Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

‘Did either of them owe anybody money? Borrow money?’

‘I don’t know.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my business. That would be between the two of them.’

Janet nodded. ‘How often did you see them?’

‘Two or three times a year I’d come over, but Pamela rang me every Sunday. Regular as clockwork.’ Her lip trembled.

‘When did you last see them?’

‘August – the bank holiday week.’

‘And yesterday, did Pamela ring?’ Janet asked gently.

Margaret gave a nod and pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. Perhaps she was realizing that yesterday was the last time she would ever speak to her daughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out.

‘It’s fine,’ Janet said, ‘I understand.’ She passed over the tissues. ‘Are you all right to continue?’ Margaret Milne nodded. Her face was watery, wobbly, as Janet resumed. ‘How was Pamela when you spoke yesterday?’

‘Grand. Same as ever. She’d told me that Penny had played-’ She stopped abruptly, took several painful breaths, then said, ‘Penny had played netball on Saturday and they’d won. She’d got a goal.’

‘What else?’ Janet said.

‘The weather getting colder, and Theo not being so good the week before. He gets awful earache, but he was better.’

‘Tell me about the boys. Harry – the little one.’

‘He’s a bright spark,’ his grandmother said. ‘Runs rings round you, that age, into everything? But he sleeps like a lamb.’

‘And Theo?’ Janet said.

‘He’s the sensitive type. Harry – you can put him down and he’s spark out, but Theo has to have the light on and you have to sit with him. He has bad dreams.’ Again she stopped. Bad dreams. But this isn’t a dream, Janet thought, this is real. But at this stage too enormous to comprehend.

‘What does he like, Theo?’ she said.

‘Oh, trains. He’s train mad.’ Margaret almost smiled. ‘Michael was the same. Penny’s very good with him. With both of them. If they’re busy she’ll put them to bed or get their tea.’ She started to cry again. Janet allowed her time to recover from the deluge of emotion. Watched her breathing settle, the hitching of her shoulders ebb away. Margaret reached for another tissue.

‘Does Owen do much with the children?’ Janet said.

Margaret didn’t answer immediately. ‘A fair amount,’ she said, ‘but Pamela is the main one. He wouldn’t take them to the clinic, say, or buy clothes.’

‘Feeding, changing: he’d be able to do that?’ Janet said. If he hasn’t already harmed them.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Harry’s eighteen months now. Is he walking, talking?’

‘Both. Only a couple of words, though; he’s not making his sentences yet,’ Margaret said.

‘And Theo, he’d be able to talk.’ Janet didn’t want to say ‘ask for help’ – the boy would trust his father and not approach anyone unless Owen abandoned them. She was trying to find out in general about the children’s abilities and assess how dependent they would be on Cottam.

‘He’s shy with strangers,’ Margaret said.

‘Is he in playgroup or nursery yet?’ Janet asked.

‘No – still in nappies. Clingy, too. Pamela wasn’t all that sure about taking him for a while yet.’

‘Can you tell me how Owen and Michael got on?’

‘They were great,’ Margaret said. ‘I’d say Owen was like a role model, you know? Michael would have followed him around all day. His dad died when he was very young, but Owen knew how to manage him. They both did.’

‘So there was no tension?’ Janet said.

‘No. Owen would soon have put his foot down if there was.’

Janet wondered if Pamela would have reported it to her mother even if there had been.

‘How did he discipline the children?’ she asked. ‘If they were being naughty?’

‘They might get sent to bed.’

‘Did he ever smack them?’

Margaret looked trapped. Her eyes flew from side to side. ‘He might. Just a smack, same as anyone.’

Except not everyone believed that hitting children was any more acceptable than hitting adults.

‘Did Pamela smack them?’

Margaret hesitated.

‘Margaret?’

‘The same,’ she said, ‘only if they were really naughty. A tap, that’s all, and then a cuddle later.’

‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘But you don’t believe Owen ever hit Pamela?’

‘I know he didn’t,’ she said.

How can you know? How can you be sure? Was she just insisting on what she wanted to think was true?

‘I can’t believe it,’ Margaret burst out. ‘He loved her, he loved them all. They were his life. How could this happen? How could he do this? Where are they? Where are the children?’ She wept again, her questions ringing round the room, desperate, and impossible to answer.

The briefing room, packed with her MIT as well as specialists from forensics and crime scene management, fell quiet as Gill entered.

The mood was attentive, focused, while Gill made introductions, an edge of impatience in the air, pent-up frustration because as yet Owen Cottam had eluded them. Gill surveyed her team, working out that since she’d taken over the syndicate she hadn’t lost anyone. No transfer requests, no retirements or redundancies. They had all worked hard to get on to the syndicate (barring Kevin who’d been rehomed when Gill’s mate more or less gave up on him and Gill rose to the challenge) and once on board they liked the billet. Five men, two women and Gill. A good spread of skills and experience. A good balance.

‘We have significant results back from forensics,’ she said. ‘Fingerprints recovered from the knife left at the third scene match those found on a bottle of whisky in the bathroom and items around the property belonging to Owen Cottam – bedside lamp and alarm clock. He’d not bothered to wipe the knife. Why?’

‘If this is what we think it is,’ Lee said, ‘he wasn’t trying to hide the crime. He wasn’t expecting to be around to answer any questions or go to trial. He’d be dead along with everyone else.’

‘Okay,’ Gill said, ‘we’ll start with the live investigation,’ Gill said. ‘Owen Cottam at large, registered keeper of a Ford Mondeo, vehicle captured by ANPR at eleven fifty on the M6 near Penrith. We now have a second result from ANPR timed at three twenty-nine close to Ribbleton.’ The screen on the wall showed the map, initially on a small scale so people could understand the context, see the major towns and road networks, then Gill zoomed in so people could see in greater detail. ‘So he’s heading back down the M6, retracing his route. Why? Calls from the public now being actioned. Last verified sighting of Cottam…’ Gill looked to Rachel, who appeared to have just woken up.

‘Six thirty this morning, neighbour returning the dog spoke to him briefly. She also saw the two youngsters. At six forty-five Mr Grainger who has the farm on the far side saw the car but got no visual on the driver.’

‘No other activity logged,’ Gill said, checking with Andy that that was still the case.

He agreed. ‘His phone has not been switched on. He hasn’t made or received any calls, he hasn’t accessed his emails or used an ATM.’

‘He’s gone off the radar,’ Gill summarized.

‘Why’s he still using the car?’ Mitch said. ‘He must know we can ping him.’ Ian Mitchell had a young family himself, second marriage. Gill suspected he’d be feeling this case particularly keenly, though it would never affect his judgement or his consummate professionalism.

She held out a hand, inviting contributions from the floor.

‘Not found an alternative,’ said Janet. ‘If the kids are still with him, he can’t just dump it and start walking.’