Rachel considered whether to argue for it. She wondered if Janet was going to be one of those greedy gits who kept all the good stuff for herself so it would take Rachel twice as long to get the experience she needed. Women were still a minority in the service, especially at higher ranks, and most of the ones Rachel had worked with were good teachers, making sure other women coming after them had the same bite of the cherry as their male colleagues, encouraging them to specialize, to set their sights on moving up. There was a lot of mentoring went on. But Janet Scott? Maybe Rachel was a threat? Rachel considered asking her to stop so she could have a fag, but what if she said no? She’d have one after they’d informed the family, Janet could hardly drive off and leave her there without proving herself to be a right cow.
Denise Finn lived in Harpurhey, a short bus ride from Lisa’s, a two-up, two-down. Garden terraces, the estate agents called them, flying in the face of all the evidence. They had no gardens, only titchy backyards that originally housed the outside bog.
The street was still, quiet when they got out of the car, people tucked in, keeping warm. Here and there, where the curtains hadn’t been drawn at upper windows, the neon blue of televisions and computers flickered and swam. The windows at Denise’s were dark, but the hall light was on and the diamond of glass in the front door glowed yellow.
There was no bell or knocker, so Janet rattled the letter box.
Rachel looked up; no stars in the sky, just the blanket of fog. They heard movement in the house. Then a shadow rippled behind the glass in the door.
‘Denise Finn?’ Janet said when the door opened. ‘I’m DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police, and this is DC Rachel Bailey. May we come in?’
‘Why?’ the woman asked. She looked to be in her fifties, her face lined, nose and cheeks criss-crossed with broken veins, jawline softening, grey hair mixed with the brown. Her hair was frizzy, brittle. Her glasses magnified her eyes. She wore a black sweater that had seen better days and navy joggers. 10 Years Younger, thought Rachel, prime candidate. Ten years older once she’s heard what we’ve got to tell her.
‘We’d like to come in,’ Janet said, moving forward, giving the woman no choice but to back away and turn, taking them through the front room, past the open stairs and into the back where the television was showing Emmerdale. The house smelled of cigarettes and chip fat and some floral chemical, air freshener perhaps, that made Rachel want to gag.
Denise stood there. ‘What’s going on?’ She picked up the remote, muted the television. ‘Is it our Lisa? Is she in bother again?’
‘Please, Mrs Finn, sit down,’ Janet said.
The woman frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it. Sat on the sofa; Janet sat beside her. The woman still held the remote, gripped tight in both hands.
Rachel parked herself in the only armchair. Looked about. The television occupied one alcove at the far side of the chimney breast, in the other recess were shelves with knick-knacks and photos. Lisa as a toddler and older. One of her on a merry-go-round horse at the fair, another, an early teenager at some do, dressed up in skin-tight clothes: white skirt, silver boob tube and hoop earrings. There was a boy in other photos, and one of the two children together, a school photo, be about eleven or twelve, Rachel guessed. The boy looked older, but not by much. They shared the same snub nose and rosebud mouth. In every picture his hair was cropped close, his ears stuck out like jug handles.
‘I am sorry, I’ve got some very sad news,’ Janet spoke steadily, slowly.
Rachel waited, studying her own hands.
‘Your daughter, Lisa, was found at her flat this afternoon with fatal injuries.’
Rachel glanced over. Denise froze, the room was pin-drop quiet and Rachel could hear Denise’s breath, a suck of sorts, a gulping sound, choking on the truth.
‘Lisa is dead,’ Janet added, lest there be any misunderstanding, in case fatal wasn’t enough.
‘Injuries?’ Denise said dully, putting the remote on the arm of the sofa.
‘Yes, we think she was attacked.’
Denise Finn gave a muffled shriek. And her feet shifted on the carpet as if they wanted to carry her away.
‘I am very sorry, Mrs Finn. We will be trying to find out who did this to Lisa. A colleague of ours will be acting as your family liaison officer, they will support you and let you know how our inquiries are going. They’re on their way now.’
Denise’s hand clutched at the neck of her sweater. From outside, Rachel heard the thump of a car door and the cough of an engine, then the car horn, toot-toot-toot, a jolly farewell blast before the car moved off.
