Cath Staincliffe: Desperate Measures

The fourth book in the Janine Lewis series, 2015

‘No one is killing anyone,’ Janine said.

Eleanor and Tom began objecting but Janine raised her hands. ‘We finish the meal like civilized human beings, without squabbling or fighting, or you two can go upstairs – no pudding and no screen time.’

‘God.’ Eleanor made a show of rolling her eyes and Tom scowled.

Charlotte, aged four, clapped her hands.

‘That really isn’t helping,’ Janine said to Charlotte.

Janine seemed to spend half her life as a referee. Eleanor at fifteen was prickly and volatile and dripped misery like every other teenager while Tom, five years her junior, was either winding his sister up or bearing the brunt of her crushing putdowns.

‘I want pudding,’ Charlotte said.

‘Please,’ Janine prompted.

‘Please.’ Charlotte beamed. Happy little soul. Who knows where she’d found that equilibrium. Her life had been the most unsettled to date, born into the immediate aftermath of the marriage break-up, her dad Pete living elsewhere with Tina and now their new baby. Charlotte had been looked after by a succession of nannies with the help of Janine’s eldest child Michael while Janine worked. Now Michael had left home, a man of the world, and Janine was still adjusting to the change.

Janine got the ice cream out of the freezer. Running the hot water over a spoon, she caught Eleanor’s reflection in the window, mouthing something at Tom. Nothing pleasant, Janine was sure.

‘I can see you, Eleanor,’ Janine said.

‘Well, he’s a saddo. I’m sick of it. Loser.’ Eleanor lunged forward towards her brother.

‘What did I say?’ Janine turned round.

I don’t want any, anyway,’ Eleanor said, ‘I hate manky ice cream.’ She shoved back her chair and thundered out of the room.

‘Hah!’ Charlotte said.

‘Indeed,’ Janine said.

Tom was still brooding, mouth set, brow furrowed.

‘You want a flake in it?’ Janine said.

‘Have we got some?’ Tom said.

‘We just might have.’

‘I couldn’t see any,’ Tom said.

‘Because I have got a new hiding place,’ Janine said. If she didn’t stash the sweets away the kids attacked them like a plague of locusts.

‘You dish this up.’ She put the tub of ice cream and the spoon on the table near to Tom.

Out in the hallway, once the door had swung shut behind her, she got the old shopping bag down from the coat rack and picked out three flakes.

She was just helping Charlotte stick one into her ice cream when her phone rang. Richard Mayne, her Detective Inspector.

‘You do it.’ Janine handed the flake to Charlotte.

‘Richard?’ Janine moved back into the hall as she answered the call.

‘Dead body,’ he said, ‘just been called in.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘I’d say – shot three times.’

‘OK. I’ll see you there.’

Richard gave her the address, on the Chorlton/Whalley Range border, and rang off.

Janine took a breath and went upstairs and knocked on Eleanor’s door.

‘Go away,’ said a muffled voice from inside.

‘Eleanor-’

‘I don’t want any ice cream and I don’t want another stupid, boring lecture.’

‘I need you to babysit,’ Janine said.

A strangled groan from Eleanor.

‘I’ve been called into work,’ Janine said.

‘I hate your job.’

‘Eleanor, I need to go.’

‘Why can’t you take them to Dad’s?’ Eleanor said.

‘You know why. We’ve not arranged it and while Alfie’s so small it’s not fair. You’re here and I need you to be responsible.’

‘You could ring Sylvie.’

Sylvie was the babysitter cum nanny. ‘She’s not back till tomorrow,’ Janine said. ‘I’ll pay you.’

Janine was aware of the time, anxious to leave.

‘Will you?’ A change of tone from Eleanor.

‘Yes – and that means I expect you to do it professionally. No being mean to Tom. A bath and bedtime story for Charlotte.’

There was the sound of movement from inside the room. Then Eleanor opened the door. ‘How much?’ she said.

‘The going rate,’ Janine said.

‘OK.’

‘I’ll tell them I’m off,’ Janine said.

In the kitchen Janine explained about work and stressed to Tom that he had to cooperate with his big sister and no more bickering.

‘Can I have your ice cream?’ he said.

‘All right then but not this.’ She grabbed the flake and bent to kiss him, he dodged, ‘Ewww! Get off.’

Janine kissed Charlotte on the top of her head, less ice cream there than anywhere else, and then set off.

In the car, she keyed the postcode into the satnav and saw that the address was only a couple of miles to the west. It was still light, just before seven, on an early autumn day.

I hate your job, Eleanor had said. And I love it, Janine thought. It was always challenging and there were times when it was exhausting, when it was hard to stomach, times when it could break your heart if you let it. But she was experienced and skilled, she had to be to reach the level of Detective Chief Inspector, and the work was compelling. Most of all, it mattered – to her and her team and to the people who were left behind.

Monday – 24 hours earlier

When the coroner announced the verdict, Adele Young felt as if someone had reached into her chest and torn the heart from her. After all this, the weeks of grieving, the long dark nights with the walls closing in and all she could feel was an absence, Marcie missing, after the battle to try and get someone to listen, to take her seriously and understand that her daughter’s death could have been prevented. After all that to be told this.

The clerk was calling for order. Adele’s eyes flew across the courtroom to the public gallery where he sat, Dr Halliwell, and she saw relief in the twitch of his mouth, then he looked straight at her, some sort of sick triumph in his eyes.

Accidental death. She staggered and felt Howard grab her, heard him shout, ‘Travesty, a bloody travesty!’

Adele bit down hard on her tongue, determined not to weep. She could bawl her eyes out later, in private, but in public she would not give them that satisfaction.

She wondered again how it would’ve been if Marcie had been some rich white kid instead of a poor black girl. If Marcie had been the GP’s daughter or the daughter of the coroner sat up there in his fancy carved chair. Would it have been accidental death then?

People were filing out. She turned to Howard; his eyes burned with outrage.

‘The papers will be outside,’ she said, ‘the telly.’ Marcie’s inquest had attracted plenty of media attention already. Adele’s belief that Dr Halliwell had treated Marcie wrongly and that medical neglect had led to her death made for a human interest story. It had attracted sharks too. Legal firms (at least that’s what they called themselves) had hounded her, touting for business, eager to bring suits against the GP. It wasn’t money she was interested in, it was recognition, acknowledgment, apology. It was making people see that doctors should listen to their patients, to family and not play God. She didn’t want her efforts to be tainted with the smell of chasing money, no matter how hard up they were. And times were hard. Harder than they’d ever been.