The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  When she’d gone into the pub and told them she was following up on an earlier visit, all she’d met was a wall of confusion. Rather than keep banging on that door, she’d changed tack: ‘Sorry, must have got my wires crossed. It’s CCTV footage from Friday evening we’re after.’

  The lad who was manager must have been practising his customer-service skills and couldn’t do enough to help: navigating the system’s hard drive, locating the time period, copying the files from three separate camera feeds into one folder, which she could upload to her phone.

  Jade selected the feed that came from the entranceway first. Candida Gallego had encountered the two men at ten forty. Jade started the footage a couple of hours earlier and set it playing on double-speed looking for the suspects arriving, reckoning she could pause and take a closer look for any likely sightings.

  There! She stabbed pause and rewound, holding her breath, and there they were. Oh, God. At nine thirty-three. Nods to the door staff. The film was in colour: she could see the dark-haired man wore a lemon shirt, while his mate was clearly a redhead and instantly recognizable from the photo-fit. Candy had been right: Man A had a bigger mouth and different eyes from the ones on the police image. She reran the section, stopping it at the point where both men were most clearly visible. Staring at them for long enough, her stomach churning. Gotcha. Yes, there was still the need to put names to faces, to hunt them down wherever they were hiding, but here they were, the pair of them. The men who’d killed Allie Kennaway.

  Thirsty, she fetched herself a can of Red Bull and sat down again. Jumping forward in time Jade saw Candy and her friend leaving the Cavalier and then, ten minutes later, the two suspects came out. Another waymark for the timeline. Jade drank her can in three long swallows. Burped and caught a taste of lamb fat.

  Over the next hour she traced the movements of the two men while they were in the Cavalier. She tagged them getting drinks at the bar twice and going into the Gents together. That could have been when they’d done some lines – Clements had said they were coked up when he barred them.

  The angle of the cameras and the crush of people meant that the altercation with Candy and her friend was not recorded but Jade could see Candy’s back at one point, see her shaking her head and slashing her palm crosswise as if she was cutting off the approach.

  Jade paced the room as she listed what she now knew. DS Harris had taken the tape from Fredo’s and pretended that Jade had lost it. He’d failed to collect any CCTV from the Cavalier. He’d lied about both items. Why? Was he having a breakdown? Or was it booze, maybe? Though usually you could smell a boozer even if they sucked mints or swigged mouthwash: the alcohol seeped through the pores. It drew veins across the face, ballooned the nose and set hands trembling.

  Maybe he had other problems – gambling or money troubles, an affair gone nasty, something that was sucking up his time and attention while he pretended to be working the case.

  It didn’t add up, though. Harris could have left her to do the Cavalier but he had volunteered. Why volunteer if you’re not capable? Was he sabotaging the investigation? Why? Was he dirty? Was someone paying him to derail their efforts? Or pressurizing him to pervert the case?

  Or was it something closer, more personal? He had a son, didn’t he? Trying for the football. How old would he be? She stood stock still, hands braced over her head. That was crazy! Football, they started them young, didn’t they? Primary school. Could one of them be his son? She picked up the tablet, looked at Man A, frozen on the screen. She couldn’t see any resemblance between him and Harris. Nothing – different build, different hair colour, features, different eyes. Same with Man B. The only thing he shared with Harris was his height.

  Fact: Harris had interfered with the CCTV line of inquiry. Had he done anything else? She thought about the woman who had come in, the medium. Harris hadn’t liked Jade asking about her, and he hadn’t entered her details in the system. Poole. Sonia Poole. The psycho psychic.

  Jade shivered and rubbed her arms. Back in her seat she searched online for that name and found an entry in Firswood.

  It was two in the morning. She couldn’t reasonably turn up on someone’s doorstep until – what? – eight? Not unless she was arresting them. Shit. Itching with impatience, she circled the room.

