Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

‘Would she have told you if she had been seeing anyone? Or if they’d had problems?’

‘I think so,’ Lynn said.

‘Is there anyone else she might confide in?’

‘No, she didn’t really see anyone else. When we first met up there were a few of us became mates, but over the years…’ She pulled a face.

‘What about the pub, the business?’

‘She said things were getting tough. Everyone’s having a hard time. We see it here,’ Lynn said.

‘Did she mention any debts, owing money?’

‘No – nothing like that.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Three weeks ago. We went for a drink in Manchester. She seemed fine. She never said he was depressed or anything. He must have been, he must have had a breakdown, mustn’t he, to do that?’ Her voice was thick now and she shuddered again.

Not necessarily, thought Janet. The debate about mad or bad was an endless one, practised by shrinks and criminologists, kicked about by police officers, the public and lawyers. But according to what Lee had said so far, and supported by the relative normality in the scene surrounding the victims at the inn, Cottam had not gone barmy and raged about in an orgy of destruction, he’d waited and acted when he had been sure of least resistance. While his loved ones slept. The wounds were efficient, not excessive. Janet had seen countless murders, plenty of stabbings, all sorts of obscenities. This was measured, if such a thing can be said to be so.

‘We’re nearly done for now,’ she tried to reassure Lynn. ‘Can you think of anywhere Owen might go to escape notice?’

‘My mind’s gone blank,’ Lynn said. ‘Erm, he went through a fishing phase. When Michael first came over. It didn’t last long. I think Michael probably got on his nerves a bit.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, he was a bit shy in company, but if he knew you well he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, just drivel really, stream of consciousness. Maybe not what you want all day long on the river bank. That poor boy,’ she said suddenly. ‘He was harmless. And Penny… Oh, God.’ Her composure, such as it was, collapsed and she began to sob, gulping air and in between asking, ‘Why? How could he do that? Oh, God, why?’

Janet joined Rachel at the church hall on the Larks estate which they were using as a meeting point for the house-to-house. She handed out plans of the estate to the team of uniformed officers who were working door to door, while Rachel briefed them. Janet could hear an aggressive edge in Rachel’s tone and knew that her friend was finding it difficult. Bark first, before they do, was Rachel’s approach to most encounters. Probably worrying that she’d mess up. She needn’t have bothered. None of these PCs would dare undermine her. They were all too keen to get stuck in, hoping to find something useful for the investigation.

As they peeled off and left the hall, Janet said, ‘That was fine.’

‘Yeah?’ Rachel said guardedly.

‘Well, you could have relaxed a little bit more, perhaps made eye contact now and then.’

‘I did make eye contact,’ Rachel objected.

‘With the distant horizon, maybe.’

‘So what’re you saying? I was crap?’ Rachel set off for the door, clutching the file.

‘No, Rachel. I’m saying you are good at your job and you need to believe that so you have confidence, and that confidence shows. You were just a bit… prickly.’

‘Prickly?’

Oh, she should never have said anything. ‘We’re all on the same side,’ Janet said, ‘but sometimes it feels like you’re not sure about that. Rachel Bailey against the world.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Rachel said. ‘I get enough shit from Godzilla about being a team player.’

‘It matters,’ Janet said, ‘especially if you get your sergeant’s exam – you’ll be managing people. It’s not just bossing them about.’

‘Shall we get on with this?’ Rachel, frowning in irritation, shook the plans in her hand.

‘Wait.’

‘Now what?’ Rachel’s scowl deepened. But even scowling she was attractive, large brown eyes, high cheekbones.

‘Feather.’ Janet reached out and pulled a curled white feather from the back of Rachel’s hair. ‘Two.’ She picked out the other one. ‘You been pillow fighting? No wonder you look knackered. Anyone I know?’

‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, pushing through the double doors.

‘Seeing him again, whoever he is?’ Janet said.

‘Nah,’ Rachel said.

They turned left on the crescent which led up to the top of the estate. Their remit the twenty-five properties closest to Journeys Inn.

Janet wasn’t sure what was going on in Rachel’s personal life. Since the whole sordid, sickening business with Nick Savage, Rachel had barely mentioned men. Barely mentioned anything outside work. Couldn’t blame her really. Betrayal didn’t come any bigger. Celibacy probably an attractive option, sensible. But Janet knew Rachel didn’t do sensible. Never for very long, anyway. There was a chaotic, self-destructive side that seemed to be her default position when under stress. And she seemed drawn to danger. Janet worried about her. It was like watching a toddler trot towards an open fire, or teeter on a window ledge.

Janet thought about the Cottam kids. Two and a half and eighteen months. Talking, walking but powerless, dependent. Still alive? Anybody’s guess. But the way it worked in a hostage situation was you assumed the best as you planned for the worst.

They reached the edge of the estate and Janet was panting, the pain in her side a dull throb. She turned away, pretending to survey the view, the roof of the inn visible above the back of the houses.

They split up, Janet taking the even numbers and Rachel doing the other side of the road. The estate was quiet, that time of day when anyone who had anywhere to go, school, work, shopping, had gone.

Janet got no answer at the first two houses but at the third, where a car was parked on the pavement outside, a woman wearing a dressing gown answered. Eyes soft with sleep, hair messy, face marked with creases on one cheek.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Janet said, holding up her warrant card. ‘DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She paused, expecting the woman to show some recognition: the scant details had been broadcast, stating that the police were investigating suspected murder after three bodies had been found at a public house on the Larks estate. TV and press crews were arriving to film the pub and the hive of activity there as the CSIs went about their work.

But the woman just looked puzzled.

‘Could I have your name?’ Janet said.

‘Tessa Bowen.’

‘Date of birth?’ Janet noted her answer. ‘Does anyone else live here?’

‘No, just me. What sort of incident?’

‘Suspected murder,’ Janet said, and saw the colour drain from the woman’s face.

‘Good God. But who?’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tighter as though it might offer protection.

‘We’ve yet to formally identify the victims,’ Janet said. ‘But they are believed to be members of the Cottam family, a man, a woman and a child.’

Tessa’s hands flew to her mouth and she swayed.

Janet asked if she needed to sit down, if Janet could come in.

The lounge was dominated by a bright red leather sofa. They sat either end of it. ‘A child?’ Tessa said. She looked dazed. ‘And a man and a woman. Pamela? But Owen was fine this morning.’

Janet’s stomach fell. ‘You saw Mr Cottam?’ She jotted notes in her book.

‘Yes – about half past six. I took the dog back.’

‘The dog?’

‘Yes. She’s not their dog but they’re looking after her. Billy, the owner, he’s in hospital, operation for bowel cancer. He’s my neighbour, number four.’ She tipped her head to the right. ‘He needed someone to take the dog.’