‘Don’t read any more. Turn off the notifications.’
As he said it, there was another ping. Teagan leant closer. ‘They’re going to do a vigil,’ she said. ‘A candlelit vigil for Allie. I want to go.’
‘Who are?’ her grandmother said.
‘The LGBT Foundation. On Friday. Eleven till midnight. Can I go, Dad?’
Christ, he didn’t know. Was it a good idea? He could barely remember what month it was, what year. Couldn’t decide whether to eat or not, let alone something like this. ‘Let’s talk about it later.’
‘Coffee?’ Yun offered.
Steve said yes. Maybe it would help cut through the fog.
‘These are lovely,’ his mother said, her voice husky with tears as she set down a card. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Not yet.
There was a clamour again outside and the sound of the door opening and closing but it was Emma who came in with Yun, not his father.
‘Oh, Steve,’ she said.
He rose and she came forward to him. Her embrace was hard, fierce. The perfume she wore was strong, sickly sweet – he didn’t like it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, releasing him.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Yun said.
‘Coffee’d be great,’ Emma said. Then, to their mother, ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Shopping, which could be a mixed blessing. I asked him to fetch some watercress last week when he was out getting petrol and he brought salad cress.’
‘What’s the difference?’ Teagan asked, and his mum explained.
‘Cards,’ Emma said.
‘You can look,’ Teagan said, pushing a pile over to her aunt.
‘Thanks.’ She picked one up but didn’t open it.
The sun came out, lancing through the window, making shadow play of the leaves on the silver birch outside. Steve watched them jitter and tremble.
Yun returned with coffee, and when everyone had been served, he said, ‘I’ve had some news from DI Bell.’
Steve put down his cup. A shiver spread across his back.
‘We’ve been able to speak to the person who made the nine-nine-nine call and as a result of that we have drawn up descriptions of two men we want to speak to.’
His mother made a sound, a whimper in her throat.
Steve stared at his hands, then at Teagan’s. They were like his, peasant’s hands. Allie’s had been slimmer, the fingers longer.
‘These photo-fits will be publicized at a press conference in about an hour’s time. We’ll be asking the public to help us identify who they are.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Emma said uncertainly.
Teagan got up, left the room, her face set.
‘Teagan?’ Emma called.
‘Leave her,’ Steve said. ‘I’ll go in a minute.’ He looked at Yun, fighting to concentrate. Two men we want to speak to. ‘Are they the ones that did it?’
‘We believe so.’
‘You don’t know?’ Steve said.
‘We believe they are,’ Yun repeated. ‘And if we do apprehend them we can test that suspicion against all the evidence we already have.’
Steve tried, and failed, to picture the two men. When he imagined the scene, Allie in her dress in the rain, two strangers approaching, his mind recoiled, as if he’d exposed it to a live wire. Aversion therapy. Images came into his head from A Clockwork Orange, of eyeballs and head restraints. Operatic violence. He felt nauseous. The coffee smelt wrong, oily or burnt.
He was a coward. His daughter had gone through the most brutal of attacks and he couldn’t even bear to think about it.
They were all huddled round, quietly watching, when the pictures came on the television. Steve felt nothing. An emptiness. His eyes ranged over the images as the newsreader spoke with the right measure of solemnity, giving the facts of height, colouring, build and so on. How very young they looked to be. Swiftly an immense sadness filled him. Sadness for the waste, the loss, for his bright, beautiful girl, and for these boys, who had done such a terrible, terrible thing.
Sonia
Oliver was in bed when Sonia got back from work. He said he still felt sick, so she made herself an omelette for tea. Perhaps he had some gastric bug, E. coli or salmonella, though he hadn’t actually thrown up. Or it could be something mechanical, couldn’t it? A problem with his stomach, an ulcer, perhaps. Did teenagers get ulcers? She decided if he wasn’t better by Wednesday, if two days’ rest hadn’t got him back to normal, she’d make him see the doctor.
