Bleed Like Me

17

Police officers had guarded Cottam’s hospital bed overnight. Gill spoke to the doctor who was treating him, who told her that Cottam was fit to be questioned. Given that he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and had piled into a brick wall at forty miles an hour, he had had a miraculous escape. The impact of the crash had arrested his heart. Initial blood results had been indicative of heart failure and further tests detected arrhythmia. He might well have not been aware of the condition, if the story of his never seeing a GP was true.

Gill sent Lee and Mitch to make the arrest. Cottam was moved at seven in the morning in a high security vehicle. The custody officer had done a risk assessment and flagged Cottam as a suicide risk. That surprised no one. While in his cell Cottam would be visited every fifteen minutes. His clothes and shoes had been collected in an evidence bag at the hospital and sent straight to the forensic science lab. One of his shoelaces was missing; it hadn’t been found yet at the retail park. At the police station he was provided with a disposable paper suit and flip-flops.

Gill made sure the family liaison officers assigned to both Margaret Milne, now staying with her daughter’s friend Lynn, and Dennis and Barry Cottam were fully briefed and could inform the family of the latest development. Gill also told the FLOs that detectives would be talking again to the family to try to unearth any significance for Cottam in the Wigan area. Had he been there before, and why? A brief press release would state that police were questioning a forty-five-year-old man on suspicion of murder at an undisclosed location in Manchester.

Questioning could begin as soon as Cottam had been booked in. Gill wasn’t sure yet who would begin the interview. She would have liked to use Janet but thought that Janet might well be off work with her mum in hospital. A solicitor was en route. Gill had almost everything in place by eight thirty, when Janet turned up.

‘How are you?’ Gill asked. She didn’t look great; face puffy as if she’d not had enough sleep, no doubt awake all night fretting about her mother. But Gill knew Janet had a resilience that served her well in times of crisis.

‘I’m okay,’ Janet said. ‘I’m better keeping busy, but I want to take an hour after lunch to visit the hospital. If that’s going to be a problem-’

‘It’s not a problem. We’ve got Cottam downstairs. I can always ask Lee to take it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Janet said. ‘Really, I’d like to.’

Gill smiled. Janet shied away from promotion whenever Gill raised the question, but she had as much ambition as anyone else in the syndicate when it came to interviews. Interviews were the nuts and bolts of the work, and Janet was highly skilled.

‘Okay,’ Gill said, ‘if you’re sure. I’ll put Lee in with you.’

‘What about Rachel?’ Janet said.

‘No,’ Gill said. She wasn’t sure how much Janet knew about Rachel’s antics the day before but was not about to discuss it. And she certainly wasn’t going to reward Rachel by letting her in on the interview. Besides, this was tricky territory and it could be muddied by Rachel’s previous encounter with Owen Cottam. ‘The doctor says Cottam is pretty withdrawn. It’s not going to be easy getting him to talk. I think it would be good for you and Lee to sit down with the hostage negotiator to plan the approach.’

‘Fine,’ Janet said. ‘Anything from the search?’

Gill shook her head. ‘We’ve finished at Gallows Wood. Nothing. The vehicle was stolen in Lundfell and Cottam was finally seized at the retail park in Porlow, which is ten miles away, near Wigan. We’re now patrolling the area in between and asking householders county-wide to check their premises. Can’t do any more searching on foot until we know where to look.’

Once the solicitor, Hazel Pullman, arrived, Gill went through to brief her, making it clear what the grounds for arrest were and that the police were treating the situation as life threatening. Given that the preservation of life was their highest priority, the initial interviews would focus on the whereabouts of the children.

‘We would appreciate your client’s cooperation,’ Gill said.

‘Of course,’ the solicitor said. ‘No brainer.’

The hostage negotiator, Stephen Lambton, was a slight, balding man with a big grin and a thick Geordie accent. He met Janet and Lee in one of the small interview rooms.

‘Given his need for control it’s going to be a delicate balancing act. He’ll be aware that he’s lost control, that we’ve taken his liberty, and with it his ability to act. And now we’re going to be asking him to give us information and he’s not going to want to share it with us. It’s the last vestige of control he’s got, so we need to undermine that view. The conversation needs to take him to a point where he accepts that concealing the children’s location no longer gives him any advantage. We need to persuade him that it’s game over.’

An unfortunate turn of phrase, thought Janet.

‘Our disadvantage is not knowing whether the children are still alive, but I think we can use that. What is crucial,’ Stephen emphasized, ‘is that we do not challenge the central tenet of his world view: that he acted in the interest of his family. If there is any hint of condemnation, anything that paints him as a villain, he’ll probably switch off completely. There’s an element of narcissism in this personality; the only perspective he accepts is his own. Everyone else is wrong. There is likely to be a great deal of anger and frustration that he’s not achieved his objective as it is. If he sees an opportunity to vent that, then we’re likely to lose him.’

Janet knew that in most situations there was a clear pattern to the interviews. Three stages. At first, encouraging the person to tell their story, at their pace, and with their choice of emphasis. Making them feel comfortable. Janet’s role to listen and absorb, apparently accepting everything that was said. The second stage, moving on to develop the account, building greater details, filling in gaps. And finally, if there was a mismatch between the account and other evidence acquired (from witnesses, CCTV, forensics and so on), going through each element, laying out for the suspect each flaw, every lie, any inconsistencies, and asking them to explain. All of which depended on the person being prepared to comment in the first place.

Stephen said, ‘The drive will be for him to remain master of his own narrative, to not have anyone misinterpret his actions, and that could work in our favour. Key to this is to remember he loves his family.’

Janet was surprised that her first thought on meeting Owen Cottam was that he looked a bit like Ade. If Ade were taller, fitter, fifteen years younger and had grown a moustache. He’d a similar pleasant but unremarkable face, a thickset build. Nothing extreme, no disturbing features. No mad eyes or twisted mouth to betray the killer inside him. The right side of his face was bruised and she could see little red burns about his hands and face, like the ones Rachel had.

His eyes were slightly unfocused when she said hello and he glanced at her, remote, as though he wasn’t really present. She wondered where he was in his head, and what he was thinking of. The long night at the inn, the flight with his sons, the crash?

She began the formalities. ‘My name is DC Janet Scott. Also present are DC Lee Broadhurst and duty solicitor Hazel Pullman. Please give me your full name and date of birth for the tape.’

‘Owen Cottam,’ he said quietly, ‘fifth of August, 1966.’

‘There are some points I need to make clear to you. You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Pamela Cottam, Penny Cottam and Michael Milne. And on suspicion of the attempted murder of Theo Cottam and Harry Cottam. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he said. His voice sounded dry, rusty.

‘This is your opportunity to tell us what happened, Mr Cottam. Before I ask you any questions, is there anything you want to say?’

‘No,’ he said. The fact that he had spoken at all gave Janet some hope.

‘There are several matters we will eventually wish to talk to you about, Mr Cottam. For now, I want to concentrate on where your children, Theo and Harry, are. And that is all I will be asking you about this morning. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he said again.

There was no desk between Janet and Cottam, no furniture to his right or left. The layout of the space was deliberate, designed to make the suspect feel exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing to hide behind, no table edge to fiddle with, no table legs to kick a foot against. No barrier, no support, no prop. Nothing to focus on for displacement activity. The interviewee was spatially isolated, so that the only interaction was with the interviewer opposite.

