Dead To Me

23

CHRISTOPHER DANES, THE FLO, brought Denise in to the station. Gill greeted her and introduced herself, offered her tea or coffee, which she declined. Denise was dishevelled, looked unwashed, her glasses smeared. She reeked of booze.

‘I’m leading the investigation and I wanted to tell you that we are doing everything we can to find out who did this to your daughter. I know Christopher has been keeping you up to date with developments, but if there’s anything you want to ask me I’ll do my best to answer it.’

‘You’ve arrested him?’

‘I can tell you that we have arrested a twenty-two-year-old man who is helping with our inquiries.’

‘It’s him though, isn’t it?’ she grimaced, a note of bitter triumph in her tone.

Gill paused, deliberately not denying it before saying, ‘I’m not at liberty to say. As soon as we can tell you any more, I give you my assurance you will be the first to hear.’

‘I’ve a right to know,’ Denise said defiantly.

‘Yes,’ Gill agreed, ‘and as soon as any steps are taken, any charges brought, anything like that, you will be told. You have my word.’

‘And the funeral?’ The muscles in her face twitched.

‘We can’t release Lisa yet, the defence have the right to have Lisa examined for themselves.’

‘I can’t afford to bury her.’ Tears filled her eyes and the red blotches across her nose and cheeks darkened.

‘There’s help available,’ Gill said. ‘Christopher will put you in touch, help you with that.’ What had she done for her son? Burial? Cremation? Gill thought it prudent not to go there. Add more weight to the woman’s burden. ‘The Press Office are planning to send out a release – an update on the inquiry so far. They would like to include a few words about Lisa, and wonder if you could suggest something.’

Denise drew back, appalled. ‘On the telly?’

‘No, no,’ Gill rushed to reassure her. God, no! Seeing Denise in the state she was in would be unlikely to attract much sympathy or propel people to try and assist the police. The fact that Lisa had been in care and was living alone at seventeen already influenced some of the reporting. The tone would have been far different if she’d been from a cosy, middle-class home, a model pupil with a clutch of GCSEs and a bright future.

‘It would be written down,’ Gill said, ‘and something I might quote from in interviews.’

Gill quite enjoyed press conferences; the performer in her, perhaps. She felt confident and articulate and didn’t ruffle easily. She had had plenty of practice, too, all those years in the crime faculty when the cases were invariably high profile. In one way or another, the regional media liked to make much of the ‘invasion’ of the national detectives into their local patch: SUPERSLEUTHS TAKE THE REINS, MURDER ELITE IN TOWN, TOP COPS FOR THE LONG SLOG – some of the headlines she remembered. Their reception in the regional forces had varied. Many colleagues had been glad of the faculty’s help, keen to solve the murders that were frustrating them and grateful for the extra staff and resources, the fresh viewpoint that they brought. But others were prats with a parochial, dog-in-the-manger attitude: If we can’t solve this then no bugger will. That meant everything took twice as long, with obstruction bordering on sabotage in some cases, the faculty detectives working in an atmosphere of thinly veiled hostility. It had only served to make Gill even more determined to solve the case.

‘What would I say?’ Denise asked her.

‘People often say something about the person’s interests and personality.’ Best not mention the nasty temper or the hard drugs, though. ‘Something to make people realize that Lisa was someone’s daughter, somebody’s family. Not just a photo in the paper but a real person.’

‘She used to sing,’ Denise said. ‘She’d a lovely voice, hit all the top notes.’

‘That’s good.’

‘And I, erm…’ She broke off, pressed a hand to her mouth. Distressed.

‘Perhaps we could say something about the family being devastated to lose her?’

‘Yes,’ her voice wobbled.

‘Lively, perhaps?’ Not bubbly. Gill hated bubbly. Pendlebury was bubbly.

‘She was definitely that.’ Denise half rose. ‘Sorry, I can’t-’

‘That’s all right. Please, sit down. Take your time. I know DC Bailey wants to talk to you, if you could stay a little bit longer. How about that cup of tea now?’

Denise gave a nod and took a tissue to wipe at her eyes.

Gill found Christopher and took him aside. ‘She seems to be all alone in the world. Has she any support?’

‘Couple of neighbours have been round with offers of help, left some food. She’s not touched it.’

‘What happened to the sister? The one who took Nathan in when Denise couldn’t cope?’

‘Moved to Wales back in 2005. Died in a motorway pile-up three weeks later.’

Christ, talk about broken families. At least Sammy had spent fourteen years in a stable home. Gill’s turning a blind eye to Dave’s philandering had contributed to that. And when the shit did hit the fan, Gill had made it clear to Sammy that Dave still loved him – that in betraying her, he was not betraying his son. But her guts told her differently: collateral damage was damage all the same. She remembered Sammy’s face when she had sat him down to explain why Dave wouldn’t be living with them any more. His expression close to tears, the way he bit at his lip. ‘He’s met someone else,’ she said.

‘How d’you know?’ Sammy had asked.

She refrained from sharing the grisly facts. ‘Your dad’s told me. He’s coming round tonight, he wants to take you out for a-’

‘I’m not going!’ Sammy jumped to his feet. ‘He can eff off.’

‘Sammy, he didn’t want to hurt you. Come here, come here.’ Her eyes burning, she’d opened her arms.

