place was swarming with police. We watched two crime scene techs dressed like giant condoms as they performed a fingertip search of the area around the red sandstone building. One was in the small garden at the front of
the building, crouching down to inspect the small patch of shrubbery for clues, whilst her colleague followed the short path that led up to the main door. A bored police officer who looked incapable of outrunning a donut, stood sentry at the gate, barring the way in.

Tommy slowed down the car to get a better look.

“There’s only one way to find out what’s going on,” I said. “Let me out and I’ll see what people are saying.”

A crowd of around 40 people had gathered behind the tape; some of them gawped and pointed, whilst others, including an elderly woman and a ruddy woman in a cleaner’s uniform, silently watched the crime scene guys. For them, this was better than
Taggart
.

I settled in beside and elderly man who had his grandchild with him in a pram.

“What a little cutie,” I said, beaming as I gazed down at the wee boy who was sleeping soundly, clutching a floppy bunny rabbit.

The man flashed me a wry smile. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d heard him a wee while ago, hen. The racket he was making.” He raised his eyes which only served to highlight the wrinkles on his leathery face. “Then all this hoo hah started just as I’d got him to sleep. Can’t believe he hasn’t even stirred.”

“Have you any idea what’s happened?” Before he could answer, I added, “My sister lives on this road. I’m worried about her.”

“They brought someone out ten minutes ago. Didn’t look too good to me. My eyes aren’t too good, but I reckon they put a body bag in the back of an ambulance. Guess we’ll hear more about it in the news, hen.”

Telling him I had to phone my sister, I skulked off.

“I don’t think we’ll get that wee chat with Cassidy,” I said to Tommy as I climbed back in the car.

* * *

Cassidy had been found slumped over his desk by the cleaner, with half his head missing and his gun at his feet.

It seemed like a classic case of suicide; he’d shoved the gun in his mouth and fired. But because of the work he did – before he went into private practice he’d been one of the resident psychologists at Herriot House, a secure unit for troubled youngsters, many of whom had committed horrendous crimes – the police had to be sure his death wasn’t linked to his work there. He’d left his job there after four years by “mutual consent.”

When the police delved deeper they discovered that he’d been asked to resign over his “questionable therapeutic methods.” These included encouraging a 13-year-old child rapist to scrub his genitals with steel wool and telling a 15-year-old girl who’d drowned her baby sister in the bath, to sit in a bath full of ice for 10 minutes to atone for what she’d done. The girl had nearly died of hypothermia. Cassidy had claimed that in order to be cured, these disturbed kids had to be cleansed. He sounded crazier than the people he’d been treating and his erratic behaviour was blamed on the stress of the job.

Tommy put it best when he said, “So, the psychopath was looking after the psychopaths. Lovely. Wonder if they’ll mention that in his eulogy.”

I didn’t have the energy to laugh because with Cassidy dead we were faced with one big problem: we’d no idea where he’d hidden the women. We had to find them. With their captor dead, the clock was ticking before they starved to death. That’s if Cassidy hadn’t killed them before he’d killed himself.