That was by far the easiest part of the task. It had taken another hour and a half, by which point Rachel’s back was killing her and she was gagging for a smoke, to find Lisa coming out of the Arndale, down the big steps, on Cross Street. To trace the movements inside the complex, they needed to view the separate footage from the retailers’ cameras. Kevin rang and put in a request via the security manager there.
Rachel could have gone home then, she knew she probably should have gone home then, but should was a word she refused to kowtow to. It’s worth checking out, she told herself. All my own time. If it’s a dead end who’s to know?
She could still remember where Rosie Vaughan had lived, a block of flats in New Moston. She could still remember her first glimpse of the girl, the misshapen face, the bloodied eye, split lips, the bruises that marked her body. The smell of shit. Rosie had soiled herself in the course of the beating.
A neighbour had called them – not the pervy one but the tenant below who had heard shouts and screams above the noise from the television. Unable to get a response and with reason to believe there was a risk of harm, the police had broken in. The assailant had gone by then.
Now Rachel parked and made her way to the entrance, didn’t have to wait long for someone to leave the building and let her into the foyer. Once inside she chose the stairwell over the lift. Stepped over the chip papers and lager cans that littered the half-landings. She could smell the concrete and piss and a trace of gunpowder. Kids messing with fireworks.
Rachel knocked on the door and listened. Heard only vacant silence. And from somewhere down below a dog barking, rapid and gruff.
She knocked again, louder, and the door across the hall opened, the pervy bloke appeared. ‘She’s probably out,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. Was he trying to place her? Rachel hadn’t ever interviewed the man, she’d dealt with Rosie mainly.
‘Rosie?’ Rachel said, needed to check she still lived in the block, that they were talking about the same person.
‘You can come in and wait,’ he leered, scratching at his chest.
Jesus, she could smell him from here. The sweet stench of human grime. His fingernails were black with dirt. Food crumbs in his beard. Rachel tensed, ready to run, or knee the bloke if he lunged for her. ‘Where would she be?’
He’d mad eyes, glittering like beads. ‘The canal, or maybe the old chapel.’
