Bleed Like Me

1

Rachel was running. Running for her life. Air burning like acid in her chest, feet pounding the tarmac. Everything around her, the shops and passers-by, lampposts and railings, smudged, a blur of shape and colour.

She risked a glance behind, hair whipping in her eyes, almost losing her balance as one ankle buckled, and she saw the car was gaining. He was at the wheel, his face set with intent, eyes gleaming, mouth curved in a half-smile.

Running her down, running her to ground. For a moment, her legs stalled, numb, weak as string, before she took flight again. Arms slicing the air, throat parched, sweat cold across her skin and the thud of her heart ever louder in her ears. Then the roar as he gunned the engine, the screech as the car leapt towards her, close enough for her to smell burning oil and petrol fumes high in her throat. Dizzying.

The thump of impact. Hurling her forward, a bone-cracking crunch and Rachel fell, sprawling along the gutter and into the pavement’s edge, legs twisting the wrong way beneath her, skinning her chin and shoulder and the length of her forearms. Smacking her head against the kerbstone. A jolt that turned the world black and brought vomit scalding her gullet.

The engine cut out and then she heard his footsteps, the smack-smack of best Italian leather on the gritty stone.

She tried to draw away but was pinned, paralysed, and her attempt to shuffle brought scarlet pain licking through her hip. She tried to cry for help but her voice was frozen too and all the people had gone. She was alone with him.

‘Rachel,’ he said sadly, ‘Rachel, Rachel, what will I do with you?’

Tears burnt the backs of her eyes. Then his hands were on her, yanking her over, ignoring the howls she gave.

Nick, shaking his head, disappointed in her. ‘I warned you,’ he said.

And he had.

‘I can’t trust you, Rachel.’

That was fucking rich, that was. She’d have laughed if the pain hadn’t been so brutal.

He lifted his foot, pressed the sole of his shoe on her neck. His eyes drilled into her.

There was something she must do, must remember to do, something… The knife! She still had the knife. Her fingers tightened round the handle. She kept her gaze locked on his. Just stab his leg and then…

‘We could have been so good. But you wouldn’t listen, would you? Threatening me. You silly bitch.’ He pushed down, his mouth tightening with the effort, crushing her windpipe.

She raised the knife, so heavy, her arms spasming with cramp, and plunged the blade into his calf and heard the sudden high scream, half pain half rage, that he gave as he stumbled back.

Rachel couldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t work. Nick bent over her, grabbed her hand, peeling back her fingers to get the knife. ‘You bitch, you mad bitch.’ He spat the words, spittle landing on her face.

‘Bastard,’ Rachel whispered.

He had the knife.

She would not beg.

He moved closer, the knife ready, smeared with his blood. His eyes brilliant with hatred. He touched the tip of the knife to her cheek. ‘I’ve got to kill you,’ he said softly, ‘you know that.’

Panic skittered in her chest, making her shudder uncontrollably. The pain from her hip rolled over her in waves.

Fuck you, she thought. Fuck you, Nick Savage. Fuck you to hell and back. She lunged for his arm, determined to fight, grabbing at his wrist, but he dodged, lifting the knife away.

Swiftly he moved back, stooped with the knife and swept it under her throat.

Rachel felt the spill of warm blood across her neck and down her chest, heard the gurgling noise she made, saw his smile, wide, gleeful. She tried to scream but her throat was full of blood. No air. Help me!

She reared awake, choking, sucking in breath, the knife in her hand.

The room full of snow, white, floating, spiralling down. Touching her neck, sticky, itchy. And something sharp in her mouth, making her retch. She felt for it with her fingers, drew out feathers, curled and slick with saliva. Feathers, not snow. Her pillow slashed. She spat more feathers from her mouth, wiped them from her neck.

Alive.

Awake.

Rachel Bailey wept. Huge noisy sobs while the feathers swung and floated in the silvery beams of first light that stole into her bedroom.

2

Gill Murray had barely got her coat off when the call came through. Suspicious death. Serious Crime Division wanted her as SIO, senior investigating officer. The syndicate were next in line for any new case, so the shout had come to her. She got the location, Journeys Inn on the far side of Oldham, and left word with her sergeant, Andy Roper.

Probably a bar brawl, or some payback exacted after last orders, she speculated as she drove, heading out of town past the slow-moving traffic coming in the other direction into work. Some scrote getting mouthy with some other, blood on the floor. But why hadn’t they heard about it till now? Why hadn’t the landlord called them out last night?

Don’t get ahead of yourself, she thought, looks suspicious, might not be. There are plenty of sudden deaths that turn out to be natural: hearts stopping, brains stroking out. Or suicides. Or accidents.

The road climbed out of the valley past old warehouses and sheds edging the canal and a scattering of new industrial units, and switched back on itself as the incline became steeper. Terraced houses sprouted in little hamlets, more or less merged these days, some looking abandoned, threadbare, with boarded windows, others maintained well enough.

She travelled up through the Larks estate, social housing built in the sixties, three-bed homes with pebbledash and open-plan front gardens. The estate was laid out like a maze, Gill knew; the main road bisected it but either side there were endless semicircular drives that sprouted more crescents and cul-de-sacs and all looked interchangeable. Up on the brow of the hill was Journeys Inn. As Gill’s car crested the rise, she could see a row of vehicles parked on the roadside in front of the pub, among them CSI vans and two squad cars.

Journeys was an old coaching inn. Three storeys high with six windows on each floor at the front and probably the same at the back, thought Gill, though she could not see from where she was. She pulled in behind the other vehicles. The scene had been secured with tape which ran along the perimeter wall of the pub by the road and across the drive at the side which led behind the building. A sign pointing that way read Car Park.

Stepping out of the car, Gill felt the breeze coming over the hills. Beyond the inn lay open country, the mix of heather and bracken that covered the slopes interrupted here and there by dun-coloured grass. The bracken a blaze of vermilion in full autumn glory. It was not dissimilar to the view from her own house a few miles further to the east. Gill estimated the nearest houses, on the Larks, were perhaps three hundred yards from the pub. So no immediate neighbours, no one overlooking the place.

Gill got out and opened the car boot, fighting against the wind as she unfolded a disposable paper suit and pulled it on. She did the same with a pair of gloves, covered her shoes with protectors and opened a face mask, leaving it round her neck until she got into the scene. Immediately, she was hot, and with the mask on she knew her glasses would soon steam up.

Gill showed her warrant card to the man staffing the crime scene perimeter at the entrance to the drive. He signed her in and she ducked under the tape and followed the designated path that had been marked out along the lane. To her right, parallel to the side of the pub, was a long single-storey building, roof long gone and the internal walls reduced to piles of stone. Probably stables for the inn, during its heyday. The car park at the back was almost deserted. Just a small grey hatchback parked at the far side.

The ground was hard-packed earth, rutted where heavy vehicles had churned up mud. Much of the lot was overrun with weeds, cow parsley and dandelions and nettles, suggesting it wasn’t prone to heavy use.

Either side of the main double doors were picnic tables, the wood grey and splintered, and to the right in the corner a play area with a rusting swing set and a climbing frame. There was a second single door almost at the corner of the building. CSIs had protected both entrances with tents.

The main doors were ajar and Gill read the brass plate above them: Owen Cottam, licensed for the sale of alcoholic beverages for consumption on the premises.

‘Gill Murray.’ The man, suited and booted like Gill, came out of the building.

‘Gerry. You CSM?’ Responsible for managing the crime scene.

‘Coordinator,’ Gerry said. ‘They tell you we’ve got three victims?’

‘Three! Oh, God.’ Gill felt the kick of adrenalin speed up her pulse though she was professional enough to appear calm and collected.

‘Three separate scenes. Gonna be a long day,’ he added.

Week, month, Gill thought. Each scene would have its own crime scene manager and Gerry would oversee them all.

‘Take you up?’

Up. She heard the word and revised her expectations. Upstairs. Not a bar fight, then. Unless they’d a function room upstairs and someone got killed without any of the other guests noticing. And again, how come the landlord hadn’t summoned help till now?

The interior of the inn was gloomy. No one had turned any lights on. A cardinal rule of crime scene management. Touch nothing, preserve the scene. The CSIs would bring in any lighting required, to enable photographs and video to be taken of the scene, to allow the techs to document and recover any evidence. After all, who knew if a fingerprint might be on the light switch. Might tell a crucial part of the story. There was always a story.

Gill followed Gerry through the pub to the right with its smell of damp carpet and beer and old cooking oil and cigar smoke. Years since the smoking ban but nicotine still tainted the air.

The place was cavernous, though some attempts had been made to section off the space with booths and some raised sections. As her eyesight adjusted she could see that the banquette seats looked greasy with use, and the fussy wallpaper, Regency stripes, had come away in some places. Design circa 1980s, Gill guessed, thirty years out of date.

A door marked Private led off the bar into a narrow hallway, with an external door to the right (the one she’d noticed from the outside) and stairs leading up to the left. The tenants’ entrance. So they could come and go without traipsing through the pub itself.

The fire door at the top of the stairs had been propped open and they went through it, took a quarter turn to the left on to a short landing. ‘Bathroom on the right,’ Gerry said, ‘kitchen and living room on the right.’ Both doors were shut. The landing led to a hallway that ran down the centre of the building with doors off either side. Stepping plates had been placed on the carpet along the hall to protect the scene and small markers sat here and there, indicating potential evidence.

Gerry turned left. ‘First scene – master bedroom,’ he said. The room would look out on to the road at the front. Viewed from the road it would be in the extreme right corner of the building.

Gill could hear the murmur of voices, the sound of the CSM and CSI techs already busy at work. She pulled her mask on. They stepped inside. Gill greeted the people there, who were filming in the light from a stand of specially rigged lamps, then focused on the scene.

The victim lay in the double bed. Face up, eyes closed, covered by the duvet from the waist down. Her hands were out of sight. The woman, dark-haired, looked to be in her late thirties, Gill thought. She wore a nightdress. From the short sleeves you could see it had once been blue with sprigs of dark blue flowers printed on it, but now the bulk of it across the whole of the woman’s torso was dark red, the colour of drying blood. The smell, sickly sweet, hung in the air.

The room was otherwise undisturbed. Make-up and jewellery on the dressing table. A round stool in front of it. A fitted wardrobe along the outer wall, easy chair by the window, blue velvet curtains closed. Wicker laundry basket by the door. Gill noticed the bedside tables, his and hers, water glasses and lamps on both, alarm clock on his side, a mobile phone, indigestion mixture and book on hers.

‘No sign of a struggle,’ Gill said.

‘No defence wounds, or nothing visible anyway,’ Gerry agreed.

‘She’s not been posed,’ Gill said.

‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Be hard to move her without getting blood everywhere.’

Gill peered closer. Could see two puncture slits on the chest where a sharp implement had pierced the nightdress and the woman’s body. The puckered fabric, knitted to the congealing blood around the edges of wounds.

A sudden volley of barking made Gill start. What the fuck?

‘Pet dog in the kitchen,’ Gerry said, nodding back towards the stairs. ‘The next one’s this way.’

In the hall, crime scene tape demarcated the next crime scene, in the adjoining room. In order not to contaminate either by tracking evidence with them, both Gill and Gerry changed into fresh paper suits, boots, gloves and mask. Sealing the ones they had already used in bags and labelling them.

For the same reason a separate team of CSIs were at work in this room under the guidance of their own crime scene manager. And a further log was being kept of who entered and left each scene.

A plaque on the door read Penny, the letters made out of pink and red hearts. A girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, lay prone on her bed, face partly hidden by her dark hair turned to one side. The back of her pyjama jacket was thick with blood. The duvet was hanging off the foot of the bed, smeared with blood. Gill noticed the girl had painted toenails, glittery pink. She was slightly built, bony ankles and slender wrists. Just a child. Gill felt her guts tighten in response, the pity of it, always that extra sense of tragedy with a child involved, but it would not affect her ability to do her job. If anything, she would strive even harder.

Gill surveyed the room. One wall had fitted wardrobes, white with folding shuttered doors, the others were a mix of posters, One Direction and Justin Bieber, and drawings: cartoon figures, anime style, Penny signed at the bottom of them. The girl had liked to draw. There was a photograph too, which Gill looked closely at. A family group on a sofa. The woman from the room next door with a baby in her arms; a man, well built, with a moustache and close dark hair, had a toddler on his lap. In between the adults was Penny. They were smiling for the camera. The toddler had one hand up, touching the man’s cheek; the child was turned slightly towards the man and his mouth was open as though he was telling him something.

A row of stuffed toys – a dragon, a panda, a meerkat – occupied a long shelf next to a desk cum dressing table. Homework and make-up littered the table and mounted above it was a flat screen television.

Though the bedding was less neat here, still there was very little disruption. In both cases it looked to Gill as if the victims had been attacked where they lay.

‘They could have been sleeping,’ she said to Gerry.

‘Looks that way,’ he said.

The dog barked again, fast and furious. Gill turned to Gerry and gave a nod to say she was ready for the next. They moved further along the hallway to the end of that crime scene cordon and repeated the business of changing their protective clothing and logging in.

The next scene was the bedroom at the far end, at the back of the building.

The man was on a single bed, partially on his side, head bent backwards, hands closed on his breastbone, the gaping wound on his neck curving open, giving a glimpse of the tube of his oesophagus and a gleam of white bone. Blood had sprayed on to the headboard and the wall behind the bed. His fingers and T-shirt were stained with it. The man had very short hair and his eyes were open, filmy. Part of a tattoo showed beneath the sleeve of his top.

‘Owen Cottam?’ Gill asked. The name on the licensee plate. Had someone broken in and slaughtered the three of them? But he didn’t bear any resemblance to the man in the family snapshot.

‘No IDs yet,’ said Gerry.

‘Not the man from the photo next door. Too old to be a son,’ Gill thought aloud, ‘only looks a few years younger than the woman. Sleeping in a single room.’ She looked again at the savage cut. Sensed the enormity of the crime. Three dead. And the killer? ‘Looks like they used a knife.’

‘We found it in here,’ Gerry said, ‘under the bed.’ He asked one of the men in the room for the knife which was in a rigid, clear-plastic knife tube. Gill took hold of the tube. The weapon, a sizeable kitchen knife, non-serrated, was smeared with blood.

‘Fast-track this for swabbing and prints,’ Gill said. ‘The whisky bottle from the bathroom as well.’

She scoured the room, the curtains still closed but some light coming in through the gaps where the hooks had gone missing. A Man City scarf the only decoration. Chest of drawers with clothes spilling out, more clothes littered on the floor. A small telly and a gaming console. Xbox. Same as Sammy’s.

‘Who called us?’

‘Brewery. Delivery arrived at eight to find the place deserted, no one answering the door and the dog howling the place down. Wagon driver rang his boss who assumed Cottam had done a runner, abandoning the dog.’

‘Bit of a leap,’ Gill said. ‘Might just have nipped out for milk and a paper.’

