Bleed Like Me

8

Janet didn’t often discuss work with Ade. After all these years he had heard most of it before and talk at home, when there was any, centred on the girls and domestic affairs.

But she knew she had to tell him about Geoff Hastings, the fact that she had agreed to interview him. She couldn’t keep putting it off. Janet had refused at first when Gill asked. Never wanting to set eyes on the man again. Preferring never to hear his name. Certainly not wanting to be in the same room as him, breathing the same air as him. Gill had emphasized it was Janet’s decision, no one would think any the worse of her if she refused. Gill had also let slip, on purpose Janet was sure, that Geoff Hastings was refusing to speak to anyone else. Had asked for Janet specifically. And the thought that if she bottled it they might never know what happened to the women he’d killed ate away at her. Eventually her anger at the possibility that he might escape with less than full disclosure, full punishment, equalled her anxiety at the prospect of encountering him.

Geoff Hastings was accused of killing his sister Veronica, Janet’s school mate, and then several other women in the ensuing years. He’d had the perverted audacity to ask Janet to help him by looking into the unsolved case of Veronica’s murder. Why? Some twisted desire to play games and test the police? Or had he secretly wanted to be caught? To be stopped?

It had been Rachel who made the leap, seeing a pattern to the other unsolved murders: the women all of a type, their ages consistent with how old Veronica would be if she had not been asphyxiated as a little girl. Then, working out the geographical profile, that all the deaths occurred when Geoff Hastings was working as a lorry driver in the relevant area.

Rachel had rung Janet with her light-bulb moment. Geoff Hastings there, in Janet’s kitchen, as she took the call. Reading Janet’s face, Geoff Hastings grabbing the knife, Janet fighting, using every ounce of strength of will and energy…

She wrenched herself back to the present and buttered toast. Put some down on the table and filled the kettle.

Ade got up for the jam. She waited until he was seated. Choosing breakfast time because if there was a row, and she anticipated at least a few choice expletives, they’d be forced to adjourn for work, whereas if she told him in the evening it could rumble on for hours.

They’d not argued much at all since her injury. First too fragile, then too thankful. Perhaps the new grateful Ade would take a different tack from the one she anticipated.

Janet poured tea. ‘Something’s come up at work,’ she said.

‘What, on top of three murders?’

She gave a faint smile. ‘I’m going to be interviewing Geoff Hastings.’

His face froze and he put down his toast. ‘What? They can’t make you do that. They can’t, can they?’

‘No one’s making me do anything.’

‘You can’t do it, Janet.’

‘Ade, look-’

‘No!’ He began to shout. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near the man. How can you even think of it?’ He hit at the table, slid his chair back, the noise fraying Janet’s nerves.

‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she said, ‘it’s work.’ She felt her temperature rising and with it her temper.

‘You’re my wife.’ He jabbed his finger towards her, proprietorially. ‘Don’t I get a say?’

‘No. This is my professional life. It’s none of your business. I’m only telling you-’

‘Whose idea was it,’ he demanded. ‘Yours?’

‘I agreed.’

‘Who asked you?’ he shouted.

‘Gill.’

He swung away, clapping his hands to his head. ‘Has she lost the plot? You came that close…’ He held his thumb and forefinger millimetres apart. His face was red with exertion, a blob of spit on his chin. Janet knew she should try to calm him, take some heat out of the situation, but her own ill temper needled at her, pushing her on, avid to shout him down.

‘I know! I was there!’ she yelled. ‘And he asked for me, if you must know.’

He stared. ‘Oh, that’s priceless.’

Janet shouted over him. ‘And because I came that close and survived, I will do it for all the others who weren’t so lucky.’

‘Oh, very noble,’ he sneered. ‘You don’t see, do you? He’s playing you, Janet. Some sick little mind game, another way to make you dance to his tune. Just like you did when he first asked you to help.’

‘What’s all the shouting?’ Elise said, coming in, fourteen yet sounding like someone’s mother.

‘Nothing.’ Janet warned Ade with a glare that she didn’t want to share this with the children. ‘Go wake Taisie.’

‘She doesn’t need to get up yet,’ Elise said.

‘I don’t care!’ Janet bawled, anger boiling inside her. Resisting the overwhelming desire to seize her daughter and shake some sense into her. ‘Just do it, Elise.’

‘Not if you shout like that. I’m sick of you bossing me about.’

‘Do what I tell you to! I’m sick too, sick of you arguing over every bloody little thing.’ Janet’s throat felt raw.

Elise glared at her, her face reddening, and Janet felt a rush of guilt. What the hell was she doing taking it out on Elise?

Her daughter left the room without a word.

‘Nicely done,’ Ade said.

Janet couldn’t handle it. If she stayed she was scared she’d break something. She picked up her car keys and left, the roar of her own anger still crashing loud in her head and roiling hot in her stomach.

‘Right, lads.’ Gill called them to attention. ‘No ANPR, nothing from traffic cameras or patrols since three twenty-nine yesterday. How come?’

‘Laying low, parked up somewhere overnight,’ said Rachel.

Or busy getting rid of the kids? ‘We are increasing patrols in the Lancashire/South Lakes area and, of course, continuing to examine coverage anywhere close to the two locations, Penrith and then Ribbleton. Mr Cottam is coming in to film an appeal late morning, which should be carried on all lunchtime news broadcasts, and of course headlines thereafter. Crime scene reports are now available.’ Gill summarized the substance for them. ‘Our initial theory of the sequence is supported by the blood spatter analysis. Time of deaths estimated to be between four and six a.m. Rigor not fully established and factoring in the ambient temperature I think we can be pretty sure that’s a solid estimate.’

‘Why did he cut Michael’s throat and not the others?’ Mitch said.

‘Didn’t like him,’ said Kevin.

‘No animosity according to the mother,’ said Janet, ‘though the friend Lynn thought Michael might occasionally have got on his nerves.’

‘Well, would you want your brother-in-law living with you, working with you? Especially if he was a bit mental,’ Kevin said.

Before anyone could respond to that, Rachel said quickly, ‘The body, he was on his side, right? But the girl was on her stomach, the wife on her back…’

‘Yes.’ Gill watched as Rachel spoke. She’d a keen instinct for things, Rachel, a gift that could sometimes lead her astray, trusting her gut feeling, and she could get stuck stubbornly on one track, but on many occasions her contributions were incisive and valuable.

‘… so if someone’s on their side how do you stab ’em? It’s all ribs, isn’t it? He went for the most accessible and vulnerable spot, so the man wouldn’t wake or fight, or the knife get stuck.’

It happened, Gill knew, one of the many surprises that tripped up the novice killer. Those who had not been taught to use weapons. The fact that knives got lodged in bones, or glanced off, or snapped at the tip. That very quickly a knife would become slippery with blood and hard to grip. Same with firearms – mechanisms jammed, a gunshot without a silencer rendered the shooter unable to hear for several hours. The recoil could damage the arm, burn the skin on the hand. Then there was the unbelievable weight and unwieldy shape of a dead body. The immense effort required to dig even a shallow grave.

‘Makes sense,’ Gill said.

Only Owen Cottam could tell them if Rachel’s theory was right. Whether he would, whether they’d find him alive and get the chance to ask him, whether he’d respond, was impossible to know.

‘No mention of marital problems, other parties, affairs. No criminal activity. To date our only motive appears to be financial insecurity, the imminent loss of the business and thus the family’s livelihood. Cottam remains at large. I want to catch that bastard and I want to nail him. And I want you lot to make that happen. Pick up on your actions from yesterday but stand by for reassignment in case we’ve any movement.’

It was less than twenty minutes later when Gill called her team back in. ‘Sit down, keep your gobs shut and watch this.’ Gill ran the CCTV footage. She’d seen the coverage twice already but it still set her pulse racing. Split screen, four cams, showing respectively two views of a petrol station forecourt and two of the inside of the shop, one view of people coming in to pay, the other trained on the counter. A guy there on his own.

‘Mr Rahid,’ Gill said. ‘The station’s near Ormskirk, on the A577, twenty miles from our last ANPR hit. Here,’ she paused the film, ‘we see Cottam arriving. Clock reads seven fifty-four. He doesn’t buy petrol so perhaps he’s not been riding around all night. He pulls up so.’ They watched the Mondeo draw into the bay at the back of the forecourt where there was an air machine. ‘Gets out.’

‘Same clothes as in the pub,’ Janet said. She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. ‘Are the kids there?’

‘Yes, according to Mr Rahid, but we don’t get a visual. Now…’

There was silence as they watched Cottam enter the shop and take items from the shelves, moving from the field of one camera to the other. ‘He gets nappies,’ Gill said.

‘Nappies?’ Janet said. ‘You don’t buy nappies if-’

‘Wait, what’s that?’ Rachel said.

‘Bread rolls,’ said Gill. ‘Then he goes for some bananas and milk and he gets two items at the counter. A bottle of whisky and one of Calpol.’

‘Calpol’s paracetamol, isn’t it?’ Rachel said. ‘Give the kids enough and he’s solved his problem.’

‘I don’t think one bottle would do it,’ Gill said, ‘not reliably, two of them.’

‘Probably wants to just dope them up a bit,’ Janet said.

‘As you do,’ Gill said.

Janet cut her eyes at her. ‘Besides, if he’s planning to feed them and change them maybe he’s not going to hurt them, maybe he’s changed his mind.’

‘Or bottled out,’ Rachel added.

‘Now look,’ Gill said. ‘As he pays, there’s this moment when he flinches, drops some money. It’s not clear why but look at the time on the display.’

‘On the hour,’ Janet said.

‘And,’ Gill said, ‘on the wall behind him is a telly. He’s making headlines. His face is up there and a description of the Mondeo. That’s when Mr Rahid gets it, makes the connection. Though he’s not certain. Cottam leaves.’

One of the cameras picked him up as he walked to the car, opened the driver’s side and leant in. ‘And Mr Rahid leaves too. Runs out and grabs Cottam.’ Gill watched the smaller man grip Cottam by the shoulder, wheeling him round. Cottam shoved him hard, almost decking him, but Rahid regained his balance and moved in again. Cottam swung a fist, a solid blow to Rahid’s face, and the man fell. Rahid lunged and gripped Cottam’s leg. At this point Cottam stamped down hard with his free foot on Rahid’s head. Rahid released his hold and Cottam kicked him hard again in the head, then three swift blows to the abdomen. Rahid by now curled up, trying to protect himself.