  Either Harris was losing it, falling apart on the job, or it was something more intentional. Whatever, the boss needed to know. I’m a big girl. I’m not going to throw a tantrum if one of my officers wakes me in the night with breaking news about a critical development. Jade had to make her listen. Listen long enough to get over the fact that Jade had carried on as though she was still part of the team, had kept working even though she’d been told to step down and see HR.

  She rehearsed what she’d say. ‘Boss, I need to talk to you. There’ve been some serious irregularities in the investigation. You need to see them.’ No mention of the DS for now or the boss might cut her off. Jade dialled but it went to voicemail. She said her piece and added, ‘Can you ring me back as soon as you get this?’

  Please, please, ring me back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Donna

  As she made her way downstairs to sort out breakfast and packed lunches, Donna listened to the voicemail from Jade with a sinking feeling. Which part of Step down and see HR did she not understand? Irregularities in the investigation? When Jade herself had been instrumental in compromising evidence. Donna couldn’t ignore the message: that would be irresponsible. At the very least she needed to know what Jade was on about but she was wary of encouraging any paranoia, if that was what was going on.

  There was no bread. How could there be no bread for sandwiches when there was almost a full loaf last night?

  Donna rummaged through the freezer but there was none in reserve. Kirsten was already up so Donna sent her to the corner shop, which should just be open. Kirsten came back empty-handed. ‘They didn’t have any.’

  ‘How can they not have bread? Bread, milk, biscuits, loo rolls, papers.’ She counted off the basics that people would spend over the odds on for convenience.

  Could she fob the kids off with crisps and fruit? Doubtful. ‘We’ll buy you a sandwich on the way,’ she said.

  ‘Cool.’

  Donna looked at the clock. ‘What time do the twins get up? And Bryony?’

  Kirsten shrugged.

  ‘Go and wake them all, and Matt.’

  Before long she heard banging overhead and Bryony shouting, ‘Don’t take all day.’ Obviously beaten to the bathroom. Bryony came in and peered into the bread bin. ‘There’s no bread,’ she said.

  ‘Funny. Someone must have eaten it all,’ Donna said.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ Bryony retorted.

  ‘There’s cereal,’ Donna called at Bryony’s departing back.

  ‘She doesn’t like cereal,’ Kirsten said.

  Since when?

  ‘Can we see Dad today?’ Matt had surfaced, his hair sticking up at all angles.

  ‘Hope so,’ Donna said. ‘I’ll ring the hospital a bit later, find out when visiting time is.’

  ‘Where’s my PE kit?’ Kirsten said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Donna said. ‘Where is it usually?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, go and look for it.’

  ‘Dad would know,’ Kirsten said.

  Donna gritted her teeth. ‘Dad’s not here.’

  Kirsten sighed, and her thin shoulders slumped.

  ‘Kirsten, it’s not going to magically appear out of thin air. Look in your room, then check the hall and the utility room. Now!’

  Kirsten threw her a malevolent glare and stomped off.

  ‘Hurry up and eat that,’ Donna said to Matt. ‘Then get dressed.’

  He mumbled something to her, his mouth bulging.

  ‘Say that again, without the granola.’

  ‘It’s dirty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My uniform,’ he said.

  Oh, Christ. �
�You’ve got a spare.’

  ‘It’s my old one. It’s too small.’

  ‘Up to you,’ she said. ‘Dirty or small.’

  He pressed his spoon into the milk in his bowl, lifted it slowly, did it again. Daydreaming.

  ‘Matt!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go now. Put one of them on.’

  She had to go in search of Kirsten who had emptied all her drawers onto her bed and was sifting through the contents. ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to leave it. We’re going to be late. I’ll write you a note.’

  In the hall, Kirsten took an age putting on her shoes and Donna knew she was doing it on purpose but resisted challenging her and prompting a full-blown hissy-fit.

  She chivvied Matt and Kirsten into the car, then went back into the house to give Bryony taxi money in case it rained. By then Bryony was in the shower. ‘I’ll leave it on the table,’ Donna shouted to her.

