Cath Staincliffe - Blue Murder

Janine Lewis realised what was happening. ‘This way.’ She led Lesley to the Ladies, waited while she went into a cubicle. Impossible not to hear the noise of her vomiting. Janine leant against the wall and tilted her head back trying to squash the rising queasiness. Blame the pregnancy – anything would set her off.

In The Parkway pub on Princess Parkway, nineteen-year-old Ferdie Gibson, his head cropped so close that his scalp was visible, a badly executed tattoo of an eagle on his neck, rolled up to the bar and ordered two Stellas. The giant-sized TV screen above broadcast Man U’s fixture. Ferdie sauntered over to the corner where his mates were. He passed Colin his drink.

‘Ow yer doin’, Ferdie?’ someone said.

‘Aright.’

‘Tosser,’ one of the lads screamed at the screen. ‘Did you see that?’ He swung round challenging the others to share in his indignation. ‘Total crap. They ought to cut his legs off.’

Ferdie sat down, took a swig of his drink, the eagle on his neck rippled. Ferdie waited for the right moment then leant forward. ‘You lot, you heard the news?’

‘What?’

‘Bout Tulley? Someone’s done him. He’s history.’ Ferdie Gibson gave a wide grin. ‘Down the allotments, he was. Knifed they reckon. They took him away in a body bag. He’s dead.’ Ferdie’s eyes gleamed. ‘Come on, you lot, I’m buying.’ Ferdie flourished a twenty pound note and winked at Colin. ‘We,’ he announced ‘are going to get plated.’ Laughter swirled around the group but Colin glanced away, uneasy. Then Beckham scored and the whole place erupted.

‘I just need to lie down,’ Lesley said. Her voice was shaky; even her skin felt tight and tired.

‘Okay.’ Emma said. ‘Anything you want? Tea?’

‘No, I’ll go up, try to sleep.’

Lesley reached the door and rested there a moment. ‘It’s like a dream, Emma. I keep thinking I’ll wake up,’ her mouth quivered and she turned away.

As she walked into the bedroom she tried to comprehend the fact that Matthew would never be here again. Not here, in this room, not in this bed, not in this house. It was a life she could not imagine. To be without him every hour of every day for the rest of her life. She closed the heavy blue woven curtains, removed her earrings and her clothes. The room was warm but she shivered and she pulled a long, soft, cotton night-dress from her dressing table drawer. She lay down at her side of the bed. How long till she took his pillow away? Grief clutched at her throat and she made a choking sound. Matthew’s dead, she told herself. Matthew is dead. Matthew is dead. Sobbing, she repeated it to herself over and over until she was exhausted and had no more tears.

‘Briefing in half-an-hour. Make sure everyone knows.’

‘Yes, boss.’ DC Jenny Chen nodded and withdrew.

When Chen had closed the door, Janine slipped off her shoes and stood for a moment, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension around her neck, then kneading the small of her back. She stretched her arms up towards the ceiling and stood on tiptoe, repeated the movements several times and then made tea.

A decent cup of tea. Eighteen months ago the powers that be had installed monstrous catering machines throughout the division. They dispensed tea, coffee, chocolate, soup, Bovril and, this being the North West, Vimto. She’d tried a taste of the coffee. Once. In a briefing meeting with The Lemon. Janine had taken one mouthful from the polystyrene cup and gagged at the smell, redolent of rotting mushrooms, and at the unidentifiable bitterness which brought back memories of the stuff her mother used to paint on her nails to stop her biting them. The silky texture of the man-made creamer coated her tongue like chalk. She had leant forward as if to take a second sip and discreetly released the mouthful back into her cup, swallowed hard and brought her full attention back to the meeting.

The following day Janine had made time for a lunch break and had returned to her office with a small kettle and cafetiere, a selection of teas and coffees and a dinky mini-fridge which she plugged in and proceeded to stock with mineral water, milk and fruit juices. Sorted.

She put her feet up and began a list of items to cover at the briefing meeting. Initial reports would be given and tasks assigned to the various teams involved in the first frantic stages that followed the discovery of a body. She worked steadily, her concentration betrayed by the way she pulled and twisted her hair with her left hand.

She was interrupted by her phone. It was Michael.

‘Mum, can you give me a lift home?’

‘Where are you?’

‘The Trafford Centre.’

‘The Trafford Centre? I’m at work, Michael. Why can’t you get the bus? Or try Dad.’ Teenagers were like toddlers, Janine thought, the centre of their own universe, constitutionally unable to put themselves in any one else’s shoes.

The phone went dead. ‘Hello?’ Janine tried to call him back but there was no answer. She shook her head. What was he playing at? ‘They seem to think their father’s incapable,’ she muttered to herself.

There was a sharp rap at the door and The Lemon came in. Janine slid her feet down. Wished she had her shoes on.

‘Sir?’

‘These actions, Chief Inspector Lewis,’ he waved the sheaf of paperwork she had sent through. ‘Some sort of joke?’

Janine frowned.

‘The forensics alone will wipe out the budget and as for overtime,’ his lips compressed with impatience and he threw the papers onto her desk. ‘We’re not a bloody charity, you can’t trot around slapping it all on a credit card either. Get that back on my desk by the end of the day and cut thirty percent.’ And he swept out.

Tight bastard, she thought to herself. They all knew that you had to account for every penny spent in these days of Best Value but she really hadn’t gone over the

top.

Bobby Mac, a homeless man, was roaring drunk. Wheeling round and round on Market Street, his over coat flying out like a Cossack’s skirt. He tried to kick a leg out and stumbled backwards, knocking into a stroller pushed by a young man. ‘Piss off,’ the lad shouted. ‘Watch the baby. Bloody nutter.’

Bobby scrambled to his feet, swung round. Who was calling him? He’d have ‘em. People looking at him. ‘Piss off,’ he echoed, ‘go on the lot of you.’ He ran at a knot of teenage girls. They scattered, squealing and swearing.

‘Come on, now.’ One of the Big Issue sellers moved towards Bobby. ‘S alright. Calm down, calm down. It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’

‘Bugger off,’ said Bobby though his manner was less aggressive. ‘What you looking at?’ He shrieked at the Saturday afternoon crowd gathering round.

The busker playing the saxophone stopped and bent to collect his change.

‘I’m as good as you. I was in the army. BFPO BFPO…’ He couldn’t remember the number. ‘I had a wife and an ‘ouse. I had a wife.’ He stopped, suddenly bewildered. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, teetering on his feet. The men at the stall selling inflatable hammers, umbrellas and socks, four pairs for a pound, were watching.

‘Sit down, mate,’ the Big Issue bloke nodded to the benches in the middle, ‘have a rest. Come on.’ He put his hand out.

‘They want to clear them off the streets,’ a woman’s voice rang out. ‘Beggars.’

‘Keep away.’ Bobby’ eyes narrowed. Spit flew as he spoke to the paper seller. ‘I know your sort. You’re just like the rest.’

The vendor moved away, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

‘Well, I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I know how to look after myself. I was a soldier. BFPO. Yes sir!’ he shouted. Fumbled in his coat. Coughed and hawked a gob of phlegm to the floor. He withdrew the knife with a clumsy flourish. ‘Used to be bayonets. See?’ He pushed it at the boy. ‘See?’