‘Ouch!’ said Janet.

‘There he goes,’ Gill said as Cottam leapt into the car, pulled the door shut and drove off at speed. ‘So, go see our have-a-go hero,’ she said.

Janet went dizzy on the stairs, her vision all spotty, like some sixties op-art design, and an ache bloomed low in her spine. She lost her balance but held the rail and kept moving slowly. Rachel, ahead of her, turned to look up. ‘You okay?’

‘Cramps,’ Janet said, something innocuous to explain her slow progress.

‘Time of the month. I’ve tablets,’ Rachel said.

Not menstrual, Janet thought, but didn’t say. She had not had a period since the stabbing, one of the things that was off kilter. Not that she minded really. And she wasn’t pregnant, she couldn’t be, hadn’t slept with anyone, either Ade or Andy, in that time. Was that why Andy was so tempting, because there was nothing much going on at home? Ade had made a couple of overtures more recently but she had been tired, drained, and wasn’t prepared to just go through the motions. The consultant had explained there might be a range of unforeseen side effects to the trauma and the surgery and Janet reckoned not having her period was one of them. And she wasn’t complaining. But the dizziness, the feverish feelings?

‘I’ll be fine,’ Janet said. ‘It’s going off now.’ She didn’t want to tell Rachel how she really felt. Not because she couldn’t trust her to keep it quiet but because telling someone else would make it more real. And then she’d really have to face up to it. Come clean. If there were adhesions, that would account for the bloating and stomach pains, but what about the dizziness and the way she went hot and cold, the nausea and the headaches? Did that mean they’d become infected? She shouldn’t just keep ignoring it, but when would she have time to see the consultant? She’d be put on a list anyway, wouldn’t she? Perhaps she should see the GP first. Even that would have to wait till work was less frantic.

‘I know we see all sorts,’ Janet said, as she manoeuvred past vehicles queuing for the slip road, ‘but this one…’

‘ ’Cos of the kids?’ Rachel said. ‘The girl?’

‘Partly that, but it’s more the whole thing, so methodical. He cashes up the night’s takings, wipes down the counter. He sees them off to bed, presumably, prowls about with his bottle. Then, one after another. Cold. Was it cold? Maybe he was weeping, maybe he was crying. I don’t know, Rachel. A father. I can’t get my head round it.’

‘You don’t have to. Leave it to the shrinks. That’s what we pay them for. All we need to do is catch him.’

Janet frowned, glanced in the rear view mirror then overtook, nudging past a coach, kids with faces pressed to the glass, one lad making a wanking gesture. Rachel flipped him the finger.

‘Don’t encourage them,’ Janet complained. ‘But most men, most fathers, this whole notion of a family being yours, being part of you…’

‘Is a load of selfish crap,’ Rachel said. ‘We get it all the time, the bloke who freaks out ’cos the ex has a new fella so kills them both-’

‘No,’ Janet argued, ‘this is different. That’s jealousy, crime of passion, though I know that isn’t recognized in British law, but there’s no passion in this. Despair, more like.’

‘Loved them too much, one of the guys said.’

‘That’s not love. How can that be love?’ Janet said.

‘A better place?’ Rachel said.

‘You’re confusing love and power. Control.’

‘I’m not confusing anything. It’s not what I think,’ Rachel said baldly.

‘Take my dad, or Ade. Never do anything like that in a million years. They didn’t “rule” the family…’

‘Can’t see anyone ruling your mother,’ Rachel said.

‘Precisely,’ Janet said. ‘Yours probably the same.’

‘Yes – so what are you saying?’

‘Just… that sort of person, the man who’s head of the household, the one who wears the trousers, all those trite little phrases, that’s seen as normal, isn’t it? Acceptable. And that’s what everyone keeps telling us: he was a normal bloke, a regular guy, a good provider. But maybe there’s something unhealthy in that, having that grip on the family.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘You’ve lost me.’

Janet sighed.

‘Look, there’s millions of blokes like that, yeah?’ Rachel said. ‘But only one in a million, less than that, ever goes off his rocker and slays the family. He’s an aberration. You’ll drive yourself bonkers trying to make sense of it. Most of the toerags we deal with, it’s messy, it’s stupid and pathetic and grubby, isn’t it? She was shagging my best friend, so I shot her. He hadn’t paid me my money back, so I did him. I can’t remember. I was bladdered, she looked at me funny, he was a queer, he was a Paki. It’s all ugly, senseless, waste. This too. This is no different. And he’s a nutter.’

‘Really? So you’d have him in Broadmoor unfit to plead?’

‘I’ll leave that to the CPS, but think about it. He’s all ready, everyone’s asleep and what does he do? He lets the dog out. That is mental, that.’

‘I don’t know – gave him a few brownie points. If he’d killed the dog as well the outrage would be multiplied ten times over.’ The great British public.

9

Rahid had refused all suggestions from the paramedics that he go to A &E. His wife, summoned from home, had dressed the worst cuts on his hands and face. The effect of the encounter and assault had flooded the man with adrenalin: he was high as a kite, eyes shining, words tumbling over each other as his brain accelerated away from the limitations of physical speech. His nose was very swollen, his speech thick as a result, and from his posture Rachel reckoned his belly hurt like hell. Each time he laughed, he winced. Something not right.

The area where the Mondeo had parked and the attack happened had been cordoned off. Forensics would be looking for any debris that might indicate where the car had been since the last ANPR capture. Rahid’s brother served in the shop while they squeezed into the stockroom at the back and Rahid talked them through the incident. Rachel knew the elation would evaporate like so much spilled water, leaving him flat and shaken and probably critical of himself. The sort of self-loathing that comes after a night on the lam. Hangover shame. Because at the end of the day he’d risked his neck and failed. Cottam had driven off. And that’s before anyone else put their oar in with observations undermining his actions and saying what they’d have done in his place. But for now he was the man of the moment. His account mirrored the tape they’d watched but now they needed to dig a bit deeper, see what else they might glean.

‘Did he appear sober?’ Rachel asked.

‘Yes. Didn’t say much but he wasn’t wobbly, like.’

‘Smell of drink, or anything else?’ Preferably something specific and unusual that would help them track him down.

‘I didn’t notice. It all happened so fast, you know. Once I clocked who it was, like it was all speeded up, you know?’

‘Anything on his clothes or hands?’ Janet said.

‘Don’t remember anything. But he looked a bit rough. He hadn’t shaved.’ Rahid touched a bandaged hand to his own full, black beard. ‘His eyes were bloodshot. They were…’ he laughed and flinched, ‘like cold, you know, dead.’ Maybe. Or maybe already Rahid was embroidering the story.

‘The car,’ Rachel said, ‘clean, dirty, dusty?’ It hadn’t rained since the previous day. That was both a plus and a minus. The rain washed away evidence, obscured traces, but it also made mud which was perfect for collecting tyre tracks and footwear impressions.

Rahid’s lips parted and his eyes roamed back, exploring the memory. He laughed. Bingo. ‘There were bits on it, sticky bits like from trees. I don’t know – what is that? Tree juice?’

Not at all funny. Rachel gave him a smile. Being nice.

If any of the sticky bits had been dislodged, left on the forecourt, it could give them something. The forensic biologists or botanists could identify the type of trees. Where they would be found. All over the shop, probably, Rachel thought. Still, it lent some weight to the notion of his being holed up somewhere overnight long enough to have picked up debris from the trees.

‘What did you see of the children?’ Janet asked.

‘Just the one on this side, driver’s side. In a car seat. He was asleep, head down. But I could hear crying. The other one was crying.’

‘Could you see his clothes?’ Janet said.

He shook his head. ‘Just the top of his head. I don’t remember. By the time I got close he’d started hitting me.’

‘Did you see anything inside the car?’ Rachel said.

‘No, it was all too fast. The way he came at me. I thought he was going to kill me.’ He exhaled noisily.

‘Did he say anything when you got hold of him?’ Rachel said.

‘Just swore at me, “fuck off out of it”.’ Rahid flushed. ‘Then he’s kicking me. Thought I was done for.’

‘You’d better keep an eye on that.’ Janet nodded to his hand. Rachel could see the little finger was badly swollen and dark purple. ‘If it’s broken and you don’t get it set right…’

‘Ribs too,’ Rachel said.

‘They can’t do anything for ribs, can they?’ Rahid said. ‘Just a corset, yeah?’

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘Bigger problem is if a rib’s broken and it punctures something. Like a lung,’ she added so he was really clear. ‘If you find yourself getting breathless…’

‘I’ll be fine.’ He waved their concern away.

‘Hey up,’ Rachel said as they walked out into the shop. ‘The circus is here.’ Vans were parked on the far side of the road. A camera crew were setting up.

Rachel impressed upon Rahid that he should not discuss the incident in public or speculate as it could aversely affect any future legal proceedings when he might be called as a witness. ‘No Facebook or Twitter. Yeah. The family too.’ There was a hint of disappointment as he agreed. It was harder and harder to maintain control of publicity. The force themselves used Twitter as a tool to communicate with and reassure the general public. Rachel never got all that: waste of time wittering on with strangers.

‘Your kids into it? Facebook, Twitter?’ she said to Janet as they returned to the car.

‘Big time. They all are. Out on a limb if you’re not.’

‘It’s going to hit Rahid before long that Cottam got away in spite of him. He might have more than a bloody nose to cope with when the lights come up,’ Rachel said.

‘Maybe what we find here will be key to a result. We find him and the kids, then Rahid’s done good.’

‘You think it’s likely?’

‘It’s possible.’ Janet being cautious.

Personally Rachel thought the prospect got more and more remote with each hour. But Cottam’s actions were bugging her. ‘He bought them food and medicine and nappies. Why do that if he’s still going to harm them?’

‘Stop them crying. Kids crying – you can’t think. There’s nothing worse,’ Janet said with feeling.

