Bleed Like Me

13

‘Keep your coat on,’ Gill snapped as Rachel arrived at work. ‘We’ve a report just in of a stolen car, red Hyundai Accent, registered keeper Mr Howard Wesley at Rose Cottage, Lundfell.’ She tapped the map on the monitor screen.

Rachel saw the significance immediately. ‘Just down the road from Gallows Wood, where he dumped the Mondeo.’

‘Literally. Dogs and CSIs on their way. We’ve now a mobile incident unit in place at the lay-by near the wood. The search is continuing. Base yourselves there and follow up on the car theft. Any whisper of a breakthrough and I want to know before you draw breath. Yes?’

There was a stiff, brittle way to her this morning. Obviously got the hump. Maybe the toy boy was mucking her about? Maybe it was the investigation. A second night shortening the odds on the chance of a happy ending. Happy being a very relative term, right? Anyway, Rachel read the signs and said the minimum. Yes ma’am, no ma’am. Avoided eye contact. Bit like dealing with a wild dog: no direct challenge. Her Maj could be a right cow when she’d got a mood on and Rachel knew she was still in the shit for nipping off yesterday and blagging about the reason.

‘Where the hell is Janet?’

‘Don’t know, boss,’ like she was Janet’s keeper. Not like Janet to be late.

‘Christ! If it’s not one of you, it’s the other. If she’s not in in the next five minutes you pair up with Pete and talk to this Mr Wesley.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Please, no! Pete was okay, a steady copper, but not at all the same as working in harness with Janet.

Janet pitched up within the given time and Rachel said she’d meet her downstairs. She took the chance to make some calls. The pub opposite the crem was straightforward: they could do sandwiches, sausage rolls, tea and cake for five pounds a head. ‘Ten of us tops,’ Rachel said. Fifty quid the lot. She’d get back to them with a date.

The funeral parlour was more of a shock. ‘No, nothing fancy, just the basic package,’ Rachel said after she’d told the man it was her father and they wanted cremation. The man started wittering on about options until she interrupted him. ‘I don’t care if it’s chipboard with plastic handles. Just give me a price. Bottom line.’

How long before someone spotted a gap in the market for a budget service? Funerals 2 Go, Deaths R Us?’ She had heard of cardboard coffins but reckoned Alison wouldn’t like that notion. She was funny like that, wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing all the time as if the rest of Middleton were standing on the sidelines giving the Bailey family marks out of ten for style and execution. You could decorate the cardboard coffins, too. His could have been covered in bar mats, or painted like a giant Special Brew can or plastered with pages from the Racing Times.

‘In the region of two thousand pounds,’ the funeral director said.

‘Two grand!’ Jesus! ‘And that’s it, no VAT on top? Right. I’ll let you know later today.’

‘You lashing out?’ Janet must have caught the tail end of the conversation. Rachel’s mind scrabbled about, mouth open but no words coming out, and then she said, ‘New kitchen.’

Janet laughed. ‘What for? When do you ever cook? Can’t be that old anyway.’

‘Don’t like the colour. Just getting some estimates,’ Rachel said. ‘So we going or what?’

It was raining heavily, drumming on the roof of the car and streaming down the windscreen. Lorries sent up great waves of water and visibility was down to twenty yards, forcing traffic to a crawl.

Janet was at the wheel, had offered to drive. Rachel knew Janet still mistrusted her driving in anything but peachy conditions because Rachel liked to travel at a decent speed and because of a small incident when they first met and she had pursued a suspect’s vehicle with Janet in the passenger seat. Pranged the car… well, okay, rammed it then, but got her man, and Janet acted as though she had driven the wrong way down the M6 or something. So the downpour meant Janet would drive.

Rachel got a call from Alison, let it go to voicemail, then listened: Dom can get a pass a week on Friday. I thought Friday would be better than Thursday. Why the day of the week should make any difference Rachel didn’t know. If that’s no good let me know. And I’ve been thinking, you know, I probably will say something, maybe a poem. Good God, spare me, Rachel thought.

Janet glanced at her. Curious. Rachel put her phone away.

‘Did Gill seem a bit off to you?’ Janet said.

‘Yeah,’ Rachel said. ‘She was bitching even before she noticed you were late.’

‘Wonder what’s going on.’

‘Search me. I’m the last person who’d know.’

‘None of the lads say anything?’

‘No.’

‘Rachel…’ Janet said, and just the way she said it, slow, as if she was broaching something, put Rachel on alert, ‘you thought any more about seeing someone, talking it through?’

For one God-awful moment Rachel thought Janet had found out about her dad, and all the associated crap – broken home, hand to mouth, sink estate, brother inside – and then it struck her that Janet was on about Nick, about the great betrayal.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.

‘You’re spooked,’ Janet said. ‘Yesterday you practically hit the ground, and it’s not the first time either. You having flashbacks, trouble sleeping?’

‘Now you’re a shrink,’ Rachel said.

‘I’m just saying-’

‘I don’t need counselling. You didn’t have any and you got a lot closer to the pearly gates than I did.’ The terror when Janet had screamed down the phone, the race to reach her, Janet clutching her belly, blood everywhere.

‘That’s different,’ Janet said.

‘How?’

‘That was business. Yours was personal.’

‘No.’ Rachel tried to dismiss the distinction. ‘You’re talking shite, Janet.’

Janet sighed, said, emphatically, ‘I wasn’t in love with Geoff Hastings.’

‘Not even the tiniest bit?’ Rachel joked. Hastings was a slimy tosspot, something deeply creepy in his poor-quiet-little-me act. And that something was a deranged serial killer.

Janet laughed but wouldn’t be put off, which annoyed the hell out of Rachel. ‘Rachel, he was your boyfriend and what he did was unforgivable. It’s too big to deal with on your own. Counselling’s not an admission of weakness. And in the long run-’

‘I’m fine,’ Rachel said firmly. ‘Leave it.’

‘Really?’ Janet said hotly. ‘No nightmares, no flashbacks, no overwhelming emotions…’ ticking off Rachel’s symptoms as if she’d been given a list, ‘sudden rages, tears, nausea? If you don’t address it-’

‘Just knock it on the head, will you? I’m okay and coming from you this is a bit rich.’

‘How do you make that out?’ Janet said, affronted. ‘I’ve told you Geoff Hastings is a stone cold killer and I’m going to get my chance to nail him. Not just for what he did to me,’ Janet was suddenly shouting, red-faced, and Rachel was freaked, ‘and for what he nearly did to my kids, but for all those others.’

There was a pause, the shush of the rain quiet after Janet’s outburst.

‘Sudden overwhelming emotions?’ Rachel said.

‘Sod off.’

‘All I’m saying is you’re off colour and pretending everything’s fine. I’m not the only one.’

‘Ah, so you are struggling,’ Janet said triumphantly.

‘No, I’m not,’ Rachel said. ‘Pull in at the services.’

‘Why?’

‘Comfort break. Cigarette. Calm my shattered nerves.’

Janet mouthed fuck off but there was a smile tugging at her mouth which meant things were okay again. For now.

They met the local officers at the mobile incident van now parked up at Gallows Wood, where teams were continuing the search. Janet introduced herself and Rachel. ‘Found anything?’ she asked, but the officer in charge shook his head. He confirmed that the address for the stolen car was a mile and a half along the road to the north.

‘That’s the direction the dog went in yesterday,’ Rachel said.