Janet knew she had to set aside the wider picture, the crime scene photos of Cottam’s victims, the acres of press coverage and speculation, the frantic hunt for the missing boys, her own troubles, and focus in on Owen Cottam. Ignore as much as possible the solicitor at his side, Lee behind her right shoulder taking notes, and the winking of the video camera. She must create a magic circle around herself and Owen Cottam. Undivided attention, endless patience, bottomless interest. Engineering it so that Cottam and what he could share was the only thing in her view, and similarly making Cottam feel that all there was in his world now was the woman opposite.

‘Can you tell me where they are, your boys?’

He didn’t respond and Janet let the silence play out.

‘Can you tell me why you took Theo and Harry from home on Monday morning?’

He gave a half-shrug.

‘We have a witness who saw you with the children later that day at ten past four when you stopped on the A570 to buy food and drink. The following morning, according to a second witness, the boys were with you when you stopped at a petrol station and were confronted. Where are they now?’

He didn’t meet her eye but looked up and past her.

‘Are they safe?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ he said. A gleam of something, perhaps hatred Janet thought, in his eyes.

‘It is my business,’ Janet said. ‘The preservation of life is my highest priority. Are Theo and Harry together?’ When he said nothing, she went on, ‘I think they are. I think they are together and they are waiting for you to come and get them.’

Cottam shuffled, but didn’t speak. ‘Your boys,’ she said, ‘you can’t be with them. No one’s with them. Will you help me find them?’

She saw slight movement, his hand tightening.

‘The reason why we are here,’ she said, ‘my duty as a police officer, is to protect people. Your sons need protection. You can’t protect them any more, you can’t go to them, and I think as their father you will want to see them safe.’

He closed his eyes momentarily.

‘You bought some rope yesterday,’ Janet said. ‘What was that for?’ No answer. ‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think you got the rope because you wanted to take your own life. I think you wanted to take the boys with you, too. So you’d all be together.’ Janet’s voice remained neutral. She could have been talking about a trip to a theme park or seats on an aeroplane rather than wholesale slaughter. But she could sense the tension mounting, see his knees pressed together, his facial muscles tighten as she described the failure of his scheme. ‘Now that can’t happen. You can’t be together, but they still need your protection. Theo and Harry need you to tell me where they are so I can get them to safety.’

‘It’s too late,’ he said.

Janet’s stomach fell. ‘Why is it too late?’ she asked, wanting him to spell it out.

No reply.

‘Please can you tell me what you mean by too late?’

‘It’s all too late,’ he said, ‘everything. They’ll be dead.’ Janet noticed the phrasing. They will be dead. Not they are dead. The syntax gave her a surge of hope.

‘What happened?’ she said. Having said they were dead, he should find it easier now to volunteer some details. But he was quiet for a long time.

‘Perhaps it’s not too late. If you help us get to Theo and Harry, we can bring them to safety.’

‘Not if they’re drowned you can’t,’ he said swiftly.

Janet looked up towards the video camera that was recording the whole interview. The word drowned should alert the team to avenues for the search. Lakes, canals, rivers, sewers. She remembered what Andy had said about mines and thought there might be shafts with underground water too.

‘How did they drown?’ she said.

He made fleeting eye contact with her, animosity plain in his expression.

‘Can you tell me how they drowned?’

Again nothing.

‘Can you tell me where they drowned?’

He took a slow breath in, didn’t answer.

‘I can’t verify what you told me unless you give me some more information,’ Janet said. ‘If it was true then help me prove it.’

His face was impassive, and he looked away and down. Absented himself as much as he was able.

‘Mr Cottam, I can’t take your word for it and I’d be failing in my responsibility as a police officer if I didn’t pursue this and bring your children back, even if it is too late.’

He continued to look at the floor.

‘You wanted everyone to be together, your family. Is that right?’

He didn’t respond but she saw his jaw twitch and his lips thin as though he’d seal them up if he could. And she saw how his fingers sought his wedding ring, no longer there – it had been confiscated with the rest of his belongings, a white band marking where it had been.

‘But at the moment your boys are on their own, not with you or their mum or their big sister.’

A tremor passed over his face and she watched his Adam’s apple move. She sensed he was uncomfortable and knew she had to be very careful not to alienate him. ‘It might be difficult to talk about these things, Mr Cottam, but everything I have heard about you tells me you were a family man, a good father. I think a good father would want to see his family reunited. Where are they? Tell me where they are and we can get someone to go and fetch them.’

His mouth worked and she thought he was about to speak then, but instead he cleared his throat and shifted position.

‘This – everything that’s happened over the last three days,’ Janet said, ‘I don’t think you wanted anyone to suffer. Am I right about that?’ Silence. ‘But what if the boys are suffering now? You can help us put an end to that. Will you do that? Will you help them?’

‘It’s too late,’ he said brusquely. Then he glared at her, pent-up energy leaking out. ‘Too late.’

‘If that is the case,’ Janet said, ‘let me fetch them back. They should be with the rest of the family. This isn’t what you want for them, is it?’

He didn’t answer. Janet waited for a moment, then decided to deal in some hard facts. If Cottam would not speak, she would have to keep going.

‘The day before yesterday you bought nappies for Theo and Harry, you bought food and drink and Calpol. What was the Calpol for? Was one of them poorly? Margaret says Theo gets earaches, is that right?’

He squirmed, that was the only word for it, and colour flushed his neck and cheeks. He did not like the new tack she was taking. Janet carried on, alert to the risk that she’d take a step too far and he’d shut down on her completely. ‘That was just after eight o’clock in the morning. Theo and Harry were alive then and you were looking after them, making sure they were fed and clean. What happened after that?’

He remained silent.

‘I know you left your car at Gallows Wood and I know you stole a vehicle close to there, a red Hyundai which you drove to B &Q yesterday to buy the rope and some bin bags. What were the bin bags for?’

He swallowed but didn’t speak.

‘You can still be a good father. A decent man. You can do this for your own father, for Pamela’s mother. For your boys.’

He closed his eyes. A refusal. Janet felt a flood of impatience, felt too hot, itchy in her skin. All of which she had to conceal. ‘Talk to me,’ she said simply. ‘Tell me about yesterday. Where did you leave Theo and Harry?’

The silence went on and on. Janet sat, her body as relaxed as she could make it, her eyes on him.

Silence isn’t golden. Not in an interview room. It’s oppressive. The silence seems to gain in weight as the seconds tick by. Janet sat it out, aware of the rhythm of her breathing, the smell of Cottam’s pungent male sweat reaching her. Darker and stronger than the talcum powder scent the lawyer gave off.

Janet watched Cottam and was disconcerted to see his tension gradually ease off, his hands relax. He scratched at his throat and closed his eyes. She was losing him. It was going to be a very long day.

18

Every item of interest from every path of the investigation was fed into the HOLMES database. At the click of a mouse, Gill could call up forensic details, witness statements, crime scene photographs, biographical information on any of the victims. The pool of information grew by the hour. As SIO she was the one person expected to have a complete overview. And to develop new lines of investigation as a result of studying the disparate elements.

Cottam’s assertion that his children would have drowned prompted Gill to plan a new strategy for the hunt. Lundfell and the Porlow retail park were taken as two fixed points to delineate a search area of some fifty miles diameter. Until one looked at an aerial view it was hard to imagine how many stretches of open water littered the landscape. In that zone alone there was a reservoir, a river with tributaries, a canal and two lakes as well as numerous smaller meres and streams. Gill did not have unlimited resources, even given what was at stake, and could not dispatch underwater search teams to all those locations.

