Ruthless

9

Dave was on the lounge floor when Gill came down at half five. No sign of a sleeping bag. She made coffee, ate porridge with brown sugar and crème fraîche. Felt halfway human. She’d barely slept, too busy rehearsing her speech to Dave, then meandering off-track into a parallel universe where it didn’t matter what befell him, where she could exact revenge, see him ridiculed, demoted, gone, with no messy repercussions for either her or Sammy. Fantasies.

She kicked his foot. ‘Wakey-wakey.’

He groaned, didn’t even open his eyes. She kicked him again, his shin, harder. ‘Get up. Now.’

He yelped, and this time his eyes flew open. She saw the confusion in them: he didn’t know where he was, how he’d got there. He blinked a few times, raised himself on one elbow, coughed.

‘Coffee in the kitchen.’

‘It’s not six yet.’ He was staring at his watch. ‘If you want to go-’

‘I’m going nowhere, not until we’ve talked. And we’re going to talk now. Not later or tomorrow but now. Got it?’

He sank back, hand over his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he muttered.

When he joined her he’d washed his face, not that it had improved anything much, just made the edge of his hair wet. He sat down at the table where she’d left him a mug of coffee. She was opposite him, leaning against the work surface, arms folded.

‘Do you remember last night?’

‘Course.’ He gave her a smile. Grotesque. He was lying.

‘Do you? The accident, the arrest, me coming to bail you out?’

He looked alarmed, tried to cover it with a laugh. He’d not a clue.

‘Thought not,’ she said. ‘Let me tell you what happened, Dave. You were drunk. That probably goes without saying except it actually needs saying, loud and fucking clear. You were completely rat-arsed and you got into a car and drove. A criminal offence under section 4 of the 1988 Road Traffic Act. You attempted to hammer your way into my house, scaring the shit out of me. In fear for my safety I put out a 999 call. Officers attended the scene.’ She watched his face blanch. ‘I didn’t press charges. God knows I’d have liked to, you could argue that as a serving police officer I had an ethical duty to but I felt it was important, for the sake of our son, not to have you splashed all over the Oldham Chronicle, looking like a dick.’

He rubbed his face, winced as he touched his nose. ‘You hit your nose,’ Gill said. ‘I wish you’d broken something. What was it all in aid of? Can you even remember?’

‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.

‘Why?’ She was genuinely mystified.

‘To… just to see you.’

‘You were drunk,’ she said.

‘I’d had a couple-’

‘No! Just listen to yourself. It’s out of control. You’re out of control. You need help.’

He barked a laugh, humourless.

‘I don’t want you coming here, drunk. If it happens again, I will press charges.’

‘Bitch,’ he said.

White-hot rage flooded through her. It took every ounce of self-control not to fly at him, knock him off his chair. Wordlessly she took his car keys from the drawer, dropped them on the table. ‘Get out.’

‘Look, we can-’

‘Get out,’ she repeated, ‘get the fuck out and don’t come back.’

Janet felt weighed down, her movements hampered by the protective vest. They waited in cars parked outside Beaumont House, the tower block where the Perry twins lived.

Rachel yawned, which set Janet off.

‘Keep you awake, did he?’ Janet asked.

Rachel gave her a dead stare.

‘Pardon me for breathing,’ Janet said.

Word came to move in and they filed up the stairs, following the trained firearm unit in their Darth Vader outfits. Janet and Rachel stopped on the fifth-floor stairwell while the specialists went up to the next level.

They heard the thumping of the ram on the door, then the shouted instructions. ‘Police, police, get on the floor, on the floor. Lie down. Now. Hands on your head.’

A woman was yelling. ‘What’s going on? Leave them alone. Get your fucking hands off me.’

‘The mother?’ Janet said.

Once the suspects were restrained and a sweep of the flat had been done to check for booby traps, hazards and other occupants, Janet and Rachel and the search team were able to enter.

In the living room, Noel and Neil Perry had been cautioned, cuffed and were flanked by uniformed officers. They were identical: pale-blue eyes, golden-blond hair cropped close. Large square heads, bulked-up bodies. Not particularly tall, maybe five foot nine, but strong looking. They both wore striped boxers and vests. They had matching tattoos on their forearms, words in a fancy script that Janet couldn’t decipher. Pictures inked on the side of their necks.

Neither of them said a word, faces set, eyes gazing into the distance. But their mother, clad only in a sheer nightdress, was filling the silence. And then some. ‘You need a warrant,’ she said. ‘You can’t just come in here like the SAS, like a fucking militia and take people away.’

‘Mrs Perry,’ said Janet, ‘DC Janet Scott.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘I am here to arrest Noel and Neil Perry and I have a warrant to search the property.’

‘Looking for what?’ Noreen Perry said. She had thin, greasy brown hair. She was overweight and her complexion was pale, doughy.

‘As you’ll see from the warrant,’ Janet said, ‘we are pursuing evidence connected to the murder of Richard Kavanagh at the Old Chapel on Wednesday.’

‘Murder?’ Mrs Perry said. ‘You’re off your fucking trolley.’

‘Any objects removed will be itemized and listed,’ Janet said.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mrs Perry said, ‘they’ve done nothing wrong. This is harassment.’

‘If you wish to make a complaint, please do feel free.’ Janet was tired of the woman’s knee-jerk loyalty, the blanket defence, the rabid hostility.

Neither of the twins spoke at all.

‘Get them some disposable suits to wear and take them down,’ Janet told the officers escorting the suspects.

Once they had left, Mrs Perry shook her head, a bitter expression on her face, then eased herself into an armchair.

‘Perhaps you could tell me where Noel and Neil were on Wednesday evening?’ Janet said.

‘Perhaps you could fuck off.’

‘Hey,’ Rachel said, ‘watch the language.’

Janet nearly laughed, Rachel swore like a trooper.

‘You can’t say where they were?’ Janet said.

‘Here.’

‘All evening?’

‘Yes.’

Rachel gave Janet a knowing look.

‘They never went out?’ Janet said.

‘They were here all night,’ said Noreen Perry.

‘You do any washing since?’ Rachel said.

‘Machine’s broken,’ Noreen Perry said.

‘We’ll check that,’ Rachel said.

‘Launderette then?’ This from Janet.

Noreen Perry shook her head. ‘We’re going to execute the search warrant now,’ Janet said.

Assisted by four other officers, the search was thorough. Janet and Rachel began in the bedroom that the twins shared. The space was dominated by a large flat-screen TV and games console in front of the window, the floor a tangle of wires and controllers. The lighting was dim, the curtains closed. Janet drew them back to let in some natural light. Cobwebs and dead flies littered the window sill.

Six floors up and the view was extensive, out over the estate. Janet could see the ruins of the Old Chapel down below, the canal a glinting line between the buildings, the traffic streaming along Shuttling Way, the roundabout, the parade of shops, the roofs of the houses. Another damp day, the sky bruised and mottled.

