Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(9)

If he saw her at all in the next eighteen months, two years, it was a face glimpsed amongst others, a group of girls giggling their way from pub to pub, jousting with some lads down by the harbour where the Scillonian came into dock, her voice loud and shrill, giving as good as she got, sharp little features fleshing out. Once, someone who might have been her, touting for business along the Promenade, spangled top and skirt up to her behind; before he could make his way along to check it out, a silver Mondeo had pulled in and, after a brief negotiation, whisked her away with a fishtail of wheels.

Then, one summer evening, there she was, arm in arm with a woman dressed just like her, the pair of them parading up Market Jew Street, head to toe in black save the silver rings catching the last of the sun as they walked. Rose’s hair was henna red, her companion’s bright green.

She didn’t just recognise him: she stopped.

‘Cordon, right? Detective somethin’-or-other. The bacon-roll man.’

‘Detective Inspector. And you’re Rose.’

‘Yeah. And this is my mum, Maxine.’

‘Good to meet you,’ he said and held out his hand.

He could see now that she was older, Maxine. Could have passed herself off as an elder sister and on a night out that was probably what she did. Up close, it was the heavy smoker’s lines around the mouth that gave her away, that and the residue of a life hard-lived behind the eyes. What was it? Three kids, two in care. She’d be all of thirty-four, thirty-five.

‘Still a copper, then?’ Rose said.

He nodded.

‘Putting people away.’

‘A few.’

‘My mates.’

‘Maybe.’

She laughed; he remembered the laugh.

‘New leaf, me. Straight an’ narrow.’ She was mocking him with her voice, her eyes. ‘Workin’, too. Caff down the arcade. Evenings. Weekends. Thinkin’ of goin’ to college, right, Mum? Qualifications. NVQs. Veterinary assistant, that’s what I fancy. Somethin’ like that.’

She said the word veterinary as if she were trying it out, each syllable stepping carefully off the tongue.

‘Like animals, then?’ Cordon said.

‘Better’n people. Most people.’

‘Dogs?’

‘Yeah, dogs are all right. Why d’you wanna know?’

‘I’ve got this springer spaniel. Never gets enough exercise. If you want to walk her some time …’

‘How much?’

‘Huh?’

‘For walkin’ her, how much?’

‘I don’t know. A fiver, maybe?’

‘An hour?’

‘I was thinking more, each time you took her out.’

‘Bog off!’ She gripped her mother’s arm tighter and started to walk away.

‘All right, then, five pounds an hour.’

She turned back, grinning. ‘Fifteen minimum.’

Cordon looked at her mother. ‘Strikes a hard bargain.’

‘Likely had to.’

Cordon nodded. ‘Okay, your terms. Agreed. Here …’ He took a card bearing his police details from his pocket and wrote his home address and number on the back.

‘How d’you know I won’t turn up with all me mates when you’re out, break in, rob you blind?’

‘I don’t.’

She took the card without another glance and tucked it out of sight. ‘Come on, Mum. Stand here talkin’ to the likes of him, get ourselves a bad name.’

Cordon watched as, laughing, they headed for the Wetherspoons across the street. College. Qualifications. A proper job. Who was she fooling? Herself? Him? He thought about Rose’s leggings and the long sleeves covering her arms, wondering if she and her mum shared needles at home. Still time to follow in her mother’s footsteps, an addict and a mother just this side of sixteen: next time he saw her on Market Jew Street, she could be pushing a buggy slowly uphill. Who did he think he was, some kind of benefactor? Guardian angel? Come and walk my dog – what kind of bollocks was that?





6


He didn’t see her again for a couple of months. Why did he think he ever would? He was in the middle of scouring out a pan in which he’d been making scrambled eggs – the phone drawing his attention away at the crucial moment and egg adhering to the pan like a second skin – when he glimpsed her face at the small window alongside the door.

‘Come for the dog, okay?’

Cordon wasn’t certain if she was still in her Goth phase or not: most of the henna had gone from her hair, black waistcoat though, white shirt, black jeans, studs and rings; white lipstick, purple fingernails.

‘Fine, as far as I’m concerned. Dog might need some convincing, though. Doesn’t take easily to strangers.’

But even as he spoke the springer was energetically wagging her tail and reaching up to lick the girl’s hand.

‘Yeah,’ she said, with a small look of triumph. ‘See what you mean.’

‘Here,’ Cordon said. ‘Here’s her lead. Take a couple of bin liners for when she does her business. You can let her off past the Tolcarne Inn. That patch of grass by the gallery. Then down on to the beach.’

The girl was crouching down, stroking the dog behind the ears. ‘She have a name?’