Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

‘Aren’t you staying? Come on,’ Sharon said, patting the sofa.

‘Sean, here a minute,’ Rachel said. His face fell, he must have noticed the edge in her voice. She went into the hall and he followed. ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Sharon?’

‘Yes, Sharon. Why, have you any other women stashed away? Of course, Sharon.’

‘She just popped in,’ he said.

Popped in. ‘Popped in? Did you invite her?’

‘No!’ He was affronted.

‘Why did she pop in? I was at work,’ Rachel said.

‘Well, I told her you’d probably be back before long.’

‘You told her to wait?’ she said.

‘Sort of.’

‘What the fuck for?’

He looked uneasy. ‘It’s what families do, Rachel.’

‘Not mine, not me. I don’t want her coming here. Not unless she’s expressly asked,’ she said.

‘You’re meant to be getting to know each other,’ he said.

‘Maybe. But I’m not having this. It’s too much, too soon. She pops round again, you don’t invite her in. Got it?’

‘OK.’ He didn’t try to argue though he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

Rachel went back to the living room. ‘I’ve got a really early start, Sean too, so…’

Sharon looked, nodded. ‘Course. I’ll get out from under your feet. Adios!’ She laughed. ‘I just wanted a quick word.’ She pulled on a cream leather jacket, tugged a cigarette out of her pack. She’d been at the fake tan, dark stains in the creases on her neck made her look like she hadn’t washed for weeks. She’d silver eye shadow on and thick black eyeliner and what looked like false lashes. Her hands were decked with rings and chains, mainly gold coloured. Rachel doubted there was any real gold in any of it. Her lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her lips. She wasn’t that old but she looked well worn and dressing like a teenager didn’t help. Rachel felt like a bitch. Wished she could switch off the critical commentary in her head. Accept that Sharon was doing her best, that it couldn’t be easy for her, the clumsiness of trying to rub along after all that had happened. But going at it like a bull at a gate, rushing it, was not helping.

Sean called Haydn and they disappeared.

‘Your hair’s nice,’ said Sharon, ‘you done something different?’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘Look, I’ll be working late a lot the next few weeks so I’ll get in touch, you know, when I’ve more time. Yeah? No point in you coming round and we’re all out. Wait to hear from us, yeah?’

‘Right.’ Sharon laughed again, fiddled with her lighter. ‘I’ll get off then. Just wondered if you could see your way to lending me a few bob, I wouldn’t ask but…’

Rachel’s heart sank.

‘… I don’t want to get into arrears and I can pay you back soon.’

Rachel just wanted to stop her talking, hated the bright anxiety in her voice, hated that she didn’t believe her. ‘Here.’ She took sixty quid from her purse.

‘You’re a star.’

Rachel smiled, edged Sharon towards the hall, the door, the outside. Willing her to go. Just go.

‘You really are, you’re a star.’ Sharon paused on the threshold. Outside it was dark, murky and damp.

And you , Rachel thought, are a fucking nightmare . She shut the door after her mother and leaned back, her eyes sore, too long a day, heaviness in her chest making her throat ache, sad, as though she’d lost something but she didn’t know what it was.

Gill was dreaming, being chased, her legs rubbery, fire licking at her heels, when she was woken by the sound of a car crossing the gravel outside the house. She sat up. Her heart gave a kick and she felt a moment’s dizziness. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It was far too late for social callers. Or business. Late and dark. Sammy was staying at Orla’s and Gill no longer got romantic fleeting visits from Chris Latham. He’d met someone else and had the guts to be straight with her about it before disappearing from her life.

She was holding her breath, head cocked to one side. The engine cut out. She heard the car door open, footsteps.

Climbing out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown, drew the curtain back a fraction but could see nobody. The car had stopped at the side of the house, near the door, but her bedroom looked out over the front. They were isolated, on the edge of the moors, the nearest neighbour along the road out of sight. Certainly out of earshot. The farmhouse over the fields visible in the distance from the front windows but too far away to help. The house has good security , she reminded herself. Security lights, alarm, top-of-the-range bolts and mortise locks. The burglar alarm was connected to the police station.

Should she go and look out of Sammy’s window? What if they saw her and realized she was alone? Footsteps crossed the gravel, the sound changing as they reached the flagged path that skirted the house. Her pulse was jumping, her throat dry.

Would they go away once they got no response? They couldn’t get in unless they smashed a window. A determined man with a lump hammer could crash his way through the reinforced glass eventually. Gill thought of bus stops, the shower of glass in drifts around them.

And if they got in? How long till the police responded? It was a nine-minute drive from the nearest station – if they left as a matter of urgency.

Violent banging on the door jolted her into action. She grabbed her phone and pressed 999, her heart in her mouth.

The doorbell went, long and shrill, then more banging. A pause. A crashing sound, something breaking ? The alarm would sound if the windows broke, she was sure that’s what they’d had set up. More banging, whump, whump, whump . Strong enough for her to feel the vibrations.

‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

‘Police,’ Gill said quickly, knowing there was no need to elaborate to the switchboard, who could only redirect her call.

Thud, whump. She heard a roar of rage which curdled the contents of her stomach and made her tremble.

‘Police, can you tell me the nature of your emergency?’

‘My name is DCI Gill Murray, I’m at Shaw and an intruder is trying to break into my house.’

‘Are you alone in the house?’ the operator said.

‘Yes.’

More shouting downstairs, still outside. Then fast banging, blows raining on the door.

Gill felt a lurch of fear.

‘Do you know how many intruders there are?’

‘No. One, I think.’ She’d heard only one voice, one set of footsteps. Had she? The prospect of more than one of them made her knees weak, her head spin.

‘Please stay on the line. Is there anywhere in the house you can lock yourself in?’

Another shout, she caught some of the words. ‘… fucking door, Gill, I’m warning you.’

She froze. Dave!

‘Are you there, caller? The car will be with you soon.’

Gill moved quickly out of her room and into Sammy’s, overlooking the side of the house. She could see the car, the BMW that Dave drove. Relief drenched through her and with it came a wave of rage so intense she thought she’d explode.

‘I think I know who it is,’ she said to the operator.

She ran downstairs, the house shaking with each great thump on the door. Gill glanced out of the sidelight beside the door and could see Dave, illuminated by the security lamp, his face contorted as he staggered back then launched himself at the building.

‘It’s my husband,’ she told the woman.

‘Any history of violence in the marriage?’

Not yet , Gill thought, seething, but you just bloody wait . ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need the response car. I’m fine, really. I’ll be fine.’ Much as she’d love to heap humiliation on Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Fuckwit Murray by having him cuffed and chucked in a cell for the night, she still had sense enough to think of the wider ramifications. The fallout for Dave and his professional standing, which was already a damn sight wobblier than hers, the embarrassment for Sammy, the whole frigging mess. Bollocks!