Her feet ached from standing up – that was one bad thing about the laundry compared to the supermarket: you were on your feet all day. Cynthia had varicose veins like tree roots climbing up the back of her legs.
After she’d tidied round, fed the cat and cleaned its litter tray, she put her feet up while she watched The Good Wife, enjoying the way the central character navigated all the demands on her time, lusting after her clothes and make-up, her cool assurance, her strength.
When the recording finished she switched over to the news. They were talking about the plans for Muhammad Ali’s funeral on Friday, which was to be screened worldwide. What a character. She watched the piece and, in the scrolling headlines below, she read that police in Manchester had released photo-fits of two men they wanted to speak to in connection with the murder of eighteen-year-old Allie Kennaway. That was a horrible business. Even worse that there was more than one suspect. It tormented her, the idea of a group picking on one person. It made her think of those nature documentaries, lions in a pack hunting prey and singling out the smallest and the weakest.
There had been murders like that over the years that stuck in her head and she wished they wouldn’t. Suzanne Capper, only sixteen, two years younger than Sonia at the time, was held captive and tortured, then doused in petrol and set on fire by a group of neighbours. Then, of course, there was Stephen Lawrence. And, more recently, a girl called Sophie Lancaster and her boyfriend had been beaten up in a park by a gang of teenagers. Sophie had died of her injuries. The couple were targeted because they were Goths.
As Sonia reached for her nail file, the newsreader moved on to talk about Allie Kennaway and two pictures filled the screen. Sonia felt the blood drain from her face. Her hand spasmed and she dropped the nail file. Oliver. The boy on the right was Oliver. She choked. Her vision swam. Don’t be daft, she told herself. Don’t be so stupid. Oliver would never . . . not in a million . . . Unable to look away, to silence the broadcaster or turn off the set, her eyes devoured the image. His face, his ears and mouth, his freckles and thick eyebrows. No. God, no. There had to be some mistake, a cock-up – there had to be. Maybe Oliver had been seen near to where it had happened and got muddled up in someone’s mind.
He would never—Not her baby boy.
He’d washed his clothes. His shoes too.
Oh, Jesus.
Her heart was going to explode. She fumbled with the remote. Turned off the television.
Outside she lit a cigarette.
It was still light, just, the sky glowing violet over to the west. She drew in smoke as deeply as she could, thoughts piercing her like knives. The cat winding round her ankles.
He came home early. Been avoiding me. His shoes. Pretending to be ill. Never used the washing-machine before.
She smoked a second cigarette, her tongue dry, mouth sour.
She must be mad even to think it.
The cat mewed. ‘I’ve fed you,’ she muttered.
He was hiding.
But he wouldn’t. Why would he do such a thing? How could he? He wasn’t crazy – he wasn’t violent. This is insane. She gripped her hair, pulled at it until her scalp stung.
She had to talk to him. She’d recognized him – so others would before long.
She wanted to ring Rose, to talk it through with her, but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t share this with anyone. It was too dangerous. Too shameful. It was a mistake anyway. It could not be true. So she must find out what the re
al story was and then she would work out what to do.
There was a burst of shouting from next-door-but-one.
‘You’re mad,’ she said to herself.
She could not be thinking of her lad as a murderer. The word was obscene. They must sort it, get it cleared up. Figure out the mix-up.
She went upstairs, her throat thick. Her whole body felt as though something alien was in her veins, not blood but something chemical, toxic and thin.
‘Oliver?’ She banged on his door. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I’m asleep.’
She walked in. The room was dimly lit by the glow from his screen. He’d paused the game, two cars on a flyover, statistics at the side of the image.
She snapped on the light. ‘Turn that off,’ she said. ‘Now. And come downstairs.’
She didn’t wait for refusal or delaying tactics but quickly went back down.
There were sounds of him getting out of bed, going into the bathroom, then plodding downstairs.
‘What?’ He hovered in the living-room doorway in his oversized T-shirt and boxers.
‘Sit down.’