Twin beds, each with a headboard and side table, were positioned to face the TV. High-energy snacks and power drinks littered the tables, and there was a mobile phone on each. A laptop lay on one bed. A set of dumbbells sat in the corner. The walls were decorated with posters, a naked woman draped over a Sherman tank, a bulldog wrapped in a Union Jack. A large St George’s Cross flag had been pinned up, and close by hung a pair of ceremonial swords in fancy sheaths. Janet shuddered to think of the twins wielding them.

Wearing latex gloves, to prevent contaminating any evidence they might find, they went through the bedding first, checking under the mattresses and inside the pillowcases. In the side-table drawers were condoms, knuckledusters, batteries, and lots of plastic baggies containing drugs: cannabis, white powder that was probably cocaine, yellow pills with a stamp of a palm tree on and some coloured capsules in plastic containers. Janet showed the capsules to Rachel.

‘Steroids, be my bet,’ Rachel said.

On a folding canvas chair, Janet found the hoodies and held them up.

‘That’s them,’ Rachel said, ‘Class of 88.’

They took pictures of the items they were seizing, in situ, and then secured them separately in evidence bags, clearly labelled. The laptop was taken, along with the phones. As well as the discarded clothes from the chair they removed shoes and trainers from the room and garments from the laundry basket in the bathroom.

The search team continued to look in all the usual places for the weapon or ammunition: the airing cupboard, cistern in the bathroom, under the bath panel, in the freezer, bread bin, cupboards, fridge and microwave, behind pictures, inside lampshades and cushions, up chimneys, under drawers, behind radiators. They examined the pots on the balcony outside.

They found no handgun, no bullets and no stash of petrol.

On the dot of ten, Gill got a call from Trevor Hyatt, the fire investigator. ‘Morning,’ she said, ‘we’ve got the Perry brothers in the cells, awaiting solicitors, will let you know soon as-’

‘I wasn’t ringing about that,’ he said. ‘We’ve had another fire. The big warehouse on Shuttling Way. Been burning all night. Tenders are still there, getting it under control but we’ll not be able to go in for some time. Several floors, very hazardous environment.’

‘Is it arson?’

‘Extremely likely. Once we do get in, we should be able to check the seat of the fire and establish whether accelerants played a part,’ he said.

‘And if they match,’ she followed his train of thought, ‘could be the same person or persons?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘geographically close, about a quarter of a mile apart, both buildings disused. Looks like a pattern.’

‘OK, keep me posted. The questioning of our suspects will be confined to the murder and the Old Chapel fire at this stage. Can’t go fishing.’

‘Understood,’ Hyatt said.

‘Janet, you take Noel, Rachel – Neil,’ Gill said. ‘Solicitors have arrived. Gunshot residue tests on the suspects’ hands came back negative.’

That was disappointing but not unexpected, thought Janet. Three days since the murder and the residue was easily washed away.

Once in the interview room, Janet had done the preamble, explained to Noel why he was being interviewed and what his rights were. Then she asked him to tell her what he had done on Wednesday evening.

‘I was at my nan’s,’ he said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Langley, 43 Perkins Close.’

‘And how long were you there?’ she said.

‘Stayed over.’

‘What time did you get there?’

‘About five.’

‘Anyone else there?’ Janet said.

‘Neil was.’

‘Right. What did you do while you were there?’

‘Watched telly.’ He stretched and scratched his ribs, making the disposable suit crackle. Indifferent: a good act or was he actually unconcerned because he’d nothing to fear?

‘What did you watch?’ Janet asked.

He shrugged. ‘Dunno, can’t remember.’

‘Did you go out at all that evening?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure? Maybe to run an errand?’ she said.

‘No.’ That same vacant nonchalance.

‘If I told you that someone had seen you in the vicinity of the Old Chapel that evening, how would you explain that?’

‘They’re wrong.’

‘They are sure it was you, you and your brother,’ Janet said.

‘Can’t have been.’ The dull expression in his eyes hardened into something more intense, more acrimonious.

‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’

‘No.’

‘He looked a little like this.’ She passed him a photo, one created using software to age the original image and show how the subject would appear when he was older. ‘I am now showing Mr Perry exhibit PR31.’

‘No.’ He shook his head several times over.

‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick. He wore a leather cowboy hat.’

‘Never seen him.’

According to Liam Kelly, Richard Kavanagh was a familiar figure, walking around in all weathers, sometimes begging. Anyone who lived in the area would know him by sight.

‘You were charged with arson and spent time in a young offenders’ institution, that right?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And in that incident an accelerant was used to spread the fire. The same method as was used in the Old Chapel this week.’

‘You can’t put that on us.’

It was common for Mancunians to use ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. Leave us alone, get off us. But Janet suspected from his last words that Noel was talking about himself and his twin. It was important to focus on him and him alone, even if it messed with his mindset. Important from a legal standpoint.

‘Even though a witness saw you there?’

‘They’re lying,’ he said. He stared at her as if he’d stare her down. Janet smiled, deflecting his attempt to threaten her. The ideal situation in an interview was to try to create a bond, forge some connection, however unlikely that seemed. Given time and her skills, it was usually possible. But she’d a sense it might elude her with Noel Perry.

‘Tell me about your jacket,’ she said, ‘Class of 88. Where did you get it?’

He hesitated a fraction, then said, ‘Online, they make ’em to order. You tell ’em what you want.’

‘So they’re unique?’

‘I suppose,’ he said, frowning slightly. Realizing perhaps that unique might not be so great when it came to witness identification.

‘What website are they from?’

‘Don’t remember,’ he said.

‘We can check on your computer,’ Janet said. ‘Have you ever been in the Old Chapel?’

‘No.’

‘What about in the grounds, the land around it?’

‘No.’ He scratched his side again.

‘You possess a firearm, a gun?’

‘No,’ he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt comfortable, cocky about the weapon. Why?

‘Tell me what you did earlier on Wednesday.’

‘Just in the flat,’ he said.

‘Doing what?’

‘Gaming, with Neil.’

‘And the day before, Tuesday?’

‘Same,’ he said.

‘You’re unemployed,’ Janet said, ‘signing on?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded.

‘When did you last sign on?’

He took a slow breath, pulled a face, screwed up his eyes. ‘Monday,’ he said, eventually. ‘Last Monday.’

He was slow-witted, Janet saw, maybe a side effect of his lifestyle: drugs, steroids messing with his concentration. Or by nature. He was definitely on the slow side.

‘Thick as pigshit,’ Rachel said to Janet in the custody suite, ‘mine was. Starved of oxygen or inbred or something.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Janet hissed, flaring her eyes at Rachel, aware of a solicitor passing by on the way to the next call of duty.

He’d sat there, his big head reminding Rachel of a teddy bear, those old-fashioned ones, stuffed with straw or whatever, and he’d answered her in monosyllables. Saying the minimum. Less you said, less you could make a mistake. His longest reply in response to a question about his tattoos. He’d read out quotes on his forearms, ‘It is not truth that matters but victory,’ and ‘If you want to shine like the sun then first burn like it.’ Nodded and added, ‘Mein Kampf.’ Then pointed to his neck. ‘That’s a lion and that’s a unicorn.’ Rachel thought they looked like meerkats. Said nothing.

