‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, no problem.’
‘Great,’ Donna said. ‘See how you get on and we can catch up in the morning.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
Donna told Jade Fredo’s was a dead end and Martin would take the Cavalier. A shadow darkened Jade’s expression and her mouth tightened. Donna saw she was resentful because someone else had got the ball. Just when Donna thought Jade was beginning to get the message. ‘You have a problem with that?’ Donna said.
‘No, boss,’ Jade said, barely this side of rude. The shine gone from her eyes. Face blank.
‘Good.’
Jade was already moving to the door.
‘Teamwork, Jade.’
‘Yes, boss.’
She was erratic, switched the . . . What was it? Not charm as such but energy. Switched the energy on and off like a teenager or a toddler and that wasn’t a good MO for a detective. It didn’t help the work. Did she realize her career, her progress could be hampered if she didn’t develop a better attitude? She must. You had to have some smarts to get into the police service, these days. Competition was fierce. Jade had potential in the Major Incident Team but only if her outlook improved. Only if she embraced working as a team. And if she didn’t, Donna would make no bones about recommending Jade return to uniformed operations.
Martin
Martin sat in the car at the edge of the parking area near Barton Moss. Only one other vehicle there: a man walking two lurchers, who had parked up half an hour ago.
Occasionally Martin saw a jogger lope past, through the gap in the trees, or a cyclist. People not put off by the wet weather or the encroaching dark. Chasing fitness or glory. Like Dale, on his run.
I’ll pick you up at the car park, Martin had texted him. And now he waited.
He watched the dog-walker return, his form and that of the swayback dogs distorted by the rain streaming down the windscreen.
Martin’s mind was on a loop, running and rerunning the images from the CCTV, the salient facts of the investigation. Round and round they came, punctuated by the hammer blow of the question stuck in his head. Why? Why? Why?
He saw movement, a pale shape by the path, then Dale emerged and gave a wave before pausing, bent over breathless. After a moment he walked over to the old shelter. A bus stop once, a concrete bunker, open-fronted, and began his warm-down. Leg stretches, knee bends.
Martin knew the routine by heart.
Three more days to the trials. If Dale didn’t get selected this time, his chance to shine would probably be gone. He’d maybe get by playing in the local league, going into coaching or fitness training or sportswear sales. Why risk all that? Why?
Exercises done, Dale ran towards the car and Martin got out, moved round to intercept him.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Dale went to open the passenger door but Martin was on him, hand on his throat, face inches away.
‘What the fuck have you done?’
The smile fell. Dale blinked rapidly. His skin was hot from running, damp with sweat and rain.
He began to speak. ‘I don’t know—’
Martin let go of his neck and grabbed his chin. ‘Don’t say another word. I know!’ he roared. ‘I know! You stupid fucker.’
Dale blanched.
Martin wanted to belt him, thump him black and blue, make him weep. Instead he shoved him away, almost knocking him down. ‘Get in the car,’ he said. The anger pumping his heart too fast. ‘Get in now.’
Dale obeyed.
Martin stood in the rain, breathing heavily until he trusted himself to behave with restraint. Then he joined Dale.
Dale didn’t look at him: he was turned away. Martin could hear him swallow, saw small tremors travel across his skin, chill setting in on top of the shock.
‘Friday night,’ Martin said. ‘What happened?’
‘Dad, I swear—’
‘No!’ Martin slammed his fist on the dashboard. He spoke quietly, staring ahead at the trees, black in the rain: ‘You and your mate were at the Cavalier. We have a witness. You were giving her grief apparently. You went from there to Fredo’s on Water Street. You were caught on camera, the pair of you, drunk and drugged up. You were barred. Next news you’re on Swing Gate Fold where an eyewitness saw the whole fucking thing. We’ve evidence from the scene there, shedloads of it. Including your DNA. You spat on him, you daft twat. You spat on him after kicking him to death. Your shoes left marks on the body. A mark like that is as good as a fingerprint. You hailed a cab on Deansgate. We traced the driver. The victim’s blood is in his car. You are that close to being arrested and charged with murder.’ Martin held his finger and thumb a fraction apart. ‘You’ll get a minimum of fifteen years. Minimum. For a hate crime, that increases. You could be doing thirty years. No football. No fucking future. Thirty years sucking some old guy’s cock or taking it up the arse. For what?’