In consultation with the POLSA, Mark Tovey, a police search adviser, she set out to establish an order of priority. Which sites were easiest to access from a vehicle? As they had no link for Cottam to the immediate area and he had not used his phone at all, they had to assume that he had found a site by chance, spotting something as he drove, or from a road atlas (a copy had been recovered from the Mondeo and there was one listed by Mr Wesley in the contents of the Hyundai – now so much ash).

The reservoir was secured by high, locked gates and monitored by CCTV so they ruled that out. Of the two lakes one was part of a country house estate, now used as a wedding and exhibition venue and not open to the public. The other, Kittle Lake, was a popular beauty spot. The river and canal were more problematic, with multiple access points at road bridges and in Porlow country park, and webbed with a network of public footpaths and bridleways.

‘At best it would be a scattergun approach,’ Mark Tovey said. ‘A body of water the size of that lake alone could take several days to cover. Meanwhile, if the bodies are in the river they’re getting moved downstream. We’re dealing with small bodies too, so that’s an additional factor to consider.’

Gill understood. ‘Harder to find. I’m not interested in a PR exercise,’ she said. ‘I’d rather hang fire and use you wisely. And all we’ve got to go on is his claim that they’ve drowned. He’s refusing to back it up with anything at all.’

‘What about forensics from the cars or his clothing?’ Tovey said.

‘Working on it. The Hyundai’s likely to give us less than we might have hoped for because of the fire. I’ve been promised results on the Mondeo today. Cottam’s footwear and clothing are being fast-tracked now.’ Gill had got the forensics lab to pull out all the stops, which meant paying extra, but if anything could tell them where he had come from to the retail park, his shoes were probably the best bet. ‘Soon as I get anything on that, we’ll look at this again, yes?’

He agreed.

She saw him out, then turned back to look over the map. An area of almost two thousand square miles. There have to be some clues somewhere, she thought. We’ve got to find them.

Everything was in the system but now it was a waiting game.

Cottam was taking his statutory break and Gill had pulled together the team for updates. ‘Gallows Wood gave us nothing, except the Mondeo,’ Gill said. ‘No sign he even entered the wood itself. We have increased patrols and we are repeating the appeal to the public throughout the Lancashire area to look in their garages and outhouses.’

‘When he took the car it was low on petrol. He didn’t fill up anywhere,’ Mitch said.

‘That we know of,’ said Kevin.

‘There are only four petrol stations in the area,’ Gill told them, ‘and all have been visited and alerted. So, yes, it’s more likely he kept his mileage low. Holed up somewhere like he did on the first night. Nevertheless, we are keeping the net wide in terms of public assistance. Today is day four, over forty-eight hours since the children were seen by Rahid. Forty-eight hours since he bought provisions. Janet’s just gone three rounds with him. He’s been less than cooperative, yes?’

‘He’s implied repeatedly that the children are dead,’ Janet said, ‘and that they drowned, but I’m interested in how he put it. The first time he said They’ll be dead, and the second Not if they’re drowned. Conditional. He was not making a definite statement.’

‘It means the same thing, though,’ Rachel said.

‘I’m not sure,’ Janet said. ‘I think they might still be alive and he’s stalling because he doesn’t want us to find them. He doesn’t want us to save them.’

‘But the bin bags,’ Rachel said. ‘Whether he’s killed them by drowning or strangled them with the missing shoelace or whatever, the bin bags point to him having something to get rid of.’

‘If they are still alive he might have been planning to drown them,’ Pete said. ‘Drown them in the bags like you would kittens.’

‘Isn’t it usually sacks?’ Mitch said.

‘Water wouldn’t fill a bin bag as quickly,’ Andy agreed.

‘Suppose it’d still do the job,’ Rachel said, ‘if you weighed it down with a brick or stones or whatever, tied it up, chucked it in. Maybe the air runs out before it fills with water. Either way the job’s done and it’ll take months for the bin bag to rot so no nasty surprises for a while.’ Rachel pragmatic as ever, Gill thought.

‘He’s not worried about surprises,’ Janet said. ‘He’s not been trying to escape detection. He didn’t expect to be around much longer anyway so he’s not been planning long term.’

‘Okay,’ Gill said, ‘we’re speculating. We don’t know if the drowning is fact or fiction but it’s all he’s given us. If it is, or was, his intention and if he’s remained in the area as we think, these are the places where he might accomplish it.’ Andy pulled up a satellite view of the area. ‘We’ve ruled out Lundfell Reservoir and the smaller lake at Groby Hall House. That leaves Kittle Lake in the west, the River Douglas near Wigan in the east, and the Leeds & Liverpool Canal. Several small meres in the north.’

Gill heard the various sighs and murmurs from the team as they reacted to the sheer scale of potential crime sites. ‘I’m in touch with a POLSA. Until we narrow it down, I can’t call out fire service search and rescue,’ she said, ‘but if we reach a point where we can focus our energies that’s what I intend to do.’

‘But the rope,’ Rachel said. ‘The rope must be so he could string himself up.’

‘Or to tie up the bags-’ Kevin began.

‘No, listen,’ Rachel interrupted. ‘Everyone’s saying that he wants to die and he wants to take the family with him. So we want trees, don’t we, or something else with some height.’

Gill almost reprimanded Rachel for barging in but the point she was making was valid, so she let her continue.

‘And I bet he’ll want them to be together, the three of them, so he’ll do it next to the kids if they’re dead already, drowned or whatever. If they’re alive he’ll hang them with him.’

‘Not easy to hang a child, not enough weight,’ Mitch said. His army experience had given him a breadth of knowledge beyond that gained in the police.

‘We know that; he might not,’ Rachel said. ‘All this talk of drowning – I think he’s trying to throw us off the scent. We fart around in wet suits and the kids are in some forest somewhere. It’s bollocks.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, DC Bailey,’ Gill said, irritated that Rachel dared to criticize her strategy. ‘Janet, you and Lee go prep for your next interview. The rest of you, actions as follows: Pete talk to Dennis and Barry Cottam – any link, however slim, to the area. Rachel – same with Margaret Milne and Lynn. Mitch, work with Andy on any sightings, timeline, CCTV, ANPR. Go.’

Rachel had been sent to ask Margaret Milne and Lynn about the location. Any ties they could think of. Pete was asking the same questions of Dennis and Barry Cottam. Rachel thought it should have been the other way round, since she had already met the Cottams and continuity was always thought to be an advantage in liaison with the families and victims. But given that Godzilla still had her on the naughty step she wasn’t going to quibble.

She had briefed herself before driving over, read through Janet’s report on the Margaret Milne interview, revisited what Lynn had told them.

Lynn’s house was in Moston, north Manchester. A council house but in one of the better parts of the area where the tenants were more likely to be in work and some had exercised their right to buy and set up home watch schemes and the like. Red-brick semis, three bedrooms and a garden.

One of Lynn’s teenage lads answered the door, nodded at her request to see Lynn, moved to fetch her, then appeared to think better of leaving Rachel on the doorstep and invited her in. She could smell pizza or something similar and her stomach growled with hunger.