‘Except no one else was responding,’ said Gerry.

‘Maybe there was some existing trouble with the business, then,’ Gill said, ‘if their first thought is he’s done a moonlight flit.’ All questions that would be asked and hopefully answered once the investigation got under way.

‘Local bobby came out, found it all locked up and forced entry.’

‘Found a bloodbath,’ Gill said. ‘Which door?’

‘The single one. The family entrance,’ Gerry said. ‘Look at this.’ He took her back along the hallway, to the room opposite the daughter’s. A child’s bed and a cot. Everything, the blue décor, the duvet covers, the toys scattered on the carpet, the train frieze running around the walls, screamed little boys.

‘No sign?’ Gill asked. The baby and the toddler. The toddler with his hand up to his father’s face.

Gerry shook his head.

‘Upstairs?’ Gill said: the third storey.

‘Padlocked. Been up – full of junk, nothing else. And the cellars are clear.’

No more bodies. Small bodies. So where were the other children?

The dog was yelping and whining, scratching at the kitchen door.

‘Can we get shot of Fido?’ Gill said.

‘In hand,’ he said.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll call the coroner.’

Ten minutes later Gill had secured the coroner’s authorization to order forensic post-mortems on the three victims. Next she contacted the Home Office pathologist and asked him to attend the scene.

Gerry called her name from the ground floor. Gill peered down.

‘Someone here with intel on the household,’ Gerry said.

Gill descended, went through the pub and outside. The sun was warm and Gill was steaming inside the protective suit.

‘Jack Biddle, CID,’ the man waiting for her introduced himself, then began to read off the facts. ‘Owen Cottam, publican, aged forty-five…’

Not the man in the single bed then, she was right about that.

‘… wife Pamela, forty, daughter Penny, eleven – just moved up to high school.’

Gill nodded. ‘You know the family?’

‘My lass is at school with Penny.’ He swallowed but retained his composure.

Hearing the names, learning them, names that would become second nature, part of her waking life as the investigation progressed. People she’d come to know inside out. ‘Looks like Pamela and Penny,’ Gill said. ‘We’ve a man as well, ten years younger than Pamela perhaps, very short hair, tattoos.’

She saw a flicker of recognition in Biddle’s eyes. ‘Pamela’s brother Michael Milne. The two little ones, Theo and Harry?’

‘Not here. How old?’

‘Toddlers.’ He dipped his hand, palm down by his knee, indicating their stature. ‘I can check the ages.’

‘Thanks,’ Gill said. ‘No sign of them or Cottam. Any ructions you heard about? Domestic violence, family feud?’

Biddle shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Any criminal associates, prior offences?’

‘Nothing,’ Biddle said. ‘Magistrates approved his licence every time.’

‘Car reg?’

He read it off. No match to the Vauxhall at the edge of the car park. ‘Blue Ford Mondeo.’

‘Whose is that?’ she asked, pointing at the car.

‘The brother’s – Michael’s.’

Gill had a sudden chilling thought: had the boot been checked? ‘Give me a minute,’ she said and went to ask Gerry.

Minutes later a CSI came down from Michael Milne’s room with a set of car keys, accompanied by a woman with a camera. She ran off a series of shots of the Vauxhall before the boot was opened. Gill was holding her breath but when they found only a pair of wellies, a carrier bag of old drinks cans and a leaking can of motor oil she could breathe again. Drew in a strong draught of air perfumed with the smell of moorland. The CSI went to look in the old stables too, though as they were pretty much open to view anyway, Gill didn’t think the children would be there.

‘You think Owen…’ Biddle broke off, trying to digest the news.

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘I think he’s our suspect. Killed his daughter, his wife, his brother-in-law, then took off for the hills with his sons. I’m sorry. We have to find the bastard.’ She gazed out over the sweep of the hills. Sheep dotted here and there. Heard the burbling of a grouse on the wind. Before it’s too late. She didn’t say it out loud. And hard on the heels of that thought came another. It probably already is.

3

‘Family annihilation.’ Janet caught the urgency in Andy’s voice as she walked into the incident room. The buzz was palpable, people talking across each other. ‘That’s what they call it in the US,’ Andy said, his lean face brightening as he set eyes on Janet.

‘Multiple homicide,’ Rachel said. Rachel looked rough, Janet thought. Her friend burning the candle at both ends again, no doubt.

‘Whereabouts?’ asked Kevin.

‘In the UK,’ Rachel said slowly, tapping her own head.

‘No, where’s the murders?’ Kevin said.

The term woodentop could have been invented for Kevin but this time it was Rachel who’d got the wrong end of the stick.

‘The Larks,’ said Andy. ‘Journeys Inn.’

‘You’re joking!’ Janet stopped by her desk, jacket over her arm.

‘You know it?’ said Andy.

Suddenly there was another agenda, a subtext beneath the interchange. Forcing her to censor her words slightly. ‘Used to go there when the kids were little, walk and a pub lunch.’ Leaving out Ade’s name. Because Ade, his name, the very fact of his existence, was there like a pit, a snare, a trapdoor, something to stumble over. The small matter of him being her husband something that she and Andy were trying very hard to ignore, to forget about, to glide over.

‘Three dead,’ said Andy, all businesslike. ‘Believed to be the wife, daughter and wife’s brother, still awaiting formal identification. Gill’s on her way back. Suspect Owen Cottam, landlord there, missing along with two younger children.’

There was a pause as they each absorbed the information. Janet felt dizzy, the floor swirling under her feet. She could feel Andy’s eyes on her. She pulled out her chair and sat down. Felt sick and bloated. Her hand moved protectively across her abdomen over the scar where they’d sewn her up after surgery. Injuries sustained in the line of duty. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She’d recovered well over the last six months. Been back at work after three.

‘You okay?’ Rachel, standing opposite, leant forward, hands on her own desk.

‘Fine.’ Janet smiled. Rachel stared, head tilted, waiting for something closer to the truth.

‘Okay,’ Janet said sotto voce, ‘I’m knackered. Up till the early hours on homework duty with Elise, the Long March and the Cultural Revolution. Then Taisie has a nightmare at half three and the alarm’s set for six. What’s new?’

‘Why’s she having nightmares?’ Rachel asked.

‘Because she can?’ Janet shook her head. It was one thing after another with Taisie. No sooner through one crisis or drama than she swanned in with another. ‘And because she’s stupid enough to watch some 18 certificate Japanese horror movie at the sleepover she went on, even though she knows she’ll freak out after.’

Gill arrived then, issuing instructions as she walked. ‘Briefing in ten. Get me sandwiches – no onions – and coffee. Andy, bring the press office in, we’ll be holding hands on this. All other actions suspended for the foreseeable. Kevin – exhibits.’

‘Yes, boss, course boss.’

Gill, DCI Gill Murray, was Janet’s age, late forties, but the similarities stopped there. Friends for years, Janet had finally joined Gill’s team seven years ago. Gill was a human dynamo with an ability to think strategically; she relished the role of leading her syndicate. Janet knew her own skills were as a communicator, an interviewer. And she’d rather sit opposite some witness or suspect and persuade them to tell her the truth than command a team, oversee development, play the public relations game and manage resources.

Gill could inspire, she had inspired many a young detective, but cross her and she was a formidable foe. Even when she was working all hours, like now, Gill crackled with an energy and zeal, a lucidity and clarity that Janet envied. But also found exhausting at times. Of course Gill only had one teenager at home, but she’d managed the last four years as a single parent since Dave had left. Recently Sammy had moved in with his dad, to Gill’s dismay. But even when Gill had been looking after him on her own she had still managed eighteen-hour days and turned up for work looking impeccable. Hair neat and shiny, a practical cut that skimmed her chin, trademark red lacquered nails, clothes clean and pressed. Gill was one of those people who could get by on four hours’ sleep a night.

And I, thought Janet, getting up with her notebook and pen, am most definitely not. Gill’s driven. I’m just driven up the wall.

Godzilla, as Rachel most frequently thought of her boss, was briefing them on the Journeys Inn crime scene and the unfolding manhunt for suspect Owen Cottam. The whole team were there. After two years, Rachel felt like she belonged, as much as she belonged anywhere. They were a mixed bunch. Pete, the doughnut man, solid, steady, paunchy, balding. And next to him, big man Mitch, ex-army. Turn his hand to any job, Mitch could. Loads of experience, well travelled, he was the oldest detective constable in the syndicate. He’d a quiet confidence, perhaps from knowing he was good at what he did, and he could handle himself in a fight, of course. Andy, at the head of the table beside Gill, was their sergeant, which set him apart in his roles and responsibilities. A sharp dresser, bit of a mod about him: Rachel could just see him on a scooter, a Lambretta. Andy was single and now and again she wondered what that was about. Not bad looking, probably the best of the bunch, but Rachel had never actually clicked with him; he was a bit cool, a bit distant – and he was her supervisor. Lee, on Rachel’s right, he was more of a thinker, letters after his name and widely read. Sort that made Rachel feel uneducated. She learned from Lee, soaked it up like a sponge, stuff she could regurgitate to impress Nick. Back in the days when she was still trying. Before the assassination attempt. Lee was the only black member of the syndicate. Lee was the one got sent on courses for offender profiling, criminal psychology and behaviour analysis.

Then Janet, of course. Rachel couldn’t imagine the syndicate without Janet and usually the two of them were paired up, which Rachel liked. And Kevin Lumb. They got that wrong by one letter. Kevin Dumb it should have been, the div, like an eight-year-old. Kevin and Rachel the youngest on the team, but she was light years ahead of him most of the time.

‘Question one,’ the boss said, ‘why is Owen Cottam our prime suspect? We have three members of the family dead in their beds, father and two youngest children missing. As is Owen Cottam’s car. No sign of burglary or forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. Cottam is not a known associate of the criminal fraternity and there have been no problems, no forfeiture of his personal pub licence. Of course he was CRB checked prior to being granted that by the local authority in Birkenhead. To date no talk of any enemies, any feuds or threats made to the family, though we’ll need to see what we get from house-to-house and talking to friends and family.’

She stopped for breath and then continued, ‘Nothing is ever sure in this game, you all know that, but to date there is nothing to suggest a third party was involved. Knife recovered from the third crime scene is being fast-tracked for evidence, as is a whisky bottle and items belonging to Owen Cottam. As far as the public is aware we urgently wish to speak to Owen Cottam in connection with our inquiries. And we want to find two children missing from home. We are setting up for a child rescue operation running concurrently alongside our murder investigations. Priority of course is to prevent further loss of life. That means we have the authorizations in place as of now for telecoms, warrants and so on so we can work in real time.’

That appealed to Rachel. Their work on the Major Incident Team was investigating murders and the information was usually gathered slowly and painstakingly with often frustrating waits for data from telecom providers and financial institutions and the like. Those protocols went out of the window when a life was at risk. Already data on Owen Cottam would be flowing in to be logged and analysed by readers and actioned by receivers for the various strands of the investigation.

‘Border control, ports and airports, alerted,’ the boss said.

‘Found his passport at the pub,’ Kevin said.

‘Kevin’s exhibits officer on this one,’ Godzilla said.

Sooner you than me, Rachel thought. Keeping track of all the potential evidence from a scene meant you were stuck in the office for the duration. Drowning in evidence bags and chain of custody forms.

‘His computer has been removed for examination,’ the boss said. ‘As yet nothing obvious leaping out at us, no Google maps or ferry sailings. His phone is missing.’

‘Do we know if he has access to firearms?’ Mitch asked. Rachel knew he’d be trying to assess how dangerous the man was.

‘No guns licensed to him,’ the DCI said. ‘Now, we’ve ANPR, of course,’ referring to the automatic number plate recognition system that had fast become a major tool in police work, routinely recording vehicle registrations on major routes nationwide. ‘So if Cottam’s in the Mondeo we’ll find him before too long. Soon as we’re done here I want Rachel heading house-to-house, looking for witnesses. Good revision for your sergeant’s exam.’

Rachel nodded, a glow of satisfaction at being allocated the task. She glanced across at Janet, who winked at her.

‘Next of kin have been notified. Pamela Cottam’s mother, Margaret Milne, is on her way over from Cork. Post-mortems expected to start later this afternoon. A complex scene means the CSIs will be there for several days. Cottam has a father, Dennis, in Liverpool and a brother, Barry, Preston way. We are talking to the brewery and his family as well as his neighbours on the Larks. So far the picture emerging is that of a regular guy, a family man. Lee.’ The boss raised a finger to him. ‘We’ll be liaising with a forensic psychologist on this and a hostage negotiator obviously,’ she said, ‘but in the meanwhile Lee can tell us something about this particular type of homicide.’

Lee nodded; he’d got a psychology degree and was studying for a master’s in his spare time. Rachel knew he was fascinated by what made people tick, what pushed them over the edge to kill, why one individual would take a life when another similar person would not. Frankly, Rachel didn’t give a toss. They’d done it: her only interest was in catching the toerags and seeing them banged up for it. Whether their parents had been a walking disaster zone or they’d been bullied at school or there was something buggered in their brain chemistry was neither here nor there to Rachel. You broke the law – you paid the price. End of.

Lee put his pen down and tugged at his tie, loosening it as he began to speak. ‘We average a handful a year, single figures, though that’s on the rise: in periods of recession we tend to get an increase. Economic hardship is often a trigger point. The man loses his job, or gets into debt, and views that as catastrophic failure. He reasons he’s better off dead and the family too.’

‘Why the family?’ Janet asked.

‘The profile of this sort of man is a dominant, often controlling personality. He sees himself as the provider, the head of his family, and he regards the family as extensions of himself. Part of him. He won’t leave them behind to face the disgrace, the collapse of lifestyle and so on.’ Rachel thought briefly of her ex Nick Savage and his downfall. From shit-hot criminal barrister to criminal. One minute he’s defending clients, the next he’s on a charge himself. Attempted murder. The city centre flat and the bespoke suits exchanged for a cell in Strangeways and prison sweats.

‘All for one and one for all,’ Pete said.

‘Except nobody else gets a say,’ Janet pointed out.

Lee continued. ‘In many cases, the wife’s been having an affair or wants to end the marriage.’

‘Is that not just revenge?’ Godzilla said.

‘May well be,’ Lee agreed. ‘In that situation the wife is killed to punish her but the children are killed because the father doesn’t want to leave them behind. It’s almost like a duty. I’m better off dead and so are they. Of course research is limited because few of the men survive to explain their motives or thinking.’

‘But Cottam has,’ Rachel said.

‘So far,’ Andy added.

‘Why didn’t he just finish the job?’ Rachel said. ‘He’s done three of them, why suddenly stop and leg it with the youngest two? And the dog,’ she said. ‘Usually they kill the pets too, don’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ said Lee.

‘Usually planned?’ Godzilla said.

‘Yes,’ Lee said. ‘Media coverage tends to emphasize the good father runs amok angle but in most cases the men have prepared to some degree, acquired the means, decided when to act, and so on.’

