The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  When she opened the door onto the corridor, the place was quiet. Most of the residents were middle-aged or elderly, had moved in years back, and were tucked up tight by now. Jade kept herself to herself but had got to know Mina next door, who needed help getting her shopping up and down the stairs. Mina had pounced on Jade the first week she was in, wanting to know whether she was married and why not, where her family was. A sally of questions in a thick Polish accent.

  ‘Got none,’ Jade had said. ‘An orphan.’ Not exactly true but she thought it might be easier that way. Wrong move. Mina going all mother-hen babushka style, baking her biscuits and plying her with vodka that left Jade with the worst fucking hangover of her life.

  ‘Don’t babushka me,’ Jade had said one day. ‘I’m a grown woman.’

  Mina made a tutting noise. ‘Babushka? Babushka is Russian.’

  ‘Nanny, then. Don’t nanny me.’

  ‘Babcia,’ Mina said.

  ‘That, then – don’t do it.’

  ‘Who else am I gonna look after, eh?’ She patted Jade’s cheek.

  Jade had jerked away. ‘Whoa. No.’

  ‘You need a coddle,’ Mina said, eyes sharp.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m not a kid.’

  ‘Good coddle.’ Mina had wrapped her arms around herself and rocked from side to side in her armchair.

  ‘No, ta. And it’s “cuddle”, not “coddle”.’

  ‘What’s “coddle”, then?’

  Jade shrugged. ‘Dunno. Eggs, I think.’

  After that, Jade had made sure not to get too close to Mina when she went in. Just in case.

  Mina had burst into tears when she saw Jade’s new hairstyle. ‘Your beautiful hair, your beautiful, beautiful hair,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Gets in the way,’ Jade told her. ‘Takes hours to dry, gives me headaches,’ in more ways than one. ‘I like it.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ Mina muttered darkly, and blew her nose.

  Wrong there.

  Then there was Bert opposite. No sign of life from him tonight. Bert was old and thin as a twig, covered with knobbly bits. He kept falling over but refused any help. He repeatedly told staff at the hospital, or the district nurses, that he had a good neighbour, a saint, who helped him every which way. That was a gross exaggeration, verging on slander, if you asked Jade.

  ‘What about a home?’ Jade had said, last time they were waiting for the paramedics.

  ‘I’ve got a home. This is my home. I’d rather jump out the window,’ Bert said. ‘In fact if they ever threaten that, I give you permission to chuck me out the window or kick me down the stairs. Bit of police brutality, that’d suit me fine.’

  ‘Deal,’ Jade had said, thinking the best of all possible ends would be for him to drop dead during University Challenge, his favourite programme.

  Now she went down the stairs, the security light on the middle flight flickering on and off.

  Her first official murder investigation. If it was murder. Had to be, didn’t it? She’d found a dead body once that had turned out to be a murder when she was on the beat. She’d been called to a hotel where one of the guests had not checked out (well, not in the usual sense of the word). Anticipating a suicide, Jade hadn’t taken long to change her mind when she’d seen the body on the floor had a pattern of bruises around the neck.

  As soon as it was classed as a suspicious death, the cavalry arrived in the shape of a DI Harris. A big bloke built like a rugby player but pleasant with it, a sense of drive and energy as he’d walked into Room 302. Jade, in her uniform, was yanked out of the picture at that point and dropped back on her beat.

  Later Jade had looked him up on the computer. He’d won two awards for bravery.

  But this time she was with the cavalry, leading the charge.

  Unlocking her car, she glanced up at the flats: hers was the only one with the lights still burning.

  She always left the lights on.

  No matter how long she might be.

  It was a small price to pay.

  Donna

  Donna had agreed with the crime-scene manager that they disturb the body as little as possible to minimize the risk of losing any trace evidence. A body-bag would be used to transfer the victim to the mortuary for examination.

