Cath Staincliffe: Dead To Me

Janet had watched the light go out in his eyes, watched him squirm lower in his seat, knowing she had enough for the CPS, that she had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and gone through the whole alphabet with careful penmanship – win a flippin’ calligraphy prize for it – and got it bang to rights.

She heard the clatter of Taisie arriving, the slam of the door that shook the floor beneath Janet’s feet and rattled the double glazing.

‘Shut it, don’t slam it!’ Janet yelled.

Taisie came through, glanced at Janet’s plate, sucked her lip.

‘Make some toast,’ Janet said.

‘Can’t you do it? I’m tired.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘You want me to starve? I’ve just dragged myself thirty metres up a vertical rock face. My arms don’t work.’

‘And I’ve been sat on my arse all day making daisy chains out of paper clips.’ Janet got to her feet anyway, opened the bread bin.

‘Can I sleep over at Phoebe’s on Saturday?’ Taisie asked.

‘Who else is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘More details,’ Janet said.

‘But…’

‘And if it’s a party, the answer is no. And I am going to ring her mother in advance to check.’

‘I really like the way you trust me,’ Taisie pouted.

Janet smiled.

‘But can I?’

‘We’ll see,’ Janet said, sticking the bread in the toaster. ‘Jam or peanut butter?’

‘Both.’ She sat down heavily. ‘Please, Mum?’ she begged.

‘We’ll see.’ Gill’s words at work. Janet groaned inwardly, wondered if she could put up with Miss Bailey Cockypants for six whole weeks or if the MIT would end up investigating the murder of one of their own.

Rachel ordered pizza just for a change.

‘Your usual?’ the guy on the phone asked.

‘Yeah, and extra garlic bread.’

‘Ten minutes.’

The flat was on the first floor, a conversion in a big Victorian villa. High ceilings, huge windows, parking out front. Single, on a decent wage, she could afford a nice place to live. Not as swish as Nick’s; he was in the middle of town, all mod cons, fridge the size of a walk-in wardrobe that made ice cubes by the chute-full, wet room, power shower, view over the city centre. Once she made sergeant, then she could get something like that, unless he invited her to move in. She wasn’t rushing things, didn’t want to frighten him off, sensing one thing he liked about her was her independence, the fact that she wasn’t really into all the slushy side of relationships – the chocs and flowers left her cold. Leave that to people like Alison, her sister, who’d been swallowed up by marriage and motherhood and vomited back up like some loony 1950s bimbo, earth mother crossed with desperate housewife. Though she did actually have a job outside the home, she never stopped bleating on about how tough it was, how guilty she felt.

‘I can help you plan your wedding!’ Alison had squealed when Rachel had finally told her she was seeing someone, that it had been going on for several months.

‘Be your funeral,’ Rachel said.

‘But there’s a wedding fair…’

‘Enough.’ Rachel had held up her hands. ‘It’s not on the cards, it’s not on the horizon, it’s not even in the same solar system at the moment.’

Alison was always wittering on about Rachel needing a social life, trying to get her to do things: a night out with Alison’s social-work pals, all dangly earrings and peculiar footwear, a trip to Les Mis in London on a coach, a book group. A book group, for fuck’s sake!

‘Do they read true crime?’ Rachel asked her.

‘No,’ Alison tutted. ‘Don’t you get enough of that at work? Fiction, Rachel. Booker prize, the Costa. Orange. We have some great discussions.’

‘Spare me,’ Rachel groaned, changing the subject by asking about one of the kids, guaranteed to get Alison warbling on for half an hour at least, like winding up a clockwork toy.

Rachel opened a bottle of red and poured herself a good measure. She got her daybook out of her bag and checked back through, all as it should be. She had a stack of reports from the National Police Improvement Agency – homework. The NPIA was where Gill Murray had worked before she headed up the syndicate. Called the Crime Faculty back then. Hard-to-solve cases from all over the country. That usually meant stranger murders. Interrupted by the take-away delivery, Rachel paid the guy and ate while she continued reading. She refilled her wine then texted Nick: You busy? Gud day ?

He replied in seconds. Cd take a break ?

Rachel smiled. She had an idea, would he be up for it? Won’t know till you try, kid, she said to herself. Dyinfor a shag , she texted.

!!! He came back.

Phone sex , she typed. Call me if u want sum . She set the work files aside and had a long swallow of wine. Settled herself down on the sofa. The mobile rang. She picked it up.

‘So,’ she heard the laughter in his voice, ‘tell me what you’re wearing, you slutty girl.’

RACHEL WAS STILL working out who was who as the DCI briefed them on the murder. She had already clocked that Kevin was a bell-end. The sort of guy who wants to be one of the gang but gets it wrong every time, his humour off-colour, his instincts non-existent, social skills strangled at birth. The sergeant, Andy Roper, seemed OK, no pervy looks from him and he didn’t pull rank with any little jibes like some of them did. Dressed well, too. Bit old for Rachel but he wasn’t a bad looker. The other DCs – the tall bloke Mitch, Pete the stocky one and Lee, the only black guy on the team – she hadn’t got the measure of yet.

A collection of photographs from the crime scene was doing the rounds along with a preliminary post-mortem report. Rachel realized the DCI had gone straight from the crime scene to the post-mortem and she had probably worked all night collating this while they had trotted off home. Now seven a.m. and her ladyship was sparky, her face a bit pale maybe but her eyes shining as she got into her stride.

‘Lisa Finn,’ the DCI said, ‘seventeen years old, looked-after child until this April. Lisa is known to our Community colleagues for drug abuse and shoplifting. Cautions. Boyfriend Sean rang us at five past four to report the death, found Lisa on the living-room floor at the flat. Last saw her around ten the same morning, Monday thirteenth December. Cause of death is haemorrhage due to a stab wound to the chest. Defensive mark on the left wrist. Slight abrasions at the back of the neck. Not fingerprints, according to Ranjeet, something thin. The skin wasn’t broken, so it may not have any significance.’

‘A necklace?’ Janet said, peering at the mark in the photographs.

‘Possibly. Though it might simply be localized irritation – she was wearing something that rubbed at her neck, or she was slightly allergic.’ Gill now looked to Lee. ‘Was there a necklace at the scene?’ Lee would be the exhibits officer, responsible for ensuring the chain of custody for the whole case.

‘Some jewellery in the bedroom drawer, nothing in the living room,’ he said.

‘We also have a drop of blood here’ – she indicated the ground plan of the flat – ‘halfway to the kitchen, and another just inside the kitchen door.’

‘The killer moved into the kitchen holding the knife – and what, washed it?’ said Janet.

‘No traces in the sink,’ Gill replied. ‘Post-mortem shows signs of recent sexual activity, a forensic test found traces of lubricant from a condom.’

‘Rape?’ asked Janet.

‘We don’t know. Some bruising, could just be rough sex. No condom at the scene.’

So he flushed it or took it. Either way, it made things harder. Rachel knew that from Sex Crimes.