‘Not exactly in the heat of the moment, then,’ Janet said.

‘Could the flight be part of the plan?’ Rachel asked.

Lee shrugged. ‘Unusual.’

‘Or maybe there’s trouble in the marriage, they’re splitting up, all he wants is to abduct the kids and run?’

‘Doesn’t explain our three victims, especially the girl,’ the boss said.

Rachel shrugged. Early days; they were still working out what the hell was going on.

Her Maj picked up and waved one of the reports through from the CSIs. ‘Initial observations suggest our victims were asleep when attacked. Bodies on the beds. No sign of struggle. Nothing to suggest they were moved or posed.’

‘What order?’ Pete said.

‘Still waiting for more on that from the scene.’

‘The wife is usually first,’ Lee said.

‘And the knife was in the brother’s room, Michael, so he’d be last,’ said Rachel. Made sense.

‘He intended to kill everyone,’ Lee said, ‘himself included.’

‘What stopped him?’ Rachel said.

‘And why didn’t he take the weapon with him?’

‘Plenty of questions we need answers to,’ the boss said, ‘though top of the list,’ she held up an index finger, ‘is, where is Cottam now? If we’re to find Cottam before he completes his grisly little mission we need to know everything about him: boxers or Y-fronts, where does he go on holiday, who are his mates, childhood haunts, health, money, favourite colour? We’re appealing to the public for sightings.’ Gill held up a photograph of Owen Cottam. Rachel looked at it: tall, thickset bloke, not overweight but solid looking, thinning hairline, moustache. Nothing in the man’s expression to suggest he was a monster, a nutter who’d stick a knife into his eleven-year-old daughter as she slept.

His wife, okay, Rachel could understand that. She had fantasized taking a knife to Nick Savage on many an occasion during their relationship over the past two years. First when she found out he was married and had kids and that she, Rachel, had been his bit on the side. Disposable, irrelevant. Then when he’d learnt she was pregnant and told her to get rid of it. No discussion. After that he’d come squirming back to her, talked her into thinking he really did care, but he was just watching his back. Because by then Rachel knew Nick was dirty, had broken all the rules by sleeping with a juror during a trial. She had that over him and to protect his own skin he’d tried to have her killed. Some dick in a car tried to mow her down. She’d dreamed of taking a knife to him, cutting his balls off, countless times since then. So, if there was jealousy going on in Cottam’s head the wife was halfway understandable. But not the daughter, nor the brother-in-law.

‘I’m now going to show you the video of our scene, taken by our crime-scene coordinator,’ Godzilla said, starting the recording. The video began. The boss making odd comments now and then. The camera taking them up the stairs and into the family’s flat. Surveying each crime. First the wife, then the girl. The man, Michael, his neck agape, slathered with blood. Rachel felt her stomach churn and her wrists prickle. Her own dream still too close, a cloying aftertaste.

‘Now, from her phone we can see that Pamela Cottam texted a contact, Lynn, at eleven fifty-two last night. Janet, you talk to her, then join Rachel,’ the boss said. She continued, allocating further tasks, sounding off a rapid-fire list of actions, each accompanied by a sharp nod of her head. A bit like one of those office toys, the bird drinking the water. And those mad hand gestures she did, hand-jive crossed with karate.

Rachel shivered, waiting for the briefing to conclude, eager to get out and on with the job.

When Janet went to see her, Lynn Garstang was at work. She was the friend who had exchanged texts with Pamela Cottam the previous night. The last person known to have communicated with Pamela before her death. In this age of social networking and camera phones, someone would soon be tweeting about the police activity at Journeys Inn, so the police press office were on the brink of releasing a statement rather than let rumours flourish over the ether. Local officers had informed immediate next of kin of the deaths – messengers bearing the worst possible news. It was terrible when the family heard about a loved one’s violent death on a news broadcast. The shock compounded by a sense of betrayal at the failure of the authorities, their appalling in sensitivity and disregard. Even if names weren’t made public, with a place so specific as a pub it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out who were the victims behind the headlines. But getting the news out into the public domain, alerting people and enlisting their help in an effort to save further lives, was paramount. If there was any comeback, Janet knew it was Gill who would face the music and explain to the relatives the very sound reasoning for the publicity.

The call centre was in a double industrial unit off the ring road. Janet showed her warrant card to the woman at the front office and asked for Lynn and whether there was anywhere private they could talk. The girl’s face went still with curiosity but she bit her tongue and showed Janet into a tiny meeting room the size of a lift, a bare round table, two chairs and a slim filing cabinet the only furniture. Presumably where staff were hired and fired.

Lynn was rake thin, her face hollowed at the cheeks, her dark skin dry-looking. Janet wondered if she had been ill or lost weight or normally looked like that.

‘Hello,’ Lynn said, looking a little puzzled but waiting for enlightenment.

‘Please sit down,’ Janet said. ‘I’m DC Janet Scott from Manchester Metropolitan Police. You’re a friend of Pamela Cottam?’

‘Yes.’ Her smile faded. Her eyes, dark eyes, locked on to Janet’s.

‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news,’ Janet said. ‘We were called to Journeys Inn earlier today and found the bodies of three people. We believe them to be Pamela, her daughter Penny and Pamela’s brother Michael.’

Lynn’s eyelids flickered and her mouth moved for a couple of seconds before she said, ‘Bodies?’

‘I’m very, very sorry,’ Janet said, talking slowly, for Lynn would need time to comprehend what was being said. ‘An investigation into the deaths is now under way.’ Important to use the word death. To make sure that there could be no misinterpretation.

‘I… I’m sorry.’ Lynn put her hand to her forehead. Her voice shook. ‘Pamela? And Penny and Michael?’

‘We think so. We have yet to complete the formal identification but we believe those are the victims.’

‘But how? Was there a fire?’

Lynn had finally found some explanation that half made sense but before she could elaborate on it, let it take wing and find some comfort – a fluke, an accident, a tragedy – Janet said, ‘No, we’re treating these deaths as suspicious. I’m afraid all the indications are that the victims died as a result of knife wounds.’ She couldn’t say for definite until the post-mortem results were in, and even then they’d have to be very careful in the wording of such information. That was something that was drilled into them throughout training. It got so it became second nature, qualifying statements with phrases that, if held up in court, made it clear that the police had not made assumptions but had been punctilious about facts, only making categorical statements where they had the hard evidence to prove them.

‘A knife?’ Lynn said.

‘We believe so,’ Janet said quietly.

Lynn sat for a full minute, her mouth slightly ajar. Then she spoke again. ‘The boys, Theo and Harry, they’re all right?’

‘They’re missing,’ Janet said. ‘So is Owen.’

There was another pause. Lynn covered her eyes with her hands. Janet could hear her breathing. Then Lynn moved, her face wet with tears. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone do that? And then take Owen and the boys?’

‘We are still trying to establish what happened,’ Janet said, ‘but at this point there is nothing to suggest that an outside party was involved.’

A fraction of a second, then the shock fell through Lynn’s face and she recoiled. ‘You think… Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God,’ hands pressed to her cheeks.

‘I am sorry,’ Janet said again. ‘If you feel able I’d like to ask you some questions. We’re trying to find Owen and the little ones.’

‘Right,’ Lynn said huskily.

‘Pamela texted you last night?’

‘Yes, about Tuesday.’

‘You were going shopping?’

She halted, momentarily surprised that Janet knew this, but then said, ‘Yes.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the message, the time, or the content, anything at all?’ Nothing had been obvious to the police.

‘No.’ Lynn shuddered, losing control of her muscles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s the shock,’ Janet told her. ‘Let’s get you some tea.’ She went out and asked the receptionist if she could bring some sweet tea for Lynn as she had been the bearer of bad news. The girl paled and said of course. Once that was accomplished, Janet began again, not knowing how much longer Lynn would be capable of talking. ‘You’re close friends, you and Pamela?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘How long have you known each other?’

‘For ever. We met when she first came over from Ireland. Chambermaids. I was her chief bridesmaid. She was mine. I’m their godmother, all three of them.’ Her face contorted and she began to sob. Janet had some tissues in her bag. Always. Tissues, warrant card, alert alarm, pepper spray, radio, antiseptic spray (for scratches or bites – less exposure to that in serious crime than in uniform), phone, money and keys.

Lynn thanked her for the tissue and wiped her nose.

‘Did you see much of them?’

She cleared her throat. ‘More recently, with us being nearer. I moved to Manchester while they were still in the Lakes and then they went to Birkenhead then here, Oldham, and so we saw more of each other then.’

‘How was the marriage?’

Fresh tears ran to her chin; she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Sniffed hard. But didn’t reply straight away. Janet felt she was trying to frame her reply. ‘Fine. I think.’

‘Did Pamela talk about it, about Owen?’

‘Not often. But sometimes he could be a bit, well, I’d call it controlling.’ She made it sound like a question, as though seeing if Janet agreed. Janet made a neutral sound, encouraging her to say more.

‘Like he always wanted to know where she was, what her plans were. She didn’t have much privacy. Much life of her own. Maybe some marriages work like that.’

Janet thought of her own. She and Ade shared pretty much everything; the logistics of work and home made it crucial. Only now she had secrets, now she told lies and misled Ade if she wanted to catch half an hour with Andy.

‘Wouldn’t have suited me,’ Lynn said, ‘but then my bloke left as soon as a better offer showed up.’

‘You have any family?’

‘Twin boys, two years older than Penny. How am I going to-’ Emotion flickered over her face again.

‘Did either Owen or Pamela ever get involved with anyone else?’ Janet said.

‘No,’ Lynn said, ‘no, she loved him. And he thought the world of her.’

‘Would she have told you if she had been seeing anyone? Or if they’d had problems?’

‘I think so,’ Lynn said.

‘Is there anyone else she might confide in?’

‘No, she didn’t really see anyone else. When we first met up there were a few of us became mates, but over the years…’ She pulled a face.

‘What about the pub, the business?’

‘She said things were getting tough. Everyone’s having a hard time. We see it here,’ Lynn said.

‘Did she mention any debts, owing money?’

‘No – nothing like that.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Three weeks ago. We went for a drink in Manchester. She seemed fine. She never said he was depressed or anything. He must have been, he must have had a breakdown, mustn’t he, to do that?’ Her voice was thick now and she shuddered again.

Not necessarily, thought Janet. The debate about mad or bad was an endless one, practised by shrinks and criminologists, kicked about by police officers, the public and lawyers. But according to what Lee had said so far, and supported by the relative normality in the scene surrounding the victims at the inn, Cottam had not gone barmy and raged about in an orgy of destruction, he’d waited and acted when he had been sure of least resistance. While his loved ones slept. The wounds were efficient, not excessive. Janet had seen countless murders, plenty of stabbings, all sorts of obscenities. This was measured, if such a thing can be said to be so.

‘We’re nearly done for now,’ she tried to reassure Lynn. ‘Can you think of anywhere Owen might go to escape notice?’

‘My mind’s gone blank,’ Lynn said. ‘Erm, he went through a fishing phase. When Michael first came over. It didn’t last long. I think Michael probably got on his nerves a bit.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, he was a bit shy in company, but if he knew you well he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, just drivel really, stream of consciousness. Maybe not what you want all day long on the river bank. That poor boy,’ she said suddenly. ‘He was harmless. And Penny… Oh, God.’ Her composure, such as it was, collapsed and she began to sob, gulping air and in between asking, ‘Why? How could he do that? Oh, God, why?’

4

Janet joined Rachel at the church hall on the Larks estate which they were using as a meeting point for the house-to-house. She handed out plans of the estate to the team of uniformed officers who were working door to door, while Rachel briefed them. Janet could hear an aggressive edge in Rachel’s tone and knew that her friend was finding it difficult. Bark first, before they do, was Rachel’s approach to most encounters. Probably worrying that she’d mess up. She needn’t have bothered. None of these PCs would dare undermine her. They were all too keen to get stuck in, hoping to find something useful for the investigation.

As they peeled off and left the hall, Janet said, ‘That was fine.’

‘Yeah?’ Rachel said guardedly.

‘Well, you could have relaxed a little bit more, perhaps made eye contact now and then.’

‘I did make eye contact,’ Rachel objected.

‘With the distant horizon, maybe.’

‘So what’re you saying? I was crap?’ Rachel set off for the door, clutching the file.

‘No, Rachel. I’m saying you are good at your job and you need to believe that so you have confidence, and that confidence shows. You were just a bit… prickly.’

‘Prickly?’

Oh, she should never have said anything. ‘We’re all on the same side,’ Janet said, ‘but sometimes it feels like you’re not sure about that. Rachel Bailey against the world.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Rachel said. ‘I get enough shit from Godzilla about being a team player.’

‘It matters,’ Janet said, ‘especially if you get your sergeant’s exam – you’ll be managing people. It’s not just bossing them about.’

‘Shall we get on with this?’ Rachel, frowning in irritation, shook the plans in her hand.

‘Wait.’

‘Now what?’ Rachel’s scowl deepened. But even scowling she was attractive, large brown eyes, high cheekbones.

‘Feather.’ Janet reached out and pulled a curled white feather from the back of Rachel’s hair. ‘Two.’ She picked out the other one. ‘You been pillow fighting? No wonder you look knackered. Anyone I know?’

‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, pushing through the double doors.

‘Seeing him again, whoever he is?’ Janet said.

‘Nah,’ Rachel said.

They turned left on the crescent which led up to the top of the estate. Their remit the twenty-five properties closest to Journeys Inn.

Janet wasn’t sure what was going on in Rachel’s personal life. Since the whole sordid, sickening business with Nick Savage, Rachel had barely mentioned men. Barely mentioned anything outside work. Couldn’t blame her really. Betrayal didn’t come any bigger. Celibacy probably an attractive option, sensible. But Janet knew Rachel didn’t do sensible. Never for very long, anyway. There was a chaotic, self-destructive side that seemed to be her default position when under stress. And she seemed drawn to danger. Janet worried about her. It was like watching a toddler trot towards an open fire, or teeter on a window ledge.

Janet thought about the Cottam kids. Two and a half and eighteen months. Talking, walking but powerless, dependent. Still alive? Anybody’s guess. But the way it worked in a hostage situation was you assumed the best as you planned for the worst.

They reached the edge of the estate and Janet was panting, the pain in her side a dull throb. She turned away, pretending to survey the view, the roof of the inn visible above the back of the houses.

They split up, Janet taking the even numbers and Rachel doing the other side of the road. The estate was quiet, that time of day when anyone who had anywhere to go, school, work, shopping, had gone.

Janet got no answer at the first two houses but at the third, where a car was parked on the pavement outside, a woman wearing a dressing gown answered. Eyes soft with sleep, hair messy, face marked with creases on one cheek.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Janet said, holding up her warrant card. ‘DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She paused, expecting the woman to show some recognition: the scant details had been broadcast, stating that the police were investigating suspected murder after three bodies had been found at a public house on the Larks estate. TV and press crews were arriving to film the pub and the hive of activity there as the CSIs went about their work.

