The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  Oh, Jesus.

  ‘There was no one in the car with him?’ Donna said. ‘He wasn’t giving a lesson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re satisfied he has no internal injuries, so Mr Bell will be referred to our cardiology department and his leg will be set in a cast. He’s on the assessment ward at present. If we can go down there.’

  The scraping back of chairs followed and the manoeuvring to get out of the confined space.

  On the way, Donna spoke to the older of the two officers, Sergeant Williams, trying to gather more details to surround the image she had of Jim slumped over his air bag and a man prone on the pavement. ‘Had he tried to stop, to slow down, do you know?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. The traffic investigators should be able to establish that in time.’

  ‘Who’s the young man?’

  ‘I can’t tell you at this stage. His family have still to be informed.’

  All the times she had said those exact same words. ‘Were there any witnesses?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  And a man on the ground with – what? His head smashed or his torso crushed?

  ‘How long did the ambulance take?’

  ‘Six minutes.’ Within the agreed targets.

  When she first saw Jim she couldn’t speak. His face was bloodied and cut, his complexion beneath sallow. Eyes closed, he looked to be in pain.

  She swallowed hard. ‘Jim?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘Donna.’ His lips twitched and she thought he was trying to smile. There was a haunted look in his expression. Did he know? Had he guessed?

  ‘They think you had a heart attack,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dr Vaughan put in. He drew the curtains round the bed.

  Jim’s leg was visible, crushed and misshapen below the hospital gown. They must have cut his clothes off. She saw something glinting in his hair. Glass? Fragments of glass.

  Donna pulled up a chair and took Jim’s hand.

  ‘I explained to your wife that we’ll be getting Cardio to take a look at you and get this leg strapped up as soon as we can. You’ve had some pain relief?’

  He nodded. Said tightly, ‘I could do with some more.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the nurse.’

  Jim’s eyes moved to the police officers. ‘I don’t remember a thing,’ he said. ‘The last thing I remember is leaving the ring road.’

  ‘I’ve got some difficult news, Mr Bell,’ Sergeant Williams said.

  Jim glanced at Donna. She pressed her fist to her mouth, looked away.

  ‘Oh?’ Jim said. Wary. Frightened, she thought. Of course he was.

  ‘Your car mounted the pavement on Audenshaw Road after you apparently lost control and . . .’

  Donna couldn’t watch Jim’s face as the officer continued to speak. She looked at his hand in hers, flecked with rusty smears. She put her other hand over it. Hold tight.

  ‘No!’ Jim said, when he heard about the fatality.

  Donna met his eyes then. He looked as if he was asking her to deny what he’d just been told. ‘A terrible accident,’ she said, her voice dry.

  ‘Who?’ Jim said.

  The police officer gave the same answer as he had to Donna: the victim’s family had to be told first.

  A terrible accident. And if Jim had seen the GP? If he’d done what she’d asked him to? The thought was hateful, traitorous, but she couldn’t suppress it.

  And how long before Jim, lost and shattered, thought it too?

  Jade

  Jade drove. No destination in mind, only the desire for movement. She barely noticed the traffic or the road conditions, her mind cart-wheeling back to the argument in the boss’s office.

  She increased her speed as she joined the motorway, hogging the outside lane, but no matter how fast she went she couldn’t outrun the scene playing in her mind.

  Teamwork, Jade.

  Where was the teamwork in firing her? Harris had crucified her. Not only grassing her up because she was on prescription meds but inventing stone-cold lies about her work. The missing tape, for fuck’s sake.

  A large 4x4 powered up to hang on Jade’s tail. She thought briefly of braking, giving the guy a scare, knew it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had and moved into the centre lane, flicking him the finger as he streaked off, gunning his engine. Dickhead.

  Jade had never even seen the CCTV tape from Fredo’s, let alone lost the thing. But the boss hadn’t listened to her. She was set on getting shot of Jade. Why? When Jade tried to argue her corner, the boss had shouted her down, loyal to her old pal. It was beyond unfair.

