Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

Mrs Kavanagh’s other photos showed a couple with a baby, a young man in a gown and mortarboard. None of the man who was their victim.

‘What’s this all about?’ Mrs Kavanagh set the bag containing the ring down on a side table.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m so very sorry to tell you that the body of a man was recovered from a building in the Manorclough area of Oldham, near Manchester, on Wednesday night,’ said Janet. ‘We believe that man to be your husband. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he is dead. We will be doing all we can to make a positive identification but the man was of the same age and height as Mr Kavanagh and he was wearing that ring.’

‘Oh, my God,’ she said, colour draining from her face.

She was shocked but not overly emotional, which Rachel was thankful for. When they were sobbing their hearts out it was hard to get the information needed to push on with the investigation. It was common to have to go away and come back later. Often as not, grieving relatives would be tranqued up to the eyeballs by then and hard-pressed to remember left from right, let alone their loved one’s movements over the previous days and weeks.

‘If you feel up to it we would like to ask you some questions. Could you tell us when you last saw your husband?’ Silence. ‘Mrs Kavanagh?’ Janet prompted.

‘1999,’ she said.

‘1999?’ Janet flicked her eyes at Rachel, who pulled a face. If they’d been estranged for thirteen years they might not learn much from Mrs Kavanagh.

‘Yes, we separated. We were already separated then but that’s the last time I saw him.’

‘And where was that?’ Janet asked.

‘In Bury,’ she said, ‘we lived in Bury, we ran a shop there. Had a shop. Until…’ she sighed, fisted one hand and gripped it with the other. No wedding ring, Rachel saw. ‘… he drank it away,’ she said, ‘the business, the marriage, everything. In 1999, I told him the kids didn’t want to see him again, and neither did I. Not unless he sorted himself out.’

‘He left the family home?’ said Janet.

‘Yes, about two years before.’

‘Where was he living in 1999?’

‘In his car,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. ‘The children, they dreaded his visits.’

‘Was he violent?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health… but you said a fire?’

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.

‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’

‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.

‘Yes,’ Janet said.

‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.

‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’

‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.

‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’

‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’

‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.

‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’

‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.

‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’

‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’

‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They…’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’

That’s how it works , Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.

‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.

She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’

‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.

‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’

‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’

‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.

‘It’ll be years old.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.

They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B &Bs.

Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He was shot first?’

‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the shots were fired before the fire was started. It would have been quick,’ she said.

Mrs Kavanagh nodded, her lip trembling. ‘Thank you.’

‘Can you write down contact details for your son and daughter – we’ll need to talk to them as well,’ Janet said.

‘Yes, of course.’

Mrs Kavanagh reached out for a small address book on the side table and copied out the details. She handed the note to Janet.

‘And are there any relatives on your husband’s side who might have kept in contact with him?’ Janet asked.

Judith Kavanagh shook her head. ‘His parents are dead. He had a sister, she emigrated, met a South African, a Methodist preacher. As you can imagine, Richard’s drinking went down like a lead balloon. They didn’t even exchange Christmas cards once the parents had died. What will happen now?’

‘Our inquiries will continue,’ Janet said. ‘We will confirm identity and let you know. While the investigation goes on, Richard’s body will be held by the coroner. The release of the body will be at their discretion. You appear to be next of kin so the body will be released to you when the time comes.’

‘Yes.’ Her face flickered with emotion, tears stood in her eyes but she sniffed loudly, rubbing her forearm with her other hand.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kavanagh,’ said Janet. ‘It is a very difficult situation. Is there anyone you’d like me to contact, anyone you’d like to be with?’