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  There were minutes of meetings – she scanned them, seeing familiar names from Nadifa’s House, the names of Jim Radcliffe and Karen Morgan, Andre Mutombo again had been a major participant, attending all the meetings as far as she could see, his name highlighted against several items marked for action.

  Something was nagging at her mind, something in the records that she had seen, a connection…

  She flicked through the pages again. There was a list of users of the shelter against dates that showed they had been helping between 10 and 15 men each night. And then… no one.

  Since the murder, the users had stayed away.

  These were the ones who made it to the UK. They were the survivors. They had an instinct for danger.

  But she didn’t. Not any more.

  “What’s going... DC Barraclough! What are you doing here?”

  The voice spoke from behind her. She spun round, her heart hammering. Jim Radcliffe was standing in the doorway of the office, his height and his breadth filling it.

  It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I came to see Andre Mutombo. The door was open.”

  He took the folder. “You have no right to look at these. You shouldn’t be here. Andre? Andre doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  So Radcliffe knew about her visit to Mutombo. She was probably in deep shit, but just now, she couldn’t worry about that.

  “Where is he?”

  “He probably saw you pull up outside. He won’t come back while you’re here.”

  “I was out of order with him. I wanted to apologise. I need to talk to him. I think he knows something about the night of the murder.”

  His eyes met hers. “Something that might help Amir?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Surely they don’t have enough to charge him.”

  “They do. I don’t understand why they haven’t. He isn’t helping himself. He’s lying and they know that.”

  Radcliffe’s gaze was fixed on the folder, but she got the impression he wasn’t seeing it. He seemed tense and uncertain, as if he was trying to come to a decision. “DC Barraclough, you’re willing to break the rules if necessary, aren’t you?”

  “Are you going to put in another complaint?”

  “That’s not... I’m sorry about that. I’ll... Listen, I need to know. It’s important. You break rules if you have to, right?”

  “Sometimes.” What was this?

  “I need to talk to you off the record. There’s information the investigating team doesn’t have. They need it.”

  “And you want me to take it to them?”

  “Yes. I want you to guarantee you won’t tell them where this came from.”

  “I can’t guarantee that. Not without knowing what it is.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and pressed the record button on her phone. “I’ll listen.”

  He looked at her for what felt like a long time, then he nodded. “OK. Six months ago, a woman, no, a young girl, came to... someone... for help. You’re following me? She was destitute and she was terrified. She told this person she’d escaped from the people who’d brought her here. She’d come to Sheffield with her friend, and now her friend had run away.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “No, another girl.”

  “Why didn’t...” she could play along if she had to. “...this person tell her to go to the police? He could have gone with her.”

  “She’d been brought into the country illegally. She’d been held in a brothel, forced into prostitution. You know what would happen to her. The authorities would let her stay if she could identify the people who brought her in, but only for as long as it took to make a case. Either way, they’d send her back. If she gave evidence against the traffickers, her whole family could be in trouble. If she was sent back, where could she go? An ex-prostitute, possibly HIV positive by now? She’d have been dead within a year.”

  Instead, she was dead within six months.

  “How does this affect the case against Amir?”

  “Don’t you see? The traffickers were after her. They’d already taken her friend back. A few weeks later, she’s killed. Does that sound like coincidence to you?”

  Traffickers. Six months ago, around the time Farah Jafari had come to Radcliffe, the body of an unknown woman had been found in the river. She had been beaten to death. “Why didn’t you tell the police? It doesn’t matter to her now.”

  “Think, Tina! I gave her shelter. I gave her money. I didn’t say anything when she turned up with an ID card and papers I knew were fakes. How could I tell the police that?”

  He’d covered up a crime. What he’d told her was close to an admission.

  “What happened?” However hard her life may have been, she’d been coping. She had some kind of status and a place to live. But when she died, she had been destitute.

  “She ran away. Maybe the traffickers caught up with her. That’s why I’m telling you. Amir had no reason to kill her. The traffickers did.”

