Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

‘It’s Liam Kelly, from the shop.’

‘Yes.’ The newsagent .

‘We’ve just found Shirelle in the alley outside, beaten up,’ he said. ‘You were asking about her. I’ve called an ambulance.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Rachel went to the boss. ‘Shirelle Young, beaten up at the shops. I’ll go see.’

‘Keep me posted,’ the boss said.

‘Yes.’ Rachel was already wondering if the beating related to the murders or the drug-dealing or if it was personal. Remembering the slightly built girl, her nerves as they had talked at the flat, the way she repeatedly looked to the door. Expecting trouble.

Shirelle was still there, on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance that had manoeuvred down the alley and stopped outside the back entrance of the newsagent’s.

Rachel identified herself to a uniformed officer and then spoke to the paramedics. ‘How is she?’

‘Battered. Respiration and circulation’s satisfactory. Concussed.’

‘Can I?’ Rachel nodded to the ambulance.

‘We’re going now.’

‘Two ticks,’ Rachel said.

She stepped up into the van. The girl’s face was a mess, swollen, one eye pulped, cuts across her cheek and a torn lip. Her white leather jacket scuffed and spotted with blood.

There’d be no talking to her until she was back in the land of the living.

Rachel recognized some of the group waiting in the alley, Liam Kelly and Mels from the newsagent’s and Connor Tandy. Connor presumably had no idea his father had been picked up and was mixed up in the murder inquiry. And Rachel knew she mustn’t give anything away or the search at the Tandys’ in the morning and the further questions for mother and son could go tits up. No sign of the chip-shop woman, though judging by the smell in the air they were still serving. Liam Kelly introduced her to Mrs Muhammad from Soapy Joe’s, whom Janet had spoken to, and her daughter Rabia, and in turn Rabia named her friend, Amina.

‘Can you all move back.’ Rachel assisted the uniformed officer to secure the area. It was hard to see if there was anything of interest in the dim light from the lamp post at the end of the passageway; people had probably already trampled over any evidence but it was still important to try to recover what they could.

‘Come down to our shop,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘there’s more room in there than yours,’ she gestured to Liam Kelly.

Mrs Muhammad led the way, skirting the cobbles where Shirelle had been lying, and going into the back of the launderette. She switched the alarm off and put the strip lights on.

‘How did you find her?’ Rachel asked Liam Kelly.

‘It was Mrs Muhammad,’ he said.

‘Rabia told me,’ the Asian woman said.

‘She was just lying there,’ the teenager explained, ‘when we were coming back through the alley.’

‘You were smoking,’ her mother interrupted, ‘you think I’m daft? I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘Did she say anything?’ Rachel asked them.

‘No, she was unconscious,’ Rabia said.

‘Was she breathing though?’ Amina said dramatically, clutching Rabia’s arm.

‘Course she was, you div, or they’d have used the oxygen.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’ Rachel asked the girls. ‘Hear anyone? A car driving off?’ Had she been attacked where she was found or dumped in the alley afterwards?

They shook their heads.

‘Do you all know Shirelle?’ Rachel asked.

Everyone nodded.

‘She’s a local,’ Mels said.

And a drug pusher, Rachel thought. Did they all know that too?

‘Are you aware of anyone who wished her harm?’

No one spoke.

‘Any boyfriend, partner?’

Mels shook her head. ‘She used to come in with Victor,’ she said. ‘Not for a while though.’

There was a moment’s quiet – news of the double murder had been released late that afternoon. Another shock for the community.

‘Maybe she shot them, Victor and that,’ Amina said, a thrill dancing in her eyes, like it wasn’t real, unaffected by seeing the mess that someone had made of Shirelle’s face.

‘Don’t be thick,’ Rabia nudged her friend.

‘Do you know anything about that?’ Rachel said to Amina.

‘No.’

‘Who’d want to hurt Shirelle?’ Rachel said, looking around.

‘The EBA,’ Rabia said. ‘They’re stirring things up. People say we need to defend ourselves. This is our estate as well.’

‘That sort of talk just makes things worse,’ Mrs Muhammad said. ‘One lot of hotheads after another.’

‘No, Ma,’ Rabia said, ‘we need protection. You know what they say, take the town back for the British.’

‘You’re British,’ her mother said.

‘Try telling them that!’ Rabia said.

‘The police are here to protect you,’ Rachel said.

‘Oh, great. Like you did in the riots?’ The girl’s tone was sarcastic.

Eleven years ago, Rachel thought, Rabia would have been a little kid but she’d probably grown up hearing all about it.

‘You think it was a racist attack?’ Rachel said.

‘She’s mixed race, worst of both worlds,’ Amina chipped in.

Liam Kelly shrugged.

It was all speculation, bound to happen but she’d got nothing she could take back to the inquiry.

‘Anyone think of anything else, hear anything, call me,’ Rachel said.

‘Have you any more news about Rick – Richard?’ Liam Kelly said.

‘We have charged two men with his murder.’

‘The Perrys?’ Connor said.

Rachel inclined her head slightly but did not commit herself verbally. ‘It’ll be made public in the morning.’

After leaving them, Rachel rang in and reported the serious assault of a person of interest, then called the hospital and left her details so they could contact her once Shirelle was fit to be interviewed.

Sean had left her a voicemail message: We’re at the pub if you fancy a drink on the way home.

She did. A drink with her husband at the end of a long, long day.

Rachel walked round from the pub car park and in the main entrance to the Ladies where she gave her hair a quick brush-through and applied some lip gloss. She’d do. Sean probably wouldn’t notice. He thought she was gorgeous, told her so at regular intervals.

She went through to the bar and spotted him playing darts with a couple of the lads. She signalled to him to see if he wanted a drink. He shook his head, raised a full pint. Rachel bought herself a large red wine, had a sip then set it on a table near the lads and went out to the beer garden for a fag.

And found her mother.

‘What the f- are you doing here?’ Rachel said.

Sharon, wearing some sort of tiger-striped fake-fur jacket, was leaning back against the wall, fag in hand, and a drink on the table in front of her. She cut her eyes at Rachel.

‘Sean was coming for a drink, he invited me along.’

You invited yourself, more like.

Rachel didn’t know what to say, couldn’t bring herself to say what she really felt: Fuck off and leave me alone. When I said I’d meet you, I didn’t mean every other bloody night.

Instead she remembered telling her mother to wait for an invitation. Rachel needed the distance. Twenty years Sharon had been on the lam, she couldn’t just pick up the reins like it had never happened.

‘He ring you up, did he?’ Rachel couldn’t leave it. She struck her lighter, a tug of wind snuffed out the flame.

‘I rang him, as it happens, see how you all were. He said he was coming here.’

‘I’ve no cash,’ Rachel said, ‘if that’s what you’re angling for.’

‘How dare you,’ Sharon said, her face alive with outrage.

‘Just a few free drinks, was it?’