Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe)

by Cath Staincliffe

  Janet caught on soon enough. ‘Classified?’ she said. ‘We’re treading on someone’s toes?’

  ‘We might be,’ Gill said, ‘except we are going to focus our attention on the machinations of the far right, neo-Nazis, only in so far as it relates to the murder of Richard Kavanagh.’

  ‘This could be a hate crime,’ Lee said. ‘Homeless people are at increased risk of violence, seen as other, dirty parasites.’

  ‘Possible,’ Gill said. ‘The Perry boys are still our only leads. We’ve not found any more evidence on them so I think rather than hang on we arrest them on suspicion, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Do we need an armed response unit?’ said Mitch. ‘They may still have the firearm.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘wear your protective vests. Good work,’ she addressed them all. ‘A reminder, we use our victim’s given name, we accord him the same dignity and respect as we would any other person. I don’t want to hear talk of tramps or dossers or winos or hobos, or Rodeo Rick. He is Richard Kavanagh. Clear?’

  They nodded.

  ‘I am happy. You should be too. Goodnight.’

  Rachel nearly walked straight back out again. Her mother there, at her flat, on her sofa, making jolly with Sean and Haydn. Nachos and dips and a bottle of tequila open.

  ‘Rachel,’ Sean beamed, ‘get a glass, there’s lemon on the side.’

  ‘Mexican night. Olé,’ Sharon raised her glass, smeared with pink lipstick, and winked.

  Rachel felt her palms tingle, her throat tighten. This was her place, private, separate from work, from family. No one came here without an invitation and hardly anyone got an invitation. Sharon sure as hell hadn’t. She couldn’t fuck off for twenty years and then expect to be welcomed with hugs and kisses and Sunday bloody lunch.

  ‘Thought you were going away?’ Rachel said to Sean.

  ‘Early start tomorrow,’ he said, ‘slot’s at half nine. We’re going to nail it, aren’t we, Haydn?’ Sean held up his hand and the kid high-fived him.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ said Sharon, having another swig.

  Rachel felt irritation trembling under her skin. It was a matter of weeks since she’d met Sharon again and the only way she could cope with it was by taking it very slowly, by having some sense of control so she didn’t feel overwhelmed, railroaded by the woman who’d fucked off and left them to it.

  Sharon had changed, she said, she wanted to make amends. At their first meeting she’d explained how hard she’d found it to be a parent looking after three kids as well as a wastrel of a man. How she couldn’t cope. And us? Rachel kept coming back to that. Alison, Dom, me? We had to cope. We had to fend for ourselves, one eye on Dad in case he kicked off.

  Even so, Rachel had determined to give Sharon a second chance, but that did not mean Sharon could muscle in on Rachel’s life. ‘She’s a user,’ Alison had said, but then it was Alison who’d had to pick up the reins, back then, drop her plans for college, find work to support the family and take over the parenting role.

  ‘Aren’t you staying? Come on,’ Sharon said, patting the sofa.

  ‘Sean, here a minute,’ Rachel said. His face fell, he must have noticed the edge in her voice. She went into the hall and he followed. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Sharon?’

  ‘Yes, Sharon. Why, have you any other women stashed away? Of course, Sharon.’

  ‘She just popped in,’ he said.

  Popped in. ‘Popped in? Did you invite her?’

  ‘No!’ He was affronted.

  ‘Why did she pop in? I was at work,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Well, I told her you’d probably be back before long.’

  ‘You told her to wait?’ she said.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  He looked uneasy. ‘It’s what families do, Rachel.’

  ‘Not mine, not me. I don’t want her coming here. Not unless she’s expressly asked,’ she said.

  ‘You’re meant to be getting to know each other,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe. But I’m not having this. It’s too much, too soon. She pops round again, you don’t invite her in. Got it?’