Denise Finn’s eyes filled with tears. She took a cigarette from the packet on the side table and Rachel felt her own cravings kick in.
‘Are you sure?’ Denise said. The lunge for hope making her twist in her seat towards Janet.
Sure she’s dead? Sure it’s Lisa? Rachel could imagine all the chinks of light tempting the woman, a futile, last-ditch attempt to make the nightmare go away.
‘We still need you to formally identify the body, but as she was found in Lisa’s flat by Lisa’s boyfriend Sean, who called the police, we are pretty certain that it is your daughter Lisa.’
Trembling, Denise lit her cigarette, the snick of the lighter, the first scent of burning tobacco, triggering saliva in Rachel’s mouth. She breathed steadily in, happy to do a little passive smoking until she could get to the real thing.
‘The post-mortem is being conducted this evening,’ Janet said. ‘We expect it will confirm the cause of death, and then we’d like you to come to the mortuary, probably tomorrow morning, to make the formal identification. The family liaison officer will come with you and they’ll be able to answer any further questions you have.’
Denise nodded. She drew again on her cigarette, but her lips quivered as though she had lost control of them.
‘You thought Lisa was in bother?’ Rachel spoke, ‘Why was that?’
Janet turned to Rachel, glaring daggers. Pardon me for breathing.
‘She had …’ Denise’s words petered out, she closed her eyes, tilting her face upwards to the ceiling. ‘Erm, she’d had a few run-ins with your lot. Shoplifting. Messing with drugs.’
Janet turned to Denise, turned more than was necessary, her back to Rachel, excluding her from the conversation. Tosser, Rachel thought to herself, acting as if Rachel had farted at the funeral. Well, she wasn’t some newbie in uniform who would put up with being shut out. If Janet wouldn’t give her the breaks, she would just have to grab them for herself. And she could do sympathy. Talk nice. She’d seen the videos.
‘Is there anyone you’d like us to call, someone who can be with you?’ asked Rachel. She looked at the photos. ‘Your son, perhaps?’
Denise Finn stared at Rachel, her face collapsing, mouth drawn back in pain. ‘Nathan’s dead,’ she stammered. ‘He died in January.’
Oh, fuck. Just my piggin’ luck.
And Denise began to cry.
‘Nice one, Sherlock,’ said Janet. The FLO had arrived and at last they could escape.
‘How was I supposed to know?’ Sarky cow.
‘You weren’t. Which is why you should have kept your mouth shut and let me handle it,’ Janet spoke quietly. ‘That woman is a victim, it was our job to inform her of the death and of the immediate procedure. You wade in asking questions. We were not there to take a witness statement. We were not there to ask questions. We were there to deliver a death message. Got it?’
‘But she said it first—’ Rachel began.
‘Got it?’ Janet repeated, unsmiling but still keeping her voice quiet like some frigid headmistress.
‘I need a fag,’ Rachel said.
‘Well, I’m not standing out here, freezing to death.’ Janet opened the car door. ‘Those things will kill you.’
Save you the bother. Rachel lit up, took the first drag deep, held the smoke and waited to feel the drug work its magic. Nick didn’t like her smoking, they bickered abou
t it, so when she was with him she had Nicorette – foul-tasting stuff, made her breath stink worse than cigarettes. She would give up probably, but not just yet. You needed to time it right, and at the start of a major new job was not the right time.
When Rachel climbed into the car Janet already had the radio on, some documentary about the law and assisted suicide. Rachel blanked it. Watched the streets, the gleam of ice on the roads and stone walls, the fog distorting shapes, shadows and distance, the ribbons of light marking the roads winding down the hills.
Janet dropped her outside the station, a curt, ‘Night,’ the only communication.
‘Night,’ Rachel said flatly, and as she pushed the car door shut muttered, ‘Sour-faced bitch.’
5
ADE WAS IN front of the telly, a pile of exercise books on the sofa beside him, red pen in hand.
‘’Lo,’ Janet called from the doorway.
‘Hi,’ he grunted, not even bothering to look her way.