But the woman just looked puzzled.

‘Could I have your name?’ Janet said.

‘Tessa Bowen.’

‘Date of birth?’ Janet noted her answer. ‘Does anyone else live here?’

‘No, just me. What sort of incident?’

‘Suspected murder,’ Janet said, and saw the colour drain from the woman’s face.

‘Good God. But who?’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tighter as though it might offer protection.

‘We’ve yet to formally identify the victims,’ Janet said. ‘But they are believed to be members of the Cottam family, a man, a woman and a child.’

Tessa’s hands flew to her mouth and she swayed.

Janet asked if she needed to sit down, if Janet could come in.

The lounge was dominated by a bright red leather sofa. They sat either end of it. ‘A child?’ Tessa said. She looked dazed. ‘And a man and a woman. Pamela? But Owen was fine this morning.’

Janet’s stomach fell. ‘You saw Mr Cottam?’ She jotted notes in her book.

‘Yes – about half past six. I took the dog back.’

‘The dog?’

‘Yes. She’s not their dog but they’re looking after her. Billy, the owner, he’s in hospital, operation for bowel cancer. He’s my neighbour, number four.’ She tipped her head to the right. ‘He needed someone to take the dog.’

‘Yes.’ Janet nodded, waiting for the rest of the story.

‘So, erm, Pamela and Owen said they’d have her, till we knew what was what with Billy.’ She stopped and looked at Janet, bewildered.

‘So this morning?’ Janet prompted.

‘I was coming back from work, night shift, Oldham Royal, I’m a nurse. And, erm, Pepper, the dog, she was on the road.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘The other side of the hill, about quarter of a mile beyond the pub. I stopped and fetched her – took her up round the back. Owen answered the door.’

Janet gave a small nod, not betraying the flush of adrenalin that increased her heartbeat. They would have to establish the time and all the other hard details but now she just needed Tessa to finish the story, to let it flow as much as possible, while it was still clear in her mind, unmuddied by the fallout of shock and speculation.

‘He said she must have got out,’ Tessa said.

‘They kept her in the house?’ Janet checked.

‘Yes, they have to. The gate on the drive’s never shut. And I said, she’d better not have got in with Grainger’s sheep or he’d be up there with a shotgun. Or get the police round.’ A look of alarm bloomed across her face. ‘They weren’t…?’

Shot. ‘No,’ said Janet.

Tessa swallowed, her hands clenched tight in her lap. ‘The boys, they came downstairs while we were talking.’

‘Theo and Harry?’

‘They’re all right?’ Tessa said.

‘We believe Mr Cottam has taken them with him.’

‘Oh.’ She gave a little gasp.

‘You saw the boys, and then?’

‘That was it. I came home.’

‘Tell me more about Grainger?’

‘He owns a lot of the land beyond the pub. The farmhouse is further down the valley, going away from town. There’ve been a few problems: kids from the estate on those mini motorbikes, and dogs worrying the sheep. That’s why I said that to Owen about Pepper. She’s been in there before and Billy managed to get her back before she did any damage, but Grainger, he always calls the police.’

‘That’s very helpful,’ Janet said. ‘We’re going to need a full witness statement from you and it would be very useful to do that at the police station. I realize this is a lot to take in. Can I make you a cup of tea?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just get dressed,’ Tessa said.

‘Of course. I’ll come back in half an hour and we’ll get you down to the station then,’ Janet said.

Tessa stood up but paused at the door. ‘How could he do that?’ she asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Janet said. ‘We only have a limited amount of information at the moment.’

‘He wouldn’t do that,’ she said, ‘he just wouldn’t.’ She bit her lips together and shook her head, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The boys – do you think they’re going to be all right?’

Janet didn’t reply. What answer could she possibly give?

Rachel could see that what Janet had found out from Tessa Bowen was crucial to the inquiry, giving them a possible last sighting of Owen Cottam, and she radioed through the information immediately. She was keen to get her to the station and take a written statement.

‘I’ve left her getting ready,’ Janet told Rachel, ‘said we’d call back for her. Do you think we’d better check out this Grainger fella, just in case he went ballistic, saw the dog worrying his sheep and decided to teach Cottam a lesson he’d never forget?’

‘Thought farmers did it with shotguns?’ Rachel said. Not that they came across many on their patch as a rule; not a lot of call for farmers in North Manchester, not unless it was a cannabis farm. Fair few shotguns though. Sawn off, usually.

‘Oh, yes, invariably,’ Janet said.

‘Besides, what’s he done with his nibs and the nippers? Fed ’em to his pigs?’

Janet closed her eyes, a pose of martyrdom.

‘What?’ Rachel said.

‘Your turn of phrase leaves a lot to be desired.’

‘Tell your mum was a schoolteacher,’ Rachel said.

‘What was yours?’

A failure. ‘Housewife,’ Rachel invented. ‘Wait!’

‘What?’

Rachel scrabbled through her pockets. ‘Okay. Thought I’d lost the keys for a minute.’ She hadn’t but it served to derail the conversation well enough; now she could shift it to safer ground.

The track to Grainger’s farm was halfway down the hillside, a turning to the right, tarmac part of the way then given over to dirt and stones. The gate into the farmyard was shut and various warning signs plastered about made it plain that no one was welcome. An impression reinforced by the broken stile just at the side of the gate and the rotting public footpath sign half hidden by brambles.

In the farmyard there were some geese, big brutes, and Rachel was glad they were the other side of the barrier. A dog, out of sight, was barking its balls off, which brought a man from one of the outbuildings.

Rat-faced, Rachel thought, no chin, spike of a nose, daft-looking moustache, like something you’d buy on a sheet of cardboard from the toy stall on the market.

‘Mr Grainger?’ Janet said.

‘Who’s asking?’

Always a good start. Rachel and Janet flashed their warrant cards. ‘We’re investigating a serious incident at Journeys Inn,’ Janet said. ‘Have you been aware of any disturbances, anyone entering your property, any unusual traffic in the area?’

Rachel briefly imagined catamarans, penny-farthings, air balloons. Should have eaten, her mind jittery because she’d not.

‘No,’ he said and turned to spit.

Fuck’s sake, Rachel thought. Wild west. Just need the chaps and spurs. ‘What can you tell us about Mr Cottam?’ she said.

Grainger pursed his lips, gave a shrug. Bored, indifferent. Rachel wondered if he’d change his tune once he heard the story. Would that get his tongue wagging.

‘You know him?’ Janet said.

‘By sight.’

‘Neighbours though,’ Janet pointed out. Grainger said nothing.

‘You seen him recently?’ Rachel said.

A cat stalked across between the barn and the farmhouse, tail held high, ignoring the geese, though the birds moved and grouped as if they’d attack.

Grainger shook his head. ‘Saw his car, this morning,’ he said, ‘early.’

Rachel felt a prick of interest. ‘What time?’ she said.

‘Quarter to seven, ten to.’ Minutes after Tessa had returned the dog at six thirty.

‘Was he driving?’ Rachel said.

‘Wasn’t near enough to see.’

They didn’t get much more from Grainger. He’d not seen the dog, Pepper, and claimed to know little about his closest neighbours. But curiosity finally overcame his mealy-mouthed act and he said, ‘What’s this incident then?’

‘Suspected murder,’ Janet said. And Rachel saw the blink signalling his surprise. Quick recovery though.

‘The wife?’ he said.

‘Why d’you say that?’ Rachel asked him.

‘Usually is. Wife or husband, and if you thought he was in the car…’

Columbo.

Janet did the formal spiel. ‘We have three victims, identities are not as yet confirmed.’

He didn’t speak. Just gave a nod.

‘We’d like you to call into the station as soon as possible, make a witness statement.’ Janet handed him a card. His hand shook as he took it. His age? Or does he actually give a fuck? He tipped his head again.

Janet phoned through to the incident room, then and there, told them they’d a key witness sighting of Cottam’s car from the farmer and that he’d be in to make a formal statement.

‘Central casting,’ Rachel muttered as they retraced their steps to the car.

‘They’re not all like that,’ Janet said. ‘I met a very nice farmer once, literate, witty, sociable – friend of Gill’s.’

‘I believe you,’ Rachel said sceptically.

‘Just like “all coppers are bastards”, eh?’ Janet said, a nod to the graffiti initials ACAB that were still regularly daubed on walls and shop shutters and hoardings and reflected the attitude of many of the people they had to deal with day in and day out.

‘Right,’ Rachel said, ‘’cept me and you.’

Gill had attended the post-mortems. Watching in turn as the pathologist did external then internal examinations, combed the hair, taped the body and scraped the fingernails, swabbed the orifices. Photographed and measured the wounds, inspected, weighed and measured the organs.

Back in the office she received excellent news: they’d an ANPR report of Cottam’s Mondeo heading north on the M6 near Penrith.

‘Andy.’ She put her head round her door, into the outer office. Told him about the breakthrough.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘So we know he’s still moving.’

Alive. ‘Yes. Heading up to the Lakes, perhaps? Old stamping ground. I’m going to contact both Lancashire and Cumbria police,’ she said. ‘Bring them up to speed.’

She made those calls, alerting her colleagues in the neighbouring forces to Cottam’s movements so they could brief their own officers. Then her phone rang – the front desk. Margaret Milne, Pamela and Michael’s mother, had arrived. The family liaison officer who’d met Mrs Milne at Manchester Airport would remain her point of contact with the police. Normally one or two of Gill’s DCs along with the FLO would accompany the next of kin to identify the victims, but on this occasion, Gill intended to go herself.

Gill knew Janet and Rachel were heading back in with an eyewitness who could place Owen and the two boys alive at six thirty that morning. Had he killed them after that, then taken the bodies with him? As yet there were no additional crime scenes other than those of the first three victims, no ominous pools of blood in the hall, or the living area. If he had killed the boys, why remove them? The fact of their absence seemed to suggest they were still alive when Cottam fled the scene.

Gill would use Janet to talk to Margaret Milne. Janet was her best interviewer. After the stabbing, in March, when Geoff Hastings had almost killed Janet, in that long week that followed when it was touch and go, Gill didn’t dare to think Janet would ever come back to work. The best she could hope for was that her friend would survive and be able to have some quality of life in the aftermath.

An attack like that, life threatening, was no easy thing to come back from. Gill knew coppers who would never work again, at any job; others, physically maimed or psychologically troubled, were shadows of their former selves, their previous talents and abilities ruined by the trauma. Janet’s strength, her solidity, her resilience, amazed Gill. Not only had she resumed her duties after convalescing but she retained her ability to empathize with the people she interviewed, to make them comfortable enough, safe enough, to open up. To woo them into her confidence so that talking, telling her what she needed to know, was easier than not.

Rachel could take the eyewitness and Janet the bereaved mother.

On her way downstairs her phone rang again. Chris on the display. A little burn of pleasure inside her. She answered the call. ‘You heard?’

‘Can’t think why. Triple murder, two missing kids.’

‘So tomorrow…’ she said regretfully.

‘You putting me off?’ he said.

‘God knows when I’ll get home. You know the score.’ And he did. Working in the National Policing Improvement Agency, consulting on hard to solve murders, going wherever in the country he was needed. The same job that Gill had done, had loved, until her hubby Dave shag-bandit Murray had finally been caught doing the dirty and left her for the whore of Pendlebury. Leaving Gill holding the baby; well, the fourteen-year-old. Sammy needed at least one parent in the family home on a regular basis. Gill’s high-flying career went out of the window and she took on the syndicate instead. Still working senseless hours but near enough to drive home afterwards and have breakfast in the mornings with her son. And now even that had gone… She tore herself away from thoughts of Sammy’s recent flight into the toxic bosom of Dave’s new family and back to Chris.

‘I miss you,’ Chris said and she felt her stomach drop.

‘Me too,’ she said. It was impossible. If she wasn’t up to her eyes he was in Cornwall or Northumberland or wherever. Then when they did schedule something together, like now with him taking leave to come up for a week, she was landed with a trio of dead bodies and the prospect of more to come.

‘Could still come up,’ he said.

‘And do what? Twiddle your thumbs while I’m here night and day?’ Nice thumbs he had, like the rest of him. ‘Book a flight somewhere,’ she said. ‘Treat yourself.’ She imagined him at the beach: tall, really tall, but he carried it so well. She loved his height, his youth, her toyboy. ‘Send me a postcard.’ And the fact he really liked her, her mind as much as her body. They spent hours talking about work and he got it, got the same buzz she did from solving the puzzles they were set, from strategy and insight. With Dave she’d shared anecdotes but there’d been an undercurrent of resentment on his part. Although he’d lumbered up his own career ladder, more or less winched up by a crane, she thought sourly, he had never had the smarts that Gill knew she had. Of course back then she’d done that whole modest act, so he wouldn’t look dim. No need with Chris. Equals.

‘Think of it as research,’ she said. ‘Find somewhere perfect we can go together next time I take leave.’

‘Do you ever take leave?’

‘Yes,’ she protested, though probably not always her full quota.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Talk to you later.’

‘Sardinia,’ she said. ‘Sardinia sounds nice. Or New York?’ and ended the call.

Margaret Milne’s complexion was so grey Gill wondered if the woman was having heart failure. She asked her if she’d like anything to eat or drink or whether she would like to see a doctor if she wasn’t feeling well.

‘No, thank you,’ she said, her voice wavering.

‘Perhaps just a cup of tea,’ the FLO, Julia, suggested. No one wanted her keeling over when they got to the mortuary.

‘Okay. Thank you.’ She nodded.

While tea was fetched, Gill gave the woman her condolences. ‘I’m so very sorry for your losses,’ she said, ‘for what has happened to Pamela and Michael and Penny. And I promise you we will do everything in our power to find and punish the person or people responsible.’

‘Owen,’ Margaret Milne said, her lips puckered as though the name itself was bitter.

‘If he’s responsible,’ Gill said. Important to acknowledge that they were working on assumptions, bloody likely ones, but assumptions all the same. Until the evidence was in place and firm enough everything was modified with ‘alleged’, ‘probable’, ‘believed to be’, not ‘known to be’. Not least because giving a grieving relative information that sounded cast-iron and was later disproved caused extra anguish.

‘And the babbies?’ she said, her Irish accent sounding stronger.

‘No news. We believe Owen took them with him when he left the area this morning. Our sole aim now is to prevent any further loss of life. We have specialist staff, hostage negotiators and so on, ready to act as soon as we find them.’

The tea arrived and Margaret Milne picked up her cup then stared at it, at a loss. And she hadn’t even seen the victims yet. Her son and daughter, her granddaughter.

‘After we’ve been to the mortuary, if you are able to confirm that it is Pamela and Michael and Penny, we’d very much like your help.’

‘How?’ She looked astonished, as though Gill had suggested something improper.

‘You can tell us about the family, about Owen and Pamela. It may help us know where to look.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. She put her cup down, her hand shaking, spilling some tea over the edge. ‘Can we go?’ she said, her mouth twisting and twitching. ‘Please can we go now?’