  Donna looked unflinchingly at the girl, noting the bloodstains, like dark poppies, on her dress, the pulped face, the clotted hair, swollen arms and, here and there, glimpses of the person she actually was: silver nail polish, strands of soft hair the colour of Demerara sugar, a silver chain on her neck. Someone’s daughter, someone’s friend. A girl who had come into town for a night out, all dressed up, no doubt smelling sweet. A girl like any of the others who thronged the clubs and bars and pavements this Saturday night.

  Not many years older than Donna’s daughter, Bryony, she guessed. Guesses were a stop-gap, a crutch for her, until they could assemble the facts: the girl’s full name, her date of birth, whom she’d been out with, her movements during the evening and in the days before, any recent problems, anyone who might wish her harm. And ultimately, crucially, the most important fact – who had taken her life.

  Donna was clammy inside the protective clothes, could feel a sheen of sweat on her back and under her breasts. The temperature in the small space steadily increased under the blaze of the lights, with the combined body heat of those present. The rain, heavier now, tipped and tapped on the roof of the tent.

  The Home Office pathologist arrived, gloved, masked and suited, like the rest of them. She said very little as she crouched beside the body, checking for respiration and circulation. Then, ‘Death confirmed. She’s still warm. No rigor. Do you want a body temp?’

  The internal body temperature would be a useful guide in estimating time of death and was almost always carried out at the scene. ‘Yes,’ said Donna. Although, given their victim was still warm, there wasn’t going to be a huge margin to consider.

  The pathologist nodded, opened her case and retrieved a rectal thermometer. ‘If we can raise the skirt here?’ she asked.

  One of the CSIs helped ease the fabric up over the victim’s thigh.

  ‘Underwear intact,’ the doctor said.

  That was something, Donna thought sadly. Unlikely to have been raped during the attack. A small mercy. Poor love.

  ‘Ah . . . OK . . . right . . .’ The pathologist sounded disconcerted.

  ‘What is it?’ Donna said.

  ‘She’s a he, biologically speaking. Male genitalia.’

  A boy! ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Donna, her thoughts crashing and ricocheting back. For a moment her composure and confidence deserted her. She’d never handled a case where someone was – what? Transvestite? Transgender? There’d been training some time back and the force had policies in place but Donna couldn’t remember much of what they’d said. What if she messed up? Got it wrong? She quelled the rasp of panic.

  No one spoke. Anthea caught Donna’s eye, gave a shake of her head, sharing the sorrow. Oh, you poor child. You poor, poor child. And the rain spat on the tent, wind snapping at the fabric, again and again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Steve

  Steve yawned and stretched. He ought to turn in but he’d started watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail after Teagan had gone to bed and there was only another half-hour left.

  He was startled by the phone ringing. The landline. Felt a tightening in his guts.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Steve, it’s Bets. Has Allie come home?’

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just . . . we’re not sure where she’s gone.’ Bets sounded tearful, slightly panicked.

  ‘What do you mean gone? Are you still at the prom?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just finishing.’

  Steve glanced at the clock, half past midnight.

  ‘We thought maybe she got a taxi back or something.’

  ‘Why? She was getting the coach with you.’ Thick, dull, as though he was missing something. ‘When did s
he go? Did something happen?’ Why would she leave early? ‘Was she sick?’ He thought of the hiccups and Allie doubled over, giggling, walking the line.

  ‘No, she was fine. She went outside looking for me,’ Bets said, ‘but she never came back.’

  The doorbell rang and relief flooded through him. ‘Bets, I think she’s back now. Someone’s at the door.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Steve went to the door, words building on his tongue: You gave us a scare, Allie. You should have told your mates you were leaving. What’s going on? Didn’t you enjoy it?

  He opened the door to see two women, strangers. An older one, maybe his age, lines around her eyes and her mouth, chalky complexion.

  ‘Yes?’ Steve said, looking from one to the other. The younger woman, a girl really, skinny with big eyes, brown skin, met his gaze, then glanced away.

  ‘Mr Kennaway,’ the older one said. ‘I’m DI Bell and this is DC Bradshaw. Can we come in a moment?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Dizzy, he put a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘Is it Allie? Is she all right?’

