The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘OK. What time did you leave the bar?’ Jade said.

  ‘Quarter to eleven,’ Candy said.

  ‘And how long were they bothering you?’

  ‘Five minutes. Long enough.’

  ‘And the touching?’ Jade said.

  ‘He grabbed my breast. Then between my legs. Prick.’ She curled her lip.

  ‘You could report it,’ Jade said. ‘That’s sexual assault.’

  Candy made a pfft sound.

  ‘There are places you can get support.’

  ‘I’m OK. Just idiots,’ Candy said. ‘It happens a lot.’

  Well, it fucking shouldn’t. Why do we let the dickheads get away with it?

  Candy said, ‘But if they did this, the murder, they should go to jail for ever.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jade agreed. ‘Can you remember anything else about them, anything they said?’

  ‘The dark-haired guy, he said to the other one that my friend needed a good slap,’ she said, letting go of the bracelets.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. When my friend pushed him away.’

  ‘Pushed this man?’ Jade pointed to Man B.

  ‘Yes. The man perving on me said, “Watch her, she needs a slap.” ’ She grimaced, turning the bracelet again.

  ‘Anything else? Their clothes?’

  ‘Man A had a shirt on, a lemon colour. That’s it.’

  Same as Bishaar had described. ‘Was the shirt clean?’ Jade said. ‘Any stains?’

  ‘No, it looked clean.’

  Jade thanked her. Thoughts already racing ahead. They knew now where the men had been before the attack and where they were afterwards. The net was closing, minute by minute. Soon they’d have names, surely. Even if someone was shielding them, there’d be loads of people seeing the faces on the news, in the papers. Some good citizen would come forward. They had to.

  Candy’s account had reinforced what they’d already learnt but all Jade felt was impatience. She wanted the scumbags in custody now, wanted to be confronting them in the interview room, making them sweat, piling the pressure on, drowning them in the evidence until they caved and spilt their guts. She couldn’t wait.

  Martin

  Martin passed the incident van on his way down New Mill Street. Posters of the two photo-fits plastered the sides and more were hung on the boarded-up buildings in the area.

  At the T-junction he turned left into Water Street and parked in front of Fredo’s.

  The man who answered the door matched Martin for weight and height but he was younger, a black guy. His close-cut hair had a pattern shaved into it. He wore a tracksuit and blinding fluorescent orange trainers. His nose had been broken at least once, judging by the way it bent to one side.

  ‘Mr Clements?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘DS Harris. You rang the investigation hotline.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The club was lit by fluorescents and reeked of stale alcohol. A cleaner was wiping down banquette seats with some spray, yellow gloves up to her elbows. The place was all mirrored columns and fake landscapes on the walls, painted deserts, mountain scenes, rocky coves. Martin couldn’t work out what the style was meant to be. It looked like reject backdrops from Game of Thrones and Doctor Who mashed together.

  ‘This way.’ Clements took him round the side of the bar and through a door marked private into a small room.

  ‘You were on the door on Friday?’ Martin said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Me and Zandra. She’s away for the week, Ibiza. I knew them as soon as that picture came on the telly. Man, clear as day.’

  Martin felt hope growing. With live footage of the men they’d be so much closer to clinching an identification.

  Clements switched on a video-player. ‘Still analogue,’ he said. ‘I keep telling the boss we should go digital, better resolution, but her angle is she’d rather spend the money on good door staff and stop trouble before it starts.’

  Martin had imagined the boss was a man. He wondered briefly how a woman had ended up running a club like this and whether she’d chosen the décor. ‘How come you recognized these two?’ he asked.

  ‘Turned them away,’ Clements said.

  ‘Dress code?’ They knew Man B had had a short-sleeved polo shirt on, and most clubs had a strict no-sportswear policy, assuming that putting the clientele in shirts, ties and proper shoes would improve their behaviour.

  ‘No, we’re relaxed about that, as long as they’re clean and presentable. This pair were pissed, coked up, too, I reckon. Started with the language as soon as I asked a couple of questions.’