‘Not thick enough to admit being there, being involved,’ Janet said when they were alone. ‘But they’re both giving their nan as their alibi. Meanwhile Mam’s saying they were with her. Story’s all over the place. If they are our killers they’ve really not thought it through. Same old, same old,’ Janet said, gesturing to the stairs to indicate that they should go out for a bit.

‘I know,’ Rachel agreed. Most of the crimes they dealt with were sad, savage and often pointless. The culprits similar. Grubby little arguments leading to loss of life. Families riven by violence and raised on crime. She thought fleetingly of Dom, twenty-eight years. Pushed it away.

Rachel only had chance for half a fag, Janet keeping her company, before Kevin came down to find them. ‘Boss wants us all.’

‘Now?’ Rachel said.

‘If not sooner.’

10

Upstairs in the briefing room, Godzilla was looking perky, eyes sparkling, back ramrod straight, zinging with energy. We’ve got something, Rachel thought, must be. Something’s turned up. The weapon?

‘Neil Perry’s mobile phone,’ the boss said, straight in, no messing. One good thing about Godzilla, she never bothered with chit-chat or anything, it was all about the job, the case. Rachel got that, wanted to do it like that if she ever made it as far as SIO.

‘Chock-a-block with text messages. Many run-of-the-mill, to his very limited number of contacts. One of particular interest to an unregistered number last Monday evening, Tomorrow 830 Bobbins and to the same number the next evening, Here now.’

Bobbins was a pub in Coldhurst, known to the police who regularly attended when customers fell off their perches and started knocking lumps out of each other, or the fixtures and fittings. A series of managers had tried all sorts: home-cooked meals, family room, quiz night, disco, sounds of the 80s, pool table, large screen, but nothing seemed to change the quality of the clientele.

‘We want CCTV from the pub that Tuesday evening. Who was Neil Perry making arrangements with? Rachel, Janet,’ Godzilla turned to them, looking expectant, ‘initial impressions?’

‘Cautious,’ Rachel said, ‘but not that bright.’

The boss nodded. ‘I’d say leaving all your messages on your phone backs up that observation. Sandwich short of a picnic.’

‘We should check out the alibi, the gran,’ said Lee.

‘Where are we on the search, the forensics?’ Janet asked.

‘Nothing else of interest at the property, forensics have fast-tracked the hoodies, the jeans and trainers with them,’ Her Maj said.

‘We know the alibi is false even before we see Grandma,’ Rachel said. ‘I saw them and Mr Hicks saw them near the chapel, we know they’re lying about that.’

‘But if that’s all we have,’ Janet said, ‘we’ve nowhere else to go. They sit there swearing blind they weren’t around and we say the opposite. But if we can find another piece of solid evidence…’

‘Janet’s right,’ Godzilla said, ‘all we have at present is a sighting in the vicinity. We have nothing that puts them in the chapel, at the scene of the murder, nothing that puts a gun in their hands, nothing that connects them to this particular fire. Until we get that next step, we wait to interview them again. Let them twiddle their thumbs or whatever else.’ She grimaced. ‘Strike that image.’

Rachel couldn’t face the idea of kicking her heels so she spoke up. ‘Boss, can I go to the grandma? Me and Janet?’

Janet gave a little nod, happy to go.

‘Fine by me,’ Her Maj said. ‘Get the CCTV from Bobbins as well.’

‘One thing,’ Janet said, ‘when I asked Noel about the gun, he was… confident. Like he knew that was safe.’

‘You’ve got a gun,’ the boss said, ‘you’ve commissioned a crime, you live in a tower block. You’ve not hidden it at home. Where’d you put it?’

‘Gran’s,’ said Kevin, which earned a laugh.

‘Or you get rid,’ said Rachel, ‘give it to someone to look after.’

‘That’s common practice in the gangs,’ Lee said.

‘Except Tweedledum and Tweedledee aren’t affiliates as far as we’ve been able to tell,’ the boss said, ‘nor do they have a wide social circle, judging by their phone book contacts and Facebook pages.’

Janet groaned.

‘You may well groan,’ the boss said, ‘a load of racist, homophobic codswallop with photos of this pair as avenging warriors. And atrocious punctuation. Gives new meaning to the fact that we are all descended from apes.’

‘We know they’re pally with the EBA,’ Mitch said, ‘they could have associates there to take the weapon.’

‘Or they flog it,’ Rachel said.

‘It could be an urban myth,’ Kevin spoke up, ‘but some of the kids are saying the Perrys set fire to a cat.’

A collective moan went up from around the table.

‘On that cheery note,’ the boss said, ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

As expected, Eileen Perry, the grandmother, was insistent that her grandsons had been with her on Wednesday evening. She was a tiny woman, with crooked teeth, oversize specs and arthritic hands, the knuckles swollen like spring onion bulbs.

‘They was here,’ she said, arms folded in the hallway. Janet noted that she’d allow them over the threshold of the small terraced house but not any further.

‘What time did they arrive?’ Janet asked.

‘Teatime.’

‘Which is when?’

‘Five,’ she said, ‘around then.’

‘And when did they leave?’ Janet said.

‘Thursday.’

‘What time?’

‘Don’t know. I was at work.’

‘You work?’ Janet said.

‘Cleaning,’ she said flatly.

‘Did they go out at all?’

‘No.’ Eileen Perry sighed.

‘What did you do?’

‘Watched telly,’ she said, with a note of disbelief at the question – what else would anyone ever do of an evening?

‘What about Tuesday, the day before, did you see them then?’ Janet asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they were here then and all.’

Wind it up and it walks, thought Janet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Perry, if you think of anything else, if there’s anything you remember,’ she stressed the word, just the right side of polite, ‘do get in touch.’ She held out her card.

Mrs Perry stared at it for long enough, then unfolded her arms and took it between one distorted thumb and finger. It’d be in the bin before they reached the pavement.

‘So she’s learned her lines and trots them out on cue,’ Janet said to Rachel as they got in the car. ‘Any date we care to mention, they were here. All night, she never slept.’

‘In fact they live here,’ Rachel chipped in, ‘24/7, never leave the house, never leave her sight.’

‘If these two turn out to be our shooters we could do the whole family for attempting to pervert the course of justice,’ Janet said. ‘Three generations.’

Bobbins, originally Bobbins Hotel, still had its old pub sign, showing a mill worker standing at a loom. There hadn’t been a working mill nearby for decades.

Snug and Taproom read the stained-glass windows either side of the entrance.

A handful of drinkers were scattered around the snug, a pair of men played darts in the taproom. The central hallway led past the rooms either side to a general lounge bar. There was a corridor off to the left near the bar, a sign pointing to toilets. The rooms were small, with low-beamed ceilings. Nothing like a gin palace, more like a cottage turned into a hostelry.

The woman behind the bar was reading a magazine. Janet noticed her nails, great long talons painted with an elaborate red and black design which, on first sight, looked like they’d been spattered with blood. I’ve been in this job too long, Janet thought.

