The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Good. Do you want to attend the post-mortem?’

  Did she! ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Twelve o’clock at the mortuary.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Meanwhile, any queries, if I’m not around, go to DS Harris.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Detective Sergeant Harris was the exact same guy who’d taken over Jade’s first dead body. And here she was working alongside him. How cool was that?

  The professor of languages didn’t mind being contacted at the weekend. In fact, he seemed delighted to hear from Jade and asked her to forward a copy of the file immediately.

  He came back to her within half an hour. ‘You’re looking at Horn of Africa, possibly Somali or Sudanese. I can’t be more specific but that’s your region.’

  She logged the information on the system and would relay it to the boss when they met for the post-mortem.

  Meanwhile she was writing up statements from last night: Steve Kennaway, Betsy Millington, Helena Jones and the teacher, Mrs Fallon. Best to do it while the details were still fresh. Those involved would need to read and sign them as a true account. Jade wasn’t overly fond of paperwork, and this was harder than a lot of the other form-filling. You had to get all the critical facts in without waffling on too much. When you showed witness statements to people, they’d start moaning, I didn’t say that exactly, or I wouldn’t put it like that, and Jade was tempted to say, You bloody write it then, but she’d worked out that the way to deal with it was to ask if there were any inaccuracies, any facts they wished to change. Of course the statements sounded police-y, not like a normal person would talk, because that was how they were taught to write them: they had to get it down in terms that would be clear for trial.

  The phones were going off all the time, mingled with the chatter of calls from the people staffing them, but she managed to zone them out.

  A woman with stylish blonde hair, wearing a trendy, tweedy skirt-suit, came in to see the boss. DS Harris, who was lining up CCTV strategy at the desk next to Jade’s, clocked the visitor and said to Jade, ‘Press Office.’

  Probably planning the press release for later, Jade guessed. She stretched her arms over her head, tugged one hand against the other: she was stiffening up after so many hours without sleep. Eyes getting gritty. Moments of light-headedness, too, that she mustn’t ignore.

  ‘Where were you before?’ DS Harris asked, and Jade felt a stupid little glow of warmth. Sergeants were a mixed bag, senior officers, a rank hard won, so some of them liked to sling their weight around, ride the junior officers hard. They were the closest thing the police had to a sergeant major in the army, keeping the lower ranks in order. But some had the common touch, acted halfway human, like this one, even if he did look like he should have been pensioned off a while back. Grey hair, big belly, taut like a punchbag.

  ‘East Manchester,’ Jade said. ‘Gorton.’

  ‘Not an easy patch.’

  ‘Nightmare. Never boring, though,’ Jade said.

  He grinned and went back to his screen.

  Jade completed Steve’s draft statement and began on Helena’s. She entered her own name, badge number, and the crime number that had been allocated in the sections at the top of the page. Then the witness’s name, date of birth and address. Allie, Bets and I got ready at Allie’s house for our sixth-form-college prom . . . What bloody awful memories they’d have of it. Even worse, once the full facts came out, the way she died. Shit, totally shit. Jade kept writing. Every so often she’d feel a little kick inside, the thrill of what the day had brought. Not just the murder and shadowing the boss, but now going to the post-mortem an’ all.

  Martin

  Martin parked on the double yellows towards the bottom of New Mill Street and put his permit in the windscreen so he wouldn’t get ticketed. The crime-scene cordon was visible across the start of Swing Gate Fold, the narrow street that lay about seventy yards up the road on the opposite side. Metres, he corrected himself. Seventy metres – well, near enough. Close by, a mobile incident van was being manoeuvred into place.

  The rain had stopped and the sky was hazy, the sun fighting to get through.

  He walked up New Mill Street, past Swing Gate Fold, where the tent preserving the scene was still in place, rounded the bend and crossed to Mansion’s House. There was plenty of activity going on there: roadies unloading flight cases and boxes at the side door and, when he reached the main entrance at the junction with Deansgate, more people carrying plastic crates and cardboard cartons up the marble steps.

