After the Fire (8 page)

‘Child benefits.’

‘Worth a try,’ I allowed. ‘The staff won’t be in yet. That’ll have to wait until after nine.’

Derwent looked through the window again. ‘I don’t want to have to drag him around the hospitals trying to ID his mother.’

‘That’s very much a last resort.’ I looked around. ‘Here’s Liv.’

She was breathless, but she looked pleased with herself. ‘Right. I’ve been at the local leisure centre, talking to the people who were evacuated from Murchison House. I showed Sam’s picture around and a Mrs Jordan said she recognised him. She’s pretty certain he was living in flat 102 on the tenth floor with his mother, but she’d never spoken to them. They only moved in a few weeks ago. She’d seen them in the corridor together. She noticed him because he looks like one of her grandchildren.’

‘Flat 102 is one of the flats that was burned out completely,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to be able to recover any ID.’

‘No, but we can find out who was supposed to be living there.’ Derwent shivered as the wind blew some dead leaves around our feet. ‘It’s a start.’

‘If the owner knows the boy’s mother, they can ID her for us.’

Derwent nodded. ‘Get back to the management office and find a number for the owner, Kerrigan. Don’t come back without it.’

I went. I even hurried. But by the time I got back, Derwent was shrugging his coat on and the back seat of the car was empty.

‘Did social services take him?’

‘Yeah.’ He had his back to me.

‘Are you okay?’

It was as if I’d never asked the question. ‘Did you get the owner’s details?’

‘Harriet Edmonds. I’ve got her address. She lives in Islington.’

‘Then let’s go to Islington.’

‘I’ve cleared it with DCI Burt already.’

Derwent paused, still facing away from me. ‘I was going anyway.’

‘I know.’

‘
IS THIS THE
right place?’

‘That’s the address I have.’ I looked up at the neat Georgian townhouse: five storeys of prime London property, facing onto a pretty square that was completely silent at ten to six in the morning. ‘Bit of a step up from Murchison House.’

‘Let’s go and see if they’re awake.’ Derwent bounded up the steps to the front door, leaning over the railings to peer in through the basement window. ‘Someone’s up. The lights are on.’ He rang the bell and the sound echoed through the house.

‘Yes?’ The man who came to the door after a longish wait was pink-faced and dishevelled. He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts and had a towel slung around his neck. The t-shirt was too small and clung to a fairly substantial belly. An early morning workout, I guessed, fighting middle-aged spread. Fighting quite hard, if his sweat patches were anything to go by.

‘Sorry for interrupting you. Police.’ Derwent held up his ID. ‘Is there a Harriet Edmonds at this address?’

‘There is.’ He mopped his forehead. ‘I’ll get her for you now. Come in.’

He led us down to the kitchen, a long narrow room that ran the length of the house and ended in a small sitting area. There was a rowing machine by the garden doors, in front of a wall-mounted TV. It was on, showing a business news channel. The sound was muted.

‘Multi-tasking,’ he explained, moving the machine behind the sofa with an effort. ‘Sit down. Can I get you anything? Cup of tea?’

‘No thanks,’ Derwent said.

‘Back in a minute.’ He wandered out, rubbing his head with the towel until his iron-grey hair stood up in spikes. I could hear his footsteps on the stairs, climbing up and up. I wondered how far he had to go.

Derwent raised his eyebrows at me. ‘What do you think?’

‘He wasn’t surprised to see us. He didn’t even ask why we were here.’

‘Maybe this is a regular occurrence.’

I looked out at the garden, which was narrow but long, like the house. There was a small studio at the end of it, little more than a shed. ‘What do you think that is?’

‘An office?’

‘If it was my house, I’d turn that into a gym and find space for the office in the house.’

‘You’re never going to have a house like this. Not unless you marry money.’ He hadn’t meant it to hurt but I flinched all the same and he saw it. ‘Sorry. I forgot.’

He’d forgotten that my boyfriend had been keeping all sorts of secrets from me, including the fact that he was wealthy, even by London standards. It was the betrayal that had wounded me far more than Rob being unfaithful. I could understand how Rob had ended up in bed with someone other than me. I couldn’t understand why he’d lied to me.

