Gill had read through her prepared statement enough times to be able to say it from memory at the press conference. It gave a better impression, appeared more genuine than someone with their head buried in a piece of paper. In common with every other officer at her level, she’d been on several media training courses, learning how to project herself (that came naturally), build a media strategy, how to field inappropriate or challenging questions, how to debate with clarity and precision without getting muddled or personal. Keeping on message, conveying crucial points in a concise way.
Having told the assembled press that Sean Broughton, a twenty-two-year-old man, had now been charged with theft and possession of Class A drugs and released, and having repeated the key facts of the crime in an effort to jog memories, ring bells buried deep in people’s skulls, when it came to the ending of her speech, she picked up her notes.
‘I’d like to read out a statement from Lisa’s family,’ she said, and paused, waiting a moment for the attention in the room to focus, the noise levels to settle. ‘Lisa was a lively girl, a girl with a beautiful voice who loved to sing. A girl who had her whole life ahead of her. She was loved very much and we are desperately sad at this terrible loss. If anyone knows anything that can help the police, please come forward.’
31
THE GUY FROM the Police Federation was on the phone; he wanted to offer Rachel support. Wanted her to be aware that if she was still suffering any mental or physical trauma as a result of the incident she could postpone meeting the IPCC. No one would think any the worse of her for it.
‘I’m fine,’ Rachel said, ignoring the cold cramps in her stomach and the sense of trepidation.
‘We can get a federation rep to be there, make sure your interests are protected.’
‘No, really, I’m fine,’ Rachel said. Didn’t they get it? Any delay would make it even worse.
Rachel had already written her account of Rosie’s suicide in her duty report. She had kept it pared back, plain and to the point. Leaving out any thoughts or feelings about the incident. Not relevant. Not helpful.
When the IPCC got there it was two blokes who spoke to her; they’d both been serving officers before moving to Complaints, which gave them an insight into the world they were monitoring. One of them was an old bloke with a lot of wild white facial hair but none on the top of his head. He had a gold tooth, which added to the pirate look he had going on. His name was Roger Harris. Roger. Really! Did they call him Jolly Roger? The other was a looker, reminded her of Nick, though his suit wasn’t quite up to par. Warm tone to his voice, but he didn’t smile a lot. Jonathan Buckingham.
‘You understand that you are being interviewed as a witness?’ Roger said.
‘Yes,’ Rachel said.
‘And you are happy to talk to us now?’
Delirious. Everyone’s concern, the kid-glove treatment, made it harder for her. She didn’t need comfort or tea and sympathy, just wanted to get on with it, get it over with. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Perhaps you could tell us in your own words …’ Who else’s am I going to use? ‘… what happened.’
‘I went to see Rosie Vaughan at Chapman Tower, New Moston, yesterday at half past eight in the evening,’ Rachel reeled off the facts. ‘I thought she might have some intelligence related to the murder of Lisa Finn. When I gained entry to her flat, Rosie was clearly mentally unsound. She threatened me with a knife in the hallway. I tried to persuade her to leave with me, offered to take her to hospital, but she became highly agitated. She was hallucinating and appeared to be psychotic. I followed her into the living room. She pushed me back into the hall at knifepoint, then ran out on to the balcony and jumped off.’ Rosie had been so frightened, riddled with terror. Whatever demons were fucking with her head were far more powerful than the urge for self-preservation. And if I hadn’t been there, would the demons have come anyway? Rachel knew such thoughts were pointless, didn’t stop them though. ‘I immediately went down to see if there was any chance to preserve life, but she was dead.’ Limbs twisted, her skull shattered, blood like a halo. ‘I summoned an ambulance and reported it to Division.’
Roger did most of the questioning, asking her to recall what Rosie said and exactly where the two of them had been during the exchanges. Jonathan took notes, the video camera blinked away in the corner. There was never a moment’s pressure or hostility. Rachel knew they were on her side and the protocol had to be followed in order to protect the reputation of the police.
