Damaged Goods. Helen Black

wrapping paper steamed and smelled of vinegar.

      ‘What do you think we got today, big man?’ asked Lilly.

      Sam giggled in anticipation. It was like a Christmas present, you never knew what was inside until you opened it. The poor service annoyed Lilly but Sam lapped it up.

      ‘Did you ask for a sausage?’ he asked.

      ‘Three times, my love,’ Lilly replied.

      ‘So it’s probably a fish cake.’

      Lilly’s mobile rang. She ruffled her son’s hair and checked the caller ID.

      ‘Hi Jack. Sorry if I seemed a smart arse today, just doing what I thought was right.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Jack. ‘Which is why I’m giving you a heads-up on this.’

      Lilly left the correct money on the counter and scooped the greasy packet into the crook of her arm. ‘Go on.’

      ‘On the night Grace was murdered a neighbour saw Kelsey entering the flat on two separate occasions. She can also vouch that no one else visited that night.’

       CHAPTER THREE

       Wednesday, 9 September

      It was the same as always. The girl covered her ears to drown out the noise. Life on site was never quiet. Sure, she shared a caravan with her ma, da and four baby brothers, so a moment’s peace was a rare thing indeed, but this was different. The screaming and cursing into the darkness was unbearable.

      She squeezed her eyes shut and turned in her bunk, her hand brushing the smooth stone of the wall. She flinched from the cold of it. The hardness of it. The suffocating density of it.

      Rochene had been born in a caravan, had lived in one all her life, and until two weeks ago she had never before spent the night in a building.

      When Lilly woke she too was touching the wall beside her bed. She shook the dream from her head and tried to get back to sleep. It always stopped in the same place, as if willing Lilly to play out the rest.

      Not tonight. Lilly simply couldn’t bear it.

      Instead she threw off the sheets to the intolerable heat of the night and went downstairs to raid the fridge.

      * * *

      Lilly was in a rush. She needed to be at Ring Farm in twenty minutes. Given that she hadn’t yet finished the school drop-off she was becoming increasingly agitated. She threw Sam’s wellies into his boot locker and wondered why he needed them when it hadn’t rained a drop for five weeks.

      She stuffed a cap into his kitbag. ‘That’s not a regulation hat, is it?’

      Sam responded with a sideways smile. ‘It is for the England squad.’

      She kissed his head. ‘Smart arse.’

      ‘That’s a bad word,’ he chided, wagging a finger.

      Lilly laughed and ushered him into his classroom.

      Then, on the verge of escape, she heard the nasal tones of one of the other mothers.

      ‘What are you doing tomorrow, Lilly?’

      She turned and saw the perfect smile of Penny Van Huysan. Was the woman having an affair with her dentist?

      ‘The other mums are meeting for coffee,’ Penny continued.

      Had she not been so exhausted from her sleepless night, Lilly would have thought on her feet. Work, chiropodist, smear test. Anything.

      ‘I think I’m free.’

      Oh God, coffee with the Manor Park mums. Dante’s third circle of hell.

      Lilly parked outside the Spar. Although it was a good walk to where she needed to be, the shop was busy and her car stood less chance of being stolen. The Clayhill Estate was one of the roughest in Ring Farm, awash with addicts and dealers. The crime rates were high and the employment figures low. Grace Brand had lived there with her kids for fourteen years.

      Lilly wrinkled her nose at the smell of urine in the stairwell and made her way up to the third floor. The lights were smashed and the gloom coupled with the stench made a depressing cocktail.

      A woman answered the door instantly. She was in her mid-seventies, sporting a frizzy perm and a scowl.

      Lilly held out her hand. ‘Mrs Mitchell? I’m Lilly Valentine. Sorry I’m late.’

      The old woman smoothed down her house coat with arthritic fingers and frowned, no doubt offended by a younger generation who managed their lives so inexcusably badly that they couldn’t make important appointments on time.

      Lilly let her hand drop and followed Mrs Mitchell through the hallway to a stuffy sitting room with shelves full of china animals dressed in Victorian clothes. A tabby cat smiled out from the brim of her blue bonnet, the ribbons held in place by two paws.

      Despite the weather every window was closed, and a man sat in the corner, a blanket over his knees, staring into space. A cuckoo clock sounded from another room and the man’s lips began to move gently and soundlessly.

      Mrs Mitchell gave her husband a contemptuous nod. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s away with the fairies.’

      The old man didn’t look over but continued his silent monologue.

      Lilly plumped for a no-nonsense approach and dived straight in. ‘Can I ask you about Monday night, Mrs Mitchell?’

      ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it,’ the old woman snapped.

      Lilly remained polite. ‘I’ve seen the statement you gave to the police and you say you saw Kelsey Brand going into their flat on the night Grace was killed.’

      Mrs Mitchell sniffed. ‘That’s right, I saw her twice.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ asked Lilly.

      Mrs Mitchell flashed an angry look. ‘Of course I’m sure. The first time was around eight o’clock. I know that cos EastEnders had just started. The second time was about half an hour later.’

      Lilly kept her smile glued in place. ‘Maybe it wasn’t Kelsey.’

      Mrs Mitchell tightened her moue until she reminded Lilly of the pickled walnuts her nan had always loved. ‘I may be old but I’m not daft. I know what I saw.’

      Lilly cocked her head to one side and tried a different tack. ‘Maybe you weren’t paying much attention, maybe you were busy.’

      The old lady shot a withering look at her husband. ‘Doing what?’

      A witness who was a prisoner in her own home. Great.

      ‘Did you know Grace?’ asked Lilly.

      ‘Didn’t want to.’

      Lilly kept her tone light. ‘How about Kelsey?’

      ‘She used to go to the shops for me when she was little. Skinny thing, well, they all were,’ said Mrs Mitchell, almost pleasantly, then, as if remembering herself, she added, ‘Of course the change started coming back short so I didn’t ask no more.’

      It was plain to Lilly that this witness had no intention of describing the Brands with anything less than poison. Their tragic end had clearly failed to temper her views.

      ‘Did many people visit the flat?’

      ‘Not since the social took her kids. Before that it was like Piccadilly bleeding Circus, men arriving at all times of the day and night. Clients, I suppose you’d call them. And more girls.’

      ‘You mean prostitutes,’ said Lilly.

      Mrs Mitchell sniffed in disgust. ‘Vile, the lot of them. Came for