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ she said softly, but moving forward, forcing Steve to step back.

  ‘Is Mrs Kennaway here?’

  ‘No. She died three years ago,’ Steve said. A flush bloomed on the woman’s cheek. Why were they asking about Sarah? ‘Allie, she’s all right?’ he said.

  The woman was steering him. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’ The girl shutting the front door.

  The television was still on, the sound muted. Steve tried to turn it off, pressing the remote again and again but nothing happened.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ the girl said. He couldn’t remember her name. She looked spiky. Like an urchin. Her hair. She picked up the other remote, the one for the TV, and switched it off.

  ‘Please, Mr Kennaway, have a seat.’

  Steve sat heavily, almost kicking Dix beside the sofa.

  DI Bell sat next to him, the constable on the armchair.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Where’s Allie? She went to the prom. She should be—’

  ‘Is this Allie?’ DI Bell was showing him a photo on her phone, the one he’d taken earlier, Allie all dressed up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And could you please tell me her phone number?’

  ‘Erm . . . I don’t know it.’

  The younger one spoke: ‘It’s probably on your phone.’

  Steve reached for his mobile. His fingers were clumsy and he had to swipe several times to get her details. He read out the number.

  ‘Thank you,’ DI Bell said.

  ‘Please?’ Steve said.

  ‘I have some very bad news,’ DI Bell said. ‘A person has been found in Manchester, in the city centre this evening, with fatal injuries. We have reason to believe that person is Allie. I’m so sorry to tell you that she is dead.’

  ‘Allie?’ There was a thundering in his head.

  ‘Mr Kennaway, do you understand what I’ve told you?’

  He shook his head. ‘It must be a mistake.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I am sorry.’

  ‘Where is she?’ He was cold as stone.

  ‘She’s on her way to the mortuary. When someone dies like this we have to carry out a post-mortem.’

  He shuddered, exhaled, the air making a rushing noise.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s dreadful news and there’s a lot take in. We will ask you to make a formal identification of the body, probably tomorrow, if you feel able,’ DI Bell said.

  ‘You said it was Allie.’ They could be wrong – they weren’t sure. Oh, thank God!

  ‘It is Allie,’ DI Bell said. ‘The formal identification is part of the procedure we have to follow. Can you tell me what Allie was wearing this evening?’

  ‘Her prom dress. The green one in the photo.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Black heels.’

  ‘And when did you last see her?’

  ‘Half past seven. They were getting a lift to college with Bets’s mum. The coach was picking them up there and—You said injuries?’

  The younger woman shifted in the chair. She’d been writing. Now she was watching him, eyes peering up from under a jagged fringe.

  DI Bell said, ‘We’re treating Allie’s death as suspicious. We believe the injuries were caused by someone else.’

  Steve raised a hand. He couldn’t find any words. Inside, something buckled, broke.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ DI Bell said. ‘Please can you tell me, was Allie transgender?’

  Steve tried to rise, to get up and away, anywhere, but his legs wouldn’t support him. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Dad?’ Teagan was in the doorway.

  Steve sat rigid, no sense in his head, no comprehension. His eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Dad?’ Teagan said again and flew to him, stumbling over Dix – he yelped – then climbing onto the sofa, her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest.

  Jade

  Jade went to make tea. The boss had told her that, if it was possible, they’d take initial statements from the family on this visit. ‘All depends,’ she’d said, sitting next to Jade in Jade’s car on the road outside the house. Jade had got there first and waited for the DI, who had driven up and parked behind her five minutes later. Then she’d come and got into Jade’s car for a confab about how to handle the death call. Now it looked like no one was going to get any sleep and they might as well recover any information they could. Though it was anybody’s guess whether the dad would be up for it. Obviously knocked into the middle of next week by the news.

