Cath Staincliffe: Blue Murder

‘I’ll get that,’ Richard said.

Janine heard voices outside, clamouring for answers. Can we have a statement? How is Mrs Tulley? Who’s leading the enquiry?

‘No comment, gentlemen.’ Richard re-joined them. ‘The Press.’

Janine got up and moved across to close the curtains. ‘Lesley, keep all your curtains closed. Use your answerphone, don’t talk to the Press.’ She switched on a lamp. ‘It’s important that they only use the information we release to them. Okay?’

Lesley rubbed at her arms, gave a brief nod. Trying to hold it together.

Janine’s phone rang. Apologising, she stepped out into the hall. It was her mother. ‘Tom sounds very wheezy, Janine.’

Janine’s heart sank. ‘Has he complained?’ Tom was able to manage his asthma pretty well, if he slowed down and complained it was a warning signal.

‘No, still bouncing around.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’m not sure how long I’ll be but ring me again if he gets any worse, will you?’

‘All right. Eleanor wants a word.’

Janine rolled her eyes, strove to summon up a bit of patience for her daughter.

‘Mum?’

‘Hello, Ellie.’

‘They’re having bacon and sausages.’

‘Well, have some fruit.’

‘Grandma’s mean,’ Eleanor whispered.

‘She’s not mean, she’s just – have toast,’ Janine couldn’t get drawn into a debate now. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘The middle of the night,’ laden with sarcasm.

‘No, not the middle of the night. Bye bye.’

Janine returned to the lounge her mind running over what else they needed from Mrs Tulley.

‘Now, it would be a great help if we could take your fingerprints. It means our forensic people can eliminate them when they are looking at evidence. Inspector Mayne has a kit.’

‘It’s a bit messy,’ he said, ‘but it’s quick to do.’

Businesslike he showed her how to place each finger on the pad and roll it onto the paper. ‘That’s fine, thank you.’ He sealed the record in its envelope.

She went to wash her hands and when she came back Janine asked if there was a recent photograph of Matthew they could take.

Lesley Tulley froze, a stricken expression on her face.

‘Lesley?’ Janine spoke clearly as if to a sleepwalker.

Lesley rubbed at her temples and at her hair. ‘Sorry photo. Yes. In the study next door.’

They went across the hallway to a smaller room. A desk with computer and accessories occupied the far wall and the others were lined with bookshelves and cupboards. Lesley opened a drawer in the desk and drew out a glossy 7 x 5 print of her husband. She handed it to Janine. ‘He had them done for school,’ she explained, ‘all the staff have their pictures up in the entrance hall.’

The man was definitely the same person that Janine had seen at the allotments. The photo gave him a confident mien, quite different from the face on the victim. He looked healthy, energetic, competent. He wore a charcoal suit, white shirt and striped tie.

‘Thank you. We need to take Matthew’s diaries, check his recent e-mails.’ Janine said.

Lesley nodded. Richard switched on the computer.

‘When Emma arrives we will take you to identify Matthew.’

Lesley swayed and put a hand out to steady herself. ‘Come and sit down,’ Janine invited her.

Before you fall.

Dean and Douggie sprawled among the remnants of the meal from the Star of Bengal and the cans from the Late Shop. Douggie had rolled another spliff. He took a long pull, sucked it in deep and held it there for a couple of seconds. He passed it to Dean. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so blasted. Usually he was with Paula when he smoked, the dope made him more aware of the physical sensations. He’d notice small things, like the feel of the bones in his fingers as he stroked her, the slip of cooler air across his shoulder, the steady tightening of the muscles in his thighs. It made everything stronger, clearer; so he could see the tiny patterns in her skin, smell the traces of soap and hair-oil and the perfume that she always wore. He would hear the rock of her heartbeat mixing with his own pulse drumming in his ears.

He took another drag. Douggie had the giggles. They’d put some old South Park videos on and Douggie flailed helplessly on the floor while the cartoons did their stuff. Dean grinned. Douggie laughed like a cartoon, wheezed like Mutley out of Wacky Races, hee-hee-hee, his shoulders pumping up and down. Dean had switched his mobile off. He didn’t want Paula to catch him at a bad time. Needed a clear head to talk to her.

He passed the joint back. Douggie stopped giggling long enough to inhale which set him off coughing. ‘Get a drink,’ he choked. He waved the spliff at Dean, giving it back, and stumbled out. Dean smoked, let his eyes close, leant his head back against the couch. The video finished. He’d better catch the news later, see what was happening back in Manchester. He could hear birds twittering and the seesaw drone of scramble bikes, some dog barking for Britain. Exile, he thought, I’m in bleeding exile. Better than the nick, though. Had the police got interested in him yet?

Douggie came back in, clutching a tub of ice cream, a bottle of strawberry syrup, bowls and spoons. He put them down, took the smoke from Dean’s fingers and slid onto the armchair. With a full belly and a couple of tins inside him Dean felt better than he had all day. He helped himself to ice cream.

‘The money?’ he asked Douggie.

‘Errands,’ Douggie replied. ‘Doing the business.’

Dean knew he wasn’t talking groceries. But Douggie wouldn’t last another stretch inside. Dean shook his head.

‘This is steady,’ Douggie said, all wide-eyed, ‘low key.’

‘For now.’

‘Who says it’s going to change?’ Douggie pulled the tub across the carpet, scooped some out.

‘Course it will,’ said Dean, ‘everything changes, all the time, that’s life.’ Sounded like some crap song lyric. He shuffled, stretched his hands behind his head, tugging at the hair on his neck.

‘It’s cool.’ Douggie insisted. ‘You like a line now and then same as anyone.’

Dean sighed. ‘Look, Douggie, less I know the better.’

‘Kay.’ Douggie shrugged. ‘Sure. But if you want to make a bit of ready, I could put a word in…’

‘There’s always room for extra couriers…’

‘No!’ Dean’s shout made Douggie jump. ‘I don’t need it… the mess I’m in, I need to stay clean. You understand?’

‘Yeah.’ Douggie glared.

Douggie’d be asking soon, wanting to know why he was here.

‘I don’t want to be around when anything’s going down.’

‘Okay.’ Douggie nodded. ‘I gotta go to Manchester Monday, not far from yours, this guy…’

‘Douggie,’ Dean said sharply, ‘I don’t need to know. Nothing.’

‘Aright.’ Douggie ate some ice cream. Looking at Dean from under his eyelids, mock sulk. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and nodded at the sauce bottle, ‘pass the Treat.’

But he couldn’t leave it alone. Like a kid. ‘Dean? What’s going on, man? Why you here?’

‘Kin’ mind reader or what?

Detective Sergeant Butchers consulted his list. Seven Gorton Avenue, Eddie Vincent, getting on in years. He walked along to the house and knocked on the tatty green door. This place needed work an’ all. Guttering loose, rotting window frames, chimney listing to one side, looked like the pointing hadn’t been touched since it was built. Only little places but a shame to see them being neglected until they were past saving.

Another knock, long and loud. Come on, come on. He waited. He could hear shouts from some local match, football or hockey? Cursing, Butchers made a