‘Think it through,’ Janet said. ‘You’ve two kids and a car, you want another car, what d’you do? Lug the kids with you to steal the car and risk it going pear shaped? Then you’ve two kids hampering a quick getaway. I don’t think so. I think it makes more sense to leave the kids in your car, lock them in and go off and try to nick another vehicle. If that’s a success you can just drive back and pick up the kids.’

‘He’d walk it from here in half an hour,’ Rachel said. ‘Less if he shifted it.’

‘Do we know when the car went missing?’ Janet said.

‘No,’ one of the uniformed officers told them. ‘I’ll take you down there now. You’ll want to speak to the owner in person?’

Mr Wesley was mid to late sixties, Janet estimated. A fact confirmed when he gave his full name and date of birth as 1946. Mr Wesley had been working in London the previous day. He was a computer programmer who worked from home so he could care for his disabled wife. Once a month he attended meetings at head office, using a taxi to and from the main railway station in Wigan, nine miles to the east.

The house was a low-roofed cottage, three knocked into one he told them, with a car port at the left reached by the side door. The front door was in the centre of the building and as Mr Wesley had returned home by taxi, in the dark, he had entered by the front door so was unable to tell them when his car had been taken. He only noticed it was no longer parked in its allotted space under the canopy when he glanced out of the window in the side door this morning while making breakfast. Mrs Wesley had heard nothing.

Glass on the driveway showed that whoever had stolen the car had smashed a window to get into the vehicle.

‘Are your keys accounted for?’ Janet asked him.

‘Yes, both sets.’

‘Any security devices in the car? Crook lock? Immobilizer? Alarm?’

Mr Wesley shook his head.

‘He worked for his father as a mechanic,’ Rachel said of Cottam. ‘He’d have no problem starting the car.’

‘How much petrol was in it?’ Janet asked.

‘Not very much at all. I was planning to put some in at the weekend.’

‘How far would it have taken you?’ Janet said.

‘Perhaps thirty miles or so. It was low.’

Janet looked about at the stone walls and the carefully trimmed conifer hedging. After the incident at the petrol station Janet couldn’t imagine Cottam would want to fill up a new vehicle. But he couldn’t travel very far unless he did. Was his journey almost over, or was the new car a stop-gap until he found something better? It certainly wouldn’t serve him long now the description and registration number had been circulated to all the neighbouring forces. And with ANPR and CCTV, a car was a lot easier to find than a person. When they did, would Cottam be the one driving it?

The search dogs unit arrived then. Gareth, the handler, said there could be a problem because of the rain. ‘Washes the scent away, see?’ Janet and Rachel watched while he put the dog through her paces. Giving her a T-shirt of Cottam’s to smell, brought from the laundry basket in his bedroom at the inn, before letting her off the lead. The dog ran along the edge of the road, head dipping this way and that, nose close to the ground. She went straight to the main entrance to the cottage then doubled back and went up the side of the house. Under the car port she barked loudly and sat to attention.

‘That’ll be a yes, then,’ Rachel said.

‘Sheltered here, see,’ Gareth said, stroking the dog and shaking the ruff of her neck. ‘Stronger scent.’

Rachel gave a nod to Janet, a smile on her face, happy that they’d got a firm lead.

They waited while Mr Wesley made a list of items that were left in the car, everything from a road atlas and torch to CDs, screen wash and motor oil, tartan picnic blanket, wellies and a cotton sun hat. Where would Cottam go, Janet wondered for the umpteenth time. None of the locations familiar to Cottam were near here. But surely if you were looking to end it all you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere you knew suited your purposes.

The day had not started well for Gill. She had risen at five thirty. She always was an early riser but today anticipated the alarm, switching it off. Chris stirred as she got up and she put out a hand to cup his shoulder. ‘Stay there,’ she whispered.

By the time she had showered any remnants of sleepiness had gone and she was feeling more ready to meet the day, buoyed up by the pleasure of Chris’s visit: the food, the sex, the intimacy. The fact that he’d chosen to snatch a few hours with her rather than jet off to some island paradise made her glow with pleasure. They spent so little time together, his job even more impossibly antisocial than hers, and she’d worried that the whole thing would peter out, never really get off the ground. She’d almost resigned herself to that and had decided to be philosophical, take what she could while it was on offer. But Chris seemed ever more interested, eager to carve out opportunities to meet, always talking about things they should do together, see together, places he’d like to visit with her. Likelihood was one of them would have to stop work to make even a fraction of it happen. And she was a helluva lot closer to retirement then he was. She found her thoughts running on and yanked them back. Live in the present. Or maybe dwell on last night instead, and the way he’d made love to her.

She left the house at six forty and was on Dave’s doorstep by just shy of seven, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling behind her breastbone.

The house didn’t look quite as small or as cheap as she had imagined. Pity. Dave answered the door, yawning, bleary-eyed in boxers and a T-shirt. She averted her eyes from his bare legs, filing away a flash of Chris’s slimmer, more buff body.

He blinked, obviously surprised to see her. ‘Now what?’ he said.

‘Sammy was supposed to go to an open day in Leeds on Thursday.’

‘And?’

‘He missed it. Did he even tell you about it?’

Dave shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I don’t know what he’s playing at,’ Gill said.

‘Well, ask him,’ Dave said.

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Peabrain. Gill was striving to be civil against every impulse. ‘Get him up,’ she said.

Dave frowned. ‘He went to your place.’

‘What?’ Her spine tingled.

‘Last night. He had his tea then said he was off to yours.’

‘I’ve not seen him.’ She felt cold suddenly, cold and cross and anxious.

‘Can you shut the door?’ A woman’s voice called out, then Gill heard footsteps coming downstairs.

‘You’d better come in,’ Dave said with a heavy sigh.

Oh, shit. She really didn’t want to but there was no way out of it. She stepped inside and saw his floozie, child astride her hip.

Dave flushed. ‘Emma, this is Gill.’

‘What’s going on?’ Emma said, barely looking at Gill.

‘Sammy never arrived at Gill’s,’ Dave said.

‘Oh, my God!’ the woman said melodramatically, making the child glance up at her with concern. ‘You think something’s happened?’

‘No,’ Gill said briskly, squashing it, even the thought of it. ‘When did he leave?’

Dave looked at Emma. ‘Half past seven?’ he said.

‘Seven.’

‘Why? What did he say?’ said Gill.

There was a hiatus. The brat seized the chance to whinge. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Come through,’ Dave said, shifting them all into the kitchen. ‘He just said he was going to yours.’

‘Why? I’m not exactly flavour of the month.’ Gill thought of Sammy’s parting words.

Dave rubbed at the back of his neck and stared at Emma again. Couldn’t he speak for himself? Emma gave him a look which Gill interpreted as don’t ask me and poured cereal into a bowl.

‘He just kicked off,’ Dave said.

‘You argued?’ Gill said.

‘He wasn’t pulling his weight. We’d asked him countless times to clear up. Then he’d wake the little one.’

Gill hid the little wriggle of relish she felt inside. Petty. Where was Sammy? That was all that mattered. ‘So, what, you give him a bollocking and he says he’s running home to me?’

‘Near enough,’ Dave said.

Gill thought quickly. Where would he go? She pulled out her phone and rang his number. He didn’t pick up. ‘I’ll try Josh and Ricky,’ she said.

‘Ricky?’ Dave said.

‘Glennister.’

