The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  He’d been up in the night again but said he just couldn’t sleep. He’d still not seen the GP, claiming he hadn’t been able to get through, but Donna wasn’t convinced. How persistent had he been? Had he even tried? He seemed to resent her asking about it. When Donna attempted to lighten the mood, asking him about his day, whether he had lessons booked, he didn’t answer, feigning distraction over some letter from school that he needed to check. She’d let it go.

  Donna pressed send and sat back, took her glasses off. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Anthony John Mayhew, date of birth, the nineteenth of January 1988. Lives on Summer Drive in Newton Heath.’

  Twenty-eight. A little older than Donna had expected.

  ‘He’s got a string of offences to his name: theft, affray, domestic violence. Most recently he’s served three years for rape. He was released on licence two months ago.’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Jade passed her the sheet of paper. There was no striking resemblance between Mayhew and the descriptions they had. Mayhew had a round, chubby face, a crewcut and thin lips. Dark hair and eyes. Could possibly be Man A.

  Donna considered whether to pick him up now or wait for a comparison of the DNA. She decided to go ahead. ‘Bring him in,’ she said to Jade. ‘But don’t arrest him. Invite him to attend an interview as a person of interest.’

  ‘Which he could decline,’ Jade said.

  ‘He’s out on licence so his status is precarious,’ Donna said. ‘Let’s see if he’ll cooperate. And if the DNA matches we’ll do a video ID with Bishaar.’ She felt a swirl of elation. This could be one of them. The man who’d beaten and kicked Allie Kennaway, who’d spat on her as she lay dying.

  * * *

  Martin came in and Donna signalled to him from her office.

  ‘Coffee?’ He held a polystyrene cup in each hand.

  ‘How did you guess?’ Donna said.

  ‘Psychic.’

  ‘You’re a star.’

  Donna took a sip. Martin looked tired too, like Jade had. Was she pushing them too hard? Expecting unreasonable hours? But that was the reality of a murder case. And some of us aren’t as young as we were, she tried to reassure herself. All the same, she said, ‘You OK?’

  ‘Never better. At least once I get this down me.’ He raised his coffee.

  ‘Well, we have a person of interest,’ Donna said.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Anthony John Mayhew,’ Donna said. ‘Three different callers.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ Martin said.

  ‘I’m not going to jinx it but . . .’ Donna grinned and took a long drink of coffee.

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Donna brought up the Mayhew file,

  ‘Not much like our photo-fits,’ Martin said.

  ‘It’s definitely not Man B, though the short hair fits. Could possibly be Man A, if he’s grown his hair a bit. It’s four years old, after all,’ Donna said. ‘And we already know Bishaar’s description of Man A wasn’t as accurate as Man B. Jade’s bringing Mayhew in for a chat, all being well.’

  ‘Nice work,’ Martin said. ‘Not wanting to burst your bubble . . .’

  ‘Oh, what now?’ Donna put her coffee down.

  ‘The Cavalier, the CCTV wasn’t working.’

  ‘On a Friday night?’

  ‘They’d had a problem with electrics the previous day, blown fuses. Anyway, they prioritized getting the tills and the kitchen up to speed. CCTV wasn’t back on until the Saturday.’

  Shit. Every time Donna felt the lift, the sense that she was gaining ground, something came along and dragged her back down. ‘That’s why you brought coffee,’ she said.

  ‘Not much in the way of compensation,’ he said.

  ‘No. Still, we have Mayhew, there’s hope yet.’

  ‘Always,’ Martin said, as he left.

  Yes, Donna thought, there is hope. And we’re moving forward. We are.

  Jade

  ‘What?’ Anthony Mayhew demanded, when Jade knocked him up, his eyes flicking from her to the constables accompanying her and the police car parked outside.

  He’d put on weight since his mugshot, grown a double chin, a paunch, and doubled the width of his limbs. Prison food obviously suited him.

