Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

‘You’re joking!’ Janet stopped by her desk, jacket over her arm.

‘You know it?’ said Andy.

Suddenly there was another agenda, a subtext beneath the interchange. Forcing her to censor her words slightly. ‘Used to go there when the kids were little, walk and a pub lunch.’ Leaving out Ade’s name. Because Ade, his name, the very fact of his existence, was there like a pit, a snare, a trapdoor, something to stumble over. The small matter of him being her husband something that she and Andy were trying very hard to ignore, to forget about, to glide over.

‘Three dead,’ said Andy, all businesslike. ‘Believed to be the wife, daughter and wife’s brother, still awaiting formal identification. Gill’s on her way back. Suspect Owen Cottam, landlord there, missing along with two younger children.’

There was a pause as they each absorbed the information. Janet felt dizzy, the floor swirling under her feet. She could feel Andy’s eyes on her. She pulled out her chair and sat down. Felt sick and bloated. Her hand moved protectively across her abdomen over the scar where they’d sewn her up after surgery. Injuries sustained in the line of duty. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She’d recovered well over the last six months. Been back at work after three.

‘You okay?’ Rachel, standing opposite, leant forward, hands on her own desk.

‘Fine.’ Janet smiled. Rachel stared, head tilted, waiting for something closer to the truth.

‘Okay,’ Janet said sotto voce, ‘I’m knackered. Up till the early hours on homework duty with Elise, the Long March and the Cultural Revolution. Then Taisie has a nightmare at half three and the alarm’s set for six. What’s new?’

‘Why’s she having nightmares?’ Rachel asked.

‘Because she can?’ Janet shook her head. It was one thing after another with Taisie. No sooner through one crisis or drama than she swanned in with another. ‘And because she’s stupid enough to watch some 18 certificate Japanese horror movie at the sleepover she went on, even though she knows she’ll freak out after.’

Gill arrived then, issuing instructions as she walked. ‘Briefing in ten. Get me sandwiches – no onions – and coffee. Andy, bring the press office in, we’ll be holding hands on this. All other actions suspended for the foreseeable. Kevin – exhibits.’

‘Yes, boss, course boss.’

Gill, DCI Gill Murray, was Janet’s age, late forties, but the similarities stopped there. Friends for years, Janet had finally joined Gill’s team seven years ago. Gill was a human dynamo with an ability to think strategically; she relished the role of leading her syndicate. Janet knew her own skills were as a communicator, an interviewer. And she’d rather sit opposite some witness or suspect and persuade them to tell her the truth than command a team, oversee development, play the public relations game and manage resources.

Gill could inspire, she had inspired many a young detective, but cross her and she was a formidable foe. Even when she was working all hours, like now, Gill crackled with an energy and zeal, a lucidity and clarity that Janet envied. But also found exhausting at times. Of course Gill only had one teenager at home, but she’d managed the last four years as a single parent since Dave had left. Recently Sammy had moved in with his dad, to Gill’s dismay. But even when Gill had been looking after him on her own she had still managed eighteen-hour days and turned up for work looking impeccable. Hair neat and shiny, a practical cut that skimmed her chin, trademark red lacquered nails, clothes clean and pressed. Gill was one of those people who could get by on four hours’ sleep a night.

And I, thought Janet, getting up with her notebook and pen, am most definitely not. Gill’s driven. I’m just driven up the wall.

Godzilla, as Rachel most frequently thought of her boss, was briefing them on the Journeys Inn crime scene and the unfolding manhunt for suspect Owen Cottam. The whole team were there. After two years, Rachel felt like she belonged, as much as she belonged anywhere. They were a mixed bunch. Pete, the doughnut man, solid, steady, paunchy, balding. And next to him, big man Mitch, ex-army. Turn his hand to any job, Mitch could. Loads of experience, well travelled, he was the oldest detective constable in the syndicate. He’d a quiet confidence, perhaps from knowing he was good at what he did, and he could handle himself in a fight, of course. Andy, at the head of the table beside Gill, was their sergeant, which set him apart in his roles and responsibilities. A sharp dresser, bit of a mod about him: Rachel could just see him on a scooter, a Lambretta. Andy was single and now and again she wondered what that was about. Not bad looking, probably the best of the bunch, but Rachel had never actually clicked with him; he was a bit cool, a bit distant – and he was her supervisor. Lee, on Rachel’s right, he was more of a thinker, letters after his name and widely read. Sort that made Rachel feel uneducated. She learned from Lee, soaked it up like a sponge, stuff she could regurgitate to impress Nick. Back in the days when she was still trying. Before the assassination attempt. Lee was the only black member of the syndicate. Lee was the one got sent on courses for offender profiling, criminal psychology and behaviour analysis.

Then Janet, of course. Rachel couldn’t imagine the syndicate without Janet and usually the two of them were paired up, which Rachel liked. And Kevin Lumb. They got that wrong by one letter. Kevin Dumb it should have been, the div, like an eight-year-old. Kevin and Rachel the youngest on the team, but she was light years ahead of him most of the time.

‘Question one,’ the boss said, ‘why is Owen Cottam our prime suspect? We have three members of the family dead in their beds, father and two youngest children missing. As is Owen Cottam’s car. No sign of burglary or forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. Cottam is not a known associate of the criminal fraternity and there have been no problems, no forfeiture of his personal pub licence. Of course he was CRB checked prior to being granted that by the local authority in Birkenhead. To date no talk of any enemies, any feuds or threats made to the family, though we’ll need to see what we get from house-to-house and talking to friends and family.’

She stopped for breath and then continued, ‘Nothing is ever sure in this game, you all know that, but to date there is nothing to suggest a third party was involved. Knife recovered from the third crime scene is being fast-tracked for evidence, as is a whisky bottle and items belonging to Owen Cottam. As far as the public is aware we urgently wish to speak to Owen Cottam in connection with our inquiries. And we want to find two children missing from home. We are setting up for a child rescue operation running concurrently alongside our murder investigations. Priority of course is to prevent further loss of life. That means we have the authorizations in place as of now for telecoms, warrants and so on so we can work in real time.’

That appealed to Rachel. Their work on the Major Incident Team was investigating murders and the information was usually gathered slowly and painstakingly with often frustrating waits for data from telecom providers and financial institutions and the like. Those protocols went out of the window when a life was at risk. Already data on Owen Cottam would be flowing in to be logged and analysed by readers and actioned by receivers for the various strands of the investigation.

‘Border control, ports and airports, alerted,’ the boss said.

‘Found his passport at the pub,’ Kevin said.

‘Kevin’s exhibits officer on this one,’ Godzilla said.

Sooner you than me, Rachel thought. Keeping track of all the potential evidence from a scene meant you were stuck in the office for the duration. Drowning in evidence bags and chain of custody forms.