Rachel explained what they wanted and the woman rang the manager, who said to go ahead – the tapes from previous days were in the office.

‘Were you working then?’ Rachel asked as the barkeep unlocked the office door and they edged in. The place was piled with cartons and folders and bits of broken furniture. The woman threaded her way through to the green metal filing cabinet.

‘Yes, five till twelve.’

‘You know the Perry twins?’ Janet said.

‘Twins?’ She looked up, the tapes in her hand. ‘No.’ No fear in her eyes, Janet saw, more curiosity. Perhaps this wasn’t one of their locals, it’d be a fair way to come from Manorclough and they didn’t have a car, as far as the police had established.

‘They may have been in here that Tuesday. Identical, five foot nine, bulky, blond, tattoos,’ Janet said.

‘I don’t remember any twins. Here you are.’ She found Tuesday’s tape and retraced her steps.

‘You just sign this, here.’ Janet passed her the form, describing the item they were removing.

‘What’s it all about then?’

‘The man found in the Old Chapel, Manorclough, Richard Kavanagh,’ Rachel said.

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘You heard anything?’ Janet said.

‘People talking about it.’ She shrugged.

‘Saying what?’ Janet said.

‘That he must have crossed someone, to be shot like that.’

‘He ever come in here?’ Rachel said.

‘Don’t think so. There’s some say it could be suicide.’

Janet stared at her. ‘He shot himself,’ she said, ‘twice?’

‘Exactly,’ the woman laughed. ‘That’s what I said but they won’t have it. Mental.’

Back at the station, Rachel and Janet viewed the tape. The CCTV was split screen, recording feeds from one camera outside the pub and three inside, covering the snug, the taproom, and one in the general bar area which also caught the corridor to the toilets.

The twins appeared outside the pub at eight twenty-five.

‘Behold,’ said Janet, her heart skipping a beat. The pub was busy, a game of pool in progress in the taproom, a large family group in the snug, a row of drinkers in the general bar. They could see the woman they’d met serving alongside a man, presumably the manager.

The twins spoke to each other and one of them pulled out his phone (Janet guessed it must be Neil), thumbs working over the keys, then nodded to his brother and went into the pub. Cameras picked him up at the end of the general bar area where one of the drinkers, phone in hand, turned and moved away from the bar, pocketing the phone as he walked to the gents. Neil Perry followed him.

‘Sex?’ said Rachel. ‘Drugs?’

‘I’ve seen that guy before.’ Janet frowned.

‘Give us a clue?’

‘Wait.’ Janet watched the film. Neil Perry emerged and left the pub, making a small fist, a gesture of celebration, as he reached his brother. The pair walked off camera.

Seconds later, the other man came out of the toilets and resumed his place at the bar, took up his paper and finished his drink. Then left. Speaking to no one.

‘I know that face,’ Janet said again.

‘Show Pete,’ Rachel suggested, ‘he worked on Coldhurst for a bit, didn’t he?’

Pete watched the footage, closed his eyes in thought, and then said, ‘Tandy. Gary… no, Greg. Bit of a fixer in his time.’

‘I know the name,’ Rachel said, ‘spoke to a lad called that on Thursday.’

‘So what was he fixing for Dick and Dom then?’ Janet said.

Pete opened the database and typed in the name.

The man’s face appeared, and his charge sheet. ‘Out on licence,’ Pete said. ‘Just served five for possession of firearms, intent to supply.’

‘That’s where they got the gun,’ Janet said. ‘Brilliant. So where is it now?’

‘Maybe he’s got it back,’ Rachel chipped in, her eyes glinting. ‘What’s the address?’

‘Manton Road,’ Pete said.

‘Middle of Manorclough,’ Janet said. ‘This gets better and better.’

Gill considered the situation. ‘OK, we discuss this with our guests. Don’t let on, at this stage, that we’re aware of Tandy’s reputation as the go-to man for firearms but tell them we will be speaking to Mr Tandy, to hear his side of things. Tandy is a known associate of Marcus Williams. Perhaps there is some link between Williams and the events of Wednesday night. Mitch, see what the current intel is on Tandy and Williams, will you?’

He nodded.

‘Anything I’ve missed?’ Gill said.

‘No, ma’am,’ they chorused and returned to work.

11

Rachel sat opposite Neil Perry. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday the eighth of May, that’s last Tuesday, at eight thirty in the evening?’

He hadn’t been expecting this question. He didn’t speak for long enough, some slow process churning away behind clouded eyes.

‘My nan’s, I think,’ he said. Default reply.

‘You think?’ Rachel made it a question.

‘Yes.’ There was a little sore at the corner of his mouth, deep red, and he kept licking and picking at it.

‘Do you recall going to Bobbins, a public house in Coldhurst, that evening?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Less than a week ago.’

‘I never went there,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ Rachel said.

‘I only go to the King’s or the George or the Black Pig.’

‘But that Tuesday you went to Bobbins,’ she said, ‘you and your brother.’

‘We never.’ He gritted his teeth and rocked slightly and she could sense a growing aggression in him.

‘I am now showing Mr Perry a CCTV recording, exhibit JS18.’ She had lined up the footage so it began with the two men arriving outside the pub. She set it running and paused it before Neil Perry went inside.

‘That is you and Noel, am I correct?’

‘Yes,’ he said tightly.

‘And can you read the date and time at the bottom right-hand side of the screen?’

‘Yes,’ he said, sounding offended, as though she was casting doubt on his ability to read. Well – you never know.

‘Please would you read them out to me?’ Rachel said.

‘Why should I?’

‘For the recordings.’ She nodded at the machine recording the interview, the camera in the corner. ‘And so we can be sure that you understand my question and what I am suggesting.’

‘Eighth of the fifth,’ he read the date, then the time, ‘twenty twenty-five.’

‘Which was last Tuesday at twenty-five past eight, you agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘At this point you make a call on your mobile phone. Who were you calling?’

‘A mate.’

‘With no name in your contacts list on your phone?’ Rachel said.

A spike of something in his eyes, understanding perhaps that they had gone through his phone. Well duh. ‘Which mate?’ she said.

‘Don’t remember,’ he back-pedalled.

‘Let’s see if we can jog your memory,’ Rachel said. She pressed play. The film showed Greg Tandy with his phone, making eye contact with Neil Perry, standing up from his barstool. ‘Which mate?’ she said.

‘Don’t know him.’

‘You just rang him,’ she said.

‘No, not him.’

‘Who then?’ Rachel said.

‘Can’t remember, I told you.’

‘How come you followed him to the gents?’

‘I didn’t follow him. I needed a slash,’ he said, his eyes flinty, a spasm twitching across his forehead. He rubbed at the sore on his mouth.

‘Why did you arrange to meet this man?’

‘I never.’

‘For the benefit of the tape I am now showing Mr Perry a screenshot of the text from his mobile phone, item number PR46. Will you read it out, please?’