In the kitchen she opened the fridge, wondering if they had left her any tea. It was hit and miss. Time was Ade would have a hot meal for her whenever she was late home, would even sit with her while she ate, swapping tales from their days at work. She on the job, nothing strictly confidential of course, but the vagaries of policing, the cock-ups and triumphs, irritants among the team, the gossip, always someone shagging someone else. And Ade’s stories of high school hell, the Machiavellian manoeuvring of the geography department, the dirty politics of management and the LEA and school governors. The trench warfare of the classroom. Thirty hormonal teenagers, most of them regarding geography as slightly less interesting than waiting for paint to dry. Flirting, fighting, giving cheek, the lads rife with BO and Lynx deodorant, the girls wearing enough product to blind a lab-full of rabbits.
That all seemed so long ago. Janet couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed together, the last time she’d saved up an anecdote to please him, relished the telling of it and his response. She opened the microwave, which was empty and looked a little like a crime scene. Blood spatter on the walls. She went back into the lounge. ‘What did you have for tea?’
‘Chilli,’ he said.
‘You save any for me?’
‘Eh?’ He scribbled something in the margin of an exercise book, slung it down, picked up the next. On the telly someone was explaining why drilling into the Arctic ice sheet was a good idea.
‘Did you save me some?’
‘There was a bit left. I think Taisie had it.’
‘That girl must have a tapeworm,’ Janet grumbled. Eleven years old and always hungry. Would eat twice her own body weight, given the chance. Never got podgy though. Taisie was out climbing. She got a lift there and back with one of the other parents. Next week Janet, or more likely Ade, would be the taxi.
Janet’s thoughts flickered to Denise Finn, lost both her kids in a year. Tomorrow, Janet reminded herself. Work stayed at work. The separation was the only way to stay sane. She never brought her work home, just like she didn’t lug her family stuff into the office.
She went up to see Elise, who was glued to Facebook. ‘How was Drama?’
‘What?’
‘Drama?’
‘Good. Yeah.’
‘Put this lot in the wash.’ The floor was thick with cast-off clothes. ‘Or you’ll have to borrow my knickers.’
‘Rank!’ said Elise.
Janet moved closer, taking the chance to peer over Elise’s shoulder and scan the screen.
‘This century would be good,’ Janet said.
‘Yeah.’ Absently, same as Ade. I am the invisible woman, Janet thought.
‘What’s TFN then?’ Janet asked, tripping over the acronym on the page. ‘Ta-ta for now?’
‘Total fucking nightmare,’ Elise said.
‘I knew that,’ Janet said. And caught a quick grin from her daughter in the reflection on the screen.
Janet made herself an omelette and ate in the kitchen, the local evening paper propped on the ketchup bottle. One of their cases had gone to trial, a lad who had fallen out with his girlfriend, rung her up and persuaded her to meet him on her birthday. She thought they were getting back together again. He arranged to pick her up in the car park behind Tommyfield Market in Oldham. She had recognized his car, stepped out to wave, so he’d see her. He had accelerated. Ploughed into her at speed and tossed her thirty-five metres. She died at the scene. He claimed it was an accident, he hit the wrong pedal, swore every which way to Christmas that he was gutted. A broken man. The postings he put online beforehand told a different tale. He was going down, unless the jury cocked it up big time; it was just a question of how long for. Janet had done the interviews with him. Let him drivel on for the first two days, nodding with understanding and encouragement as he had spun his fantasy, before she’d begun to pick his story apart, line by line, sentence by sentence. Finally finishing him with printouts from the Internet, the most damning being, That cunt’s getting a birthday present she never forget. Thick as shit.
Janet had watched the light go out in his eyes, watched him squirm lower in his seat, knowing she had enough for the CPS, that she had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and gone through the whole alphabet with careful penmanship – win a flippin’ calligraphy prize for it – and got it bang to rights.
She heard the clatter of Taisie arriving, the slam of the door that shook the floor beneath Janet’s feet and rattled the double glazing.
‘Shut it, don’t slam it!’ Janet yelled.
Taisie came through, glanced at Janet’s plate, sucked her lip.
‘Make some toast,’ Janet said.
‘Can’t you do it? I’m tired.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘You want me to starve? I’ve just dragged myself thirty metres up a vertical rock face. My arms don’t work.’
‘And I’ve been sat on my arse all day making daisy chains out of paper clips.’ Janet got to her feet anyway, opened the bread bin.
‘Can I sleep over at Phoebe’s on Saturday?’ Taisie asked.