  ‘OK.’ He didn’t try to argue though he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

  Rachel went back to the living room. ‘I’ve got a really early start, Sean too, so …’

  Sharon looked, nodded. ‘Course. I’ll get out from under your feet. Adios!’ She laughed. ‘I just wanted a quick word.’ She pulled on a cream leather jacket, tugged a cigarette out of her pack. She’d been at the fake tan, dark stains in the creases on her neck made her look like she hadn’t washed for weeks. She’d silver eye shadow on and thick black eyeliner and what looked like false lashes. Her hands were decked with rings and chains, mainly gold coloured. Rachel doubted there was any real gold in any of it. Her lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her lips. She wasn’t that old but she looked well worn and dressing like a teenager didn’t help. Rachel felt like a bitch. Wished she could switch off the critical commentary in her head. Accept that Sharon was doing her best, that it couldn’t be easy for her, the clumsiness of trying to rub along after all that had happened. But going at it like a bull at a gate, rushing it, was not helping.

  Sean called Haydn and they disappeared.

  ‘Your hair’s nice,’ said Sharon, ‘you done something different?’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘Look, I’ll be working late a lot the next few weeks so I’ll get in touch, you know, when I’ve more time. Yeah? No point in you coming round and we’re all out. Wait to hear from us, yeah?’

  ‘Right.’ Sharon laughed again, fiddled with her lighter. ‘I’ll get off then. Just wondered if you could see your way to lending me a few bob, I wouldn’t ask but …’

  Rachel’s heart sank.

  ‘… I don’t want to get into arrears and I can pay you back soon.’

  Rachel just wanted to stop her talking, hated the bright anxiety in her voice, hated that she didn’t believe her. ‘Here.’ She took sixty quid from her purse.

  ‘You’re a star.’

  Rachel smiled, edged Sharon towards the hall, the door, the outside. Willing her to go. Just go.

  ‘You really are, you’re a star.’ Sharon paused on the threshold. Outside it was dark, murky and damp.

  And you, Rachel thought, are a fucking nightmare. She shut the door after her mother and leaned back, her eyes sore, too long a day, heaviness in her chest making her throat ache, sad, as though she’d lost something but she didn’t know what it was.

  8

  Gill was dreaming, being chased, her legs rubbery, fire licking at her heels, when she was woken by the sound of a car crossing the gravel outside the house. She sat up. Her heart gave a kick and she felt a moment’s dizziness. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It was far too late for social callers. Or business. Late and dark. Sammy was staying at Orla’s and Gill no longer got romantic fleeting visits from Chris Latham. He’d met someone else and had the guts to be straight with her about it before disappearing from her life.

  She was holding her breath, head cocked to one side. The engine cut out. She heard the car door open, footsteps.

  Climbing out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown, drew the curtain back a fraction but could see nobody. The car had stopped at the side of the house, near the door, but her bedroom looked out over the front. They were isolated, on the edge of the moors, the nearest neighbour along the road out of sight. Certainly out of earshot. The farmhouse over the fields visible in the distance from the front windows but too far away to help. The house has good security, she reminded herself. Security lights, alarm, top-of-the-range bolts and mortise locks. The burglar alarm was connected to the police station.

  Should she go and look out of Sammy’s window? What if they saw her and realized she was alone? Footsteps crossed the gravel, the sound changing as they reached the flagged path that skirted the house. Her pulse was jumping, her throat dry.

 
Would they go away once they got no response? They couldn’t get in unless they smashed a window. A determined man with a lump hammer could crash his way through the reinforced glass eventually. Gill thought of bus stops, the shower of glass in drifts around them.

  And if they got in? How long till the police responded? It was a nine-minute drive from the nearest station – if they left as a matter of urgency.

  Violent banging on the door jolted her into action. She grabbed her phone and pressed 999, her heart in her mouth.

  The doorbell went, long and shrill, then more banging. A pause. A crashing sound, something breaking? The alarm would sound if the windows broke, she was sure that’s what they’d had set up. More banging, whump, whump, whump. Strong enough for her to feel the vibrations.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  ‘Police,’ Gill said quickly, knowing there was no need to elaborate to the switchboard, who could only redirect her call.