‘Right,’ but it seemed he’d not a clue who his son’s friends were. How could that be, given he was sharing a roof with him? Didn’t he talk to him? Wasn’t he curious?

‘Hello?’

‘Josh, it’s Sammy’s mum, Gill. Is Sammy with you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see him last night?’

‘No, sorry.’ Always polite, Josh, but Gill suspected he was one of the more reckless kids among Sammy’s friends. Whether he’d lie to her outright was another matter. ‘You see him before I do, will you ask him to call me or his dad?’

‘Okay.’

‘Thanks.’

Gill felt a little wobble. What if it was more serious? What if he was missing? Not just AWOL but missing?

She tried Ricky. His phone went to voicemail and she had just left a message when he rang her back. ‘I’ve not seen him for a couple of days,’ Ricky said. ‘I’ve been off college.’

‘Neither of them have seen him,’ Gill said to Dave. ‘Where can he be?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dave spread out his arms. ‘How should I know?’

At the table the child was stirring its cereal round and round and humming some little song under its breath.

‘You must know who he’s hanging out with.’

‘Well you clearly don’t.’

‘I’ve not seen him for the last six weeks.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Dave said nastily.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He couldn’t stomach it – his own mother-’

Any self-control fled. ‘No,’ she pointed a finger at him, ‘he was fine with it, with me and Chris, me and my younger man.’ Determined to call a spade a spade. ‘Until you stuck your oar in. You are the one who can’t stomach it. Does she know that?’ Gill nodded at the younger woman. ‘ ’Cos it’d bother me, my bloke in a tizzy about his ex’s sex life. You can get a younger model but I’m not allowed, eh?’

Dave had gone puce, his teeth gritted. Emma, face set, seized the bottle of milk from the table, flung open the fridge door.

‘You should know who his friends are,’ Gill said.

‘Like you do?’ Dave sneered.

‘He’s probably with Orla,’ Emma said, arms folded, plainly brassed off.

Dave and Gill stared at her and spoke in unison. ‘Who the fuck is Orla?’

‘His girlfriend,’ Emma said.

What the fuck? ‘How long’s he had a girlfriend?’ Gill said.

‘Ages,’ Emma said, something smug sprawling across her face.

A girlfriend! How come Sammy hadn’t told her? How come she hadn’t known? And Emma had.

Orla lived in a council house on the other side of Shaw. Gill felt acutely uncomfortable as she knocked on the door. A teenager answered – was this Orla? Black leggings, denim shorts that could not possibly be any shorter without turning into a belt, tank top and blouse in neon yellow. Tattoo visible on her shoulder through the flimsy material. Shaggy blonde hair and a nose stud.

‘Yes?’ she said brightly.

‘Orla?’

‘Yeah,’ less certain now.

‘Is Sammy here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I have a word? I’m his mum.’

‘Oh, cool, yes.’ She shut the door. A minute later Sammy opened it. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, flushed and sounding irate.

‘That’s my line,’ Gill said. ‘Get in the car.’

‘I’m not going back-’

‘I just want to talk to you. Get in the car.’

He’d only socks on his feet but the ground was dry at present so Gill just stood waiting. Sammy leaned back into the house and called, ‘Back in a minute.’

She’d been shaken by his disappearing stunt. The prospect, however remote, that he was missing, even hurt, had niggled away and she was trying to shed the sensation now, telling herself that it was all right. Everything was all right. No harm done. Panic over.

They sat side by side, Gill staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the way he was picking at his nails, the clicking sound making her cringe, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

‘What are you playing at?’ she said. ‘Lying to your dad. We’d no idea where you were.’

‘So?’ he said sullenly.

‘We’re your parents, Sammy. We need to know where you are. Where you’re staying at night at the very least.’

‘Why? I’m seventeen. I could get married if I wanted to.’

Oh, please no, thought Gill.

‘Or join the army or leave home. You can’t stop me.’

‘I’m not trying to stop you doing anything. But sneaking off and lying, running away as soon as things get tricky, that’s no way to behave. You want to stay over at Orla’s – you let us know. That’s all I’m saying. Though I don’t think it’s a good idea when you’ve got college the next day.’

He snorted. ‘You talk to me about how I behave.’

She felt heat in her face. ‘Is this about Chris and me? You know what I’m hearing? Your dad. You sound just like him.’

‘I do not!’ He did not appreciate that comment.

‘You were fine with it,’ she said. ‘You told me that yourself, the first time you met Chris. I mean, I know the thought of either parent having sex is utterly gross but beyond that I have every right to make new friends, start a new relationship if that makes me happy. Your dad might not be able to handle it but you’re not an idiot, Sammy. Don’t be a stooge for him.’

‘It’s not just him,’ he said.

‘What?’ Gill turned to look, saw him flinch and turned away again.

‘Some people at college. You know what they call it… you? A cougar.’

She almost laughed but knew it would be the wrong thing to do. And there was a sting of annoyance that such pettiness was distracting him from the more important things in life.

‘Tell them to mind their own business. Jesus, Sammy, you don’t need to listen to tosspots like that. In the scheme of things,’ she bounced the edges of her hands on the steering wheel, ‘with everything that’s happening in people’s lives, this is just… trivia. I love you, kid, you know that, but I’m not going to let either your dad or a load of pimply teenagers with their tongues wagging have the slightest effect on how I live my life. Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Orla seems nice,’ Gill said.

‘Yes, she is.’

‘Good. Right. You get yourself to college and if you’re staying here again any time, you tell your dad. And…’ she held up a hand as he opened the car door, ‘if you’re not going to talk to me about all the UCAS stuff, discuss it with him. Or Emma,’ she said, though it half killed her to acknowledge the woman.

‘Okay.’

She watched him walk up the path, stooping slightly, and saw him knock on the door. Then she started the car and drove off. The events of the morning had left a nasty taste in her mouth, and the well-being she’d felt after Chris’s visit seemed to have evaporated.

14

The announcement came blaring over the radio, making Rachel’s scalp tighten. ‘Control to all units, stolen Hyundai Accent, registration sierra, six, one, zero, X-ray, bravo, Charlie, confirmed sighting Porlow.’ Rachel entered the coordinates into the map app on her phone.

‘That’s close, right?’ Janet, at the wheel, threw her a glance.

Rachel watched the results load, the red circle showing the location of the car. ‘It’s a retail park,’ she said. She zoomed out to judge the quickest route, then looked out of the window checking that the next street on the left corresponded to what she had on the screen. Yes. ‘Down to the roundabout, straight over, then second left at the next one,’ Rachel said. More details were coming in over the radio. ‘All units requested to wait at the perimeter road.’ Rachel magnified the image, read the labels aloud, ‘PC World, B &Q, TK Maxx, Curry’s, Iceland.’

‘How far off are we?’

‘How fast are you going to go?’

‘Ha ha,’ Janet said sarcastically.

‘Ten minutes, tops,’ Rachel said. She studied the screen again, glanced up at the hedges and walls flashing past, the road ahead blurry because the rain was heavy again, a steady deluge that the wipers struggled to deal with.

‘It could be a decoy,’ Rachel said to Janet. ‘He dumps the stolen car, we’re all fannying around waiting for him to buy a new mobile phone or a fresh set of threads and meanwhile he’s running as far as he can in the other direction.’

‘He’d need transport,’ Janet said. ‘Another car.’

‘Train, coach.’

‘And how’s he get there from here with two kids?’

‘Might be on his own.’

Janet swallowed, just as her phone went off. ‘Can you get that, see who it is?’