  They stopped at a Tesco Express on the way to school. She let Kirsten and Matt pick out their lunches, and chose something for herself to eat at her desk. She scooted to the bakery shelves and put two large loaves into the basket, one white, one wholemeal.

  ‘Nobody likes brown,’ Kirsten said.

  ‘I do,’ Donna told her. ‘The twins do.’

  ‘They don’t,’ Matt chipped in.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Donna erupted, shouting at the top of her voice. ‘Why are you all so bloody picky?’

  Kirsten burst into tears. ‘I hate you,’ she wailed. ‘I want Dad.’

  Don’t we all.

  Donna ran to swap the loaf, ignoring the black looks she was getting from the cashier. Crap parent out of control, no discipline. Kirsten’s sobs grew louder. Oh, pack it in.

  In the car, Donna simply said, ‘That’s enough now, Kirsten. It’s hard for us all without Dad, and if he were here I think he’d want you to be as helpful as possible. Don’t you?’

  Kirsten coughed and sniffed and gradually quietened, and Donna concentrated on the traffic, eager to get them to school and off her hands as quickly as she could.

  * * *

  ‘Boss?’ Martin put his head round the door. ‘How’s Jim?’

  ‘Comfortable, they say. They’re doing tests today.’ Donna sighed. ‘There was a fatality. He lost control of the car and drove into a pedestrian. A young man.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Martin stepped in and shut the door behind him. ‘Should you be here? I can manage.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d rather be here. It’s not as if sitting by his bedside is going to solve anything and the kids are all at school so . . .’ She gave a shrug. Should she be at his bedside? Wouldn’t a loving wife be there, helping him through this? But there are visiting hours, she told herself, with a sense of reprieve. She had rung the hospital and written them down. She’d go on her own before lunch, then with the kids in the evening. ‘I’m going in for eleven-ish if you can cover for me until I’m back.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Guess who called me in the middle of the night.’

  He grimaced. ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘She did. Left a message. I think she may have been pursuing the case,’ Donna said.

  Martin looked askance. ‘That is way out of order.’

  ‘I know. I’ll deal with it.’ Donna had returned Jade’s call but Jade hadn’t picked up so Donna left a carefully worded message inviting her to come in as a witness and give a statement to someone separate from the inquiry about any ‘irregularities’. Donna wanted to keep Jade at a distance to protect the investigation.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Anthony Mayhew – done and dusted?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘Taken home as soon as you left yesterday. I told the team we’d have a briefing this morning. Do you still want to go ahead with that?’

  ‘Sure, yes. We could say ten o’clock or—’

  Her phone rang, the forensics lab, and she signalled to him to wait so they could agree a time. ‘Hello?’

  ‘The familial DNA tests you requested in the Allie Kennaway investigation . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have a hit, a familial match to Man A.’

  Yes! Donna felt the sizzle of adrenalin spark her nerve endings. ‘Excellent.’ She pulled her notebook over, pen ready.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ Something in the way he said it gave her pause and sent shivers up the back of her neck. ‘The match is to a serving police officer.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ It was regrettable when an officer’s relative was involved in a serious crime but not unheard of. Police officers’ DNA profiles were routinely included on the database so if they accidentally left traces at a crime scene they could be discounted. She looked across to Martin, standing by the door, concern visible on his face.

  ‘The markers indicate a paternal connection,’ the voice at the other end of the line was saying. ‘We’re looking at father and son.’

  ‘OK,’ Donna said. So Man A’s father was in the service.

  ‘The match is to Detective Sergeant Martin Harris.’

  A punch to her guts. Martin! Donna couldn’t speak for a moment, her mind locked in confusion. A blur of heat filled the back of her skull. A rush of vertigo made her feel like she’d swoon. ‘Thank you.’ She ended the call.

  ‘You OK?’ Martin said. ‘Is it Jim?’

  ‘No.’ Her tongue was thick in her mouth. ‘Martin . . .’ The blood was beating in her ears. She felt unsteady. Did he know? He must. Her thoughts knotted, jumbled. Serious irregularities in the investigation. Why does he want rid of me? Jade’s words.

