Free After the Fire by Jane Casey Page A

months, I think.’ She glanced in the direction of the garden and I thought I could understand why she kept the paperwork for the charity outside the house. Hundreds of women meant hundreds of stories that Harriet had absorbed. It was a family home: there were photos on the walls of beautiful, accomplished teenagers. I was willing to bet they didn’t know very much at all about their mother’s charitable work.
    ‘How long do most of them stay?’ Derwent asked.
    ‘Not long.’
    ‘Even though it’s free?’
    ‘They don’t want me to support them. They want to stand up for themselves. They want to prove to themselves and everyone else that they can cope without their partners. Besides, most of them don’t want to stay in one place for too long. It’s too dangerous. Most victims of domestic violence are killed by their partners just after they leave them.’ She was shivering. ‘The men are well resourced and angry. They like to exert control on their partners. They don’t like having that control taken away without their agreement. It’s easy to hire a private detective. Sometimes they involve the police, or social services. “My wife has run away with our children and all the cash in the house and I think she’s unstable.” That’s enough to get people making enquiries on your behalf, especially if you don’t have a criminal record because your wife was too ashamed or scared to report you and you live in a detached house so the neighbours don’t hear the screams.’
    ‘Has that ever happened to any of your ladies?’ I asked.
    ‘Once.’
    ‘What happened?’
    Harriet looked at me, her eyes the colour of cognac. ‘He stabbed her. She died in front of their two daughters.’
    ‘When was this?’ Derwent asked.
    ‘Eight years ago. That was when I stopped using flats in nice parts of London and bought up some ex-council properties. It’s easier to hide where there are a lot of people. Especially a place where the residents come and go frequently. No one notices a new tenant.’
    ‘This is the problem we’re having,’ Derwent said. ‘We don’t have anyone who can identify Melissa. She didn’t know anyone in the flats, it seems, and we haven’t been able to find any ID for her on any of the victims.’
    ‘Is Melissa her real name?’ I asked. ‘Melissa Hathaway?’
    Harriet shook her head. ‘No. Melissa, yes. I shouldn’t have said it. I gave her a new name. It’s easier for me to think up something that has no meaning for her. That makes it more difficult for anyone to guess it. She was called Vivienne Hathaway.’
    ‘And Sam?’
    ‘I think that was the new name she gave him. I don’t remember what it was before.’
    ‘Thomas,’ I suggested.
    She shrugged but I had the feeling she remembered extremely well, that she regretted giving us as much as Melissa’s first name by accident, and cooperation was not on the cards from this point on.
    ‘Did you meet her?’ I asked.
    ‘Just once.’
    ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What’s her real surname?’
    ‘I’m not going to give you that information without her permission.’
    ‘But we can’t get that permission if we can’t find her,’ Derwent said in his very reasonable I’m-near-the-end-of-my-tether voice.
    ‘Do you have contact information for anyone related to her – anyone she trusts? A family member?’ I asked.
    ‘Why?’
    Derwent straightened up, looming over the sofa. ‘Because at the moment her little boy is being looked after by some foster family social services have dug up, if he’s lucky. Or he’s sitting in an office somewhere waiting to find out if he’s still got a mother. The last home he had is gone and he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up. He’s confused and scared and on his own and I’d like to know he’s with someone he trusts.’ His voice had roughened as he spoke. He walked away a little before he added, ‘Wouldn’t you?’
    Harriet was staring down at her hands,