  “Not really. She was worth more to them alive. And Amir is lying. He made two phone calls to her that evening, but he says he didn’t know her.”

  It was there again, that sense of something she’d missed.

  Radcliffe’s phone rang. “Hello? Yes, I’m here... What?... Sorry, there was someone... No, nothing... I’m on my way.”

  He looked at Tina. “I need to get back to the church to lock up. I was only supposed to be a couple of minutes. Karen’s holding the fort, but she needs to get home. I’m not running away. I’ll be back. Ten minutes, OK?”

  She wanted time to think. She wanted time to decide. She had recorded Radcliffe’s story – the question was whether she needed to use it. “I’ll wait.”

  She sat at the desk and keyed Dave West’s number into her phone. Radcliffe had left the folder on the desk. She turned the pages idly as she waited for Dave to pick up.

  “Tina. Changed your mind?” She could hear the noise around him, and the slur in his voice. She’d forgotten about his celebration.

  “No. I’m at the Night Shelter. I’ve got important information about Farah Jafari. It’s complicated. It’s...”

  “What?” The noise in the background burst into a chorus: Why was he born so beautiful... “Shut up. I can’t hear...”

  “The Night Shelter. Dave, it’s important. I...” Her phone beeped. Low battery. She’d used up the charge recording Radcliffe’s story. “My phone’s running out of charge. I’ll call you on the landline, right?”

  She cut the call off and picked up the receiver of the desk phone, watching as the light went out on her mobile. Too late, she realised Dave’s number was stored there. She couldn’t remember it because she’d never dialled it. She just scrolled down to Dave, and pressed the key. She stared at the dead mobile in frustration. The information she wanted was in there, and she couldn’t access it.

  There were contact lists in the file. It was possible Sara Hakim’s number was in there. Hakim could link her across to Farnham’s team. She flicked through the pages. There was only the number for the Community Liaison office which would be closed by now. She’d have to wait until Radcliffe came back, then go into town. Radcliffe could take his story – he could tell it any way he wanted – to Farnham’s team.

  In the meantime, Andre Mutombo’s number was here in the folder. He probably wasn’t far away. If she could persuade him she was no threat, he might come back and talk to her. She keyed the number into the land line and waited. She could hear it ringing. At least he hadn’t switched off.

  After three rings, it was picked up. No one said anything. “Andre? Mr Mutombo? It’s Tina Barraclough. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but...”

  “Barraclough? What the fuck are you playing at?”

  She was speaking to Roy Farnham.

  “Sir, I’m at the Night Shelter. What are you...” The phone cut out.

  Tina stared at it, and jiggled the receiver cradle. Nothing. The line was dead. The phone mu
st have pulled loose. She followed the line round the wall, the receiver held to her ear. There was a clatter as the phone fell off the desk onto the floor.

  The phone jack was still in the socket but the line was dead.

  The significance of what she’d found was just beginning to dawn on her. The phone they’d found at the scene, the one Amir had hidden in a space in the wall, was connected in the incident room, waiting for someone to call it.

  And someone had.

  She looked at the rota on the wall. The number she’d dialled for Andre Mutombo had been scribbled out and a new one written in, but the list in the folder hadn’t been updated.

  It wasn’t Amir propositioning Jafari, it was Andre Mutombo, his huge frame dwarfing her bruised fragility. It was his hands that closed round her neck, either in rage, or in a fulfilment of perverted lust, and in that moment, his phone slipped out of his pocket and onto the ground.

  She saw Amir walking the streets, looking for the missing girl. She saw him keying Mutombo’s number into his phone, calling him to ask if the shelter was still open.

  And the phone had rung from the hidden gennel.

  That was why Amir had not told them the truth. Andre Mutombo was his friend. He had children. If he was arrested, his children would be put into care, and if he was sent to jail, they would remain in the care system and be deported with their father once he was released.

  She forced herself to think. Mutombo had been here, and not long ago. If he was the killer, then he was dangerous. She was alone here in the night shelter. Jim Radcliffe was somewhere on the empty street. She needed backup, now.