Rachel’s throat hurt. She blinked. She would not fucking cry. There was no reason to cry. She held her eyes closed until she was sure the danger was past. Her voice went shaky, which was stupid, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Roger asked if she needed a break or a drink and she snapped at him: ‘What for? Let’s keep going.’
‘When Rosie ran to the balcony,’ Roger said, ‘what did you do?’
‘Ran after her.’ Should have caught her, skinny little druggie, should have got there easily, grabbed her, pulled her back.
At the end of the interview, Roger thanked her and said, ‘It must have been a harrowing experience for you, Rachel. Thank you for talking to us so honestly and openly. It can’t have been easy.’
She gave a jerky nod, her eyes stinging, anxious to get out of the room. Outside, she lit her cigarette, shivering in the cold, sniffing hard, sodding wind in her eyes. She just wanted the day to be done, but now she had to go and play nice at some poxy works disco or no doubt Godzilla would be on her back for lacking team spirit.
32
WHEN THE LAB reported back on the second tranche of DNA results from the scene, Gill, on the brink of leaving to get changed for the party, was the first to receive the information. The DNA on the duvet and on the sheet in the bedroom triggered an alert on the database: a man, identity unknown, wanted for questioning in connection with an unsolved rape case in New Moston in 2008. The victim’s name was Rosie Vaughan.
At the Christmas bash, shared with Division, there was food and entertainment, a high-end buffet and a comedian. Then a talent show spot, a magician and a singer – a uniform sergeant, a woman Gill knew whose voice could etch glass – then Mitch and Lee. Mitch on sax and Lee on guitar, drums on a backing track run off a laptop. They did ska versions of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ before the disco started. There was also the compulsory raffle for local charities. Rachel won a giant polar bear that she wanted to give back so they could raffle it again next time, until Mitch said his youngest would die for it so she gave it to him. Kevin had brought along an exploding cigarette lighter, which was funny for about half a second, but he kept at it until Gill picked it up and dropped it in his pint.
Gill watched Rachel, joking with the lads; the girl seemed to be coping all right, but underneath …? You needed resilience to do the job. Emotional resilience. Some of the things you saw and heard were truly horrific. Some of the cases you had to deal with were stomach-churning. If you let it get to you, you wouldn’t last ten minutes. You had to be able to sleep at night. You had to believe that most people were not like the scum, the bottom feeders that you had to deal with every day. Coppers needed a measure of detachment, a protective, professional shell to keep away the nightmares, the breakdowns, the straitjacket.
Gill knew people coped in different ways; some talked about the strains of work with trusted confidants, others found sport or charity work or creativity was a way of maintaining a healthy outlook. One of her mentors found peace at his allotment, in the rhythm of planting and harvesting, another in his grandchildren. Gill had no idea what support structure Rachel Bailey had. Whether she’d a tight circle of mates to rely on, to go clubbing with and dance it off, or a boyfriend who looked out for her. Whether she still lived at home with her mum on hand to comfort her and help her feel OK. Whatever, whoever, she’d likely need them in the next few weeks. Because not only would Rachel have to deal with the trauma of witnessing a suicide but she’d also be wrestling with the fact
that she had tried and failed to help the girl.
There were a handful of cases that had got to Gill, pierced her defences. One had been Janet’s baby. Not a murder at all, but an unexplained natural death. Gill had handled it all with equilibrium over that long, long day. Trying to support the family, to be sensitive even as she knew she was intruding: having to secure items for forensics, and then to persuade the couple to let the infant go. She had held it all together while she was with them, while she completed her records and checked all the exhibits had been logged, even while she attended the post-mortem, the tiny body poignant on thetable.
She had driven home in the early hours and parked on the drive. And then it had hit her. The utter, bloody sadness of it, and she finally let go, weeping and sobbing until she was drained. Exhausted. She had been young herself then, just twenty-six. Younger than Rachel Bailey was now.