‘Who else is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘More details,’ Janet said.
‘But …’
‘And if it’s a party, the answer is no. And I am going to ring her mother in advance to check.’
‘I really like the way you trust me,’ Taisie pouted.
Janet smiled.
‘But can I?’
‘We’ll see,’ Janet said, sticking the bread in the toaster. ‘Jam or peanut butter?’
‘Both.’ She sat down heavily. ‘Please, Mum?’ she begged.
‘We’ll see.’ Gill’s words at work. Janet groaned inwardly, wondered if she could put up with Miss Bailey Cockypants for six whole weeks or if the MIT would end up investigating the murder of one of their own.
Rachel ordered pizza just for a change.
‘Your usual?’ the guy on the phone asked.
‘Yeah, and extra garlic bread.’
‘Ten minutes.’
The flat was on the first floor, a conversion in a big Victorian villa. High ceilings, huge windows, parking out front. Single, on a decent wage, she could afford a nice place to live. Not as swish as Nick’s; he was in the middle of town, all mod cons, fridge the size of a walk-in wardrobe that made ice cubes by the chute-full, wet room, power shower, view over the city centre. Once she made sergeant, then she could get something like that, unless he invited her to move in. She wasn’t rushing things, didn’t want to frighten him off, sensing one thing he liked about her was her independence, the fact that she wasn’t really into all the slushy side of relationships – the chocs and flowers left her cold. Leave that to people like Alison, her sister, who’d been swallowed up by marriage and motherhood and vomited back up like some loony 1950s bimbo, earth mother crossed with desperate housewife. Though she did actually have a job outside the home, she never stopped bleating on about how tough it was, how guilty she felt.
‘I can help you plan your wedding
!’ Alison had squealed when Rachel had finally told her she was seeing someone, that it had been going on for several months.
‘Be your funeral,’ Rachel said.
‘But there’s a wedding fair …’
‘Enough.’ Rachel had held up her hands. ‘It’s not on the cards, it’s not on the horizon, it’s not even in the same solar system at the moment.’
Alison was always wittering on about Rachel needing a social life, trying to get her to do things: a night out with Alison’s social-work pals, all dangly earrings and peculiar footwear, a trip to Les Mis in London on a coach, a book group. A book group, for fuck’s sake!
‘Do they read true crime?’ Rachel asked her.
‘No,’ Alison tutted. ‘Don’t you get enough of that at work? Fiction, Rachel. Booker prize, the Costa. Orange. We have some great discussions.’
‘Spare me,’ Rachel groaned, changing the subject by asking about one of the kids, guaranteed to get Alison warbling on for half an hour at least, like winding up a clockwork toy.
Rachel opened a bottle of red and poured herself a good measure. She got her daybook out of her bag and checked back through, all as it should be. She had a stack of reports from the National Police Improvement Agency – homework. The NPIA was where Gill Murray had worked before she headed up the syndicate. Called the Crime Faculty back then. Hard-to-solve cases from all over the country. That usually meant stranger murders. Interrupted by the take-away delivery, Rachel paid the guy and ate while she continued reading. She refilled her wine then texted Nick: You busy? Gud day?
He replied in seconds. Cd take a break?
Rachel smiled. She had an idea, would he be up for it? Won’t know till you try, kid, she said to herself. Dyin for a shag, she texted.
!!! He came back.
Phone sex, she typed. Call me if u want sum. She set the work files aside and had a long swallow of wine. Settled herself down on the sofa. The mobile rang. She picked it up.
‘So,’ she heard the laughter in his voice, ‘tell me what you’re wearing, you slutty girl.’
6
RACHEL WAS STILL working out who was who as the DCI briefed them on the murder. She had already clocked that Kevin was a bell-end. The sort of guy who wants to be one of the gang but gets it wrong every time, his humour off-colour, his instincts non-existent, social skills strangled at birth. The sergeant, Andy Roper, seemed OK, no pervy looks from him and he didn’t pull rank with any little jibes like some of them did. Dressed well, too. Bit old for Rachel but he wasn’t a bad looker. The other DCs – the tall bloke Mitch, Pete the stocky one and Lee, the only black guy on the team – she hadn’t got the measure of yet.
SB01 Dead to Me Page 3