Rachel took the phone and read the display. ‘Your mum,’ she said.

Janet gave a sigh. ‘Leave it,’ she said.

Rachel was happy to. Dorothy didn’t like her, Rachel could tell; looked down her nose at her. Even the way Dorothy spoke changed with Rachel: she put on a posher voice and acted all headmistressy and disapproving.

‘No, answer it.’ Janet changed her mind. ‘Tell her I’m driving and I’ll call her later.’

Rachel pressed the green key, said, ‘Hello, Dorothy,’ but was cut off by the terrible screaming that came down the line. ‘Janet! Janet! Oh, God, Janet, help me, help me! It hurts.’

Janet went white as chalk, shot a look in the mirror and pulled into the side of the road, the tyres skidding on the run-off water. She grabbed the phone. ‘Mum? Mum? What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, God, oh my God,’ Dorothy moaned, ‘I don’t know, oh, it hurts.’

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Janet said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ She hung up. ‘Oh, fuck, Rachel.’

‘Ring the ambulance,’ Rachel said, ‘then you go. Maybe she’s fallen.’

‘She’s not that old,’ Janet said as she dialled, ‘not falling down old. God, the way she screamed.’ The operator answered and Janet spoke precisely. ‘I need an ambulance to 6 Waterfield Lane, Middleton, M24 7AP.’ The operator began to ask the routine questions but Janet cut in. ‘I’m not with the person, but she’s my mother, she’s just rung me in extreme distress, in great pain. I’ve no idea what’s wrong or even where she is in the house. I’ll try to get someone round to open the door. You may have to tell them to break in.’

That wouldn’t be easy. Her mum had solid UPVC doors, high quality locks. She thought quickly. There was a phone in the living room, another in the kitchen and one upstairs. Given they were cordless her mother could have been anywhere.

‘Can I give you the number,’ she said, ‘and you can try to ring her back.’ She reeled it off.

‘Has she any health problems?’ the operator asked.

‘No, not really. Look, I’ve no idea what’s wrong. Please, just send the ambulance.’ She thought of the previous day, her mum feeling tired, off colour. Janet had dismissed it as a minor niggle. Oh, God. ‘You have my number,’ she said, ‘this number. Please make sure someone informs me when the paramedics reach her.’

‘Was the patient conscious?’

‘Yes, but I’ve no idea if she is now.’

‘Is she taking any regular medication?’

‘Erm… statins and thyroxin, I think.’

‘Please hold the line.’

‘No, I need to get moving,’ Janet said sharply. ‘Just send an ambulance, now.’

‘The ambulance has been dispatched.’

‘Right. I need to see if my husband can get round there with a key,’ Janet said. She hung up. She knew there were sound reasons for the operator sticking to the script but on this occasion there was nothing Janet could tell them and she judged it more important to sort out access to the house.

Ade didn’t answer so she left a message and then rang the school office and spoke to Claire, the administrator, who had been there nearly as long as Ade. ‘Family emergency,’ she said, after introducing herself. ‘My mum’s collapsed at home; there’s an ambulance on its way. I need Ade to go round there straight away with the spare key to let them in.’

‘Certainly. I’ll find him now.’

Janet put her phone down and took a deep breath.

‘You go,’ Rachel said. ‘Just go.’

‘What about you?’

‘Drop me at the lights. If you turn left you can get to the motorway that way. I can walk from here. Bum a lift back later.’

Rachel walked along the dual carriageway towards the retail park, wishing she had an umbrella or a hooded coat with her. By the time she’d come in sight of the turn-off to the stores, the rain had crept down the back of her neck and her hair was plastered to her head. She hurried on. Whatever lay ahead she did not want to miss it.

At the entrance to the complex she could see two men in high visibility jackets, nothing to show they were police. They turned a car away, and as she got closer she heard one of them say to the next motorist, ‘Sorry, security operation under way, no access at the moment.’ And caught the replies to the ensuing questions. ‘Can’t say at the moment’ and ‘I’d leave it till tomorrow, if I were you.’

Rachel reached the men as the car drove off and showed her warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Sergeant Ben Cragg,’ one of them said, and pointed. The man leading the operation was in plain clothes and was standing by a white van, the back doors open as though he was loading up. To the unobservant there was little to show that there was a significant police presence at work in the retail park. No squad cars or police motorcycles, no marked vans. All designed not to panic Cottam and increase the risk to the general public.

‘Are we sure it’s him?’ Rachel asked Ben Cragg after she’d introduced herself.

‘No. We’ve just got the car there.’ He nodded. The stolen vehicle, the red Hyundai with its broken driver’s window, was next to a silver Daewoo in the middle of the parking area outside B &Q. ‘Patrol making a sweep of the retail park called it in. The plan is to identify and apprehend the suspect as he reaches his car. Plain clothes officers already in situ. The Daewoo’s ours.’ Through the rain Rachel could just make out four figures inside. ‘And we’ve another unit on the park. Green Honda outside PC World. Squad cars around the back in the delivery area, out of sight.’ Cragg nodded towards TK Maxx. ‘Hostage negotiator is on his way, and a firearms unit. We’ve put down a spike strip close to this exit in case he does try to drive away. Other vehicles leaving will be diverted to avoid it.’ As he spoke she watched a bloke in dungarees and a work-stained coat speak to a woman leaving PC World, gesturing with his arms to show her how she should leave the complex. He was obviously a plain clothes officer.

‘So we’ve no idea if the kids are with him?’ Rachel said.

‘That’s right. Where’s your vehicle?’

‘My partner was called away – domestic situation. Said I’d make my own way.’

Each time anyone emerged from any of the five stores ringing the car park Cragg stilled, gathering himself for action. Rachel watched, shivering slightly, the damp stealing through her. ‘Do we know where he’s shopping?’ she asked.

‘No idea. I’m hoping he’s like the rest of us, picked the nearest parking space.’ He nodded towards the DIY outlet. It was a huge store, the sort that had a garden centre and a section with heavy duty building supplies as well as a café and toilets.

‘If we can ID him, we wait until he reaches the vehicle, then block him in.’ The radio crackled. He spoke into a headset, said, ‘Your ETA?’ Frowned.

What would they do if Cottam came out of somewhere before the armed unit arrived? Rachel had started to ask Cragg when she saw the automatic doors open at B &Q, but it was only a couple with a child. Grandparents by the look of them, grey-haired, the man pushing a trolley stacked with paint tins and a long item, one of those rollers for doing the ceiling. They were parked in the first row of spaces. The woman took the keys from the man and walked quickly to a black Fiat, the child trotting at her side to keep up. The woman opened the car boot. The man in the dungarees walked over and spoke to the old man, giving him directions for leaving the car park.

A gust of wind sent rain splattering against the van, drenching Rachel even further. She shuddered.

‘If you want to get out of the rain you could join one of the squad cars,’ Cragg said.

‘Miss all the action?’

‘Thought you’d be equipped for it,’ he said. ‘Mancunian.’

‘We’ve webbed feet and all,’ Rachel said. She liked the banter, liked the look of him. In different circumstances she might be tempted to take it further. Sound out his availability.

‘I could go and buy an umbrella,’ she suggested. ‘See if I can spot him. B &Q do brollies?’

‘You are joking,’ he said.

‘Worth a try.’ As if they’d let someone wander around solo in the midst of a sensitive police operation like this.

