Bleed Like Me

21

Chris had spent the night at Gill’s again. Which meant she got even less sleep. It was his last night. He was moving on to spend the rest of his leave with friends who lived on Skye.

‘Oh, whisky and peat fires,’ she said, ‘windswept beaches. Take me with you.’

Before they’d gone to bed, she’d talked to him over a ridiculously late dinner about the deadlock in the case. ‘Janet’s the best we’ve got, but he’s withholding. It’s the only power he’s got left.’

‘Do you think he’d be any different with a male interviewer?’

‘No, or perhaps even more entrenched if that was possible,’ Gill said.

‘What’s the psychologist say?’

‘Same old. Be polite, stay calm, we’re playing all the right strokes.’

‘Can he keep it up indefinitely?’ Chris said.

‘I don’t know. I think the way she’s appealing to him as a man with a moral code, acting as though he’s still responsible for the family, I think that’s right. And I think if anything will break through the barrier that will, but so far – nowt.’ Gill shook her head.

She didn’t talk to Chris about Sammy, preferred to keep that quiet. Of course, Chris knew Sammy had moved to Dave’s and that Gill had been dismayed when he left so suddenly. But she didn’t want to share the latest developments, especially given the implicit criticism of their relationship by Dave, which was being aped by her son.

Chris got up in the morning when she did, wanting to start his journey north while the roads were quiet. She kissed him goodbye outside the house. It was still dark, the sky just beginning to lighten in the east, the air still and misty and everything drenched with dew.

‘It was great,’ she said, ‘even though I was at work most of the time.’

‘Quality,’ he said. ‘Good luck with it all.’ He kissed her again. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach him.

‘Do you know where you’ll be next?’ she asked him.

‘No idea. Soon as I do I’ll let you know.’

Gill felt a pang; she’d miss him. It could be weeks before they’d have a chance to meet again, especially if his next case was far from Manchester.

‘One for the road.’ He smiled. She could see his breath, a mist in the cold of the morning.

They kissed, a kiss to remember, one to savour. At last she drew away, said goodbye and got into her car. He followed her over the edge of the moors and down the hill to the main road, where they went their different ways.

And Gill wondered, as she did each time he left, if she would ever see him again.

It had been agreed the previous evening that while the search continued at Kittle Lake, an initial assessment visit would be made to the canal to consider the best approach to a search there. Rachel was due to meet Mark Tovey on site first thing.

Rachel suspected Her Maj was keeping her away from Cottam, away from the heart of the inquiry, but if that meant getting out into the field looking for some clue, something, anything, to lead them to the missing kids, then that was fine by Rachel. Way better than sitting on her arse wallowing in reports, which she might have been told to do.

Fog was forecast and Rachel set off early in case of delays. Idiots piling into each other on the motorway, ignoring the hazard warning signs, FOG SLOW DOWN. Still going at seventy and then bleating when it all went tits up. If they’d still breath to bleat with.

Her hands were scabbing over but any time she did anything the skin opened again, and she needed to use her hands for practically everything. The itching sensation was worse and her shoulders and knees and ribcage ached from the impact of slamming into the ground when she was trying to stop Owen Cottam. She’d dosed herself up with painkillers and coffee to deal with that and the residue of a hangover which lingered at the back of her skull as though someone had cuffed her too hard on the head.

The good news was that the bridge had been identified as Dobrun Lane on the Leeds & Liverpool canal between Wigan and Lundfell. The bad news was that the local angling association had fishing rights on extensive stretches of the canal and there were many other access points to the waterway in the area. A snapshot of Michael Milne and Owen Cottam’s reference to drowning were the only tenuous links to miles of water.

Rachel arrived half an hour early and parked as directed on a rough patch of land shy of the Dobrun Lane bridge. The site of a pub in times past, now razed to the ground.

She had brought maps of the area with her. North of the bridge there was a scattering of houses and farms on either side of the canal, the properties few and far between. To the south it was mostly farmland.

It was cold sitting in the car and Rachel did not want to put the heater on and risk the battery. She decided to make use of the time by having a walk along the canal. She took a torch with her, as it was still dark. She did not want to end up in the drink herself.

Sound was distorted, she noticed, as she walked up to the bridge: her footsteps were harsh against the gravel but sounds beyond that, birds and a distant motor, were muffled. She took the steps down to the towpath carefully. They looked worn, wet and slippery in the light from her torch. Once she was on the path she lit a cigarette and smoked as she walked along. The fog, thick yellow-grey, smothered the place.