Lynn, a scrawny black woman, came through from the kitchen at the back, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

‘Rachel Bailey.’ Rachel showed her warrant card. ‘Did the family liaison officer explain?’

‘Yes,’ Lynn said, unsmiling. ‘You want to talk to Margaret as well?’

‘Please.’

‘She’s been trying to rest,’ Lynn said. ‘We’ll go in here. I’ll let her know.’

Rachel waited in the front room. The television was on mute, showing some chat show. Rachel had no idea what it was. She watched precious little television and never in the afternoon.

Margaret Milne looked wretched, broken. Hair flattened at one side of her head, face a sickly grey, no make-up. She shook hands with Rachel and her hand felt cool and limp as though there wasn’t enough blood pumping round her veins any more.

‘As you know,’ Rachel began when both women were seated, ‘Owen was detained yesterday.’

‘There’s still no news?’ Margaret said slowly, her eyes painfully bright in contrast with her dull complexion and sluggish manner.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Rachel said. ‘Can either of you think of anywhere in Lancashire that Owen has a connection with, perhaps near Porlow, or Wigan? I’ve brought a map to help you see exactly where we’re talking about.’

Rachel’s hand stung as she unfolded the map, a large-scale one, which made it easier to see the towns, villages and natural features in the area.

‘This,’ she touched the map south of Lundfell, at the edge of Gallows Wood, with the wrong end of her pen, ‘is where Owen’s car was found. Over here,’ she tapped the retail park over to the right at Porlow, ‘is where he was apprehended. That’s a distance of ten miles. You can see these are the main towns.’ She named them: Ormskirk to the west, Wigan to the east, Skelmersdale between them, Parbold and Lundfell in the north. ‘Anything?’ She looked from Margaret to Lynn.

‘No,’ Lynn said, and Margaret shook her head.

‘He was working at the pub nearly all the time,’ Lynn said. ‘It was hard for them to get away. They had to get cover.’

Margaret nodded. ‘It wasn’t like he had a social life or a gang of fellers he’d be going off with,’ she said. ‘You are still looking?’ Fear trembled in her eyes. ‘There is a search going on?’

‘There is, but it’s a large area and we’d be more effective if we could narrow it down,’ Rachel said.

‘But there might not be a link,’ Lynn said. ‘Owen might never have been there in his life before. That’s possible, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel agreed, getting ready to leave. And if that is the case, she thought privately, then we really are buggered.

She had just opened the car door when Lynn came rushing down the path. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said. ‘When Owen took Michael fishing, I think they went somewhere over that way, going towards Liverpool. That’s the right direction, isn’t it? I don’t know if that helps.’

‘Why go all that way to fish?’ Rachel said. ‘Surely there’s fish nearer?’ She remembered kids in Langley heading off down the cut with makeshift rods. Anything they pulled out of there would be toxic, but no one bothered.

Lynn shrugged. ‘I think it was one of the regulars put them on to it, went with them at first. Perhaps he had a ticket thing, the thing you need.’

‘Fishing licence,’ Rachel remembered from training. You could be fined for fishing without one. Bought them at the post office. ‘You know who he was, the feller that took them?’

‘No,’ Lynn said.

‘Might Margaret?’

Lynn shrugged. They went back through to the lounge, where Margaret was sitting staring into space. She hadn’t moved since Rachel had left. Rachel wondered what she was thinking about, or if she’d escaped into some blank vacuum away from her sorrow. She asked her about the fishing, about a pub regular who introduced Owen and Michael to it, but Margaret just gave a small shake of her head.

From doing the house-to-house, Rachel had a clear tally of the regulars in her mind. There weren’t many: the pub had been on its way out. She drove back to the Larks estate. The inn was still cordoned off and a couple of CSI vans were parked on the roadside as the investigators continued to work at the scene. Floral tributes lined the grass verge.

Rachel followed one of the crescents round to the house where the birthday boy lived. He had been celebrating his thirtieth at the pub on the night of the murders. One of the last group of customers to be served by Owen Cottam.

‘You’ve arrested him?’ he said, looking concerned.

‘Yes.’

‘Still hard to believe.’ He was shaking his head, looking for her to respond. After a murder everyone they came across wanted to go over it with them, pick apart the reasons, relive the shock of hearing, speculate on how close they’d been to the horrific event. But once the police had taken initial statements they simply didn’t have time to stand around chewing the cud.

‘I don’t need to come in,’ Rachel said. ‘I wanted to ask you about Owen and Michael going fishing. If you knew of a regular at the pub who took them with him?’

‘That’d be Billy,’ he said. The neighbour, the one whose dog Cottam let loose. ‘Billy Dawson. He was from Ormskirk originally – think he was in an angling club that way. He’s in hospital now. Cancer.’

Rachel had no idea whether Billy knew anything about events at the inn but presumably Tessa would have had to tell him something to explain why his dog Pepper was no longer being looked after by the Cottams. And unless Billy was comatose he’d have heard about the murders from the news and the papers and the gossip swirling round the town.

Rachel rang Andy before she set off. Avoiding too much one to one with Her Maj till things blew over.

‘The dog, the one from the crime scene, who’s got it now?’ she said.

‘Not sure, hang on…’ Before she could object she heard him say, ‘Gill, where did the black Lab end up?’

‘Who wants to know?’ Rachel heard the boss ask.

‘Rachel,’ Andy said.

Rachel’s heart sank. There was a clatter, then, ‘Rachel?’ Godzilla’s voice came on.

‘I might have found a connection to the area,’ Rachel said, ‘but I need to talk to Billy Dawson. If he asks about his dog I wondered what to tell him.’

‘Neighbour’s got it. Tessa,’ Godzilla said and hung up. No pretence at civility. Stuff her, thought Rachel. She can’t keep it up for ever. Though it felt like a lifetime already. Because the boss was everything Rachel wanted to be, in the professional sphere. She led the best syndicate in Manchester. Ninety-nine per cent of the time she was solid, giving support and encouragement in equal measure. But when she wasn’t, when she went off on one, it was fucking horrible. And it always seemed to be Rachel on the receiving end. Sometimes Rachel wondered if Her Maj was jealous, of Rachel’s youth, perhaps, or of how much easier it was to progress in the twenty-first century. But then she felt a tit for thinking like that. The boss had no need to be jealous of anyone.

Billy was tucked up in his hospital bed. A ward of four. Three old blokes and a younger man who was sitting up, his eyes closed and earphones on.

With his wild white hair and full beard, Billy looked like an old seaman. Just needed a pipe and a stripy jumper. And a monkey or a parrot.

‘Mr Dawson, I’m DC Bailey,’ Rachel said.

‘Been a naughty boy, have I?’ he said. ‘Got the handcuffs, have you, ossifer?’

Great! He’s a joker. Rachel didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. Stupid old fart. She drew the curtains round the bed to give them a semblance of privacy. ‘I want to talk to you in connection with a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She moved the bedside chair to face him but not too close to the bed. His face straightened and he gave a stiff nod.

‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘When you find him he wants stringing up. I’d do it for you if you’re short-handed, like.’

‘You used to go fishing?’ Rachel said.

‘That’s right.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Always was a good man with a rod.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You got all sorts, Rachel knew, but she did wonder if his illness had addled his brains a bit, so that he didn’t know what was appropriate any more. Or was it simply that after a lifetime of taking the piss and saying everything with a nod and a salacious wink it was impossible to abandon the habit.

