Cath Staincliffe: Ruthless

‘We rearranged,’ he said.

‘How come?’

‘Just did.’ He opened the fridge.

‘Hey, this lot first, dishwasher and paper bin,’ she said, nodding at the mess.

‘I was,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Hardly.’ She wondered who’d rearranged. Had Sammy put his dad off? She could see why he might. Dave wasn’t great company these days. His love nest with the whore of Pendlebury and their spawn had disintegrated and Dave was now back living with his mother. Not a good look for a man in his fifties. Sammy liked his grandma but was of an age where a handful of visits a year would suffice. But for all Dave’s failings, and they were legion, Gill still thought it best that Sammy maintain regular contact with his dad. It’d help Dave too, she reckoned, to know there was still somebody who loved him. A solid relationship that wasn’t going to go tits up when a younger model rolled along. Did Dave still see his second child? She’d never asked. It wasn’t her business, anyway. Dave was an adult, fact. Despite his sometimes childish behaviour. He could handle the fallout from his midlife crisis by himself. Why the hell should Gill concern herself with it?

Sammy put the crockery in the dishwasher and took the carton outside to the recycling bin while Gill fixed herself an omelette.

‘I need a suit,’ he said as he came in, ‘for the prom.’

‘What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?’

‘Too short.’ He went back to the fridge, opened it. The light shining out on him. Like a shrine, Gill thought, where he worships. He can’t eat enough. Eighteen and still growing.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, it’s halfway up my legs. I look like a knob.’

‘Well, I think your dad’ll have to take you,’ she said, forking up the last of her food.

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because I’ve just started an investigation. I’m not going to have time to draw breath.’

He sighed heavily, brought ham and cheese out of the fridge.

‘Or take Orla,’ Gill said.

‘Cool.’ Shopping with his girlfriend obviously appealed more.

‘Revision?’ she said.

‘Done some.’ He’d three more exams to sit, then his schooldays would be over.

‘Orla’s being nominated for prom queen,’ he said.

‘Is she now?’

‘Yeah. I think Daisy Tuttle will get it, she’s more popular.’

‘We never had any of that sort of thing,’ she said, ‘proms.’

‘You had a party, though, didn’t you?’

‘Of sorts. Smuggled in vodka to mix with fruit juice, crammed into the school hall. Smelled of sweaty trainers. Disco – that was our lot. No limos, or kings and queens. If anyone had worn a suit they’d have been laughed out of court. The only people who wore suits were teachers and squares.’ She laughed.

‘Sounds rubbish,’ he said.

‘It was brilliant,’ she said. ‘We were free, school’s out, all that business, we burned our ties. None of this American tosh.’

‘And you knew then you wanted to join the police?’

She studied him for a moment. ‘I did. Never thought about doing anything else. With Grandma and Grandpa in the job, although Grandma left when she married.’

‘Why?’ he said. He took a huge bite of the sub sandwich he’d made.

‘That’s how people did it back then. Married women weren’t supposed to work, a man was expected to support the whole family. Guess it was in my DNA, the police.’

‘And mine,’ he said with his mouth full.

‘Lot easier to join then.’

‘You keep saying that, like you want to put me off,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t. But it is important you know how tough it will be.’

‘I do know. I’ve got to get more experience. I’ve applied to join the special constabulary, so I can start that as soon as the exams are done, and I’ve got my driving licence. Once I’ve done some time volunteering with them I can try for the police community support officers and the police proper after that.’

‘Yes, but who knows how long there’ll be a freeze on police recruitment,’ she said.

‘You still think I should have gone to university.’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I think it might have given you more options. You’d have a degree, which is a valuable qualification, in the police as much as anywhere else. If there aren’t any openings in the police, if you don’t get in, then what?’

‘Go abroad, Australia or somewhere.’

‘Seriously!’ She had never imagined him emigrating. Felt a squirt of panic but then thought about his future, his life. ‘That would be amazing,’ she said. ‘I could come and visit.’

‘How? You’re always at work.’

‘When I retire. Not all that long now.’ She could barely imagine it. Work, the job, had shaped her life over twenty-eight years. What on earth would she do without it? Maybe there’d be space as an adviser, a specialist. Retired officers did sometimes keep their hand in, working as consultants.

The force had changed almost beyond recognition in Gill’s time. Advances in science and technology had perhaps made the biggest impact. Everything from DNA profiling and CCTV coverage to mobile phones, the internet and a plethora of software systems provided tools for the detection of crime. There had been improvements in prevention as well: the police advised on secure building design, for example, features that reduced the opportunities for crime, neighbourhood watch schemes. Crime was falling as a result. How much more would change in Sammy’s lifetime?

But beyond all those tools, the most important resource was the staff themselves. Trained, monitored, mentored, assessed. There was no space for slackers or the mediocre in the service. God knows how Kevin Lumb had got through selection. Officers had to be highly motivated, intelligent and personable, able to work with others and show initiative. Sammy was all those and then some, but she was biased, she was his mother and there’d be another hundred kids like him all vying for the same sweet spot.

Gill caught the local television news, saw a picture of the blackened chapel with the briefest of reports. She cleared up and emptied the kitchen bin. Outside it was a clear night, cool, with pinprick stars over the moors.

She wondered about their victim. Was someone missing him tonight? Would DNA lead them to find him or his killer on the police database?

Gill noticed the top of the blue wheelie bin was open. Drawing closer, she could see Sammy had just stuffed the pizza box in without squashing it down, so the lid wouldn’t shut.

As she went to remedy the situation, a dark shape slithered from the bin and shot off into the dark. ‘Jesus!’ Gill started, felt the hairs on her forearms prickle.

She went back to the door and called out, ‘Sammy?’

‘What?’

‘Here. Now.’ He could bloody well sort out the bin himself. She should have called him in the first place. Perhaps an encounter with a rat would be more effective than any amount of nagging from his mother.

‘Test me, Mum.’ Taisie burst into the sitting room, script in hand. She’d obviously heard Janet arriving home. Janet stifled the impulse to groan and said, ‘Two minutes, let me get my breath back.’

‘Where?’ Taisie said. ‘Dad’s watching TV.’

‘Here then.’ Janet found half a bottle of white in the fridge and poured herself a glass. Cut some cheese. In the breadbin she found the heel of a French stick, not quite stale. She sat down, ate a few mouthfuls and drank some wine.

Taisie chattered on, a few mmms and yeses the only input required from Janet.

‘Genevieve missed three rehearsals, right, three and so Miss said Polly could do her part and then Genevieve came back and she said she’d had flu, right, and so Miss said Polly would be stand-in again and Polly burst into tears and Genevieve was all like, “I’m so sorry,” all gushy, yeah? And Miss said if Genevieve was off any more then she’d lose the part but we think they should take turns. And ’cos we said that, right, now Genevieve isn’t talking to us. Except in the play.’