He had stomped towards her, hugged her, then she felt his shoulders shake as he began to cry. Gulping back her own emotion, she squeezed him tight. ‘It’s gonna be all right, kid. You and me, eh? You’re my best boy’ – her familiar phrase – ‘always will be. My lovely boy. And it’s all right to be sad and it’s all right to be angry. But this is not your fault – don’t you ever even think that. And it’s not my fault,’ she added. Which leaves…

Sammy was angry, furious for weeks, refusing to speak to his father. Gill wasn’t sure she could ever forgive Dave for that. Screw forgiveness.

‘I know you’ve arrested him,’ Denise said to Rachel, mouth pinched tight.

‘We’ve arrested a twenty-two-year-old male, that’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ Rachel said. The standard response. But Denise knew, course she did. Rachel could tell. They always did. How many other twenty-two-year-old men had been potential suspects in the murder?

Rachel watched Denise nod emphatically. ‘I told you it was him. First time I set eyes on him, I knew he was the worst thing that could happen to her.’

Weren’t so hot yourself, Rachel thought. James Raleigh’s words came back: a wreck unable to cope… depression and alcohol dependency. Though Denise had at least tried a bit, she supposed, unlike Rosie’s mother, who had closed her eyes, stuck two fingers in her ears and sung la-la-la at the top of her voice every time her new fella or any of his mates abused her daughter. Rosie had been removed to local authority care for her own safety. And then the rape on top of all that. No wonder the girl was struggling. What a life. Rachel wondered where Rosie’s social worker was. She’d be someone’s responsibility, surely, given the state of her. In 2008 the woman looking after her was run off her feet, struggling to keep up with her caseload. Assuming someone was still seeing her now, how much could they realistically do? They had offered rape crisis counselling for Rosie, back then, at St Mary’s, the specialist unit, one of the best services in the country. She’d refused. It seemed she no longer had the resources to hope, to contemplate change, to consider herself worth saving.

‘We’ve recovered something from a property today that we would like you to look at and tell us if you recognize it,’ Rachel said.

Denise leaned forward. Up close, the smell of booze was sickening, sweet and chemical. The woman was probably sweating pure alcohol.

Rachel put the exhibits bag containing the cross and chain on the table.

Denise’s hands went to her mouth; her hands were wrinkled and liver-spotted, though she was only in her thirties. Tears glimmered behind her glasses. ‘It’s Lisa’s,’ she said. ‘Where was it?’

‘You’re sure it’s Lisa’s?’

‘I gave her it her, for her seventeenth.’ April. ‘She never took it off.’

‘You last saw Lisa in October, you said?’

‘Yes, my birthday. She came round for a bit. She’d got me a present,’ her voice faded to a whisper: ‘a scarf.’

‘Was Lisa wearing the cross and chain then?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t see her after that?’ Rachel tried not to imply anything untoward, but given that they only lived a bus ride apart, you’d have thought she’d have made more of an effort.

‘It was his fault,’ Denise said. ‘He turned her against me.’

Not far to turn, maybe a couple of degrees, judging by what James Raleigh had said about the family set-up.

‘But I kept trying. I rang her every week. Sometimes we’d have a chat, depending what mood she was in. Sometimes – when he was there, I reckon – she’d just hang up on me.’

She couldn’t even bring herself to use Sean’s name, Rachel noted. ‘When you rang her on Monday, what happened?’ she asked.

Denise slowly closed her eyes, defeat plain in her expression. ‘She said she was busy.’

‘Did you ring for any particular reason?’

‘I wanted to ask her about the rehab, if she’d talked to Mr Raleigh about it, but I never got the chance.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t return Lisa’s possessions to you yet,’ Rachel said.

‘Where did you find it?’ Denise said.

‘I can’t tell you that at the moment. It may be of significance to the inquiry.’

‘What’s happening with him – Sean?’ she said.

‘Your FLO will have explained to you-’ Rachel began.

‘Don’t you think I’ve a right to know?’ She was getting angry.

‘You will be the first to be informed if any charges are brought.’

Denise shook her head, chewing at her lip, deep grooves etched in her forehead. As though Rachel’s answer really wasn’t good enough.

What would she have left to remember her daughter? A broken necklace. The handful of pictures on the living-room shelves. The scarf Lisa gave her for her birthday. The few memories from all the years they had been apart or those together in an uneasy truce.

Christmas coming. And both her kids dead since this time last year. Had Lisa been round last Christmas? Had the three of them sat down as a family at Denise’s, or had Lisa spent the day at Ryelands? Christmas had always been a minefield in the Bailey household. The kids desperate to enjoy it, Dad in danger of getting drunk and sentimental or drunk and short-tempered. Alison playing Mother, determined that they would have a good time. Paying into the Christmas Club some years, getting enough to buy selection boxes and a turkey and a silver plastic tree with lights from Woolies. Rachel going along with it, more for Dom’s sake than her own. But under the surface, acutely aware that each winter marked another year without so much as a card. Christmas, the time of the nativity, seemed to mock the hole at the heart of their family. The quality of presents veered wildly. Usually they got sweets and pocket-money toys: catapult, skipping rope, yo-yos, knock-off Tamagotchi. But some years there were more extravagant offerings, if he’d won on the horses or succumbed to stuff off the back of a lorry doing the rounds dirt cheap. One year’s windfall netted them a table football set. Rachel and Dom spent most of Christmas morning fixing it together. It’d been a great toy. They had tournaments – all four of them, sometimes. One of the few Christmases that she could look back on with affection.

Until the end of March, when the final demand for the gas bill arrived and he flogged it to the next-door neighbours, shamefaced and sorry as he told the kids that he had no choice.