  Jade explained his name had come up in connection with an ongoing investigation.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said.

  ‘Then it shouldn’t take us long,’ she said.

  ‘Fucking joke.’ He shook his head.

  Who’s laughing?

  ‘If you want to get dressed . . .’

  He was wearing a navy vest and some thin, grey sweatpants that had shrunk in the wash and ended halfway down his shins.

  He stood his ground.

  Oh, come on, don’t be an arse.

  ‘What’s going on?’ A woman’s voice came from the back of the flat. Mayhew ignored it.

  He gave a heavy sigh, muttered, ‘Fucking joke,’ again, and wandered back into what Jade guessed was a bedroom. She heard the exchange of voices, the woman’s sharp and agitated, his weary, cutting her off with blunt responses.

  Jade wondered if this woman was the one he’d been convicted of hurting, if she’d waited for him to do his time and come home. Or if she was a new partner, someone who hadn’t been put off by his convictions for domestic violence and rape. Perhaps she thought he’d been rehabilitated. That he’d learnt his lesson. Or that she could change him. Jade wasn’t sure people could change, not that much.

  Once they were established in the interview room, Jade cut to the chase. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Friday evening?’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘That’s right, Friday.’

  ‘Home.’ He didn’t elaborate but held eye contact. A challenge. Jade matched him, gave it three beats before she blinked, and said, ‘Anyone confirm that?’

  ‘The girlfriend.’

  Not the strongest of alibis.

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Michaela Swan.’

  ‘And what were you and Michaela doing that evening?’

  He gave a leer, chuckled and rolled back his shoulders. A sniggering kid. Twat.

  ‘Did you go into the centre of Manchester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you leave the property at all?’ Jade said.

  ‘No.’

  A brick wall.

  She didn’t think there was any point in pressing him until they’d spoken to Michaela about his alibi, keeping Mayhew here while they did so he couldn’t coach her. It was likely he’d already schooled ‘the girlfriend’ in what to say if the police ever came snooping.

  Michaela reminded Jade of a bird: scrawny, with a small beak of a nose, she made quick, jerking movements with her head and neck as she answered Jade’s questions.

  ‘Where were you on Friday evening?’

  Head back. ‘Here.’ Head jutting forward.

  ‘And Anthony?’

  ‘Here too.’

  ‘Between what times?’

  ‘From four. Why?’

  ‘Did either of you leave the house?’

  ‘No, we was in all night. Why?’ Head cocked to one side. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’re certain?’ Jade said.

  ‘Yes.’ Michaela folded her arms, puffed out her chest.

  ‘Did anyone call round?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what you think he’s done but he was here.’

  ‘OK,’ Jade said. She turned to go.

  ‘Is that it? What about Anthony? Where is he now? When’s he coming home? What you picked him up for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that at the moment. All I can say is, his name has come up in connection with an ongoing investigation.’

  A little shimmy of her head back and forth a couple of times. ‘What investigation?’

  Jade kept quiet.

  ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘No, he’s not under arrest.’

  ‘Good. Because he a’n’t d
one owt.’

  We’ll see about that. Jade had no idea if Michaela was telling the truth, or whether Mayhew was guilty, but the woman’s confirmation of his whereabouts certainly wasn’t strong enough to rule him out. Three people had seen the police appeal, seen the photo-fits, and rung in giving the same name. That had to mean something.

  The tiredness that Jade had been keeping at bay, thanks to the rush of progress at work, crept back through her as she returned to the station. It had been eleven thirty when Bert banged on the wall. And after three o’clock by the time he had finally been lifted and restored to an upright position by the emergency falls service, then had fought and won the debate about whether or not he needed to be checked over at the hospital.

  He’d gone down on the threshold between his living room and bedroom, smacked his temple on the chest of drawers and his nose on the floor. His face was covered with blood, and he looked like an extra from a slasher movie when Jade answered his call for help.