‘And you accompanied Owen and Michael Milne sometimes?’

‘I did, before all this.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kittle Lake. Lundfell Anglers have rights there. They’ve a few pitches round thereabouts.’

Rachel felt her heart thump. ‘Thank you.’ She closed her notebook.

‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re not going to ask me what we caught?’

‘No, I’m not.’ She pulled the curtains back. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

Still he spoke, determined to play his game. ‘I caught a whopper, naturally. Hah!’ He gave a laugh, but then his tone changed as he said, ‘He was a good lad, you know.’

‘Owen?’ Rachel was aware that not only could the other patients now hear the exchange, they could see it too. She edged closer to the bed, masking Billy from the room.

‘No, Michael,’ he said. ‘Slow like, simple, born before his crust was done, they used to say.’

‘How did he and Owen get on?’

‘Fair enough,’ he said.

‘But they gave up the fishing?’

‘They went a few times after but they didn’t stick it. Not got the staying power,’ he winked, ‘if you get my drift.’ He licked at his lips. Rachel felt like throwing up. ‘Why’re you interested in all that?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I can keep a secret, if you can. Strong silent type, I am.’

Gill was working her way through the latest reports when Mary Biddulph from the forensic science lab called her up. ‘I’m emailing you our reports on the Ford Mondeo,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to tell you what we’ve got in person. Something that might be of use. Material from the tyre treads on the Mondeo includes a significant proportion of guano.’

‘Bird-shit,’ Gill said, her mind running ahead. ‘Just testing. Canada geese.’

‘Which gives us?’

‘Open water. Bird reserve, lake, canal, river. Several sites with colonies in your area, according to my bloke at the RSPB.’

‘What about his footwear?’

‘Still being examined.’

Gill sighed. ‘I wanted that done as a priority. That was what I asked you to do.’

‘Going as fast as we can,’ Mary said sharply. ‘As well as the bird droppings, we have material from a number of native trees, willow, oak, beech and alder, suggestive of mixed woodland. A lot of that in your area but the willow also suggests a location close to water.’

When Rachel phoned through the news about the fishing trips, that coupled with the forensic material from the Mondeo was enough to focus attention on Kittle Lake. Gill instructed CSIs to make an initial assessment. Within twenty minutes of their reaching the lakeside, word came back that tyre tracks matching the Mondeo had been found in a shaded area of the car park used by visitors to the lake. Gill immediately got back on to Mark Tovey from POLSA and contacted the fire and rescue service to plan a search of the lake. Local uniforms were drafted in to cordon off the area.

Gill sent word to the team so everyone would be up to speed and asked Kevin to look for anything in the exhibits that might be pertinent to the new line of inquiry. She felt hopeful that they were getting closer. She did not want to dwell on the possibility that the children were already dead. Drowned in the lake. Time would tell. Time and their best efforts.

19

Janet had placed a small table at her side in the interview room. On it were a pile of photographs requisitioned from the exhibits. Some were framed. She had also asked for the family photograph album and had a selection of pictures from that at the ready.

‘I’d like to show you something, Owen.’

‘Mr Cottam,’ he said. ‘You call me Mr Cottam.’ Still trying to master the situation, control what he can, thought Janet.

‘Of course, Mr Cottam. Here, for the purposes of the tape, I am showing Mr Cottam a framed photograph, exhibit KL41.’ She held it so it was square on to him. ‘You and Theo and Harry, just after Harry was born. Tell me about this picture.’

He shook his head.

‘You look very happy. Your father told us you always wanted boys. Is that right?’

‘A man likes to have a son,’ he said.

‘Why is that?’

If she could just get him talking, keep him talking, unpick his mute resistance, she’d have a better chance of getting the crucial information they wanted.

He shrugged.

‘It felt different from having Penny?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

Another shrug.

‘Tell me about them. Theo – what’s he like?’

No answer.

‘He looks like you,’ she said. ‘Am I right?’

He rubbed at his forehead and sat back in his seat.

‘It’s confusing for us,’ she said. ‘People say you’re a good father, there looking out for your kids. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘But now your boys are on their own, no one to protect them. Doesn’t that bother you?’

He looked torn between the desire to respond and the wish to conceal the facts from her.

‘You can’t be with them. You’re stuck here. They must feel you’ve abandoned them.’

‘No,’ he said vehemently. ‘No, I’ve not.’

‘Not intentionally, but I need to make it clear to you that you will be held here and probably charged and it is almost inevitable that you will be remanded in custody. You have no chance whatsoever of getting back to them. The only way they can be reached is if you tell us where they are.’

His left fist was clenched, bumping on his chin. The tension in him was palpable.

‘A good father,’ Janet said. ‘What would a good father do?’ She put down the photograph and picked up another: Theo on a bouncy castle. He was sitting near the edge and looking at the camera. Perhaps someone had called his name. He wasn’t grinning or mugging for the camera as so many children do in that situation, but his face was bright and open as though a smile might follow.

She held the photograph up, facing Cottam. ‘Theo won’t go to sleep on his own. One of you has to stay with him. He’s just a little boy – your little boy. Please, Mr Cottam, tell me where he is.’

He was trembling, the muscles under the skin of his face flickering, but he said, ‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ Janet said. ‘Tiger, that’s his nickname, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t you-’ He didn’t like the intimacy. ‘Don’t.’ Didn’t like where it was taking him, she suspected.

‘You can help him, you can let us fetch him and his brother back. If they’re alive-’

‘They’re not.’

‘But they are alone. You don’t want that. To leave them alone.’

‘It’s… it’s done,’ he stammered, which made him sound less sure than he might. Was there uncertainty there? Could she exploit that?

‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’

‘I am.’ He turned his face to the side, pinched his moustache. Hiding his mouth, hiding the lie, Janet wondered?

‘If that’s the case, if Theo and Harry are dead, then why would you care about what happens now? Why not just let us recover them? You’re an intelligent man.’

‘No,’ he said, which was no answer at all.

‘I think you’re letting them down.’ Janet wanted to provoke a response but there was a risk that the provocation might make him refuse to answer, which would be disastrous. She said, ‘If they are dead, shouldn’t they be with their mum and their sister? And if they’re alive surely they’ll be frightened. They might be cold and hungry and thirsty. Is that how you want it to be? You know what people are saying about you? They’re saying you didn’t care.’

Janet heard a tiny explosion of air from his nose, a snort of derision that he tried to mask.

‘People are saying you betrayed your own family.’

He stood swiftly, roaring, ‘They are my kids, mine. You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t.’ Rage made his face red, thickening the veins in his neck and on his forehead, but Janet remained calm. At least on the outside.

‘Isn’t it about time you accepted your responsibility for them, then? Acted like a man? Like a decent man?’

He stood for a moment, shaking, then sat without her needing to ask.

‘Where are Theo and Harry? Look.’ She held up a picture of Harry crawling, one that had been on the living room table at the inn and had Cottam’s prints on it. Had he been looking at it while he waited to begin the killings? ‘He’s only eighteen months old, Harry – he’s the cheeky one, into everything. He’s not old enough to understand why you’ve left. He can’t ask for help and he might be crying. Crying for you. There could be a ground frost tonight. Harry, he’ll be at risk of hypothermia if he’s not somewhere warm. He’ll be confused. He’ll be shivering. He might be thirsty, too. But he’s too little to find a drink for himself. Did you leave him a drink?’