There was a sudden blur of motion, the screech of brakes near the garage entrance. Rachel’s heart flew into her mouth and she started, jumping backwards, almost losing her balance. It was another news van.

Janet looked at her and Rachel felt her cheeks glow. ‘Just jumpy,’ she said.

‘Since when?’ Janet wasn’t smiling, wasn’t cutting her any slack.

‘Just today,’ Rachel said, ‘since breakfast, which I didn’t have.’ She tapped her nose, showing Janet she was prying.

‘So it’s got absolutely nothing to do with the attempt on-’

‘No, nothing. Ready?’

Janet laughed, shaking her head.

‘What?’

‘Not much of an advert, are we? Me with my cramps, you jumping at shadows. They should put us out to grass.’

‘Speak for yourself, Grandma, nowt wrong with me. Might get a snack on the way, though. Stop if we see anywhere.’

They found a mini-market and Rachel went in.

‘Get me chocolate,’ Janet called after her.

‘Here you go,’ Rachel said when she came back. ‘I’m having this.’ She unwrapped her food and took a bite, hot and salty.

‘What is that supposed to be?’ Janet said.

‘All day breakfast. It was that or Hula Hoops. Thought you’d approve.’

‘I do,’ Janet said, ‘but open the window, will you? It smells revolting.’

Janet was entering the details of her report on Rahid into the system when her phone went. Her mother, in full schoolmistress fashion. ‘Janet, tell me it isn’t true. Adrian says you are going to interview that man.’

‘Mum,’ Janet sighed, getting to her feet, preferring to take this call in the Ladies, away from twitching ears. She would brain Ade when she saw him. A low-down, sneaky trick enlisting her mother.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ her mother said. ‘After what he did to you?’

‘It’s my job, Mum.’

‘Someone else can do it. Let Rachel do it. Or did she put you up to it?’

‘Nobody put me up to it,’ Janet said.

‘You volunteered?’ her mother breathed in horror.

‘Not exactly.’ Janet leant looking into the mirror as she talked. The bags under her eyes looked bigger, the shadows darker. ‘I was asked, I thought about it – carefully. And I agreed.’

‘Talk to Gill,’ her mother said. ‘She’ll see sense, surely. Even if you can’t.’ Her mother idolized Gill, saw her as the epitome of what a professional woman could become and was always nudging Janet to be more like her.

‘It was Gill who asked me,’ Janet said, wondering whether Ade had told her mother that it had been at Geoff Hastings’s request.

Stunned silence. But not for long. ‘I’ve a good mind-’

‘This is my job,’ Janet said. Rachel came into the Ladies as she went on, ‘Mum, can you imagine if some detective had tried to muscle in on you when you were teaching? You’d have soon shown them the door.’

‘I worry about you. And this seems so dangerous, so wilful.’

Janet looked over to Rachel, who was leaning on the wall with her arms crossed, and rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘When it happens, if it happens, we’ll be in a secure environment with other officers on hand. He’s behind bars, Mum, and I’m going to make sure he stays there for the rest of his life.’

A loud sigh.

‘And how are you?’ Janet said.

‘Not feeling all that great, to be honest.’

Because of this? Janet felt a prickle of guilt. Her mother had always been solid as a rock whenever Janet needed her. But especially after the attack. Janet didn’t want to bring any pain or distress to her door. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just out of sorts every way. Achy.’

‘There’s a lot of bugs going round,’ Janet said. ‘Maybe you’ve caught something. Taisie had one, Ade as well.’ She could hear a forced edge in her voice and tried to rein it in. Hard sometimes to remember that her mother was older now, beginning to need a little help with things after a lifetime of being a competent working wife and mother. Difficult to know how much had changed since Janet’s dad died. Her mum had seemed to weather it well but perhaps the strain was only showing now. Loneliness and grief leading to a lack of confidence.

‘Maybe,’ her mum said, not sounding very sure.

‘Have you taken anything for it?’

‘I don’t really like to,’ she said.

‘A couple of paracetamol won’t do any harm,’ Janet said. Sometimes her mother regarded a reliance on medicine as a craven weakness only a step away from crack cocaine or heroin addiction. A stoic edge to her character that could become martyrish if taken too far.

‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

‘Always,’ Janet said. ‘I’ll ring you later in the week.’

‘You can always change your mind,’ Rachel said as Janet put her phone down.

‘I don’t want to,’ Janet said. ‘I want to make him pay. Dig up every dirty detail on what he did to all those other women. They don’t get it, Ade, my mum. I could have been the latest on the list. It means we find out the truth for the people, the parents and the husbands and the kids. Truth and justice. That’s the point. They don’t get it. You get it, don’t you? I am making sense?’

‘I get it.’

‘Good.’ Janet picked up her phone and went back to work.

Gill read through the press release while Lisa, the chief press officer, waited in the doorway. Police repeated the request for the public to be alert to sightings of Owen Cottam, aged forty-five, wanted for questioning in connection with the deaths of his wife Pamela, Pamela’s brother Michael Milne and the Cottams’ eleven-year-old daughter. Cottam is white, of medium build, six foot tall, with dark hair and a moustache. He was last seen in the Ormskirk area, wearing jeans and a dark green sweatshirt. Cottam is understood to have left the family home yesterday morning with his two sons, aged two and a half years and eighteen months. He may be travelling in a blue Ford Mondeo. Police advise the public not to approach Owen Cottam but to contact them immediately on the following number…

‘That’s fine,’ she said. The next instalment in the story of the Cottam murder and disappearance, as far as the great British public was concerned, would be the appeal to his son by Mr Cottam senior and the issue of the press release. Gill would conclude the conference by saying they were hoping that the situation could be resolved satisfactorily. A catch-all that equalled no further bloodshed.

‘Same photo?’ Lisa said. ‘Only we have a different one, might help.’ She held up a copy. Cottam relaxed, a half-smile. ‘It’s a similar style top but I’m not so happy about the cap.’ A baseball cap. ‘What you think?

Tempting as it was to start debating the merits, Gill was swamped so passed the ball back. ‘Your call,’ she said. ‘Long as we don’t confuse them.’

‘Everything’s ready for the appeal. I’ve booked the conference room. Dennis Cottam is on his way. Son and daughter-in-law are coming with. The son’s happy to sit in. Okay with you?’

‘Absolutely,’ Gill said.

‘See you there.’ Lisa left.

Gill went back to her files, reprising the new data coming in from the different arms of the inquiry and considering whether to make any changes to the direction, the strategy, of the investigation.

A knock on her door: Kevin. ‘The CCTV that came in – I’ve found him going into Skelmersdale after leaving the petrol station.’

‘Show me.’

In the viewing room, Kevin ran the tape. The Mondeo passing a traffic camera on the dual carriageway. It was clear but not clear enough to see the children. They’ll still be there, Gill told herself. He wouldn’t have had time to stop the car at any point since making his getaway after attacking Mr Rahid. ‘Show me on the map,’ Gill said.

Kevin clicked on the desktop and opened a file which brought up a list of exhibits from the Pamela Milne crime scene. ‘Shit, sorry, boss.’ He closed that and clicked again.

‘Centre on Skelmersdale,’ Gill said. ‘Now zoom out.’ Her eyes ran over the map, scanning routes and destinations that Cottam might choose. ‘Work up new projections,’ she said: ‘possible distance travelled, potential locations, other likely CCTV sources. And pass this through to patrols on the ground straight away. Yes?’

‘Yes, boss.’ He sat there, swivelling in his chair, pleased with himself.

‘Now!’ Gill said. ‘If not sooner.’

Which got him moving.

10

‘There’s someone downstairs for you,’ Pete said to Rachel.

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. Desk just rang.’

‘Can’t you deal with it?’

‘Said they wanted to speak to you in person.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Rachel pushed herself away from her desk and marched to the stairs.

If it was anything to do with the case they’d have been able to speak to anybody about it, so why her in person? What could it be about?

Nick Savage! The trial? They usually notified witnesses by letter, a couple of weeks beforehand. Gave them a chance to visit the court and have their hands held by the witness service volunteers. Of course she didn’t need any of that. Been in court enough times to know the ropes.

Or had Nick been mouthing off? Like a caged rat finding a weak spot to begin gnawing its way out from. That weak spot Rachel. Dobbing her in for lying in court so whoever was downstairs had come to arrest her. Shit! She could feel her heart burning in her chest, as though it was swelling like a bruise. Halfway down she thought she should have hidden in the Ladies, got Pete to say she was off duty, or had left for the day.

She passed Mitch on the way up. ‘Have one for me, Sherlock,’ he said. He was on the Nicorette.

‘Yeah, right,’ she said.

Sherlock, her nickname. It stung her, the thought of her colleagues finding out what she’d done. Not only in bed with the barrister but blabbing to him about her daily work, feeding him titbits. Titbits that came back and bit her in the jugular. Forcing her to lie in court. Bastard. Mouth dry now, sweating under her arms, and her hair clinging to the back of her neck where it was damp.

She reached the lobby. Just one person waiting there. A police constable. Suit and shiny buttons, cap in hand. Fuck! Rachel tempted for a split second to run. To scarper rather than stand meekly by while her career and her future were put to the slaughter. Forcing breath into her lungs, registering with some sick irony the poster on the wall behind him: Have You Got What It Takes? Did have, she thought, blew it. She stepped forward. ‘Rachel Bailey,’ she said, her voice sounding like she’d fallen down some well.

‘PC Martin Tintwhistle,’ he said. Not a flicker of warmth. Rachel could feel the tension in the back of her legs, in her neck, in the soles of her feet. ‘Based at Langley.’

‘Right.’ She watched his lips, waiting for the caution. Aware that the CCTV above the front desk would be filming it all in glorious technicolour. That in half an hour’s time the clip of him reading her the caution and snapping the cuffs on would provide a few minutes’ rest and relaxation for the officers embroiled in the investigation and the staff in the custody suite. Could go viral. YouTube. Except any dickhead did that and they’d be disciplined for unprofessional conduct or prejudicing an ongoing investigation.

‘You are related to Brian Bailey, date of birth fourth of November 1950?’