Gill smiled and got to her feet, shared a swift glance with Julia, knowing how bloody heartbreaking the next half-hour would be.

With a dignity that was painful and humbling to witness, Margaret Milne solemnly identified her forty-year-old daughter Pamela, her eleven-year-old granddaughter Penny, and her twenty-nine-year-old son Michael. She stood in the viewing room facing the window, tears coursing silently down her face. Then she turned to Julia and asked when she would be allowed to touch them.

‘We have to wait for the coroner to release the bodies,’ Julia said quietly. ‘It may take some time. The defence have the right to request an independent post-mortem, you see.’

The woman nodded her understanding but held her arms out, fingers opening and closing around empty air. Gill knew that powerful urge, had seen it before, the desire to clasp the person, to hold them close. She had witnessed it at murder scenes where a relative or sometimes even the culprit clung to the victim, raining kisses on them, rocking them, willing them back to life. At road traffic accidents where parents cradled shattered children or drivers held hands with their lifeless passenger. And when she had accompanied the bereaved to funeral parlours and seen them stroke their loved one’s hair or cheek. A tactile way of understanding that the person was dead and gone. That the essence of them wasn’t there any more. Their heat and vitality and spirit had departed.

‘Do you need a moment?’ Gill asked, eager to get Margaret back to the station, to move things forward, aware of time passing from the metronome ticking in her pulse. For somewhere out there were Cottam and his children, at grave risk of death.

Margaret Milne turned to face her, slowly wiped her cheeks with her fingers and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said numbly.

Gill dipped her head and turned and led them out of the mortuary into the bright of the day.

5

‘But won’t it be weird for you?’ Rachel said, cramming half a sausage roll into her mouth and swallowing before she continued, ‘me being a sergeant and you still a DC?’ Snatching a break at the station before their respective interviews. A snack at their desks. She hadn’t had breakfast earlier, couldn’t face it, so had spent all morning with her stomach feeling as if her throat had been cut. An image of Michael Milne flashed into her mind. The napkin of blood across his chest. And the sickening powerlessness as Nick stooped over her in the dream, slid the knife under her throat.

‘Why should I?’ Janet said, ‘Gill’s my boss, our boss, several rungs up, and I can handle that.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘What?’ said Janet.

‘She’s your age.’

‘Ancient, you mean?’

Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘And she’s years of experience. But me-’

‘Elbowing us oldies out, queue jumping,’ Janet tutted, ‘all mouth and attitude, still wet behind the ears.’

Rachel grinned. ‘Something like that.’ She ate the rest of her snack.

Janet took a drink. ‘You’ll be a good sergeant, I’m a great DC. No problem.’

Then Rachel thought of the trial, and Mr dickhead barrister Nick Savage, and everything went cold and hard again.

‘What?’ Janet said.

Rachel sighed, about to speak, but Kevin came through then, his arms full of exhibits from the crime scene. Everything to be logged and kept safe. ‘Skiving again?’ Kevin said as he drew close. Rachel considered sticking out her foot, tripping him arse over elbow, serve the snidey little tosser right, but that might damage the exhibits and it’d be her in trouble, never mind the risk to the case.

‘Pencil first, Kevin,’ she said, ‘then you can rub out all your mistakes.’

‘Comedian,’ he sneered.

Once he was out of earshot, Rachel glanced up at Janet, who was still patently waiting for an explanation. Rachel pressed her fingertips on to the crumbs of pastry on the paper bag. ‘It’s just… when we go to trial, Nick – he could take me down with him, Janet. I’d lose my job. My warrant card.’ The prospect of that, like a bloody great pit, waiting to swallow her. She had always known it would come to this, something like this, no matter how far she’d come, run, from her shitty life and her scrappy family, no matter how much she studied and trained, no matter the hours or the commitment or the fact that this was all she had ever, ever wanted; sooner or later she knew she’d be found out, failed, chucked out. End up on a bench in the precinct with a can of cheap cider, spouting crap like her miserable excuse for a father. Or missing presumed couldn’t-give-a-fuck like her mother, who swanned off when three kids and a feckless feller got too much for her.

‘It’s an offence, perjury,’ Rachel said. ‘I could get sent down.’ Join her sad-sack little brother who was behind bars for armed robbery. Some irony there, given she’d not exchanged a word with him since he was caught. Janet didn’t know about that, about Dom or her mum and dad, but she knew about the perjury.

Janet said, ‘Look, I grant you, he’s a nasty piece of work, and I told you-’

‘You told me,’ Rachel echoed bitterly.

‘But he is charged with attempted murder, with trying to kill you, and if he even mentions that it’ll backfire because it’ll show Nick was colouring outside the lines. Using you to get confidential information that he’d then manipulate to try and get his slimy client off.’

One professional to another, that’s how Rachel had seen it. What’s said in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. She’d told him of her elation at nicking notorious crime lord Carl Norris and the jibe she’d made as she put Norris in the custody suite: ‘Who’s laughing now, pretty boy?’ But Nick broke the rules. Months later, the relationship in tatters, Rachel had been summoned to give evidence as arresting officer at Norris’s trial. And was horrified to discover Nick acting as Norris’s barrister. Cross-examining her, Nick sought to undermine the basis for the arrest and flung the phrase back at her in court. Which she then denied. Lying under oath. A stick to beat her with. And Norris walked.

But when Rachel found out, just by chance, that Nick had been shagging one of the jurors during that trial, she’d some leverage of her own. By then, though, Nick had turned over a new leaf, she’d given him a second chance (maybe third – she wasn’t counting). All seemed hunky-dory until she was nearly mown down.

‘The evidence against him is overwhelming.’ Janet’s blue eyes beaming intelligence, reassurance, at her.

The tape recording. Rachel’s stomach turned over at the thought of it again. Nick Savage in a car with big-shot career criminal Carl Norris. Nick oh so carefully explaining how Rachel might be a ‘problem’ seeing as she’d found out Nick was screwing a juror during the trial where Nick was defending Carl Norris. And clever-dick Norris oh so carefully taping the whole conversation. For the police.

‘Chop chop!’ Gill swept in, clapped her hands together.

‘Any more on the ANPR?’ Janet asked.

‘Not as yet.’

‘His phone?’ said Rachel.

‘Not using it. Not switched on, our telecoms reckon. Update at the briefing.’

Sod Nick Savage. Maybe Janet was right and he wouldn’t derail her career. He’d go to trial and get found guilty and spend the next ten to fifteen years banged up with a load of low-lifers, bored out of his skull or too anxious to sleep. Posh boy like Nick wouldn’t exactly be one of the lads inside, and without Carl Norris watching his back he’d be fair game.

Rachel sank the last of her coffee and grabbed her bag. If she was quick she’d have time for a fag before sitting down with the witness from the Larks.

Rachel had gone through Tessa’s account with her once and was now reworking it, seeing if there was any more useful detail to be gained. Taking the bare bones and adding flesh to them. Some witnesses felt frustrated by the process, sure they’d told you everything, and were then surprised that a carefully phrased question suddenly illuminated fresh information.

‘You said it was still dark when you saw the dog,’ Rachel said. ‘Were there any lights on at the pub?’

Tessa considered the question. ‘I don’t remember seeing any, but the light in the hall came on just before Owen answered the door.’

So it sounded as if Owen Cottam had been upstairs when Tessa called and he’d put the light on to answer the door.

Rachel had seen the plans of the property. The separate entrance to the family’s first-floor accommodation led into a short hallway with a flight of stairs. A second doorway off the hall gave access into the pub itself. That had been locked when police arrived.

‘The dog went past Owen and up the stairs,’ Rachel said. ‘How long would you estimate you were at the door for?’

‘Not long, maybe ten seconds.’

‘How long had you waited for him to answer the door?’

‘A couple of minutes. I’d knocked twice. No one answered at first so I tried again. I thought they might be asleep.’ Tessa blanched.

‘How did he appear, Owen?’

Tessa swallowed. ‘A bit breathless,’ she said. ‘I thought it was the stairs.’

‘Anything else? Try and picture him.’

‘Not drowsy but tense,’ she said, then pulled a face, ‘but maybe I’m saying that because I know now-’

Rachel interrupted, not wanting her playing mind games with herself. ‘See him at the door. What’s he wearing?’

‘Erm, sweatshirt… green… yes, bottle green, and, er… jeans, I think.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Yes.’ She sounded surprised.

‘Fully dressed?’

Because he hadn’t been to bed, Rachel wondered? Or had he got dressed ready to leave the house? The first seemed most likely, especially if his original intention had been to wipe out the whole family including himself.

‘How does he seem tense?’ Rachel said, deliberately using the present tense to help Tessa recapture the memory.

Tessa tilted her head back in concentration. ‘His eyes,’ she said, straightening up. ‘They were sort of darting around. That, and the way he was breathing, and I felt like he was itching to get shot of me. But then-’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, we weren’t that pally. He was a bit like that anyway.’

‘Like what?’ Rachel said.

‘Impatient, practical,’ she said, ‘I don’t quite know how else to describe it.’

‘That’s fine,’ Rachel said. ‘Could you hear any other noises from the house?’

‘No, not till the children-’ She choked on the word, coughed and recovered. ‘Till they came and called out.’

‘Before that,’ Rachel drew her back a step, ‘tell me anything else you can remember about Owen. Any marks on his hands or his clothes?’

‘No.’

Two minutes would give him time to wash his hands, Rachel thought.

‘Any smell?’ Blood say, or sweat? Sweaty work, murder. He might have avoided any major blood spatter but there would almost certainly be microscopic traces on his clothes.

‘I think… there was a smell of alcohol but I couldn’t say if that was from him or just with it being the pub.’ You’d want a drink, wouldn’t you, Rachel thought. Or several. Before embarking on the grisly task. Dutch courage.

‘Okay, the children…?’

‘The little one, Harry, he called out “Daddy” before I saw him at the top of the stairs. Owen, he… I don’t know how to describe it, like he, like he flinched, like he was really irritated.’

‘Show me,’ Rachel said.

‘Sort of…’ Tessa drew back her lips exposing her teeth, a snarling movement, blinking her eyes. More of a grimace than a flinch. She coughed and laughed and then blushed deeply. ‘I feel ridiculous.’

‘Don’t, this is really helpful,’ Rachel said. ‘What was Harry wearing?’

‘A sleep suit. Blue and white, some pattern.’

Details which would be fed through to the team. A check would be made to establish if the item was still at the scene, and meanwhile someone would scour children’s clothes designs to find a match. If the garment was missing then an image of that item would be used in the search and could assist when investigating alleged sightings.

‘Then Theo came after him,’ Tessa said. ‘He was sort of whining a bit.’

‘But you’d not heard that before you saw him?’

‘No. He was rubbing his eyes, just tired, cranky. You know how they get?’

Not really, Rachel thought. Whinging kids she’d rather avoid like the plague. Even if she had decided to go ahead and keep Nick’s baby when he wanted her to get rid of it. Lost it anyway. All for the best. Sure was now. Yes, babe, Daddy tried to get Mummy killed. That’s why we never see him.

‘He had pyjamas on, Theo. Tiger stripes. It’s his nickname.’ Her voice shook now, almost breaking. ‘Tiger, they call him.’

‘You all right to carry on?’ Rachel said, not wanting particularly to give her the option. Learning from Janet and Andy that recognizing distress was important to acknowledge but needn’t be an exit sign. ‘Have some water if you like?’

‘I’m fine. The kids got halfway downstairs before I left. Owen said, “Thanks, I best…” and nodded his head to the kids.’

‘So most of the conversation took place before the children came down?’

‘Yes.’

‘You went straight home from there?’

‘That’s right,’ Tessa said.

‘Is there anything else you can think of?’

‘No.’

Rachel thought about the fact that she knew the little kid’s nickname. ‘How well did you know the family?’

‘To say hello to and through Billy, really. He drinks in the pub and takes the dog with him. That’s why I suggested asking if they’d have Pepper while he went into the Royal. Pamela and Owen and me, I wouldn’t say we were friends or anything. I used to go along when they had quiz nights, a few years back now, if I wasn’t on shift. But that’s dropped off.’

‘How did you find them, Owen and Pamela?’

She shook her head, shrugged. ‘Normal, ordinary. Pamela was the chatty one. I’d say I knew her best. Just normal,’ she said again. ‘Busy with running the place and the kids.’

‘And Penny?’

‘Nice girl. They all were.’

‘What about Michael?’

‘He was very shy, blushed if you spoke to him-’ Then her face was crumpling again. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘You’re fine,’ Rachel answered. ‘Take your time.’ Normal, Rachel thought, normal family man. Neighbour on the doorstep and upstairs three corpses still warm. How the fuck did he hold it together? Dog barrelling past him, kids mithering. The plot unravelling. Yet he appeared normal enough to send her on her way with no clue as to what had happened in the rooms above.

The soft interview room was designed to be comfortable and homely: sofas and low coffee tables, boxes of toys for times when youngsters accompanied a parent or carer. Proper lamps instead of fluorescents.

Not that any of this would register with Margaret Milne, mother of Pamela Cottam and Michael Milne. Janet knew she would be knocked sideways with shock, with bursts of grief, still trying to absorb the nightmare her world had become.

Janet brought in tea, biscuits, tissues, water. She had her notebook and pen.

Margaret Milne sat at one end of the three-seat sofa but from her eyes Janet could see she was a million miles away. It was Janet’s job to drag her back to the here and now and hoover up all the information she had about her family.

‘My name is DC Janet Scott,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to call me Janet. Can I call you Margaret? Is that okay?’

Margaret Milne gave a nod, blinking as if the light was too bright. First names, the first part of the contract, the bond that Janet would build. The more Margaret trusted Janet, the more fruitful the conversation would be.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Janet fixed her eyes on Margaret, who turned away momentarily, looking into the corner of the room, away from the sharp sting of reality. Janet kept talking, softly and slowly. ‘I can only imagine how devastated you must be and I wish none of it had happened and we didn’t have to do this, but I need your help. We need your help to try and find Owen and Theo and Harry.’

Margaret nodded. Janet needed her to start vocalizing, to speak, for the longer she stayed mute the harder it would be to draw answers from her. But she wouldn’t exert any pressure. Outside the room, teams were racing against the clock, scurrying around furiously as the manhunt unfolded, but in here time stood still for Janet while she got Margaret Milne to share her stories, to unravel the tangle of her family’s life and perhaps reveal clues as to why Owen Cottam had acted as he did and where he might be.

‘Tell me about Pamela,’ she said.

Margaret took a breath. ‘She’s a lovely girl.’ She tripped over the tense. ‘Never any trouble.’ A pause. Janet waited, gave half a smile.

‘Always in work.’