Except that I hadn’t grown up with the kind of privilege he’d taken for granted, and I didn’t altogether trust people who had a lot of money. They assumed they could buy their way out of trouble.

‘If I cared about money, I wouldn’t be a copper,’ I said lightly. ‘But I could win the lottery.’

‘You never buy a ticket.’

‘I forget,’ I admitted. Then, ‘Someone’s coming.’

And at top speed. The kitchen door burst open and a slender woman rushed in, tying the belt of her dressing gown. She had curling shoulder-length red hair that was exceptionally well cut, and if she was in her pyjamas she had made time to put on dark red lipstick before she made her appearance. She crossed the kitchen and pulled down a mug from a shelf, then started fiddling with a vast, shiny coffee machine.

‘What can I do for the police this fine morning? Can I get you a coffee? Tea? I’m so sorry, I have to have caffeine before I can speak to anyone.’

If this was Harriet Edmonds before caffeine, I wasn’t sure I could cope with after.

Derwent introduced himself, and me. ‘We’re here about—’

‘Just a second.’ She dived into the fridge. ‘Soy milk. Disgusting. I’m a vegan so I’m not allowed to hate it but I do.’

‘Mrs Edmonds.’

She stopped. ‘Yes.’

‘We need to speak to you about the Maudling Estate. You own a property there.’

She put the carton down. ‘I own two.’

‘And you let them out to tenants.’

‘No. Not officially. I have friends who stay there.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘People who need somewhere to stay indefinitely. Has – has something happened?’

‘You haven’t seen the news?’

‘I only watch the lunchtime news. I don’t like to look at the news in the evenings. It disturbs me.’ She ran her fingers around her eyes, massaging the skin. ‘I have trouble sleeping. I can’t switch off.’

‘There was a fire, Mrs Edmonds. In Murchison House.’

‘Oh my God.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘That’s where I put Melissa. What happened to her?’

‘Melissa?’ I repeated.

‘She had a little boy. Oh God, not them.’

‘We found Sam. He’s fine,’ I added.

‘Oh … yes, Sam.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘But Melissa? Is she—’

‘We don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify her yet. She may be among the injured. But there were also some fatalities, I’m afraid.’

‘The poor, poor girl. As if she hadn’t had enough to deal with.’ Harriet Edmonds began to cry, quite openly and helplessly.

I hurried over to her and guided her to the sofa. Derwent crouched down in front of her, and it wasn’t quite confrontational but he wasn’t giving her much space either.

‘Why was Melissa living in Murchison House?’

‘It was supposed to be a safe place for her while she found her feet.’ Harriet dug in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘That’s what I do. I provide safe places for the women I help. I run a charity for victims of domestic violence. Women’s refuges are all very well and good but they’re not ideal places for women with children. Some women won’t consider a refuge. They’d rather stay with their abuser than bring their children there. They want to keep them in a home environment, even if it’s not what they’re used to.’

‘Too good for a refuge?’ Derwent said. ‘God bless the middle classes.’

Harriet paused for a moment. ‘You don’t have to be working class to get beaten up by your partner. You don’t have to be poor, or badly educated, or stupid, or whatever it is you’re assuming.’

‘He knows,’ I said, glaring at Derwent. He pulled a face at me while Harriet was occupied with wiping her eyes.

‘They put themselves under such pressure. They think they can protect the children from knowing about it and keep up the façade of the perfect marriage, the perfect life. And of course they can’t. They all break eventually. Or they are broken.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve been doing this for twelve years. I’ve had a lot of police officers come here and tell me there’s no need for me to run my organisation. I’ve had a lot of condescending advice from people like you. And I’ve also had hundreds of women thank me for saving their lives.’

‘I apologise,’ Derwent said. ‘I really do.’ He sounded sincere, too.

‘It’s hard to walk out on a life that looks enviable. It’s hard to deprive your children of the things they are used to having. The flats aren’t luxurious but they are far away from the abusers, and they’re free, and private.’

‘How long had Melissa been staying there?’ I asked.