There were a few times after that when she found herself haunted by the horrors of a murder, or the suffering of those left behind. Early on, one of her bosses in CID had advised her: Don’t think about the victim’s feelings, don’t dwell on what it was like for them, or the atmosphere. Concentrate on the facts, the evidence. Stay dispassionate, objective, distanced. That was the only way to do it without going under. Even the best detectives were only human and at risk; some found themselves on long-term sick, or plagued by PTSD or drinking 40-per-cent-proof for breakfast.
‘You are luckier than you’ll ever know,’ Gill said to Rachel, sitting down beside her.
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Because the second DNA profile gives us a scene-to-scene link. Unknown offender involved with both Rosie Vaughan and Lisa Finn.’
Rachel stared at her, excitement shining in her eyes. ‘A match?’
‘Yes, cock. So tomorrow you get off your arse and see where that takes us next.’
Rachel grinned, nodded her agreement. ‘They had the same social worker, Martin Dalbeattie,’ she said.
Gill barked a laugh. ‘They lived in the same house. They probably had the same everything: doctor, dentist, candlestick maker. Janet,’ she called her over. ‘DNA links Rosie Vaughan and Lisa Finn.’
Janet looked stunned. Gill saw Rachel smirk.
‘How many kids at Ryelands?’ Gill asked Janet.
‘Twenty, bit more,’ Janet said.
‘Go back tomorrow, the two of you, and see if any of them, past or present, are looking good for this. Not on the database, may have slipped through the net. I’m talking residents.’ She wagged a finger at Rachel. ‘Sexual offences, inappropriate relationships with other kids there … If you uncover any candidates, see whether they can be alibied for Monday.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Janet.
* * *
Janet had one eye on Rachel, who’d been chugging it down like there was no tomorrow and was back at the bar. Still – get away with it at that age.
‘You did good, kid, with Sean.’ Gill held out her glass. They clinked. ‘Cheers.’
Janet took a swallow. ‘Is that vodka?’ She looked at Gill’s drink. A huge wine goblet, filled with clear liquid. ‘Am I going to be sick monitor again?’
‘Cheek!’ Gill jabbed her in the ribs. ‘It’s tap water – I’m driving.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Early start.’
‘They were good, Mitch and Lee,’ Janet said.
‘Need a drummer. Hey, Andy,’ Gill shouted across to him, ‘you not fancy drumming with them?’
‘No sense of rhythm.’
Not true, from what I recall. Janet shook her head, giggled. Should slow down herself.
‘Right, I’m off. Be good,’ Gill said.
Janet saluted. Andy moved closer, offered her a drink.
‘I’m fine.’ She pointed to her glass.
They talked, heads close so they could hear over the music. He persuaded her to dance too. The floor was crowded and people were really letting their hair down now. One guy doing some northern soul moves, a circle of admirers around him, his limbs like rubber. When had she last danced? It felt good, she swung her hips and turned, couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Bit of fun.
Another drink and she saw Rachel leaving. Wondered how she’d found the party. Couldn’t have been easy in the shadow of what had happened. An inquest into Rosie’s death had been opened and adjourned, pending further investigation. When it reopened Rachel would be a key witness, though it could be months till then.
Pete was making a complete tit of himself with a woman from CID. A mix of air-guitar and heavy metal rocking. Janet got a stitch laughing.
Andy was attentive and witty, making her feel … real again. She was flushed and warm with the drink and the dancing and his interest when he said, ‘Come outside, I want to show you something.’
‘I’ve heard that before, officer,’ she joked, trying to make light of the butterflies inside and the depth of his gaze. She let herself be persuaded. Outside through the double doors on to the wide terrace. And it was snowing. Big, fat, soft flakes of snow and a winter’s moon, full and bright. The gardens muffled thick and white.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, ‘you’re beautiful.’ And his breath was warm on her cheek, his mouth firm on hers. Just a kiss, she promised herself, that’s all, just a kiss.
‘I’d better go,’ she managed when they came up for air. Her heart beating too fast.
He touched her face, she could feel his hunger. She wanted him so much.
‘Don’t go. Please. Stay with me, Janet.’
