by Cari Hunter
Kash keyed his radio mike, leaving her to go ahead of him as he relayed the information and made the necessary requests. She closed the remaining distance with more care, panning her torch across the ground to ensure she didn’t stomp on potential evidence. Engrossed in the resuscitation effort, the paramedic didn’t react to Rosie’s approach until the torch beam hit her. Then she looked up, shielding her eyes with one hand as she searched for the light’s source.
Rosie swore quietly, almost flinging her torch into the river in her haste to avert its glare.
“Jesus. Jem?”
“Hey.” Jem scarcely shaped the word. She was soaked to the skin and visibly exhausted, her hair plastered to her face, her movements stiff and automatic and accompanied by fitful coughing.
“Where’s your inhaler?” Rosie snapped. She’d seen Jem use it on the bridge, and Jem obviously needed it now.
“In my fleece,” Jem said. “It’s on his legs.”
Frigid water splashed up as Rosie knelt and began to search. She shivered, feeling the chill seep into her boots and clothing. Jem was wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, having wrapped both her coats around the lad, but she seemed oblivious to the cold, or simply past caring.
“Here you go,” Rosie said, softening her tone. “Take a break for a few minutes. I can do this.”
Jem nodded, coughing around the mouthpiece but still poised to work the ventilation bag.
“How long have you been here?” Rosie asked. An IV line was sticking out of the lad’s neck, and glass syringes littered the ground. The job had already been thirty minutes old when it was passed through to her and Kash.
“I’m not sure,” Jem answered in a hoarse whisper. “An hour? More, probably. Feels like forever.”
“I’ll bet. What the hell happened to him?”
“I don’t know. Those blokes pulled him from the river. He was alive when I got here, but the back of his head’s caved in…” She trailed off as Kash crouched beside them.
“Mountain Rescue and two Emergency Response docs are about ten minutes from Ellery,” he said. “What can I do to help?” He directed this last to Jem, who gave him the ventilation bag.
“Two breaths when the defib tells you. I’m going to try to intubate him, but I need to get my stuff sorted first.”
“Allah,” he murmured, and Rosie saw him swallow nervously. She’d been with him on his first dead-in-bed call; he’d thrown up in the old chap’s wastepaper basket. “Okay. Okay, right.”
“Kash, this is Jem,” she said to distract him. “Jem’s the para from Barton last night. We only seem to meet in puddles.”
Jem gave a small smile and a wave, and Kash spluttered a little before disguising his reaction beneath a theatrical throat clearing.
“You two are on a hell of a streak,” he said.
“Tell me about it.” Jem finished laying out her kit and took the bag back. “Tube first, the long, pale blue one. Then the syringe and this holder thingy.” Almost lying on the ground, she cranked the lad’s mouth open with a metal blade and peered along the blade’s length. “Tube,” she said. “Rosie, just stop compressions for a tick. Perfect, go again. Syringe.”
Rosie watched as Jem secured the tube, her brow furrowed in concentration until she seemed satisfied that everything had gone to plan. Her quiet assurance was a far cry from the timid uncertainty she’d shown the previous night.
“That’s better,” she said, mostly to herself. “Thanks, Kash.”
“No problem.” He abandoned his attempts to stay dry and sat on the grass. “Major Crimes and SOCO are also en route,” he told Rosie. “I’ll have a scout around and see what I can see. Where exactly was he found?”
Jem aimed her torch toward the river, circling its beam on a tree with spindly branches. “He was stuck in there.”
Kash walked carefully in the direction she’d indicated, examining the ground for signs of a struggle or evidence the lad had been anywhere but the water. As he followed the path of the river, his dark outline merged into the shadows and the driving rain, the occasional bob of his torch beam the only proof he was still out there.
“Do you want to swap?” Jem asked Rosie. “It’s tiring after a while.”
Rosie shook her head, despite the ache across her back. “I’m all right.”
“We’ll never get him out of here. Not like this.” Jem stroked a muddy strand of hair from the lad’s forehead as if in apology. “Helimed don’t fly at night, and we won’t be able to do CPR properly while we carry him. The docs will probably call it on scene.”