  ‘We can’t keep meeting like this,’ he’d said, when she arrived.

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  ‘There might be concussion,’ one of the falls team had said, as they argued about hospital.

  ‘Date of birth, twelfth of November 1926,’ Bert rattled off. ‘Prime minister still a bloody Tory. Do you want me to go through the months of the year backwards?’

  ‘I think that’s the dementia test,’ Jade said.

  ‘How many fingers, then, go on,’ Bert said, exasperation making his voice quaver. The whiskers on his chin were all white. If he stopped shaving, he’d have a white beard. Old men with white beards were usually fat, like Father Christmas or Captain Birdseye, but Bert was as thin as a stick.

  At long last, with Bert in bed, cup of tea to hand, Jade had told him she was going.

  ‘Thanks,’ Bert said. ‘Sorry for all the bother.’

  ‘So you should be,’ she said. ‘Just watch where you’re going. Pick your feet up. I told you last time.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘You stay in bed. I’m not coming round here again tonight if you do your falling-log act.’

  ‘Understood.’ She had her back to him but she could hear the smile in his voice. Daft old sod.

  Sonia

  After a sleepless night, Sonia had texted Cynthia at daybreak, claiming she’d got the bug that was going round and wouldn’t be in for work. There was always a bug going round.

  Still no word from Oliver and she was sick with worry, her nerves strung so tight she thought she might snap. Fly apart. In bits.

  She ached to see him, to sit him down and tell him how much she loved him, how much she cared for him. And after that? What would she say next? I’m your mum. It’s my job to look after you, to provide for you, to protect you, to raise you right. That was where things got tricky.

  If love was unconditional, then shouldn’t loyalty be, too? Could she defend him when he might have had a part in something so horrific?

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘He couldn’t.’

  Fighting tears, she made herself go on the police website and read the appeal, staring again at the pictures of the two men wanted for questioning. She played the video of the woman in charge, DI Bell, asking for help. She studied the photograph of Allie Kennaway.

  Perhaps Oliver should go away travelling, like a lot of kids did, these days. Wait until it’d all settled down. She might be able to get a loan from the Credit Union to pay for it. Then she imagined being found out, the shame of it. Sonia had never done anything wrong in her life.

  The cat yowled and she let it jump onto her lap. Running her fingers over its head, she could feel the fur slide over the bony skull. ‘What am I going to do, Puss?’ What the fuck am I going to do? She couldn’t carry on like this. It was killing her.

  * * *

  Halfway to the bus stop she saw Nicky, one of her neighbours, waiting there with the baby in the pushchair. Nicky’s head was bent as though she was using her phone. Sonia turned back sharply and walked instead the extra mile to the tram station, paying more to make the journey into town. But she couldn’t risk chatting to someone who knew her, and knew Oliver.

  The sun had come out, and the trees that lined some sections of the route were lush after all the recent rain. A riot of green. Part of her wished it was still raining: the sunshine, the clean blue sky, made her own preoccupations seem even sicker, more warped.

  A woman with a small child got on at Trafford Bar. She had dark coppery skin and wore African dress. A turban-style wrap on her head, a long skirt and tunic in a brilliant red and yellow print.

  The child was tired. He sat on his mother’s lap, his head bobbing lower and lower with the motion of the tram. The woman stroked his back over and over. Sonia remembered her own mother used to do that, stroke her back and sing. So very long ago. She had a keen desire to be a child again, to see her mum. A pang of loss. She closed her eyes and waited for the journey to end.

  Sonia smoked two cigarettes while she watched the comings and goings at the police station across the road. She tried rehearsing her lines but the words blurred and stuck, backing up together, like boxes blocked on a conveyor-belt.

  The city centre was busy and everyone she saw using the police station, or passing by, looked so ordinary, so normal. Some were carrying coffee or ice cream or shopping, others, tourists, pointing and shooting everything with their tablets, phones and cameras. A crocodile of schoolchildren in smart blue uniforms went past, skipping as they chattered.