He glared at her, then away.

‘Mr Cottam, I will sit here asking you these questions all day and all night for however long it takes. My duty as a police officer is to preserve life, to prevent crime. I’m committed to saving the lives of two tiny little boys who, through no fault of their own, have been abandoned. I hope Theo and Harry are still alive. I’m not prepared to accept otherwise unless you give me proof. So I will continue to act as if they are alive. I’m asking for your help. You can do the right thing, as a loving parent would do, and end this now. Tell me where to find them.’ She sat and let the silence swell to fill the room till the pressure in the air seemed to alter, making it dense and oppressive, but still Owen Cottam sat impassive and unyielding.

A cordon had been erected preventing public access to Kittle Lake and a dive team from the fire and rescue service were preparing to search. Gill had spoken to Mark Tovey, who told her that the biggest problem would be limited visibility. It always was with water. The lake was not particularly deep but silt would soon cloud the water and the search would be as much a tactile as a visual exercise. They had three hours of daylight left, at best. Only enough to cover a fraction of the area. She wanted someone from her team down there, a direct conduit, able to shortcut questions if the divers found anything.

She called Rachel into her office. ‘If I task you with attending the search at Kittle Lake can I trust you not to turn it into some extreme sports event? You won’t try and join in? No misguided heroic stupidity?’

Rachel had the grace to flush. ‘You can trust me, boss.’

‘Have you completed your written report on the Porlow incident?’

‘Yes, boss.’

She chewed at her lip, stared at the floor.

‘Sometimes you act like you’re bullet-proof, Rachel. You’re not; none of us are. You saw what happened to Janet. I thought that might have taught you a lesson. Stab us and we bleed. In this job we need three hundred and sixty degrees thinking. A situation like that, there is you,’ Gill demonstrated with her hands, ‘and there is the suspect. You,’ Gill pointed at her, ‘you think in a straight line, like a dog after a rabbit. But if that dog is running through a minefield then it’s boom! Pedigree Chum. Three hundred and sixty degrees; not just your target but what’s either side. Who’s behind you. Who has your back. You have to think of other people. Impact assessment. Risk assessment. Not there for fun or because some wanker with a set of shiny pencils wants to make life harder. There for a reason. How do I drum it into you?’

‘I know, boss, I’m sorry. Have you decided what-’

‘No. When I have you’ll be informed.’

‘Yes, boss.’

The lake was reached by a narrow track from the car park, where a sign told visitors that the fishing rights belonged to the Lundfell Angling Association and gave a phone number to ring.

Rachel met the man coordinating the search, Mark Tovey, who took her to see the tread mark which a simple cast had proved to be a match to the front nearside tyre on the Mondeo.

The extent of the lake was visible from the shore where she stood, larger than she’d expected and oval in shape. At the far end the land rose up and was covered in trees and the right bank above the car park was wooded too. But the left-hand side was bare scrubland. A path circled the water and small wooden platforms here and there marked fishing spots. A large flock of Canada geese, maybe twenty, seemed unruffled by the activity and continued to peck at the fringes of the lake and the grassland around and leave curds of greeny-brown shit everywhere. There were some sort of seagulls too, squawking away. The sky felt low. Fat grey clouds moved overhead, pushed by the wind that sent waves rippling across the surface of the water, breaking up the reflections there.

Rachel watched from the lakeside as the dive team went about their work. There were no buildings in sight, which was an added attraction if you were looking for somewhere to dispose of a body, or two. Rachel kept coming back to the bin liners. If the children had already drowned, why buy bin bags? Unless he’d drowned them in very shallow water and now had two corpses to dispose of. It only took a couple of inches, didn’t it? Toddlers drowned in the garden pond, in the bath. As a beat copper, way back, Rachel had once been sent to exactly such a scene. A grandmother it was, babysitting, and the granddaughter playing in the bath. ‘Two minutes,’ the woman kept saying over and over, ‘I was only out of the room two minutes, to answer the phone.’ The phone call had been the child’s mother, calling to check if everything was all right, to say night night. Away with friends at a hen party. Two minutes. And the child was dead.

Mark Tovey told Rachel it would be a slow, methodical operation, and after watching for a while longer she decided to wait in her car, out of the cold. There she’d be out of sight of the lake itself, so she asked him to come and get her if anything turned up. She spent some time working through her notebook, then phoned the funeral home. When the man answered she said, ‘I spoke to you yesterday. Bailey. You quoted two thousand pounds for a basic cremation, fees and the coffin and everything. We’d like to go ahead, next Friday if you can.’

‘We can do ten thirty,’ he said. ‘Would you want extra cars?’

‘No, just one, to the crematorium.’ She gave Alison’s address.

She rang Alison at home, expecting to get the answerphone with it being office hours, but instead got Alison herself.

‘Oh, hi, it’s me,’ Rachel said. ‘You skiving?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Alison retorted. ‘Little one’s been throwing up all night. Playing nurse.’

‘Right, it’s all sorted, set for ten thirty a week tomorrow. Car will come to yours about quarter past. Buffet after.’

‘Okay,’ Alison said. ‘I’ve been trying to think if there’s anyone else we need to tell.’

‘Such as?’ Rachel said.

‘His mate Henry. Do you remember Henry?’ Alison said.

‘No.’ The name meant nothing to Rachel.

‘I don’t know if he’s still around.’

‘What’s his surname?’ Rachel said.

‘Don’t know, he was always known as Big Henry. Look, maybe Dad had an address book in his room. Is his stuff still at the B &B?’

‘Not sure,’ Rachel said. She’d a hazy memory of Tintwhistle saying that the B &B wanted the room clearing.

‘We should find out, see what there is,’ Alison said.

We again. Trying to rope Rachel in. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anything there,’ Rachel said. ‘You can always tell them just to get rid.’

‘Without even going through it?’ Alison said.

Rachel thought of the cuttings. Her stomach twisted at the idea of Alison poring over those, where that might lead, lectures about how much he cared really and loneliness and favouritism and whatever else.

‘Leave it with me,’ Rachel said. ‘If I find Big Henry or anyone else, I’ll let you know. I just wanted to tell you about the funeral. And it’s all paid for.’

‘Thanks. What do I owe you?’ Alison said.

Rachel told her.

‘Bloody hell!’

‘There’s no rush,’ Rachel said.

‘Right, okay.’

‘Got to go,’ Rachel said. ‘See you later.’

Her phone rang immediately. Godzilla. ‘Boss?’

‘Rachel. No news, I assume?’

‘Nothing. They’ve not been in long, though,’ Rachel said.

‘We’ve soil analysis from Cottam’s footwear, different make-up from that found in the Mondeo tyres.’

‘Well, he had been driving around in the Hyundai, hadn’t he, different places, to the retail park and that,’ Rachel said.

‘Swan-shit,’ Godzilla barked.

‘Say again.’ Rachel thought she’d misheard.

‘Swan-shit, shit from swans. Big white birds,’ irritable still and making Rachel feel thick. ‘There are still some traces of the geese waste, but there are also seeds from different plants which our forensic scientists tell us is likely to mean he spent time at another waterside location after he was at Kittle Lake. Can’t be any more specific than that. Can you tell Mark? See what his take is on it.’

‘Yes, boss. Has Janet got anywhere?’

‘Not yet,’ the boss said.