  ‘You see any ID?’

  ‘No. I didn’t care how old they were, they were trouble. You let someone like that in, it ruins the night for the rest of the customers.’ He was fast-forwarding and reversing to get to the right point on the tape. ‘Here we go.’

  A grainy image filled the screen.

  Martin’s mouth went dry. A buzzing filled his ears. He pressed his hand against the edge of the desk to steady himself as he watched the film, saw the attitude of the two men, their obscene gestures, faces contorted, obviously spitting abuse.

  ‘I’m going to take this with me,’ Martin said, as the footage ended with the two suspects moving out of frame.

  ‘No worries,’ Clements said.

  Martin held his breath walking back through the dance hall, saliva clagging his mouth. The smell of spilt beer was intolerable.

  A hundred yards down the road he pulled the car in and scrambled out, barely reaching the gutter as the vomit, hot and bitter, forced its way out of his mouth and nose.

  He drove straight home, the video on the seat beside him, his rage burning, growing, stifling the fear biting at his throat, the confusion and bewilderment that gripped his bowels. The rage was blooming and, with it, the need to lash out, to hit and punch and kick and crush and destroy someone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Steve

  Steve was making toast. The others had gone, only him and Teagan left in the house. The freezer was stuffed full of stews and casseroles but neither of them fancied a full meal. He fetched the peanut butter and jam. At the sound of the fridge opening Dix clambered out of his bed and limped across to Steve.

  ‘You stiff, boy?’

  The dog whined.

  Steve checked the time, then decided it didn’t really matter: if Dix wanted to eat he could. He must have picked up on the atmosphere, the fact his humans were sad. That one of them was missing. Steve fed the dog and washed out the can, then dried his hands.

  Turning back to the counter he saw the planner stuck to the side of the fridge. Allie’s exams. Today was English literature. He had a vision of the hall at college, serried ranks of desks and one empty space, a blank exam paper. He felt dizzy, and leant his forehead against the wall cupboard. She’d miss them all, English literature, media studies, Spanish and sociology.

  Loughborough University – he’d have to let them know. Was there a procedure, an easy way of telling the university she would not be getting her 240 points, not be taking up her place to study Communications and Media or moving into halls? And what about student finance? Christ, doing applications for that had been a marathon. The company kept writing to Steve asking for proof of his income. Proof he had already sent. Getting through on the phone was a mammoth achievement, getting any sense when you did a question of luck.

  Would Yun Li know about any of this?

  Bets and Helena would be in there now, sweating over Wuthering Heights and Toni Morrison. Poor kids. Perhaps they’d be able to delay the exam, given the trauma they’d suffered. They’d been such good friends to Allie, right from the start of high school. And when Allie had been targeted by bullies in year nine it had been Bets and Helena, with Allie’s agreement, who’d reported it to the head of year.

  He remembered Allie crying at the tea-table when Sarah asked her what was wrong. It had all come out then, the d
eliberate shoving and pushing in the corridors, the nasty comments. The graffiti in the toilets. Allie was only dressing as a girl some of the time then and she used the toilets appropriate to what she was wearing.

  The text messages and the comments on Facebook were the worst.

  U shd kill urself freak.

  Shemale slag.

  Girls have cunts, boys have dicks, sicko.

  Ur so fake.

  Ladyboy. Hope you get AIDS and die.

  Tranny trash, slit your wrists.

  Queer prick.

  Ugly fucker.

  Cock girl.

  You can’t ever be a real woman with a freak face like that. LOL.

  The head of year had implemented the school bullying policy, and students had organized a special assembly on LGBT rights. Steve had insisted Allie change her phone number and they altered her Facebook account to the most private settings.

  Teagan had not heard all of it, just enough to get upset on Allie’s behalf. ‘They’re stupid idiots with no brains,’ she’d told her sister. ‘They should be expelled and locked in prison for ten years.’

  ‘I think that’s a bit extreme,’ Sarah had said.

