‘I don’t know why he just won’t tell us. Who is he protecting?’
‘A girlfriend of course.’
‘You sound very sure about that. Did his parents say anything? Do they know who he was going out with?’
‘No, they don’t really seem to know much about him at all. They don’t seem to care either,’ she said as she opened the door for Adrian. She had spoken to his father on the phone and his reaction to the arrest was almost a gloat, followed by a comment on how it might make him grow up eventually.
‘Well I know how that goes. My dad was only ever interested in drink and women. At least for the first half of my life, before he got into the harder stuff.’
‘I don’t think that’s Mr Webb’s problem.’
‘It’s all the same though, isn’t it? Selfishness. Since having Tom I can’t imagine it, I can’t imagine putting myself or my pride before him, ever. I don’t understand it.’
‘How does that poem go? “They fuck you up, your mum and dad …”’
‘Poetry was never really my thing.’
‘You surprise me.’ She raised her eyebrows before getting in the car. She thought about her own parents in relation to the poem, how all of their choices had impacted her life, made her who she was. Another line sprang to mind: Man hands on misery to man. Never a truer word was spoken.
Imogen rang the doorbell to the STREETWIZE charity HQ, a disused clothing shop in Exeter’s Sidwell Street, next to a kebab shop Adrian had visited many times before after a drink in town. Adrian walked around the building and found a side door. He banged on it. They heard some movement, followed by the sight of a woman in a dressing gown opening the door. Her face was flushed red and her eyes were swollen and puffy. She coughed uncontrollably the moment she started to speak.
‘Hi, I’m DS Grey and this is DS Miles. Are you the lady that runs the STREETWIZE charity?’ Imogen asked when the woman had stopped.
‘I am. My name is Claire Morgan. Sorry, I’m just getting over the flu. Come in, but I’d keep my distance if I were you.’
They went inside, to a small living room with a two-seater sofa and a coffee table strewn with little balls of screwed-up tissues. There was a palpable taste of eucalyptus in the air where copious amounts of Vicks had obviously been applied. Imogen was hit by the sheer heat of the room. The lady pulled her dressing gown around her tighter, oblivious to the heat.
‘We’re investigating the fire in the signal box up at Central Station,’ Adrian said.
‘I saw that on the news. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Well I don’t know if you saw, but we found the remains of a male in the room; we think he was seeking shelter from the rain in there. It seems quite probable that he was homeless,’ Imogen said.
Claire Morgan’s hand went up to her mouth and Imogen saw the clear look of distress in her eyes.
‘Do you know how many homeless there are in the city?’ Adrian asked.
‘I used to but the numbers are always growing. It’s getting a lot less … personal.’
‘Is anyone missing, to your knowledge?’
‘It’s hard to know when someone is missing,’ Claire said. ‘Sometimes people just want to be alone. Sometimes people move on, sometimes they get moved on. There can be a variety of factors why they wouldn’t be around anymore. Over the last few months I would say there’s a couple of people I haven’t seen in a long time. But there are new faces too. As you can imagine, it’s a very transient community.’
‘Do you keep records of the people who pass through your charity?’ Imogen asked.
‘No, I don’t. Some people are homeless by choice, and I think it’s only fair to respect that choice and respect their privacy.’
‘And what is it you do here exactly?’
‘People donate money and the money buys supplies for the homeless. So, if you wanted to donate thirty pounds, I would put together a pack of a sleeping bag, a thermal blanket and some protein bars or something like that. Then when people come in and ask for help, I can give that to them. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do.’
‘It’s a lot more than most people do.’ Imogen smiled at her, feeling guilty that she didn’t do more.
‘I was homeless myself once,’ Claire said. ‘Not through choice. I was lucky that people helped me and eventually I got myself back on track. Most people genuinely try not to think about it. It’s as if they think about it, it might happen to them – as if it’s somehow contagious. So they actively choose to ignore it.’
Imogen pulled out a card and handed it to the woman. ‘Please call us if you hear anything.’
‘I will.’ She smiled and paused as though she was thinking for a moment. ‘It’s good to see you’re taking it seriously.’
‘One more thing, if you don’t mind.’ Adrian stepped in. ‘Do you know of anyone who used to sleep in that signal box? Or have you heard of anyone who maybe hung out there?’
‘The only one I can think of is a man called Bricks,’ Claire said slowly. ‘But the last I heard he had been arrested and put in prison. He had some mental health issues – he tried to rob the post office last year. He’s spent his whole life in an out of the system in one way or another.’
‘You don’t happen to have a picture of him, do you?’
Claire frowned and shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’
‘OK, Claire, thank you for your time. We’ll see ourselves out,’ Imogen said, not wanting to make the poor woman stand up again.
‘Feel better,’ Miles said as they pulled the door closed.
Imogen was glad to be outside again, out of Claire Morgan’s house which seemed to be an incubator of sorts, the air so hot and thick you could feel yourself getting sicker with every passing moment. She breathed in heartily, ignoring the myriad of smells coming from the industrial wheelie bins in the alley adjacent to the charity.
‘Never thought I would be grateful for the smell of old kebabs.’
‘Come on, a nice doner with a big salad and chilli tomato sauce is one of your five a day!’
‘You disgust me.’ She smiled and walked on ahead.
The prison bed wasn’t comfortable. The blanket was itchy and the pillow may as well not have been there at all. At least there was a mattress – something that hadn’t been in the police holding cell. Gabriel’s eyes were closed as he tried hard to block out his surroundings. He thought of Emma and her white skin. She wore talcum powder instead of foundation to make it even whiter and when they would kiss he could taste it on the edge of her lips. He imagined her lips on his and realised he was holding his breath. He couldn’t ask her to wait for him. It would possibly be weeks until he got a trial date and the sentence he was likely to receive would mean that it would be foolish to hope that she could put her life on hold. They had been apart for nine days now and already he found himself giving up on the idea that he would be with her again. Without that hope he didn’t know what else he had to hold onto. He’d had relationships before, but this was different. She was the one. They just fit together. He couldn’t imagine never seeing Emma again; his stomach hurt