She closed her eyes, felt snow, tiny fingerprints of cold on her eyelids, on her cheeks.
‘Janet,’ he whispered her name again. She knew it was wrong. She had Ade, she had kids, for chrissakes. She looked at him again, his lips, his eyes. She couldn’t speak. This was stupid, dangerous, destructive. She was going home. This minute. Now.
She nodded her head. And she saw him swallow, the movement in his throat.
She texted Ade – easier to lie that way, no chance he’d hear the deceit in her voice. Staying at Rachel’s x. The kiss seemed to screech hypocrisy and she almost changed her mind until she looked over to Andy at the hotel reception desk, and pressed send before she could back out.
It was so strange, making love with Andy after all the years of only knowing Ade. Strange and exciting. The way he looked at her, drinking her in with his eyes, the tenderness he displayed and then the passion. She was lost for those hours in some parallel universe where she could be impulsive, instinctive, abandoned. As though she had shed her skin and emerged a different being.
The guilt came on waking. As soon as she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar room, Andy beside her, looking younger in his sleep. A shrivelling inside, like a stomach full of burning acid. A weight across her shoulders. What have I done? Knowing it was a dreadful mistake. She was not wild and impetuous, that wasn’t the person she was at all. She was careful, sensible, responsible. She was the one who stuck to the rules and made wise decisions and slept easily at night as a result.
Outside, the snow had gone, the magic wonderland dissolved by heavy rain, clouds still hovering low. Brooding. How could she do this to Ade? The thought of him ever knowing brought her out in a cold sweat.
33
‘KEYS,’ JANET SAID as they reached the car park.
‘How long you going to keep that up?’ Rachel said.
‘While I live and breathe.’ Looking ratty.
Rachel threw them to her.
The day was grotty, wet and gloomy. ‘Did I miss anything last night? Anyone throw a punch or get their kit off?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Janet snapped.
‘God, who pissed on your chips?’ said Rachel.
Janet didn’t answer, maybe she’d drunk too much and was fighting a hangover but not wanting to let on.
At the children’s home, Janet introduced Rachel to Marlene.
‘Oh, yes, you rang about Martin Dalbeattie,’ Marlene said. ‘Was he any help?’
Janet’s smile froze in
place and she turned to Rachel. Rachel, not feeling all that good any more, said, ‘We’ve not spoken to him, yet.’
‘You’ve heard about Rosie Vaughan?’ Marlene said, obviously not knowing Rachel had witnessed the whole thing. ‘So awful. That poor girl. Everything stacked against her, relentless – we just couldn’t get her to access mental health services.’
Janet murmured something back and Rachel studied her shoes. She didn’t want to think about Rosie, with her spindly arms and that pathetic ring of junk like a charm bracelet round the sofa. Though every time the cut on her hand throbbed, it all came rushing back at her. Rachel felt the bile of revenge. I didn’t do it, she told herself. The bastard who raped and beat her – this is on his head. And before him the mother who abused her, who made her do things that no child should ever suffer. The mother had done her time, punishment served, but Rosie’s rapist was still out there. Rachel wanted to get the bastard now more than ever.
Once they were settled in Marlene’s office, Janet said, ‘We want to find out if any of the boys who’ve been here since 2008 had a reputation for sexual violence?’
Marlene raised her eyebrows in a question mark.
‘We’ve got some forensic evidence suggesting a possible link between Rosie Vaughan’s rape and Lisa Finn’s murder.’
‘Oh, God.’ Marlene closed her eyes for a moment. ‘What a waste,’ she said, ‘both of them. You do everything you possibly can, but … they didn’t deserve … no one deserves—’ she broke off, upset and angry. Rachel felt awkward, suddenly too hot in the room.
‘You’re right,’ Janet said. ‘But anything you can do to help …’
‘Of course.’ Marlene sat up straighter and swivelled round to the computer on a workstation at right angles to her desk. ‘Nobody springs to mind, but I’ll just have a look.’ She keyed some strokes and peered at the monitor.
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