  Steve recalled how impotent he’d felt. How his impulse had been to lash out and hurt those who were hurting his child.

  That was another bloody statistic: trans people experienced even more transphobic attacks than gay or lesbian people experienced homophobic attacks.

  Sarah had done her best to explain it to Teagan, and Allie. How people who were threatened or disgusted by different sexuality or gender identity were probably insecure themselves. Hating people who were different, abusing them, was a way of proving their own masculinity or femininity, their heterosexuality.

  ‘That’s bonkers,’ Teagan had said.

  Sarah had laughed. ‘You’re right there.’

  What had they been thinking, the men who had killed her? He tested the words. The men who had killed her. Where had it come from, that hatred? Had they known she was a trans woman? Had they followed her, chased her, even? The pictures in his head were revolting, appalling, but he couldn’t stop them unfolding. Did they not have sisters, or girlfriends, or mothers they cared for? Could they not see that Allie was just another girl, really, finding her way?

  Had she said anything? Had she spoken to them? Had she sensed they were hostile and tried to appease them, or challenge them, or plead with them?

  ‘Dad!’ He was jerked back to reality by Teagan running in. There was an acrid smell in the air and he began to cough. ‘Dad! The toast!’

  Sonia

  Sonia went to fetch clean suits for a customer and the snap of static plastered the thin protective bags to her arms. She was alive with static today, all the hairs on her body standing to attention. And it felt like that was all there was in her head, in her guts, the hiss and sizzle of electricity.

  She dealt with payment and returned to ironing, on automatic pilot as she pressed cuffs and shoulders, pleats and hems.

  Oliver hadn’t come home at all last night. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed out without warning her but it was the first time he’d done it in the wake of such a massive falling-out.

  Her texts and calls had gone unanswered. She’d no idea where he’d slept. If he’d slept. With one of those new mates, on a park bench or in a doorway?

  She folded pillow slips and stacked them with matching sheets, bound the lot together in polythene, again the static biting at her fingers.

  Across the road she saw the paper delivery van stop. The driver jumped out and took a bundle into the newsagent’s. The lunchtime edition. He came out and changed the poster on the sandwich board. She could read it from here. Allie Kennaway Murder, Suspect Photos.

  Jesus.

  His picture would be on the front page. Of course it would. Cynthia was off this afternoon at the dentist, then going for her mammogram. But how long before she or Rose or someone else Sonia knew said to her, ‘Have you seen that picture?’ And what would she say then?

  She put the sheets on the shelves, ready for collection, transferred washing into one of the dryers and set it for an hour. Another dryer had finished and she pulled out the load, the chemical smell of the conditioner harsh in her throat, her hands smarting with the heat. The radio was on, set to Radio 2, but the chatter, even the music, grated on her nerves, so she switched it off.

  In the small backyard she had another cigarette, propping the door open with a tub of dry-cleaning fluid so she could hear if any customers came into the shop. She was smoking too much. Her head was pounding, a shard of pain stabbing through her left eye, and she knew the fags made it worse but she was desperate.

  Where are you?

  She checked her phone again, just in case.

  Back at the ironing station she began the next batch.

  What if he’d done something stupid? Thrown himself into the Irwell or necked a load of tablets?

  She worried away at the situation all afternoon, but however many times she reran the conversation with Oliver, his flat denials and his outrage, she could not bring herself to believe him. Instead she clung to the hope that whatever he had done wasn’t quite as bleak, as brutal, as she feared. Perhaps he’d witnessed the attack. Perhaps he was just covering up for someone. He’d never been a leader, Oliver. Even as a little boy he’d been a follower. Finding someone he thought was better in some way, stronger, cleverer, funnier, and treading in their footsteps. There’d been scraps at school when he’d gone along with some daft plan because he wanted to belong, to be part of the gang.

  But he wasn’t malicious, Sonia thought, as she cashed up and put the takings into the safe. He never got any pleasure out of hurting people, not in itself. Did he?