  To think Jade had been pleased to be working alongside Harris, that she considered him a role model, someone to respect, with his bravery awards, his years on the job. Someone to learn from. And he’d killed her career just like that.

  Why?

  The tape. She kept coming back to the tape. She’d never seen it. Had anyone? Did it even exist? Had Harris messed up collecting it and used her as a scapegoat? Had he lost it himself, or never had it in the first place? It didn’t make sense. None of it.

  What if she could find the tape? Prove to the boss that it had never been in her possession. Would Jade be listened to then? The pair of them were thick as thieves. They were claiming she wasn’t fit for work because she’d ballsed that up, lost evidence, but if she could show them it wasn’t true . . .

  That would be something, wouldn’t it?

  A chain of custody existed for every item of evidence. She would start at the beginning. Work out exactly when and where the CCTV recording had disappeared. That was her only option. That, or sit at home going mental.

  The next exit was two miles ahead. She took the slip road and skirted the roundabout until she was heading east, back to Manchester, ignoring the speed limit. Too riled to give a fuck.

  At Fredo’s, Jade found a band unloading their gear. A poster on the wall advertised tonight’s bill as Rising Stars: Doors open 8 p.m.

  Jade spoke to one of them, a girl in a tartan skate-dress and black suede knee-high boots, asking if she knew where the manager was.

  ‘Not sure. Clements let us in. I’ll get him.’

  The girl came back with Clements, a big, buff Afro-Caribbean guy, patterns shaved into his hair. He told her he was security. There was a thump as one of the band dropped a reel of cable onto the floor. Jade asked if there was somewhere quieter they could talk.

  ‘Sure.’ He jerked his head in the direction of backstage and took her to his office. The CCTV monitor gave a live feed of the activity on the pavement as the band continued to shift their equipment.

  ‘I’m following up for a colleague,’ Jade said. ‘You contacted us with information about the suspects in the Allie Kennaway inquiry.’

  ‘The tape, yeah.’

  So the tape did exist.

  ‘You thought the people on the tape fitted the descriptions of the suspects?’

  ‘Spitting image,’ the man said. ‘I showed him.’

  ‘Yes. Just to be clear . . .’ Jade drew out her phone and clicked on the photo-fits. ‘The two men looked like these two?’

  ‘Bang on.’ Excitement burst under her skin, stinging, sizzling. Jade recalled overhearing Harris’s scornful dismissal. Wants his eyes examining . . . One was a black guy and the other looked nothing like either of our photo-fits.

  ‘They were both white?’ Jade said.

  ‘Yes.’ Clements looked at her as if she’d lost the plot.

  What the fuck was Harris playing at? ‘You remember what time they were here?’

  He narrowed one eye. ‘It was just after eleven, five past, ten past. It’s on the tape – there’s a time-stamp.’

  ‘How were they behaving?’

  ‘Out of order. Pissed up, coked up, giving loads of abuse when I barred ’em. I told the other guy all this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jade said. ‘We wondered if you’d remembered anything else since then.’

  He shook his head. �
�No.’

  ‘Did you get a receipt for the cassette?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  Yes. ‘Not necessarily.’ Jade fudged it. ‘I’m just following up, like I said.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, you get me?’ he said, showing her out. ‘Two idiots like that, worse for wear, potty-mouths but kids. Half an hour later they’ve killed someone. Shocking.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jade agreed. And that’s not the only thing that’s shocking, believe me, mate.

  Steve

  At the police station reception desk, Steve asked for DI Bell in person. He saw the polite flicker of interest pass between the staff there when he gave his name. Them putting two and two together.

  One of the men made a phone call, then said DI Bell wasn’t available, but if he’d like to come back tomorrow . . . Putting him off. Seriously?

  ‘DC Bradshaw?’ Steve remembered the young detective’s name but not much more than that, except she’d been striking to look at, a gamine beauty with dark eyes, smooth brown skin and sharp cheekbones. And very young. Was she a trainee of some sort? He wanted someone who knew the score, who could tell him exactly what was being done. Not a novice.