His face darkened. It was getting to him. Rachel eased back in her chair a little. This wasn’t about getting him riled up, no need to provoke. Just the steady, relentless presentation of evidence, exposing lie after lie.

‘Tomorrow 830 Bobbins,’ he said.

‘I put it to you that you set up a meeting with the man in the CCTV film, that you used your mobile phone to alert him to your arrival at the bar and that you then met him in the men’s toilets.’

‘No comment.’

‘That man’s name is Greg Tandy,’ Rachel said. ‘Ring any bells?’

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘We’ll be talking to Mr Tandy later, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us what you were meeting him for. Was it drugs?’

‘No comment.’

‘Several different illegal substances were found in your room. Were you dealing?’

‘No comment.’

‘I’m interested in what business you’d have with another man in a pub toilet,’ Rachel said. ‘Were you meeting for sex?’

He sprang to his feet. ‘Don’t you fucking say that.’

‘Neil, Neil,’ his solicitor said, ‘sit down.’

‘Fucking libel, that is,’ spit flew from his mouth, ‘fucking bitch.’ He sprang at her, face contorted, the tendons on his neck taut like wires.

His fist connected with her shoulder, spinning her round, throwing her to the floor. He came after her, the solicitor shouting.

Neil Perry kicked at her, she dodged the blow, scrabbled up, not far from the wall. Rachel threw an arm back, connecting with the alarm rail, the bell sounding shrill.

‘Fucking lezzer,’ he yelled, ‘you take that back, take it back!’ He was enraged, Roid Rage, giving him both strength and aggression. He caught her wrists, his hands rock hard.

‘Let go,’ the solicitor shouted, ‘Neil, Mr Perry.’

‘You take it back,’ he said, froth at the corners of his mouth.

‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ Rachel said. ‘Assaulting a police officer, you want that adding to the charge?’

‘You calling me a fucking queer?’

You’d rather be called a Nazi. ‘You could clear it up, fuckwit,’ she said. ‘What were you doing in the toilets with Greg Tandy?’

He grabbed her throat, his eyes glittered, she saw the crude drawings on his neck ripple and twitch. She could smell his sweat and another high chemical scent a bit like bleach. Behind him the solicitor ran to the door and opened it, calling out above the alarm.

Rachel, feeling the blood sing in her temples, raised a foot, and stamped down hard on Neil Perry’s. He grunted, but tightened his grip and moved closer, pinning her against the wall so she had no leverage to ram her knee into his balls. His breath was hot and meaty in her face. If he got any closer she’d bite his frigging nose off.

Her instinct was to claw at his hands, try to peel them away from her neck, but her training and experience had taught her that, especially with someone so strong, it would be futile. She needed to distract him from choking her by going for something soft and vulnerable – eyes, nose, groin. She saw dots dancing at the edge of her vision, felt the force crushing the cartilage in her throat, the pressure mounting in the back of her skull. She raised her hands, fingers bent like talons, and grabbed at his face. He reared back and his grip loosened slightly. Then he moved sharply, whipping her head forward then back, like a rag doll. Rachel’s head smacked against the wall, a wave of nausea washed through her, saliva thick in her mouth.

She went limp, deliberately, letting her body weight drag her down, him with it. He lost his balance slightly and had to let go. Rachel kicked out hard, her heel connecting with his kneecap, and Perry yelled in pain and staggered back.

‘Fucking bastard toe-rag,’ she said, her voice dry, grating.

She was up and swung out her other leg, catching the back of his foot and tripping him up. A burst of triumph gave her fresh energy as he landed heavily.

‘Knobhead.’ She drew her foot back, ready to kick him, to kick his face in, to turn his head to pulp, as several officers piled in and were on him.

Rachel stood panting. ‘That’s all on record,’ she said, clearing her throat, trying to make herself heard above the din of the alarm. ‘You’ve been framed, pal. You’ll not be getting the fifty quid, mind. What a spectacle.’ Neil Perry gave her a look of contempt but Rachel didn’t care, the case against him was growing and she was beginning to think they’d be able to nail him and his scumbag brother for Richard Kavanagh’s murder.

She turned to the solicitor, who looked shaken, close to tears. ‘Break?’ And then to the men hoisting Perry to his feet. ‘Put him back in the cell, will you. And turn that bloody alarm off.’

Mitch was on the phone reporting back to Gill: no response at Greg Tandy’s address on Manton Road. According to probation records, Tandy was living there with his wife and son.

‘Try again in the morning,’ Gill said.

There was suddenly a crashing sound in the outer office and raised voices.

‘Night,’ she ended the call and flung open her office door. ‘What the fuck is going-’

Dave. On his hands and knees trying to pick up the contents of Kevin’s desk, by the looks of it. Lee bending over him. Dave threw up an arm, holding a fistful of papers, released them on to the desk. Then saw her.

‘Gill.’ He practically dribbled the word. ‘I just wanted…’

She just wanted… to die. There and then. To disappear.

‘All right?’ Kevin stood at the door from the landing, coffee in hand, bemused.

‘Kevin, Lee,’ she said briskly, ‘I’ve got this.’ No introductions needed. They both knew Chief Superintendent Murray.

‘Shall I get a first-aider?’ Kevin said. ‘Or the paramedics?’

‘No need,’ Gill said.

‘Give you a hand,’ Kevin said, ‘my desk, don’t mind.’

Fuck off and die. ‘Kevin – thanks. No. Leave. Now. See you in the morning.’ The messages hit their target. Kevin stopped, Lee nodded, grabbed his jacket and left. Kevin trotted after him.

She could just imagine the conversation. The humiliation.

‘Get up,’ she told Dave, though maybe he’d be safer on his hands and knees. She couldn’t lift him. He was half her weight again. Probably more these days.

He levered himself upright using the desk as ballast. ‘Sit there,’ she pointed to Kevin’s chair, ‘and stay there.’

She went for coffee, praying that no one would come in meanwhile, no cleaners or any of her syndicate. Rachel and Janet were still interviewing. No one else was due back. She might get lucky. Lee and Kevin had seen the floorshow and although Lee might be tactful, respectful, Kevin was a gobby little git. He struggled at work and she’d ridden him hard and he’d probably see this as his chance for payback: Lady Muck reckons she’s got it all under control, never puts a foot wrong, but her old man is a pisshead.

She went back upstairs with the drinks. Dave was where she’d left him. He smiled inanely when he saw her. She gave him a coffee. Told him to drink it.

‘Why are you here?’ She intended to be calm, to try to reason with him. Get him to understand the boundaries.

‘Sorry,’ he slurred. He reeked. 40 per cent proof in his veins instead of blood. ‘To say sorry, sorry for last night.’

‘Sorry? Look at you now.’

‘Got a taxi,’ he said, ‘not the car, no car.’ As though that made everything all right.

‘You come here, you barge into my office in front of my colleagues, you can’t even see straight, you stink like a brewery and you call this some sort of apology.’

‘Sorry,’ he said again.

‘You can’t do this, Dave. You are not part of my life any more.’

‘Just friends.’

