Dead To Me

15

RACHEL AND KEVIN walked the streets around Shudehill, identifying cameras before visiting the monitoring centre to download the relevant files. Lee, as exhibits officer, checked the downloads in and then Rachel and Kevin settled in for the duration. Sitting side by side, with a screen each, running film from different cameras, aiming to retrace Lisa’s movements back through town. Rachel found her on the footage within ten minutes of starting, found Kasim’s cab first, on Shudehill at 13.06, opposite the bus station. Played the tape backwards to see Lisa stepping out of the taxi, with a load of shopping bags in her hands. The taxi reversing away and Lisa setting the bags down on the pavement. Rachel’s pulse gave a jump. Yes! ‘Someone’s had fun,’ she said.

That was by far the easiest part of the task. It had taken another hour and a half, by which point Rachel’s back was killing her and she was gagging for a smoke, to find Lisa coming out of the Arndale, down the big steps, on Cross Street. To trace the movements inside the complex, they needed to view the separate footage from the retailers’ cameras. Kevin rang and put in a request via the security manager there.

Rachel could have gone home then, she knew she probably should have gone home then, but should was a word she refused to kowtow to. It’s worth checking out, she told herself. All my own time. If it’s a dead end who’s to know?

She could still remember where Rosie Vaughan had lived, a block of flats in New Moston. She could still remember her first glimpse of the girl, the misshapen face, the bloodied eye, split lips, the bruises that marked her body. The smell of shit. Rosie had soiled herself in the course of the beating.

A neighbour had called them – not the pervy one but the tenant below who had heard shouts and screams above the noise from the television. Unable to get a response and with reason to believe there was a risk of harm, the police had broken in. The assailant had gone by then.

Now Rachel parked and made her way to the entrance, didn’t have to wait long for someone to leave the building and let her into the foyer. Once inside she chose the stairwell over the lift. Stepped over the chip papers and lager cans that littered the half-landings. She could smell the concrete and piss and a trace of gunpowder. Kids messing with fireworks.

Rachel knocked on the door and listened. Heard only vacant silence. And from somewhere down below a dog barking, rapid and gruff.

She knocked again, louder, and the door across the hall opened, the pervy bloke appeared. ‘She’s probably out,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. Was he trying to place her? Rachel hadn’t ever interviewed the man, she’d dealt with Rosie mainly.

‘Rosie?’ Rachel said, needed to check she still lived in the block, that they were talking about the same person.

‘You can come in and wait,’ he leered, scratching at his chest.

Jesus, she could smell him from here. The sweet stench of human grime. His fingernails were black with dirt. Food crumbs in his beard. Rachel tensed, ready to run, or knee the bloke if he lunged for her. ‘Where would she be?’

He’d mad eyes, glittering like beads. ‘The canal, or maybe the old chapel.’

Rachel walked off, not too quickly, not prepared to let him think he’d rattled her, but on her toes, ready. He didn’t follow.

She reached the canal on foot, it ran behind the flats. The street lighting was brutal, an attempt to improve security. The water between the stone banks looked oily in the glare. Smelled pungent in the cold air. The canal was full of rubbish, plastic bags and bottles, chunks of polystyrene. There was no one about, but ahead on the left she saw the bridge and a glow of yellow flickering in the tunnel underneath. A fire.

She walked, as quietly as she could, along the towpath and drawing closer made out a group of people huddled round the flames. Three lads, and at the far side of the semicircle, Rosie. Stick thin, ginger hair, glasses, a denim jacket. She didn’t even have a hat on, though it was close to freezing.

Rachel considered the lads: older teenagers, their hoodies and tracksuits shabby, nothing new. Edging nearer, she could see a giant-sized bottle of cheap wine. A smoke was doing the rounds. Weed, maybe? Yes, she could detect the distinctive heady smell of cannabis. Sudden laughter. And Rosie kicked out at one of the lads.

‘Rosie?’

The group stilled, one of the lads jumped up. ‘What d’you want?’ he said. Rachel stared at his face, noted the jut of his chin, the slack expression, mouth breather. ‘A word with Rosie there, all right, pal?’ Not frightened of him.

Rosie got up, she stumbled, and Rachel saw she was very drunk.

‘You’re police?’ said one of them.

Rosie hesitated, Rachel was worried she’d topple in the canal if she didn’t move away from the edge. But the lads shuffled back and the girl walked past, skirting the fire.

‘Youse the cops?’ the lad said again.

‘Shut it, Dec,’ said his mate.

Rosie came closer, her eyes bleary, the bones of her cheeks and her clavicle jutting out.

Rachel walked her along a few metres to where there was a simple plank bench. ‘You remember me?’ she said. ‘Here,’ Rachel offered the girl a cigarette, took one herself. Lit them. ‘How’ve you been?’ Needing to start somewhere, though she could see the kid was half off her head.

‘’Kay.’ Looking back to her mates, to the fire. She shook with cold.

‘The assault, the rape…’ Rachel said, seeing the girl stiffen immediately. ‘It was someone you knew?’

‘No,’ the girl said quickly.

Rachel didn’t believe her. ‘I think it was,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s why you refused to make a statement, why you wouldn’t press charges. You were frightened of him. Frightened he would make you pay if you shopped him.’

The girl shook her head, then sucked hard on the cigarette.

A train rattled past somewhere close, making it difficult to hear anything else. As the racket faded away, Rachel said, ‘I’m investigating another case. It might be the same bloke.’ She studied the girl, who just sat shivering, staring across the canal, tapping nervously at the end of her cigarette with her thumbnail. ‘Does the name Sean Broughton mean anything to you?’

Rosie shook her head slowly. No reaction, no increase in stress as far as Rachel could see.

‘This other girl, she was in Ryelands, too.’ Rachel caught the flinch that the name of the home provoked and felt her own heartbeat quicken. ‘Was it someone you knew from Ryelands?’ Rachel asked. ‘Just tell me that. I don’t need a name, I can find out.’ Speaking fast, rushing to convince her.

Rosie turned. ‘No, it wasn’t. No, it wasn’t,’ she cried. ‘Why have you come back?’ Her face white with anxiety, eyes wide, the pupils huge from the drugs or the drink. She was shuddering, her breath catching and uneven. ‘I didn’t see his face. I just want to forget it, I told you before.’

‘How? Look at the state of you,’ Rachel said. ‘You’ve not forgotten. You let them get away with it. And now they might have hurt someone else.’ All things she should have kept to herself, unhelpful, unprofessional. ‘We can protect you,’ Rachel went on.

‘I never seen him,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Just go, will you, fuck off.’ She leapt to her feet and walked unsteadily back to her friends, and Rachel heard the hubbub of questions and remarks as she reached the tunnel.

Rachel lobbed her cigarette into the canal, retraced her steps. Rosie didn’t know Sean, she trusted her on that, but Ryelands? There was something there, but she needed to find a way to introduce it to the inquiry without getting a total bollocking or being laughed out of court.