  The man spoke to someone on the phone and said, ‘She’s not available either. If you’d like to call back in the morning, sir, or we can ask DI Bell to contact you when she comes in.’

  His frustration boiled over. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I want to see someone now and I’m not leaving until I do!’ He slammed at the counter with the heels of his hands.

  An officer in uniform coming through the door moved towards him, glaring, his hand going to the baton on his belt but one of the men waved him away. ‘It’s OK, mate.’ To Steve he said, ‘If you’d like to take a seat?’

  ‘I don’t want to take a seat. I want to talk to someone. Have they all gone home? Is anyone actually doing anything to get the bastards who killed my daughter?’ He could hear the anguish and rage in his voice but felt helpless to modify his tone. ‘Is there anyone actually here? Where is DI Bell? Why isn’t she here? She clocked off early, did she? My daughter—’ He was going to explode. He turned away, walked a few steps to the row of chairs by the windows. ‘Get me whoever is in charge,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  More phone calls. Steve listened to one side of it. ‘Yes, sir . . . Steve Kennaway . . . In Reception . . . Wants to see someone now . . . Yes, I have explained that . . . Yes, sir . . . Yes, will do.’

  Steve watched a couple outside, walking with a toddler between them. The child stopped suddenly, let go of their hands and turned to his father, who almost stumbled over him. The child had his arms raised, wanting to be picked up. His mother said something but she was smiling. Steve hated them for their happiness, their well-being. The father scooped the child up and set him on his shoulders. High as the sky. That’s what Teagan had called it when she was little. High as the sky, Daddy. Steve or Sarah must have used the phrase at one time or another for her to adopt it.

  The couple passed by, the dad holding the child’s ankles, the little one with his hands wrapped around his father’s neck.

  Not too tight or you’ll choke me . . . Was it Allie or Teagan who had held on too tight?

  ‘Mr Kennaway?’

  Steve turned.

  ‘If you come with me, sir, I’ll take you to see the acting SIO.’

  Steve frowned at the acronym. ‘The what?’

  ‘The acting senior investigating officer.’

  Steve was shown into a room with sofas, coffee-tables and a box of toys in the corner. A lounge without windows or a television.

  ‘He’ll be with you soon,’ the man said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No,’ Steve said, still angry. ‘I don’t want a drink. All I want is to see someone in authority.’

  ‘You will.’

  Left on his own, Steve circled the room as the minutes ticked by. Two. Then five. Then seven. He was building up to finding his way back downstairs to scream at them about the wait when a man entered.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Harris.’ He held out his hand, shook Steve’s. A firm grip. Warm skin. Big hands, big-framed. A thick neck, grey hair. Experienced, then.

  The sergeant sat, pulling at the knees of his trousers. A smart grey suit. Steve took a chair opposite him, the fury still travelling up his spine in waves.

  ‘First of all, my condolences,’ DS Harris said. ‘It’s a tragedy, what’s happened. A terrible waste. But how can I help?’

  ‘I want to know what’s going on,’ Steve said. ‘What’s being done to find the people responsible?’

  ‘You were allocated a family liaison officer?’ DS Harris said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He folded his hands together and leant towards Steve. ‘Their role is to act as a link between the investigation and yourselves.’

  ‘I know that.’ Steve struggled to keep his voice level. ‘But it’s not enough. Have you found any more witnesses? Has anyone else come forward? We’re getting told nothing.’

  ‘We all want the same outcome, Mr Kennaway, justice for your family. You must understand we never share operational information while we’re still actively investigating leads. But I can tell you we’ve received significant help from the general public and everyone here on the team is working one hundred per cent to trace and apprehend the suspects.’

  ‘Have you arrested anyone?’ Steve asked him.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ Did that mean they had?

  ‘I’m her fucking father!’ Steve yelled.

