Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

Rachel’s hand stung as she unfolded the map, a large-scale one, which made it easier to see the towns, villages and natural features in the area.

‘This,’ she touched the map south of Lundfell, at the edge of Gallows Wood, with the wrong end of her pen, ‘is where Owen’s car was found. Over here,’ she tapped the retail park over to the right at Porlow, ‘is where he was apprehended. That’s a distance of ten miles. You can see these are the main towns.’ She named them: Ormskirk to the west, Wigan to the east, Skelmersdale between them, Parbold and Lundfell in the north. ‘Anything?’ She looked from Margaret to Lynn.

‘No,’ Lynn said, and Margaret shook her head.

‘He was working at the pub nearly all the time,’ Lynn said. ‘It was hard for them to get away. They had to get cover.’

Margaret nodded. ‘It wasn’t like he had a social life or a gang of fellers he’d be going off with,’ she said. ‘You are still looking?’ Fear trembled in her eyes. ‘There is a search going on?’

‘There is, but it’s a large area and we’d be more effective if we could narrow it down,’ Rachel said.

‘But there might not be a link,’ Lynn said. ‘Owen might never have been there in his life before. That’s possible, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel agreed, getting ready to leave. And if that is the case, she thought privately, then we really are buggered.

She had just opened the car door when Lynn came rushing down the path. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said. ‘When Owen took Michael fishing, I think they went somewhere over that way, going towards Liverpool. That’s the right direction, isn’t it? I don’t know if that helps.’

‘Why go all that way to fish?’ Rachel said. ‘Surely there’s fish nearer?’ She remembered kids in Langley heading off down the cut with makeshift rods. Anything they pulled out of there would be toxic, but no one bothered.

Lynn shrugged. ‘I think it was one of the regulars put them on to it, went with them at first. Perhaps he had a ticket thing, the thing you need.’

‘Fishing licence,’ Rachel remembered from training. You could be fined for fishing without one. Bought them at the post office. ‘You know who he was, the feller that took them?’

‘No,’ Lynn said.

‘Might Margaret?’

Lynn shrugged. They went back through to the lounge, where Margaret was sitting staring into space. She hadn’t moved since Rachel had left. Rachel wondered what she was thinking about, or if she’d escaped into some blank vacuum away from her sorrow. She asked her about the fishing, about a pub regular who introduced Owen and Michael to it, but Margaret just gave a small shake of her head.

From doing the house-to-house, Rachel had a clear tally of the regulars in her mind. There weren’t many: the pub had been on its way out. She drove back to the Larks estate. The inn was still cordoned off and a couple of CSI vans were parked on the roadside as the investigators continued to work at the scene. Floral tributes lined the grass verge.

Rachel followed one of the crescents round to the house where the birthday boy lived. He had been celebrating his thirtieth at the pub on the night of the murders. One of the last group of customers to be served by Owen Cottam.

‘You’ve arrested him?’ he said, looking concerned.

‘Yes.’

‘Still hard to believe.’ He was shaking his head, looking for her to respond. After a murder everyone they came across wanted to go over it with them, pick apart the reasons, relive the shock of hearing, speculate on how close they’d been to the horrific event. But once the police had taken initial statements they simply didn’t have time to stand around chewing the cud.

‘I don’t need to come in,’ Rachel said. ‘I wanted to ask you about Owen and Michael going fishing. If you knew of a regular at the pub who took them with him?’

‘That’d be Billy,’ he said. The neighbour, the one whose dog Cottam let loose. ‘Billy Dawson. He was from Ormskirk originally – think he was in an angling club that way. He’s in hospital now. Cancer.’

Rachel had no idea whether Billy knew anything about events at the inn but presumably Tessa would have had to tell him something to explain why his dog Pepper was no longer being looked after by the Cottams. And unless Billy was comatose he’d have heard about the murders from the news and the papers and the gossip swirling round the town.

Rachel rang Andy before she set off. Avoiding too much one to one with Her Maj till things blew over.

‘The dog, the one from the crime scene, who’s got it now?’ she said.

‘Not sure, hang on…’ Before she could object she heard him say, ‘Gill, where did the black Lab end up?’

‘Who wants to know?’ Rachel heard the boss ask.

‘Rachel,’ Andy said.

Rachel’s heart sank. There was a clatter, then, ‘Rachel?’ Godzilla’s voice came on.

‘I might have found a connection to the area,’ Rachel said, ‘but I need to talk to Billy Dawson. If he asks about his dog I wondered what to tell him.’

‘Neighbour’s got it. Tessa,’ Godzilla said and hung up. No pretence at civility. Stuff her, thought Rachel. She can’t keep it up for ever. Though it felt like a lifetime already. Because the boss was everything Rachel wanted to be, in the professional sphere. She led the best syndicate in Manchester. Ninety-nine per cent of the time she was solid, giving support and encouragement in equal measure. But when she wasn’t, when she went off on one, it was fucking horrible. And it always seemed to be Rachel on the receiving end. Sometimes Rachel wondered if Her Maj was jealous, of Rachel’s youth, perhaps, or of how much easier it was to progress in the twenty-first century. But then she felt a tit for thinking like that. The boss had no need to be jealous of anyone.

Billy was tucked up in his hospital bed. A ward of four. Three old blokes and a younger man who was sitting up, his eyes closed and earphones on.

With his wild white hair and full beard, Billy looked like an old seaman. Just needed a pipe and a stripy jumper. And a monkey or a parrot.

‘Mr Dawson, I’m DC Bailey,’ Rachel said.

‘Been a naughty boy, have I?’ he said. ‘Got the handcuffs, have you, ossifer?’

Great! He’s a joker. Rachel didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. Stupid old fart . She drew the curtains round the bed to give them a semblance of privacy. ‘I want to talk to you in connection with a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She moved the bedside chair to face him but not too close to the bed. His face straightened and he gave a stiff nod.

‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘When you find him he wants stringing up. I’d do it for you if you’re short-handed, like.’

‘You used to go fishing?’ Rachel said.

‘That’s right.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Always was a good man with a rod.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You got all sorts, Rachel knew, but she did wonder if his illness had addled his brains a bit, so that he didn’t know what was appropriate any more. Or was it simply that after a lifetime of taking the piss and saying everything with a nod and a salacious wink it was impossible to abandon the habit.

‘And you accompanied Owen and Michael Milne sometimes?’

‘I did, before all this.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kittle Lake. Lundfell Anglers have rights there. They’ve a few pitches round thereabouts.’

Rachel felt her heart thump. ‘Thank you.’ She closed her notebook.

‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re not going to ask me what we caught?’

‘No, I’m not.’ She pulled the curtains back. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

Still he spoke, determined to play his game. ‘I caught a whopper, naturally. Hah!’ He gave a laugh, but then his tone changed as he said, ‘He was a good lad, you know.’