Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(8)
The only other person in the room, a young male of eighteen or so, sat on the floor, legs outstretched, head angled back against the wall, a leather belt tied off around his upper arm. Cordon knew him from various squats around the town and the toilets near the bus station where he’d jack off unhappy travellers for the price of a half-gram wrap or a pack of cigarettes. Billy Mullins, youngest of five: one in the army, two doing time, another – the black sheep – working eight to five as a council gardener, kids of his own.
‘Right.’ Cordon kicked his toe against the underside of the youth’s worn trainers and hauled him to his feet. ‘Now then, Billy, what’s it to be?’
Mullins blinked at him once and his head lolled down towards his chest.
Christ, Cordon thought, I don’t have time for this. He dragged a straight-backed chair across with his foot and sat Mullins down on it hard.
‘Possession, is it? Intent to supply?’
‘Fuck off,’ Mullins said, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Behind them, a sigh slipped from the girl’s mouth like air escaping from a balloon, and she slumped sideways on the bed.
‘New girlfriend, Billy?’
‘What’s it to you?’
Her arms were thin, barely flesh on bone, breasts that seemed to belong to a body other than her own. He could have encompassed her thigh, almost, with the span of his hand. There were used condoms, two of them, close by on the floor: Cordon supposed he should be grateful for that at least.
‘How old is she?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Come on, Billy. Fourteen? Fifteen? Younger?’
‘Old enough to f*ck.’
Cordon kicked the chair from under him and he went sprawling, striking his head against the skirting. Bruise like a blackened egg, Cordon thought, come morning; some smart young duty solicitor waving the Polaroids around like they were Get Out of Jail Free cards.
He helped Mullins to his feet, read him the riot act, watched as he bundled together his few things before skedaddling down the stairs. The girl dressed slowly, as if dazed, as if everything that touched her skin caused her pain. When he reached out a hand to help, she pulled away.
He took her to a café just beyond the street’s end, the girl walking half a pace behind. When he asked her what she wanted, she made no reply, so he ordered her a mug of tea and a bacon roll and when she’d wolfed that down he ordered the same again. Dredging up a smile, she bummed a cigarette from someone at the next table. She still hadn’t looked Cordon square in the eye.
‘Known him long?’
‘Who?’
‘Billy.’
She wafted smoke away from her face. ‘He i’n’t so bad. Not so bad as some.’
‘He know how old you are?’
‘How old am I?’
Cordon shrugged. ‘Fourteen?’
‘Next birthday.’
Jesus! The word loud inside Cordon’s head. ‘You living at home?’
‘When I can’t find nowhere else to go.’
‘Family?’
‘Mum, sometimes.’
‘Social worker?’
‘Count ’em, shall I? Bastards every one.’ She laughed, showing teeth that were small and sharp. ‘This new un, likes to see me down on my knees, praying God to show me the error of my ways.’ She laughed again and the laughter turned into a fit of coughing. Cordon went to the counter for a glass of water and when he looked back towards the table she’d gone.
She was outside on the pavement, head down, squatting.
‘Thought you were doing a runner,’ Cordon said.
‘Fat chance. Needed a bit of air.’
When she stood, her head came almost level with his shoulder: tall for her age.
‘This social worker, she have a name?’
‘Apart from Fuckface, you mean?’
‘Apart from that.’
She laid a hand on his arm and let it slide down towards his wrist. ‘Look, we could just forget about it, right? No skin off your nose. All the other stuff you must have to do, no sense wastin’ time on me.’ Her fingers were gently stroking the back of his hand. ‘We could go somewhere first if you like.’
Cordon shook her off and stepped away.
The social worker recited the whole sorry tale: Rose’s mother, Maxine, was a registered heroin addict with three children by three different fathers; the two youngest, both boys, had been taken into care when they were seven and five. Rose herself had had periods of temporary fostering, but had been allowed back home when her mother had turned a corner at the beginning of the year.
‘Which particular corner was that?’ Cordon asked.
He nodded towards where Rose sat gouging the dirt from beneath her nails with a paper clip that had fallen from the desk. ‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘I’ll take Rose home. Lay down a few ground rules. Make sure they’re understood.’
‘Ground rules?’
The social worker was getting to her feet. ‘We like to keep families together, Detective Inspector, wherever it’s humanly possible. If you’d care to come along to Rose’s next case conference, I’m sure it can be arranged.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Of course, he did. As Rose herself had said, all that other stuff he had to do … and one kid among many, what business was it of his? Let Social Services earn their keep as best they could.