Cath Staincliffe - Dead To Me

Dave’s little dig about the inquiry needled at her even as she tried to distract herself watching the rolling news programme. She thought her way through the evidence they’d now assembled, the timeline that had tightened, the forensics that gave weight to witness and suspect accounts. Preparation for the morning to come when she’d walk it through with the team and recalibrate the direction of the inquiry.

James Raleigh would walk. It would rankle with Rachel, but Gill hoped the girl would heed her advice, have the emotional maturity to accept the situation.

When she finally got to bed, the wind kept her awake, buffeting the house, sending something, a plant pot perhaps, rattling round the garden, then chucking hail like shotgun pellets against the window.

It was easy to feel self-doubt in the dark, in the wee, small hours. She hadn’t lost her touch though; that was just Dave being a dickhead. She’d show him; she’d show them all. It might take weeks or months, years even, but they would find Lisa’s killer and make it stick.

ROSIE’S FUNERAL WAS at Blackley crem. A public health funeral, which meant the state was picking up the bill. Rachel arrived late and the only people there were the three lads she’d seen at the canal. At least they’d come, even though they hadn’t a decent suit between them. In the daylight they had that pinched, spotty, malnourished look of kids half-feral, poor complexions courtesy of crap food and drug abuse.

They regarded her warily as she took a seat in the chapel, wondering maybe if she’d bust them. Not appropriate, in the circumstances.

The coffin, plain and unadorned, was at the front of the chapel. There was a small bunch of dark red roses in cellophane on top. The sort that have no scent. Rachel imagined the three lads clubbing together, or maybe nicking a tenner from one of their mums’ purses to get the bouquet. The generous wreath she clutched felt ostentatious now, as if she’d set out to outdo them, which was the last thing on her mind.

The minister was saying something about Rosie having a brief life but now being at peace. He didn’t make reference to her troubles or the manner of her death. Another person arrived, so Rachel wasn’t the last. Marlene. She sat with Rachel, which was a bit full on. Christ, there were enough empty seats.

Rachel kept her jaw clamped tight as the man asked them to remain silent for a moment and think about Rosie. What a sodding waste, was all Rachel thought. Steeling herself against those images that wouldn’t go away, highly coloured almost Day-Glo in her mind. The scale of scars etched on Rosie’s forearm, her eyes darting to the corners of the room, the still, silent figure on the ground, her gauzy dress fluttering, and the first sight she’d ever had of Rosie, curled and motionless in the bedroom, slippery with blood.

Then it was done. The minister explained that Rosie’s ashes would be put in the garden of remembrance and he thanked them for coming.

The boys got up and ambled out, self-conscious and awkward.

‘Is there any news?’ Marlene said to Rachel.

Rachel shook her head. Only bad. The fuckwit who raped her is Teflon-coated, nothing sticks. And we’re getting nowhere fast with Lisa Finn.

Rachel and Marlene placed their flowers on the coffin.

Outside the day was bleak, wintry, the trees bare of leaves, stirred in the wind, the sky grubby.

‘You were there when she died?’ Marlene said.

Rachel hunched up her shoulders, trying to get warm. ‘Yes,’ she said. Not that it’s any of your business.

‘Your boss told me. I’m sorry, that must have been awful.’

Rachel nodded briskly. There was something in her eye, a speck of dust or something. Thickness in her throat. She blinked and sniffed. The three lads had reached the gates, matchstick men.

‘She tried before,’ Marlene said, ‘when she was with us.’

Rachel looked at her, then away to the graves among the grass. ‘You’re saying it’s not my fault?’ She sounded bolshie, hadn’t meant to.

‘How can it be your fault?’ Marlene said. ‘Of course it’s not your fault.’

‘Right,’ Rachel sighed. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Take care,’ Marlene said.

‘Yeah. Bye.’ Rachel walked swiftly to her car.

Whose fault was it then? Rosie’s mother, who’d destroyed her childhood and set the seal on her future? The doctors and social workers, who didn’t care for her enough? Raleigh, who had broken her body and with that her mind as well? But none of them were there that night, were they? Only Rachel. And if Rachel hadn’t gone first to the canal, then again to the flat, if she hadn’t pressed Rosie to talk about the rape, hadn’t pushed her for a name, if Rachel had let her be… then would she still be alive? Either off her face on drugs or slicing at her skin, building fires under the bridge, sleeping on the sofa in her charmed circle?

Rachel left, ignoring the speed limit, passing a cortège on its way in. The coffin surrounded by huge floral arrangements spelling out Mum and Nana. Some old woman then. A stream of vehicles following. Rachel didn’t look at the occupants, she’d had enough misery for one morning. She’d be a whole lot better once she was back at work and busy.

First thing Wednesday, Gill passed on the information about James Raleigh sleeping with his clients and other young and vulnerable women to the Director of Social Services for the city. She explained the police were not preferring charges, there was not enough evidence to do so, but Raleigh would remain a person of interest.

‘That’s his CRB status in shreds,’ she told the team. ‘He should be hearing later this morning that he is suspended, pending a disciplinary hearing, and he’ll have trouble getting a job washing cars when they are finished with him.’

Rachel still exuded resentment; Gill needed to talk to her about that. Not good for the work atmosphere, or the girl’s occupational health.

Gill had done a storyboard combining their timetable and the evidence to date. Stick figures with initials for the protagonists. She passed copies around to the team. A larger version was clipped to the flipchart.

‘Anyone ever tell you you had an artistic side?’ Janet said as she picked hers up.

Gill glanced at her.

‘They were lying,’ Janet said.

‘Who’s the Yankee?’ said Kevin.

Gill peered over her glasses.

‘Here’, he pointed to a stick man, US on its triangular torso.

Cretin! Give me strength.

‘Unknown suspect,’ Lee laughed.

Gill clapped her hands to interrupt the mutterings about drawing and graffiti and Minnie the Minx. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Monday, thirteenth of December, half ten in the morning and Lisa Finn gets the bus to town. Sean Broughton goes to the Jobcentre. In town, Lisa shoplifts clothing and accessories. At twelve thirty she gets a text from her personal advisor James Raleigh saying he’ll be visiting at two that afternoon,’ Gill pointed to the picture on the flipchart. ‘Lisa calls a cab. She’s picked up at five past one. She trades the stolen goods for heroin. In the taxi she receives two calls, one from Sean, one from Denise. She lies to Sean, saying she won’t be home until half past three that afternoon. He’s itching for a fix, but she puts him off. There may have been words exchanged – though he denies that. Lisa tells her mother she’s too busy to talk. At quarter past one Lisa arrives home. She may have taken heroin at this point.’ Gill indicated the next drawing: ‘Two o’clock and James Raleigh shows up, shags Lisa in the bedroom, depositing skin cells on both the duvet and the sheet, and leaving a pubic hair on the sheet. He uses and disposes of a condom. Traces of lubricant from that are recovered with a vaginal swab. His fingerprints are lifted from the bedroom door jamb and the basin in the bathroom, but not found in the living room or kitchen. Raleigh leaves at half two. Allegedly, Lisa is in bed at this point, wearing her dressing gown and the cross and chain. Now’ – Gill tapped the drawing of the unknown suspect – ‘between half two and half three when Sean Broughton returns our unknown suspect’ – Gill pointed to Kevin – ‘pitches up. There is no sign of forced entry but-’