Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

There was a light in his eyes. He was enjoying it, the fucking toe-rag. Most of the scrotes she interviewed, there was resentment or rage, derision, but behind that there were flashes of fear and anxiety or horror at what they’d done. But with Neil Perry there’d been no whiff of that. It went beyond cocky. Something missing, Rachel reckoned, something wrong with his wiring.

‘No idea.’ He gave a slow shrug.

‘Not something you’re likely to forget, firing a weapon. Noisy, deafening actually. You still don’t remember?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

She wanted to wipe the smile from his face. It seemed like the tighter the corner he was boxed into, the more he relished it.

‘This report also analyses the distribution of the gunshot residue particles. The greatest concentration are on the cuff of your right wrist, inside and out, and in the stitching of the lining up to the elbow. The only way you get that pattern of dispersal is when you fire a weapon. How do you account for that?’

‘Dunno,’ he said, ‘weird, innit?’

Rachel moved the report to one side, took a slow breath in and out then another. She placed a second report on the table.

‘I am now showing Mr Perry document 19. This is another report from our forensics lab, detailing trace materials found on your clothes. Tests found traces of accelerant, namely petrol, on your trainers and your jeans. How did that get there?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘There were splashes of the petrol on the front of your jeans. According to the forensic investigators, this pattern is consistent with what would be found when someone was throwing petrol from a container in order to start a fire. Is that how it got on your jeans?’ Rachel said.

‘Could’ve been a barbecue,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The petrol, maybe we used it to get a barbie going.’ He shrugged.

‘Did you?’

‘Don’t remember.’ A slack smile on his face.

He was pratting about but she knew she mustn’t let him get her back up and interfere with the agreed strategy for the interview. ‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’ Rachel said.

‘Who?’

‘The victim of the shooting in the Old Chapel.’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick.’

‘Didn’t know him,’ he said. Still the denial.

‘Tall man, long hair, wore a cowboy-type hat.’

‘I don’t know no manky dosser, they eat crap out of bins, full of fleas, in’t they. They eat roadkill.’ If Kavanagh had been anything like Rachel’s father, food would be an incidental, an add-on to be considered once the savage need for a bevvy had been attended to.

‘A quantity of illegal drugs were recovered from your room,’ Rachel said. ‘Can you tell me where you obtained them?’ They had debated whether to introduce the drugs or not. Godzilla thought they should. The possibility of a drugs war, robbery or a deal gone sour could still give them motive.

‘But we’ve nothing to put Kavanagh next to drugs,’ Rachel had argued.

‘Yet,’ the boss said. ‘Could be a dead end but we go down it and have a good root around and find out instead of just ignoring it.’

Neil Perry laughed and scratched again. Hope he’s got scabies, Rachel thought, and felt her skin prickle in response.

‘Was it your intention to supply drugs to others?’ she said.

‘No, personal use only,’ he said.

‘Excessive amounts for personal use.’

‘Bulk buy,’ he said, ‘like with the cash and carry, makes sense.’

So he’d cop for possession but Rachel wasn’t interested in that, she wanted him for murder.

‘Tell me about Wednesday,’ she said.

‘Went to my gran’s.’

‘We have an independent witness who saw you on Low Bank Road at twenty past seven in the evening,’ Rachel said.

‘Can’t have,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘We also have an independent witness who can place you in the grounds of the Old Chapel ten minutes later, at half past seven that evening.’

‘They’re lying.’

So it went on and on, round and round until Rachel felt dizzy.

Gill was preparing notes in support of the application for a warrant of further detention. The court, specially convened as it was a Sunday, would want to know what inquiries had been made and why more time was needed.

She sketched out her summary of the evidence, the narrative she would present.

She started with the eyewitness sightings of Noel and Neil Perry: Councillor Bleaklow placed them in the centre of Manorclough on Low Bank Road at twenty past seven, Mr Hicks in the chapel grounds at half past seven and Rachel had seen them in the alley at twenty past eight. All those sightings contradicted the alibis given by both mother and grandmother, which in turn contradicted each other.

However, Gill drummed her nails on the desk: eyewitness testimony rested to a great extent on the clothing worn by the suspects. And although the jackets were distinctive and had to be ordered specially online, they might not be the only ones in existence. But then what were the odds of two people, identical in height and weight, within five hundred yards of the Perrys’ flat and the scene of the murder, wearing similar jackets?

Next was the preparatory act, the meeting with Greg Tandy, a man out on licence after serving a sentence for firearms offences. That still begged many questions, not least what the meeting had been about. While the police suspected Tandy of supplying the gun to the brothers, it was only a suspicion, no hard evidence to support it.

Much stronger was the forensic evidence: gunshot residue on the clothing of both suspects indicated the use of a firearm. No time could categorically be given as to when the gun had been fired but Gill was sure that they would be able to secure expert opinion that, taking into account the amount of particles found, the incident had been recent, a matter of days rather than weeks or months.

The presence of petrol traces, in significant amounts, on the jeans and trainers of the brothers, petrol containing the same additives as in that used to start the fire, while not conclusive was persuasive evidence. They shared everything, she thought, the gunshots, one each, taking turns, chucking the petrol about. In it together.

What was still missing was motive. No known link between the parties. Could it be a stranger murder? They often occurred as a result of fights, fuelled by booze, testosterone and rampant stupidity. Men were twice as likely to be the victims. Or predator killings. Was this one of those? She would talk to Lee again about the psychology of the crime. He could do the next interview with Noel if Janet was still off. Focus on that line of questioning for a while.

Gill stretched her arms, reaching up towards the ceiling, flexing her fingers. She checked the time, texted Sammy that she wasn’t sure when she’d be home and not to save her any casserole, then she began to type up her report.

Rachel was on the doorstep, looking slightly sheepish.

‘I wasn’t sure whether to come,’ she said. ‘If now is not good-’

‘No, come in,’ Janet said, glad to see her.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

Taisie bobbed out from the kitchen. ‘Hi, Rachel.’

‘All right. How you doing?’ Rachel said.

Taisie adored Rachel, had a girl crush on her, and clung like a limpet whenever Rachel called round.

‘I’m good.’ Taisie nodded. ‘I’m in the school play. And I got on the football team.’

‘Get you!’ Rachel said and Taisie beamed and blushed; all the mardy, awkward, bolshie side of her had disappeared.

‘Who is it?’ Janet’s mum came into the hall from the lounge. ‘Oh,’ her voice fell with disappointment. If Taisie thought Rachel was the bee’s knees, Dorothy thought she was a walking disaster.