“He’s just a kid,” Rosie said. She pressed down harder, doing her best textbook CPR, as if that alone might somehow change the outcome.
Jem’s shoulders were slumped in defeat. She used her free hand to rub her face. “It’s been too long, and his skull’s in bits. Even in a hospital, I doubt he’d have come back from this. Stuck here, he’s had no chance.”
“Shit,” Rosie whispered.
Jem nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
* * *
Jem couldn’t feel her hands. A small heating pad sat in each of her palms, but she couldn’t detect their warmth or grip them properly. Through sheets of rain, she watched the two Emergency Response doctors confer with the detectives beyond the perimeter established by the Scene of Crime Officers. A white forensic tent was rapidly being erected, but she could still see the lad’s body, its face angled toward her by the weight of the ventilation bag she had only just relinquished. Even in death he didn’t look peaceful. His half-lidded eyes glared when the torchlight caught them, and the tube curled his lips into a snarl, as if in defiance of the team’s decision. She shuddered and turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, grateful for any distraction but even more so when Rosie crouched by her side.
“Will these help?” Rosie held out a large pair of gloves. “I pinched them off Kash. His hands are bigger than mine.” Without waiting for an answer, she tugged one onto Jem’s left hand and slid the pad beneath the leather. It was a snug fit, pressing the heat close, and Jem whimpered in relief, encouraging Rosie to repeat the process on her other hand. “Better?”
“Much, thanks.” Jem made a tentative attempt to curl her fingers. “Puddles and sore hands: there’s a definite theme developing for us.”
They exchanged weary smiles, and Jem shuffled over on the plastic kit box, making space for Rosie to sit, and attempting to share the foil blanket one of the Mountain Rescue blokes had wrapped around her. They huddled closer, the foil crinkling and curling in the wind.
“What’s going on over there?” Jem asked.
“Usual rigmarole,” Rosie said. “The body will stay in situ while SOCO do their thing. He didn’t have any ID on him, so we need to find out who he is. Given his age, it’s likely someone will report him missing, and then it’ll be a case of tracking his movements, speaking to his family and friends, and trying to establish whether this is murder, manslaughter, or simple misadventure.” She shifted slightly so she could meet Jem’s eyes. “One of the docs wanted a word with you, and DS Merritt has asked me to take you to Clayton for forensics and a statement.”
“Forensics?” Jem said, struggling to connect the dots. She didn’t know if it was stress or hypothermia or an adrenaline crash, but she felt as if someone had replaced her brain with putty, obliterating her ability to concentrate or follow simple logic.
“SOCO will need your uniform and your boots,” Rosie said slowly, as though sensing there was a problem. “And swabs from the scratches on your arms.”
“Oh.” Jem had forgotten about the gouges the lad had inflicted. They’d still been oozing blood when an officer covered them in film to preserve trace evidence.
“Is he from your patch?” Rosie jerked her head toward the only other paramedic who had made it to the scene. Jem vaguely recognised him as local to Manchester, though he didn’t work in her group. The pips on his epaulettes marked him as an Advanced Paramedic, and he hadn’t yet bothered to introduce himse
lf.
“Sort of,” she said. “I think he’s based in the city centre, but don’t hold me to that. Rumour has it he’s a bit of a knob.”
“The rumours are right on the money. He took the docs to task for calling it.”
“Really?” Jem’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “How did that go down?”
Rosie chuckled. “Like a mug of cold sick. The lady doctor told him to wind his neck in and to get here sooner next time if he wanted to be involved in the decision-making.”
Jem wished she’d been privy to that discussion. She might not know the AP, but she was very well acquainted with the “lady doctor” in question, and Harriet Lacey did not suffer fools.
“Speak of the devil,” Rosie said, and Jem looked up to see the AP stalking across the small clearing. He was younger than her, and his ill-advised moustache and goatee combo spoke of a thwarted desire to mask his baby face. She knew his type well: excellent in paramedic theory but craptastic in practice.
