Dead To Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  That attitude showing again. Gill wasn’t going to pull her up now; she’d been very pleased with Rachel’s conduct in the first suspect interview and hoped she would maintain it in the second one.

  ‘I told you earlier that there were two matters I wished to discuss with you,’ Rachel said. ‘I now want to ask you about your relationship with Rosie Vaughan.’

  His face set, frozen like a rabbit in headlights, except Rachel couldn’t see any fear in his eyes. She wanted to see it there, she wanted him to be petrified, chattering with panic, the way Rosie had been.

  ‘What about it?’ he said.

  ‘You had a sexual relationship with Rosie Vaughan?’

  ‘Long time back, yes.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Two or three years ago.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help you there,’ Rachel said. ‘You worked on a placement in Ryelands in the spring of 2007, April and May. Rosie was resident there. You began the relationship then.’

  ‘OK,’ he was dismissive.

  ‘Is that correct?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rosie moved out of care in February 2008, into a flat in New Moston. You continued to see her, to have sex with her?’

  ‘For a bit.’

  ‘Could you be more specific, Mr Raleigh?’

  ‘No, I can’t remember.’

  ‘So the relationship might have lasted until 2009 or even into this year?’

  ‘No not that long, it was over by the Easter, I’m sure.’

  ‘Easter 2008?’ she checked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘On June twentieth 2008, Rosie Vaughan was the victim of a serious sexual assault, rape, carried out at her home address. Can you tell me where you were on that date?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? It’s two and a half years ago.’

  ‘Was your relationship with Rosie Vaughan consensual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like your relationship with Lisa Finn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Angela Hambley.’

  He closed down, his face impassive.

  ‘Or is that not consensual?’ Rachel said.

  ‘No, it is.’ He stretched his neck, discomfited.

  ‘We have forensic evidence that places you at the scene when Rosie Vaughan was attacked and beaten, when she was raped at knifepoint. Forensic evidence that you carried out that assault.’ Suck on that and swallow.

  He shook his head, said vehemently, ‘No, no way.’

  ‘Rosie didn’t like the idea of sharing you, of you leaving her. She had threatened you in the past, that if you messed her about she would report you. Did she threaten you on that date?’

  ‘No, I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Did you rape and beat her to keep her quiet?’

  ‘I wasn’t there,’ he said.

  ‘The science suggests otherwise.’

  He stroked at his head, the blond hair still shining, thick and healthy. ‘I wasn’t there,’ he said again. He kept it up like a parrot. Rachel was pissed off with him. She knew he had done this. There had been something satisfying about seeing him in his police-issue jumpsuit, stripped of his status symbols: no neat wool sweater, no fancy watch, no trendy shoes. Something sad too, when the DNA was confirmed, in the knowledge that she had been right about Rosie: she had known her rapist. This was the man who had brutally battered Rosie, robbing her of her hope and sanity, setting the seal on her descent into a twilight world of drugs and paranoia. Rachel had to trap him, but they had no other evidence to confront him with. All she could do was try and wear him down.

  ‘Rosie Vaughan had bruising to the face, her arms, back, legs, vagina and throat. She soiled herself in the course of the beating. She never recovered psychologically. On Thursday she took her own life.’

  ‘Very sad,’ he said blandly. ‘But as I keep saying, I had nothing to do with any assault. I wasn’t there.’

  Rachel felt a tremor of rage grip her, she thought of Rosie’s eyes, livid with panic, the unsteady way she had walked along the canal, the shape of her when she hit the ground. ‘I don’t believe you,’ Rachel said, fighting to sound strong and in control.

  ‘That’s your problem,’ he said.

  Tosser, with his smart little comments. Heat flared through her, her guts tightened. She’d slit his throat, cut his cock off first. She stood suddenly, he jerked back in reaction. ‘Interview terminated.’ She rattled off the time, and quit the room. Halfway down the corridor she stopped, hit at the wall with her fists – fucking fucking bastard. Choking with rage.

  Janet came and stood close by. ‘You did your best.’

