Free Murder on Page One by Ian Simpson Page A

said, ‘The Lord has not blessed us with children.’ There was a note of regret in her voice.
    ‘Do you go up to London often?’ Flick asked.
    ‘Once a week, for a couple of days at a time. Helping the homeless.’
    ‘Do you have regular days?’
    ‘Generally Monday and Tuesday, returning Wednesday morning. I wanted to be in London last Friday. There was someone who needed support that day. So I swapped with a friend. I wouldn’t normally be here today, as it’s a Tuesday.’
    ‘Where do you stay?’
    ‘At the hostel. It’s on Mile End Road.’ She went to the desk and, after some searching, found a leaflet which she handed to Flick.
    ‘How do you travel?’
    ‘Train from Peterborough. It’s an excellent service. Can I ask, are you clutching at straws?’
    ‘Our enquiries are progressing, Mrs Dalton,’ Flick said. ‘Thank you for your time.’
    Mrs Dalton showed them out without fuss. Flick drove to the end of Saxon Way to turn. As they joined the main road, a tall, wiry man wearing a dog collar approached the junction on foot. He aimed a vague, toothy smile at the unmarked pool car as he turned into his street.
    ‘She was in London on the date of each murder,’ Baggo said, putting to the back of his mind the thought of the vicar and his wife in bed together. ‘Is she a saint who writes about sin or just too good to be true?’
    ‘I don’t know. She certainly wasn’t what I expected. I think we should visit that hostel. And the sooner the better.’
    * * *
    ‘That woman is a saint.’ Maggie Locke was definite. She did not hide her surprise that two detectives should be interested in Candy Dalton. ‘Monday and Tuesday are her nights here, but yes, she did Thursday and Friday last week, so she’s off today.’
    The hostel office was cold and uncomfortable. Maggie’s ample frame was covered by a variety of shapeless woollen garments. She frequently glanced through the internal window overlooking the dormitory, where two rows of metal-framed beds faced each other across a long hall. Most were unoccupied. A few held shapeless lumps huddled under blankets. An earnest-looking man carrying a clipboard sat on the edge of one bed. Beside him, a skinny youth with a shaved head jabbed his finger to make a point.
    ‘We have three volunteers on each night,’ Maggie explained. ‘We always have two in the hostel. The other one is either here or out and about. This place is only a stop-gap, but we have positive interaction with other agencies. Our clients have complex needs, and even after we’ve passed them on, we try to give some of them continuing support. That often involves going out to find them if we know they are in crisis.’
    ‘Do you know what Mrs Dalton did on Friday?’ Flick asked.
    ‘She was out most of the day. Patrycja, one of our many Polish clients, needed a lot of support. Candy was with her.’
    ‘Where was she?’
    ‘At court in the afternoon. Patrycja’s brother, Pavel, had got into trouble. He’s a decent lad, really, but life got difficult for him and he was led astray. He was sentenced on Friday. Eight years. It’ll be very damaging.’ She shook her head. Both detectives kept quiet. ‘Patrycja was shattered, so Candy stayed with her.’
    ‘When did she return here?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I was off. But we keep a log. Here.’ She consulted a frayed jotter. ‘Yes. She was back by nine. We have a car which we use to pick up clients and she had it.’
    ‘You’re a charity for the homeless?’ Flick asked.
    ‘Yes. We get them off the streets and steer them towards appropriate longer-term accommodation. With some it’s addiction, others poverty. An awful lot have mental health issues.’
    ‘Can you tell us about Patrycja?’ Flick asked.
    ‘It’s pronounced Pat-rees-ya,’ Maggie corrected. ‘She and Pavel arrived in Britain over a year ago, and Candy got to know them then. She and Patrycja became quite close. They shared an interest in books. But Patrycja and Pavel were