What the fuck had that to do with anything? She wanted to deny it, disown the connection, lie about her parentage, but she just said yes. Irritability a useful mask for the fear drilling through her.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ the man said and she saw him draw back very slightly, putting a fraction more distance between them. Worried that she’d what? Thump him? Spit at him? Burst into tears and collapse on him?

Bad news? Bad news wasn’t a usual lead-in to a caution on arrest.

‘What?’ Rachel snapped.

‘We were called to an address in Langley earlier today,’ the constable said, his voice dull and uninflected. ‘When the resident did not answer the door we gained entry to the premises.’

Rachel was at sea. Why was he telling her this? She thought of the Cottams, the local bobbies breaking in, calling out, creeping upstairs. One potato, two potato, three potato…

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you…’

She watched his lips. He’d got freckles on his face, one on his upper lip, a light brown stain. His teeth stuck out: no braces at that crucial age.

‘… but the occupant, whom we believe to be Brian Bailey, was unresponsive and subsequently pronounced dead.’

Oh, God. Fuck. She felt something fall inside, a swirl of pain. Why had they come to her with this? Why not Alison? Alison was the one who still ran up the white flag every so often and mounted a mercy mission. Trying to get the old feller to have a proper wash and some clean clothes, dragging him to the GP or A &E, talking rehab. Pretending there was hope for five minutes until the old man sloped off back to his tins and his baccy and his helpless mess of a life.

Tintwhistle, message delivered, was watching her.

‘Suspicious circumstances?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

‘Right,’ she said, ‘thanks.’ Turning to go.

‘DC Bailey,’ he said, ‘we need you to formally identify the body.’

‘No.’ Rachel said it without thinking. She didn’t want anything to do with it.

‘I appreciate that it must be a shock-’

‘I’ve a sister,’ Rachel said, ‘she’ll do it.’ Talking over him, not wanting sympathy, not one bloody drop of sympathy. Why should she? She didn’t deserve it, didn’t warrant it. How long since she had seen her dad? Six years, maybe more. Ran into him one time when she was working sex crimes in the early days, investigating a rape, talking to potential witnesses outside a pub near Langley. The area a black hole disguised with a smattering of shops. Offie, mini-market, nail bar, launderette. Among those potential eye witnesses, a group of alkies who occupied a bench near the bus stop. And chief rabble-rouser, with what looked like sick down his coat, was her father. Back then Rachel had turned on her heel and told her colleagues she’d talk to the woman in the launderette then try the nail bar. Now she keyed in Alison’s number. And got her voicemail.

‘I’ve not really time,’ Rachel said but Tintwhistle stood there, batting his cap against his other hand.

‘It shouldn’t take very long,’ he said, ‘if you’d like to find somebody to accompany you.’

Fuck no! Janet, who first came to mind, assumed Rachel had a quiet, dull, Janet and John family stashed away somewhere. An assumption Rachel had deliberately cultivated. The prospect of sharing this with anyone was even more sickening than the thought of doing it alone.

She tried Alison again, just in case, got the same message.

Her phone showed twenty past eleven. ‘I need to be back here before midday,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He nodded, and put his hat on.

She followed him to the car park, every bone in her body seething with resentment.

Getting into the car she was struck by the thought that minutes earlier she was expecting to be escorted into the back seat, hand on her head easing her into place, wrists cuffed, wreathed in shame. So it wasn’t the worst that could have happened, was it? Not by a long chalk.

‘Where was he, then?’ she said. ‘You said Langley.’

‘B &B on St Michael’s Road.’

She knew the place. B &B shorthand for dosshouse. Hostel, more or less. Scuzzy rooms at rock-bottom prices, sort of place that welcomed people on benefits. Not the type of B &B you’d see on Trip Advisor. Not a good base for exploring the cultural highlights of sunny Manchester. Full of people who had nowhere else to sleep: alkies or nut jobs, people coming out of prison or heading back in. Breakfast was dished up in a canteen style kitchen. Only meal most of them ate. She knew all this because she had been in places like it countless times for work. Down with the pond life.

The car dropped down the hill among the terraced housing, towards the jumble of dual carriageways that ringed the centre of Oldham. Godzilla had been here earlier with Margaret Milne. Christ, she hoped no one would recognize her from her job. This was personal, nothing to do with anyone else.

How come they knew he was related to Rachel? A question she couldn’t get out of her head. Wasn’t like she kept in touch or she’d helped him pay his way or anything. What could possibly connect them? She’d severed every tie she could and that didn’t take much doing. Leaving home as soon as she got into the police. Alison already married. Dom still there. She hadn’t liked leaving Dom and made sure to stay in touch with him, showing him there was a life beyond Langley and the daily grind. Fat lot of good that did. Then Dom pulled his stupid trick and got locked up and she heard from Alison that the old feller had left not long after. Evicted.

Riddled with curiosity and unable to figure it out she finally asked Tintwhistle. ‘How did you know to contact me?’

‘Cuttings in his room.’ Tintwhistle slowed behind a bus.

‘Cuttings?’ Rachel thought of fingernails and hair. Flashed back to her dad dabbing Brylcreem on his hair and running a comb through it, pocketing the comb, then heading out. How old was she then?

‘From the local papers,’ Tintwhistle said. ‘Features about you, sponsored run for that kiddies’ charity. And the half-marathon.’

Rachel’s belly turned over as her vision darkened. Him sat in his chair, studying the paper from front to back, reading it all. News and then the racing pages. She blinked to clear her eyes. Stupid bastard, she thought. Why did he bother? Why the fuck did he bother? Her throat ached and the bus ahead slowed again, needling her with impatience. ‘Can’t you overtake?’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

Gill met Dennis Cottam, his son Barry and his daughter-in-law Bev prior to the appeal. Lisa had assisted them in putting together a few lines which Dennis Cottam would read out.

There were guidelines to the wording of these appeals, Gill knew, just as there were techniques to be used when negotiating with a hostage taker, which Owen Cottam was at this stage. Nothing that would increase the pressure or exacerbate the tension. Nothing judgemental or punitive. The aim was to start a dialogue, create a breathing space, open a door, defuse the situation as much as possible. To demonstrate understanding and empathy rather than revulsion and incomprehension. There should be nothing in what his father said to panic Cottam, no nugget of criticism to fuel mistrust or paranoia, no bartering or bribery – not yet.

‘Stage one is the equivalent of a smile,’ she’d heard one trainer say. ‘It’s a pair of open arms. Until that’s accepted we can’t build the rapport we need to effect a safe resolution.’

Lisa took her into the little room adjacent to the conference room and introduced her. Gill shook hands with all three of them. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you personally for doing this today. I understand it can’t be easy.’

‘Keep thinking I’ll forget it,’ Dennis Cottam said gruffly. A wiry, weather-beaten man with a shirt fresh from the packet and a shaving nick on his chin.

‘You don’t need to learn it,’ Gill said. ‘You take all the time you need. I’ll be there, and you’ve got the paper.’

‘I’ll need my specs,’ he said suddenly.

‘Here,’ Bev said, ‘I’ve got them.’ She held out a glasses case. ‘I’ve cleaned them, too,’ she said.

‘Right, thanks.’

Gill suspected that Bev had bought the shirt as well. She was pretty, blonde, radiated a tense energy probably brought about by the ghastly situation. Some people fell to bits, others grew practical. Gill put Bev in the latter category.

‘You’ll sit on my left and Barry next to you,’ Gill said to Dennis Cottam. ‘I’ll introduce you and then you read your piece. Try and imagine you’re talking directly to Owen. Yes? It will be very quick, no questions. I need to warn you there will be cameras and flashes going off so be prepared for that.’

Dennis Cottam nodded. ‘He was never any trouble, you know?’ he said, the incongruity of what had happened hitting him anew. ‘Not a scrap of bother, was there?’ He looked to Barry, who swallowed and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Two minutes,’ Lisa said. ‘Okay? We’ll get your microphones on.’

Dennis puffed his cheeks out, exhaled, obviously sick with nerves. While Lisa wired up Dennis Cottam, Gill clipped the lapel mic on to her jacket and checked the power light showed red on her transmitter before tucking it into the waistband of her skirt.

Then it was time. They went through to the larger room and Gill waited by her chair until they were both seated. With Lisa to her right and Dennis Cottam to her left she looked out at the bank of journalists. The case was big enough, brutal enough, to have brought in some foreign crews too. The fact that Cottam was still at large with two youngsters at risk created an extra dimension of human interest.

Some reporters were typing into their iPads or tablets, others tweeting. Around them colleagues wielded cameras of varying shapes and sizes.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am DCI Gill Murray, senior investigating officer in this case. I’d like to introduce Mr Dennis Cottam who is here today to speak directly to his son Owen.’

Gill turned to Dennis. The man’s eyes swam behind his spectacles as he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘Owen, we’d like you to come in, son. Things have not been easy but there’s people can help us sort it all out. You’ve family here and we want to help. We care for you, you and-’ He broke off, face collapsing, on the brink of weeping. He began to shiver, his shoulders heaving, the paper jerking in his grip.

Barry reached over and put his arm round his father’s shoulders and took the paper from him. He wasn’t miked up but the room was so quiet his voice carried. ‘We want you back, we want you and the boys safe. Please come in and we’ll be with you.’

‘Thank you,’ Gill said.

Dennis continued to tremble, his hand over his face now. Beside him, his son Barry, eyes bright with grief, carried on holding him as Gill made her final remarks. Then Gill touched his shoulder and they slowly made their way from the room.

Rachel’s arms were shaking as they walked into the mortuary, her arms and hands. She tried to hide it.

‘It’s just along here,’ Tintwhistle said.

‘I know the drill,’ Rachel told him but her voice sounded shivery and uncertain. They carried on, his shoes squeaking on the floor with each step.

When they reached the waiting room adjacent to the viewing area, he said, ‘I’ll just go and tell them you’re here.’

Rachel’s mind skittered around. She tried to concentrate on what she’d be doing when she got back to work but the image of the cuttings, the scraps of paper he’d carefully torn out and saved, him poring over them, remained stuck in the centre of her mind, like a poster slapped on a shop window obscuring everything else. She needed a smoke; she couldn’t do this without one.

