Damaged Goods. Helen Black

      ‘A boyfriend?’ asked Lilly.

      Mrs Mitchell shrugged. ‘I’ve heard him say he’s an entre-whatsit.’

      ‘Entrepreneur,’ Lilly suggested.

      ‘I know what he is,’ Mrs Mitchell replied. She leaned in closer to make her point. ‘This used to be a decent place to live before that lot moved in.’

      Lilly gladly closed the door to number 62. The pungent smell in the walkway was an open meadow compared to the bitter hole behind her. She passed along to number 58, the Brands’ flat, and paused at the police tape. She peered into the kitchen window and saw the room inside was modestly furnished but clean and tidy.

      ‘Can I help you, Miss?’

      Lilly could feel Jack standing behind her, close enough for her to smell the ancient leather of his jacket. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

      He gave a small chuckle. ‘I suppose you want to go in.’

      It wasn’t a question and he was already unlocking the door.

      Inside, the flat had the same layout as number 62, but Grace’s home seemed much less claustrophobic. The hall was painted in a soft pastel shade and cotton curtains let in plenty of light. The carpet was worn but neat, unusual for a junkie.

      Although Grace had sent the girls’ belongings with them into care, the place remained full of evidence of their existence. A painting of a fairy was tacked to the fridge, her wand held aloft like a glittery spear. There were photographs of all four girls fixed to the walls with Blu-Tack, their edges curling inwards, the images, like the family, imploding. The shelf by the sink was empty apart from a lone spider plant, gently dying in the fierce sunlight, its pot incongruously colourful and inscribed with the words ‘World’s best Mum’.

      Lilly rubbed the dry leaves between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the papery disintegration. ‘Whoever did this must have had a reason.’

      Jack gave Lilly a charming smile. ‘Yeah. Her ma abandoned her and she got stuck in a children’s home.’

      Lilly smiled back. ‘Have you considered that maybe she didn’t do it?’

      ‘Have you considered that maybe she did?’

      Lilly didn’t answer, instead she peered down the hall, her gaze following the trail of dark stains from the kitchen to the bedroom door.

      ‘Is that where it happened?’ she asked.

      ‘She received the head wounds in here then got dragged down there.’

      They skirted the walls as they passed along the hall and entered the room where Grace had been mutilated.

      Lilly took in the scene, her breath shallow. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, perhaps in deference to the deceased or perhaps they had been like that all along. Whatever the reason, the room was cast in a grey light and the noise of the world beyond was muffled.

      Apart from the bed the only other stick of furniture was a single white wardrobe. Lilly opened the door and fingered the sparse contents. A few T-shirts and flimsy shirts small enough to fit Sam. A pair of black jeans, faded at the knee, and a plastic mini skirt. Lilly felt so solemn she made the sign of the cross, a meaningless affectation from her childhood, like saluting magpies.

      She didn’t want to but she knew she couldn’t avoid looking at the bed. The sheets and mattress had been removed for forensic examination but Grace’s blood had soaked right down to the base.

      Without thinking, Lilly put her hand out to touch the black shape, using the same instinct that a wet-paint sign will arouse.

      ‘Tell me about a face round here called Max,’ she said.

      Jack gently pushed her hand away before she made contact. ‘If we’re talking about the same person, he’s hardly a face. Max Hardy, drug dealer, pimp, purveyor of porno films. Low-level stuff.’

      ‘Had any dealings with him?’ asked Lilly.

      Jack shrugged. ‘Loads. I’ve known him since his time at The Bushes.’

      Lilly widened her eyes. ‘The res unit?’

      He applied a gentle pressure to the small of her back and eased her towards the door. ‘In those days it was called The Bushberry Home for Disturbed Children.’

      Lilly paused to let this information sink in, before allowing Jack to manoeuvre her out of the house entirely.

      ‘I can’t believe you knew him back then,’ she said.

      ‘I can’t believe I’ve been doing this job for so bloody long,’ he said. ‘Twenty years and change.’

      ‘And every day a joy.’

      ‘A life sentence would have been shorter. What an eejit, eh?’

      ‘A saint more like.’ Lilly patted his arm. ‘Anyway, this Max sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

      Jack couldn’t and didn’t argue.

      ‘Let’s assume Grace worked for him and that he controls his girls in the usual way,’ Lilly continued.

      Jack closed the door and fixed a fresh piece of police tape around the frame. ‘Fist and needle.’

      ‘Exactly. So what if one of his girls gets clean, how can he make sure she keeps working for him?’ asked Lilly.

      ‘His charming repartee.’

      Lilly worked through her thoughts to their logical conclusion. ‘When that doesn’t work he resorts to what he knows best.’

      ‘He’s no previous for violence,’ said Jack.

      Lilly gave a dismissive wave. ‘No one’s ever reported him.’

      She wondered if this could be the lead she was looking for. She needed to get Jack interested and get him to do some digging. And do some herself.

      ‘Is this why you asked me to meet you here?’ asked Jack.

      ‘Naturally. Did you have something else in mind?’

      ‘Maybe a drink?’

      She eyed his cheeky grin. ‘Are you inviting me on a date?’

      ‘I thought asking for a shag might seem a bit forward.’

      William Barrows watched his wife reapply her makeup in readiness for her meeting. The process fascinated and appalled him in equal measure. He often wondered why she bothered to wear any since it made her look neither younger nor prettier, which was presumably her aim. It seemed to him that, as with any old building, the façade remained more or less the same after a paint job and any cement used to cover cracks was too obvious to fool anyone. If anything it drew attention to the flaws. He longed to dig his fingers into her cheeks and peel the painted flesh from the bone.

      Sometimes he entertained himself by playing games with her and suggested a little more rouge or a darker shade of lipstick. It amused him that she was so ready to leave the house like a geisha girl. But today was for a different kind of game entirely.

      ‘I read in the local rag that one of your constituents was murdered, darling,’ he said.

      Hermione continued to apply dark pencil around her eyelid. ‘Mmm.’

      ‘You don’t seem very interested.’

      She turned to her husband, pencil still poised. ‘She was a drug addict living on the Clayhill Estate. I don’t think anyone is interested.’

      The estates in the Ring Farm area of Luton had the lowest voter turnout in her constituency, so Hermione Barrows, MP for Luton West, like her predecessors, expended little energy courting the support of their residents. She went back to her reflection.

      ‘You could push the issue, make it gather some speed,’ Barrows said.

      ‘Why