Rachel got out of the car and walked up to the lakeside. She was passing on Godzilla’s message when a signal came from one of the team, a diver with his arm raised in the air. Rachel’s pulse gave a jump and she hurried around the shore. The diver pulled off his mask and spat, then said, ‘Bulky object wrapped in plastic.’

They had special equipment for retrieving anything, a hoist which they set up in the shallow water. The sling was lowered and manoeuvred around the discovery. It seemed to take for ever with the men in the water stopping every few minutes to make adjustments. Rachel wanted to scream at them to get their bloody fingers out.

‘We have to take it slowly. Could be very fragile after being in the water,’ Mark Tovey explained, probably sensing Rachel’s impatience. ‘We puncture or rip the outer layer and we could corrupt everything and destroy potential evidence.’

The bundle when it finally emerged in the dying light, trailing weeds and ropes of water, was about four foot long, roughly rotund. The covering, dull black sheeting dappled with green slime. Not a bin bag; perhaps some sort of building material?

The hoist swung the thing slowly round, still streaming water, and over the shore, where it was lowered on to a large plastic sheet designed to contain any evidence and prevent anything from leaking away into the ground. The sling was carefully removed.

Mark used a camera to document the find from all angles before taking a pair of large scissors to one end of it. Pond liner, Rachel thought; the covering was like pond liner. Mark cut along the shorter edge. Then knelt, angling the scissors, and sliced along the length of the plastic. She braced herself, trying to prepare for whatever she might see. Without looking up at any of them, in silence, Mark pulled at the plastic sheeting and peeled it back.

‘Oh, fuck!’ said Rachel, taking in the long, yellow teeth, the sodden, matted fur, the glimpse of bones.

Mark sat back on his heels. ‘Dead dog,’ he said unnecessarily.

‘Alsatian, be my guess,’ a diver said.

‘Barking up the wrong tree there,’ said the one who’d first alerted them to it. And the tension was released in an explosion of laughter.

Mark looked up at the sky. ‘That’s us for today, lads.’

Turning to leave, after agreeing that Mark Tovey would liaise directly with DCI Murray, Rachel realized that it was nearly full dark. Her torch was in her car so she used her phone to light the way back, almost stumbling on the uneven ground.

She wondered if there was more in the lake, if tomorrow’s find would be grimmer, or if tomorrow would be as much of a dead loss as today had been.

20

‘Boss.’ Kevin stood at Gill’s office door.

‘Kevin?’

‘The fishing thing.’

‘No joy at the lake. Tomorrow’s another day,’ Gill said. Wondering if it would be a day too late – or if they were too late already.

‘Yes, I got that, but the techs – they’ve come up with some pictures on the computer.’

‘Pictures?’ Gill thinking for a moment of pornography, which she got to see far too much of in her line of work.

‘Snapshots, a couple from a fishing trip.’ Kevin waved printed copies her way. Gill beckoned for them. Kevin passed them over. The first was an out-of-focus snap of Owen Cottam, a box of fishing tackle at his side, stooping to pick something up and looking back at the camera. A straight edge to the bank near his feet, a corner of dark water beyond.

‘The date fits,’ Kevin said. ‘Last year, summer, fishing season.’ His face bright with satisfaction.

Gill swapped the photos over. The second showed Michael Milne standing, his fishing rod upright in one hand at his side, like a picture of some warrior with his spear, or a safari hunter with his blunderbuss. Behind him at some distance a road bridge.

‘I think this is a canal,’ Gill said quickly. ‘Look, the bridge, and here, the edge is completely straight. It’s not the lake.’ She thought of the latest from forensics, the combination of material found on Cottam’s shoes. An indication that Cottam had been at a different waterside location. This one?

‘There’s some numbers or something here.’ She pointed to a rectangle on the brickwork of the bridge, a metal plate. ‘Get this magnified, enhanced if necessary, and sent through to our contact at the waterways. We want to know where that bridge is. My money’s somewhere on the Leeds & Liverpool Canal. Is Rachel back?’

‘No, boss,’ Kevin said.

‘Okay.’ Gill called Pete through and showed him the pictures. ‘Cottam and Michael fishing last year, a canal. Find out if the Lundfell Angling Association have any rights on any canal and whereabouts they are.’ Should she rethink the search? Hang fire on the lake and concentrate on the canal? Based on what? Two photographs and the rather generalized biological profile from Cottam’s footwear? She decided to ask Mark Tovey. She needed his advice.

‘Nice one, Kevin,’ she said, and watched him preen with pleasure. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

‘I know you’re up to your eyes,’ Janet said, ‘and now’s probably the worst possible time…’

‘What?’ Gill took her glasses off. She looked as tired as Janet felt, her eyes narrow, frown lines on her forehead.

‘Quick drink?’

Gill hesitated. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she said. ‘Have to be over the road?’

‘Yes, fine.’ Janet wasn’t going to put it off any longer. She owed it to Gill to tell her that she might need more time off, that her health was iffy. Seeing her mum had brought it home to her big time, like a shovel in the face. And there were wider repercussions. Gill might need to bring someone new into the syndicate, find someone else to interview Geoff Hastings. Janet was the most experienced interviewer on the team and Gill would want to find someone of a similar calibre to replace her, or choose one of her existing staff members to develop. Lee would be good, and Rachel was improving. But if Rachel got her sergeant’s ranking she would be tangled up in all the managerial stuff that came with it.

In the pub, Janet bought a glass of white wine, turning down the offer of a bottle. She’d be driving home later. Gill stuck to cola.

‘How’s your mum?’ she asked.

‘She’s fine,’ Janet said. ‘She’s going to be okay. They want to run some more tests, but she was lucky. Another half an hour…’ Janet shook her head. ‘Out of the blue. And how’re things with Sammy?’

Gill rolled her eyes. ‘Spent the night with his girlfriend after telling Dave he was going to mine.’

‘No!’

‘I kid you not. Apparently they had a barney, Dave and Sammy, so Sammy slung his hook, then lied about it,’ Gill said.

‘Not everything in the garden’s rosy then?’ Janet knew how much Gill had resented Dave’s pretending to play at happy families, in the wake of breaking up his marriage.

‘I met the whore of Pendlebury.’ Gill clapped her hands lightly together.

‘Gill! And?’ Janet said.

‘Wish I hadn’t.’

Janet jumped in before she could get cold feet. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Gill said slowly.

Janet had the glass in her hand, something to hold on to. She took a swallow of wine. ‘I’m not well.’ Her throat tightened on hearing it aloud. ‘I’m sorry. They said there was a risk, after the surgery, that I’d get adhesions. Which means operating again.’

‘Oh, God,’ Gill said.

‘And I might have to go on the sick, long term. Or even retire.’

Gill looked shocked. ‘Janet. Does it hurt? When did you find out?’

‘I’ve not seen the GP yet but I will as soon as I can. But I looked it up; it’s all there. I can’t control my temperature, I get fever, headaches and nausea, bloating – that’s a main symptom. My digestion’s gone to pot, which is making me irritable… oh, I don’t know. I’ve been such a bitch at home. I’m so pissed off.’

Gill didn’t say anything for a moment but there was an odd look in her eyes, as though she was weighing something up. She had a drink, then said, ‘The fever – it comes on suddenly?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sweat at night?’

‘Buckets,’ Janet said.

‘What about your periods?’

‘Irregular. Well, non-existent at the moment,’ Janet said.