“Jemima Pardon?” he said.
“Yes.” Jem stayed seated, despite the authority he was trying to project. “Well, Jem. I go by Jem.”
“I need to speak to you about all this.” He gestured offhand toward the body. “Are you in tomorrow?”
“No, I’m back on a day shift on Wednesday.”
He entered a note on his mobile. “Darnton, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I work the six-six line.”
“I know. I’ve heard all about you.” There was no humour or kindness in the comment, just a snide undertone that made her bristle.
“I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking,” she said, and he stared at her as if she’d slapped him. She didn’t care. If his role here wasn’t to support her and act as her advocate, then he was surplus to requirements. He scratched his beard, seeming simultaneously ill at ease and irritated by her insubordination.
“Wednesday morning, then. I’ll arrange for you to be taken off the road.”
“Fill your boots,” she said, but he was already striding away, his radio bleeping for attention. “Tosser,” she muttered.
Rosie leaned into her in a subtle show of support. “Ignore him,” she said, and gave her an Uncle Joe’s Mint Ball.
They sat in silence, sucking their sweets and waiting for permission to start the long walk back to Ellery. The scene grew brighter as a generator rumbled to life and then quieter as people dispersed to fingertip-search the immediate area. Jem was half-dozing, mechanically crunching the last of her mint, when a touch on her shoulder startled her. Harriet Lacey was standing in front of her with her arms folded, radiating authority in a manner the AP could only have dreamed of. If the mud allowed, she’d probably have been tapping her foot.
“Do I need to take a look at you?” she asked, and clipped a probe on Jem’s finger regardless.
Jem squinted at the numbers. Pulse at one hundred and two, and oxygen saturations of ninety-five percent. Not brilliant, but acceptable by her standards.
“Apparently not,” she said, and stuck out her tongue as Harriet narrowed her eyes.
“Warm shower, dry clothes, hot drink, and something to eat,” Harriet told her, and then switched her attention to Rosie, who appeared to be on the verge of saluting. “Officer Jones, could you please call me on this number if Jem decides not to follow my advice?”
Rosie opened her mouth and snapped it shut again, taking the card Harriet held out. “Uh, okay, Doc. Yep, will do.”
Jem didn’t blame her for acquiescing. Harriet had an enviable knack of getting her own way. They hadn’t seen each other for a while, but the circumstances and the adverse conditions hadn’t diminished her take-no-prisoners countenance.
“Excellent,” Harriet said. “Detective Sergeant Merritt said you’re clear to go to Clayton, and you’re to let her know when you’ve finished with everything there. Jem, I’ve spoken to your resource manager and told him you’re indisposed for the rest of the shift. He’s arranging for someone to collect the RRV.”
“Thank you,” Jem said, wondering how improper it would be to kiss her. Quite, she decided, and squeezed her hand instead.
“You’re welcome.” Harriet pocketed the probe. “Go on, get going.”
Rosie waited until Harriet was well out of earshot before she spoke. “Bleedin’ hell. There’s no way I’m pissing her off. It’s a hot shower and sustenance for you, young lady.”
Jem gathered up the foil blanket. “No arguments from me. That sounds lovely.”
They stood together, Jem wavering slightly as a head rush hit her. She had no idea how long was left on her shift. The hours she’d spent with Dorothy in the residential home seemed like several lifetimes ago.
Rosie flicked on her torch. “Ready?”
“Yep.” Turning to leave, Jem glimpsed the raised flap of the forensic tent, a shock of white against the surrounding blackness. Someone lowered it almost at once, concealing the tent’s contents, and Jem concentrated on picking her route over the irregular ground. She didn’t look back.
* * *
Ellery Lane had never seen so much activity. Police vehicles—marked and unmarked—and two Mountain Rescue four-by-fours were parked at haphazard intervals, their drivers having attempted to avoid the divots and waterlogged ruts. SOCO and uniformed officers were hurrying between the vehicles, toting equipment or chattering into their radios. Glad to be heading in the opposite direction, Rosie steered Jem through the melee, aiming for her own patrol car, as an officer on sentry duty noted their departure.
