Cath Staincliffe - Dead To Me

She had a beer and some cheese and crackers, said her spiel again then punched in his number before she changed her mind.

‘Hello?’ Woman’s voice, middle-aged.

‘Could I speak to Mr Dalbeattie, please?’

‘Sorry, he’s not here.’

Oh my God, he’s done a runner! Her pulse increased. ‘Can I try later?’

‘No, he won’t be back till Wednesday. I can take a message.’

Back from where? ‘I did try Monday,’ she blagged.

‘Sorry, I must have missed you,’ the woman said.

I, not we. ‘He was away then? Anywhere nice?’ Rachel gritted her teeth, wondering if such nosiness from a caller who hadn’t even identified herself would spook the woman.

‘The Algarve, two weeks’ golf. All right for some. Do you want to leave a message?’

‘Just doing a telephone survey on local transport, that’s all. Thanks for your time.’

Mission accomplished. But that left Rachel strangely deflated without anyone in her sights for the Lisa Finn killing or the rape of Rosie Vaughan.

Sammy usually rode his bicycle to school. Not possible now. Gill started work too early to be able to give him a lift.

He said it didn’t hurt so much, but she could imagine he’d be knocked and jostled in the course of the day and wondered if she should keep him home. She couldn’t take a day off now though, that’d be impossible.

‘We’ve got PE in the afternoon, I can’t do that,’ Sammy said. ‘So I could come home at lunch.’

‘Good idea. I’ll get your dad to take you and fetch you home. You’ll be all right till I get back after that. Order a takeaway if you get hungry.’

‘OK.’

Dave had already spoken to Sammy about his accident earlier that day and Gill had warned him then that he would need to help out, not knowing if Pendlebury had passed on that bit of the message. Now Gill rang again and explained what Sammy needed.

‘Maybe he should just take the day,’ Dave said.

‘His exams start in January,’ she said, ‘he can’t afford to miss anything.’

He sighed. ‘OK, what time’s lunch?’

‘They break at twelve twenty,’ she said. Couldn’t resist adding, ‘You do remember where the school is?’

He hung up on her. The phone rang again almost immediately.

‘Now what?’ she snapped.

‘Gill?’ Not Dave. Fuck.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Matthew, Matthew Parkinson.’

‘Oh, hello. Sorry, thought it was someone else.’

‘How’s Sammy?’

‘He’s fine, really. Probably be fit for school tomorrow.’

‘Good. I… erm… got a quote from the garage for the car.’

‘That was quick!’

‘Called on my way home yesterday – bloke’s a marvel, workaholic.’

‘And…?’ Gill steeled herself.

‘Seven five nine,’ he said.

Ouch! ‘Fine.’

‘There’s no hurry.’

‘No, no. I’ll drop you a cheque in. If you’re there now…’ Gill did not want to put it off and forget it and then find herself even more embarrassed.

It was a twenty-minute walk along the dirt track to the farm and Matthew’s barn. The bad weather had left the lane churned up with black mud from the surrounding peat, scattered with pockets of water. Gill had her wellies on. She should get out more, walk more, she never seemed to have a moment to do so. Certainly not when she was heading a major inquiry. She could hear the whine of a power tool growing louder as she got closer to the dwellings. Sheep were grazing in one of the farm meadows and the farmer had left a bale of hay there for them.

The lane divided in two and she took the fork to the barn. Matthew’s car was parked outside the building. She felt nauseous when she saw the damage, the crumpled metal and shattered headlamp. It was a miracle that Sammy had survived with only a fractured wrist.

The outside of the barn looked finished, large windows and door, slate roof, the stone walls repointed. He must be raking it in. The door was ajar and the drone of the power tool came from inside. She waited for the sound to stop, then called out, ‘Hello?’

Matthew came out, looking dishevelled and dusty. Pulling a dust-mask from his nose. ‘Hi, come in. Come in.’

Gill looked down at her wellies.

‘Don’t worry, the floors are covered.’ There were dustsheets underfoot.

Inside, a wide central hall led through to doors at the back and a flagged patio overlooking the moor and the reservoir beyond. Either side of the hallway freshly plastered walls divided off the rooms.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

‘Will be,’ he said. ‘Let me give you the tour.’

He walked her through, discussing the choices he’d made for the heating system (wood burning stoves and back boilers), how he’d found a drystone waller to repair some of the boundary at the rear, and showed her the job he was currently occupied with: sanding reclaimed timber for surfaces in the kitchen. His enthusiasm reminded Gill of her own when she and Dave were planning their home. She took her wellies off to go up to one of the mezzanine rooms; the new wooden staircases glowed clean, the colour of honey. ‘This will be a twin room,’ he said. ‘I’ve a daughter, first year at uni, so she can visit – and friends, of course. The other side is bigger and the bathroom’s in between.’

He offered her tea: a microwave and a calor gas stove served as a makeshift kitchen.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I’d better be getting back, let you get on with your sanding,’ Gill said. ‘Here,’ she passed him the cheque.

‘Thanks for this,’ he said.

She nodded. He walked her to the door. She pulled her boots on. As she stepped out, he spoke in a rush, ‘I wondered if you’d like to go out for a meal sometime?’

Oh. My. God! Gill coughed. A date! He was asking her on a date! ‘I’m pretty busy at the moment…’ she began.

‘When it’s quieter?’

Is it ever? ‘Yes, yes, that’d be lovely, thank you.’

‘Good,’ he smiled.

Gill felt a fresh spring in her step and had a daft grin on her face as she went back up the lane, deliberately walking in all the puddles.

‘MADAM.’ MONDAY MORNING and Gill stood at her office door, her dark eyes sparkling, but not with humour.

‘Boss?’ Rachel said.

With a twitch of her head, Gill indicated that Rachel should join her. Had the IPCC been on? Was there some problem about Rosie’s death? Apart from the fact it had happened? Had Gill found out that she had called Dalbeattie?

‘You know what an order is, do you?’

She wasn’t a happy bunny. Rachel’s stomach tightened.

‘Because from where I’m standing it’s hard to tell. Marlene Potter?’

Fuck.

‘Now, I don’t videotape our conversations, but I could swear I told you to ask Ryelands about residents, looked-after kids, any scrotes or scallies among them with form for sexual violence or knife crime. I’m not imagining that, am I?’

‘No, boss.’

‘You heard it too?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Then where in buggeration do you get off making totally unfounded allegations about staff?’

‘Boss.’

‘Tunnel vision, Rachel. You go around like that in this job, banging on about your pet theory and not looking at the wider picture, you’ll either walk into a wall or off a sodding cliff. Marlene wants to make an official complaint.’

Oh fuck-a-duck with knobs on.

‘I have asked her to reconsider. One professional,’ she weighted the word, sticking her neb forward, implying that Rachel was a far cry from belonging to that club, ‘to another. Told her you’d witnessed the suicide, messed your head up, robbing you of sense and manners.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

Gill snorted. ‘Don’t thank me yet. You got right up her nose, girl, and she doesn’t rattle easily. She’ll be back to us tomorrow. I’ll ask her to wait in line.’