  ‘It’s not good enough,’ Rachel rounded on her. ‘He’ll walk. He’ll walk, Janet. He did it, he did Rosie, whatever else. Maybe not Lisa, but Rosie.’

  Gill sent them home. ‘Too late to go back for more,’ she said.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Rachel asked. Was this it? Would she get another chance?

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll get further. Let’s sleep on it. You did all right, kid.’

  Rachel shook her head, rejecting the praise, eyes aching. No. She did crap. He was gonna get away with it and there was nothing she could do.

  44

  ‘HOW WAS MR Fairley?’ Janet asked Ade.

  ‘He wants to put her on a behaviour plan. She’ll be monitored for a month and she’s barred from the Christmas trip.’

  ‘That’s a bit steep,’ Janet said.

  ‘He wants to make an example of her, apparently.’

  ‘And you let him? Didn’t you object? She’s eleven years old, Ade, she didn’t think about—’

  ‘If you wanted to express an opinion, you should have been there.’

  ‘Didn’t you stick up for her? What about the others? She didn’t dream this up on her own,’ she said.

  ‘She won’t say who they are,’ he said.

  ‘God. How’s she taking it?’

  Ade shrugged. ‘Hard to tell.’

  ‘I’ll have a word.’

  ‘Wait,’ Ade said, ‘there’s something else.’

  Janet felt dizzy. He did know. That explained the peculiar visit at work. ‘I’m tired,’ she tried, ‘just want to get to bed.’

  ‘Janet, we need to talk about this now.’

  Her throat closed. Sweat on her scalp. Her chest hurt. ‘What?’ she managed. She wanted to freeze things, rewind, change everything. She wanted to disappear.

  ‘Sit down, for chrissakes,’ he said.

  She did as he said. She couldn’t look at him.

  ‘It’s Elise,’ he said. ‘She’s seeing this lad.’

  Elise? Elise! Oh God. Janet began to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he said. ‘She’s thirteen.’

  ‘Well, who is he? How serious is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, some boy at school. He’s in Year 11.’ Like it was the mark of Satan. ‘You’re her mother, you need to talk to her, make sure she’s not doing anything stupid.’

  ‘We’re talking about Elise here. When have you ever known her to act stupid? She’s got common sense stamped through her like Blackpool rock.’

  ‘If she got into trouble …’

  ‘She knows all about safe sex. And she’s only thirteen. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. It’s normal. We should be pleased. Anyone who can cope with Elise and her high standards has my vote. She’s a great kid.’

  ‘Sure about that, are you? It’s not as if you see much of her,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Janet said.

  ‘No, it isn’t. Not on any of us.’

  ‘If you want to have another row about my work patterns, I’ll try to fit you in next month. Meanwhile, I’m going to see my daughters, and then I’m going to bed.’

  Janet fetched Taisie’s phone. Upstairs, Taisie was in bed but awake. Janet sat down on the bed. ‘Here—’ She handed the phon
e to her.

  ‘You said a week.’ Taisie glowered suspiciously.

  ‘Well, it will be a week, tomorrow. Dad told me about Mr Fairley. Seems a bit tight.’

  ‘He is proper tight. Candice Waller swore at him and she’s still going on the Christmas trip.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Janet sympathized. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can do. Maybe those friends of yours who were in on the joke should not go on the trip either. Show some solidarity.’

  Taisie shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No, thought not. Hey, think next time.’ Janet tapped her own temple.

  ‘Can I go to Phoebe’s for a sleepover on Saturday?’

  ‘Is it a party? Aargh! I’ve got déjà vu.’ Janet clutched her head.

  Taisie laughed. ‘Just a sleepover.’

  ‘Give me their number first.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I love you.’ Janet kissed her.

  ‘Yuck,’ said Taisie, force of habit.

  Elise was on MSN. Janet didn’t make any attempt to snoop at the conversation. ‘So, what’s his name?’ she said.

  Elise flushed, put her hand to her head and groaned. ‘Connor,’ she said.