“I’ll ruin the seat,” Jem said, her hand poised to open the passenger door. They were the first words she’d spoken since leaving the scene, barring the odd murmur to acknowledge hazards that Rosie pointed out. Slogging through the woods in torrential rain and a strengthening wind hadn’t been conducive to a casual chat.
Rosie fished a large plastic sheet from her pocket. “Not to worry. SOCO gave me this for evidence preservation. Sadly, their generosity only stretched to one, so whoever drives this car next will be getting a wet arse.”
Settling onto the plastic, Jem leaned her head back and closed her eyes, a blissful expression spreading across her face as Rosie started the car and banged the heating on full. Cool air blasted from the vents, but even that seemed preferable to being outside.
“It shouldn’t take long to get warm,” Rosie told her. “Have a nap if you want. I don’t mind.”
“I’m awake.” Jem yawned and failed to open her eyes.
“Fibber. You sound like my dad. Fast asleep in front of the telly, but woe betide anyone who changes the channel.”
“‘Hey! I were watching that!’” Jem mimicked, her baritone grumble sounding so much like Rosie’s dad that Rosie slapped the steering wheel and drove them into a pothole.
“Yours too?” she asked, bouncing them out the other side.
“All the bloody time. And it was always something crap like Escape to Victory or The Dam Busters.”
Rosie slowed at the junction, giving a quick wave to the patrol unit waiting to turn. “Footy or Songs of Praise for mine. He loves booming along to the classics.”
“Until he nods off mid-chorus.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you from around here?” Jem sat up straighter, curiosity seeming to banish her weariness. “Only, your accent’s a bit hodgepodge. Sort of Manc, but then I don’t know…Oldham? Rochdale?”
“Good ear,” Rosie said, impressed. “I was born in Hathershaw, Oldham, but my parents split when I was seven, and me and my mam moved to Newton Heath. Eight years later, she remarried, and I ended up with two sisters and a brother.”
“That must have been a shock to the system.”
“I hated it, and I hated my stepdad.” Rosie slowed the car, surprised by her admission. At the time, she’d taken to smoking dope, drinking cheap booze on the streets, and shagging around, but she’d never been brave enough to tell her mam why. Later she’d been too ashamed, and that shame had followed her into adulthood. She shook h
er head, still mortified. “For so long I’d had my mam to myself, and then I had to share her with this complete stranger who looked funny and talked funny and ate weird shit. He’s from Ghana, and fuck me, I thought it was the end of the world.”
“You were a teenager, Rosie. Everything’s the end of the world at that age. And I’m guessing you got over yourself.”
There was no condemnation in Jem’s reply, and Rosie loosened her death grip on the steering wheel.
“I got over it, slowly but surely,” she said. “Janelle—the first of the kids—was a godsend. She was such a sweetheart, I couldn’t help but fall in love with her. She’s a right little bugger now, but back then, cute as a button.”
The bright pink of a takeaway sign lit Jem’s smile. She’d relaxed during the journey, regaining a hint of colour to her cheeks and looking less like she might warrant a diversion to the nearest A&E.
“I can’t count all my brothers and sisters,” she said at length, as if she’d held a mental debate before broaching the topic. “I was fostered for years, and I saw kids come and go all the time.”
“Oh.” Rosie didn’t quite know what to say, so she defaulted to candour. “That must’ve been shit.”
“It certainly had its moments,” Jem said with wry understatement. “I was lucky, eventually. I got adopted. Not many kids in care find a family as late as I did.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost ten, but my mum and dad had been fostering me for two years by then.” Jem tugged on her earlobe. She’d turned toward the window again, casting her face into shadow. “I don’t know what they saw in a seven-year-old with knackered lungs who could barely write her own name, but I know I’d have been lost without them.” She cleared her throat uneasily. “Sorry, I don’t—I think I’m just tired.”
Rosie concentrated on driving, not wanting to make things awkward. “We’ll be there soon. And rest assured, what’s divulged within the confines of this manky and very damp patrol car stays within its confines.”