  Glancing up he saw the small black nose of the close-circuit television camera. Just the one, pointing sharply down over the entrance. It didn’t look as if it would cover the pavement beyond, and anyone passing by. But, hopefully, it would help them establish exactly when their victim had left the building, what state he was in, whether he was alone and what direction he took.

  The reception area was plush, done out in art-deco style, peacock blue and green patterned carpets, fluted plasterwork and wall sconces. Elaborate wallpaper in the same blue with silver and pink geometric patterns. There was nobody at the desk so Martin rang the bell and waited. The receptionist was on the ball when she arrived, and rang straight through to the building manager, who took Martin along a narrow, drab corridor and downstairs to a small windowless room at the back of the building. Two monitors were showing feeds: one from the entrance and one from the alley off Deansgate that ran parallel to New Mill Street at the opposite side of the building.

  ‘Just the two cameras?’ Martin said.

  ‘Yes. It’s a pretty sedate clientele – private functions, civil ceremonies, bar mitzvahs. The management charges a hefty deposit. If anyone kicks off, the hosts will sort it more often than not.’

  ‘Were you working last night?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yes, all quiet. Sat here and read my book.’ He jerked a thumb to the copy of Bill Bryson’s The Road to Little Dribbling on the desk.

  ‘You were alerted to the disappearance of one of the students?’ Martin said.

  ‘About quarter to twelve. I checked the building, then outside round the block. There was no sign . . . It’s awful,’ he added, after a moment.

  ‘You’re still using tapes?’ Martin saw the bulky VHS system.

  ‘Not much point in upgrading,’ the man said. ‘They do the job.’

  Martin got out an evidence bag. ‘Can you give me the ones from last night, for the whole of the event?’

  ‘Can do. They’re all labelled.’ There were four video cassettes, each three hours long. It was years since Martin had used VHS. Everything had gone onto DVD, movies and so on. Then with Dale’s generation they didn’t even have those, just electronic files, downloads, MP3s for their music. Even so, there was something reassuring about a physical format, tangible, solid.

  Before he left, he asked the bloke if any other premises would have been open on New Mill Street of a night.

  ‘No. It’s a desert down here out of office hours. No one can rely on passing trade, like they can on the main drag.’ He meant Deansgate. ‘Further down is a kebab place, and round the corner there’s a club, Fredo’s. Rumours are it’s on its last legs but I think it’s still limping along.’

  ‘What about intruders? Any problems with anything like that?’ Martin said.

  ‘Nothing. Now and again someone tries to doss down in the alley. I move them on.’

  ‘Rough sleepers?’

  The man nodded. ‘Bad as it ever was. It’s crazy. You don’t realize something’s improved until it gets worse again. Cuts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Martin said. There was a recruitment freeze on in the force, and they’d already lost dozens of officers through natural wastage. ‘What about soliciting?’ he said.

  ‘Not so as you’d notice. I think they’re mainly up around the back of Piccadilly station.’ That fitted with what Martin knew: city-centre prostitution focused on the station. Other red-light areas were further out of town, Cheetham
Hill or Levenshulme.

  ‘Anyone in the alley last night?’ Martin said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thanks. If you can sign here . . .’ Martin handed him a receipt for the evidence taken and gave him the carbon copy of the form.

  His next job was to walk the area, taking photos as he went, looking for any other CCTV cameras or addresses where there might be witnesses. He walked down the length of New Mill Street. The run of buildings on the left where he’d parked his car were offices, all empty on a Saturday. There was a large plot of land, which had been taken over by prefabricated buildings, used as a storage business and surrounded by chain-link fencing. The gates were locked. Beyond, there was a pub, derelict and boarded up. And then the kebab place the building manager had mentioned. It was on the left-hand corner at the T-junction with Water Street.

  More light industrial units edged this road and between them, incongruous and shabby in the daylight, the club Fredo’s. With shutters over the windows and the door, you’d be forgiven for thinking it had already had its last gasp but a poster in a frame advertised the current month’s events.

  Martin walked back up the other side of New Mill Street.

  There was an old warehouse, which appeared to have been refurbished as offices (he couldn’t see any balconies or bicycles, laundry or curtains), and next to that stood a block that was yet to have a facelift.