‘I’d have to check. A couple of months, I think.’ She glanced in the direction of the garden and I thought I could understand why she kept the paperwork for the charity outside the house. Hundreds of women meant hundreds of stories that Harriet had absorbed. It was a family home: there were photos on the walls of beautiful, accomplished teenagers. I was willing to bet they didn’t know very much at all about their mother’s charitable work.

‘How long do most of them stay?’ Derwent asked.

‘Not long.’

‘Even though it’s free?’

‘They don’t want me to support them. They want to stand up for themselves. They want to prove to themselves and everyone else that they can cope without their partners. Besides, most of them don’t want to stay in one place for too long. It’s too dangerous. Most victims of domestic violence are killed by their partners just after they leave them.’ She was shivering. ‘The men are well resourced and angry. They like to exert control on their partners. They don’t like having that control taken away without their agreement. It’s easy to hire a private detective. Sometimes they involve the police, or social services. “My wife has run away with our children and all the cash in the house and I think she’s unstable.” That’s enough to get people making enquiries on your behalf, especially if you don’t have a criminal record because your wife was too ashamed or scared to report you and you live in a detached house so the neighbours don’t hear the screams.’

‘Has that ever happened to any of your ladies?’ I asked.

‘Once.’

‘What happened?’

Harriet looked at me, her eyes the colour of cognac. ‘He stabbed her. She died in front of their two daughters.’

‘When was this?’ Derwent asked.

‘Eight years ago. That was when I stopped using flats in nice parts of London and bought up some ex-council properties. It’s easier to hide where there are a lot of people. Especially a place where the residents come and go frequently. No one notices a new tenant.’

‘This is the problem we’re having,’ Derwent said. ‘We don’t have anyone who can identify Melissa. She didn’t know anyone in the flats, it seems, and we haven’t been able to find any ID for her on any of the victims.’

‘Is Melissa her real name?’ I asked. ‘Melissa Hathaway?’

Harriet shook her head. ‘No. Melissa, yes. I shouldn’t have said it. I gave her a new name. It’s easier for me to think up something that has no meaning for her. That makes it more difficult for anyone to guess it. She was called Vivienne Hathaway.’

‘And Sam?’

‘I think that was the new name she gave him. I don’t remember what it was before.’

‘Thomas,’ I suggested.

She shrugged but I had the feeling she remembered extremely well, that she regretted giving us as much as Melissa’s first name by accident, and cooperation was not on the cards from this point on.

‘Did you meet her?’ I asked.

‘Just once.’

‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

‘No.’

‘What’s her real surname?’

‘I’m not going to give you that information without her permission.’

‘But we can’t get that permission if we can’t find her,’ Derwent said in his very reasonable I’m-near-the-end-of-my-tether voice.

‘Do you have contact information for anyone related to her – anyone she trusts? A family member?’ I asked.

‘Why?’

Derwent straightened up, looming over the sofa. ‘Because at the moment her little boy is being looked after by some foster family social services have dug up, if he’s lucky. Or he’s sitting in an office somewhere waiting to find out if he’s still got a mother. The last home he had is gone and he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up. He’s confused and scared and on his own and I’d like to know he’s with someone he trusts.’ His voice had roughened as he spoke. He walked away a little before he added, ‘Wouldn’t you?’

Harriet was staring down at her hands, looking stubborn. ‘I’m sorry. I find it hard to trust the police. I’ve been let down too many times. It puts people in danger. That’s why I have a rule about not giving out personal information.’

‘Even in these circumstances?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t you think Melissa would want to know her son was being looked after? Isn’t that why she came to you instead of one of the refuges you mentioned?’ I spoke softly, hoping I could persuade her where Derwent’s temper had failed. ‘She wants what’s best for her boy, and the best thing is her. If she can’t look after him, who comes next? Not his father.’

Harriet hugged herself, saying nothing.

‘If we can identify Thomas or Sam or whatever his name is by some other means – and we will – you know his father will be likely to get custody. Especially if there’s no record of domestic violence. Especially if Melissa is incapacitated or dead.’

She dropped her head down on to her chest and shuddered.

‘If we have a grandmother or a sister or even a best friend – someone Melissa trusts – we can keep him out of foster care and postpone returning him to his father until the family courts have had a chance to consider the best place for him. So do you have contact details for someone suitable?’