Getting rapidly to her feet she half ran to the entrance, then along the front of the building, firing up as soon as she could wrestle her cigs and lighter from her bag.

She inhaled, went dizzy for a moment. Closed her eyes. The day was warm and humid and her skin felt moist, almost greasy. She’d only had a few drags when she heard her name called.

‘DC Bailey.’ Tintwhistle, face like a smacked arse.

‘A minute.’ Rachel raised the fag between her fingers. He wasn’t happy but what could he do? Gave a tight little shrug and went back in the building.

Rachel smoked down to the filter, gazing across at the shop on the corner, the steady trail of customers nipping in for sweets or fags or papers. Only noticed it then, as she made to stub out her cigarette, been staring at it long enough: the sandwich board, MURDER HUNT FOR TOTS in flat, black capitals.

As she turned to go back in her phone rang. Janet calling. ‘Where are you?’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘She wants you here now.’

‘Tell her I’m on my way,’ Rachel said.

‘An explanation might help,’ Janet said.

She could just go, leave all this for Alison to do tomorrow. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? She thought of her dad’s voice, the way he’d sing if he was in a good mood, Sunny Side of the Street, Spanish Harlem, Love Me Tender, taking the floor at parties before it all began to sour.

How could she explain this? Her mind was blank. ‘Make something up,’ she said and ended the call.

Once she found Tintwhistle, they went through to the viewing room. Rachel studied the floor, cast her eyes around the ceiling. They’d lowered it at some point. Probably had those high ceilings, fancy plasterwork around the edges, like the rest of the old municipal buildings. Stained glass and frilly bits on the stonework, or the latticed windows, diamond shapes and…

‘Miss Bailey. You will see there is some discoloration to the face.’

She wrenched her eyes open and looked through the glass to the figure on the bier. Felt something swell, blocking her throat. He was discoloured, his face mottled and dark, smaller than she remembered, and looked older. His hair had grown longer; he used to be clean shaven, always, but this man had a beard and moustache. So for half a second she felt something release inside her, was about to say no, it’s not him, but the shape of his face… She looked at his mouth, stretched down with disappointment. ‘That’s him,’ Rachel said and coughed. Her stomach hurt. Her eyes were stinging. She bit down hard on her tongue. ‘That it?’

‘The post-mortem, confirmation of cause of death, they say it was his liver. Apparently he’d spent some time in hospital recently, cirrhosis.’

Rachel nodded. No surprises there, then.

‘One of the other residents raised the alarm,’ Tintwhistle told her, ‘not seen him for a while. Looks like he’d been there a couple of weeks.’

No!

‘Drive me back,’ Rachel said, a couple of weeks banging in her skull over and over like a chant.

‘Must have been proud of you,’ he said, once they reached his car.

Not so’s you’d notice. Not usually, anyway. Rachel didn’t reply. Concentrating too hard on hiding everything, not wanting to throw up or burst into tears or faint at the copper’s feet. A couple of weeks. His own bloody fault really, wasn’t it? No one to blame but himself. Silly old sod.

Days when she’d come home to tell him she’d got into the Special Constables or passed her first aid. Half the time he wasn’t there to tell, already down the pub. The rest he’d look at her. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. Rachel trying to tell if he had a cob on. In which case he’d pontificate about her shortcomings, the fickle way of the world and his own sorry state. What’s it take for a man to make an honest living these days?

Sobriety would help, getting up and out of the house fully dressed before midday too. He used to do labouring, shovelling and shifting. Nothing skilled. Then it got so he’d just missed the alarm, or Chalky didn’t really need him, or his back was giving him gyp. Till eventually he wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it bit him on the bum.

Rachel kept quiet mostly when he began his tirades, lost it now and then with a sarky comment or a direct challenge that earned her a slap. On the better days, no mood on him, he’d be milder. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. ‘No flies on you, eh? Sharp as a tack.’ But still a caution: ‘Just remember where you come from.’

What the hell for? Rachel meant to forget where she’d come from as soon as possible. Do a thorough amnesia job on it.

Now with him gone, it’d be even easier.

11

Janet was coming out of the Ladies when she met Rachel running up the stairs. ‘What did you tell her?’ Rachel said, dragging her back into the loos.

‘Said I didn’t know. What was I supposed to tell her? Where were you, anyway. She’s steaming.’

‘I ran out of fags.’ Rachel ran water into a sink. Scooped back her hair in one hand and splashed her face.

‘Tell me you’re joking.’

‘Ran out of cash?’ Rachel dried her face.

Janet could see Rachel wasn’t making any effort to sound plausible. Janet didn’t understand what was going on but there wasn’t time to try to ferret the truth out of her. ‘Come on,’ she said.

Gill saw Rachel from her office as soon as they walked in and came to the door. ‘Rachel, good of you to join us. Somewhere important to be?’ Disapproval etched into every syllable.

‘I fell down the stairs, boss,’ Rachel said. ‘Banged my head. Thought I’d better get it checked out. Felt sick.’

‘Really?’ Gill obviously didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Is it in the accident book?’

‘No, boss. Bit muddled, I think. I just went straight to A &E.’

‘Who processed you in an hour?’ Gill was furious, eyes bright, jaw taut. Everyone knew A &E was an average three-hour wait. Janet felt sick, worried about what Gill might do or say, worried for Rachel.

‘Felt better,’ Rachel said, ‘came back.’

‘I was going to allocate you and Janet to the surveillance team. Join our colleagues on the ground. However, if you have suspected concussion…’

Oh, Christ. Janet could hear what was coming.

‘Please, boss?’ Rachel said.

‘If you can’t be bothered-’

‘I can!’ Rachel interrupted. Never a good move. Gill glared, nostrils flaring.

‘Listen, lady, I don’t need officers of mine doing a Houdini on me. What could possibly be more important than working your balls off on a triple murder and missing children? Unless someone died. Did someone die?’

‘No,’ Rachel said, sounding miserable as sin.

‘Boss…’ Janet tried to intervene though she hadn’t a clue what she could say to mitigate Rachel’s offence. ‘Boss’ was all that came out, a bleat that Gill ignored.

‘As it is-’ Gill continued, then her phone went and she held up her hand, warning them to wait while she took the call. Eyes flaring with excitement. ‘The Mondeo… abandoned.’ Janet saw the moment’s disappointment dampen Gill’s energy, but her recovery was almost instantaneous. ‘Yes… yes… agreed.’ She turned to them, face alight. ‘We’ve found the car. Woods near Lundfell.’

‘Yes!’ Rachel’s manner changed in a flash, alert and engaged. ‘Cottam?’

‘He is not with the vehicle but we hope to trace him from there.’

‘The kids?’ Janet said.

Gill shook her head, ‘No.’

That was good, though, thought Janet, no news better than what they might have found. Or had he already killed them and dumped them somewhere?

‘Forensics are all over it now and we’re getting tracker dogs and a scout.’

‘The old Indian bloke,’ said Rachel.

‘Native American,’ Gill said swiftly.

Janet had met him once on a training day. Nice bloke. One of the whole range of experts the police work with, who come in all shapes and sizes, everything from translators to underwater teams, forensic soil scientists and geographical profilers. The scout had the old tracking skills, had inherited a legacy from generations who had hunted their food; he could see where people had walked, changed direction or hesitated by studying the ground and the vegetation.

‘How far can Cottam go with two kids?’ Janet said. ‘The whole country’s looking out for him.’

‘Stolen vehicles?’ Rachel said.

‘They’re on to it,’ Gill replied. ‘May need to issue another alert for the area – beds and sheds – but I need to check with the psychs and the hostage negotiator whether that might force his hand. We don’t want to panic him into taking action.’ Meaning harming the children, Janet knew. The two little ones. Harder or easier than killing his wife and daughter?

‘Where’s he heading?’ Rachel said. She was keen, totally absorbed now, so what had led her to slope off like that, like a kid bunking off school?

‘Let’s see what the maps tell us and if we can connect the location to anything we’ve learnt so far.’

The three of them went into the larger operations room where Andy and Pete were working. Janet felt a little lurch when she saw Andy. He had maps of the area up on the whiteboards, map and satellite views. There was a checklist too – the actions currently under way: police officers checking taxi firms, stolen vehicles, train timetables, bus routes, CCTV coverage.

Andy had received the news and entered the coordinates. ‘Why did he pick here?’ he said. ‘Gallows Wood, Lancashire.’

‘Gallows? You’re joking,’ said Janet. Some sick irony in the name given what they might find there.

‘Cyclist noticed it,’ Gill said, ‘vehicle smashed through fencing, and reported it to the local police. Thought it was joy-riders until they got the number plate.’

Andy said, ‘Public path and bridleway enter here, and there’s a lay-by for parking. Anything from the mother?’

Janet shook her head. Margaret Milne had listed all the locations she could recall that had any significance for the family. Holidays in the Norfolk Broads, Black Rock Sands, Malaga and Minorca. A trip to New York. Weddings of friends in Leeds and Bristol. No mention of East Lancashire.

‘I’ve a list here,’ Janet said. ‘Nothing fits. He might just have seen an opportunity. Somewhere to hide, or a vehicle he could take. Any CCTV close by?’

‘No, nearest is Lundfell town centre – couple of miles away.’ Andy moved the pointer on the map, showing her. She studied the map, the village… was it too small to be called a town? Small in her eyes, clustered around a central high street, the canal and the railway that ran along the valley bottom. The high street connected to the A road that led in turn to the motorway six miles away. The proximity to the road network presumably responsible for an increase in house building and the open plan estates that ringed the older areas and were scattered along the A road.

Fluke? Or did Cottam know where the cameras were? How clever was he? How collected, given he was on the run and fleeing from the harrowing events of the night before last, from the near miss at the petrol station. Or was he numb, operating on some sort of autopilot? ‘How clear is his thinking going to be?’ Janet said to Andy.

‘Impossible to say,’ Gill answered.

‘Originally a mining town,’ Andy said, ‘way back; copper and tin here, quarrying up on the tops.’

‘Mine shafts?’ Gill asked. ‘Somewhere to hide bodies. Talk to the local bobbies, countryside rangers, anyone who knows the area.’

