Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

The officers agreed.

Rachel rang Gill but got Janet instead. ‘Someone’s been shooting up Greg Tandy’s, no casualties but we need a safe house for Mrs Tandy and Connor. Can you find out what’s available and get back to me?’

‘Of course.’

Rachel took the Tandys to sit in the back of her vehicle while she waited for an address.

Janet finally got back to her with the location of a house in Bolton. Someone would meet them there with basic provisions: tea, milk, bread and margarine.

‘What size are they, clothes wise?’ Janet said.

Rachel relayed the question.

‘Twelve,’ Gloria said, ‘why?’

‘We need to take your clothes,’ Rachel said, ‘get you new ones.’

‘Why?’ Connor asked.

‘In case there’s evidence on them, you were in the middle of a crime scene. It’s standard procedure. What size shoes?’

‘Six,’ Gloria said.

‘Connor? Clothes?’ Rachel said.

‘Don’t know,’ he shrugged.

‘Men’s – small,’ his mum said.

‘Feet?’

‘Sevens,’ he said.

Rachel passed on the information to Janet.

‘How long will we be there?’ Connor asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘What about work?’ This from Gloria.

‘You can’t go,’ Rachel said. ‘Not until we’ve assessed the risk. Which is pretty fucking high given what just happened.

The witness protection service was, of course, hush-hush. Cops like Rachel knew next to nothing about how it worked, beyond being able to access safe houses in an emergency for vulnerable or intimidated witnesses and victims.

Mother and son were subdued as Rachel drove the twenty miles to their destination. The wind was getting up and bringing rain with it, heavy squalls that spattered the windscreen and drummed on the car roof. Rachel checked in the rear-view mirror regularly but no vehicles stayed on their tail long enough to concern her.

She stopped as instructed on the roadside outside the house at the end of a row of Georgian terraces and was met by a woman who was driving a small van. The woman checked Rachel’s identity but did not share her own, handed her the key to the house, told her there was an intercom and panic alarms throughout and handed her two large laundry bags with clothing and shoes and a bag of groceries.

Like some spooks movie. But Rachel didn’t mind if this was the way to safeguard Connor and Gloria.

Most of the houses nearby had been converted into offices with brass nameplates by the door. Presumably it was easier to be anonymous here when people were only around during office hours.

The safety measures were apparent: no glass in the front door, bolts and locks on that, double-glazed frosted-glass windows with wrought-iron screens too, tastefully done but they would significantly increase the security. Intercom at the door provided a means to check out by both audio and video link who was calling, and there were bright-red panic buttons in every room. The door to the upstairs was locked and had a no-entry notice on. But the ground floor provided two bedrooms, a dining kitchen, lounge and shower room. There was no back door.

The furnishings were practical, minimal. Industrial-style carpet, flecked so as to mask marks. Formica table and four dining chairs, a modest TV. Plain green curtains. No paintings or cushions, no touches to make it anything other than a place of transit. Rachel thought of a budget hotel crossed with a clinic or a dentist’s. Bland pretending to be homely and failing.

‘I’m starving,’ said Connor.

‘There’s bread and milk.’ Rachel held up the bag.

The kitchen smelled stale though the pedal bin and fridge were empty. The fridge was switched off so she turned it on. Gloria examined the central heating controls and set that going. ‘It’s freezing,’ she said.

‘You’ll be cold from the shock, too,’ Rachel said. ‘There’s a toaster,’ she showed Connor.

‘Don’t just want toast,’ he complained.

‘I saw a chippie down the way. I’ll go, give you a chance to try the intercom when I get back.’

‘Sound!’ He grinned like it was a game.

‘Change your clothes and shoes first, put everything you are wearing now in these.’ She gave each of them evidence sacks and passed them the bags of new gear.

‘I’m not going out like this,’ Connor moaned when he re-emerged. ‘What are these – Primark?’ He stuck out a foot in a blue and black trainer.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Rachel said.

Gloria didn’t want anything to eat, but Connor asked for chicken and chips, or sausage, chips and gravy. And Coke. Rachel wondered if she could claim it on expenses.

She let herself out, put the evidence bags in the car and walked along past the lawyers’ and accountants’ offices, shielding her cigarette from the wind and rain to light it.

She wondered if there was a link between the attack on Shirelle and this one. All three targets – Shirelle, Gloria and Connor – were on the fringes of the case, close to potential main players. Shirelle knew the murder victims and worked with Keane, who might be a suspect. Connor also knew the dead couple, well enough to tell Rachel that Shirelle had dated Victor. And Gloria was married to a man who was now a candidate for the killing of the two young people. A man with access to weapons and with accelerant on his gloves.

When she got back to the safe house she pressed the intercom.

‘Who is it?’ Connor’s voice crackled.

‘It’s me, you daft git, let me in.’

‘Not if you’re calling me names,’ he said.

‘I’ll eat your chips then, shall I?’

He buzzed her in.

While Connor ate in front of the telly, Gloria sat in the kitchen, smoking and drinking tea. Her earlier shock and exhaustion gave way to a burst of anger when she said to Rachel, ‘This is him, isn’t it? Greg, it’s because of him?’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘What else can it be?’ she hissed.

‘We’re trying to establish what Mr Tandy has been doing. If you can help-’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head sharply. ‘All I know is he was shooting his fucking mouth off after that tramp got killed and I told him I didn’t want to hear it. He could go. So he did. No argument. We hadn’t been getting on since he came out, not for a long while before that.’

‘What was he saying about the tramp?’

‘How it was a good thing, people like that scrounging off the rest of us, scum of the earth. He’d like to shake the hand of whoever did it. He was pissed,’ she added. ‘Not like it was a Muslim, is it?’

‘Kavanagh?’ Rachel said.

‘Yeah. Not a terrorist, a Paki. I could understand that. Coming over here and blowing stuff up. Forced marriages. Grooming our kids. And they’re dirty.’

Rachel didn’t know where to start with that little lot. Didn’t even try. ‘So you argued?’

‘I’d had enough. He’d only been home a week and I knew he was up to something. I don’t want Connor going the same way.’

Rachel remembered Connor’s earlier comments, ‘T hey all look the same to me, niggers. ’ A chip off the old block.

‘Connor wanted to go with him. They don’t get it at that age. You try and keep them steady but-’

‘You wouldn’t let him?’

‘No. To God knows where, and with the probation after Greg once they find out he’s not at home. Anyway…’ She ground out her cigarette and as if on automatic took the ashtray and emptied it into the bin. ‘… I said I wasn’t having it so then I’m in the doghouse with Connor, and Greg goes and makes it ten times worse by saying that he didn’t need a kid hanging round his neck, whining all day. And now this – whatever he’s done.’