Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  Janet smiled.

  ‘Michael moved in then, just before Harry came along. He wasn’t getting anywhere at home. He’s got learning difficulties; mild, but . . . he couldn’t really manage on his own.’ She shook her head. ‘And we’re out in the sticks. Nothing for him there—’ Again Margaret broke off, the brutal truth knocking her sideways again. If Michael hadn’t come to live with his sister, he’d still be alive. Margaret would still have one child left.

  ‘So Michael moved in,’ Janet said.

  ‘He started helping out over Christmas and stayed. I’d say it was great for Pamela, especially with the little ones; she didn’t need to do as much in the bar. Though it’s always the same if you live and work in the same place, never really off duty.’

  Janet nodded. ‘What did you make of Owen?’

  ‘I thought he was grand.’ Tears swam in her eyes. ‘Put in the hours, hard worker, always liked them looking nice, the children and Pamela.’

  When she didn’t elaborate Janet said, ‘And how were things between Pamela and Owen?’

  ‘Good,’ but Janet caught an echo of doubt and waited so that Margaret carried on. ‘He liked things doing the right way. Bit of a perfectionist. They’d the odd row about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Recently?’ There was something there: Janet could practically smell it in the air, in the hesitation.

  ‘Things were hard, the business side.’ Margaret frowned, ripples across her brow. ‘He worried,’ she said.

  ‘Was he ever violent?’

  ‘No, she never said. Just, you know, a bit of a shout now and again. What man doesn’t?’

  Janet could hear the undercurrent running beneath the flow of words. The sickening dawning prospect that the odd row and a bit of a shout had mounted up to mayhem, slaughter, murder.

  ‘I have to ask you this, I’m sorry,’ Janet said. ‘Were either Owen or Pamela involved with anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ Margaret said emphatically.

  ‘They were married for eighteen years,’ Janet said. ‘That’s a good while. Were there ever problems?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘No, not between them.’

  ‘Thank you. And what about alcohol? Drugs? Any problems for either of them?’

  ‘No, not a problem, but Owen liked a drink.’

  Janet tried to unpick the phrase. Liked a drink as in an odd tipple or glued to the bottle?

  ‘How was he when he was drinking?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Did it alter his mood, his behaviour?’ Not wanting to put words in Margaret’s mouth, or ideas in her head.

  ‘He was quieter; the same, really. Perhaps a bit . . . short-tempered.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If the children were being bold, or noisy, he might tell them off. That’s all.’

  Janet recognized the Irish turn of phrase. Bold meaning naughty. The Irish the biggest immigrant population in Manchester, something like a third of the citizens having some Irish blood. Janet had, through her father’s side. Still heard Irish accents often and particular words that differed from English. Running messages meant going on errands. Janet had once been told drugs were hidden in the hot press – Irish for the airing cupboard.

  A depressed drunk then. Someone whose troubles magnified with each tot. ‘Would he drink at work?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret said. ‘To be sociable. Not too much.’

  ‘Did Pamela ever say anything about his health?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he went to the doctor’s in all the time I’ve known him.’

  ‘You mentioned things being hard with the business. What can you tell me about that?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Just with the recession and that. People have less money in their pockets and there’s a lot out of work round there,’ Margaret said.

  ‘On the Larks?’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘They were settled there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’d no plans to leave. Penny had just gone up to secondary school. They’d not want to uproot her.’

  ‘Did you ever hear of Owen being involved in anything illegal?’ Janet said.

  ‘No, no – he’d have no truck with that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did either of them owe anybody money? Borrow money?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my business. That would be between the two of them.’

  Janet nodded. ‘How often did you see them?’

  ‘Two or three times a year I’d come over, but Pamela rang me every Sunday. Regular as clockwork.’ Her lip trembled.

  ‘When did you last see them?’

  ‘August – the bank holiday week.’

  ‘And yesterday, did Pamela ring?’ Janet asked gently.