The toddler with the couple wanted to help, raising its arms for the paint tins, but the old man, no doubt concerned about the situation, was hurrying to load the car. Then the toddler was shouting, crying, kicking at the trolley. A tantrum audible even in the rain.

Two women came out of TK Maxx and a single man emerged from PC World. ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘Too young. Wearing a suit.’

The toddler was now flat on his back, on the wet ground in the rain, kicking up as the woman bent over him.

Movement at the DIY store caught Rachel’s eye. Her heart gave a kick. ‘He’s there,’ she said. Owen Cottam coming out of B &Q, jeans and a bottle green sweatshirt. A khaki hat on his head, the sun hat from Wesley’s car. Moustache visible. ‘That’s him.’ A carrier bag in one hand. No children with him. The toddler kept screaming.

‘Suspect in sight.’ Ben Cragg was speaking into his radio. ‘Stand by. Prepare to apprehend. Taser him if we need.’

Cottam walked steadily towards his car, his head slightly lowered. Rachel heard the sound of a car engine start over to her right. Presumably from one of the other units. She was counting beats in her head, counting her pulse, her mouth dry as Cottam came forward.

‘Wait for it,’ Cragg said into the radio.

Rachel watched Cottam; only ten yards now to the Hyundai. Beside it, the windows of the silver Daewoo were steamed up. The car rocked gently. Someone in there must have moved.

Without warning Owen Cottam veered to his right and back towards the store.

‘Shit!’ Rachel said. ‘He’s spooked. He’s on to us.’ She set off after him. She expected him to go back into the shop but he ran towards the old couple, yelling as he reached them.

‘Keys! Give me the keys.’

Rachel covered the ground quickly, wet hair whipping at her face, breathing hard. She saw Cottam push the older man over and turn on the woman. The child on the ground stopped crying, the wailing snapped off as though a switch had been thrown. Behind her Rachel could hear engines firing, vehicles moving.

Cottam snatched the keys from the woman and ran round to the driver’s door of the black Fiat. The old man climbed to his feet shouting. Rachel pushed herself on, reached the car, running round in front as Cottam gunned the engine. Voices raised behind her, too confusing to take in.

She slammed her hands on the bonnet, looking directly at Cottam. His face clenched, eyes blazing. She banged on the car with her fists, yelling, ‘Police! Stop the car. Get out of the vehicle.’

He thrust the gear into reverse and drove back at speed, the boot still raised, clipping the trolley, which crashed over. Rachel lost her balance and tumbled forward, breaking her fall with her hands, jarring her joints and scraping her palms raw on the wet tarmac. Bastard! She scrambled to her feet. Watched Cottam reverse the length of the DIY outlet, ignoring the barrage of outrage coming from the old couple.

Two cars were moving up towards the Fiat. The silver Daewoo and the green Honda. From the back of the parking area two squad cars squealed out, ready to box him in. With squad cars ahead of him and the Daewoo and the Honda approaching behind, Cottam swung the black Fiat round to the left and shot forward, heading for the exit. The Fiat hit the spike strips and travelled a few yards before the tyres collapsed, making the vehicle hitch like a bucking bronco.

Cottam got out and ran back towards the shop, still clutching the carrier bag. Rachel saw that the shutters were coming down, almost closed. Someone had had the foresight to instruct the retailers, who would have been alerted to the threat to public safety, to seal up all the units. Cottam whirled round. He switched direction. He was going back to the Hyundai, must be. Equidistant, Rachel ran, intent on beating him, struggling for breath.

He got there first, started the car, drove forward. She ran to intercept him but he never wavered, forcing Rachel to leap out of the way. She pelted after him and he increased his speed, the engine whining, two wings of spray fluting up on either side of the vehicle.

As the patrol cars raced in pursuit, one of them skidded and ploughed straight into a parked car. The other one swerved but not in time and ploughed into the rear end of the first. Instead of turning towards the other exit, Cottam swung the car right, towards the back of the shops. The delivery area. Rachel followed on foot, her heart thumping painfully, her windpipe sore. He fishtailed as he turned and then revved the engine. The Hyundai leapt forward with a snarl as Rachel rounded the building. The delivery area was empty apart from some recycling bins by the steel fencing on the left perimeter. Along the right was the back of the superstore and at the far end facing them a brick wall right across where the building supplies section was housed.

He increased his speed and she saw. She knew. She yelled and hared after him. Watching as he accelerated, the noise of the engine climbing, howling, and the car smashed into the end wall. A clanging, crunching sound, the scream of metal on brick, a cloud of debris hurled in the air.

Rachel reached the car and yanked at the door. The bodywork was crumpled, the door frame buckled. Petrol fumes stung her eyes. She pulled again, then put her foot up on the wheel arch to increase her leverage and rocked the door to and fro until it swung open. Cottam’s eyes were shut, blood all over his face and on the airbag.

Ignoring shouts from the people running to join her, she reached in and worked her hands under his armpits and dragged him clumsily from the car. His heels snagged on the seat and she had to tug and shake him to release them.

She fell back and landed with him partly on top of her and wriggled out from underneath. On her knees she straddled him and slapped his face, oblivious of the blood and the rain. ‘You bastard, you fucking, fucking bastard,’ she shouted at him. She thumped his chest, hearing only the roaring in her own head. ‘You call yourself a father? Call yourself a father? Where are they? Where?’ She hit his chest again and again, desperate for a response, shaking and white hot with an anger she could not contain. ‘Where? Tell me, you fucker, where are the kids? The boys, Theo and Harry? Where? Where?’

Then hands were on her, pulling her back, and she clawed at them, trying to resist. Knew they were shouting, but the words had no meaning. They were half carrying, half dragging her, one of her legs trailing on the ground. Others lifting Owen Cottam, moving, shouting, so much shouting. There was a great thundering sound and the air was sucked away and a ball of fire exploded above the car, burning her face and searing her airways. It began to snow. Hot black flakes that scorched as they touched her cheeks and her forehead, and sizzled as they singed her hair.

15

Spectres crowded in Janet’s mind as she drove towards Oldham. What if it was too late? What if those agonizing screams were her mother’s last words? If a heart attack or haemorrhage had taken her? Janet wasn’t ready yet, not halfway ready. Losing her father had been hard. Her dad, a lovely man. But her mum? The thought of life without her filled Janet with dark panic. Her mum had been there for her in the worst times, in the wilderness days after she and Ade had lost their first baby to cot death, when Dorothy had cleaned and shopped and cooked and nurtured them, both of them, until they began to function again. And after Janet had been attacked she had done the same, and, more important, given the girls the love and reassurance they needed when it was uncertain that Janet would survive, and then that she would fully recover.

And Janet had imagined she would in turn look after Dorothy as her strength waned, as she became older and less independent, frail even. She had always imagined there would be years ahead, with all the stress and worry of ensuring proper care and all that, but what if this was it? The prospect made her throat ache and she wanted to cry. She couldn’t give in to that. She had to drive safely, get there in one piece and deal with whatever she found.

Would a heart attack make you scream like that? People talked about a crushing pain, a fist squeezing their chest in a vice, and that would make screaming impossible, surely? And a stroke, a stroke was sly, sneaky, silent, wasn’t it? A headache or a numb sensation, one side of the mouth not working right, but not the sort of physical event that had you howling in pain. What, then? Had Rachel been right? Had she fallen and broken her leg, her arm, her shoulder? Or cut herself? Oh, God! Been doing some little job, gardening or cooking, a moment’s lack of concentration and she couldn’t stop the blood, blood everywhere, making her scream with panic.

