twenty minutes after that a dog handler turned up. After they’d given their statements, Lorraine tried to persuade Jo that they should go: she was concerned about leaving Stella alone and bored in a house she didn’t know very well—she couldn’t be sure of Freddie’s attentiveness—and they could always come back later.
“I can’t exactly desert Sonia, can I?” Jo whispered. “She’s still shaking, look.”
Lorraine could see that Sonia’s shoulders were indeed juddering with every breath she took. She and one of the PCs were sitting on the ends of two adjacent bunks. The young female constable was taking down notes while Sonia alternated between cradling her head in her hands and staring upward into the cavernous ceiling.
“Is she always like this?” Lorraine asked quietly.
Jo looked sympathetically at Sonia. “As long as I’ve known her, which is a year or so now. We’ve only really become good friends in the last few months.” She cleared her throat and moved in a distracted semicircle around the bunks. Then she sat down on one of them and looked up at her sister. “Look, Lorraine,” she continued quietly, “the motorbike suicide I told you about, Dean Watts? He was a regular here at the shelter. Sonia knew him well. His death gutted her, brought back horrific memories of Simon.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Lorraine said, understanding completely.
“It’s been awful. She felt responsible somehow, as if she’d failed Dean as well as her son.”
Lorraine took a moment to think about this. Then the other PC, a young chap with fiery red hair, came over to speak to them again.
“The dog has picked something up,” he informed them. “Straight from the kitchen window, down the street, and into the back entrance of the supermarket car park. We’re trying to get hold of the manager so we can view their CCTV footage. We lost the trail after that. Meantime, we’ll get a forensics officer on the scene to see if we can get anything.”
Lorraine was about to reply when she spotted a man coming into the shelter. He was tall and sturdy with a crumpled, weathered face set beneath wiry gray hair. It looked greasy.
“What’s going on?” he said.
The way he stood, his shoulders broad, hands on hips, beardedchin jutting forward, was commanding, and also slightly intimidating. He was probably in his early sixties but looked fit and strong.
“Oh, Frank, thank God you’re here,” Sonia said, getting up from the bed and making her way over. “There’s been a break-in. The dinner was stolen.”
“And Tony’s computer,” Jo added quietly.
Frank took a moment before speaking. Pale blue eyes peered out from behind rimless glasses, scanning the scene. “What do you mean, a break-in?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and seemed somehow to pull Sonia closer, as if he was coaxing her to explain what had happened.
“Someone smashed a window in the kitchen,” Lorraine said, approaching the man. She noticed the jeans he was wearing had oily streaks down the front, and she caught a whiff of sweat as she drew near. Heavy tattoos spread out over his forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his checked shirt, making it look as if he had greeny-black bruises. “But no one was hurt.”
“I see,” he said, looking Lorraine up and down. Then he switched his gaze to Jo and sized her up too.
Sonia’s shaking was intermittent now, although she was still very pale. Her eyes were red and inflamed, and two small trails of black mascara crawled down her cheeks. Lorraine dug in her bag for a packet of tissues and handed them over.
“We’re taking this very seriously,” the young red-haired officer stated. “There’s been a spate of similar burglaries in the area recently.”
Sonia stiffened noticeably. “Spate?” she whispered.
“It’s been a tough few weeks for her,” Frank said slowly to the officer, his tone slightly less gruff, as if he was making an effort not to sound menacing.
“I can’t exactly desert Sonia, can I?” Jo whispered. “She’s still shaking, look.”
Lorraine could see that Sonia’s shoulders were indeed juddering with every breath she took. She and one of the PCs were sitting on the ends of two adjacent bunks. The young female constable was taking down notes while Sonia alternated between cradling her head in her hands and staring upward into the cavernous ceiling.
“Is she always like this?” Lorraine asked quietly.
Jo looked sympathetically at Sonia. “As long as I’ve known her, which is a year or so now. We’ve only really become good friends in the last few months.” She cleared her throat and moved in a distracted semicircle around the bunks. Then she sat down on one of them and looked up at her sister. “Look, Lorraine,” she continued quietly, “the motorbike suicide I told you about, Dean Watts? He was a regular here at the shelter. Sonia knew him well. His death gutted her, brought back horrific memories of Simon.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Lorraine said, understanding completely.
“It’s been awful. She felt responsible somehow, as if she’d failed Dean as well as her son.”
Lorraine took a moment to think about this. Then the other PC, a young chap with fiery red hair, came over to speak to them again.
“The dog has picked something up,” he informed them. “Straight from the kitchen window, down the street, and into the back entrance of the supermarket car park. We’re trying to get hold of the manager so we can view their CCTV footage. We lost the trail after that. Meantime, we’ll get a forensics officer on the scene to see if we can get anything.”
Lorraine was about to reply when she spotted a man coming into the shelter. He was tall and sturdy with a crumpled, weathered face set beneath wiry gray hair. It looked greasy.
“What’s going on?” he said.
The way he stood, his shoulders broad, hands on hips, beardedchin jutting forward, was commanding, and also slightly intimidating. He was probably in his early sixties but looked fit and strong.
“Oh, Frank, thank God you’re here,” Sonia said, getting up from the bed and making her way over. “There’s been a break-in. The dinner was stolen.”
“And Tony’s computer,” Jo added quietly.
Frank took a moment before speaking. Pale blue eyes peered out from behind rimless glasses, scanning the scene. “What do you mean, a break-in?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and seemed somehow to pull Sonia closer, as if he was coaxing her to explain what had happened.
“Someone smashed a window in the kitchen,” Lorraine said, approaching the man. She noticed the jeans he was wearing had oily streaks down the front, and she caught a whiff of sweat as she drew near. Heavy tattoos spread out over his forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his checked shirt, making it look as if he had greeny-black bruises. “But no one was hurt.”
“I see,” he said, looking Lorraine up and down. Then he switched his gaze to Jo and sized her up too.
Sonia’s shaking was intermittent now, although she was still very pale. Her eyes were red and inflamed, and two small trails of black mascara crawled down her cheeks. Lorraine dug in her bag for a packet of tissues and handed them over.
“We’re taking this very seriously,” the young red-haired officer stated. “There’s been a spate of similar burglaries in the area recently.”
Sonia stiffened noticeably. “Spate?” she whispered.
“It’s been a tough few weeks for her,” Frank said slowly to the officer, his tone slightly less gruff, as if he was making an effort not to sound menacing.
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