Carla hadn’t been able to sleep after Erin’s visit, the injustice of the woman’s fate gnawing away at her. Of course, inequality in the treatment of female victims of violence was the same the world over. A respectable retired homeowner killed within her house was going to attract more attention than an unidentified possible sex worker. But Carla thought things had changed in the twenty years since she’d entered the workplace. Weren’t we all a little more clued up about the rights of women, whatever the background? She expected Erin would have called her naïve, but then Carla hadn’t had to harden herself to the images of victims of violence. Even the brief glance she had given the body had made her realise the dead she had unearthed as part of her job was nothing compared to the horror of a recent violent death. No wonder her dreams were fractured.
If she was honest, she was also a little put out at the detectives’ attitude towards her. She was used to being a respected authority on the archaeology of loss and her colleagues treated her with sometimes embarrassing reverence. She had little experience of dealing with the police and couldn’t imagine a situation back in England where she’d be called in with half an hour’s notice to assist in an investigation. The devolved nature of law enforcement out here was something she was still getting to grips with, and things felt a little loose. Carla preferred to be in control and one of the hardest parts about coming to Jericho was surrendering all feelings of comfort. All she could do was follow her own ways of working, which had got her so far in her career. She would call Viv Kantz, but only after she had satisfied herself that she hadn’t missed anything.
Rain bounced off the baked ground at Silent Brook as Carla stepped out of the car. She put up a huge umbrella she’d purchased off a street seller and surveyed the spot. All that remained of the place where the woman had burned was a large patch of scorched grass and imprints of boots made by first responders. Carla took out her sketch and checked each spot where the items had been placed. She couldn’t make any sense of why they had been arranged in a particular way, but she was now beginning to think a ritual of sorts might be behind the pattern – not necessarily to do with the objects themselves, but the act of revering a burning corpse. People who were attracted to these kinds of places were those struggling with addictions and meagre lifestyles and ritual was often one way of seizing control of a desperate situation.
Behind her, Carla could hear the rumble of trucks. The detectives were right that the place had an itinerant community but, other than a statement from a witness that they had seen a woman climbing into a cab, there appeared little to link truckers with this death. It was odd that she was automatically assuming the killer was a man, which, really, only went alongside the fact that everyone was assuming the victim was a sex worker. Think wider, Carla told herself. She took off her jacket and threw it into the back of her car along with the sopping umbrella, took out a waxed coat she’d worn on many digs, and set off, the rumble of traffic turning into a scream as she neared the road. Rain dripped from her hood into her eyes as she surveyed the patch of land separated from the highway by a row of scrubby conifers. Carla looked in vain for an opening and, not sure what else to do, squeezed herself through a gap in the trees. She landed on a strip of concrete close to a pickup whose shocked driver leant on his horn. To the left she could see the overhead signs directing traffic past Jericho and onto Maine. On her right was an underpass, which must be where the sex workers congregated. She didn’t much fancy walking along the road, especially as she was following the flow of traffic and she wouldn’t be able to see anyone pulling up behind her.
She braved the trees again, feeling happier walking in the puddles forming on the grass. She also had sight of her car, the place she’d make for if she sensed trouble. When she neared the thick concrete of the underpass, she saw a space in the trees, the likely route through which the sex workers brought their clients into the field. Carla slipped through and saw two figures standing beneath the underpass. One was talking through a car window. Agreement reached, she opened the door and the car sped away. Carla watched as the other woman scratched something on the concrete pillar.
At Carla’s approach the woman turned, her expression little friendlier than the detectives when they’d first seen her. She had pale hair spun like candy floss that had been teased into a mass of curls. Through the light, Carla could see the girl’s scalp.
‘Sorry, could I have a word with you?’
‘Where you from? SWARM or the outreach project?’
Carla shook her head. ‘Neither – I don’t even know what they are. I’m from the university.’
This got the girl’s attention. ‘What do you want? I’m taking part in no study. We’re not animals in the zoo to be stared at.’
Carla lowered her hood. ‘Nothing like that. I was called out the other day to the woman found burnt in that field.’ The girl turned her face away. ‘You heard about it?’
‘I saw the smoke.’
‘You saw the fire? What time was this?’
‘About one a.m. I just thought it was the drunks keeping warm.’
