Chapter 45
Sarah made her way back onto the main road, her mind turning over the conversation she had just had.
What was she going to find in the burglary SIO’s statement?
Whatever it was, Robyn clearly suspected her former SIO of some kind of misconduct, in which case why had she not said anything for twenty years?
Maybe she had insufficient evidence to back up her suspicions and didn’t think she would be believed.
Whistleblowers were supposedly protected by law, but Sarah knew what could happen in practice, and that Robyn could be victimised by her colleagues, especially if this SIO was being enabled or protected.
You would have to be living under a rock not to know about the culture of sexism and misogyny that was baked into many forces, and into the decision-making processes.
Which brought her to Phillipa Price. She could understand why Phillipa wouldn’t want to talk to a cop, but was she any more likely to talk to Sarah?
If she had been allowed to get off with a burglary scot-free, she would hardly be likely to want to begin telling a complete stranger that she had done it after all. So what was her angle going to be?
It was gone four o’clock by the time she got to the night shelter, and a group of men and woman were hanging around outside the building, some sitting on the pavement, some standing, no doubt wanting to be sure to secure a place for the coming night.
She scanned the group, but couldn’t immediately see anyone who matched the description she had been given.
‘Who are you looking for, love?’ one of the men called out, then walked across the street to join her. He smelled strongly of alcohol and was unsteady on his feet.
‘Phillipa,’ Sarah said. ‘Phillipa Price. Do you know her?’
The man turned back to the group and shouted out loudly, ‘Anyone seen Phil?’
‘She’s up at the church,’ someone replied.
‘There you go,’ the man said, turning back to Sarah. ‘Do you know it?’
‘No.’
‘St Matthew’s. Turn up that road there,’ he said, pointing. ‘When you get to the top, turn left and walk up the hill. It’s on your right, past the lights.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ he asked her.
‘No. I’m sorry.’ Sarah’s old boss Gareth used to get her to carry packets of them.
Lighters, too. But she hadn’t liked doing it.
It had seemed wrong. Once again, she was glad she no longer had to follow the kinds of rules she didn’t agree with.
She knew most of these people were down on their luck, but she would rather buy them a sandwich with her own money than flash Gareth’s cigarettes around.
‘Not to worry,’ said the man, smiling broadly. ‘You have a nice day now.’
She found Phillipa sitting on the church steps, arguing with a man in a puffer jacket with a towel over his shoulders.
‘Well, you had better fucking find it, Phil!’ the man shouted loudly as Sarah approached, before getting up and storming off.
‘Phillipa?’ Sarah asked.
The woman nodded.
‘Are you OK?’ Sarah asked her.
The woman sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, then said, in a gravelly, South London voice, ‘Just that a-hole. Says I owe him, and I don’t.’
‘Will he come back?’
She shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, he does seem like an a-hole.’
The woman looked up and smiled a thin smile.
Everything about her was thin. Her face.
Her arms. Her legs. Her hair, which was lank, dark brown and hung loosely down her back.
The sharp angles of her knees and elbows were visible under her jumper and trousers and her face was heavily lined.
If Robyn was right and this woman was in her forties, the years hadn’t been kind to her.
‘Are you a fed?’ Phillipa asked.
‘No. A solicitor.’
‘Wait. Oh fuck. Have I missed court?’
‘No, no,’ Sarah said quickly. ‘Or, at least, not that I know of. That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Thought I was in trouble then.’
‘I’m here about someone else who’s in trouble.’
‘Who?’
‘A man called Jamie. Jamie Clarke.’
‘I don’t know him.’ Phillipa pulled a pouch of tobacco out of her jacket pocket and began rolling a cigarette. ‘Want one?’ she offered, holding out the pack.
‘No thanks. Mind if I sit down?’
Phillipa’s response was to pull a lighter out of her pocket and hold the flame under her roll-up.
Sarah put down her bag and slid onto the step next to her.
She looked back at the tall arched doors of the church behind them, and then at the street ahead and the man with the towel, who was standing at the corner and was now on his phone. ‘You lived around here long?’
‘All my life,’ Phillipa said, blowing out smoke. ‘Grew up just down the road in Streatham.’
‘Ah. Streatham,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve just come from there. Blenheim Road.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘You know it?’
Phillipa gave her a sideways look. ‘It’s where that murder happened. That woman. The one with the little girl.’
‘That’s right. Number seventeen.’
Phillipa turned. ‘Oh. You’re his solicitor.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t think he did it?’
Sarah hesitated. ‘Do you?’
‘I asked first.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Well, it’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘So why are you talking to me?’