  Margaret gave a nod and pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. Perhaps she was realizing that yesterday was the last time she would ever speak to her daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Janet said, ‘I understand.’ She passed over the tissues. ‘Are you all right to continue?’ Margaret Milne nodded. Her face was watery, wobbly, as Janet resumed. ‘How was Pamela when you spoke yesterday?’

  ‘Grand. Same as ever. She’d told me that Penny had played—’ She stopped abruptly, took several painful breaths, then said, ‘Penny had played netball on Saturday and they’d won. She’d got a goal.’

  ‘What else?’ Janet said.

  ‘The weather getting colder, and Theo not being so good the week before. He gets awful earache, but he was better.’

  ‘Tell me about the boys. Harry – the little one.’

  ‘He’s a bright spark,’ his grandmother said. ‘Runs rings round you, that age, into everything? But he sleeps like a lamb.’

  ‘And Theo?’ Janet said.

  ‘He’s the sensitive type. Harry – you can put him down and he’s spark out, but Theo has to have the light on and you have to sit with him. He has bad dreams.’ Again she stopped. Bad dreams. But this isn’t a dream, Janet thought, this is real. But at this stage too enormous to comprehend.

  ‘What does he like, Theo?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, trains. He’s train mad.’ Margaret almost smiled. ‘Michael was the same. Penny’s very good with him. With both of them. If they’re busy she’ll put them to bed or get their tea.’ She started to cry again. Janet allowed her time to recover from the deluge of emotion. Watched her breathing settle, the hitching of her shoulders ebb away. Margaret reached for another tissue.

  ‘Does Owen do much with the children?’ Janet said.

  Margaret didn’t answer immediately. ‘A fair amount,’ she said, ‘but Pamela is the main one. He wouldn’t take them to the clinic, say, or buy clothes.’

  ‘Feeding, changing: he’d be able to do that?’ Janet said. If he hasn’t already harmed them.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Harry’s eighteen months now. Is he walking, talking?’

  ‘Both. Only a couple of words, though; he’s not making his sentences yet,’ Margaret said.

  ‘And Theo, he’d be able to talk.’ Janet didn’t want to say ‘ask for help’ – the boy would trust his father and not approach anyone unless Owen abandoned them. She was trying to find out in general about the children’s abilities and assess how dependent they would be on Cottam.

  ‘He’s shy with strangers,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Is he in playgroup or nursery yet?’ Janet asked.

  ‘No – still in nappies. Clingy, too. Pamela wasn’t all that sure about taking him for a while yet.’

  ‘Can you tell me how Owen and Michael got on?’

  ‘They were great,’ Margaret said. ‘I’d say Owen was like a role model, you know? Michael would have followed him around all day. His dad died when he was very young, but Owen knew how to manage him. They both did.’

  ‘So there was no tension?’ Janet said.

  ‘No. Owen would soon have put his foot down if there was.’

/>   Janet wondered if Pamela would have reported it to her mother even if there had been.

  ‘How did he discipline the children?’ she asked. ‘If they were being naughty?’

  ‘They might get sent to bed.’

  ‘Did he ever smack them?’

  Margaret looked trapped. Her eyes flew from side to side. ‘He might. Just a smack, same as anyone.’

  Except not everyone believed that hitting children was any more acceptable than hitting adults.

  ‘Did Pamela smack them?’

  Margaret hesitated.

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘The same,’ she said, ‘only if they were really naughty. A tap, that’s all, and then a cuddle later.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘But you don’t believe Owen ever hit Pamela?’

  ‘I know he didn’t,’ she said.

  How can you know? How can you be sure? Was she just insisting on what she wanted to think was true?

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Margaret burst out. ‘He loved her, he loved them all. They were his life. How could this happen? How could he do this? Where are they? Where are the children?’ She wept again, her questions ringing round the room, desperate, and impossible to answer.

  6

  The briefing room, packed with her MIT as well as specialists from forensics and crime scene management, fell quiet as Gill entered.