‘You daft cow,’ Gill said.

‘What?’ Gill was laughing at her when she was potentially facing the end of her life as a detective, about to be pensioned off, sick. ‘It’s not funny,’ she said angrily, feeling the heat bloom through her again and the irritation prick like thorns. ‘Christ, Gill, I expected a bit of bloody sympathy.’

‘It’s the menopause, you daft bat,’ Gill said.

‘What?’

Gill held up a hand. ‘Hot flushes, night sweats,’ ticking off a finger with each symptom, ‘bloating, headaches, mood swings.’

Janet was stunned.

‘Classic,’ Gill said. ‘You’re going through the change. It’s a bloody nightmare but a few years and you should be fine.’

‘Years!’

‘It varies,’ Gill allowed. She lifted her glass. ‘I’d still check with your GP to be on the safe side, but if I’m wrong you can sue me.’

Not adhesions? No surgery? No enforced retirement? Janet covered her eyes, embarrassed and hugely relieved, close to tears.

‘You’ll have to do better than that to pull a long-term sickie on me,’ Gill said.

‘So… you?’

‘Got off lightly so far. Can see the light. Now… I hear the flooding is probably the worst. You might want to invest in rubber sheets. And then there’s the depression, of course.’

‘Spare me,’ Janet said, feeling giddy now. A reprieve. A big, fat, bloody wonderful reprieve.

The vacuum cleaner wasn’t picking up properly. Rachel did her best but there were still feathers stuck fast to the carpet when she was done. She half expected the people from the other flat to complain, but when else was she going to get a chance to hoover? Six a.m. wouldn’t be any better. It was going on for eleven and she couldn’t settle. She tried channel-hopping then switched the TV off and got a book she’d been reading, an American true crime tome about the development of forensics, but she couldn’t concentrate on that either.

‘Fuck it!’ she said aloud, and decided she had to get out. It took exactly twenty minutes for her to shower, throw on some slap, get dressed. The taxi took another five minutes and she was at the bar before midnight, ordering a vodka tonic. It was busier than she had expected and the people who’d been there longer were partying now, some of them rowdy. It was a club that the police knew and used, so it was unlikely that anything much would kick off bar a fist fight between two coppers shagging the same woman. Or man. There was always a lot of shagging around in the police service, whether because of being thrown together in sometimes dangerous situations, or being in one big gang, or something to do with the effect of wearing uniforms, Rachel had no idea. She wasn’t here looking for an affair, not even a one-night stand, but a bit of attention, a bit of company, a bit of a laugh would hit the spot.

His name was Graham or Greg and he worked in IT, he said. Which could mean anything. She was about to get her second drink and he’d come to the bar, just behind her, making eye contact in the mirror and then asking if she was on her own and could he buy her a drink. He was Welsh, from Cardiff, and a few times she had to ask him to repeat himself so she could work out what he was saying. He was attractive in a sort of baby-faced way, with puppy-dog eyes and tousled hair. Rachel told him she worked in personnel. No need to confuse matters with her real identity. He was in Manchester for a conference at Manchester Central. It was hard to hear him above the music and when he suggested a dance she was happy to oblige. The drinks kept coming, the tunes kept playing. Rachel let the noise fill her head, let the dancing loosen her limbs and make her breathless, ignoring the ache in her battered muscles.

Graham or Greg leant in close and asked if she’d like to get some air. Not particularly, she thought, but a fag’d be good. She nodded and they set off for the exit, and he caught her arm and gestured. Her coat, she was forgetting her coat.

Her ears were ringing and the air was cold but dry outside. ‘I’m only just round the corner,’ he said, ‘if you fancy?’

Rachel began to laugh, which made lighting her cigarette very difficult.

‘Here.’ He took her lighter from her, used it and handed it back. ‘What’s happened there?’ he said. ‘Your hands?’

‘Skating,’ Rachel said. On thin ice.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What d’you reckon then?’ he said.

‘All right,’ she said.

The street was cobbled, which made walking particularly challenging, but he took her arm and they made it to his hotel without her breaking her neck.

He kissed her in the lift, his breath coming quickly, groaning when they reached his floor and he had to stop.

His room was at the front, looking out over the city centre. Rachel had a sudden, sickening flashback to Nick’s flat, not far from here, and her at the window gazing out at the lights, him nuzzling her neck and begging her to come back to bed.

Rachel swung round and almost fell over. ‘Whoops!’

‘Steady, man, you’d better sit down,’ Greg or Graham said.

‘You got a minibar?’ Rachel said.

‘Sure. What’s your poison?’

‘Brandy,’ she told him. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off her shoes. Watched him fix the drinks. He brought hers over. Took off his shoes and jacket. Joined her on the bed. Kissed her again, one hand going round her back, the other stroking her breast. Rachel felt a rush of excitement, imagined him on her, inside her. She felt for his crotch, felt him hard.

She pulled back. ‘One minute.’ She went to the bathroom and emptied her bladder. Looked in the mirror, grinning to herself, and feeling dizzy, wanton. Savouring the sensation.

‘All right, kid?’ Her father, in the mirror, grinning back, happy-drunk, a rollie in one hand, can in the other.

‘Fuck off!’ she said, the room tilting.

‘You okay in there?’ called What’s-his-face.

Rachel closed her eyes but that made her feel worse. ‘You will not fucking ruin this,’ she told her father. ‘You ruined everything else, well you can fuck off back to the mortuary.’ She ran cold water over her hands, pressed them to her cheeks. Went back out.

‘You were swearing,’ Taffy said.

‘Stubbed my toe,’ Rachel said. And then it came over her, like a wave, sadness as if someone had snapped the lights off, stopped the music. Filling her mouth and throat, her belly. Even as he held his hand out to her, his shirt open, belt gone.

I can’t, she thought, I can’t. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t- I’ve got to go.’

‘Aw, no, man!’ he said. She wondered if it was a Welsh thing, the man, or if he was trying to be down with the kids (though round these parts they all said bro or bruv these days), or if his parents had been New Agers. ‘What’ve I done?’

‘Not you, sorry, not you,’ Rachel said. ‘Just a bad idea.’

He looked crestfallen, sat and sighed. ‘Get you a cab,’ he said.

A good bloke. She was surprised, had anticipated nasty words, prickteaser, slapper, maybe something physical.

‘Reception’ll get me one.’

He gave a little nod.

She pulled on her shoes, the earlier elation now a sour sort of misery, an ache in her guts.

‘Take care then,’ he said at the door, with no hint of hostility. Somehow it made her even sadder. It might have been easier if he’d bitched about being led on, let down. His understanding made her feel even lousier. Not only was she fucked off with her wastrel of a father and her posh knob of an ex-boyfriend but now she felt guilty for messing the Welsh bloke about.

She felt sober and sick when she got home but she was still stumbling about. She threw up in the lavatory, drank a pint of water with some painkillers. In bed the room swayed and there was a drone buzzing in her ears, but eventually she slept.

She dreamt of the lake, her bed floating on the lake and a dog barking at the water’s edge and her father fishing. She was looking for something but could not remember what it was. She knew that something terrible would happen if she didn’t find it but how could she find it if she didn’t know what it was? She kept pulling at the duvet and the sheet as the bed spun round and round, searching, hunting for a clue, anything to help her recall what was lost. But there was nothing there, just her bed turning and the wide black water.