Janet thought momentarily of her own mother. If Geoff Hastings had succeeded, how her mum would have framed it. Couldn’t wish for a better daughter but I never wanted her to join the police. She could have done anything: teaching or law or been a professor. Very bright – but she wouldn’t listen. Went her own sweet way. And now. And her two girls… Janet squashed the voice in her head and concentrated on Margaret, who was now finding her stride, her words a little less jerky. Forty years of a life to convey, forty birthdays, three children, all those milestones and setbacks and the level times in between.

‘They met in the Lake District,’ Margaret was saying. Then she hesitated. ‘He was managing the bar at the hotel-’

‘Owen,’ Janet murmured, seeing the name was becoming poisonous to Margaret. But censorship would not help the flow.

She nodded. ‘Owen.’ Her chin trembled. ‘Pamela was maître d’ – in the restaurant. They got married up there, in the Lakes, and Penny was born. They had a little house in the grounds. It was lovely,’ she said, then again as if puzzled by the senseless reversal of circumstances, ‘it was lovely.’ No doubt thinking, how did we get from there to here, from that to this?

‘Penny was born in 2000,’ Janet nudged her gently.

‘After that they took over a pub in Birkenhead. And when that closed they moved here. To the Journeys.’

Janet knew that they were tenant landlords, and that the tenant leased the premises and the equipment and stood any profit or loss. She also knew that pubs were closing in epidemic proportions.

‘Theo was born in 2009 and then Harry the year after,’ Margaret said.

‘Any reason for the gap – nine years after Penny?’ Janet asked.

Margaret shook her head. ‘It just didn’t happen. I think they wanted to get on their feet at first, so they waited a while, and then when they did try again…’

Janet smiled.

‘Michael moved in then, just before Harry came along. He wasn’t getting anywhere at home. He’s got learning difficulties; mild, but… he couldn’t really manage on his own.’ She shook her head. ‘And we’re out in the sticks. Nothing for him there-’ Again Margaret broke off, the brutal truth knocking her sideways again. If Michael hadn’t come to live with his sister, he’d still be alive. Margaret would still have one child left.

‘So Michael moved in,’ Janet said.

‘He started helping out over Christmas and stayed. I’d say it was great for Pamela, especially with the little ones; she didn’t need to do as much in the bar. Though it’s always the same if you live and work in the same place, never really off duty.’

Janet nodded. ‘What did you make of Owen?’

‘I thought he was grand.’ Tears swam in her eyes. ‘Put in the hours, hard worker, always liked them looking nice, the children and Pamela.’

When she didn’t elaborate Janet said, ‘And how were things between Pamela and Owen?’

‘Good,’ but Janet caught an echo of doubt and waited so that Margaret carried on. ‘He liked things doing the right way. Bit of a perfectionist. They’d the odd row about that sort of thing.’

‘Recently?’ There was something there: Janet could practically smell it in the air, in the hesitation.

‘Things were hard, the business side.’ Margaret frowned, ripples across her brow. ‘He worried,’ she said.

‘Was he ever violent?’

‘No, she never said. Just, you know, a bit of a shout now and again. What man doesn’t?’

Janet could hear the undercurrent running beneath the flow of words. The sickening dawning prospect that the odd row and a bit of a shout had mounted up to mayhem, slaughter, murder.

‘I have to ask you this, I’m sorry,’ Janet said. ‘Were either Owen or Pamela involved with anyone else?’

‘No,’ Margaret said emphatically.

‘They were married for eighteen years,’ Janet said. ‘That’s a good while. Were there ever problems?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, not between them.’

‘Thank you. And what about alcohol? Drugs? Any problems for either of them?’

‘No, not a problem, but Owen liked a drink.’

Janet tried to unpick the phrase. Liked a drink as in an odd tipple or glued to the bottle?

‘How was he when he was drinking?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did it alter his mood, his behaviour?’ Not wanting to put words in Margaret’s mouth, or ideas in her head.

‘He was quieter; the same, really. Perhaps a bit… short-tempered.’

‘Like what?’

‘If the children were being bold, or noisy, he might tell them off. That’s all.’

Janet recognized the Irish turn of phrase. Bold meaning naughty. The Irish the biggest immigrant population in Manchester, something like a third of the citizens having some Irish blood. Janet had, through her father’s side. Still heard Irish accents often and particular words that differed from English. Running messages meant going on errands. Janet had once been told drugs were hidden in the hot press – Irish for the airing cupboard.

A depressed drunk then. Someone whose troubles magnified with each tot. ‘Would he drink at work?’ Janet asked.

‘Yes,’ Margaret said. ‘To be sociable. Not too much.’

‘Did Pamela ever say anything about his health?’

‘No. I don’t think he went to the doctor’s in all the time I’ve known him.’

‘You mentioned things being hard with the business. What can you tell me about that?’ Janet asked.

‘Just with the recession and that. People have less money in their pockets and there’s a lot out of work round there,’ Margaret said.

‘On the Larks?’

Margaret nodded.

‘They were settled there?’

‘Oh, yes. They’d no plans to leave. Penny had just gone up to secondary school. They’d not want to uproot her.’

‘Did you ever hear of Owen being involved in anything illegal?’ Janet said.

‘No, no – he’d have no truck with that sort of thing.’

‘Did either of them owe anybody money? Borrow money?’

‘I don’t know.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my business. That would be between the two of them.’

Janet nodded. ‘How often did you see them?’

‘Two or three times a year I’d come over, but Pamela rang me every Sunday. Regular as clockwork.’ Her lip trembled.

‘When did you last see them?’

‘August – the bank holiday week.’

‘And yesterday, did Pamela ring?’ Janet asked gently.

Margaret gave a nod and pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. Perhaps she was realizing that yesterday was the last time she would ever speak to her daughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out.

‘It’s fine,’ Janet said, ‘I understand.’ She passed over the tissues. ‘Are you all right to continue?’ Margaret Milne nodded. Her face was watery, wobbly, as Janet resumed. ‘How was Pamela when you spoke yesterday?’

‘Grand. Same as ever. She’d told me that Penny had played-’ She stopped abruptly, took several painful breaths, then said, ‘Penny had played netball on Saturday and they’d won. She’d got a goal.’

‘What else?’ Janet said.

‘The weather getting colder, and Theo not being so good the week before. He gets awful earache, but he was better.’

‘Tell me about the boys. Harry – the little one.’

‘He’s a bright spark,’ his grandmother said. ‘Runs rings round you, that age, into everything? But he sleeps like a lamb.’

‘And Theo?’ Janet said.

‘He’s the sensitive type. Harry – you can put him down and he’s spark out, but Theo has to have the light on and you have to sit with him. He has bad dreams.’ Again she stopped. Bad dreams. But this isn’t a dream, Janet thought, this is real. But at this stage too enormous to comprehend.

‘What does he like, Theo?’ she said.

‘Oh, trains. He’s train mad.’ Margaret almost smiled. ‘Michael was the same. Penny’s very good with him. With both of them. If they’re busy she’ll put them to bed or get their tea.’ She started to cry again. Janet allowed her time to recover from the deluge of emotion. Watched her breathing settle, the hitching of her shoulders ebb away. Margaret reached for another tissue.

‘Does Owen do much with the children?’ Janet said.

Margaret didn’t answer immediately. ‘A fair amount,’ she said, ‘but Pamela is the main one. He wouldn’t take them to the clinic, say, or buy clothes.’

‘Feeding, changing: he’d be able to do that?’ Janet said. If he hasn’t already harmed them.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Harry’s eighteen months now. Is he walking, talking?’

‘Both. Only a couple of words, though; he’s not making his sentences yet,’ Margaret said.

‘And Theo, he’d be able to talk.’ Janet didn’t want to say ‘ask for help’ – the boy would trust his father and not approach anyone unless Owen abandoned them. She was trying to find out in general about the children’s abilities and assess how dependent they would be on Cottam.

‘He’s shy with strangers,’ Margaret said.

‘Is he in playgroup or nursery yet?’ Janet asked.

‘No – still in nappies. Clingy, too. Pamela wasn’t all that sure about taking him for a while yet.’

‘Can you tell me how Owen and Michael got on?’

‘They were great,’ Margaret said. ‘I’d say Owen was like a role model, you know? Michael would have followed him around all day. His dad died when he was very young, but Owen knew how to manage him. They both did.’

‘So there was no tension?’ Janet said.

‘No. Owen would soon have put his foot down if there was.’

Janet wondered if Pamela would have reported it to her mother even if there had been.

‘How did he discipline the children?’ she asked. ‘If they were being naughty?’

‘They might get sent to bed.’

‘Did he ever smack them?’

Margaret looked trapped. Her eyes flew from side to side. ‘He might. Just a smack, same as anyone.’

Except not everyone believed that hitting children was any more acceptable than hitting adults.

‘Did Pamela smack them?’

Margaret hesitated.

‘Margaret?’

‘The same,’ she said, ‘only if they were really naughty. A tap, that’s all, and then a cuddle later.’

‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘But you don’t believe Owen ever hit Pamela?’

‘I know he didn’t,’ she said.

How can you know? How can you be sure? Was she just insisting on what she wanted to think was true?

‘I can’t believe it,’ Margaret burst out. ‘He loved her, he loved them all. They were his life. How could this happen? How could he do this? Where are they? Where are the children?’ She wept again, her questions ringing round the room, desperate, and impossible to answer.

6

The briefing room, packed with her MIT as well as specialists from forensics and crime scene management, fell quiet as Gill entered.

The mood was attentive, focused, while Gill made introductions, an edge of impatience in the air, pent-up frustration because as yet Owen Cottam had eluded them. Gill surveyed her team, working out that since she’d taken over the syndicate she hadn’t lost anyone. No transfer requests, no retirements or redundancies. They had all worked hard to get on to the syndicate (barring Kevin who’d been rehomed when Gill’s mate more or less gave up on him and Gill rose to the challenge) and once on board they liked the billet. Five men, two women and Gill. A good spread of skills and experience. A good balance.

‘We have significant results back from forensics,’ she said. ‘Fingerprints recovered from the knife left at the third scene match those found on a bottle of whisky in the bathroom and items around the property belonging to Owen Cottam – bedside lamp and alarm clock. He’d not bothered to wipe the knife. Why?’

‘If this is what we think it is,’ Lee said, ‘he wasn’t trying to hide the crime. He wasn’t expecting to be around to answer any questions or go to trial. He’d be dead along with everyone else.’

‘Okay,’ Gill said, ‘we’ll start with the live investigation,’ Gill said. ‘Owen Cottam at large, registered keeper of a Ford Mondeo, vehicle captured by ANPR at eleven fifty on the M6 near Penrith. We now have a second result from ANPR timed at three twenty-nine close to Ribbleton.’ The screen on the wall showed the map, initially on a small scale so people could understand the context, see the major towns and road networks, then Gill zoomed in so people could see in greater detail. ‘So he’s heading back down the M6, retracing his route. Why? Calls from the public now being actioned. Last verified sighting of Cottam…’ Gill looked to Rachel, who appeared to have just woken up.

‘Six thirty this morning, neighbour returning the dog spoke to him briefly. She also saw the two youngsters. At six forty-five Mr Grainger who has the farm on the far side saw the car but got no visual on the driver.’

‘No other activity logged,’ Gill said, checking with Andy that that was still the case.

He agreed. ‘His phone has not been switched on. He hasn’t made or received any calls, he hasn’t accessed his emails or used an ATM.’

‘He’s gone off the radar,’ Gill summarized.

‘Why’s he still using the car?’ Mitch said. ‘He must know we can ping him.’ Ian Mitchell had a young family himself, second marriage. Gill suspected he’d be feeling this case particularly keenly, though it would never affect his judgement or his consummate professionalism.

She held out a hand, inviting contributions from the floor.

‘Not found an alternative,’ said Janet. ‘If the kids are still with him, he can’t just dump it and start walking.’

Gill nodded. ‘They’re a liability, limiting his options,’ she said.

‘Why did he take them?’ Rachel said. ‘Why didn’t he wait for Tessa to go then finish what he started?’ The way she put it was almost brutal but Gill could hear the puzzlement in her voice. Rachel wanted to make sense of the man’s actions. Because then she could better second guess what he might do next and how they might catch him.

‘Lost his nerve,’ Mitch said.

‘If I can?’ The criminal psychologist, Leonard Petty, a small, round-faced man with a liking for hair oil and kipper ties, spoke up.

‘Please,’ Gill invited him to say his piece.

‘A sense of control, of being in charge, is central to the personality here. The likelihood is that the murders were planned. Cottam executed the first three killings effectively and while the victims were asleep. No fight, no words exchanged, nothing to interfere with the scenario he’d envisaged. I think it’s probable that he intended to do the same to the two youngest children. When the dog was returned and they woke, his plans went out of the window. He hadn’t anticipated having to attack anyone who was awake, anyone communicating with him. Rather than lose control, which is his default position, he will delay and construct a new plan to regain his sense of being in command of what happens.’

‘Why didn’t he kill the dog in the first place? Why let it out?’ said Pete. An astute question. Pete might be a sloppy dresser – Gill looked at his shapeless fleece and tracksuit bottoms and thought that he’d reached an age where he was letting himself go to seed – but his work remained methodical, good on detail.

‘It wasn’t his dog,’ the psychologist said. ‘The family were looking after the pet for a neighbour. He only wants to kill those he sees as close family. To take them with him. Not to abandon them. Think of it as suicide by proxy. His ultimate goal is to end his life, but first he must make sure he includes his nearest and dearest.’

Janet sighed and shook her head.

‘He couldn’t risk it, either,’ Rachel said suddenly, eyes flashing bright. ‘He could maybe have gone back in and thought up a way to kill the kids, then hanged himself or whatever, but Tessa told him that if the dog had been worrying sheep Grainger would have the police round. For all Cottam knew they were already on their way. He hadn’t time.’

‘Another interruption.’ Gill saw the sense of it. ‘Running buys him time. Good. Yes?’ Gill glanced at Leonard Petty: this was his territory. She’d plenty of experience with low-lifes and losers, but whilst there was some overlap this was not their usual run-of-the-mill inquiry.

‘That’s right. He’s regrouping.’ Petty smoothed his tie. ‘He needs to take control again so he can play things out to his satisfaction.’

Another three lives, Gill thought. Which would be a disaster, a nightmare of huge magnitude. Performed with the whole country watching.

‘Right, lads,’ she said crisply, ‘what do we know about Owen Cottam?’

Andy began rattling off the facts collated from the spider’s web of intelligence gathering. ‘Born 1966 in Preston, one brother, Barry. Father Dennis a garage mechanic, mother a bookkeeper, left to remarry and emigrated. Owen and Barry chose to remain in the UK. Owen was unremarkable at school, member of the rugby team. Finished school at sixteen, worked with his father for the next four years, then moved up to the Lakes and worked there. First as a handyman then bar and cellar man at the Greyhounds Hotel. Met Pamela Milne and married in 1993. Moved to Birkenhead in 1999 and ran the Colliers Arms for the next six years. Took over tenancy of Journeys Inn in 2005. Penny born in 2000, Theo in 2009 and Harry in 2010.’