  The mood was attentive, focused, while Gill made introductions, an edge of impatience in the air, pent-up frustration because as yet Owen Cottam had eluded them. Gill surveyed her team, working out that since she’d taken over the syndicate she hadn’t lost anyone. No transfer requests, no retirements or redundancies. They had all worked hard to get on to the syndicate (barring Kevin who’d been rehomed when Gill’s mate more or less gave up on him and Gill rose to the challenge) and once on board they liked the billet. Five men, two women and Gill. A good spread of skills and experience. A good balance.

  ‘We have significant results back from forensics,’ she said. ‘Fingerprints recovered from the knife left at the third scene match those found on a bottle of whisky in the bathroom and items around the property belonging to Owen Cottam – bedside lamp and alarm clock. He’d not bothered to wipe the knife. Why?’

  ‘If this is what we think it is,’ Lee said, ‘he wasn’t trying to hide the crime. He wasn’t expecting to be around to answer any questions or go to trial. He’d be dead along with everyone else.’

  ‘Okay,’ Gill said, ‘we’ll start with the live investigation,’ Gill said. ‘Owen Cottam at large, registered keeper of a Ford Mondeo, vehicle captured by ANPR at eleven fifty on the M6 near Penrith. We now have a second result from ANPR timed at three twenty-nine close to Ribbleton.’ The screen on the wall showed the map, initially on a small scale so people could understand the context, see the major towns and road networks, then Gill zoomed in so people could see in greater detail. ‘So he’s heading back down the M6, retracing his route. Why? Calls from the public now being actioned. Last verified sighting of Cottam . . .’ Gill looked to Rachel, who appeared to have just woken up.

  ‘Six thirty this morning, neighbour returning the dog spoke to him briefly. She also saw the two youngsters. At six forty-five Mr Grainger who has the farm on the far side saw the car but got no visual on the driver.’

  ‘No other activity logged,’ Gill said, checking with Andy that that was still the case.

  He agreed. ‘His phone has not been switched on. He hasn’t made or received any calls, he hasn’t accessed his emails or used an ATM.’

  ‘He’s gone off the radar,’ Gill summarized.

  ‘Why’s he still using the car?’ Mitch said. ‘He must know we can ping him.’ Ian Mitchell had a young family himself, second marriage. Gill suspected he’d be feeling this case particularly keenly, though it would never affect his judgement or his consummate professionalism.

  She held out a hand, inviting contributions from the floor.

  ‘Not found an alternative,’ said Janet. ‘If the kids are still with him, he can’t just dump it and start walking.’

  Gill nodded. ‘They’re a liability, limiting his options,’ she said.

  ‘Why did he take them?’ Rachel said. ‘Why didn’t he wait for Tessa to go then finish what he started?’ The way she put it was almost brutal but Gill could hear the puzzlement in her voice. Rachel wanted to make sense of the man’s actions. Because then she could better second guess what he might do next and how they might catch him.

  ‘Lost his nerve,’ Mitch said.

  ‘If I can?’ The criminal psychologist, Leonard Petty, a small, round-faced man with a liking for hair oil and kipper ties, spoke up.

  ‘Please,’ Gill invited him to say his piece.

  ‘A sense of control, of being in charge, is central to the personality here. The likelihood is that the murders were planned. Cottam executed the first three killings effectively and while the victims were asleep. No fight, no words exchanged, nothing to interfere with the scenario he’d envisaged. I think it’s probable that he intended to do the same to the two youngest children. When the dog was returned and they woke, his plans went out of the window. He hadn’t anticipated having to attack anyone who was awake, anyone communicating with him. Rather than lose control, which is his default position, he will delay and construct a new plan to regain his sense of being in command of what happens.’

  ‘Why didn’t he kill the dog in the first place? Why let it out?’ said Pete. An astute question. Pete might be a sloppy dresser – Gill looked at his shapeless fleece and tracksuit bottoms and thought that he’d reached an age where he was letting himself go to seed – but his work remained methodical, good on detail.

  ‘It wasn’t his dog,’ the psychologist said. ‘The family were looking after the pet for a neighbour. He only wants to kill those he sees as close family. To take them with him. Not to abandon them. Think of it as suicide by proxy. His ultimate goal is to end his life, but first he must make sure he includes his nearest and dearest.’