  Only the appearance of a lad begging, a scarecrow of a kid with torn clothes, reminded her that everyone wasn’t living in some bubble of contentment.

  Sonia got out another cigarette then put it back. Her tongue was like pumice.

  The lad begging reached her. ‘Spare change, miss?’

  She gave him fifty pence. There were posters up saying you shouldn’t give them money, that it made it harder for them to get help, to get off the streets, but she always felt so mean ignoring them.

  When the lights changed she crossed the road and walked inside the building. In the reception area two men behind the counter were laughing about something, but as she got closer they stopped and the younger one asked if he could help.

  ‘I’d like to—’ She couldn’t get her breath. She coughed, sucked in air. Her face was greasy with sweat. ‘I’d like to talk to DI Bell.’

  ‘What’s it in connection with?’

  Her head was buzzing. She didn’t want to say, ‘Allie Kennaway’, she didn’t want to say ‘Murder’. There was a poster on the wall, appealing for help, that picture again – the girl in the green dress, with her wavy hair. Sonia pointed to the sheet.

  ‘Can I have your name?’

  ‘Sonia Poole.’

  ‘Please take a seat.’

  The younger man went out through the door behind Reception. The older one nodded and smiled at Sonia as she sat on one of the chairs. She looked away, unable to control the muscles round her mouth, to force a smile.

  There were cat hairs on her trousers and she hadn’t done her hair. She must look a right mess.

  The noise from outside was muffled in there. The man at the desk was typing on a computer, making a soft, clicking sound with his tongue as he worked.

  Sonia wanted to move. She felt constricted, trapped in her seat. All she could do was drum her feet lightly on the floor.

  Finally the younger man came in and said, ‘There’ll be someone down to see you shortly.’

  What would Oliver do – what would he say? – if he knew she was here?

  His face, his words came back to her. You’re fucking mental. Accusing me of killing someone. Just fuck off. You mad bitch.

  She was betraying her own child.

  Your own flesh and blood. That was what people said, didn’t they? And Blood is thicker than water.

  But hadn’t he already betrayed himself, betrayed her, chosen to do wrong, to deliberately hurt someone? Let it be a mistake, she pleaded. Let it b
e some huge, stupid mistake. She didn’t believe in God but she did believe in living life the best way you could, looking out for each other, working hard. She believed in kindness. It tore at her heart to think of the cruelty behind what had happened, to imagine Oliver capable of such violence.

  ‘Mrs Poole?’ A big man with grey hair, wearing a suit and a striped tie, stood inside a door to the left of the seating area. ‘Will you come this way?’

  She followed him into a small room where he invited her to sit down. He opened a notebook. He asked her name and address, her date of birth. She managed to answer but could feel the pressure swelling in her throat, and when he said, ‘You want to talk to us about the Allie Kennaway inquiry?’ she began to cry, gasping and unable to make her words clear.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said, as she shuddered and wiped her face with her hands. He didn’t say anything else, just waited. She appreciated his patience. He wasn’t pushy, and he didn’t seem embarrassed by her display.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, when she could talk again. ‘My son, Oliver . . .’ She paused. She got out her phone and opened the gallery, showed him a photo of Oliver from Christmas, swiped to a second. Oliver with the cat, Oliver grinning straight at the camera: the cat had done something funny, but she couldn’t recall what now.

  She thought the detective might react to the photos, make some comment but he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was in town on Friday . . .’ She told him everything in fits and starts. About Oliver acting oddly, about not knowing whom he’d been out with, about him coming home earlier than expected, missing work, avoiding her, about him washing his own clothes, and his shoes, about seeing his face on the television and their argument, and how he’d run away, come back when she was out and taken those clothes and shoes. ‘I don’t know what he’s done, I can’t believe he’d do . . . not that . . . not to anyone. I didn’t know what to do.’