Janet tried to shut off this line of thought but there was nothing big enough to distract her. Even when she thought about Cottam, about how they were drawing closer, her mind slid back to pictures of her mum dying alone and frightened. If she dies, Janet thought, I don’t know how I’ll cope. I’ll go under myself. Knowing it shouldn’t be about her and feeling awful for being selfish. This was about her mum, her mum’s life, the fact that she should enjoy another ten, fifteen years. Janet drove on, her back rigid, her hands clamped to the steering wheel and dread heavy in her chest.

Rachel wanted them to just leave her alone. To leave her alone and let her go. But they wouldn’t. She had to give her account when she could barely string two words together and she kept drifting off, her mind wandering all over the shop.

She knew she looked a right mess if she was anything like the rest of them, oily black smears on their faces, cuts and burns. A car bomb, in effect, that’s what Cottam had made of his vehicle. Mind you, he couldn’t have relied on it going up in flames – though as a former mechanic he must have known there was a chance of that. All he would have been thinking about was that brick wall. Oblivion.

‘Is he dead?’ she kept asking. But no one knew, or if they did they wouldn’t tell her. Put her off, said, ‘If we can just complete your statement first, while it’s fresh in your mind.’

Fresh? It wasn’t fresh, more like frazzled, bitty, broken. She could smell his blood on her. Blood and smoke. The burning rubber fumes caught at the back of her throat. He hadn’t responded after she pulled him from the wreck. Not a flicker.

‘He drove straight into the wall?’ the officer taking her statement repeated, as though he couldn’t quite believe her. Christ, he only had to look at the scene. At the wreckage.

An ambulance had taken Cottam away, a second one had left with a uniformed police officer who had broken his leg in the explosion and an ambulance car had transferred another officer with cuts to his face.

Rachel had been checked over and almost got carted off as well. One of the paramedics said her responses were a little slow and there might be some concussion. I fell down the stairs. The lie she’d told Gill yesterday. Banged my head.

‘I’m not going in,’ she said, ‘I refuse. That clear enough for you? I’m fine.’

Someone had wrapped a space blanket round her and she caught snippets of words from the other officers, who is she, disaster, firearms unit were late, total cock-up. Ben Cragg wasn’t talking to her, his face white with tension, a little sneer of disgust each time he looked her way. For what, for fuck’s sake? Showing some initiative?

She saw the elderly couple and the kid being escorted into a squad car. Her hands were hot and sore, the heels of her thumbs, the edges of her palms and her fingertips scraped raw. She flexed her fingers, hoping the stinging pain might cut through the fog and jumble in her mind and help her concentrate.

‘You pulled him from the vehicle,’ the officer said, ‘and tried to revive him.’

The slap. The blows. ‘I tried to get him to talk.’

‘How did you try to revive him?’

‘Smacked his face, hit his chest.’

‘CPR?’ He frowned. ‘Had you checked for signs of life?’

Rachel shook her head. She’d skipped that bit, checking the airway, looking for the rise and fall of the chest, feeling for his pulse. Jumped straight in. She’d wanted to pound the truth out of him. She’d lost it, deserted procedure, but the guy probably knew that.

‘Not exactly. I wanted him to wake up, to tell me what he’d done with the kids, where they were.’

‘Did he respond?’

‘No,’ she said, feeling flat. She looked away to the burnt-out car where CSIs were examining the ground. A bird, a big black bird, a crow, landed on the brick wall close by. She felt unsteady, the same feeling as before, when she had almost been run over and had realized she was the target. Then her stomach had lurched with this same sick feeling, revulsion and a dreadful fear.

‘And what happened next?’ the guy said.

She wrenched her attention back. ‘Sorry?’

He repeated, ‘What happened next?’

‘They pulled us clear,’ she said, nodding to the other officers. ‘Then it blew.’

He wrote it down. ‘Anything you want to add?’

‘No. I need a lift back,’ she remembered, ‘to Manchester. Could you sort something out?’

They put plastic on the back seat of the car, the way they did when someone was likely to vomit or worse. The driver hadn’t been at the retail park and knew no more than Rachel about the fate of Owen Cottam.

The boss would know, wouldn’t she? Rachel got out her phone, saw the screen was cracked, the display milky. She pressed at it, trying to get some response, but nothing worked. The thing was buggered.

She got dropped off at her flat, peeled off her clothes and showered as quickly as she could manage with her stinging hands. Towelled off her hair but didn’t bother drying it, just pulled it back into a ponytail. Under the layer of grease and soot her hands and face were pockmarked with cuts and burns. On the back of her left hand a smear of something blue had melted on to the skin. She rubbed antiseptic cream on it, found some co-codamol in the kitchen drawer and took two of those. She opened the window, lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke in a steady stream. The wind blew it back into the room.

She called a cab and got it to stop at a mobile phone shop on the way so she could replace her phone. Luckily the SIM still worked fine. Several missed calls. The boss. One from Janet. With a swooping sensation Rachel realized that she hadn’t thought about Janet and her mum at all. Hadn’t thought about anything but Cottam. If he hadn’t survived how would they ever find the kids? She thought of them starving, growing listless. Thirst would kill them in the end. Dehydration. But maybe they were dead already. Smothered and left down some mine shaft or strangled and buried. Gallows Wood was still being searched. With Cottam dead how would they ever find them, dead or alive? They could be left undiscovered for years.

She didn’t ring the boss. What was there to say? Best to face the music in person. She could imagine it already, a ferocious tongue-lashing, occasional dollops of sarcasm. And you physically assaulted a man we need to speak to? Repeated blows? How does that help us, DC Bailey? Accusations of police brutality could undermine charges against a man who we believe has killed three people. Are you out of your tiny little mind?

The boss was a stickler for rules and regulations and it wouldn’t be the first time Rachel had had a strip torn off her, but she did worry that this might be one time too many. She didn’t know if there were cameras covering the delivery area, if they’d captured her actions on film. She imagined that clip being played at inquiries and special committees, leaking on to YouTube. Joining the ranks of all the infamous examples of heavy-handed police tactics. But this wasn’t some innocent caught up in a sweep and detained by mistake, or a student kettled or someone in the wrong place in a riot. This was a multiple murderer and Rachel had after all been trying to get him to give her information that might prevent further loss of life. She had! She turned deaf ears to the little voice inside mocking her. Not that clear cut, Rachel. You lost control. You’d have beaten him to a pulp if they’d not dragged you off. If he had sat up and spoken, told you what you wanted to hear, would you have been able to stop? No way. You wanted to hurt him. Because he was a murdering bastard. Because he’d nearly run you over, like before; because your own father had lain rotting for two weeks in a dosshouse and you didn’t even give a shit.

‘Fuck it,’ Rachel said aloud and the taxi driver glanced into the rear-view mirror at her, probably thinking he’d picked up a nutter. She caught his eye, gave him a look, a cold stare that she hoped would make him think twice about trying to get shot of her, and then turned to look out of the side window.

The desks in the main office were empty, as was the boss’s lair in the corner. And the door to the briefing room was closed. Should she interrupt? Join in as though all was well? Or wait out here for them to finish? She put her bag on her desk, then picked it up again, but before she had a chance to move the door to the briefing room swung open and they came out. Andy first, then Pete and Mitch, Lee, Kevin and finally Her Maj, a pile of reports under one arm, phone in the other hand.