  Then all her senses came alert. There was someone in the corridor.

  “Jim?”

  There was no reply. She grabbed her mobile and pressed the button. Sometimes the batteries picked up after the phone had been switched off. Her fingers were clumsy with haste. She saw the screen light up, yes, yes, come on! and the footsteps, the footsteps… Too close.

  A hand reached past her and enclosed her wrist, giving it a sharp shake so that the phone dropped onto the floor with a clatter. Andre Mutombo was looking down at her, his face set, his eyes full of anger.

  Tina twisted in his grasp, the toe of her shoe hacking into his shin. She knew how painful that was, she knew it could disable an attacker for a few vital seconds, but his grip didn’t loosen. He pushed her away against the wall and kicked her phone beyond reach. The only sign that she had hurt him was the quickness of his breathing. “I won’t let you do this,” he said.

  “You’re too late. They know.” Her voice sounded odd, as though she couldn’t breathe, as though his fingers were already round her throat squeezing the life out of her, as they had squeezed the life out of Farah Jafari.

  “They know what? That I’m a killer? That I’m going to prison and my sons will be abandoned? You don’t know anything.”

  Tina’s back was against the wall. The door was the only way out and Mutombo was blocking it. She knew how to defend herself, but Mutombo had learned how to fight in a harder arena that any she had experienced. She scanned the room for a weapon, but there was nothing. She saw him move and raised her arm to protect herself. Her eyes closed tight without any conscious volition.

  The attack never came. She opened her eyes and he was still standing in front of her, looking at her with baffled fury. “You think I killed her. You think I went after her like some animal so I could… You think that what I am makes me guilty.”

  “I think that your phone was close by Farah Jafari’s body. That’s what makes you guilty.”

  She sensed movement behind him. Her first thought was that Dave had worked out what was happening and was, somehow, here, then she realised it was Jim Radcliffe, moving quietly forward behind Mutombo. He held something – she recognised the cricket bat from his office in the church – raised, and his hands were tensing for the swing.

  “No!” Tina’s shout alerted Mutombo who whipped round, straight into the line of the descending bat. The blow caught him at an angle, deflecting its force. He staggered, grabbed at the door frame, then sank onto his knees and rolled onto the floor.

  Radcliffe stared at the fallen man, his face white. “Karen said he was attacking you.”

  “He was. He… Then he didn’t. You might have killed him.” She went down on her knees and felt Mutombo’s pulse. It was beating strongly, but he didn’t move.

  “Is he OK? I didn’t mean to hit him. I…”

  “No, he isn’t. Call an ambulance. Now.” Tina moved him into the recovery position. He was breathing, but there was a stertorous sound to it she didn’t like, and a dark bruise was spreading across his forehead. Her mind was working fast as she tended to the injured man.

  “You said Karen…?”

  He nodded. “She’s here. She saw the shelter door was open and came in to see what was happening. She ran down to the church to find me.”

  Karen Morgan came up behind Jim Radcliffe and looked down at the recumbent form of Andre Mutombo. Her fingers touched Radcliffe’s shoulder. “You had to stop him.” She knelt down next to Tina. “I’m a trained first-aider,” she said.

  “I hit him. Andre…” Radcliffe’s face was anguished.

  Tina scrabbled across the floor to her phone. It was dead. “We need an ambulance,” she said. “I need a phone. Where…?”

  “The church. That’s the nearest.” Karen Morgan spoke from where she was crouching on the floor. “Take Jim.” Her eyes met Tina’s. “He needs to get away from this.”

  Radcliffe was leaning against the wall, saying over and over, “I thought he was attacking you. I thought…”

  “Come on.” Tina grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the shelter. “The church. Get your keys. Hurry.”

  “I thought… I didn’t realise…”

  Tina grabbed the bunch of keys he was fumbling with and set off down the road, leaving him in the car park. She didn’t have time to take care of Radcliffe. Mutombo was seriously hurt. Radcliffe would have to wait.