Acid in his throat, the burning in his gut.
Dale was sniffing hard, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Martin looked back at the dark, saw white movement in the trees, a blurred face staring his way. A barn owl.
‘So tell me. Tell me all of it,’ Martin said.
Silence, apart from the whisper of rain on the roof of the car.
‘Tell me.’
‘We – we were – we were hammered,’ Dale said, stammering. ‘It was just a bit of fun. We had a . . . We hadn’t got anywhere earlier . . . Then we were sacked off trying to get into the club. We were having a laugh that’s all, just messing and . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘All of it,’ Martin said.
The owl swivelled its head, the big moon face ridiculous.
‘We were – we were just messing. I thought it was a girl. We were just messing. I grabbed him . . .’ He made a retching sound in his throat. ‘Fucking tranny. They shouldn’t go around like that, tricking people. He needed to be taught a lesson, that’s all. I never meant anything bad to happen. Just teach him a lesson. Fucking pervert.’
Martin thought of the photographs, of the list of injuries from the post-mortem, of Dale’s fitness and his strength. ‘And your mate?’
‘He did it too.’
‘Did he grab her?’ Martin said.
‘No.’
‘You hit the African?’
‘We never saw him there. Then he was coming at us. It was self-defence.’
Martin almost laughed. Dale hadn’t got a fucking clue. ‘Your mate, what’s his name?’
‘Oliver. Oliver Poole.’
‘Can you trust him?’
Dale hesitated, and Martin’s guts twisted.
‘I think so,’ Dale said at last, shivering.
Not good enough.
‘Call him,’ Martin said.
‘Are you going to arrest us?’ Dale said.
‘Just call him,’ Martin said.
‘Dad, please—’
Martin swung round to face him and Dale reared back, banging his head against the passenger window. The cowardly move inflamed Martin’s temper but he didn’t touch Dale. He watched as his son began to cry, snot bubbling from his nose, his lips swelling, sobbing and begging, ‘It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have tried to con us like that. Making us look like queers. Fucking freak. It was a mistake. Please, Dad, please.’
Martin said nothing until the blubbering had stopped. Then he spoke, his bowels on fire. ‘From now on you do exactly what I say. No questions, no excuses. You obey me. You don’t open your mouth, you don’t make a move, you don’t take a piss unless I tell you to. Do you understand?’
Dale nodded, another spasm shaking his frame.
‘It’s not just your life on the line any more, you stupid little tosser.’ Martin raised a finger. ‘Not a word to your mother, or to anyone else. Nothing. You don’t blink unless I’ve told you to. Now call Oliver and arrange to meet him. Not at his house. And don’t tell him I’m with you.’
Martin let his head fall back onto the headrest. He listened to Dale talk, and watched the owl r
ise from cover and take off on large pale wings, a ghost in the night.
Jade
Jade kicked her front door shut with more force than necessary, bolted and locked it.
Irritation at the boss ran under her skin, like a virus. It was as if the DI didn’t trust her. Jade had brought her the witness from the Cavalier but it was DS Harris who got to follow up on their CCTV.
Was it favouritism? Probably. The pair were obviously old pals. Maybe they hadn’t started out together – DS Harris had a few years on DI Bell – but they’d clearly worked plenty of cases side by side.
Jade opened the freezer and stared at the snowscape inside, corners of ready-meal boxes sticking out here and there, like rocks in a glacier.
She hated ready meals but she hated cooking even more. And the new unpredictability of her working hours meant there was no way she was going to start peeling and chopping and boiling stuff when she did get home.
Was she hungry anyway? She usually was but now she felt sick every time she thought about work. She was supposed to eat little and often, regular meals. If she didn’t, things would only get worse.