  The mobile incident van, a Portakabin, was in place now, with officers preparing it for the public.

  He stopped when he reached Swing Gate Fold and had a word with the officer guarding the cordon. The CSIs were still there, picking over the ground and emptying a skip near the end of the alley. It was a grim site, the cobbles oily and the walls dank, as if they never saw any sunlight. Blood was visible on the ground. A horrible place to die. A brutal way to die. The tent seemed incongruously clean and bright amid the grime.

  What had he been doing, wandering around like that, this boy tarted up like a girl? What had he been thinking, taking off and not sticking with his mates inside, where he was safe? How come an eighteen-year-old lad got it into his head that he wanted to be a lass in the first place? Just wasn’t natural, was it?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Steve

  His sister called. ‘Steve, it’s Emma. Mum just rang. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Where was . . . Where did it happen?’

  ‘In town. She was . . . It looks like she was attacked.’ He could hear himself speaking, the words echoing round his head, but he felt as if it wasn’t really him talking. Some Robot Steve still acting like things made sense. He rubbed at his eyes until they hurt.

  ‘What was in town?’

  ‘The prom.’

  ‘Al—Allie . . .’ she still stumbled over the name ‘. . . was . . . what? Attacked at the prom?’

  ‘Outside. They don’t know who it was. They don’t know yet. They don’t know why.’

  ‘Well—’ She stopped short.

  ‘What?’ His back prickled with heat.

  ‘It’s just . . . If she was, you know, dressed up, well . . . some people . . . It’s not very safe, is it? In public.’

  ‘Fuck off, Emma. Just fuck off!’ Steve hurled the phone at the wall and Teagan yelped.

  Yun came in quickly. ‘Problem?’

  ‘It’s my auntie Emma,’ Teagan said. ‘She’s a complete twat.’

  Steve began to laugh. And cry. Teagan picked up his phone and checked it. She told him the screen was cracked but it still worked.

  When he’d stopped shaking, he said to Yun, ‘I don’t want her here, my sister, not now. I can’t cope with her on top of everything else. If she shows up . . .’

  ‘She will, Dad,’ Teagan said. ‘She’ll want to be here.’

  ‘Text her,’ he said. He held out his phone to Teagan, ‘Just say . . .’

  ‘Not up to any visitors?’ Teagan said, then wrinkled her nose. ‘But she’ll know Nanny and Granddad are coming.’

  Yun said, ‘How about saying your parents are coming but you can’t cope with anyone else right now?’

  Teagan nodded. ‘That’ll do.’ Her thumbs tapped out the text and she sent it.

  His bloody sister. Sarah had always found Emma as difficult as Steve did. ‘She ought to think before she speaks, and then she should keep her gob shut anyway,’ Sarah had once said, after yet another of Emma’s blunt pronouncements had ended in an argument.

  When they’d finally told Emma that Allie was transgender, she had reacted with predictable horror. ‘Christ. Look, I know you have to say you support your kids and everything, but seriously? It’s probably just a phase.’

  Steve was beyond relieved that they had decided to broach it without Allie being present.

  ‘It’s not a phase, Emma,’ Sarah said steadily. ‘It’s not a problem. It’s a fact.’

  ‘But you must be concerned. I mean—’

  ‘We’re happy for her,’ Sarah said.

  Emma snorted, and Steve wanted to throttle her. He spoke up: ‘She’s clear about who she is, and what she wants. For a lot of teenagers that’s a real struggle.’

  ‘But the risks, the bullying—’

  ‘Are you suggesting she should hide?’ he said. ‘That because other people are bigoted—’

  ‘It’s all very well getting all PC about it,’ Emma interrupted, ‘but he’s only fourteen.’

  ‘She,’ Sarah said.

  ‘How can anyone possibly know anything at that age?’

  ‘She does,’ Sarah said. ‘She does and so do we.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what Mum and Dad are going to say.’ Emma picked at an imaginary hair on her cashmere sweater.

