Cath Staincliffe - Blue Murder

Her Nana got her Coco-Pops when she stayed there but she only let Jade eat them in the morning not whenever she got hungry. The best bit was how the milk turned to chocolate milk, all swirly and sweet. Jade reckoned she could eat a whole packet and not get sick of them.

Jade hated Sunday. Everything was horrible. She couldn’t even watch the cartoons till Mam stopped crying. It wasn’t fair. When Mam was going with Alan they went to Wacky Warehouse on a Sunday and Alan’d buy her sweets and she could play while Mam and Alan had a drink and then they’d get a bar meal. Chicken nugget and chips, she always had, and a Coke with ice cubes and two straws. But Alan was going with someone else now.

‘Jade,’ her mam called ‘Jade, come here.’

She ran downstairs and into the lounge. Mam was still in her nightie and there was a pile of squashed up bits of toilet paper on the settee from her blowing her nose. Her face was all shiny and big and red. She looked ugly.

Jade saw the police car drive past the window and slow down. Her belly started to hurt.

‘Jade, come here,’ Mam sounded like a little girl as she patted the seat beside her. Jade went over and slid onto the settee. Her mother put an arm round her and pulled her close. Mam’s breath stank horrible. Jade tried not to breathe.

‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘Even when I’m not happy, I still care about you. I do my best. You’re all I’ve got Jade. If anything ever happened to you…’ her voice squeaked.

Jade thought of the tent on the allotments. The bad men who waited there. Nonono, not that. She felt sick.

‘I’d like to do more for you, Jade. Get you nice things and that.’

A big bowl of Coco-Pops.

‘But we’ve just not got the money,’ a catch in her throat like she’d swallowed a toffee.

Jade squeezed her eyes tight shut. Waited. Mam shivered. ‘If I had it, Jade, I’d get you such lovely things.’

‘Mam, can we go to Nana’s?’ Sausages and fluffy mashed potato and onion gravy.

‘I don’t think so,’ Mam whispered.

Jade wanted to hit her. ‘Please? Can I go then? Please? I can go on my own.’

‘Yer not going on yer own. It’s not safe.’

‘You could put me on the bus.’

‘I don’t think we’ve even got the bus fare, Jade.’

‘We could walk. Please, Mam, please?’ In the wait Jade smelt hope.

‘She might not be in.’

Of course Nana would be in. She was always in except when she went to the doctors. Her knee was bad and her chest all wheezy. ‘Like puffin’ Billy, I am,’ she always joked.

‘I’ll go ring,’ Jade clamoured. Mam hesitated then went for her purse in the kitchen. She fished out 10p and gave it to Jade who ran out of the house to the phone box before her mam could change her mind.

In the car Janine radioed through and sent Butchers to check out Ferdie’s version of events with Colin.

‘Pronto,’ she said, ‘I want him checked out before anyone gets on their sweaty little mobile to warn him.’

‘Spitting distance, boss. Five minutes.’

‘Ring me when you’re done.’

Butchers found the static van and surveyed it from the outside. There was no noise and only the one car nearby so it didn’t look like Colin had company. Butchers stepped up to the door and knocked. He heard clattering from inside and then the door was jerked open. The young bloke stared at him for a moment, then his eyes darted away.

‘Colin? DS Butchers. Got a moment?’

Colin stood back and let him in. Butchers eased himself through the narrow doorway and into the kitchenette. He saw steam from the kettle, general clutter.

‘Kettle on?’ Butchers asked him.

‘Only got coffee.’

‘Two sugars, ta.’ While Colin fussed with cups and jars, Butchers made a small tour of the place. Fish tank that had seen better days, he thought he could make out a couple of corpses in the slimy water, cartons of fags – duty free or black market – and a copy of the evening paper on the table. Allotment Slaying .

‘You on your own here?’

Colin nodded, brought the drinks over to the table. Butchers sat carefully on a stool and skimmed the paper. Colin watched his every move, the pulse in his neck visible.

‘Yesterday morning?’

‘What?’

‘Where were you, Colin?’

‘Here.’ He kept swallowing as though the lie was caught in his throat.

Butchers put the paper down. ‘Really?’

Colin stared at him.

‘Ferdie Gibson. Your mate, or so he says…’

‘What?’

‘What do you know about Ferdie Gibson and that school teacher that’s been killed?’ Butchers regarded him, neutral expression, open face. Waited.

Sweat broke out on Colin’s upper lip. ‘Well Ferdie had a go at him but that was ages back.’

‘Good friend is he, Ferdie?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Only at the moment he seems to be relying on you to back up his story. See him, yesterday, did you?’

‘No. Yes.’ Colin said, panic mixing him up. ‘I mean-’

‘Or d’you need Ferdie to remind you what’s what?’ Butchers leaned a little closer, spoke softly. ‘You’re not cut out for this, are you? Stress. It’s a killer, you know.’

Colin was shaking.

‘We can deal with Ferdie. You help us out.’

‘Don’t know what you’re on about,’ Colin said quickly and grabbed his drink.

Janine added to her supermarket shopping list while she waited. Ten minutes later Detective Sergeant Butchers reported that Colin had been in bed till one when Ferdie called. They’d sent out for pizza then gone to the pub, The Parkway, and watched the match.

‘Thanks.’

‘Something else, boss.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was scared witless, nearly did a runner when he opened the door and saw me, like he was expecting a visit. Maybe no connection to the case but he was guilty of something, shaking like a leaf.’

‘Worth putting a bit of pressure on?’

‘I should say so.’

‘Get someone to check out his form, I’ll put Chen on obbos for Ferdie Gibson – see where he goes once we’ve left here.’

She broke the connection and sat back in the seat. What had rattled Colin’s cage then? Having to give a false alibi for Ferdie? Though she wondered if Ferdie would have been quite so cocky if he was the guilty party. Then he’d have toned his act down a bit, surely? Whatever it was she’d do her best to ferret it out. And Colin, the weaker link, might be the best place to start.

Butchers, after calling on Colin, returned to his stint on house-to-house, covering the terraced properties along the two streets that skirted the allotments. More ticks were appearing on his list, each indicating that all residents at an address had been seen. There were now only three households where as yet they had failed to talk to anyone. Pensioner Eddie Vincent and the Smiths on Gorton Avenue, and Dean Hendrix on Denholme Avenue.

He would start with the Smiths, number three, near the main road end of Gorton. Woman and her young daughter lived there. Sunday morning he hoped would be a good time but again there was no reply when he knocked. The bell didn’t appear to work. He gazed at the dirty white door. The frame was in need of paint, bare wood showing through. Butchers was a keen DIYer, though he preferred the term craftsman. This weekend he should have been building his barbecue, at the side of the patio. He’d got a great design, simple lines with some nice edging, brick supports, place to keep the plates and the utensils, cover for bad weather.

‘You’ve missed ‘em, love,’ Mrs Across-the-Road called to him. ‘They’ve gone out.’