Dead or alive? If the Cottam boys were dead, the police would have to try to find and recover the bodies. From the water somewhere if he’d drowned them. She didn’t know much about canals but she did get that they were still water so there was a limit to how far the bodies would travel with no currents or tide to move them further afield. Finding them in the canal should be relatively easy, then, if they only knew which part to look in. If they’d been killed some other way, strangled or suffocated, then buried, they could be in any of the surrounding fields or woods. And if they were still alive they must be contained somewhere.

Rachel heard a splash by the bank, but no other noises followed. She swung her torch over the water but could barely make out the surface through the fog, let alone see anything else.

She retraced her line of thought. Alive equalled contained because you couldn’t just leave little kids somewhere; they’d wander off. That’s why people had playpens, used reins. So they had to be inside somewhere, shut in, or tied up. Another car perhaps, or an abandoned building: an outhouse, or a shed or a garage. Farms, like the ones on the map, would have loads of hiding places. Rachel thought back to Grainger, the geese, his miserable bugger-off attitude.

She imagined most of the landowners in the area would have made a search of any obvious places after the first appeal to do that was made. But since? Would they have repeated that search? Because there was every chance that Cottam had found somewhere to conceal the kids in the meantime. If Mark Tovey did agree to work up a strategy for this area, Rachel would chuck that in. Make sure that any appeals stressed the need for people to look again.

Light began to spread over the land and the fog seemed to rise from the ground in ragged shreds like some special effect from a horror movie, though it stayed hovering close to the water. Soon she could switch off her torch.

A row of houses on the opposite bank had gardens that reached the water’s edge, but there was no towpath on that side so they wouldn’t be easy to access for a stranger. That made her wonder how far he could walk with the children. A fair way, she assumed. He was a strong man; with one on piggyback and one in his arms he’d not be particularly hampered. Though he would be conspicuous and that might limit how far he’d travel on foot.

She decided to continue to the next bridge, which she could just make out, a smudge on the horizon, and then retrace her steps to the rendezvous with Mark. The world was beginning to stir, traffic zipping intermittently along the narrow road over the Dobrun Lane bridge behind her. The side of the path was thick with brambles and tall weeds, gone to seed most of them, dried out now, shrivelled and wispy. It wouldn’t be hard to conceal bodies in there. Though dogs being walked along the canal would soon sniff them out. But if they were right about his motivation, Owen Cottam wasn’t a murderer who wanted to escape detection and run free. All he’d wanted in his manoeuvres over these last days was to buy himself time to complete his plan – the mortal destruction of his family and himself.

Rachel carried on, walking more briskly now she could see the way. A pair of ducks at the far side of the water made quacking sounds and drifted in and out of the mist, dipping their heads down now and again. She looked ahead to the bridge. There’d been less traffic crossing this one, only a couple of cars. Betty Lane the road was called, according to the map, one of a warren of small lanes that ran by the farms and up to the B road.

Beyond the humped shape of the bridge, she could see some low-lying structure: huge horizontal bars, black and white, and railings. She glanced down at the map: a lock. The canal was littered with them. She walked under the bridge where it was dank and smelled of earth and the stones glistened wet, and up to the lock.

Here the canal banks widened a little then narrowed again for the lock itself. The black and white paddles, a pair at either end, were attached to the great lock gates. The paddles were used to swing back the wooden gates. She’d a dim memory of doing it in primary school. Sections of the canals had been built at different levels, and the locks were the way of transporting boats from one stretch to the next. The boat would enter through the first set of gates, which would be closed behind them, and then underwater sluices would be opened to allow water to flow in, or out, and raise or lower the craft. When it reached the correct level the second set of gates would be opened and the boat would be able to resume its journey.

At the edge of the lock she stared down into the chamber. The walls were covered in green mould and streaks of orange. With the huge gates at either end they formed a great box, water in the bottom. A long drop. The notion hit her like a punch, made her guts burn. The rope. To hang himself. She looked at the backs of her hands, at the biggest blister where the blue plastic had fused to her skin. He’d need a long drop to do it. Somewhere like this would work just as well as the woods, better really, since you’d not have to scale a tree. All sorts of places to attach the rope to, here. Okay, he might not be completely free hanging, might hit the walls, feet scrabbling for purchase, but most hangings it was the drop that killed you, the sudden wrench as you reached the end of the rope, which broke your neck and severed your spinal cord. When it went wrong, when the body was too light or the drop not far enough, quick enough, then the person strangled slowly.