  ‘Dad says he’s in Year 11.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Janet said, ‘just interested. I don’t need to do any safe sex—’

  ‘Mum!’ Elise recoiled, interrupting her. ‘No! We don’t even, we’re not—’ She pulled a face.

  ‘Good, fine, sorry! Thought I’d better check.’

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ Elise said. ‘I’m under age. You should know that.’

  Janet kept a straight face. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘OK. Bed now. It’s late.’

  Janet lay in bed, her thoughts slowing, relaxing towards sleep. They were all right, her girls, they were fine. Ade kept on raising the issue of her work, implying she was a bad mother, neglectful, absent, but it really wasn’t like that. Sure, there were times in the early stages of each murder investigation when she put in long hours and saw little of them, but it wasn’t always like that. They’re fine, she reassured herself again, everything’s going to be fine.

  And she’d make sure it stayed that way. She’d forget about Andy; she had to. It would get easier with time: the awkwardness, the fear of someone finding out. New Year soon. A fresh start. Everything’s gonna be fine, she thought again. And then she slept.

  Rachel shouldn’t have answered the phone. It was ringing as she walked in the flat, she had expected it to be Nick – who else, this time of night? It would be a relief to talk to someone, even about inconsequential things, to take her mind off James Raleigh and her sense of defeat, of inadequacy. Distract her from the fact that Rosie’s funeral was at half past eight in the morning.

  It was Alison. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying for hours.’

  ‘Work,’ Rachel snapped. ‘Where d’you think?’

  ‘Till this hour?’ sounding as if she didn’t believe her.

  ‘Yes, interviewing a murder suspect,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Really! God, did he confess? Was it that lass in the papers – Lisa?’

  ‘Yes, it was. No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Wow.’

  There was a pause. ‘So, anything else?’ Rachel said. ‘You rang me, remember.’

  ‘I’m going to see Dom on Friday,’ Alison said quickly. ‘You could come.’

  Not this again. Rachel felt a wave of displeasure, anger. ‘How many times do I have to tell you …’

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ Alison went on. ‘Can’t you think about him for once?’

  ‘Try not to, does my head in. I’m not going, Alison. I don’t want to.’

  ‘You can be really hard-faced sometimes, you know that? What if it was me?’

  ‘Don’t be thick.’

  ‘Prisoners with family support …’ Alison started her touchy-feely spiel.

  ‘No,’ Rachel said.

  Every time Alison brought it up, it felt like ripping a scab off a wound, opening it up again. When all Rachel wanted to do was bury it. The deeper the better.

  ‘He always asks after you, you know.’ Emotional blackmail now.

  Rachel had a flashback. Dom in the under-thirteens. Man of the match. Slathered in mud and running across to her. Rachel, frozen stiff on the edge of the pitch. Their dad had promised to come, but they all knew he’d get waylaid in the bookies or the boozer. Alison at work, her Saturday job. So Rachel turned out. Bored senseless until Dom had the ball, scored not once but three times.

  He had run over to her, happy as a pig in muck and just as filthy, arms raised and yelling, ‘Who are you, who are you.’ Some chant from the terraces. ‘Did you see?’ he demanded, eyes sparkling, stupid grin on his face. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Wicked!’ she’d agreed. Laughing as he did a back-flip, his football boots sending up clods of earth from the field.

  It’d broken her heart when they came to arrest him. When he was charged with armed robbery.

  Rachel closed her eyes. ‘No,’ she said to Alison.

  ‘But Rachel if you’d only just—’ Alison tried to prolong the conversation. Rachel hung up. Armed robbery: a robbery where the defendant or co-defendant was armed with a firearm.

  She opened a bottle of wine and closed the curtains. Sat there drinking and channel-hopping until the bottle was empty, the central heating had gone off, the cold was stealing into the room and she’d a halfway decent chance of getting a couple of hours’ kip.

