chapter7

“Take a good look and tell me if you recognize him.”

The elderly shopkeeper leaned over the confectionary display and took the photo from Charlie's outstretched hand.

“What's he done?”

“Assault, battery, theft. He beat the owner of a carpet shop half to death over the contents of the till. Could happen to anyone, so please, take your time.”

The lie was so practiced that it tripped off Charlie's tongue.

“Nasty-looking bloke, isn't he?”

“You better believe it,” Charlie continued. “We think he lives around here, so perhaps he popped in here for fags or beers?”

He perused the picture in silence. Charlie said nothing, impatient for an answer but determined not to break his concentration. He was probably the fiftieth shop owner she'd canvassed in the last few weeks, and she was beginning to feel that she was clutching at straws.

The man in the photo was real enough—Robert Stonehill—but the crime for which he was being sought was entirely fictional. There was no carpet shop owner, no assault, and Charlie knew that in fabricating a police incident she was breaking every rule in the book. Still, it allowed her to file a crime on the system, buying her some time to follow it up. It wasn't a deception that could last—she would be found out in the end—but there was nothing else for it.

A short phone conversation with Helen was enough to convince Charlie of her innocence, and since then she'd been searching for evidence to help effect her release. She had scoured the Western Docks—Robert's nerve center had been there—but the primary evidence she'd hoped to find eluded her. The main investigating team had found the imprint of a size nine Vans trainer in the derelict building in which Helen was arrested, but they had dismissed it as irrelevant. Charlie, however, was convinced it belonged to Stonehill.

“What do you say? Has he been in here? He's about six foot, quiet sort of guy, ordinary clothes, but expensive trainers...”

Stonehill had been working at a remote branch of Wilkinson's during his killing spree, using the alias Aaron West. Charlie had worked out all possible routes from the murder sites to his nerve center, and, armed with a photo and a recent description of him, she'd been pounding the streets, targeting the minimarkets, newsagents and convenience stores. Stonehill was a canny operator, but he was still human. He had to eat.

“Sorry, love, I don't recognize him.”

“Look again. It's really impor—”

“I'd like to help you, but he's not been in here.”

His tone was harder now, though his manner was not unkind. He could probably sense Charlie's desperation. Taking the photo, Charlie thanked him and left. There were three more premises on her list to check out. She could probably just about work through them before her absence gave anyone serious cause for suspicion. Whatever the consequences, however depressing this door-to-door drudgery was, there was no question of Charlie giving up.

Not while an innocent woman was behind bars.