  Janet sighed and shook her head.

  ‘He couldn’t risk it, either,’ Rachel said suddenly, eyes flashing bright. ‘He could maybe have gone back in and thought up a way to kill the kids, then hanged himself or whatever, but Tessa told him that if the dog had been worrying sheep Grainger would have the police round. For all Cottam knew they were already on their way. He hadn’t time.’

  ‘Another interruption.’ Gill saw the sense of it. ‘Running buys him time. Good. Yes?’ Gill glanced at Leonard Petty: this was his territory. She’d plenty of experience with low-lifes and losers, but whilst there was some overlap this was not their usual run-of-the-mill inquiry.

  ‘That’s right. He’s regrouping.’ Petty smoothed his tie. ‘He needs to take control again so he can play things out to his satisfaction.’

  Another three lives, Gill thought. Which would be a disaster, a nightmare of huge magnitude. Performed with the whole country watching.

  ‘Right, lads,’ she said crisply, ‘what do we know about Owen Cottam?’

  Andy began rattling off the facts collated from the spider’s web of intelligence gathering. ‘Born 1966 in Preston, one brother, Barry. Father Dennis a garage mechanic, mother a bookkeeper, left to remarry and emigrated. Owen and Barry chose to remain in the UK. Owen was unremarkable at school, member of the rugby team. Finished school at sixteen, worked with his father for the next four years, then moved up to the Lakes and worked there. First as a handyman then bar and cellar man at the Greyhounds Hotel. Met Pamela Milne and married in 1993. Moved to Birkenhead in 1999 and ran the Colliers Arms for the next six years. Took over tenancy of Journeys Inn in 2005. Penny born in 2000, Theo in 2009 and Harry in 2010.’

  ‘Relations between the couple said to be generally amicable,’ Gill said.

  ‘So far,’ Rachel said sceptically.

  ‘Yes,’ Andy agreed, ‘there must be something there. She’s playing away . . .’

  Janet shook her head, gave a little snort.

/>   ‘. . . or she’s threatened to leave, taking the kids.’

  ‘So now it’s her fault?’ Janet sounded ruffled.

  ‘Considering motive, not fault,’ Gill reminded her. Don’t blame the victim, a holy grail. ‘Leonard?’

  ‘Infidelity, the end of a relationship, it’s often a factor,’ he said, ‘but not always,’ sounding a note of caution.

  ‘We have the eyewitness, Tessa, and Margaret Milne’s statements. Anything else from house-to-house?’ Gill said.

  Rachel found the page in her report. ‘Well known in the area, liked by some people, described as a good bloke, that sort of thing. Others pegged him as a bit moody, left the socializing to Pamela. But no bad blood. Also described as a bit quiet as in keeps to himself.’

  ‘Not quite mine host,’ Gill remarked. ‘Local bobbies?’

  ‘As we know, never any problems with his licence,’ said Pete. ‘Sorted out troublemakers when he needed to. Couple of parking fines, the odd speeding ticket. No known criminal activity or associates.’

  ‘Family.’ Gill moved them on to another element. ‘Brother and father expressed shock when told of events. Not in a million years and so on. I’ve spoken in person to the father and advised him we may want to make an appeal.’ One father to another, father to son. ‘Radio and television broadcasts.’

  ‘Cottam’s hardly going to turn himself in,’ Rachel sneered.

  ‘Very unlikely, but we have to be seen to be exploring every avenue,’ Gill said. Procedures that had to be followed, laid out in the rule book. ‘The chances of Cottam’s responding to the appeal might seem remote, but it gains us human interest, sympathy, adds to likely public efforts to assist.’ Two sides to policing – protect and serve, fighting crime and maintaining the trust of the population. The great British public needed to believe that an appeal was in their interest. A high profile case like this would be scrutinized and found wanting if people weren’t reassured as to how it was being handled. Gill could already see down the line to the case reviews to come. She needed to know that the team were doing everything humanly possible and then some.

  ‘Finances?’ She looked to Pete.

  ‘Living beyond their means.’