She tugged at one of the cartons, the ice crystals that smothered it squeaking in response. Chicken Chow Mein. She shook her head and wrestled with the carton beneath, until it came free, and brushed off the frost. Macaroni Cheese. That’d do.
And she’d brought them Bishaar, an eyewitness. A fucking eyewitness. That was the biggest breakthrough they’d had. His testimony was platinum. With that and the DNA, they’d have a case as soon as they’d ID’d the suspects.
Jade slipped the food container from the cardboard sleeve and stabbed the plastic film several times with the fork, then stuck it in the microwave.
It was like the boss had her on a lead, one of those extending ones: she’d let Jade run so far, then yank her to a halt and reel her in.
Should she say something? The thought made her neck prickle. She tried to frame the words. Why couldn’t I do the Cavalier visit?
Because I sent Martin.
She should have said something at the time, something that sounded positive, not like she was moaning. Boss, I’d like to follow through on the Cavalier line.
Teamwork, Jade. She trotted that out whenever Jade did something she didn’t like. Or said something she didn’t like.
I know what teamwork means, but where’s the continuity in letting DS Harris take over the Cavalier when I spoke to Candy, and I know what we’ve got so far?
The microwave pinged and Jade pulled out the container, steam scalding her fingers. She peeled back the film and stirred the contents.
Mina had offered to cook for her, as soon as they’d got acquainted. ‘I always make too much . . . You’re skin and bone . . . Can you eat pork? . . . Or I could make vegetarian?’ Trying to guess if Jade was a good Muslim or a Hindu, maybe. Jade had turned her down: she didn’t need someone to feed her up or cluck over her. All that fuss.
Nowadays, every time Jade went into Mina’s she’d be force-fed pastries or a plate of biscuits. Polish hospitality. It was an Irish thing, too, wasn’t it? Not that Jade actually knew anything of being Irish, but in Father Ted the housekeeper was always desperate to make tea, to serve the priests. Perhaps it was a countryside thing. A human thing? Pain in the arse, whatever it was.
The food was bland, synthetic-tasting, but she ate it as quickly as she could and had almost finished when there was a thudding on the adjoining wall from Bert’s flat.
Not again. She sighed and rubbed her head, took her tablets with a gulp of water from the tap and headed next door.
Steve
Steve could tell there was something wrong even before Yun Li spoke. He saw it in the expression on the man’s face, mouth tight, eyes cast slightly away and down, in the set of his shoulders as he took a breath, in the way he steepled his fingers.
‘What is it?’ Steve thought of the photo-fits. The two young men. Had the police found them? His knees went weak so he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.
Yun joined him. ‘There’s been an article in one of the tabloids. About Allie.’
Steve took a moment to comprehend that this wasn’t what he had imagined and experienced a sensation almost of relief. He blinked to clear his vision. ‘What does it say?’
‘They’ve interviewed Emma,’ Yun Li said.
‘What?’
The police officer gave a small shake of his head.
‘But she knew we weren’t talking to the—’ Steve stopped. Did she? Had anyone made that clear to her? The prospect she might somehow have jeopardized the efforts of the police hit him. After all, that was the reason they’d been given in the first place: talking to the press might compromise the inquiry. ‘The investigation?’ Steve said.
‘They steered clear of that. It’s more of a profile piece, human interest, about Allie and Emma.’
Christ! And Emma? Who was Emma to talk about Allie? He stood so quickly the room spun. Heat flew down his back and his arms. ‘Is it online?’
‘I have it here.’ Yun Li opened his briefcase and handed Steve the tabloid, already open on page five. An exclusive.
Before Steve caught more than the headline Too Much Too Young, his phone rang. He picked it up and saw Emma’s name, hit the endcall button.
He began to read, his eyes snagging each time he saw the name Aled, each time Emma referred to Allie as ‘he’.