  Jade looked round the kitchen, a big one, with a table in the bay window to eat at, a whiff of dog and tinned meat from the bowl near the back door, pots on the side waiting to go in the dishwasher. She studied the photographs and notices on the board on the wall, most of them old with corners curling. She identified some with the mum, some in which Allie was much younger, long-haired but dressed like a boy. New-born baby pictures too, with the mum and dad grinning. Jade couldn’t tell which baby was which. They all looked the same, babies, bald and lumpy with big heads and potato faces.

  She wondered if Allie had always wanted to be a girl. Must have taken some bottle going to the prom in a frock. Kids could be cruel. Fucking brutal. She knew that as well as anyone. The thought of it made her stomach turn. She put the milk back and slammed the fridge door – slammed the memories in there with it.

  A phone started ringing. Jade took the tray of drinks through and heard the boss answer it. ‘Steve’s phone. Who is this? Ah, from the college? You were at the prom, Mrs Fallon? Right, my name’s DI Bell.’ She moved into the hall out of earshot, no doubt breaking the news, asking that the teacher keep it confidential until the rest of the immediate family had been notified and the formal identification made.

  ‘My arm’s gone to sleep,’ the kid said, twisting out of her father’s embrace. He looked catatonic, eyes fixed somewhere a thousand miles away, face slack.

  ‘Got you some tea.’ Jade put a mug on the table at his side

  ‘What do we do now?’ the kid said, her face set, a scowl bending her eyebrows. Eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘There’s one for you too.’ Jade put another cup down at the far side, along with one for the DI. ‘Do you drink tea?’

  The kid ignored the question just as Jade had ignored hers. ‘What do we do now?’ she repeated.

  Her dad put a hand on her knee, as if he’d settle her. The kid squeezed it then let go, staring still at Jade. What did she want to know? The practical stuff? Or was this more a ‘How do we cope?’ sort of question, ‘How do we carry on?’ which Jade had no way of answering. And what was she to do with the kid, anyway? About twelve, she was, and a minor. Never to be dealt with unless a parent, carer or appropriate adult was present. Her father was there but only in body. The kid gave an impatient shake of her shoulders, a little flick of outstretched palms, that fierce look still on her face.

  �
�The rest of the family need to be told so no one gets a shock by hearing it on the news,’ Jade said.

  ‘Nanny and Granddad,’ the kid said. ‘And Auntie Emma.’

  ‘Your dad’s parents or your mum’s?’

  ‘Dad’s. And his sister.’ She looked at her dad but he didn’t respond.

  Jade thought they might need a doctor. Give him something to knock him out for real so he could sleep, check out for a while, switch off from the horror.

  ‘What about your mum’s side?’ Jade said.

  ‘They died before I was born. Nanny and Granddad will be in bed,’ she said.

  ‘Probably best to ring in the morning, then. We’ll see what your dad wants to do.’ Jade went out into the hall and, as the boss finished talking to the teacher, Jade updated her on the close relatives. ‘I think we’re losing him,’ Jade said.

  ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘Tea’s there,’ Jade told her, as they entered the room.

  ‘Mr Kennaway? Steve?’ said the boss.

  His eyes refocused. He ran a hand over his face a few times, as if he could kick-start his brain with a bit of massage.

  ‘Would you like us to call your GP?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  The boss sat down beside him again. ‘If you change your mind at any time please let us know. There’s a family liaison officer on the way. They will stay with you and help out. They will also keep you up to date with the inquiry.’

  He nodded. Jade wasn’t sure it had gone in.

  ‘They can help you inform your family,’ the boss said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘In the morning,’ the kid added.

  ‘What would really help now,’ the boss said, ‘is if you could answer a few more questions about Allie. If you feel up to that.’

  He nodded. He lifted the cup and drank from it. It must have been scalding but he seemed oblivious.

  ‘Teagan, if you want to wait with DC Bradshaw, you can call her Jade,’ the boss said. ‘And I’m Donna—’

  ‘No.’ The kid folded her arms.

  ‘Is that all right, Steve?’ said the boss. ‘For Teagan to stay? It might be better if she—’