‘No.’ She shook her head irritably. ‘Not friends. Not even that. Not anything. You left me, Dave. It’s over. It’s dead and buried. I’ve moved on and you need to do the same. And this, getting pissed out of your head, have you any idea what people think? Word gets round – and it will – you’ll be suspended.’

‘OK, OK.’ He waved his hands to shut her up. ‘You are out of control,’ she said, ‘sort it.’ She felt her temper rising, warmth in her face.

‘You don’t understand-’

‘You’ve got that right. And you need to understand…’ she said hotly, ‘… you need to understand that you are making a complete prick of yourself. You could lose everything.’

‘I already have,’ he said.

‘Oh, spare me the bloody melodrama.’

She began to clear up the stuff scattered over the floor, papers and pens and Post-it notes. Kevin’s in-tray, his Man United trinkets. Arranged them roughly on the desk.

‘Get up,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ She didn’t want to say ‘to your mother’s’, didn’t want to rub it in.

‘I can get a cab,’ he offered.

‘No.’ She didn’t trust him not to just head off to some pub or off-licence. At least if he got into the house he might sleep it off. God knows how his mother was coping with it. But that wasn’t Gill’s concern.

Dave went to stand up, failed, tried again and made it.

There was a dark patch round his crotch. Oh God, he’d pissed himself. He wasn’t even aware he’d done it. She felt her stomach drop, a moment’s sadness. This had gone way beyond the occasional bender. He had been a proud man, a vain man who thought he was cleverer than he really was. Sometimes a stupid, weak man, particularly where women were concerned. Now he was a wreck. How could he not see that, sense her disgust, want to stop it?

‘You come here again,’ she said, ‘off your face and I will have you escorted from the building and inform professional standards.’

12

Noel Perry requested a break after an hour and a half of denial and stonewalling. Janet went up to the incident room. She switched her phone on. Elise had replied to Janet’s earlier text which had read Money in jar 4 taxi. Take extra £20 in case. Have fun xxx. Elise’s reply: LYSM. Love You So Much. Did Rachel know that one? Janet liked to test her every so often.

Rachel was still in with Neil Perry but Gill had disappeared. No Lee or Kevin either; it was getting late but they always worked late on a murder. Kevin had left his desk in a right mess. There was a stapler on the floor nearby and a whiff of booze in the air. Had someone been spicing up their brew with a drop of the hard stuff? If Gill found out, they’d be off the syndicate so fast their feet wouldn’t touch the floor.

Janet drank some juice from the carton she kept in the fridge and checked her e-mails. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been totally alone in the office. It felt spooky. Like the Marie Celeste. Tired, she told herself, that’s all. She logged off and washed her cup. The tap made a clanking sound which startled her and brought a rash of gooseflesh to her arms.

When her phone rang, she was halfway downstairs, her footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. Elise.

‘Hi,’ Janet answered. Only ten o’clock. Had they not been able to find the party? Had they had enough?

‘Mum.’ Elise’s voice was high with panic. ‘Mum, it’s Olivia. I don’t know what to do. I can’t wake her up. Mum, please.’

Shock riveted Janet to the spot. She could hear noises in the background, voices, more distantly the thud of a bass line. A shout of laughter.

‘Where are you?’ Janet said.

‘At the party.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Olivia’s collapsed. I can’t wake her up.’

‘Why’s she collapsed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Elise said wildly, ‘I don’t know, she just… she just fell down.’

‘Call an ambulance-’

‘But-’

‘Elise, listen, call an ambulance and tell them exactly what happened. Stay with Olivia. Do whatever they tell you. Yes?’

‘Mum-’

‘I’m coming. What number is it?’

‘Sixty-four,’ she said, beginning to cry.

‘Elise, hang up and call the ambulance. Call them now.’ The line went dead.

Janet ran downstairs, heart in her mouth. She told the custody sergeant she was leaving, a family emergency, and to inform Noel Perry’s solicitor to attend the following morning at 9am for a 24-hour superintendent review. At that point, all being well, they’d be granted another twelve hours to talk to the Perrys, and if they needed yet more time then they’d go to court to apply for a further thirty-six hours.

Thankfully the lights were with her all the way as she drove as quickly as she dared to the address Elise had given her. Reaching the avenue – a development of upmarket three- and four-bedroom modern houses, with open-plan gardens – she saw the ambulance was already there and a patrol car as well. People outside the house, party-goers, Janet assumed, were drifting away in small groups.

The front door was ajar, all the lights on, inside more young people, and an atmosphere she recognized: the drained, worried faces, the stunned silence or muted comments.

‘Where’s Olivia Canning?’ she said to a couple sitting on the stairs. They both held bottles of Spanish beer, slices of lime wedged in the necks.

‘Through there,’ the girl said, nodding at a door towards the back of the house.

As Janet reached it, the door swung open and a uniformed cop came through. Behind him she glimpsed the high-vis jackets of paramedics.

‘Olivia Canning,’ Janet said.

‘You her mother?’ said the cop.

Janet shook her head. ‘My daughter’s with her. I’m DC Scott.’

He blinked, reassessing her. ‘They’re bringing her out soon. Taking her up to A &E.’

‘Do we know how-’ Janet began but he apologized, ‘Sorry, I need to get names and addresses.’

Janet stared at him.

‘She’s unresponsive,’ he said. He didn’t say any more. Janet swallowed, fought the fears crowding behind her breastbone. She went into the room.

‘Mum.’ Elise broke away from a group of teenagers huddled to the left of the room and came to Janet, who hugged her. Olivia lay on the floor on a stretcher. The paramedics had put an oxygen mask over her face, a cellular blanket around her.

‘Can you get the door?’ the nearest paramedic said.

Janet released Elise and pulled the door open.

‘Cheers,’ he said. They lifted the stretcher, releasing the wheels that turned it into a trolley, and guided it slowly through the entrance hall.

‘Which hospital?’ Janet asked.

‘Oldham General.’

‘Did you ring Vivien and Ken?’ Janet said to Elise.

Elise looked wrung out, puffy red nose, swollen lips, mascara smeared black under her eyes. She pressed her lips together and more tears came. ‘They’re away for the weekend,’ she said.

‘But you were staying… Oh God. Away where?’

‘Edinburgh,’ she squeaked.

‘They need to know, now!’ said Janet.

‘I don’t have their numbers.’

‘Christ!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-’

‘What? Spin me some story?’ Janet had almost rung Vivien to check she was happy about the arrangements. But she had trusted Elise. She took a deep breath. ‘Never mind about that now. We need to get to the hospital and get Vivien’s number from Olivia’s phone. She’s never collapsed like this before, has she?’ Janet studied her daughter’s face.

‘No.’

‘What was she drinking?’

‘Just cider.’

‘Just cider,’ Janet said. ‘How much cider?’

‘Not much,’ Elise said.

‘Did she take anything?’ Janet was vaguely aware of people in the room clearing up cans and dirty glasses.

‘No,’ Elise said. Too quickly. Janet looked at her; Elise wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘What did she take, Elise?’ Janet lowered her voice, repeated the question, ‘What did she take?’