He fell into the armchair, legs apart, hands loose on the chair arms. A sullen look on his face.
She felt a lurch of uncertainty. This is stupid. She should just send him back to bed. Forget all about it.
‘Friday night,’ she said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Something passed through his eyes, gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it.
‘What d’you mean? I went out.’
‘Where?’
‘To town.’
‘Where in town?’
‘To eat. A Cuban place on Peter Street.’
Each reply accompanied by a jerk of the shoulders up and down.
‘Then where?’
‘I told you, a bar nearby.’
‘What bar?’ Sonia said.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The Cavalier or something.’
‘And after there?’
He threw his head back, spoke to the ceiling. ‘Then came home.’
‘Tell me the truth, Oliver.’
‘That is the truth.’ Offended, sitting up straight.
‘Who were you with?’
‘Seggie, Foz, some others.’
‘Real names,’ she said.
He snorted. ‘Why?’ Eyes fixed on her.
‘You’ve heard of Allie Kennaway?’
He shrugged. His gaze fell from hers.
‘She was killed on Friday night near Deansgate. It’s been all over the news.’
‘So?’ he said. A flush stained his neck, the tips of his ears. She bit her tongue to stop herself crying out.
‘Did you see her?’
‘No,’ he sneered.
‘Tell the truth.’
‘I am.’
‘Tell me the truth,’ she said.
‘I said I am.’ He stood up. ‘This is mental.’
‘Sit down,’ she shouted.
He did so. His face like thunder.
‘Why did you wash your clothes?’
‘I stood in a puddle – I told you.’
‘Your top,’ Sonia said.
‘I fell in it.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not. We were messing about – we were on the beer. I fell over.’
‘Look.’ She swiped at her phone. Pulled up the photo-fits from the news site. Zoomed into the image of Oliver. Got up and moved closer. Turned it to show him. ‘Look at that.’
He stopped dead still. She saw the colour climb into his face again. He raised a hand, rubbed it over his hair. ‘What’s that?’ His voice faltered.
‘That’s you. That’s a photo-fit of you,’ she said. ‘The police want to talk to you about the murder.’ She’d said the word aloud and it hung in the air between them.
‘That’s not me,’ he said. ‘That’s nothing like me.’
‘Stop lying! Oliver, whatever happened we need to talk about it, sort it out. You need to tell—’
‘It’s not me. You’re fucking mental. You’re accusing me of killing someone?’
‘If it’s not you,’ she tried to speak calmly, ‘then we need to go to the police and explain that someone’s made a mistake.’
‘No way.’
‘Oliver.’
‘That’s not me.’ He raised his voice. He jabbed a finger at her. ‘I haven’t done anything and I’m not going to speak to the fucking police or anyone else.’ He stood up.
‘Oliver, listen—’
‘No! Just fuck off. You mad bitch.’ He ran upstairs, leaving her shuddering.
Seconds later she heard him come down. The house rattled as he slammed the door. The phone was still in her hand, the picture of her son fading from the screen.
CHAPTER NINE
Donna
The morning’s discussion centred around the photo-fits and responses to them. ‘People are already coming forward,’ Donna told them all. ‘No names as yet, but we’ve a sighting, which sounds spot-on, from a club on Water Street at the bottom of New Mill Street.’
‘Fredo’s?’ said Martin. ‘I’ve seen the place.’
‘That’s it. The doorman there claims he has CCTV. You’ll take that?’
Martin nodded.
‘We’ve also heard from a woman who says she was harassed by men fitting these descriptions at the Cavalier bar on Peter Street. Jade, you’ll follow up?’
‘Yes, boss. Maybe the reason we’re not getting any names is because people are protecting them.’
Donna considered the likelihood. ‘Usually that happens when the perpetrators are involved in gang activity or are from families with connections to organized crime. I think we’re looking at a different situation. Nothing to suggest it’s payback or even a case of mistaken identity. From the testimony so far, we know these men held Allie Kennaway in Swing Gate Fold. Man A was grabbing at her and verbally abusing her. One interpretation of Bishaar’s evidence is that the sexual harassment and abuse becomes more aggressive and violent once Man A grabs her crotch.’
