growing
relationship.
“What is Nottingham Today planning on doing with Natalie Kirk when she gets back in touch?”
“I
talked with my editor and she wants to run with the story, with Natalie
as the poor grieving single mother, striving to bring up a child on her
own in troubled times. It's a heart-breaker and it sells papers.”
“Yeah and the woman would sell her own daughter if she could.”
“I don't disagree but the story's there.”
“I know.” My hand went through my hair again.
“I
want to see the story before it goes to print and I want everything
you've written up about Natalie Kirk and Allison before she was found
today. Can you do that?”
Silence. I gave him a moment.
“You're
going to have to give me a little time to get everything together. I
wouldn't usually but if it'll help with the investigation then I can
do. There may be sources of information within previous notes or
articles I can't disclose, but you can have what I've got if it helps.
Just give me the time will you?”
I
knew he was giving what he could, but it would have helped to know any
sources he was speaking with. I sighed into the mouthpiece “Okay Ethan,
but don't take too long. I don't want this monster claiming another
girl whilst we wade through the Today's red tape.”
30
I
decided to go with Sally and Natalie after the positive ID of Allison's
body. The sterile viewing had been conducted through a glass partition
to preserve any evidence she may have had on her. It's not easy for
loved ones and the process seemed to have affected Natalie. Maybe more
than I was expecting. The gaudy loud woman I was used to was subdued
and compliant. We stood with her at the gates of the hospital grounds,
coats buttoned up as high as they'd go, fighting off the cold wind as
she smoked two cigarettes in succession before we took her away from
her daughter and back home. The background sound of traffic rolled past
on Derby Road at great speed, offering a stark contrast to the
stillness here, right now in this moment. Lips puckered, roll-up in
mouth, Natalie sucked for all she was worth, bony fingers never still
and eyes downcast. The noise and demands she produced earlier had
ceased and we gave her the time she needed.
Natalie Kirk's address was in the St Anne’s estate, a narrow terraced
house on Sketchley Street, off Blue Bell Hill Road. Several years ago
the council had thrown some money at St Anne’s in an attempt to
regenerate the area after a serious bout of negative press due to high
crime rates, in particular gun violence, where Nottingham had managed
to obtain the nickname of Shottingham. They hadn't done a bad job, but
Natalie's home still stood, uncared for and lacklustre.
The
front door opened into a narrow hallway with wood-chip paper and a
yellowing ceiling. I could see the kitchen beyond as we walked into the
living room to our right. I was struck by the smell; a mixture of fusty
socks, cigarette smoke and rotting food. The room consisted of a shabby
brown velour sofa with tassels in disarray around the bottom edges,
seat cushions well-worn and indented, sinking down into the base where
wire springs had long ago given up their ability to stand firm.
Magazines, a litter bin overflowing onto the carpet, and DVD cases
filled what little space there was of the floor. A cat litter tray was
positioned on top of an old depleted sideboard. It looked and smelled
as though it hadn't been cleaned out in a long time. The litter
appeared to have been pushed out of the tray by the feline owner of the
mess and was dropping onto the floor. The curtains were drawn, which
had the effect of closing in the smell around you. Smothering you. The
cat was nowhere to be seen and I couldn't blame it.
“Natalie, can I make you a drink?” Sally asked.
“Ooh,
could you love; a drop of whiskey with a splash of water would go down
right well about now. You'll find the whiskey bottle at the side of the
bread
relationship.
“What is Nottingham Today planning on doing with Natalie Kirk when she gets back in touch?”
“I
talked with my editor and she wants to run with the story, with Natalie
as the poor grieving single mother, striving to bring up a child on her
own in troubled times. It's a heart-breaker and it sells papers.”
“Yeah and the woman would sell her own daughter if she could.”
“I don't disagree but the story's there.”
“I know.” My hand went through my hair again.
“I
want to see the story before it goes to print and I want everything
you've written up about Natalie Kirk and Allison before she was found
today. Can you do that?”
Silence. I gave him a moment.
“You're
going to have to give me a little time to get everything together. I
wouldn't usually but if it'll help with the investigation then I can
do. There may be sources of information within previous notes or
articles I can't disclose, but you can have what I've got if it helps.
Just give me the time will you?”
I
knew he was giving what he could, but it would have helped to know any
sources he was speaking with. I sighed into the mouthpiece “Okay Ethan,
but don't take too long. I don't want this monster claiming another
girl whilst we wade through the Today's red tape.”
30
I
decided to go with Sally and Natalie after the positive ID of Allison's
body. The sterile viewing had been conducted through a glass partition
to preserve any evidence she may have had on her. It's not easy for
loved ones and the process seemed to have affected Natalie. Maybe more
than I was expecting. The gaudy loud woman I was used to was subdued
and compliant. We stood with her at the gates of the hospital grounds,
coats buttoned up as high as they'd go, fighting off the cold wind as
she smoked two cigarettes in succession before we took her away from
her daughter and back home. The background sound of traffic rolled past
on Derby Road at great speed, offering a stark contrast to the
stillness here, right now in this moment. Lips puckered, roll-up in
mouth, Natalie sucked for all she was worth, bony fingers never still
and eyes downcast. The noise and demands she produced earlier had
ceased and we gave her the time she needed.
Natalie Kirk's address was in the St Anne’s estate, a narrow terraced
house on Sketchley Street, off Blue Bell Hill Road. Several years ago
the council had thrown some money at St Anne’s in an attempt to
regenerate the area after a serious bout of negative press due to high
crime rates, in particular gun violence, where Nottingham had managed
to obtain the nickname of Shottingham. They hadn't done a bad job, but
Natalie's home still stood, uncared for and lacklustre.
The
front door opened into a narrow hallway with wood-chip paper and a
yellowing ceiling. I could see the kitchen beyond as we walked into the
living room to our right. I was struck by the smell; a mixture of fusty
socks, cigarette smoke and rotting food. The room consisted of a shabby
brown velour sofa with tassels in disarray around the bottom edges,
seat cushions well-worn and indented, sinking down into the base where
wire springs had long ago given up their ability to stand firm.
Magazines, a litter bin overflowing onto the carpet, and DVD cases
filled what little space there was of the floor. A cat litter tray was
positioned on top of an old depleted sideboard. It looked and smelled
as though it hadn't been cleaned out in a long time. The litter
appeared to have been pushed out of the tray by the feline owner of the
mess and was dropping onto the floor. The curtains were drawn, which
had the effect of closing in the smell around you. Smothering you. The
cat was nowhere to be seen and I couldn't blame it.
“Natalie, can I make you a drink?” Sally asked.
“Ooh,
could you love; a drop of whiskey with a splash of water would go down
right well about now. You'll find the whiskey bottle at the side of the
bread
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