Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

mean, you just know you’re right, only you can’t prove it –’
    ‘You’re the one who’s always insisting on facts,’ Sam reminded her.
    Geraldine sighed.
    ‘Come on, then, let’s find this blonde Lolita. Whoever she is, she was there when Bradshaw was murdered. ’
    ‘Lolita Wild sounds like a stage name,’ Sam said. ‘At least there can’t be too many women around with that name.’
    ‘That should make your job a whole lot easier then.’

     
    It took Sam less than half an hour to track down the woman calling herself Lolita Wild. Real name Lynn Jones, she had been working in Soho as a prostitute. Over two years earlier she had left the hostel in London where she had last been recorded as living temporarily. After that the paper trail had gone cold. Leaving Sam to continue her search online, Geraldine paid a visit to the hostel. Even though it was a long time since Lolita had left, it was the only lead they had to her current whereabouts.

     
    The hostel was a dreary block for homeless women, situated in a rundown street near Marylebone Road. A plaque in the dusty lobby informed visitors that it was a charitable foundation established in Victorian times as a refuge for fallen women. It was now run by a particular church sect. A grey-haired woman was seated behind a small glass partition. She watched with sharp black eyes as Geraldine approached. The woman enquired who she was visiting and smiled ruefully when Geraldine introduced herself.
    ‘We are a Christian house,’ she said softly. ‘Our aim is to help these poor women, but they struggle to follow the path.’

     
    When Geraldine outlined the purpose of her visit the woman shook her head and explained that even if they could find a record of a resident going by the name of Lolita, they would be unable to provide any information about where she might have gone after leaving the hostel. It was difficult enough keeping a record of who was living there. They certainly didn’t have time to keep track of where the women moved on to when they left, even it was possible to do so. Mostly the women slipped away, changed their names, and ended up on the streets. Sometimes they returned for a while, before disappearing again.

     
    ‘I don’t want to sound callous, Inspector. It’s not that we don’t care about all the women who stay here. We do everything we can for them. We put a roof over their heads. But they come and go all the time. It’s that sort of a place. We like to think our doors are open to all comers, providing we have a bed for them, of course. Everyone is welcome here. We do what we can. But whatever we do for them, it’s never enough to keep them here for long. It’s usually drugs that lure them away. The devil’s at work, even here.’

     
    Geraldine glanced around the drab hallway, trying not to feel dejected. It was hard to remain positive standing in such a depressing place. She wasn’t surprised people didn’t want to stay there long, although the miserable truth was that this was probably the best many of these women could hope for. She turned back to the woman sitting behind her glass partition.
    ‘It’s really very important we trace this woman.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but there’s nothing I can do. We don’t record where the women go on to when they leave. It would be a pointless task. Most of them move on again fairly soon. They don’t stay anywhere for longer than a few months at a time. It’s never long before they’re back on the streets, soliciting to support their habit. And once they’ve left us, well, we’d help them if we could but they’re not our responsibility, after all. We’re very limited in what we can do for them.’
    Geraldine thanked the woman. She asked if there was anyone at the hostel who had been there two years earlier and might know what had happened to Lolita.
    ‘Only Rowena. She’s in and out all the time. But you won’t get much sense out of her.’

     
    Rowena was an emaciated woman with olive-coloured skin and almond-shaped eyes. She must once have been beautiful. Now her skin was blemished and blotchy, and she glanced suspiciously at her visitor with eyes that were bloodshot and inflamed. When Geraldine introduced herself, Rowena dropped her gaze and stared doggedly at the floor. Nevertheless, she admitted that she had known Lolita.
    ‘We were friends,’ she mumbled.
    She had a faintly Far-Eastern accent, and Geraldine had to lean forward to make out what she