‘Nearest railway station has a service every two hours,’ Pete said. ‘Staffed in the morning when there’s most traffic. Commuters travelling to connecting services in Wigan or Warrington. I’ve requested CCTV footage.’

‘Images of the scene should be coming through now,’ Andy said.

Janet watched with the rest of them as Andy imported the files and posted them on the screen. She saw the Mondeo, the broken fencing and a shallow bank to the left where the car was, bonnet pointing downwards.

‘Accident?’ Rachel asked.

‘Hard to tell. No obvious blood in the vehicle,’ Andy said.

‘Could he have left it there to come back to?’ Janet suggested.

Gill shook her head. ‘After the petrol station, he had to get rid of it, and with two kids on foot he’s not going far.’ She waved at Andy to change the image. The second photograph showed the car side on, both doors open on the driver’s side.

‘He’s left the child seats, which might mean…’ Janet said.

‘Doesn’t need them any more?’ Rachel looked at Janet.

Which in turn meant…

‘Cordon is being erected now, search parties preparing,’ Gill said.

Rachel half rose. ‘Boss? Please, boss, me and Janet.’

Gill gestured, moved with Rachel until they were just outside the door but Janet could still hear.

‘Can I rely on you, Rachel?’

‘Yes, course, I swear.’

A pause. Then, ‘Go on then,’ Gill said, ‘but don’t make me regret it.’

‘Yes boss, no boss.’

Rachel came back in the room, gave a ghost of a smile and jerked her head at Janet. ‘Let’s go then.’

‘So do I get to know?’ Janet asked as they approached the car.

‘What?’ Rachel said, heading for the passenger side.

‘You can drive.’ Janet threw her the keys.

‘God, you must be peaky. You’re not going to faint on me, are you? You getting enough iron?’

Janet ignored her, got in the car. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’

Rachel started the engine. End of discussion.

Janet knew better than to push her but it did rankle a bit. Supposed to be best mates, not just at work, looking out for each other, but Rachel had her secrets. And you don’t? Her health worries. Andy. Janet felt a swirl of nausea and the prickle of sweat across her neck. She wound down the window, letting some air in before they reached the motorway.

On their approach to Gallows Wood they passed two patrol cars, some of the units which were driving around the woods, watching for movement. The tracker guide had the CSIs documenting signs of foot traffic but as the car had been dumped near a public entrance to the area there was plenty of evidence of activity. A talk with the cyclist had told the police that it was a popular spot with local dog walkers too.

The dog handler, Gareth, was looking despondent and when Janet said hello he explained. ‘We’ve tried her with both Owen Cottam’s clothing and the kids’. Made a bit of a start up that way,’ he pointed along the road to the right, ‘but soon petered out.’

Could she trust Rachel? Gill had a sense that the woman was coming apart, this disappearing business not like her unless she had been looking into something to do with the case, working some angle, which she was prone to do, in her time off if need be, and then she’d come running to Gill with the winnings. A cat proudly presenting a dead mouse. But she’d not said anything in her defence and that made Gill doubt it was work-related.

There was something volcanic about her. Some source of steady pressure that built and built until it finally erupted in disaster, or near disaster. Gill had no idea where it came from, the recklessness, the wild side: her background, most likely, but it made her a nightmare to manage and it threatened her future and hopes of promotion.

Brilliance was worth very little if it came bundled with chaotic episodes and sudden meltdowns. As yet Rachel hadn’t learnt the lesson that she needed to master and tame that side of her behaviour.

Gill turned her thoughts to Sammy, to the conversation earlier. There was something nagging at her, something that didn’t quite gel. Before the stuff he’d said about Alton Towers and the whore of Pendlebury proving to be such a jolly good sport. Open days? Yes, open days – that was it. He’d said it was in hand, he was sorting it out. But shouldn’t he have already been to one?

She got her diary out. There it was – Open day, Leeds. Last week. One of the four courses he was looking at. She checked her watch and rang him; should be back from sixth form college by now. Would he pick up?

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Open day last Thursday, Leeds,’ she said.

‘What about it?’ Buying time.

‘Did you go?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Changed my mind.’

‘Without even taking a look at the place?’ She sounded shrill, tried to modify it. ‘Why change your mind?’

‘Not sure if I want to go to Leeds.’

‘Based on anything in particular?’

‘Dunno.’

Give me strength. ‘But you’ll go to the others?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Talk to me, Sammy, don’t just say dunno all the time.’

‘Well, I don’t. Dad said you’d do this.’

‘What? Do what?’

‘Overreact. You just want things your way all the time,’ he said.

Her skin felt tight, hot. ‘I want what’s best for you.’

‘No, you say that but you just want me to do what you think is right. That’s why I’m here. Emma and Dad, at least they’re not on at me all the time. They can chill, right?’

What, with a teenager and a brat to boot? Gill couldn’t quite envisage it. ‘Leave you to your own devices, you mean?’

‘It’s ’cos you’re never there,’ he said nastily. ‘You’re always at work so you make up for it by bossing me about, making like you care.’

The criticism stung. She didn’t know if Sammy really thought that or was parroting what Dave and his bit of uniform on the side said. Gill had tried never to disrespect his father in front of him but maybe they were playing dirty.

‘See much of your dad, do you?’ Dave’s job, as Chief Super, carried heavy responsibility. Not as full on as Gill’s but more than full time.

‘Yeah, like a normal person. But you don’t trust me and all you do is check up on me and treat me like a little kid.’

‘Well, if you behave like one-’

‘Leave me the fuck alone.’ He hung up on her.

Trembling, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Nice one, Gill, she told herself. Could you have handled that any more badly?

Issued with high visibility jackets and torches and a map of the search area, carrying protective masks and gloves and evidence bags in case they found anything of significance, Janet and Rachel began. They’d no idea whether this was a crime scene or a wild goose chase. They were looking for people, for disturbance of the undergrowth or the ground, for clothing, for bodies or shallow graves or puppets dangling from a tree.

A helicopter had been raised and was already sweeping to and fro above, using heat-seeking equipment to try to determine if there was anyone hiding in the woods. As well as helping in the search, the police helicopter took film and still photographs of the search area. Again part of the documentary evidence. Analysts receiving live feedback at the station acted as extra pairs of eyes, alert for any signs of activity on the ground that might lead to their quarry. Recorded footage was logged and stored in case it was needed for the construction of case files evidence. No chance of hearing anything when the helicopter was overhead but when it swung away to survey a different quadrant it was possible to listen. To walk and talk with one ear alert to children’s cries or footsteps, to the snap of a breaking branch or the rustle of clothing.

The wood was a mixture of deciduous and evergreen. Some had autumn colours but most of those still held their leaves, which made it hard to see any distance. Among the trees were clusters of shrubs, leggy weeds and brambles and nettles.

‘Ow! Fuck!’ Nettles had stung Rachel through her trousers. How could they do that?

‘You okay?’ Janet said.

‘Nettles.’ Dock leaf, he’d tell her, rub a dock leaf on it. One time, she remembered, her almost in tears. It must have been way back when her mum was still on the scene. Renting a static caravan at the coast. Sand in the bed sheets, the sunburn tight across her shoulders and ice creams and wasps and staying up as late as her parents. And shouting. One night them going at it like prize fighters. Another teatime, maybe the same week, Dom getting leathered for nicking another kid’s blow-up dinghy. Where was that holiday? She could ask Alison, except their memories never really meshed. Like they’d grown up in parallel realities. Always squabbling about what really happened and who’d done or said what to who.

‘Everyone says he’s a good bloke,’ Janet said, stepping over a fallen tree trunk and waiting for Rachel to follow.

‘Bit of a control freak, though,’ Rachel pointed out.

‘But on the scale of things,’ Janet said, ‘we have no evidence of domestic abuse, no criminal activity, he brings home the bacon for all these years, never strays that we know of, loves his kids… I mean, most of the people we deal with, they’re building up to it, aren’t they? Known to us, history of violence. Cottam’s Mr Normal.’

‘You better keep an eye on your Ade.’

‘Not funny,’ Janet said.

Rachel scowled at her. Why so touchy? Usually Janet could take a joke.

‘I don’t understand how he got from that to this,’ Janet said.

‘You’re not the only one. That’s all everyone’s on about. It’s Jekyll and Hyde, isn’t it?’

‘Superficially,’ Janet said, ‘but according to Lee and Leonard Thingy, Cottam thinks this is good, too. That it’s his responsibility to take the family with him.’

‘Suttee,’ said Rachel. ‘That thing they do in India, where the wife is burnt ’cos her husband’s died. Or all the poor sods buried with the pharaohs.’

‘I’m talking Oldham, Rachel, 2011. We’re talking a pub landlord and a woman from Ireland and a learning disabled man and an eleven-year-old just started at secondary school.’

‘Hey!’

Janet was being weird. You didn’t let it in, didn’t let it touch you. You empathized (only if you had to as far as Rachel was concerned), you commiserated but you kept yourself clean and unsullied. Only way to do the job. And Janet had done it for years. Rachel wondered if the stabbing, Janet’s own brush with death, had changed that. They’d worked a couple of murders since then and Janet had seemed the same as always. Delayed reaction?

‘I’m just… bad night.’ Janet was red, her face sweaty and blotchy, like she was sick. Maybe she was, gastric bug or something. Rachel needed Janet to be strong, to be calm and level and solid. Holding Rachel steady, like her anchor. Else what might happen? A breath of wind clattered the leaves on the trees and Rachel felt cold inside. Rattled.

The helicopter bobbed low and loud and their radio crackled into life: a positive result on the heat generation. One individual. One. Cottam on his own. He’s done the kids already. Rachel felt her stomach clench. She and Janet ran to the given coordinates only to find a homeless woman by a makeshift shelter, terrified by the clamour and attention. Once they had calmed her down and reassured her that they were not there to arrest her for trespass, she answered their questions. She had not heard children or seen a man with children in the last twenty-four hours.

