Cath Staincliffe: Blue Murder

Lesley Tulley had found parking space in the Pay and Display beyond The Triangle shopping centre. Sometimes she’d drive round for ages looking for a place. She didn’t like the multi-storeys; huge and grim, they made her feel claustrophobic. She had got out to get a parking ticket, already planning which shops she needed to visit and where to start. Her sister’s birthday was the following weekend. What could she get? She drew out her mobile and rang her but wasn’t surprised when the answer phone kicked in. Saturday morning, after all. Lesley left a message.

A blue van slowed beside her, the driver leaving the car park, his eyes grazing ever so slightly down to her breasts, then back to her face. Eyes gleaming with appreciation. She didn’t let herself react, refusing to blush or flirt even when he wound down his window and spoke to her.

Lesley was used to her beauty, the attention it drew. Her large, dark eyes, fine bone structure, glossy brown hair, full mouth, the slim, shapely figure. It was her beauty that had brought her Matthew.

‘Queen,’ he’d called her, adopting a Liverpool twang. Joking, for he came from the comfortable suburbs and if his mother were still alive she would have been horrified at his Souse impersonation. ‘My Queen, you are,’ he’d said, ‘the most beautiful. I want to watch you for the rest of my life.’

She had laughed but he meant it and before long they were married and he would gaze at her for hours. Even now. She smiled.

In The Triangle Lesley bought the first thing that attracted her; a soft wool scarf, an abstract design of browns and cream. She chatted to the shop assistant about the colour; asked if there were any hats in that chocolate shade. She was peckish but she’d get Matthew’s shirt first. It was easy to shop for Matthew. He knew what he liked and what colours suited him. And for school he only ever wore a white shirt and a suit. She crossed to the department store and soon found what she wanted. She put the shirt in her basket and made her way down the escalators to the food section. Got a sandwich and a yoghurt drink.

She ate the snack in Millennium Gardens then went to Boots. There Lesley bought most of the holiday things they needed for their Easter break: sunscreen, mosquito spray, sunglasses. The carrier bag was heavy and she had to shift it from hand to hand as it bit into her fingers.

She hadn’t found anything for her sister’s birthday yet. Maybe something for the flat? Emma had moved recently into one of the new developments in the city centre. An old warehouse which had been converted into luxury apartments with views over the Rochdale canal and the railway, line. No garden but the buzz of being right in the middle of town, walking distance from the clubs and cafe bars. Lesley hadn’t seen the place yet but it sounded very stylish: angled ceilings and curved walls, glass blocks and wooden flooring.

She stared into the window and wasn’t sure whether the revivalist lava lamps and brightly coloured quirky clocks and ornaments would appeal to her sister or not. She’d try somewhere else. She crossed Saint Ann’s square, went past the church with its arched windows and round pillars. The mellow red sandstone seemed to glow in the harsh light. She reached King Street with its parades of exclusive shops. The window displays vying for attention; some adventurous and arty, others restrained with only a select item or two on show. She settled for a set of six tall wineglasses. Frivolous and fragile but beautifully frosted with spots of colour.

Janine rang Pete while she was getting dressed. She couldn’t remember what part of the shifts cycle he was on. He could be at work, at the airport. She hated it when Tina answered the phone. If he was in he’d probably complain, the short notice, the disruption. But there was no answer. She tried her mum next.

‘Janine, hello. How are you?’

‘Fine, Mum. Look it’s work. Could you have the children?’ She’d never say no though sometimes Janine wished she had a few more options open. Her parents weren’t getting any younger and the kids wore them out. Lately Dad had been ill, too, arthritis getting worse and his energy a fraction of what it used to be.

‘Of course, it’d be lovely,’ her mum said.

Janine chivvied the kids to get ready and hustled them from the house.

‘Why d’you have to work?’ Eleanor complained.

‘That’s how it goes, Ellie. If I get called up I have to go in.’

Tom ran to the car. Had he got his inhaler. ‘Tom?’ He knew what she was asking and patted his pocket.

‘Good boy.’ She caught sight of his trainers which were in an atrocious state. No time to sort that out today. There was never enough time. It had been even harder since Pete had gone. She hadn’t had the heart to advertise for a new home help, and as a result things felt chaotic.

‘Can’t we go to Dad’s?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Dad’s not in,’ Janine told her. And you’ll probably have to go there tomorrow if this turns out to be what I think it is, she added to herself.

Twenty minutes later she had deposited the children and driven to the new South Manchester headquarters. On the way, waiting at traffic lights, she had checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Dark hair with highlights cut just below chin length which framed her face, an attractive face, her eyes large, mid-blue, accented by a barely discernible trace of make-up. She’d a generous mouth, full lips and a good smile. She ran a sheer lipstick over her mouth.

It wouldn’t be her first murder; she’d worked plenty of those, but her first time in charge. What if she was wrong? What if she’d been summoned for, something completely different? What? What else could it be?

She knocked on The Lemon’s door, read the plaque for the umpteenth time: Detective Chief Superintendent L. Hackett, and heard him call her in.

‘Morning.’ He gestured that she take a seat. He looked across at her, intense blue eyes blazing out of folds of skin, mouth puckered, nose wrinkled. Usual expression, like he’d just sucked a lemon or had one shoved somewhere else. He was a sour man, his wit and laughter as acidic as the nickname she had given him.

Janine noticed that Hackett’s computer had crashed, a strange pattern of ghostly folders mosaiced the surface. It was common knowledge that Hackett was baffled by IT and refused even to read e-mails.

‘Sir.’

Hackett fiddled with a pen. ‘Lawson’s on long-term sick.’

She nodded. Stress. He’d cracked up after his wife left him. Everyone had seen it coming. Like an accident waiting to happen. Impossible to avoid. That moment when you saw the car ahead, computed the moment of impact and knew beyond any doubt that you would hit it. Lawson had lost it at Easter. Gone home early one day after smashing the mirrors in the gents. Never came back. She’d called, offered to visit but he said it would be better without his old team around. ‘Just need to sort it out, Janine, sort my head out, you know.’ Heart more like.

‘O’Halloran’s got the airport thing.’ The Lemon continued to list the ongoing murder investigations and the CID officers leading them. He was leading up to giving her a case. It couldn’t be anything else! She wished he’d get his skates on. He was tapping the pen against his blotter as he spoke. ‘Cragg has got annual leave. He reckons his missus will walk out if he cancels.’

‘New Zealand, they’ve family there,’ she said.

He glanced at her, irritated by the interruption. She kept her face set, pleasant and attentive. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He tapped the pen faster. ‘So I’m going to give you a crack of the whip.’

Her heart squeezed in her chest. About bloody time. Yes! Her own case. Leader of the gang. She fought not to beam at him like an idiot.