  It was raining heavily as she walked home, thunder growling overhead and lightning flickering near to Old Trafford. Perhaps the storm breaking would finally ease the tension in her head.

  The house was quiet, apart from the spatter of rain on the windowpanes. She called, and went up to his room to look for him. She was on her own, yet she had the sense he had been back. He usually left a trail of evidence, like a dog marking territory – cups and plates, clothes on the floor, trainers dropped in the hall, the cable from charging his phone. But there was none of that. Was it just her wishful thinking?

  She went into the back room to look for the cat and saw straight away that Oliver’s good shoes had gone, along with the clothes he’d washed. All of them, gone.

  Donna

  Donna paused in her work to text Kirsten, who had a piano exam that afternoon. Jim would take her and bring her back. Since his turn on Sunday night he’d insisted he felt well. Nevertheless Donna had put aspirin on the shopping list, and would continue to nag him to see the GP. Recalling the colour of his face and the clammy feel of his skin, she knew it hadn’t been indigestion.

  ‘It’s called preventive health care,’ she had argued, the previous evening. ‘A radical new idea. Amazing results. You wouldn’t hesitate if it was one of the kids. Or if it was me.’

  He never got to justify his reluctance then because the twins burst in, high on winning their interschool basketball competition.

  She couldn’t remember when Jim had last seen the doctor. He didn’t seem to understand her concern wasn’t just for him but for all of them. I need you. The kids need you. If you have a heart attack or stroke we’re all affected.

  ‘You’re being melodramatic,’ was what he’d say.

  I’m being realistic, I’m being pragmatic, and so should you be.

  Jade knocked at her office door.

  ‘Come in,’ Donna said.

  ‘Confirmed sighting,’ Jade said. ‘In the Cavalier at ten forty. The witness, Candy Gallego, and her friend left five minutes later. The men were still there. She says the picture of Man A isn’t accurate.’

  ‘OK,’ Donna said. ‘Can she suggest what needs changing?’ She wouldn’t necessarily redo the photo-fit yet: it made it look like they were clutching at
straws, too scattergun. This one? No? How about this one, then?

  Jade shook her head. ‘Said he was good-looking and that the mouth’s too small, the eyes aren’t right. But what was interesting was that the men were being abusive, harassing her and her mate.’ Jade’s eyes glittered. It gave her an impish quality, particularly with the choppy fringe and the dimple that accompanied her quick smile.

  Puck, Donna thought. A Mancunian Puck. ‘That gives us another location,’ she said.

  ‘I can see if there’s any CCTV at the Cavalier,’ Jade said.

  ‘Good. Hang on a minute.’ Donna raised her hand to stop her leaving. She brought up their timeline on the computer.

  ‘Come,’ Donna said, gesturing Jade round to her side of the desk. The mounting excitement of finding another part of the picture made her feel expansive. ‘So, if we put our suspects here at ten forty-five . . .’ she looked to Jade to double-check and Jade gave a nod ‘. . . our next known sighting is at Swing Gate Fold at eleven twenty. So what were they doing in between? That gives us thirty-five minutes.’

  ‘They might have stayed at the Cavalier, drinking. Gone to Swing Gate Fold from there. What about the club on Water Street?’ Jade asked.

  ‘I’ll see what DS Harris has got.’ Donna rang Martin.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘How’d you get on at Fredo’s?’

  ‘A waste of time,’ Martin said. ‘The bloke needs to get himself to Specsavers. Wants his eyes examining. Or his head. Two chancers he turned away on the door. One was a black guy and the other looked nothing like either of our photo-fits. Didn’t tally with any descriptions.’

  Donna felt a wash of disappointment.

  ‘Any news your end?’ Martin said.

  ‘We’ve a confirmed sighting of the suspects acting obnoxious before the attack.’ She relayed the facts. ‘So we might have them on film at the Cavalier, be able to get a proper look at them and see when they left. Jade is going to call down.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Martin said. ‘I’m not far from there now.’