A beige car slowed down but, after taking in Carla, sped off again. ‘Look, I’ve gotta work. He’ll be back on another circuit soon and I know him, so if you could make yourself scarce.’
‘I’ll be quick, I promise. The police have a theory that it was a working girl who was killed by her client. Have you heard of this?’
‘News to me.’
‘But the police have questioned some of you, haven’t they? I mean, you saw the fire, so the death must have taken place while some of you were working.’
‘No one’s said anything to me.’
‘But they have questioned some of your colleagues, haven’t they?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’
A car drew up and deposited a woman in her forties under the bridge. The driver screeched off without looking at the pair chatting.
‘How’s it going, Lucy?’ The woman’s eyes were wary.
‘It’s all right. She’s from the university. Asking about the burning woman.’
Carla felt the woman’s gaze shift to her. ‘Not a cop then?’ asked the woman.
‘I’m working alongside the cops.’ A white lie. ‘I was saying to Lucy that the current theory amongst the investigating team is that she was a sex worker killed by her client.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Have you heard whether the detectives had been down here to talk to you?’
‘They haven’t.’ The woman crossed her arms.
‘Dallas is our union rep,’ said Lucy. ‘She’d know of any police questions.’
Carla felt a surge of anger. The police hadn’t even visited the women before coming up with the prostitute theory.
‘So, no one’s gone missing from you recently?’
‘Didn’t say that.’ Dallas stopped talking as the beige car, true to Lucy’s prediction, approached the underpass once more.
‘This is my one,’ said Lucy and she left without a backwards glance.
‘One of you is missing?’ asked Carla.
‘No, dead. But not from the other night. Two years ago; January time when it was cold. Her name was Stella, fifteen years old. A client took her to the Franklin shopping mall and the next day, she’s found in the car park.’
It was that name again. Franklin. ‘How did she die?’
‘Strangled by a scarf. Killer must have brought it with them unless she was dumb enough to be wearing one. Girls learn not to wear shit like that. I mean, why present a client the means of hurting you?’
‘Did they find the killer?’
‘Nah. Where you from?’ Dallas reached into her bag and brought out her vape, taking a deep puff.
‘England. You?’ She felt stupid asking the question and the answer came as no surprise.
‘Dallas. But in case you’re thinking I’m Dallas from Dallas, or some asshat thing like that, it’s just my working name. I took it when I started dancing in the bars and it stuck.’
‘And you’re the union rep?’
‘That’s it.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that three years ago Stella was killed by her client and then there’s another killing this month close to where you work and not a single detective comes to see if you’re missing a girl?’
‘You got it.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure you’re not missing a colleague?’
‘I don’t think so. Word of mouth is strong here. Stella had only been here a few days, but we knew her all right. Fifteen and chasing her demons, so she fit in well enough here. If the burnt victim was one of us, we’d know.’
‘Police say they saw a woman climb into a truck about midnight.’
Dallas snorted. ‘You’d see the same any night. That tells you nothing.’
‘But still, no local woman has been reported missing. It must be someone from out of town. Any ideas?’
‘No.’ Dallas was beginning to lose patience.
‘Is the shopping mall where Stella died near here?’
Dallas shook her head. ‘That’s the weird thing. It’s about five miles away. Whoever heard of a john taking someone that far. Stella must have known she was in trouble within a few minutes.’
‘Even though she was so young.’
Dallas shrugged. ‘She’d been turning tricks for a while, I think. We do our best to keep people safe.’ Dallas pointed at a pillar. ‘We write down the car plates of clients who pick us up along with the date. Not foolproof because they know we do it, but it helps.’
Carla felt the stirrings of excitement. ‘So basically, the car registration number of Stella’s killer could be written on the pillar.’
Dallas nodded. ‘Come take a look.’
As Carla approached, she saw the concrete was covered in thousands of scribbles, not all dated.
‘You think the police care enough to go through every number plate on that pillar?’ asked Dallas. ‘I can tell you for nothing that some of our clients are serving officers.’
Carla frowned at the numbers. ‘You know, I think I might go over to the Franklin Mall anyway.’
‘What for? I told you the death was a long time ago.’
‘Just curious. It’s my superpower.’
Dallas smirked. ‘You don’t want to hear about mine.’ She handed Carla a card. ‘Come back and tell me if you find anything, OK?’