Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(18)

Folding her legs beneath her, she plonked herself at one end of the settee, T-shirt pulled down over her knees. A little puppy fat, but her mother’s daughter, her mother’s features nonetheless.

‘Sasha’s not been feeling too well, have you, babe? Else she’d be at school.’

‘Playing the wag,’ Costello suggested.

The girl shot him a look.

‘Sasha,’ Karen said, ‘we need to ask you about your boyfriend.’

‘What boyfriend?’

‘She hasn’t got a boyfriend, have you, Sash?’

‘Petru,’ Karen said. ‘Petru Andronic.’

Some people, when embarrassed, go red, others turn pale. Sasha turned pale.

‘He’s not her boyfriend,’ Fay Martin said. ‘Never was, was he, Sash? Not really. Besides, all done and dusted a long time back, eh, babe? What happened to him, though, the boy, reading about it, seeing it, you know, on the news … someone you sort of knew, even if it was only just a little …’

Face aside, Sasha was suddenly fighting back tears, gulping air.

‘Sash, what is it, babe? What’s the matter?’

Her mother reached for her hand and the girl pulled away, sobbing, starting to shake.

‘Sasha, come on …’

‘Just leave it! Leave it, okay? You don’t understand and you never did.’

‘What? Love of your life, was it? That bloody asylum seeker, whatever he was? That waster?’

‘What if he was?’

‘You stupid little cow! You haven’t got the foggiest idea what love is.’

‘Don’t I? That’s all you know.’

‘Love I’m talking about. Not getting down on your hands and knees in the back of some bloke’s car.’

‘Better than f*cking your personal trainer three times a night while Dad’s out the f*cking country.’

‘You little shit!’

She slapped the flat of her hand fast across her daughter’s face, then swung the hand back, knuckles clenched, against the side of her head.

Sasha cried out.

Karen seized both of Fay Martin’s arms and held them fast.

Blood was already starting to trickle from the corner of Sasha’s mouth.

Tim Costello fished a tissue from his pocket and pressed it into her hand, then set off for where he imagined he’d find the bathroom and fresh supplies.

Time passed. Tempers cooled. Outside, it was three-quarters dark. Sasha had retreated to her room and re-emerged in a skinny-rib jumper and a pair of old jeans, hair still pulled back from her face. A small scab forming at the edge of her mouth.

Fay Martin had poured herself a gin and tonic, which she’d topped up twice already with straight gin. Tempted though she’d been, Karen had said no to joining her, yes to a mug of coffee – instant, I’m afraid –Tim Costello was on to his second glass of tap water.

Sasha’s story slowly emerged.

She had met Petru Andronic early the previous summer, a concert in Victoria Park. Lounging on the grass. Hot Chip. Bombay Bicycle Club. Bands like that. She’d been with her mate Lesley and a few others; Petru had been there with a friend.

‘This friend,’ Karen asked, ‘he had a name?’

‘Ion.’

‘Ion Milescu?’

Sasha nodded. Karen filed it away.

They got on well, her and Petru, really well, Lesley and Ion too. It was a laugh. As the concert was winding down, the boys asked if they could see them again and after a quick conflab the girls said, why not? After that they saw them quite a bit, at least Sasha did, saw Petru that is. Ion kept texting Lesley, making arrangements to see her, then at the last minute crying off; after a few weeks of that she didn’t hear from him at all.

‘But you carried on? Seeing Petru?’

‘Yes.’ A quick glance across at her mum. ‘He was nice. Not like … not like most other boys. Not grabbing you all the time.’

‘Didn’t fancy you much, then, did he?’ her mother said with a sneer.

‘He respected me.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘He loved me.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘He was going to marry me.’

‘Over my dead body he was.’ Fay Martin reached for the gin.

‘You didn’t know. You didn’t care. I wore this ring he give me on a chain round my neck and you didn’t even notice.’

‘Your father would have skinned the pair of you alive.’

‘He wouldn’t have had the chance, would he?’

‘He warned you to keep away from him, you know he did.’

‘We was gonna run away.’

‘Run away? Where to? Back to Kosova or wherever he bloody comes from?’

‘Moldova. It was Moldova.’

‘Should have stayed there, shouldn’t he?Then the poor little sod might still be alive.’

Sasha bit her lip and clenched her fists, determined not to cry.

Off in another room, a clock struck six times.

‘Sasha,’ Karen said, ‘I have to ask you. The night that Petru was killed. Your friend Lesley texted you, Petru wanted you to contact him, he was worried, waiting to meet you.’

‘Yes.’ The word like a slow release of breath.