  Thud, whump. She heard a roar of rage which curdled the contents of her stomach and made her tremble.

  ‘Police, can you tell me the nature of your emergency?’

  ‘My name is DCI Gill Murray, I’m at Shaw and an intruder is trying to break into my house.’

  ‘Are you alone in the house?’ the operator said.

  ‘Yes.’

  More shouting downstairs, still outside. Then fast banging, blows raining on the door.

  Gill felt a lurch of fear.

  ‘Do you know how many intruders there are?’

  ‘No. One, I think.’ She’d heard only one voice, one set of footsteps. Had she? The prospect of more than one of them made her knees weak, her head spin.

  ‘Please stay on the line. Is there anywhere in the house you can lock yourself in?’

  Another shout, she caught some of the words. ‘… fucking door, Gill, I’m warning you.’

  She froze. Dave!

  ‘Are you there, caller? The car will be with you soon.’

  Gill moved quickly out of her room and into Sammy’s, overlooking the side of the house. She could see the car, the BMW that Dave drove. Relief drenched through her and with it came a wave of rage so intense she thought she’d explode.

  ‘I think I know who it is,’ she said to the operator.

  She ran downstairs, the house shaking with each great thump on the door. Gill glanced out of the sidelight beside the door and could see Dave, illuminated by the security lamp, his face contorted as he staggered back then launched himself at the building.

  ‘It’s my husband,’ she told the woman.

  ‘Any history of violence in the marriage?’

  Not yet, Gill thought, seething, but you just bloody wait. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need the response car. I’m fine, really. I’ll be fine.’ Much as she’d love to heap humiliation on Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Fuckwit Murray by having him cuffed and chucked in a cell for the night, she still had sense enough to think of the wider ramifications. The fallout for Dave and his professional standing, which was already a damn sight wobblier than hers, the embarrassment for Sammy, the whole frigging mess. Bollocks!

  But of course, they couldn’t cancel the call-out, she could hear the siren already, nee-nawing along the valley. The stupid dream had left her muddled, panicking, when if she’d only gone and checked from Sammy’s room in the first place …

  Gill turned off the burglar alarm and waited for Dave to move. He’d settled into a rhythm. A thump then he swayed back again and readied himself. As soon as the next blow fell, Gill slid back the bolt quick as a flash, twisted the key in the lock and snapped off the Yale. She threw open the door just as he charged again.

  He fell headlong, feet tangling over the door sill, pitching forward so fast he’d not got time to brace his fall. It didn’t help that his reactions were severely hampered by the amount he’d had to drink. A big man, tall and solidly built, he landed heavily with a great cry, banging his face on the hardwood floor, and the air was knocked out of him. Gill hoped he’d broken something. He groaned, lay dazed. The siren grew louder and soon blue revolving lights flashed into the house and swung round Dave’s prone body.

  While Dave sat on a kitchen chair, bleary-eyed, wiping blood from his nose and chin, Gill apologized for wasting their time. She could tell there was some scepticism politely masked in the eyes of the female police constable, who no doubt suspected domestic violence and was unconvinced by Gill’s protestations. ‘I’d no idea it was my ex-husband, he hadn’t phoned to let me know he was coming,’ she said. Could they tell he was pissed? Off his tits? Would they do him for drunk driving? Oh, how she longed to drop him in it. But she buttoned her lip and made nice and apologized and behaved calmly and it seemed to pay off.

  The fact that she was a DCI and several ranks up the food chain helped. The service still expected officers to respect and be unfailingly obedient to senior staff.