  * * *

  On the drive home, Gill ran through arrangements for the following morning. Sammy needed to go into the fracture clinic and she was torn – she could take him herself but she needed to be with the team, not desert them when the case was feeling blocked. Or she could ask Dave – tell Dave – but then he might delegate the task to the whore. The whore would have to take the brat with her, too. And who knows how long they’d be there. Could be hours, long enough to go insane and start eating the other patients; certainly long enough to show Pendlebury the downside of stepmummyhood. In fact, she mused, maybe that was the solution: kill her with kindness.

  By the time Gill had picked Sammy up from the friend he’d gone home with, making fulsome apologies for the lateness of the hour, she had decided to send Dave on hospital duty and see what materialized.

  He wasn’t best pleased when she told him: ‘But it’s slap bang in the middle of the day!’

  ‘You can tell the time, very good!’

  ‘Can’t he get a taxi or something?’

  ‘You’d let him go on his own?’ she tried to shame him.

  ‘It’s not as if it’s an operation or anything,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll cancel it, shall I? Risk him having a wonky wrist for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Dave said. ‘Tell him I’ll pick him up at break.’

  Or your driver will? Gill thought of Pendlebury as a chauffeur girl. She was so young, could have been Sammy’s sister, Dave’s daughter. Gill wondered if anyone seeing Dave with the spawn-child assumed Dave was the granddad. Cherish that thought.

  ‘This murder you’re on,’ he said, ‘all very smash-and-grab.’ Implying that arresting then releasing two suspects in quick succession was chaotic in some way. ‘Lost your touch?’

  Shows how much you understand. Gill hated it when he talked about her work, especially as she knew in her bones she was the better copper. Dave at chief superintendent grade was out of his depth, wearing armbands in a tidal wave.

  ‘Just remind me, Dave – how many murders you been SIO on? Three, wasn’t it, last count. Stick to what you know – then again, your division,’ she countered, ‘reported crime up two per cent, rest of us still on a decrease. There’s always early retirement, Dave.’ She hung up, then wondered if he knew when break-time was.

  Sammy said goodnight. She pointed to her cheek, demanding a kiss.

  ‘How’s it feel now?’ she asked him.

&nb
sp; ‘Just a bit achy,’ he said. ‘What are we doing at Christmas?’

  Not snowboarding, pal. ‘Grandma’s,’ she said, ‘I told you.’

  ‘Forgot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Emma was asking.’

  Was she now? Planning to poach him? ‘OK,’ she said brightly. ‘Well, that’s what we’re doing. And you can have your mates round one day in the holidays – be a break from all that revision you’ll be doing.’

  Shouldn’t it be getting easier, Gill thought, the whole post marriage stuff? When she heard of people splitting up amicably, it was beyond her grasp. She couldn’t ever see a time when she and Sammy would play happy blended families, popping round to Dave’s for a jolly Christmas dinner or to celebrate New Year. Auld Lang Syne. Gill would sooner feed the tart mistletoe stuffed in her turkey and stick holly in Dave’s Y-fronts.

  Dave’s little dig about the inquiry needled at her even as she tried to distract herself watching the rolling news programme. She thought her way through the evidence they’d now assembled, the timeline that had tightened, the forensics that gave weight to witness and suspect accounts. Preparation for the morning to come when she’d walk it through with the team and recalibrate the direction of the inquiry.

  James Raleigh would walk. It would rankle with Rachel, but Gill hoped the girl would heed her advice, have the emotional maturity to accept the situation.

  When she finally got to bed, the wind kept her awake, buffeting the house, sending something, a plant pot perhaps, rattling round the garden, then chucking hail like shotgun pellets against the window.

  It was easy to feel self-doubt in the dark, in the wee, small hours. She hadn’t lost her touch though; that was just Dave being a dickhead. She’d show him; she’d show them all. It might take weeks or months, years even, but they would find Lisa’s killer and make it stick.

  45

  ROSIE’S FUNERAL WAS at Blackley crem. A public health funeral, which meant the state was picking up the bill. Rachel arrived late and the only people there were the three lads she’d seen at the canal. At least they’d come, even though they hadn’t a decent suit between them. In the daylight they had that pinched, spotty, malnourished look of kids half-feral, poor complexions courtesy of crap food and drug abuse.