‘He realizes it’s a man,’ Martin said.
And when had Allie realized she was in real danger? The thought flashed in Donna’s head and she pushed it away. She couldn’t afford to dwell on that. It was indulgent and did nothing to advance their efforts. She said, ‘We can’t know whether the men intended rape when they seized Allie Kennaway, held her against her will, assaulted and abused her, but it would appear the discovery of Allie’s biological sex, of her transgender identity, was the trigger for the murder. And that, as you’re all aware, makes this a hate crime.’
Jade was silent, giving a sideways look, sceptical.
‘It’s not impossible someone is shielding these suspects,’ Donna explained. ‘All I’m saying is, I don’t think we’re dealing with members of a criminal fraternity where we might expect that behaviour as a matter of course.’
‘Boss?’ One of the incident-room receivers who’d been working the phones raised her hand, so Donna could see who’d spoken.
‘Rhiannon?’
‘We’re getting some abusive calls saying Allie Kennaway deserved everything she got. Spouting crap.’ Oh, God. It pained her to think of the vile things they’d be saying. ‘Do you want us to do any more than log them?’
‘Not for now.’ They didn’t have the resources to start looking into every vicious little troll that came crawling out from under its rock.
‘One last item,’ Donna said. ‘There will be a vigil for Allie Kennaway on Friday instigated by the LGBT Foundation and with the active support of our Federation’s Lesbian and Gay Staff Affiliation. You are all at liberty to attend if you so wish. Let’s get to work. Let’s find out who these two are. Thank you.’
Jade
Jade arranged to meet the witness at her home.
‘I don’t start work till twelve, so as long as I leave by quarter past eleven, I’ll be fine,’ the woman said.
Home was a room i
n a terraced house in Fallowfield. Most of the street was student accommodation and every other front garden bristled with To Let signs. Several houses were getting the annual make-over, with the year’s students gone for the long summer break. The next batch would find freshly painted wood-chip wallpaper and new bottom-of-the-range mattresses on patched-up divan bases. Within weeks of occupation the mould would grow back and the condensation start to rot any fabric or paper.
Jade had lived in a place like that for a few months.
Candida Gallego – ‘I go by Candy’ – had a slight Spanish accent and spoke perfect English. She offered Jade coffee, which Jade refused. She never drank in other people’s houses: who knew what it might taste like, if the cups were clean, the milk fresh? And you only needed one knobhead playing God with Rohypnol or rat poison to ruin everything.
‘I saw those guys in town, in the Cavalier,’ Candy said. ‘They were horrible. Touching us, not taking no for an answer.’
‘Did you complain to anyone?’ Jade said.
Candy shook her head. ‘The place was packed. It was crazy.’ She wore a row of coloured bands on her wrist, the sort you got from festivals and charity events, which she pulled and turned as she spoke. Jade wondered if she wore them to work, if she took them off to sleep. Jade couldn’t bear anything on her wrist, a watch or jewellery. Hated the sensation. The associations . . .
‘We were going on somewhere anyway. The one with the dark hair, he followed us through the bar on our way out. He was shouting, you know? “Prick teaser, you need a good shag. Fucking lesbians.” ’ She stretched one of the bracelets. ‘He was nasty, very drunk. But there are bouncers on the door so he stopped when we got near there and we went out.’
‘What about the other one?’ Jade touched the image of the man with the short red hair.
‘He said a few things. He put his arm around my friend’s neck. She pushed him off. It was him I recognized first. The other picture, the dark-haired guy – it’s not quite right.’
Bishaar had said he’d seen little of Man A’s face.
‘If you had to describe him what would you change?’ Jade said.
‘I think the mouth is too small, and the eyes are wrong, but he was nice-looking. Shitty man but nice-looking.’
The Girl in the Green Dress Page 12