  Donna forced herself to speak. ‘Last night I requested another look at the DNA. Specifically, familial testing.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said.

  She pressed her knuckles together for a moment, hoping to hide the tremble in her hands. ‘There’s been a positive match.’

  ‘But that’s brilliant.’ His eyes shone, blue lightning, a smile on his lips.

  ‘A match to you, Martin, a match between you and Man A.’

  He looked puzzled. The smile fell away. Then he staggered, crumpling, catching the edge of the chair opposite hers, which rocked and slid beneath him before tipping him onto his knees.

  ‘Jesus!’ Donna ran to help him up until he could sit. ‘I’ll get a first-aider,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He rocked forward and back, gave shuddering breaths, his hands clamped to his knees.

  He had one son, she knew that. Dale. The light of his life.

  Martin looked at her. Tears stood in his eyes. ‘He wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘He’d never do something like that. Never.’

  What could she say? The evidence was there. His son had been at the scene. Martin must have known. And covered up the fact. All the stuff with Jade, was there a connection? Was it a smokescreen, a distraction? The evidence she’d allegedly lost was meaningless. Martin had said it was meaningless. Donna had never seen it. Oh, shit. She felt sick, and there was a rushing sensation in her head.

  ‘Martin, I’m going to have to ask you—’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll have to withdraw. Understood. There must be some mistake, Donna. There must be. Our Dale—’ His voice broke. He was still breathing heavily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And I have to ask you to remain here at the moment.’

  While we go and arrest your son.

  ‘Yes.’ His face was working with emotion.

  ‘Can I fetch you some water or would you like some fresh air?’

  ‘Fresh air, maybe.’ He stood and Donna waited to see if he’d keel over again. He looked shocking. ‘You’ll want my phone,’ he said, ‘my notebook.’

  ‘Just for now. And I’ll have to notify Professional Standards, even if there’s no—’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes filled again.

  His visceral reaction and his patent shock were compelling. Had he really been working alongside her, sitting in the meetings, talking to witnesses, allocating tasks, knowing all
along who they were looking for?

  ‘He’ll be at home now,’ Martin said quietly. At the doorway, he paused and looked back at her. ‘I’d have known if he was involved. I’d have seen it. He’s got his trials on Saturday. It can’t be right.’ He was dazed.

  Donna didn’t speak. She watched him leave. A ruin of a man.

  And a traitor.

  Sonia

  As soon as she’d woken, after a night of ugly dreams and restlessness, the dread came rushing back. She checked her phone, at the side of the bed, but there was no word from Oliver.

  Carry on as normal. That was what the detective had said. How? She tried to imagine turning up at the laundry again, recovered from her twenty-four-hour bug, making chit-chat with Cynthia, banter with the regulars, waiting for the talk to turn to the murder, to the suspect who looked like Oliver. She couldn’t do it.

  She sent a text: Still sick, sorry. Will text u when Im over it. Maybe Govinda can fill in? She’d not heard if Govinda had found any other work.

  After a shower, she had coffee and smoked. No appetite. The thought of swallowing made her want to heave. The jittery feeling wouldn’t settle, her blood fizzing in her veins, her head light.

  She needed to move, to keep active, shake off some of the tension and tire herself. Fetching the vacuum-cleaner she began with the stairs. Above the whine she heard thumping and it took her a moment to understand that someone was at the door.

  Usually Sonia could place the people who turned up unannounced when she saw them, a combination of their clothing and manner that defined them as officials, odd-jobbers, Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, meter-readers, charity collectors, or sales advisers flogging windows, plastic guttering, or a better deal for dual fuel. The woman on the doorstep was impossible to categorize. Asian with a punky haircut wearing a leather jacket. Was she collecting for something?

  ‘Sonia Poole?’

  She knew her name. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Constable Bradshaw.’ The woman showed her ID card in a leather wallet, a shield at one side. The police. Sonia’s stomach flipped. They’d found Oliver. Oh, God.