‘Relations between the couple said to be generally amicable,’ Gill said.

‘So far,’ Rachel said sceptically.

‘Yes,’ Andy agreed, ‘there must be something there. She’s playing away…’

Janet shook her head, gave a little snort.

‘… or she’s threatened to leave, taking the kids.’

‘So now it’s her fault?’ Janet sounded ruffled.

‘Considering motive, not fault,’ Gill reminded her. Don’t blame the victim, a holy grail. ‘Leonard?’

‘Infidelity, the end of a relationship, it’s often a factor,’ he said, ‘but not always,’ sounding a note of caution.

‘We have the eyewitness, Tessa, and Margaret Milne’s statements. Anything else from house-to-house?’ Gill said.

Rachel found the page in her report. ‘Well known in the area, liked by some people, described as a good bloke, that sort of thing. Others pegged him as a bit moody, left the socializing to Pamela. But no bad blood. Also described as a bit quiet as in keeps to himself.’

‘Not quite mine host,’ Gill remarked. ‘Local bobbies?’

‘As we know, never any problems with his licence,’ said Pete. ‘Sorted out troublemakers when he needed to. Couple of parking fines, the odd speeding ticket. No known criminal activity or associates.’

‘Family.’ Gill moved them on to another element. ‘Brother and father expressed shock when told of events. Not in a million years and so on. I’ve spoken in person to the father and advised him we may want to make an appeal.’ One father to another, father to son. ‘Radio and television broadcasts.’

‘Cottam’s hardly going to turn himself in,’ Rachel sneered.

‘Very unlikely, but we have to be seen to be exploring every avenue,’ Gill said. Procedures that had to be followed, laid out in the rule book. ‘The chances of Cottam’s responding to the appeal might seem remote, but it gains us human interest, sympathy, adds to likely public efforts to assist.’ Two sides to policing – protect and serve, fighting crime and maintaining the trust of the population. The great British public needed to believe that an appeal was in their interest. A high profile case like this would be scrutinized and found wanting if people weren’t reassured as to how it was being handled. Gill could already see down the line to the case reviews to come. She needed to know that the team were doing everything humanly possible and then some.

‘Finances?’ She looked to Pete.

‘Living beyond their means.’

Hardly the high life, Gill thought. The pub had a shoddy, tired appearance which the family flat above shared. Furniture was mismatched and mostly cheap, the soft furnishings too. The kitchen/living area looked as though it had been fitted twenty years ago or more, the sandy brown worktop fraying along the edge with water damage. The room had smelled of dog and a faint whiff of gas. Tiling behind the counter top in cream and flecks of burnt orange, every so often a feature tile, a picture of a tree. The rustic feel circa 1980s.

Other things were newer, the flat-screen televisions and the computer. And the clothing that Gill had seen all looked in good condition.

‘The pub wasn’t doing much of a turnover,’ Pete said.

Smoking ban, people drinking at home.

‘Should have tried a sports bar,’ Kevin said. ‘Massive screen. Course, you’ve got the outlay-’

‘Kevin.’ Gill yanked his lead, stopped him wittering on. Kevin was Gill’s crown of thorns. Struggling to make the grade and Gill had sworn she’d knock him into shape. It was just taking way longer than she’d anticipated.

‘There were rumours on house-to-house it was losing money,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘There’s no work on the Larks; his clientele’s mainly benefit drinkers.’

Pete said, ‘I spoke to the brewery. They were talking about pulling the plug after New Year. Tenancy is up for renewal then. Informed Cottam by registered letter, which he received on the thirtieth of September.’

‘Something like that could be a trigger?’ Gill said.

Leonard nodded. ‘Definitely.’

‘He’d debts too,’ Pete said. ‘Credit cards – only paying off the interest. Payday loans.’

‘Owen was owing.’ Kevin grinned, looked round the room for a response. Got a scoff and rolling eyes from Rachel, a slow blink from Janet and a shake of the head from Lee. ‘Rhymes, doesn’t it?’ Kevin, crap at reading the signs, dug his hole even deeper.

‘Kevin,’ Andy said wearily.

‘What was he spending it on?’ Gill asked Pete.

‘Clothes, food, essentials, nothing flash. Utility bills. His car’s six years old, pick one up for six grand.’

‘Still – it’s a Mondeo,’ Mitch said. ‘Lot of car for the price.’

‘Tells us what?’ Gill said, not wanting them to get into a Top Gear riff. Mitch was mad about cars.

‘Not flash,’ Andy said, ‘but he’s looking at reasonable quality.’

‘Anything flash round the Larks and it’d soon disappear,’ Rachel said.

‘The family had a holiday to Minorca in May, not paid that off yet,’ Pete added.

‘He was already in debt by then?’ Janet asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Pete said.

‘Keeping up appearances,’ said Lee. ‘He had to be seen to be providing for his family. He’ll keep the illusion going as long as possible.’

That would tally with the clothes, Gill thought. People would see the kids well dressed and assume the household were managing well.

Janet raised her pen and addressed Leonard Petty. ‘What’s he feeling then, about things going down the drain?’

‘Shame and anger. This is his responsibility. Any failure in that regard would be excruciating for him. He won’t admit to anyone it’s happening. He feels outraged, betrayed that his livelihood is on the line. It’s common enough: the recession, businesses folding, layoffs, but as far as this man is concerned it’s his problem and his alone. He’s been singled out, his status about to be destroyed, his self-esteem undermined.’

‘Even for us,’ Gill said. Numbers in the police force were going to be cut in an effort to make savings. At what cost, she thought? As people became poorer, more desperate, as unemployment increased, crime would rise, with fewer officers to deal with it all. Crime stats had been falling. It was something she was proud to be associated with, but the future was far more uncertain.

‘Did we find a will?’

‘Yes,’ Andy said. ‘They both had one. Standard stuff – spouse inherits and then the children.’

‘Okay. Moving on to our crime scenes,’ Gill said, ‘we’re awaiting further forensics but already we can agree a likely sequence of events. Last customers left the pub at eleven twenty-three.’

Rachel picked up the thread. ‘A group celebrating a thirtieth birthday with whisky chasers and rounds of pool.’

‘CCTV from the pub tells us all was well then,’ Gill said. ‘Pamela, Owen and Michael clearing up.’

She played the film. There was little communication between the three adults as they went about the routine. But it was unnerving witnessing the footage, so mundane and unremarkable, knowing what was to come. ‘No reports of anything out of the ordinary,’ Gill went on. ‘Pamela Milne texted her friend Lynn after going upstairs.’ She gave Janet the nod.

‘The women were due to be going shopping in Manchester,’ Janet said. ‘Pamela suggested Tuesday in her text. Nothing untoward in the exchange.’

‘No CCTV in the flat itself,’ Gill said. ‘The cameras are inside downstairs and outside covering the entrance and the car park. We see nothing until three in the morning.’ The film showed Owen Cottam entering the pub from the internal door and going behind the bar. He opened a bottle of whisky and then went into the small room behind the bar. The screen went black.

‘He switched the system off then. Note he is fully dressed and wearing clothes the same as or similar to the ones described by Tessa when he spoke to her at six thirty in the morning. Until forensics give us more hard data all we can be sure of is that between eleven thirty last night and eight, when the wagon driver from the brewery arrived, Cottam used a knife recovered from the property to kill his wife and his daughter and his brother-in-law. The sighting of the car by Grainger, the neighbouring farmer, before seven makes me think we can probably shave an hour off that. Analysis of drops of blood on the landing between the three bedrooms should help us confirm which direction Cottam was walking in and therefore the order in which the attacks took place. We believe he was interrupted during or soon after the attack on Michael, leading him to abandon the weapon in Michael’s room. The bottle of whisky, three-quarters empty, with a smear of blood visible on the label, was recovered from the bathroom. Owen Cottam’s fingerprints are on the bottle, which is the same brand as the one he had on the film from the bar. Evidence suggests he washed his hands in the bathroom after the attacks: blood traces in the sink and on a towel. Cottam shut the dog in the kitchen and fled the property between six thirty and eight with the two younger children. Mitch, friends and associates?’

‘Not finding many,’ Mitch said. ‘Seems to have kept himself to himself, family man.’

‘Acting alone?’ Gill said, and Leonard nodded. ‘Not likely to have any allies.’

‘He wouldn’t trust anyone else to help, would he,’ Lee said. ‘He believes he’s on his own. Any emotional investment he has is with his immediate family. Not beyond that.’

‘That’s right,’ Leonard Petty said. ‘So although we know he might be looking for places to regroup we’re not expecting him to contact friends or wider family.’

‘What places will be of interest?’ Gill said.

‘Possibly remote, isolated, where he won’t be at risk of identification,’ Leonard Petty said.

‘What if he’s clever, though? You’ve two kids, you want to go unnoticed, why not go where there’s loads of kids. A theme park or summat,’ Rachel said.

‘In plain sight.’ Gill considered it.

‘More risky, I’d have thought,’ said Janet.

‘I agree,’ the forensic psychologist said. ‘He wants to be somewhere where he believes he can control the scenario. Somewhere to take stock and redesign his plan.’

‘He didn’t take the knife, so we don’t know how he might be trying to kill them,’ Pete said.

‘He could buy another knife,’ said Kevin.

‘He’s got a car,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘If he’s got a bit of hosepipe he could have already done it. That’s what I’d do, or jump off a cliff with them.’ Rachel blunt as ever.

Gill tipped her head to Leonard Petty, inviting him to respond.

‘Hard to second guess, but it’s an eventuality we should prepare for if we do find the vehicle,’ he said.

Gill imagined it. The Mondeo in some lay-by. Unremarkable until someone sees the line of tubing snaking in the top of the window. Catches a glimpse of the driver’s face, or the kiddies’ – red as toffee apples: the side effect of cyanotic poisoning. ‘Let’s hope the bastard didn’t have time to take anything with him. That he’s still trolling up and down the M6 trying to work out where to go, what to do. You’ll all be entitled to overtime thanks to the powers that be.’ A cheer went up. She knew most of them would have put the time in regardless. Not interested in their social lives or feet up in front of the box in the midst of a case like this.

‘So, Rachel, take the father and the brother. As well as general background we specifically want a list of locations. We want to know where Cottam might be headed.’

Rachel had only just lit up, sucked a lungful of smoke in and closed her eyes when she heard someone approach, footsteps fast on the ground, setting her nerves jangling as she swung round prepared to bolt.

‘Found you!’ Her sister Alison, for fuck’s sake.

‘I wasn’t lost.’ Rachel took another drag, willed her hand to stop shaking.

‘Well, I’ve been ringing you for the last fortnight,’ Alison said, bossy big sister act, hands on her hips. ‘Thought you’d given up.’ She nodded her head at Rachel’s fag. ‘Those things’ll kill you.’

Who cares, thought Rachel? Something’s got to. ‘What’re you here for, Alison? Only I’m working. Busy. Very busy.’

Alison was about to hurl something back. Rachel could see it: Busy? You have no idea. I’ve three kids and a job as well. But then something clearly dawned on Alison, bringing light to her eyes and making her mouth drop open. ‘God, it’s not the Journeys Inn thing, is it?’

‘Yes.’ Rachel sucked more smoke, another couple of tokes, getting ready to head back inside.

‘That’s awful, that,’ Alison said, ‘awful.’ Then quieter, more confidential, a greedy look on her face, ‘Do they know where he is? Why he-’

‘Can’t discuss it.’ Rachel dropped her fag, ground it out. ‘So…’

Alison crossed her arms. ‘Another couple of months and Dom’ll be released.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Rachel breathed, ‘not that again.’

‘What d’you mean, that again? He’s family, Rachel. We’re all he’s got.’

‘Count me out.’ Rachel had been over this time and again. Dom had messed up, silly pillock, made his bed, he could lie in it. She didn’t need a convicted criminal for a brother, convicted of armed robbery. Imagining how well Godzilla would take that little nugget of information.

‘What’s prison for?’ Alison said.

‘Low-lifes? Scumbags?’

‘Rehabilitation,’ Alison said.

‘Spare me the philosophical debate.’ Rachel began to move away.

‘He needs us, Rachel. He’s done his time, he’s paid for his mistake. No support and he is way more likely to get into bother again. Is that what you want?’

What did she want? For it never to have happened. For Dom to have stayed on the straight and narrow. Got a job, found someone to spend his wages on. For Dom to have grown up and got his act together, instead of throwing it all away. ‘What’s done is done.’

‘He’ll listen to you,’ Alison said. ‘He always was closest to you. He always asks after you, you know. You washed your hands of him.’ She was getting aerated now. ‘Four years – not one visit, not even a birthday card. How do you think that’s helped his self-esteem? Fresh start, Rachel, doesn’t he deserve that?’

Rachel didn’t want to think about it. About Dom who she’d tried to raise right after her mum had sodded off and left them to it. Her dad a waste of space, living his life in a triangle: bookies, pub, home, with occasional appearances at the dole office. Alison tried to keep everything going. Rachel had finally escaped, left it all behind. Now Alison was wanting to drag her back into it. ‘He didn’t listen to me, did he? Or he wouldn’t be there. Look, now is not the time-’

‘When the hell is, then?’ Alison shouted. ‘You’re never in if I come round. You ignore my calls.’ A couple of bobbies going round to the entrance halted, sussing out if help was required. Rachel raised a hand, showing them she was okay.

‘You’d rather he went back inside?’ Alison said. ‘All I’m asking is you see him, buy him a meal now and then. Be his sister. Please, Rachel?’

Rachel ground her teeth. She didn’t need this. Not on top of everything else.

‘What is it?’ Alison rattled on. ‘He cramp your style, would he? Now you’ve got the brilliant job and the fancy luxury conversion and you’re hanging round with big-shot barristers. Looking down on the rest of us.’ Alison didn’t know about Nick Savage. Rachel had told her he was off the scene but left out the bit about him trying to get her killed. ‘Joined the Masons, have you? Funny handshakes?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘You’re just writing him off, me and all? Is that it? You’re too good for us now?’

‘It’s not about you. You didn’t commit armed robbery with a sawn-off shotgun.’

‘He was a teenager, Rachel. He was young and daft.’

‘He had a choice,’ Rachel said. That’s what made her so mad, that the stupid little scally could have taken another road. Turned down the offer of a rock solid way to make easy money and stayed honest.

‘We all make mistakes,’ Alison said. ‘You could get a bloody medal for it.’

‘You know fuck all about me.’ Rachel suddenly hot with rage.

‘I’m your sister, your daft mare, course I know about you. And he is your brother.’

‘I’ve got to get back,’ Rachel said.

Alison swung her head, chewing the side of her cheek. Obviously furious with her. Disappointed. She didn’t move as Rachel walked back in, already craving another smoke and imagining the bottle of wine waiting for her at the end of the day.