  The man stared at him for a moment, neon blue eyes steady, then went on in the same calm way: ‘As soon as we can release any information your FLO will be briefed and you’ll be the first to know. But I’m not going to lie to you. These things take time.’ He splayed his palms upward, a little apart, bounced them as though weighing the burden of the work. ‘It could be weeks, it could be months. But we won’t rest until we get a result.’

  Platitudes. What had Steve expected? Inside information, a slew of revelations about tip-offs from the public, names to match the photo-fits? A tour of the incident room?

  ‘Now, I really should get on,’ DS Harris was saying. ‘If there’s nothing else . . .’

  ‘I want her back,’ Steve said.

  ‘I can only imagine—’

  ‘No. Allie’s body. I want her back. Now. So, if there needs to be a second post-mortem can you just get on with it? Give me my daughter back.’ His voice shook and spit flew from the corners of his mouth but he didn’t care.

  ‘I’ll pass that through to the coroner’s office,’ DS Harris said, smoothing his tie. ‘We’ll see what can be done.’

  Steve didn’t want to leave. He felt cheated, short-changed, but there was nothing else he could say. Biting the inside of his cheek, his back like a board, he followed DS Harris down the stairs. The detective moved nimbly for such a large man, keeping up a brisk pace.

  In the reception area, he put out a hand to shake goodbye. Steve ignored it.

  ‘DI Bell, she is still involved?’ Steve said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ DS Harris said. ‘Just out of the office at the moment.’

  ‘Right. And DC Bradshaw?’

  The detective’s smile faltered for a second. Then he said, ‘She’s not in today.’ He seemed pissed off that the young DC wasn’t there. Maybe she was ill or something. Or perhaps DS Harris was just irritated by Steve taking up his time. He went on, ‘I’ll speak to the coroner and, any news at all, Yun Li will make sure you’re updated.’

  Outside, the sun was breaking through the clouds. High as the sky, Daddy. It was Allie who had held on too tight, he was almost certain. Time was, he’d been able to ask Sarah to sharpen the focus of his memories.

  I want her back, he thought. I want her back. I want them both back.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Donna

  Kirsten greeted Donna with a look of astonishment when she saw her waiting at the school gates. ‘Mum? Where’s Dad? Why are you here?’
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  ‘Dad had an accident in the car. He’s in the hospital.’

  ‘No! Is he OK?’

  ‘Yes . . . well, a broken leg.’

  Donna scanned the streams of children weaving through the playground. She was looking for Matt.

  ‘Are you making tea?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ Donna said.

  ‘We are having tea?’ Kirsten said, a familiar note of sarcasm creeping back into her voice.

  ‘I expect so,’ Donna said. Then, seeing Kirsten’s face, ‘Of course we’re having tea. I wouldn’t let you go hungry.’

  Matt collided with Donna, shouting, ‘Mum!’ His jumper was inside out.

  Kirsten told him about Jim.

  ‘Has he got crutches?’ Matt said. ‘Has he got a big plaster thing on?’

  ‘Yes. Well, he should have by now. Come on, I’ve parked over the bridge.’

  Donna only half listened to their chatter on the way to the car, her mind occupied with working out how to manage the next few days. If she could drop Matt and Kirsten off, perhaps Bryony could pick them up and walk them home. They would complain. The walk was a couple of miles. Or a taxi? Bryony could get a taxi from her school to the kids’ and then back to the house. Unless they used their bikes. Were the bikes all working? She could imagine Bryony’s response. ‘No way am I riding a bike.’

  Anyway, if they sorted themselves out with a snack Donna could get back by, say, seven and make tea. It’d have to be something quick and easy, pasta or pizza from the freezer. Continue with her most urgent work in the evenings. The weekend wouldn’t be so bad – she could do some work from home in between ferrying the kids to their activities.

  How long would it be till Jim was up and functioning? Christ, she felt guilty for even asking the question. Bones, legs, took weeks, didn’t they? Weeks till he could drive and carry and . . . Oh, God.

  Perhaps they could find someone, an au pair or something, to help out.

  ‘You’ll have to look after us, then,’ Matt said, as if he was reading her mind, ‘till Dad’s better.’