Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

Rachel waited and watched as a young woman emerged dragging a buggy. She swung it round and headed for the door. The child in the pram was huge, fat-faced. Could babies be obese? Rachel had no idea.

As the girl came out, Rachel held the door, showed her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Shirelle?’

The girl blinked rapidly. ‘Shirelle?’ she repeated.

‘Look, you can tell me which number now, make life that bit easier, or I can fart around getting her address from the DWP or the housing office, which would really piss me off.’

The girl seemed to be weighing up the options.

‘Might be tempted to get the DWP to check you’re getting the right benefits while I’m there,’ Rachel said.

The baby began crying and kicking its legs. A grating, droning noise that made Rachel want to clamp her hand over its face. Perhaps the mother felt the same. The girl sighed and said, ‘311.’

Rachel stepped aside, letting her pass. She took the stairs, reckoned it might be better than the lift, but she still had to breathe through her mouth to minimize the stink of piss. The smell of skunk hung heavy in the building too, unmistakable.

She found 311 on the fourth floor, nothing but the numbers to distinguish the door from any of its neighbours. All painted a dark moss green, probably meant to look tasteful but it served to darken the gloomy hallways even more. There were recessed lamps in the ceiling, protected by cages, and in the one above Rachel a fat black fly buzzed about.

Rachel listened for a moment, heard the faint chatter from a television inside. Then she knocked. She heard footsteps. ‘Who is it?’

‘Police, can you open the door?’

A pause. ‘Show us your ID.’

Rachel held her warrant card up so it was level with the peephole in the door. She heard a soft curse and the door was unlocked.

‘What’s it about?’ the young woman said. Arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. She was petite, inches shorter than Rachel, with curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore close-fitting sports clothes, trainer socks, and a crucifix round her neck. Her face was peppered with patches of dry flaky skin.

‘Shirelle?’

The girl nodded.

‘Can I come in?’ Rachel said. The girl didn’t reply but moved back and once Rachel stepped inside Shirelle went ahead of her into the living room. Rachel glimpsed the kitchen as she passed. Quarry tiling on the floor, fitted cupboards in a high-gloss finish.

Not a junkie. Rachel could tell that straight away, the place would have been empty of everything that could be sold off to feed the beast. But Shirelle’s flat was well furnished. Curtains in red matched the sofa and the chair, the furniture was upholstered, plump, looked brand new. There was a chandelier for the central light and a large telly and SkyBox. Sean was on at Rachel to get one for the sport.

Framed pictures on the wall were taken from old copies of fashion magazines, Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar . Browsing the coffee table as she sat down, Rachel saw the buff envelope, addressed to Ms Shirelle Young. Something official.

‘So?’ Shirelle said.

Her legs were crossed tightly together and she was blinking more often than was normal. She was shitting it, not so obvious until you saw those little signs. She reminded Rachel of a dog, a greyhound, the sort that look like they are dying from stress, about to keel over, but will run like the wind given chance. Shirelle picked up rolling tobacco, pulled out a paper. Rachel’s mouth watered.

‘Two bodies were recovered from the warehouse on Shuttling Way today. A man and a woman of African descent.’

Shirelle’s hand shook, she spilled some of the rolling tobacco.

‘We’re trying to identify those people. I believe you might be able to help us.’

‘Who told you that?’ she said.

‘Can you help us?’

Shirelle pinched her lip with her fingers. Rachel wondered what the problem was, why would she hesitate? ‘Shirelle?’

‘Victor,’ Shirelle said, ‘Victor and Lydia.’

‘Do you know surnames?’

‘Victor Tosin and Lydia Oluwaseyi.’

‘And what was your relationship to them?’ Rachel said.

Another pause. ‘I went out with Victor for a bit.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last Christmas. Just a few weeks.’

‘I am sorry,’ Rachel said, ‘this must be an awful shock.’

Shirelle flinched, her face sharpening, as though the sympathy angered her.

‘Can you tell me what the relationship was between Victor and Lydia?’

‘They were together,’ Shirelle said.

‘A couple?’

Shirelle nodded. She was picking strands of tobacco off her clothes, placing them in the paper, trying again.

‘So, was that a problem – you going out with Victor?’

‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘That’s why we stopped.’

‘Whose call?’

Shirelle took a drag on her rollie before answering, ‘Mine.’

‘How come?’ Rachel said.

‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m trying to get as much information as I can about Victor and Lydia to help us work out what’s happened.’

‘Lydia didn’t like it and I didn’t want to share,’ she said.

Could this be a motive? Had something erupted between Shirelle and Lydia or Lydia and Victor? The triangle imploding in violence?

‘Do you know why Victor and Lydia would have been at the warehouse?’ Rachel said.

‘They were squatting there.’

‘Do you know their previous address?’

Shirelle shook her head. ‘They’re illegals.’

‘Immigrants?’ Rachel checked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Where from?’

‘Nigeria,’ she said. Slowly she rolled the cigarette paper, brought it to her lips and licked the gummed edge. Her hand steady until she used her lighter.

‘Were they selling drugs?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ She glanced at Rachel then away. ‘Couldn’t they get out?’ she said. ‘Was it the smoke?’

‘We’re trying to establish exactly what happened but it appears they were killed,’ Rachel said, watching her carefully. ‘They were shot.’

A flare of surprise darted through Shirelle’s eyes and her mouth dropped open. She composed herself quickly, dragging on her smoke, recrossing her legs, but it was enough to convince Rachel that although Shirelle was definitely hiding something, she had not known about the murders.

‘Why would anyone want to kill them?’ Shirelle said, her voice fraying. ‘That’s crazy.’ She sucked in her cheeks, a frown etched on her forehead.

‘Either of them been in any bother? Fights, feuds?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

Shirelle’s phone rang, a polyphonic burst of music, a snatch of vocals and heavy bass. She froze.

‘Answer it, if you like,’ Rachel said.

Shirelle shook her head. ‘You’re fine.’

I might be , Rachel thought, but you’re far from . ‘Had they made any enemies, was anyone threatening them?’

‘No,’ Shirelle said, ‘I’ve not seen them for a while anyway.’

‘You broke up with Victor when exactly?’

‘End of January.’

Shirelle’s phone blared again and the girl started.

‘Answer it,’ said Rachel.

‘S’OK, I’ll text,’ she said. Her fingers flew over the screen, tapping lightly, then a trill of birdsong signalled the text had been sent.

‘Work?’ Rachel hazarded a guess.

‘No,’ she shook her head.

‘You got a job?’

‘Signing on,’ Shirelle said, taking a drag on her rollie.

‘So you can see, we’re concerned to try and find out who would have cause to harm Victor and Lydia. You sure you can’t think of anything?’

Shirelle pressed her lips together, puffed out her cheeks a little. ‘No. Sorry.’