‘It was legal, Mum.’

‘What?’

‘They call it Paradise.’

‘Paradise,’ Janet said. ‘Did you take it as well?’

‘Yes. It’s supposed to just give you more energy, a bit of a buzz.’

Janet felt like screaming.

‘Did you tell the paramedics?’

‘Yes.’

Thank God for that. ‘Come on.’ Janet, her blood boiling, frightened and furious, led her daughter out into the hall.

They were stopped at the front door by the police officer. ‘I need your name and contact details,’ he said to Elise.

‘Elise Scott,’ she said. She gave her address and her mobile phone number.

‘And you rang the ambulance?’ he checked.

‘Yes.’

‘You accompanied Olivia to the party?’

‘Yes,’ Elise said.

As they got into the car and Janet started the engine it struck her that she’d seen no other middle-aged adults at the house. ‘Where are the boys’ parents?’ she said. ‘Weren’t they supposed to be supervising?’

‘They went to the theatre,’ Elsie said. ‘They’ll be back later.’

‘Bloody hell, Elise, was there anything else you lied about?’

Elise began to cry. Christ, Janet thought, just let Olivia be all right, please. Let her be OK.

Janet’s phone rang again while she was parking at the hospital. Unknown number.

‘Hello?’ she answered.

‘Janet, it’s Vivien Canning,’ her voice shook, riddled with fear, ‘we’ve just heard from the hospital. Have you seen her?’

‘Vivien, I’m so sorry, we’ve just got here,’ Janet said. ‘We’ll try and find out what’s happening.’

‘They say she took drugs,’ Vivien said.

‘Yes, some sort of legal high, apparently.’

‘Ken is going to get a hire car, there are no flights at this time of night. Oh God, Janet.’

It could’ve been me, Janet thought, Elise on the stretcher.

‘Please, anything you hear, anything at all-’

‘Of course,’ Janet said, ‘I promise.’ Even with the best driving in the world it would take four hours to travel from Edinburgh.

Elise had her eyes closed. Janet shook her, a rush of terror that she was having the same reaction. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just dizzy.’

‘I’m going to ask them to look at you,’ Janet said.

‘I’m fine.’

Janet glared at her.

‘OK,’ Elise said, close to tears.

At the Accident and Emergency reception, Janet first asked after Olivia.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘Loco parentis,’ Janet said, ‘our daughters are friends. I’ve just spoken to Olivia’s mother, they’ll be here as soon as possible, coming down from Edinburgh. I was looking after Olivia while they were away.’ As an afterthought Janet showed her warrant card. This would mean that she was CRB-checked at least – fit to work with children. That seemed to be enough. The clerk looked at the screen. ‘She’s in Resus.’

Janet’s stomach turned: resuscitation was not good. Resus meant that Olivia was critically ill, that her life was in danger, that they were trying to revive her.

‘She’s going to be all right, though?’ Elise said.

‘We are doing everything possible,’ the clerk said.

‘My daughter,’ Janet said, ‘she’s taken the same drug. Would it be possible to have someone check her out?’

‘Any symptoms at the moment?’

‘Just dizzy,’ Elise said, ‘and I’ve got a headache.’

‘Fill this in with your details.’ She passed them a form.

Janet helped Elise complete the form and Janet returned it, then she got Elise a drink of water from the fountain and stepped outside to call Vivien. It was tempting to wait for more news, better news, but Janet knew that they would be absolutely desperate for every morsel of information. It would be cowardly not to ring her now and tell her.

Vivien must have had the phone in her hand, she answered immediately. ‘Janet?’

‘We’re at the hospital,’ Janet said. ‘Olivia is in resuscitation.’

‘Oh God.’

‘We haven’t seen her yet, but she’s young, she’s strong.’

‘Yes,’ Vivien said.

Janet felt her eyes prick. She sniffed. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as we know anything else.’

‘Thank you.’

Elise kept nodding off, reminding Janet of when she was a little girl and would fall asleep at the dinner table or in the shopping trolley. Elise complained she was hot but when Janet felt her she was clammy. She made her drink more water, wondering whether they should ask again about seeing a doctor.

Janet rang Ade, speaking with a calmness that belied her true state. Telling him the minimum – not that there was much more to tell.

‘Good God, shall I come down?’ he said.

‘No, stay with Taisie. I’ll ring you when we know what’s happening.’

‘What the hell was she doing taking drugs?’ he said. ‘She’s fifteen.’

‘Not now,’ Janet said.

‘Do you need me to do anything?’

‘No, thanks, we’ll see you later.’

Elise’s name was called and Janet went with her. The triage nurse took her pulse, blood pressure and temperature and listened to her heart. She made a note of the circumstances.

‘Your pulse is quite high and your temperature too but I don’t think we need to give you anything at the moment. Something like this, we’ve no idea what’s in it so we don’t have any antidotes and we don’t know if other drugs will create an adverse reaction. So, plenty of fluids and don’t go to sleep. You are staying here?’

‘Yes,’ Janet answered.

‘If there’s any sudden change, let someone know,’ the nurse said.

Janet sat with Elise, bone weary, stomach fizzing with acid. New casualties arrived, those with minor ailments waited. Some stepped outside for a cigarette, ignoring all the signs forbidding smoking anywhere near the building. Janet fleetingly wished she smoked, something to break the tension of waiting, a salve for the stress.

Dark-haired and fine-featured, Olivia was Elise’s firm friend, had been for years. She was a gymnast, would challenge Taisie, the sportier of Janet’s girls, to cartwheel competitions on the rare occasions when Elise let Taisie tag along with them.

An ambulance pulled in and there was a rush of activity. She heard someone say RTA. A road traffic accident. Someone else’s world suddenly brought to a halt by a twist of fate.

This time last year, near enough, Janet had been waiting for news of her mother, who was undergoing emergency surgery. But it had all turned out OK, Dorothy was fit and well again now.

It was another hour before someone came to Janet, asked her to come through to a room along the corridor. Elise grasped her hand, stayed close.

A middle-aged, softly spoken man with shiny brown eyes the exact shade of Maltesers greeted them, and invited them to sit.

‘When Olivia arrived at the hospital she was suffering from serious heart failure. We attempted to revive her using emergency procedures, but I am afraid there were complications.’

Elise yelped, letting go of Janet and covering her face with her hands. Janet pulled her close, held her with one arm around her back and one hand stroking her hair.

‘I am very, very sorry but…’

Janet had said the words herself, dozens of times, so sorry, so very sorry to tell you, to tell you, dead, died, your wife, sister, friend, son, mother, brother, daughter, so sorry. In living rooms and kitchens and hallways and workplaces.

Janet’s vision blackened and she felt a fist of shock clutch at her own heart as he said, ‘… I have to tell you that Olivia died as a result of the problems with her heart. There was nothing else we could do.’

Elise began to sob, her face pressed into Janet’s chest, the vibrations travelling through Janet’s body.

‘Her parents?’ Janet said, almost a whisper.