‘Of course I was concerned when I heard about Aled wanting to wear girls’ clothes. I’m not sure where he got the idea from. It all happened too quickly,’ Mrs Emma Moore tells our reporter. ‘He was still a child. How can a fourteen-year-old boy really know what he wants? I was terribly worried for him. The health risks alone associated with hormone treatment and surgery should give any parent pause for thought. On top of that there’s the danger of psychological problems. It’s hard to know how much he was doing it for attention or whether he was being unduly influenced by peer pressure. I felt he was putting himself in danger. Sadly, events have borne that out.’
Christ! She was blaming Allie for endangering herself. And, by extension, Steve for allowing her to transition. Blaming the victim. Outrage brought heat to his face, made his heart quicken.
‘I think this confusion about gender is an unfortunate symptom of wider social breakdown. Young boys need stronger role models. Men need to retain respect and authority.’
There were two pictures: the one of Allie they had released to the inquiry and one of her before transition, wearing a suit. He realized it was from Sarah’s funeral. Emma must have given it to them. He felt like weeping with rage.
‘How could she?’ he said.
‘The press can be very persuasive – words twisted, taken out of context.’
‘Oh, it’s all in context,’ he said, throwing down the paper. He knew he’d have to read it through but his throat was tight with anger.
‘She’s the last person in this family to talk about Allie. Is there anything we can . . .’ He let the sentence drop, knowing it was pointless. Right of reply, or calls for retraction, would fall on deaf ears. There was nothing strictly inaccurate in what he’d read so far, and all the references that grated were attributed to Emma, but it was Allie’s story seen through the prism of prejudice and ignorance. Smeared and distorted.
‘Ignore it,’ Yun said.
Does it matter? Steve asked himself, as he looked for clean clothes after his shower. But he knew it did. Set against the enormity of Allie’s death, Emma’s comments might seem trivial but Steve knew, he had learnt from his daughter, there was an unbreakable connection between language and representation, and the oppression and violence suffered by trans people.
He was coming downstairs when the doorbell rang. Expecting his parents, he opened it to find his sister there. She began talking quickly – he could tell she felt some measure of guilt, some responsibility for the article. ‘I should have asked you first but—’
‘There’s a word for what you did,’ St
eve said. He didn’t shout: he was cold and clear for a moment. ‘It’s called dead-naming.’
She looked perplexed.
‘When you use a trans person’s birth name, when you call Allie Aled, when you call her “him”, or she “he”, it’s dead-naming. She would hate that. I hate that.’
Emma frowned. She said quickly, ‘Well, I didn’t know and—’
‘No, you didn’t. How dare you speak about Allie at all? You had no right. All that shit about it being too young, too fast. Blaming her. Blaming us.’ His head swam, and his insides were churning. ‘I can’t talk to you now,’ he said. He shut the door and leant back against it, eyes closed, dry and aching. And eventually he heard Emma’s footsteps as she walked back down the drive.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Donna
There was a message for Donna, marked high priority, when she arrived at work. One name had been given three times in calls to the hotline. Anthony Mayhew. A name! Yes!
There’d been little further information: all the people who had come forward had chosen to remain anonymous, but one had mentioned an area too, claiming Mayhew lived in Newton Heath on the north side of the city.
Donna had to force herself to take off her jacket before she got down to work, reorganizing her strategy to accommodate the new lead.
She saw Jade arrive, early again. Trying to show willing? Donna asked her to check for that name on the database. Jade looked wan, with bruised shadows under her eyes, but her face lit up at the news, as if she’d suddenly been plugged in.
She was back in moments, holding a printout, and began to speak before Donna had finished emailing a reply to the lab concerning a comparison between the shoe marks on the body and the trainers confiscated from Bishaar.
‘One minute,’ Donna said, holding up her hand.
She heard the faint snick-snick sound as Jade picked at her nails. A tic Donna had noticed before. It set her teeth on edge. Jim bit his nails, always had, and Donna hated that too. Nowadays she’d clear her throat or, when she was close enough, touch his arm and he’d stop, for a few minutes, anyway. What with that and the snoring, she spent half her time with him feeling irritated. Or bored. The thought came from nowhere and she tried to quash it. All marriages had dull patches, didn’t they? Doldrums.
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