Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

Rachel didn’t give her anything. Better not to say.

‘That’s it,’ Gloria said. ‘If he’s brought this down on us, he can forget it. I’ll divorce him.’

‘What about Marcus Williams or Stanley Keane?’ Rachel said. ‘Did Greg say anything about them? Could they have been behind the attack?’

‘No, he never said anything about anybody,’ Gloria insisted.

Rachel went over the precautions with them one more time before she left. ‘You are not under house arrest, you are here for your own protection. You can go out, though I’d advise you to stay here as much as possible. Do not go anywhere you may be recognized. That means staying away from home, work, family, friends, school. Yes?’

‘Cool,’ Connor smiled.

Gloria rolled her eyes. ‘How long for?’

‘I don’t know. We need to identify the threat. If you do speak to anyone on the phone do not reveal your whereabouts.’

Rachel sat outside in her car and rang in. Godzilla answered.

‘Rachel. Everyone all right?’

‘Yes, boss, settled in for the night.’

‘Good. We’ve recovered several bullets from the scene.’

‘Any witnesses?’ Rachel said.

‘None. All too busy tucked up watching the soaps.’

‘I’ve got the clothes to log in,’ Rachel said. ‘Boss, I didn’t get to talk to the neighbours about Tandy’s recent movements.’

‘Briefing tomorrow, we’ll look at that then.’

Another inch, Rachel thought, a different angle of entry and they would have had another fatality on their hands, a scrappy, mouthy fourteen-year-old, shot watching TV.

Rachel had been brooding about Sean blabbing to her mother for twenty-four hours. It all came to a head as soon as she got in. He started wittering on about tomorrow’s football and where to watch it, like nothing was wrong. Even Sean must have noticed the god-awful atmosphere last night and her mother’s sudden departure from the pub.

‘How could you tell Sharon about Dom, about me turning him in?’ Rachel said. ‘That was private.’

‘But she’s your mam,’ Sean said, ‘Dom’s too.’

‘In name only. You had no right!’

‘Rachel, please, calm down.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’

‘I thought she knew, knew he was in prison, I thought you’d have told her.’

‘That I fucking put him there? And now she’s playing the bloody martyr, the saint. Blood is thicker than water. You look out for your own . Fucking hypocrite.’

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but at least it’s out in the open.’

He really did not get it. He thought shoving people back together again meant they’d all play happy families. He did not see the Baileys were more your Jeremy Kyle-style family. Fractured and fucking hopeless. She should never have married him. The thought was like a knife, swift, lancing through her. Oh God. She felt awful, disloyal, and cruel. Don’t be daft, she told herself, give it time.

‘You know what she’s like,’ she was saying, ‘a bloody disaster.’

‘She’s not all bad,’ he said.

‘I can’t be doing with her, Sean, every time I turn round she’s here, wanting things, talking-’ She didn’t know how to make him see it.

‘She’s missed a lot,’ he said.

‘And whose fault is that?’

‘But it’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? Think of the future.’

She didn’t want to. ‘I need to take it more slowly,’ she said, ‘small doses, you know?’

‘OK.’ He sounded reluctant.

‘So don’t encourage her. If she comes round, tell her we’re busy or we’re going out.’

He looked pained. For all his street smarts Sean was rubbish at lying, at playing games.

‘Though we probably won’t see her for a bit, the way we left things. Least not till she’s running short,’ Rachel said.

Sean nodded, pulled her close, kissed her. Rachel felt uncomfortable, too hot, and twitchy. She drew away. ‘Think I’ll have a run,’ she said.

‘Now?’

‘Wind down.’

‘What’s wrong with the sofa, Thai chicken curry?’

‘Sean-’

‘All right,’ he said, ‘do what you got to do.’

He was so grateful to have her there he’d bend over backwards rather than say anything to challenge her. But instead of being thankful, that made her feel worse. She made an excuse: ‘Bitch of a day.’

‘Go,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘course you will.’

‘Sammy, I need to talk to you,’ Gill said. ‘Turn that off.’

‘I cleared up the other day,’ he objected.

‘It’s not that.’

He looked at her, picking up on her serious tone, paused his game.

Gill crossed and sat in the armchair. She felt anxiety fluttering behind her breastbone. ‘It’s about your dad,’ she said. ‘He’s gone into rehab.’

‘Where?’ Sammy said.

‘A place in Cheshire. Like a hotel.’

‘Without a minibar.’

She smiled, ‘Exactly.’

‘How long will he be there?’ Sammy asked.

‘I don’t know, as long as he needs.’

‘OK.’

She rubbed at the cloth, the piping around the edge of the chair arm. They had picked the design together, her and Dave, argued about the colour scheme. She won. And later he admitted it worked, both comfortable and stylish at the same time. They had christened the couch the night it was delivered. Days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Sammy sound asleep upstairs. They’d been so bright back then, nothing seemed too hard. Gill working all hours solving murders, Dave gaining promotion. Both ambitious. Both still on the way up, proud of each other. Good prospects. Good money. Enough to build this place, enough for good food and clothes and cars. And Sammy. The blessing of Sammy.

All that and now this.

She made a fist, tapped it on the chair a couple of times. ‘Your dad, he’s been – well, you know he’s been having problems for a while.’

‘Yeah,’ a hint of sarcasm there. She was stating the bleeding obvious. She kicked herself. ‘Well, he came here drunk last night, broke into the summerhouse, blacked out. And now he’s getting help, professional help.’

Sammy’s mouth twisted, he shook his head in disgust. Seeing this, his loss of respect for his dad, hurt more than anything.

‘It’s hard for us to understand,’ she said, ‘but it’s a disease, an illness. It’s not about you or me or anyone else. He still loves you, Sammy, whatever else. You know that?’

‘I suppose.’

‘He does. And so do I.’ She gave him a hug. ‘We’re going to be all right.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘How’s Orla?’ She changed the subject.

‘Good, yeah.’

‘We should go out some time,’ she said, ‘the three of us, a meal.’

‘Right,’ he said, ‘before Christmas or after?’ Sarky. Sarky was OK.

‘I do have days off,’ she chided him. ‘I’ll tell you when and you can ask her.’

‘OK.’

‘She’s not vegan or anything?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘OK, that’s a date to be arranged.’

She expected him to return to his game but he switched it off and disappeared upstairs.

Gill closed her eyes, took a breath and let it out slowly. She looked outside where the cherry tree stood in shadow, the rain falling steadily against the windows. She closed the curtains.

It’s going to be all right, she told herself. Who knows what might have happened if she hadn’t found Dave when she did, if she hadn’t forced him to see what was so blindingly obvious, if she hadn’t finally got through to him. And now he was off her back, out of circulation and, she dearly hoped, was going to make a good recovery. She’d need to get the glass fixed in the summerhouse, clear out the mess in there. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight she meant to eat something decent and get a good sleep and try to feel halfway normal again. For her and her boy.