  It was as if her mind caught up with events as the cold air cleared her head. She could see Andre Mutombo standing in the entrance to his flat, looking at her with cold dislike. Maybe you should ask the woman. She is the one who chases the men.

  Karen Morgan. Tina had asked for a phone and Karen had sent Tina to the church, even though the phone was on the desk beside her. Somehow, she knew it was dead. She must have a mobile. Jim Radcliffe had a mobile, but she’d sent Tina to the church. She wanted her out of the way. Maybe you should ask the woman. She is the one who chases the men.

  The woman. Not Farah Jafari, almost a child, struggling to survive, but Karen Morgan with her hungry, yearning gaze fixed on Jim Radcliffe.

  Jesus! Tina was running back up the hill, her legs feeling as though she was running through treacle. Jim Radcliffe was standing in the car park looking bewildered. “The police!” she shouted to him. “Get the police. Now.”

  And she was into the shelter and at the office door in moments, in time to see Karen Morgan swing the raised bat down with deadly accuracy towards the wound on Andre Mutombo’s skull.

  Tina threw herself into the room, her hands catching the woman square in the back, knocking her to the floor. Karen Morgan twisted round and was on her feet as the momentum from Tina’s leap spun her into the corner.

  Tina’s head cracked on the desk, and she lay there, dazed. “He recovered and attacked you,” Karen Morgan said. “I had to hit him. But he’d already hit you. I was too late.” The bat swung back.

  Tina knew she had to roll out of the way, cover her head, protect herself from what would be a death blow, but her body wouldn’t obey her. The bat reached the peak of its swing, paused a moment, then…

  “Karen!” It was Jim Radcliffe’s voice. “Karen! What are you doing?”

  And the wood clattered to the ground, and Karen Morgan stood there frozen. Then she folded into Jim Radcliffe’s arms, sobbing. “I did it for you,” she said. “I did it for you.”
>
  * * *

  It was Roy Farnham who came and sat with Tina after she had given her statement. She felt out of place, part of the crime rather than part of the investigation. His hand moved towards her, then dropped. “You OK?” he said abruptly.

  “Yes, sir.” She suspected she was in trouble, but she was too tired to care.

  “We’ll make this off the record, Tina. Why didn’t you come and talk to me? You know what damage this kind of private sleuthing can do.”

  “I didn’t have anything to tell you. It was just…”

  “A hunch? You think I wouldn’t have listened to you? Tina, you were on the spot, you know these people. Of course I’d have listened to you.”

  Karen Morgan had admitted killing Farah Jafari. “She wasn’t a refugee, she was just a slut. She was just spinning a line, using him because he cared,” she said, her mouth distorted with love and fury as they waited for the police to arrive. She knew that Jim Radcliffe had crossed a line when he helped Jafari to get her papers.

  “Once I’d found out what she’d done, I put the fear of God into her. I told her to make herself scarce or she was going into detention. She knew if she came near us again, I’d make sure she was arrested. I’d make sure she was sent back.”

  She had driven Jim Radcliffe to the shelter the night of the murder, and had seen Jafari in the street close by. She had assumed the girl was on her way to try and get Radcliffe to help her again. “He’s too soft with them. He was going to get himself into trouble. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

  She had followed Jafari in her car, and when the girl vanished into the gennel, presumably looking for somewhere sheltered, she had followed her. “I did what I had to.”

  “How did Andre Mutombo’s phone end up on the scene?” Tina asked Farnham now.

  “Mutombo was at Nadifa’s House that afternoon. His phone was stolen while he was there. Farah Jafari was trying to get help but she must have been petrified of running into Morgan, or even Radcliffe. She saw an opportunity, took the phone and some money, and ran. It was the phone that guided Amir to her body. He was calling Mutombo back at the centre, and the phone rang. Amir knew Mutombo hadn’t killed her, but he knew how bad it looked, so he kept his mouth shut and relied on our famous British justice.”