A quiet descended as people moved to their desks. Lee looked over at her and seemed to be about to speak, but Godzilla’s voice cut through the air. ‘Rachel.’ Cold, taut. ‘My office.’

Rachel complied. The boss put her folders down and shut the door, drew the blinds. Rachel’s hands itched, and she felt a buzz of static in the back of her skull.

The boss stood behind her desk. She wasn’t as tall as Rachel but still had the ability to make Rachel feel small just by the way she stared at her.

‘Where do I start?’ she said. ‘With you charging at a moving car as if you’re a fucking rhinoceros instead of a serving police officer? Or should that be with you diving into a road traffic incident without a second’s hesitation or giving a flying fuck for your own safety?’

‘Ma’am-’

‘Don’t ma’am me, lady. Don’t you say a word, not a word, until I am done.’

Rachel swallowed, looked at her shoes.

‘Force guidelines,’ the boss went on, ‘at any incident – safety first. Remember that, DC Bailey? Say it.’

Rachel said it.

‘Drummed into every recruit, reiterated at every opportunity. There for a fucking reason,’ she thundered. She had a loud voice for such a petite woman, and her face was red with exertion.

Rachel looked back to her shoes.

‘I cannot imagine a situation where any officer would disregard such a basic principle of police work. One designed to protect them and their colleagues and the wider community. An unbreakable golden rule.’ Thumping her fist on her palm with each phrase. ‘Have you got a death wish?’ She cocked her head to one side.

Rachel didn’t know if she was expected to reply, but the boss carried on. ‘Not satisfied with the real and present danger inherent in all our work, with the scumbags and tosspots we have to deal with, you go off like a high wire act without a safety net. Some sick thrill, is it? Or are you just suicidal? Because if that is the case you are out on your ear for the duration.’

She still hadn’t got round to Rachel thumping Cottam. Rachel knew that when that was added to all the personal safety stuff the boss would probably have no choice but to discipline her.

‘Your actions not only endangered yourself but put your fellow officers in harm’s way. Two of them had to attend hospital, yes? Ben Cragg is livid. Would you have behaved as you did if Janet had been there? Or is it only officers that you’ve not worked with before that you have no loyalty to? No basic human concern for? No professional respect for?’ Ducking her head as if she was pecking at the questions.

‘I never meant-’

‘Quiet!’ she barked. ‘You expect to progress to your sergeant’s exam when your behaviour is that of an irresponsible child. You expect to stay in this team when you don’t know the meaning of the word? If you want to be the Lone Ranger, DC Bailey, buy a mask and a pony and fuck off to the wild west, but don’t do it here. Not in my syndicate, not on my watch.’

Rachel’s face was burning; she could feel sweat under her arms. She couldn’t bear not knowing any longer. She was obviously fucked any which way even before Godzilla got to the assault. ‘Is he alive? Cottam? Please, boss? No one has told me.’

The boss laughed, a nasty, humourless sound. ‘If you think that in any way mitigates your cavalier-’

‘Is he alive?’ Rachel shouted.

‘Yes!’ Godzilla matched her.

Oh, thank fuck! Rachel felt something inside fly from her. If he was alive they might get him to talk. If he talked they might save the children. And see him punished for the murders he’d committed.

‘Thanks to your stupid stunt dragging him out of that vehicle and your CPR routine, his heart, which failed in the collision, restarted. He is conscious, being monitored, and we are waiting to talk to him as soon as he’s anywhere close to fit.’

CPR? She had been belting the prick, not trying to start his heart. Hadn’t even known his heart wasn’t beating. Only that he wasn’t responding.

‘But that is not a trump card.’ Her Maj poked a finger towards her. ‘Your primary duty was to ensure your safety and that of your fellow officers and the general public. Saving Owen Cottam was way down the list. You know that. Now get out.’

‘But-’

‘Go write your report, hook, line and sinker, while I consider what action to take. And it won’t just be down to me, I’ll be taking Ben Cragg’s view into account.’

‘The kids?’ Rachel said.

‘Out!’

Rachel left.

In the main office, only Lee and Mitch were at their desks. Both of them looked up at her, though neither said anything. She broke the silence. ‘The kids?’

Lee shrugged. ‘Nothing in Gallows Wood,’ he said. ‘They may be calling it off. Appeal’s gone out for the county as a whole.’

‘They could be anywhere,’ Mitch said. ‘Andy’s done the map and timeline. You’ve only got to look at it.’

‘But he’d not much petrol,’ Rachel reminded them.

‘Unless he talks to us…’ Lee said, letting the sentence hang.

Rachel sighed. Then the thought struck her. ‘What did he buy?’ Remembering the carrier bag clutched in one hand as Cottam had come out of the shop, wearing Mr Wesley’s hat, in an attempt at disguise. ‘At B &Q?’

‘Rope,’ Lee said. ‘Nylon rope.’

Oh, God. He meant to string himself up. She rubbed at the blue plastic that had burnt her hand.

‘And bin liners, heavy duty,’ Lee added.

Oh, Christ. Bin liners were not good. Bin liners were bodies or body parts, they were the ghastly plastic shrouds of murder victims, the makeshift coverings for the abominations found in hastily dug woodland graves or landfill sites, in skips and on wasteland. In car boots and cellars and storm drains.

As far as Rachel was concerned, the prospect for the kids had just got a whole lot bleaker.

16

Janet reached the Oldham exit, thankful that the rain was slackening off. She was close to making bargains with some higher power that she didn’t even believe in: let Mum be all right and I will be good, I’ll raise my kids and rub along with Ade and do my best to forget about Andy.

She’d had a message from Ade. He had arrived just in time to stop the paramedics asking the police to force entry. ‘Your mum’s in the Royal,’ he said. ‘They’re assessing her, still no clue what it is. I’ll wait for you here. Drive carefully.’

Oh, Ade, so steady, so thoughtful. She felt a trickle of relief in every pore. Mixed with guilt. There were times when she wanted to throttle Ade, when he was being boring, when his glumness was sucking oxygen from the air, but any crisis and he was there, completely dependable.

After finding a space in the car park and getting a ticket, she made her way to the accident and emergency department. It was a familiar place. The job brought them here at times, wanting to talk to victims who’d been attacked or suspects or witnesses. Not as much as in the days when Janet had patrolled in uniform and her night and weekend shifts were awash with drunken fights. She looked about and saw Ade just down the corridor at the drinks machine.

‘Still no news,’ he said. He pointed to the machine and Janet nodded.

‘Water. Where was she? Did you see her? Was she conscious?’

‘She was in the kitchen. I don’t think she was conscious: her eyes were closed and she didn’t answer any questions.’

But no blood. He hadn’t mentioned blood. That was a good thing, surely?

They found seats.

‘She’d not fallen downstairs, then,’ Janet said. She drank some water, trying to quench the raging thirst she had. ‘Did they give her oxygen, anything like that?’

‘Not at the house,’ he said. ‘They got her into the ambulance pretty sharpish.’

Janet felt tears sting the backs of her eyes. ‘Oh, Ade.’

He put his arm round her, gave her a hug.

‘Do you want to go?’ she said.

‘No, I’ll wait with you.’

‘The girls?’ she asked.

‘I texted and explained, told them to sort out something from the freezer if we’re not back.’