Sarah took a breath. ‘I need to ask you about the burglary that happened a few weeks before that woman was killed. I think you know the one I’m talking about. The one at the house a few doors down.’
Phillipa stiffened. ‘Are you sure you’re not a fed?’
‘I think you know I’m not. I think you know why I’m here, and I think you know what I’m talking about. I don’t need you to tell me whether you did the burglary, Phil. I just need to know why you were let off.’
‘What makes you think I would tell you that?’
‘You seem like a good person.’
‘Do I?’ Phillipa looked at Sarah thoughtfully. ‘Can you tell that to social services?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said, meeting her gaze. ‘Can I?’
Phillipa blew out more smoke. ‘You have kids?’
Sarah nodded.
‘How many you got?’
‘Just the one.’
‘How old?’
‘Nine. But he’s disabled, so …’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s autistic.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Two of mine are autistic.’
‘Really?’
Phillipa nodded. ‘And two of the others have ADHD.’
‘How many children do you have?’
Phillipa held up all five fingers of one hand, then put her roll-up between her lips and held up another forefinger.
Sarah felt her eyes widen. ‘You have six?’
‘By four different baby fathers.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Three are with their baby fathers and the others got taken into care.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s hard for you.’
‘The youngest two … I’m trying to get them back. But I’ve got to clean up my act first. I’m trying. Which is why people like that effing a-hole …’ she jabbed a finger towards the man with the towel ‘… ain’t helping.’
‘I bet.’
‘I’m not even a smoker no more,’ she said. ‘I’ve been clean for weeks. I’ve got my script and I’m not topping up or nothing.’
Sarah realised that Phillipa was talking about crack. ‘Well done. That’s really good.’ She thought quickly. ‘Are you hungry? I’m buying.’
Phillipa looked surprised. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a KFC.’
‘Where’s the nearest?’
‘Up on the main road. It’s a five-minute walk.’
‘Want to head that way?’
‘With you?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Why not? And on our way, why don’t I just pay the a-hole whatever it is he thinks you owe him?’
Phillipa stared at her for a moment. ‘It’s twenty. That’s what he says.’ She dropped the butt of her roll-up onto the ground, put her elbows on her knees and looked at her feet. Her expression was thoughtful for a moment, and then she said, ‘OK. Come on, then.’
Sarah had enough cash to pay the man, who flashed a gold tooth at her and assured her that ‘business was done’.
‘He’s having a fucking laugh,’ Phillipa said, as they walked the short distance to Brixton Road. ‘I didn’t owe him nothing.’
‘Have you ever thought of moving away?’
‘Where would I go? I ain’t been far from here all my life, but I know enough to know there’s more like him on every street corner.’
Sarah nodded. This much was true.
At KFC, Phillipa chose a Boneless Banquet with beans and a Pepsi.
Sarah ate some fries and messaged Will. So, so sorry, she typed.
I’ve been held up. I will be home as soon as I can.
Can you give Ben his tea? Pasta and cheese will be fine.
And there are some of those Quorn eggy things he likes in the fridge.
Don’t worry, already on it. All under control, came the reply. Don’t rush.
Sarah let out a breath.
‘Your kid?’ Phillipa asked.
‘My partner,’ Sarah said. ‘My son can’t talk. He can’t use a phone either. He’s severely learning disabled as well as autistic.’
‘Ah, love him,’ Phillipa said. ‘That must be hard for you.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Being a parent’s hard, isn’t it? How old are yours?’
Phillipa held up one hand again, then added the forefinger, counting them off. ‘Oldest is nineteen – almost twenty, then they’re eighteen, fifteen, twelve, six and four.’
‘Do you see any of them?’
She nodded. ‘I see the ones that are with their baby fathers. And I just started to see the two younger ones again.’
‘What about the nineteen-year-old?’ Sarah said.
‘I don’t see him.’ Phillipa’s face twisted and she suddenly looked even older. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘He was adopted?’
She nodded. ‘Taken off me when he was two months old. I couldn’t handle him, to be honest.’ Then, casually, as if she was talking about the weather, she said, ‘His father’s that piece-of-shit fed you’re after.’
For a moment, Sarah couldn’t speak. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying,’ Phillipa said, ‘that he fucked me twenty years ago and got me pregnant.’
‘The lead detective on the burglary? He was your boyfriend?’
Phillipa laughed – a hollow laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. You think I went with him out of choice? I might be desperate, but I do have standards.’
‘He raped you?’
Phillipa sighed and pushed away her food, took out her tobacco pouch and rolled another cigarette.