They had two hours of walking, looking. The light faded and soon the call came to abandon the search until the following morning. Tired and scratched from brambles and with nettle stings ringing her ankles, Rachel drove back to town with Janet for the end of day briefing. She felt like going out and getting hammered. Finding some feller to flirt with, maybe more if he smiled the right way and made her feel good. But before that there was something she had to do.

‘This is progress,’ Gill told the team. Aware that they would all be disappointed at not having captured Cottam. ‘The finding of the car will provide us with a wealth of information. We are significantly closer than we were this morning. If you are thinking but we haven’t got him, we haven’t picked him up, then add a word to that thought. Yet. Fuller briefing tomorrow, meanwhile some bullet point updates. Andy?’

‘Yes, boss – large volume of calls to the incident line. We’re checking anything plausible but we’ve a confirmed sighting yesterday afternoon. Cottam stopped at a roadside snack bar on the A570 and bought two lots of chips as well as tea and milkshakes. Paid cash.’

‘Further indication that he was laying low and not travelling far for much of the day. Details of the recovery of the Mondeo being released immediately. How is he travelling?’ Gill asked. ‘If he’s not hiding in Gallows Wood?’ Still that possibility, only a third of the area adequately scoured before darkness fell.

‘Stolen vehicles being flagged and taxi firms all on board,’ Andy said. ‘It’s two miles from Gallows Wood to the nearest train station at Lundfell, three and a half to a functioning bus route. Support staff have examined the CCTV from the railway station up until six p.m. this evening. Single camera looks out over the platform near the ticket office. Anyone travelling across the bridge for the opposite platform would also have to pass that camera. No sign of Cottam and his children. We’ll keep looking,’

‘He’s not going to be walking that far with two kids, even if he could cover the distance with them. He’d be too exposed,’ Janet said.

‘I’d want to put some mileage between myself and that area, after the business with Mr Rahid. Cottam knows we’ll be all over the place like a rash,’ Rachel said.

Janet wasn’t so sure. ‘He sat there, or near there, all night. I think instead of moving further afield, his new plan involves this area.’

‘But if he stays, there’s more risk of us finding him, so maybe he’ll run again. Start another plan,’ Rachel said.

‘No one’s expecting him to give himself up then?’ Gill asked. Rachel compressed her mouth. Lee raised his eyebrows.

‘Thought not,’ Gill said. ‘We have no idea if Cottam is still in the county at all. He could have reached the Scottish border or the south coast if he’s got hold of another car and put his foot down. Okay. To your beds, get some kip. And keep your phones on.’

There was a low muttering and the scrape of chairs as people left.

Gill carried on working. Lost track of time until Janet appeared at her office door. ‘Gill? You still here?’

‘Might as well move my bed in,’ Gill said. Her eyes ached. She rubbed at them and groaned.

‘You okay?’ Janet said.

‘Not so as you’d notice.’

‘We’ll start again in the morning. At least we didn’t find-’

‘It’s not the job,’ Gill said.

‘What then?’

‘Sammy. I don’t know what’s going on with him, and when I try to talk to him I end up screaming at him like a fishwife. How does that happen?’

‘They know how to push our buttons?’ Janet said.

‘Yeah – but you-’

‘Me nothing. I lost it big time this morning with Elise. I’m still working on my apology.’

‘You know what Dennis Cottam said about Owen? Never any trouble, not a scrap of bother. And then – pow!’

‘The quiet ones?’ said Janet.

‘Maybe we should be thankful that they’re kicking off.’

‘But it’s us, isn’t it? Well, me,’ Janet said. ‘I was the one throwing a hissy fit.’

‘Sammy… he said I was controlling to make up for being absent so much. Never there when it really mattered.’

‘You were!’ Janet protested.

‘Should have stayed home like the whore of Pendlebury up to my armpits in nappies.’

‘She still off work?’

‘Not sure,’ Gill said. ‘Think she might have gone back part time.’

‘You know where this is coming from?’ Janet said. ‘Dave. Because he never got over your outshining him when you worked in the crime faculty. You’re a great mum, Gill, Sammy’s just testing you.’

‘Know what he said? Leave me the fuck alone. Do I let that go? I can’t let that go.’

‘Sleep on it. Maybe he’ll ring to say sorry.’

‘Where was she?’ Gill said.

‘The whore?’

‘Rachel.’

‘I don’t know,’ Janet said.

‘If there’s something going on that I need to be aware of…’ Gill didn’t want any nasty surprises in her team.

‘There isn’t. Well, if there is, I’m not party to it either. But she’s been fine since. No worries.’

Gill knew Janet was loyal to Rachel, the pair firm friends. Just as Janet and Gill were. A friendship that went way back. Gill saw that this put Janet in the middle, and when Gill had issues with her newest detective constable it must be uncomfortable for her.

‘Well, I’m keeping a sharp eye on her, and if there’s anything that will compromise her ability to do her job I want to hear about it as soon as.’

‘You’re asking me to tell tales?’ Janet said, folding her arms.

‘No, I’m asking you to consider the safety and welfare of your colleague and the rest of the syndicate.’

‘Message received,’ Janet said, less warmth in her tone now. But she needed to be reminded of what the priority was here. And Gill knew Janet was mature enough, experienced enough, to distinguish between the personal and the professional, to respect and protect her workmates whatever their relationship. One thing they all had in common – police officers through and through.

It was bred in Gill: her parents both officers, though her mum switched to office duties when she started her family. Janet got the call as a teenager. Rachel had the conviction that this was what she was meant to be. But in Rachel’s case her temperament sometimes undermined that professionalism. A lack of patience, an over-reliance on instinct and a tendency to leap before she looked had led her into scrapes. Her communication skills were still a weak area, but even so Gill expected her to achieve her sergeant’s exam before very long and go on to greater things. Gill wanted to see her succeed and that meant keeping a weather eye open for potential car crashes as they loomed on the horizon. Gill needed Janet as part of that early warning system; she just hoped Janet understood that she was monitoring Rachel more closely for the best of reasons, not the worst.

Like Sammy. Surely.

12

It was after eleven when Rachel got to Alison’s, but the hall light was still on. She rang the bell and waited, shivering on the doorstep. A clear night and frost making her nose and fingertips sting.

Alison took her time but finally the latches were thrown back and the door opened. Alison in a candy-striped fleece dressing gown.

‘What sort of time do you call this?’ Alison said. Never very original.

Rachel shot her a baleful glance. Alison huffed and crossed her arms. ‘Changed your mind, have you? Thought you’d see sense. Flesh and blood. Do you want to come in? But keep it down, Tony’s just gone up.’

Rachel sniffed, stepped over the threshold, arms wrapped about herself, trying to get warm. ‘I’m not here about Dom,’ she said as they went into the living room. Plastered with photos of Alison’s three kids.

Alison turned to study her. ‘Are you drunk?’

Not yet, thought Rachel; wish I was though. ‘No,’ she snapped, ‘course I’m not. Why would you think I’m drunk?’

‘Well, you don’t often turn up here in the dead of night. And when you do, it’s because you’ve had a skinful and can’t drive home.’

‘Once! I did that once! Bear a grudge, why don’t you.’

‘Is there a point to this, then? Because I’m knackered and I’d like to get to bed.’

‘Yes. The point is-’ Suddenly she couldn’t say it, her tongue too big in her mouth. She opened and closed her gob a couple of times like a fish gasping its last.

‘What?’ Alison scowled.

‘Dad’s dead,’ Rachel said.

Alison looked bemused, as if it was a joke and she was waiting for a punch line. ‘You what?’ she said.

‘He’s dead. I found out at work.’

‘Murdered!’ Alison clutched at her throat.

‘No, you daft thing, he hasn’t been murdered.’ She poured scorn on the idea. ‘Natural causes – it’s his liver. He was found in his room.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Alison moved backwards, one hand searching for the sofa’s edge, and sat down, her eyes never leaving Rachel’s face. Rachel didn’t want to tell her about how long it had taken to find him. It was like a bloody great flag with neglect painted on it. Maybe that was poetic justice. After all, his parenting had been indifferent neglect much of the time. The lure of the bottle and a flutter a far more pressing attraction than the need to put a decent meal on the table or clean clothes on their backs. As for her, wife and mother, well her flag would read abandoned. Rachel wondered if she was still alive.

Rachel took a breath. ‘Nobody had seen him for a couple of weeks,’ she said, letting Alison join the dots.

‘Oh God.’ Alison pressed her fingers to her lips, sudden tears gleaming in her eyes. ‘Oh, Rache,’ she said sadly, ‘I should have-’

‘What?’ Rachel was suddenly cross. ‘Done what? What could you do? He was hopeless.’

‘God, Rachel.’ Alison had gone white, her face looking years older. She ran her hands through her hair, gripping fistfuls of it.

Rachel shrugged. What was there to say?

‘I haven’t seen him since January,’ Alison went on. ‘I was going to go, I meant to go-’

‘You’ve got three kids and a job,’ Rachel butted in. No point in her beating herself up about it.

‘Yes,’ Alison said flatly, staring right at Rachel now. And you haven’t, have you? The unspoken message, how come you were never there?

Alison cried for a minute and Rachel felt awkward, standing like a lemon, so she went and sat in the armchair.

‘Cremation,’ Alison said suddenly. ‘Would he want cremating?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rachel said. ‘Cheaper, isn’t it?’

‘Did he leave a will?’

‘A will!’ Rachel almost choked. ‘Are we talking about the same feller here? He’ll have left us a load of debts if he’s left anything. Tabs at the bookies and the pub.’

‘He was banned from the bookies.’

‘When?’

‘I told you.’ Expecting Rachel to remember every sordid little step in his slide into vagrancy.

‘Whatever.’ Rachel was eager to go now.

‘They’ll let Dom out, won’t they, to go to the funeral?’ Alison’s expression quickened. ‘We’ll have to wait till he can get a pass.’

Rachel said nothing. Couldn’t think of a worse prospect than graveside with her dad in a box, Alison blubbing and Dom putting on a brave face.

‘That is so awful. God, Rachel, I feel so awful.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘At the end of the day, he’s our father. We should have known.’

‘You know what he was like,’ Rachel said.