  When their tail lights finally disappeared over the brow of the hill, she imagined they’d be dissecting the call-out, speculating about how long Chief Superintendent Murray had been knocking lumps out of his lady wife. And whether to report the incident. Domestic violence accounted for a substantial amount of violent crime and new guidelines meant the crime could be reported even when the victim did not wish to press charges. The fact that Gill had been demonstrably sanguine and untouched and it was Dave who was injured might have persuaded the coppers that this was a misunderstanding and not a case of abuse. Or perhaps they thought Dave was the victim and Gill’s call had been some mind-fuck to avert suspicion. While men were a far smaller proportion of victims of domestic violence, they were even more reluctant to report the attacks than women were.

  Bound to be rumours, she thought. Police officers were the worst gossips and there was always plenty to gossip about, normally who was shagging who – and who’d found out. This would make even juicier material.

  Dave’s car was unlocked, the keys still in the ignition. She removed them and put them in her pocket. He was going nowhere, but she was tempted to make him sleep in the summerhouse in the garden. Freeze his balls off overnight.

  He tried to sit up straight as she came back into the kitchen. ‘Gill, you and me, Sammy,’ he slurred, ‘you and me and Sammy—’ Blood crusted his nostrils, he’d a scrape on his chin. He wore a suit, a shirt, both creased and stained, his hair was dishevelled, the smell of booze coming off him and sour sweat.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

  He leered.

  ‘That is not a fucking invitation. You can sleep on the couch. There’s a sleeping bag in the utility room.’

  ‘We need to talk.’ He leaned forward, one hand spread open, imploring her.

  ‘You got that right. In the morning. We will. I’ll talk, you listen. You—’ She bit off the rant.

  ‘Gill,’ he chided her.

  Sudden tears, tears of anger, pricked her eyes. She clenched her teeth at Dave and his sodding mess.

  ‘In the morning,’ was all she trusted herself to say.

  Day 3

  Saturday 12 May

  9

  Dave was on the lounge floor when Gill came down at half five. No sign of a sleeping bag. She made coffee, ate porridge with brown sugar and crème fraîche. Felt halfway human. She’d barely slept, too busy rehearsing her speech to Dave, then meandering off-track into a parallel universe where it didn’t matter what befell him, where she could exact revenge, see him ridiculed, demoted, gone, with no messy repercussions for either her or Sammy. Fantasies.

  She kicked his foot. ‘Wakey-wakey.’

  He groaned, didn’t even open his eyes. She kicked him again, his shin, harder. ‘Get up. Now.’

  He yelped, and this time his eyes flew open. She saw the confusion in them: he didn’t know where he was, how he’d got there. He blinked a few times, raised himself on one elbow, coughed.

  ‘Coffee in the kitchen.’

  ‘It’s not six yet.’ He was staring at his watch. ‘If you wan
t to go—’

  ‘I’m going nowhere, not until we’ve talked. And we’re going to talk now. Not later or tomorrow but now. Got it?’

  He sank back, hand over his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he muttered.

  When he joined her he’d washed his face, not that it had improved anything much, just made the edge of his hair wet. He sat down at the table where she’d left him a mug of coffee. She was opposite him, leaning against the work surface, arms folded.

  ‘Do you remember last night?’

  ‘Course.’ He gave her a smile. Grotesque. He was lying.

  ‘Do you? The accident, the arrest, me coming to bail you out?’

  He looked alarmed, tried to cover it with a laugh. He’d not a clue.

  ‘Thought not,’ she said. ‘Let me tell you what happened, Dave. You were drunk. That probably goes without saying except it actually needs saying, loud and fucking clear. You were completely rat-arsed and you got into a car and drove. A criminal offence under section 4 of the 1988 Road Traffic Act. You attempted to hammer your way into my house, scaring the shit out of me. In fear for my safety I put out a 999 call. Officers attended the scene.’ She watched his face blanch. ‘I didn’t press charges. God knows I’d have liked to, you could argue that as a serving police officer I had an ethical duty to but I felt it was important, for the sake of our son, not to have you splashed all over the Oldham Chronicle, looking like a dick.’

  He rubbed his face, winced as he touched his nose. ‘You hit your nose,’ Gill said. ‘I wish you’d broken something. What was it all in aid of? Can you even remember?’