Frozen Grave (Willis/Carter #3)(9)

‘We don’t know exactly. Her body was found this morning after a tip-off from an anonymous caller. We think she went into the building early yesterday evening. What do you know about the street?’

‘There are problems there all the time, fights over drink. It’s where the younger drug addicts congregate as well as the older drinkers. It’s not somewhere you’d expect a woman to sleep. It’s too dangerous.’

‘We are pretty sure we know the identity of the victim,’ began Carter. ‘Her name was Olivia Grantham. She was a lawyer working in London Bridge. Does that name mean anything to you, Mr Smith?’ Simon shook his head. ‘We think several people would have seen what happened to her and might have been involved. Her car was parked just down the road from here. As this is the nearest homeless centre to Parade Street, we were hoping that someone here might know something. Did you notice anything that made you think that something wasn’t right yesterday evening or this morning?’

‘No, sorry. Last night there were the usual in. It’s always chaotic. And I’ve been rushed off my feet this morning. The cold weather is bringing everyone in for some hot food.’ He paused, looked at Carter’s face and shrugged. ‘Sorry. I tend to be so busy with the hostel I don’t have time to look a couple of streets away. But a lawyer sleeping rough? It wouldn’t be the first time – it can happen to anyone, you know.’

‘Yes. But she wasn’t homeless.’

Willis could see the tension building in Carter’s shoulders. He had the same problem talking to Sandford when they first started working together. Carter had an issue with posh accents.

‘We believe that there would have been a substantial amount of blood,’ said Willis. ‘Both from the victim and from fighting that seems to have gone on around the time she was killed.’

‘They would have been high on drink and other substances,’ added Carter.

‘It’s not likely to be someone from here then. Substance abuse is carefully monitored her. We don’t allow people in here who are high on anything.’

‘What about any of your staff? Might one of them be able to help us – they might have seen something?’ Carter’s stocky presence filled the small office, his feet planted wide in his expensive shiny shoes, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He tipped his weight slightly forward over the desk, where Simon was now sitting half-turned towards his PC monitor, his hands rested on a pile of papers on his desk.

He shrugged. ‘Ask them, by all means.’

Willis said little. She was trying to guess Smith’s background: expensive public school, family money. The kind of person you would expect to be in a job with a massive salary for doing very little. But this wasn’t the set of Made in Chelsea. This wasn’t the least bit glamorous.

‘How does it work here?’ she asked. ‘How does someone find you?’

‘People are referred to us, by their GP, by the local police, council homeless department, mental-health crisis management – several ways. There are forms to fill out and then they have to pay in advance for their next-day accommodation if they want to secure it. If we have room, we take them in.’

‘So who are the ones that don’t get a place in here?’ asked Carter.

‘They have to be sober and to be non-users. We can’t cope with addicts in here or dogs.’

‘Do you know of a man who has a light-coloured dog – one of those tough-looking breeds used for fighting?’ Willis asked. ‘We think he needs help – he got bottled.’

‘I don’t think I do – sorry.’

‘And you are sure you didn’t notice anyone behaving strangely last night?’ she asked.

‘Stranger than usual? No. It’s a difficult time for so many people. Lots of people who come in here are damaged. So many rough sleepers have mental-health issues.’ Simon shrugged again, his eyes went from Carter to Willis and he shook his head. ‘Sorry I can’t help. But – I’ll do my best and look into it for you.’

Carter took out his wallet and gave Simon a card.

‘Appreciate a call when you do.’

As they all walked back through the kitchen, Carter stopped to talk to the woman loading the dishwasher.

‘Excuse me, miss. I’m Detective Inspector Carter and this is Detective Constable Willis.’

‘Lyndsey,’ she said, looking at Simon anxiously.

‘Can we have a word, Lyndsey?’

She picked up a towel and dried her hands. She was a woman of mixed British and Asian descent. She had her long black hair tied back in a plait.

‘I’ll finish that’, said the older, auburn-haired woman who’d walked in with a tray of dishes. ‘Breakfast is over so you can sit in the canteen now.’ She was speaking with a Glaswegian accent. ‘I’ve just cleared the last of the tables. I’m Sheila, by the way.’ She set the tray down.

‘Thank you, Sheila. Could we have a chat with you too at the same time?’

‘No problem. Shall I bring out a cup of tea?’

‘Magic.’ Carter turned to Simon, who was still with them in the kitchen. ‘We won’t bother you further. Once we’ve finished talking to Sheila and Lyndsey, we’ll head off.’

‘Of course.’ Simon smiled, a little uneasy. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.’ He went back through the double doors, in the direction of his office.