‘I hate to think of it, think of him, on his own and-’

Don’t then! ‘Look, his liver packed up and he’ll have gone quick. The rest he’d not know about, would he. You did your best.’ Knowing that she herself hadn’t, couldn’t. Too angry with him, wanting to get as far away as she could from the mess of his life.

‘You need to register the death,’ Rachel said. ‘Take this to the register office.’ She pulled out the death certificate. ‘Give them this-’

‘Can’t you? I’ve a really busy week.’

‘I’m working a triple homicide,’ Rachel said. ‘Take compassionate leave. They’re meant to be big on that, your lot.’ Social workers.

‘What, and you can’t take it?’ Alison said.

I’m not feeling very compassionate, Rachel thought.

‘We could meet up to go together, at lunch,’ Alison said.

Rachel could see Alison was already beginning to try to haul her back into the bosom of the family. ‘Don’t be daft. I’ve no idea when I’ll get a meal break. It’ll take twice as long to do it if we’re both arguing about it all.’

Alison had her head in her hands. Rachel heard her make a squeak and realized she was crying.

Rachel sighed. ‘If you want me to sort it out then I will, but you’ll have to just let me get on with it. You find out when Dom can get a pass and I’ll take it from there.’

Alison hesitated. Rachel knew she didn’t like handing over control but eventually she nodded her head. ‘Okay. Look, the money, it’ll take us a bit of time-’

‘That’s fine.’ Rachel thought she had enough to cover it. Never had much chance to spend her salary; on a decent whack for a single person. ‘Won’t be gold fittings or anything, mind.’

‘What about after? Buffet?’

‘Pie and pint more his style,’ Rachel said.

Alison tutted at her.

‘Come on, who’ll be there? You and Dom, maybe a clutch of his drinking buddies if they’re not too wasted to make it on time.’

‘God, you’re hard sometimes,’ Alison said.

‘Just being practical.’ If she was hard it was because she had to be. You got nowhere being a doormat, a pushover. ‘Sandwiches and crisps and sausage rolls,’ Rachel said. ‘That place opposite the crem does food, I think. Looks nice enough.’

‘The one with the hanging baskets?’ Alison said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you think one of us should say something?’

Christ, no! ‘Like what exactly? You can if you like. Look, I best get off. Okay. I’ll give you a ring, let you know what’s sorted.’

‘And I’ll call you when I’ve talked to the prison.’

Alison got to her feet and trailed Rachel to the door. ‘Do you remember that time he-’ she began, warmth and humour in her voice.

‘I need to go.’ Rachel cut her off, her throat swelling and something like anger tight inside. Alison moved to give her a hug. Rachel bore it, thankful when it was done. And she’d managed not to cry.

Ade was in the lounge watching telly. The girls upstairs. Taisie would be texting her mates, or her boyfriend, rather than actually sleeping, as she should be at this time. Twelve seemed awfully young to be interested in boys. Ade had been Janet’s first, at sixteen. When Janet had asked Taisie about it all, she got the idea that ‘boyfriend’ was an exaggeration. ‘We hang together at break,’ Taisie had said.

‘And that makes him your boyfriend?’ Janet said.

‘Duh!’ Taisie rolled her eyes and waggled her head and that’s all Janet got. Janet would check on her soon. First Ade to tackle, then Elise.

‘My mum rang,’ she said to him, ‘not that it’ll make any difference. Except she’s upset which could have been avoided if you hadn’t run to her like a big kid trying to get her on your team.’

He gave a nasty laugh. ‘After everything she’s done-’

Janet felt rage, raw and dangerous, flash through her. ‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare. I know exactly what she’s done for me, for us. And what you’ve done too,’ giving him his due. ‘But this is separate, this is work. This is me and my job. You don’t get to interfere in that.’

She walked out before he could come back at her, taking a few moments to try to rein in her temper before she went to speak to Elise. Her hands were shaking. When did I get to be so angry, she thought? Normally she managed to balance things, to find equilibrium, but these days it felt as if there was a ball of fury in the pit of her stomach just waiting to explode, for a spark to set it off. Was it since the attack? Or longer? Was it simply the effect of being surrounded by two adolescent girls and their raging hormones? Perhaps her body was joining in and she was coming out in sympathy, the way women who live together end up with their menstrual cycles in sync. Or was it to do with Andy, with wanting him and feeling guilty about it?

She didn’t like the anger; it threatened to bring her too close to losing control. To letting fly, allowing all her darkest thoughts to escape, and who knew whether she’d be able to push them back in the bottle. And life was so precious, too precious. She did not want to waste any of her time with negative emotions.

Janet knocked and went into Elise’s room without waiting for an answer. Elise was at her desk with her laptop open, an essay by the looks of it. Janet could tell she was still in the doghouse as soon as she saw Elise’s face, pinched and set, her shoulders rigid, too. Janet said, ‘I’m very sorry I shouted at you, Elise, it wasn’t fair. I was really cross about something else and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’

Elise turned to look at her, a sulky expression on her face. ‘Why are you so horrible to Dad?’

Christ! Janet’s stomach dropped. She felt her cheeks burning. ‘I know we argue,’ she chose her words with care, ‘but some marriages, some relationships, are just like that. People say it clears the air.’

‘It doesn’t. That’s stupid,’ Elise said. She had a point. After one of their rows there’d often be a period of moody withdrawal before the atmosphere improved.

‘I’m sorry,’ Janet said, unable to think up a better response. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve been together a long time.’ Too long? Was that why she was tempted to stray?

‘I hate it when you shout at each other.’

‘Yes.’ Janet thought of her own parents. Beyond a bit of low level bickering they’d got on great. Never raised their voices. Not to each other and not to Janet. ‘But we’re all right, you know,’ Janet lied, desperate to reassure Elise. ‘We love each other, we love you and your sister.’

Elise gave half a shrug.

‘Don’t work too late.’ Janet nodded at the screen.

‘Says you,’ Elise sneered.

Janet smiled. ‘Walked right into that one.’ She put her hand on Elise’s shoulder, relieved when she didn’t draw away, and kissed her head. ‘Night.’

In bed later, Janet couldn’t get to sleep, either too hot or too cold. She craved oblivion but the tension in her arms and legs and back wouldn’t release her. Tired and drained, she wondered whether to ring in sick in the morning. She had hardly ever taken sick leave, until the knife attack. Not for years. Was this how she would always feel? Would she have to retire on grounds of ill health? She couldn’t face the idea of leaving work. She would go bananas if she hadn’t work to get her out of bed in the morning, to fill her days. She loved her work. If what Geoff Hastings did cost her her job she’d be another of his victims. She must not let him destroy her like that. She wouldn’t let him take that from her. She had come too far, fought too hard – coming back from the dead, recuperating, putting her life back together – to let it all collapse now.

Half an hour after leaving the office, Gill drew into her driveway. Light was peeping out from the house, set on the timer to make it look occupied. Telly on timer too: she could hear advert jingles as she unlocked the door and turned off the alarm.

Once she’d switched the TV off she sat for a moment in the armchair, her mind crammed with fragments of the working day and snippets from her conversation with Sammy. She closed her eyes. It was so quiet out here, even quieter now she was on her own.

Over and over again like a line from a song stuck in her head, Sammy’s words: Leave me the fuck alone. Well, she wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. If he thought that just because he had moved out she would wash her hands of him and sit back sulking or some other passive-aggressive crap then he had better think again. This – decisions about uni – would affect the rest of his life. Did Dave even know about the open days? About which places Sammy was considering?

The UCAS application had to be in by January, sooner if possible, because then the admissions tutors would have more time to actually read the personal statements and consider the candidates. Come the end of the year they would be swamped, barely glancing at each submission. She’d go round there, much as it sickened her, go round there early before work and talk to Dave and Sammy. So they all knew what the timetable was and what support Sammy needed. Gill was happy to adopt a hands off approach as long as somebody else was paddling the bloody canoe in the right direction.

And she would not refer to Sammy’s horrible little comments. She would rise above all that. It would only muddy the water. But now she should eat, eat and relax, get some kip like she told the troops.

She texted Chris: Long day. Just home. You somewhere exotic? Wish I was there x. Of course if he’d got a night flight somewhere he wouldn’t be able to reply yet. But then her phone bleeped. She read the message, Not exotic exactly but looking forward to a hot meal and a bottle of vino. Wish you were here too x.

He hadn’t said where. Perhaps he had only been able to get some cheesy destination, Marbella or Faliraki, full of stag parties and drunken Brits and English ‘pubs’ serving all day breakfast.

Gill put the radio on, opened the fridge and considered her choices. Fancy soup, smoked salmon, bacon and eggs. None of which appealed. In the freezer she had a few ready meals…

The doorbell went. Her first thought was Sammy, Sammy forgetting his key. But why would Sammy turn up at this time?

Gill went to the door, peeped through the spy hole and saw Chris. Chris! She opened the door. ‘Not today, ta,’ she said, keeping a straight face.

‘I come bearing dinner.’ He hoisted a large plastic cooler box in one hand and a sturdy shopping bag in the other. ‘You haven’t eaten?’

‘No.’ She was smiling. ‘Come in. How come you’re not in Italy or Croatia or somewhere?’

‘Prefer this.’ He grinned. Put the box and bag down and held up his hands. ‘I know you’re in the middle of a huge inquiry and you’ll need your sleep so you can turf me out whenever you like. I’ve reserved a room at the hotel on the ring road, in case.’

‘Oh, no.’ She moved closer to him. ‘You’re going nowhere, mister.’ Reached up to kiss him. He put his arms round her, kissing her slowly, softly, until she was dizzy. Gill was half tempted to skip the food and take him straight to bed but he had gone to so much trouble. And besides, if she ate she’d have even more energy for what would come after.

He began getting things out on to the counter: a hot chicken, croquette potatoes, a mixed leaf salad. Cheesecake, a bottle of white.

Gill’s mouth was watering. She opened the wine, found glasses. ‘Cheers. Here.’ She fetched a candelabra and lit it. Swapped the radio for the CD player and found paper napkins.

He raised his glass again as she sat down, clinked hers. ‘Happy holiday.’ Merriment dancing in his eyes.

‘Happy holiday,’ she echoed. And started to eat.