‘They will be informed as soon as they arrive. I am sorry,’ the doctor repeated, ‘please take as long as you like in here. I will put a sign on the door so you will not be disturbed.’

Janet closed her eyes. She heard the clunk of the door as he closed it. She felt the heat of Elise’s tears, the way her body trembled, listened to her cries, raw, guttural sounds that tore at Janet’s heart.

It was a loss of innocence for Elise, Janet knew. One of those moments when the world slips and everything you understand, all you are, changes. Leaving you older, wiser, tainted, and less open, less trusting. The enormity of what had happened kept hitting Janet afresh. She was no stranger to sudden death, it was the staple of her work, but the fact of Olivia dead, so young, such a random thing, the thought of Elise’s future unravelling without her best friend, of that absence going on and on for ever, seemed unreal and ridiculous.

‘Can we go home?’ Elise looked at her, face stark with misery, hair tangled, salt traces on her cheeks where her tears had dried.

‘We need to stay here, see Vivien and Ken.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she said shrilly, frightened. ‘I don’t want to see them.’

‘I know, but we can’t just run away,’ Janet said.

We have to wait. No matter how tired and stressed they were, they had to wait to see Vivien and Ken. To be there, bear witness.

They stayed in the little room. Janet went for drinks, coffee for herself and hot chocolate for Elise. They sat and drank them in shell-shocked silence.

When Elise began to cry again, quietly and shielding her eyes, Janet went and sat next to her and let her cry. Eventually Elise’s breathing altered, became slow and shallow and Janet felt the tension in her body ease. She slumped into her mother. The nurse had said to keep her awake but that was hours ago now and Janet didn’t believe she was going to choke on her own vomit sitting upright next to her.

Janet’s phone rang, horribly loud in the boxy room, and Elise stirred. Janet checked the display – Vivien – and let it ring until her voicemail kicked in. What else could she do? Answer and lie about how Olivia was? Answer and tell Vivien and Ken that their daughter was dead? Not the sort of news you gave over the phone to someone who was driving in a desperate hurry. She set her phone to vibrate only. Didn’t listen to the voicemail.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Sorry, cleaning,’ the man, an African, said. He used a mop to wipe the floor. Then went on his way.

Some time later another knock and the doctor was back with Vivien and Ken. Janet saw that they had already been told, Vivien, white-faced, a look of utter devastation on her face, Ken, pale and trembling.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Janet said, standing to embrace Vivien. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

‘Olivia,’ Vivien was in shock, ‘Olivia,’ repeating her daughter’s name over and over again as if she’d call her back.

13

Alison answered the door to Rachel. ‘You all right?’

‘Fine, brought your bag back.’ Rachel twirled the clutch bag this way and that. Not her style but she’d needed it for the wedding and Alison had asked her a few times since if she could return it. ‘Have you lost it?’ she’d said the last time, getting suspicious. ‘No, I just keep forgetting,’ Rachel had told her. Now Rachel moved her head and winced, feeling the bruises Neil Perry had inflicted on her.

‘What?’ said Alison.

‘Nothing,’ said Rachel, ‘stiff neck.’

‘You coming in?’

‘Five minutes,’ Rachel said.

‘He waiting for you?’

‘No, he’s away.’

‘Away?’

‘I’ve not got him chained to the house,’ Rachel said. ‘He’s taking Haydn off, skiing and that.’

‘Skiing?’

‘Snow, slopes, long shiny planks strapped to your feet?’

Alison rolled her eyes. ‘Tea?’

‘No, ta.’

‘How come you’ve not gone?’ Alison said.

‘Work – that man who was shot and set on fire on Manorclough.’

‘In that order, I hope,’ Alison said and shuddered. ‘So, skiing.’

‘And WaterWorld,’ Rachel added, ‘staying at a Travelodge.’

‘WaterWorld!’

‘Why are you doing that?’ Rachel said.

‘What?’

‘Repeating everything.’

Alison swallowed, set down the kettle. ‘I went to see Dom yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ Rachel’s guts turned cold.

‘I know you don’t want to go and I understand why, I really do, but I need to be able to talk about him. I can’t be minding what I say.’

‘All right,’ Rachel said. Though it felt a long way from that. ‘How is he?’ she managed. She could imagine. All too clearly. Last stretch he’d done, he’d been a bum boy for the older, more powerful cons. Had to be to get by. It wouldn’t be any different this time. Except he’d gradually turn from a twenty-nine-year-old to a fifty-seven-year-old in the course of his sentence. If he lasted that long. She couldn’t bear to think about it.

‘Doing his best,’ Alison said. ‘It’s hard, of course. He’s a bit down. He’s asked to see the psychiatrist, see if he can get some medication.’

Rachel stared at the fridge, kids’ drawings up there, houses, rainbows and stick figures with smiley faces. Happy fucking families.

‘He understands,’ Alison said. ‘Your job, when you knew what he’d done, where he was going, you had to report him, he gets it.’

The room was airless, the space too small. If he’d only understood in the first place that beating someone so badly he broke their back and they died was totally wrong.

‘Why he ever thought, even for a second, even in his wildest dreams that I’d want that-’ Rachel’s eyes hurt.

Alison looked as wretched as she felt. ‘He doesn’t think,’ Alison said, ‘he never has.’ She turned back and made her drink. The clock on the wall ticked. Rachel rubbed at the back of her neck, the tension there making her head ache.

‘Maybe in time, when you’re ready,’ Alison said, ‘you could go see him. That’d help.’

‘Help who?’ Rachel snapped.

‘Both of you,’ Alison said. ‘You’re not settled with this, even if it was the only choice you had, and you’re bound to feel guilty about it.’

‘Am I?’ Rachel said. ‘You know, do you?’

‘Rachel, don’t,’ Alison said wearily.

‘Like he’s gonna want to see me.’

‘He does, he said, he always… Oh, never mind.’ Alison shook her head, picked up her cup.

‘What about Sharon?’ Rachel said. ‘Will he want to see her?’

Alison snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Even if he did, why would she go? He’s no use to her in there, no money, no possessions, she wouldn’t even be able to tap fags off him.’

‘Maybe she’d just like to see him, like she did me, you if you’d let her,’ Rachel said.

‘Bollocks.’ Alison was not giving an inch where their prodigal mother was concerned.

‘I’m off.’ Rachel picked up her car keys.

‘Thanks for the bag.’

‘No problem.’

‘You’ll have to come round,’ Alison said at the door, ‘you and Sean and Haydn. When you’re off work.’

‘Sure,’ Rachel said, trying to sound vaguely enthusiastic.

It was raining hard now and she hurried to the car. Heaved a sigh of relief at escaping without getting into a full-on barney with her sister. She’d go home, have a drink and watch whatever she could find on the box. Please herself. No Sean. Her heart lifted at the prospect. Just miss my own company, time on my own, she told herself, that’s all.

She thought of the Perry twins, always together, like having a clone, someone to reflect your every thought, share your every deed, understand you completely. Weird, really weird. Having someone in her flat day in, day out was strange enough but to understand another person so completely – Rachel couldn’t imagine it.