7

Dennis Cottam had the weather-beaten, whittled look of someone whose life had been one of manual labour. Skin leathery and brown. Outdoors all hours, running his car repair workshop. Grease monkey, thought Rachel, something ape-like about him, not in his manner – not crude or uncivilized – but in his physicality: bald with a deeply wrinkled brow, bristles dark around his mouth, arms with muscles and tendons like ropes and hands larger than his frame warranted, out of proportion to the rest of him somehow. He’d got startling blue eyes, like Janet’s, curly hairs thick on his forearms.

‘Mr Cottam? DC Rachel Bailey. Someone said I’d be coming?’

‘That’s right.’

Local officers had already made the initial visit, broken the news to Cottam senior, established whether he’d had any contact with his eldest son (not for a couple of months) and advised him on what he should do if he did hear anything. Ferried through any facts they collected to the inquiry.

Dennis Cottam lived in an end terrace next door to his workshop and garage. The house looked clean and tidy from the outside, like its neighbours.

‘Barry’s not here yet,’ he said, his knuckles pressing at his chest, the only sign that anything was wrong.

‘That’s fine,’ Rachel said. ‘We can make a start.’

He took her through. The rooms had been knocked through to create an open-plan living area. The furnishings were plain, modern: a small chocolate-coloured sofa and chair, pale grey paint on the walls. Rachel wondered if Dennis had picked it. Or if there was a woman involved.

She sat in an upright chair beside a small table, presumably where he ate his meals. He sat in the armchair, then started, ‘Would you like a drink, tea or coffee?’ Worried about forgetting his manners.

‘No, thank you,’ Rachel said. He was dazed, she could see that: the way his eyes wandered, drifting, the halting nature of his interaction with her. ‘Can I just go over what you told the officers earlier? You’ve not heard from Owen since August when you all went for a pub lunch.’

‘That’s right. Busman’s holiday for them but it saves them the cooking…’ he cleared his throat, ‘Pam and Bev, Barry’s wife.’ He pressed his fist against his chest again. You can cry, mate, Rachel thought, I’ll not bother. But he fought against it and picked up his story. ‘There’s a place near the reservoir, Hollingworth way. Big playground. We got into the habit of going there, two or three times a year. Handy for everybody, the driving like.’

‘How was Owen, then?’

‘Same as ever,’ he said, shaking his head steadily, ‘same as ever.’

‘Have you ever known Owen to be violent?’

‘No,’ he said, then shrugged. ‘He could hold his own, if things got out of hand, any trouble at the pub. But no, no.’

Some people knew, Rachel thought, saw it coming, their sons or brothers or fathers always quick to anger or picking fights. Bullies or hard men. Heads full of jealousy and envy and fuck you, mate. Not necessarily psychos but a fist or a bottle the weapon of first resort. And when such men killed, the relatives would berate themselves for not having done something, not having said something. Unless they were cut from the same cloth, when it’d be more a case of so-and-so had it coming. Only so much a bloke can take.

Dennis Cottam though, Rachel could see, had never imagined this, not in his darkest dreams. And was still trying to absorb the new reality he had been plunged into.

‘Did Owen say anything about the business?’ she asked.

‘No. Ticking over, that’s the impression I had. Why? Was there a problem?’

‘We’ve heard the brewery had plans to close the pub in January. And Owen was carrying a lot of debt.’

He stared at her, then frowned and rubbed his chin with one hand. ‘He never said a word. Is this why?’ His voice rose. He stood quickly. ‘He needed money?’ A look of disgust pulled his lips back; his teeth were yellow, uneven. ‘I could have lent him money. If it was about money.’ He was appalled. ‘Why didn’t he ask me? I could have sold the garage, for pity’s sake.’

‘Dad!’ The man who interrupted looked more like Owen than his father, stocky rather than wiry, with a paunch and a florid complexion. ‘Dad?’

‘He was in debt,’ Dennis Cottam, his voice still loud, still agitated, said to him. ‘She said they were due to close the pub down.’

‘Good God.’ Barry sighed heavily. ‘Just sit down,’ he said to his father. ‘Sit down now.’

Rachel nodded her thanks and introduced herself formally. ‘You’d not heard about that either?’

‘No,’ Barry said.

‘And you last saw Owen at the get-together in August?’

‘Yeah. We were expecting to see them in a few weeks’ time, as well,’ he said. ‘Christening.’ Instead of which they had funerals to attend. Rachel knew from her briefing notes that Barry and Bev had two children, the younger a baby.

‘He was a good bloke,’ Barry said. ‘It doesn’t add up, you know.’ He jiggled his car keys in one hand.

‘I understand it’s a terrible shock,’ Rachel said. Important to acknowledge the impact of the crime, though for something this massive it was hard to find big enough words. Rachel could practically smell the grief. About to destroy them. All she could do was get them to focus on the practical.

‘We’d like your help in trying to think of places where Owen might go. It might be somewhere he spent time as a child or more recently, it could be related to an interest or a hobby or work. I’d like to go through every place you can think of starting from when he was little. Was he born here?’

It took nearly an hour, with a pause for a cup of tea, to list a lifetime’s locations. Everywhere from the hall where the Boys’ Brigade band met, where Owen briefly played bass drum, through a campsite in Morecambe Bay where the Cottam lads went as teenagers and the further education college in Preston where he did a day release course to get his car mechanic’s qualification, to the holiday apartment in Malaga that Barry had rented for both families just before Theo was born. In between there were diversions to the TT races in the Isle of Man and a trip to New York.

‘Where was he happiest?’ Rachel asked. Which sounded like a fluffy touchy-feely question but might help.

There was silence for a moment, then Dennis said, ‘Meeting Pamela.’

‘And recently, we thought, with the boys coming along,’ said Barry. He always wanted boys.’ He spoke softly, the unspoken questions suffocating in the room: Where are the boys? What has he done to them?

Rachel cleared her throat. ‘What about your wife, his mother?’

‘She’s in Australia,’ Dennis said. ‘Melbourne.’

‘Was Owen in touch with her?’

‘No,’ they said together.

‘It wasn’t easy, her going like that, not for any of us,’ Barry said.

‘Was he resentful?’

‘We both were. What kid wouldn’t be?’

With you on that, pal.

The list would need close examination and assessment as to which were the most likely places to carry out further investigation or surveillance. Any further identification of Cottam’s vehicle on the ANPR system would help narrow it down but it was still a massive undertaking.

‘We may wish to do a televised appeal,’ Rachel said. ‘I believe my boss, DCI Murray, spoke to you on the phone earlier about that?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Cottam nodded. ‘Anything, of course, anything.’

‘How would you describe your relationship?’

‘He’s my son,’ grief lancing through his blue eyes, sharp and frank, ‘my flesh and blood.’

‘Would he trust you? I need to ask because that could affect how he’ll respond to the appeal. Or whether we ask Barry to do it, for example.’

‘We weren’t all that close, to be honest,’ Barry said. ‘We’d only meet up with the families – that sort of thing.’

Rachel nodded.

‘I don’t know any more,’ Dennis Cottam said, his voice hollow with desolation. ‘I don’t know anything any more, with this…’ His hands sought his chest again, first one hand, then the other, knotted, pressing hard. His face tight with effort. ‘I don’t know who he is any more,’ he said. ‘The man who did that… he is not my son.’

It was cold when Janet left the building, a hint of frost in the air. And a hint of chemicals too, petrol and something else, but preferable to the stale air in the office. Janet couldn’t wait to get home. Still feeling queasy and too hot. Taisie had been ill with some bug a couple of weeks earlier and Ade had caught it but Janet thought she had been spared.

‘Janet, wait,’ Andy called after her.

Back in April it was Andy who’d picked her up, scooped her up, as she lay bleeding in the hallway after Geoff Hastings had stabbed her. Her vision had failed by then and the effect of sudden blood loss had plunged her into shock. The initial stunning pain had dissolved. She couldn’t feel anything. Everything spinning, sliding away from her: words, language, meaning, identity. But Andy, his words, somehow reaching her through the veil, ‘I love you,’ passion and anguish in the declaration. Since then he had waited, discreet and on the sidelines, while she had healed. Calling at the hospital and then occasionally at her home over the three months of her recuperation. Her mum and Ade looking after her, managing the girls.

Janet had slept with Andy just the once, before all that, after the works’ Christmas do. A moment’s madness, she thought at the time. And crazed with guilt afterwards she swore not to do it again. The thought of cheating on Ade was hard enough but the prospect of what a separation or divorce might mean for her girls hit her as unbearable.

The attack had ripped away those certainties, making her acutely aware that life is a fleeting gift. Making her wonder. And leaving her with a hunger, a sense of aching frustration. Work was fine, she loved her job and she loved her kids, but the notion of them growing older and independent was increasingly attractive. And the thought of another twenty or thirty years with Ade made her stomach sink. Yet when she looked at Andy, when she heard his voice, when she walked into the office and caught sight of him, she felt the thrill like something magnetic between them.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, dragging the word out, the inflection making it sound more like so-so. Could he tell she was feeling under the weather? Could anyone else at work? What if it wasn’t a passing bug but a result of the attack and the subsequent treatment, the repairs to her intestine and stomach? The surgeon had said they’d need to monitor for any complications, particularly adhesions, which were not uncommon and would require further surgery.

‘Perhaps we-’ He moved in closer as he spoke.

‘Shh.’ She shook her head.

‘I want you,’ he said. The declaration sent a wave of pleasure through her. She stepped towards him, although the still small sensible voice in her head was whispering caution. Stop it, stop now. Knowing that being caught having a kneetrembler with her sergeant would be disastrous, on oh so many levels.

A slam of a car door made Janet spring back and she held her breath and listened until she heard the engine start and the vehicle drive away.

‘I’m going home,’ she said quietly.

‘Janet-’

‘I really am going,’ she said. ‘I want you too but not now, not like this. And I need more time.’ The words at odds with what her body was clamouring for. She turned to walk away, then swung back. Kissed him until her head began to spin and she was drunk with him. Then she walked unsteadily away.

Gill had texted her son Sammy three times in the past week, left messages on his voicemail too. ‘All right? Just wanted a quick catch up, kid. Get in touch.’

And heard nothing. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the anger she felt, which built up and made her want to smash something – preferably Dave the dickhead’s balls – or the sadness. Dave whom she blamed for the whole debacle. Sammy had only been able to jump ship and move in with Dave because his dad had lured him there, rolled out the red carpet, showered him with money, promised to get him a car whatever his results. And Dave had done that to punish Gill for having the brass-necked audacity to start seeing someone. No matter that Dave was the cheating shag-bandit who’d broken up the marriage in the first place, choosing his tart from Pendlebury over his family and leaving Gill and Sammy to their own devices.

‘She doesn’t interfere,’ Sammy had said the day he announced his defection.

Maybe not with you, pal – she interfered big time in my marriage. It stuck in her craw.

Now Gill rang Dave’s number, steeling herself, straightening her back, promising herself to stay calm and collected whatever Captain Thunderpants said.

‘Gill,’ he answered coldly.

‘Is Sammy there?’

‘He’s about somewhere. Why?’

‘Put him on, will you?’

‘I’ll see if he wants to talk to you. You’ve tried his mobile, have you?’ Almost gloating.

Gill blazed. ‘Just put him on the fucking phone!’ She heard him sigh then a clatter and a rustling as he moved.

Gill had never been to the house in the four years since the split and imagined it to be a crowded little town house, no character and not enough space. Liking the picture of Dave having his style cramped while she and Sammy had remained in the beautiful family home.

‘Hello?’

‘Sammy, it’s Mum. How’s things?’

‘Cool.’

‘Have you been looking at open days?’

He was applying to uni, still uncertain as to which courses. She had spent hours looking at options with him and helping him redraft his personal statement and then suddenly he was gone.

‘Yeah.’ Monosyllables. It wasn’t really what she wanted to know, what she really wanted to ask was Are you happy? Do you miss me? Please come home, will you? Now that the case had broken she couldn’t even ask him out to eat because she’d be working sixteen-hour days for the duration.

‘Have you booked them?’ she said.

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, you need to get it sorted. How are you going to choose if you’ve not been to visit?’

‘I know,’ he said, suddenly irritable, and she felt herself losing the battle. Hearts and minds.

It’s very quiet without you. I miss you so much, longing to say it but determined not to. Guilt-tripping not her style. Needy Mum neither. Her brain scrabbled around searching for something else, something to get him talking. It never used to be like this; time was she could barely shut him up. Her Sammy. ‘What you been up to?’

‘Dunno.’

For Pete’s sake. ‘Been out anywhere?’

‘Alton Towers.’

‘Right.’ He loved the roller coasters. Last time the two of them had been he’d talked her into riding with him. Fantastic and utterly terrifying. ‘Good stuff! You keep your breakfast down?’

‘Course,’ just the edge of a laugh bubbling there.

‘Your dad go on with you?’

‘Nah.’

‘Pussycat,’ Gill scoffed.

‘Emma did. And we went straight back on,’ he said gleefully. Gill grew cold. Hating the thought of that bitch having fun with her son. Knowing she had to swallow her jealousy.

‘Wow,’ she managed.

‘Dad wants his phone,’ Sammy said.

‘Okay, look, keep in touch, will you? Just message me or whatever. Let me know you’re still alive. That you’re okay. I worry.’

‘Course I’m okay.’

I don’t know that. You could be pining or lonely or bored senseless and I wouldn’t know. A year’s time and he’d likely be gone for good; she had expected to have him for these last few months, as he finished his schooling. It felt as if Dave had snatched it away to get back at her. ‘You take care,’ she said. ‘Love you, kid.’

‘Yeah,’ he grunted, ‘later.’ The phone went dead. She resisted the temptation to hurl it across the room, instead slapped the wall with her hand. Which hurt like hell, stinging her palm and bringing a burning pain to her eyes.

Then she set about updating the policy book on the various actions of the inquiry and outlining her reasons for each decision she had made.

The house was in darkness though the security lighting in the car park came on as Rachel drove in. Once inside her flat, she headed straight for the kitchen, poured a large glass of red wine and drank half of it before shaking off her coat. She felt hollow, cold even though the room was warm enough. And hungry. It took her three minutes to sort out a chicken noodle meal in the microwave and another three to demolish it.

She refilled her glass and sat down to check her phone. No messages from work, which meant no significant progress. Cottam still out there. And the kids? Dead or alive?

With the wine taking hold she felt her muscles loosen, her concentration blur. She drank more. Put on the twenty-four hour news to see what they were saying. Saw the scant details of the murders scrolling under the current item. When the wine bottle was empty she headed for bed.

It reared up to meet her, a ghost, a blizzard of white. She screamed. Then saw it was feathers, just the feathers from her bloody pillow, a wraith brought to life by the sudden change in air pressure when she’d swung the door open. She sucked in a breath. Then another. Felt her heart pounding. Her face on fire. Thought briefly of the sofa and a sleeping bag but couldn’t face that. Got a cushion from the living room, undressed and climbed into bed. The knife under her pillow. Fingers clutched around it. Clenched tight, clinging on for dear life.