‘Well, I won’t be home until,’ she glanced at the clock on the wall, ‘well, another couple of hours.’
‘I need to pack my stuff,’ Sammy said.
‘Okay,’ Gill nodded. ‘You go do that and I’ll pick you up on my way back. Yes?’
‘Okay.’
She stood up. ‘Come here,’ she said, opening her arms, and he trudged forward, and she hugged him tight and he snuffled a bit. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘’Cos I missed you too, you know. Apart from the sweaty feet. And the wet towels.’
‘Mum!’ His protest was half-hearted.
‘Go on. I’ll see you later.’
He loped off and Gill pinched the top of her nose and blinked and blew out breaths until she was fit to be seen in public again.
Cottam was pleading guilty and once he was up for sentencing everyone expected he’d be given a full-term life sentence. The story, with its power to fascinate, remained in the papers and they all knew there would be another flurry of articles once sentence was passed. And with them, fresh demands for Rachel to give interviews: radio, women’s magazines, chat shows. She’d made it as plain as she could to Lisa that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming and would rather Taser her tits than do any more PR. There was a difference between a news story in the midst of an investigation where the public were being encouraged to help the police and the sort of celebrity merry-go-round people wanted to stick her on.
Fortunately, Gill backed her up on that, especially when Rachel said she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t end up speaking her mind.
Rachel was at home. She had spent the night before bagging up her dad’s stuff, ready to chuck. He’d an envelope containing half a dozen photographs, pictures of her and Alison and Dom as kids. None of her mum. The corners of the prints were curled and the images scratched with marks, spills or something on some. Alison could have them. Nothing else was worth keeping. Clothes not fit for anything but landfill, faded, full of tears and stains and round holes from cigarette burns. A plastic case with a comb and a toothbrush and an unopened bar of soap; small and cheap, like the packs they give out in the hostels. A tin of athlete’s foot powder. Letters from the DWP about his benefits.
A life in three bin bags.
Rachel looked through the clutch of press cuttings: herself, three and four years ago. She tore them in half, then in half again, put them in an ashtray and took it outside. Set her lighter to it, watched the newsprint flare and shrivel and turn to flakes of ash. A gust of wind snatched at the remnants and blew them to dust. Swirling up and round.
Rachel fetched the bin bags out and stuffed them in the wheelie bin.
Then she rang Alison. The scabs on her hands had gone, leaving shiny, pink skin that still itched. She ran her nails over the heel of one thumb while she waited for a reply.
‘Yes?’ Alison sounding flustered, strained.
‘I’m not coming,’ Rachel said.
‘What? Are you meeting us there?’ Alison said.
‘No. I’m not coming at all.’ Rachel watched the boughs on the big tree by the road bend and sway. The leaves were dead now, crisp, red and brown. They rattled in the wind.
‘What d’you mean?’ Alison said. ‘You can’t not come. Dom’s here, the car’s on its way.’
‘It’s all paid for,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s all sorted. It can happen whether I’m there or not. And I’m not.’
‘Bloody hell, Rachel,’ Alison said, ‘this is the only chance you get to say goodbye. And when all’s said and done, this is your father we’re talking about. Your father.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Rachel said, and hung up.
The phone went as she went back inside. Janet calling. ‘Hi. Have you left yet?’
‘Just about to. Why?’ Rachel said.
‘We’ve picked one up in Kirkholt. Twenty-two-year-old man, suspected domestic. Police called to the house twice in the last month. Boss wants you at the scene.’
‘I’ll go straight there,’ Rachel said.
‘I’ll text you the postcode,’ Janet said. ‘See you later.’
‘Yes.’ Rachel felt the familiar rush, the leap of energy that came with a new case. The buzz that got her out of bed every day and kept her working for sixteen-hour stretches. The sweet, dark thrill of the chase.
Rachel was running.
Epilogue
Family Killer Cottam in Prison Suicide
The Ministry of Justice announced today that Owen Cottam (45) was found dead in his cell at Frankland High Security Prison in County Durham, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Cottam was serving a full-term life sentence for the murder of his wife Pamela, their daughter Penny, and his brother-in-law Michael Milne and two ten-year sentences for the attempted murder of Cottam’s two young sons.
Landlord Cottam was the subject of a nationwide manhunt last year when he fled the Oldham pub where he and his family lived, taking the two boys with him. DC Rachel Bailey of Manchester Metropolitan Police is credited with finding and rescuing the children, who, doctors say, would soon have succumbed to death as a result of hypothermia and dehydration. The youngsters were reunited with their maternal grandmother and are now believed to be living in the Republic of Ireland.
The MoJ said: ‘As with all deaths in custody, the independent Prisons and Probation Ombudsman will conduct an investigation.’ The investigation will examine how Cottam, found hanging in his cell, was able to take his own life in spite of being classified as at risk and subject to suicide prevention procedures.
Financial difficulties and the end of Cottam’s tenancy at the Journeys Inn were believed to be the factors which precipitated the murders. Criminal psychologist Professor Henry Threlfall said, ‘The prospect of financial ruin and shame can be an intolerable burden for some men who believe it is their responsibility to provide for their family. When they are at risk of being exposed, a small minority will seek suicide rather than suffer the shame of their failure. In a few rare cases some individuals will also endeavour to take their family with them. A phenomenon which we are still trying to fully understand.’
Many thanks to Bill Scott-Kerr and Rachel Rayner and Transworld for inviting me to write a further two Scott & Bailey novels. Thanks to Sally Wainwright and Diane Taylor, whose wonderful characters continue to be a joy to work with, and to Suranne Jones, Lesley Sharp and Amelia Bullmore, who bring them to life in such memorable ways. Thanks also to Keith Dillon for generous help and advice about police work – any mistakes are mine. Some are deliberate!
About the Author
Cath Staincliffe is an established novelist, radio playwright and creator of ITV’s hit series Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis. Cath was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Best First Novel award for her acclaimed Sal Kilkenny series, and for the Dagger in the Library award in 2006. She was joint winner of the CWA Short Story Dagger award in 2012 for Laptop. She is a founding member of Murder Squad, a group who promote crime fiction.
www.cathstaincliffe.co.uk
Also by Cath Staincliffe
Dead to Me
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First published in Great Britain
in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Cath Staincliffe 2013
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