  ‘They’re fine with it,’ Steve said. ‘We told them at Christmas. Allie wanted some money for clothes – dresses and a good wool coat. We explained then. They chipped in.’ Was it petty to savour the pinch that Emma’s mouth had made, the spots of colour on her cheeks?

  ‘They’d have to say that.’ Emma tossed her head.

  ‘Look,’ Steve said, ‘it takes a while to get used to the idea. It did me. And it’s a surprise, I know. It’s just how things are.’

  Sarah said, ‘Allie’s a lot happier now she’s come out to her friends, and the school has been brilliant.’

  Emma had stared at them, eyes dripping scepticism, and that had been the last time the topic had been discussed with her. Family gatherings, two or three times a year, were awkward, Emma persisting in regarding Allie’s identity as some perverse and wilful behaviour designed solely to irritate her aunt. At one point Steve had even suggested they stay away for his mother’s birthday but Allie had insisted they go. ‘I’m not letting Auntie Emma boss us about.’

  ‘She’s so uptight about it, Allie, I just wish she’d lose all the sideways glances and the barbed remarks,’ he said.

  ‘It’s her that’s got the problem,’ Allie said. ‘Just ignore her. Or call her out on it.’

  ‘Maybe not that,’ Steve replied. ‘Well, not today, anyway, for Nanny’s sake.’

  ‘Dad,’ Teagan said now, and Steve was yanked back to the present.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It feels weird, laughing.’ Her eyes glittered with tears.

  ‘I know, kid.’ Steve nodded. ‘But it’s OK.’ He cupped her head, felt her hair thick and springy, the heat beneath it. ‘Whatever we do, it’s OK. No right or wrong. OK?’

  She gave a sniff and a sigh, her shoulders rising and falling. ‘OK. I think I’ll have a bacon sandwich, then. Do you want one?’

  Jade

  ‘First time?’ the boss asked Jade.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  They were dressed from head to toe in blue scrubs, gloves and hats, with masks at the ready. The pathologist, a woman who reminded Jade of some Hollywood star – Sandra Bullock or Angelina Jolie but with a Brummie accent – was running the show, helped by her assistant, a man who had small hands and a beard, with a net over it so he wouldn’t shed
any confusing evidence on the body.

  The room was all stainless steel and shiny equipment, with a sealed floor underfoot that could be hosed down. The smell of bleach hung in the air.

  The bag containing Allie lay on the trolley, and before the procedure began they each had to introduce themselves. Everything was recorded by a microphone suspended from the ceiling.

  ‘How are we dealing with gender?’ the boss said to the pathologist. ‘I’ve been looking at the guidelines and she had begun to live permanently as a woman but had not yet applied for a gender-recognition certificate.’

  ‘Legally male,’ the pathologist said.

  Jade spoke up: ‘But if she was a woman at college and at home, just because she hasn’t got a piece of paper—’

  ‘Protocol,’ the pathologist said. ‘This body is the property of the coroner—’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  The pathologist showed her teeth, too many, too big, like a horse. ‘And I have the authority to carry out this forensic post-mortem on their behalf as I see fit.’ Ice cold.

  ‘There must be room for interpretation,’ Jade said. Now the boss was staring daggers at her, too.

  ‘This is a legal procedure,’ the pathologist said. ‘Legally, the deceased is male.’

  ‘But it—’

  ‘DC Bradshaw,’ the boss snapped. Eyes like lasers, nostrils flaring. So much for championing their victim.

  ‘Post-mortem commenced on the fourth of June at twelve seventeen p.m.,’ the pathologist said, rapid-fire. She listed those present. ‘Deceased is Aled Kennaway, male, date of birth the twenty-fourth of April 1998. Eighteen at time of death. Jonah, prepare for radiography.’

  ‘Jade.’ The boss signalled they had to leave. The body would be X-rayed before it was unwrapped.

  Jade didn’t have any chance to challenge the boss about caving in to Dobbin because the pathologist followed them out while Jonah rigged up the X-ray cameras and used a remote control to take the images. The process was repeated twice to cover different sections of the body. The X-rays showed several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, broken jaw and fractured skull.