Janet shivered. Watched a new group arrive, a teenage boy being helped to walk by two mates, one trainer off, his foot a mess. Janet looked away. There was a young woman in a sari on her own, head bowed, every so often dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Janet wondered if she was hurt or if she was waiting for someone: son, daughter, parent. Janet thought of Margaret Milne, could barely imagine the desolate landscape she was inhabiting. Her son and daughter, her granddaughter, all dead.

‘Mr Scott?’ A nurse stood there.

‘Yes.’ Ade cleared his throat.

‘You are next of kin?’

‘Janet is – my wife. She’s Dorothy’s daughter,’ he said.

The nurse nodded. ‘We’ve done some initial assessment and it looks like a burst appendix.’

Janet gulped. That could kill you.

‘We’re prepping her for theatre now but we need you to sign some consent forms.’

‘Yes,’ Janet said, ‘of course. How is she?’

‘She’s very poorly, but we’ll know more in theatre.’

Janet couldn’t speak, just nodded her head.

‘If I could go through her medical history with you, allergies, that sort of thing.’ The nurse sat down and Janet answered all the questions she could, the practical task almost a distraction from the fear gnawing inside her.

She elected to wait even though the nurse could not tell how long the operation would take, but she insisted on sending Ade home. ‘There’s no point in us both being here, and it’d be good to have someone with the girls. They’ll be upset.’

‘Ring me as soon as you hear anything,’ he said.

She nodded, close to tears.

‘Hey.’ He bent over and hugged her.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Don’t be daft.’ He kissed her gently on the forehead.

She’d been mercifully unaware of anything when she’d been in here herself back in April. Lost two weeks of her life as her body concentrated on fighting the massive physical trauma of having her abdomen sliced open. Hopefully her mother’s suffering had stopped when she lost consciousness. Worries prowled around Janet’s mind: what if the operation failed? If her mum didn’t wake up? If there were complications?

Time crept by. She was hungry but didn’t want to eat; just the thought of food brought a wash of saliva into her mouth that nauseated her. She had nothing to do, nothing to read. There was a shop somewhere where she could have bought a paper or a magazine, but she didn’t want to leave the waiting area in case she was missing when news finally came.

She was daydreaming, memories of a holiday with her mum and dad when the girls were small. An apartment in the south of France. There had been some little niggles between the adults, not used to different routines, but most of the time the four of them got on well enough and her mum had come into her own, speaking fluent French at the market and in the restaurants. English was her subject at school but she had kept up her French and went to conversation classes before the trip.

‘Janet.’ Gill sat down.

‘What are you doing here?’ Janet said.

Gill gave her a look: daft question. ‘How is she?’

‘In theatre,’ Janet said, ‘burst appendix.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘You shouldn’t be here – with everything…’

‘I can spare ten minutes for a mate,’ Gill said.

Janet tried to smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘So what happened?’

Janet told her the story, from getting the phone call to the diagnosis that the doctors had made. ‘She said yesterday she was feeling off.’ She shook her head.

‘You weren’t to know,’ Gill said. ‘She obviously didn’t.’

‘If she’d just got it checked out.’ Janet thought of her own health, how she had been ignoring whatever her body was trying to tell her. That was one promise she could make. Or a bargain. She would carve out the time to see the GP and get it sorted out. If it was adhesions then the sooner they were treated the better.

‘And work?’ Janet asked.

‘You’ve not heard?’ Gill’s eyes danced.

‘Nothing,’ Janet said.

‘We’ve got him,’ Gill said quietly, clearly not wanting anyone to overhear. Before Janet could ask about the kids, Gill said, ‘Just him. Drove his car head-on bang into a wall when he was cornered, but we got him.’

‘Is he saying anything?’

‘Still waiting for him to be declared fit to interview. It’ll be morning at least.’

Another night. ‘But the kids…’

‘We’re still searching.’

‘Needle, haystack,’ said Janet, suddenly angry at the impossible odds.

Gill stiffened then and Janet followed her gaze and saw Rachel at the end of the room. Rachel looking uncomfortable.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Gill got up. ‘Let me know, yeah?’

‘I will. Thanks.’

Gill walked out past Rachel without any communication.

Rachel came and took Gill’s seat. Janet saw her face and her hands, cuts and blisters and angry marks. ‘What on earth happened to you?’

‘How’s your mum?’ Rachel said, ignoring the question.

Janet told her. ‘So what’s going on?’ she said. ‘The state of you, and you and Gill?’

‘She’s got her knickers in a twist,’ Rachel said dismissively. ‘You don’t need to worry about it.’

‘You say that and of course I’m going to worry about it. Is it serious?’

‘You’ve got enough on your plate.’

‘It is serious! What have you done, Rachel?’

Rachel opened her mouth as if she was about to protest and then shut it again, did some facial contortions. ‘Reckless endangerment. She says I was reckless.’

‘Gill?’ Janet checked.

‘Yeah, the Queen of Sheba – and the local officers,’ she said, sounding mutinous. ‘I wanted to catch the bastard. So I went for it. Then he piles into a brick wall. I’m supposed to let him lie there and go up in a fireball? Yeah, right!’

‘The car was on fire?’ Janet said. She could just imagine it.

‘Not then, after.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘So I got him out and then some of the lads came and pulled us back away from the car. And then,’ she stressed the word, ‘the car blew up.’

Janet didn’t know what to say.

‘So I’m getting earache off Her Majesty but what everyone’s forgetting is that if I hadn’t got the bastard out he’d be toast and we’d have no chance at all of finding out what he’s done with the kids. I saved his life.’

‘And put everyone else at risk,’ Janet said.

‘Now you sound like her,’ Rachel grumbled.

Janet began to laugh. In spite of herself, in spite of everything that was going on. Laughing with a feeling of hysteria bubbling in her chest. Laughing with tears leaking out of the sides of her eyes.

‘What?’ said Rachel. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You,’ Janet said, gasping, ‘you, you stupid fruitloop. You could have been killed.’ Thinking, then what would I have done? What would I do without you?

Close to ten o’clock, the doctor came to find her. Her throat closed as she tried to guess what was coming, to judge from his posture and body language whether it was good news or bad.

‘The operation’s been a success,’ he said. ‘We’ll want to monitor her for a couple of days, make sure everything is as it should be.’

‘She’ll recover okay?’

‘All being well,’ he said. ‘Good job she got here when she did.’

Janet nodded. ‘Can I see her?’

‘Just for a minute. She’s in post-op – very groggy.’

Her mother looked both familiar and strange. Hair hidden under a protective cap, face slack, the wrinkles around her eyes and under her chin etched deep in the artificial light. Janet took her hand. ‘Mum,’ she said quietly.

Dorothy’s eyelids fluttered and the blanket rose and fell as she took a full breath.

‘Mum? Hello.’

Dorothy opened her eyes and gave a small smile, though the frown on her forehead deepened.

‘You’ve had an operation,’ Janet said, ‘to remove your appendix. You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?’

‘I’m tired,’ she said, slurring the words.

‘You rest,’ Janet said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Her mum closed her eyes, but the frown remained. Janet gently withdrew her hand and turned to go, thanking a nurse waiting close by.

‘You know your way out,’ the nurse said.

‘Yes. Oh, what ward will she be on?’

‘Acute medical, either A or B.’

‘Thanks,’ Janet said.

‘No worries.’

Janet made her way to the car park. Bone weary, she still had to drive the works car back to the station and pick up her own before going home. ‘That’s all right,’ she said aloud. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ And she started the engine and wound down the window so the chill on the night air would help keep her awake.