Rachel’s heart was hammering in her chest, racing, and there was a buzzing in her ears. She scanned the land beyond the verge: no dwellings close by. Looking ahead, further down the canal, just before a bend, she made out an old barge, the first she’d seen.

Boats. Somewhere else to search along with the farms and sheds. Another angle to cover. Unless Cottam opened up to Janet and saved them all the aggro. Rachel wondered if there were more boats parked further round the corner. Parked wasn’t right. Moored, that’s what they called it. There was still a pall of fog suspended over the water as she went on to look.

A ripple of dark shadow on the path ahead brought her up short. A rat, sleek and silent, slid over the edge of the bank and disappeared. Rachel swallowed and walked on. Something dark and fearful growing inside her. Just a rat, she told herself, millions of them all around, everywhere. Knowing that the fear wasn’t from the rat. She saw the lock gates, she saw Owen Cottam and his rope. And the bin bags. Why the bin bags?

By the time she reached the barge, she could see round the bend. There were no other boats there. Just this one. Ancient by the looks of it. Rotting into the water.

A car slowed and stopped in the distance; perhaps Mark Tovey arriving for the meeting? Above her there was a strange sound which had her ducking instinctively. Making her temples thud with pain. A cormorant, large and black, soared overhead, the beat of wings loud and powerful in the still air.

The barge was desiccated. It had once been black but most of the paint had peeled away and bare wood showed through silvery grey. Fragments of pink and green lettering decorated the prow. Some sort of fungus, a canker, sprouted lumps of ginger here and there. The cabin was partly covered by an old tarpaulin, faded and ripped in parts. The roof, splashed with bird-shit, dipped in the centre where a mush of skeletal leaves was trapped. Shuttered windows were thick with cobwebs. No flowers or fancy watering cans or signs of habitation. At the back, where the door was, lay a number of old plastic containers, cracked and dappled green with mould. Rachel looked at the door, rickety as everything else, crumbling. An old padlock hasp secured with-

Gorge rose in her throat and her knees went weak. There. A scrap of black cord. A shoelace.

The world shrank around her. The canal, the farms beyond, the lock and the road bridge faded as she focused on the boat, the door.

The boat rocked alarmingly when Rachel clambered on board. Water pooled on the deck underfoot. With trembling fingers she worked at the knot, her nails slipping and the scars on her fingertips starting to bleed. Finally it came loose and she pulled the shoelace free and opened the narrow double doors, which made a squealing sound.

The interior was pitch dark, only the small flight of steps leading down into the cabin illuminated by the daylight. She could barely see a thing,

But she could smell. The brackish odour of the canal and the mushroom scent of decay, mixed with the high acrid stink of shit. Her chest tightened. There was a thudding in her temples as she switched on her torch and climbed down the steps, one hand braced on the edge of the door. When she stepped into the cabin the boat rolled in the water, the timbers creaking and moaning. Rachel played the cone of light over the space, picked out bench seats with their torn and faded foam cushions furred with white mould, tattered curtains spotted with mildew, and then, on the floor, a tartan blanket and next to it two small forms, pale-faced and utterly still.

Oh, fuck. Something dark and cold crawled up her spine. The torch juddered in her hand. Her eyes hurt. The stench caught at the back of her throat and she retched but fought the reflex. She stepped closer and the boat lurched. Rachel almost fell, flinging her arms out for balance. She knelt down. The floor was wet, soaking through her trousers.

Struggling to breathe, she bent over the boys. Theo in his tiger pyjamas, the garments grubby, smeared with marks, was curled towards his brother. Harry lay flat on his back, one arm above his head, his legs splayed outwards. Shit had soaked through his all-in-one, staining the legs toffee brown. Tear tracks had dried leaving salty trails on his cheeks. The only movement came from the boat rocking on the cold water.

Rachel reached out a hand and touched Theo’s neck to see whether rigor mortis had set in. Knew that if it had the child’s body would feel dense, leaden, every muscle rigid as wood. And cool. She placed her fingers across his neck, below his ear. Felt the faintest residue of warmth there. So close! If they’d only searched here yesterday instead of the lake.

She felt her throat clench and tears burn behind her eyes. ‘Fuck it!’ she said aloud. Theo’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Daddy?’ he said huskily. Beside him Harry startled, his arms jolting as though something had bitten him, and began to wail, a thin, reedy, faltering sound that drilled into Rachel’s head.

She jerked back, gasping for air, frantically hitting keys on her phone, summoning help. The child’s cry filling her head and Theo’s plea scalding her heart. Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?

22

Janet was about to go in to interview Owen Cottam when Gill appeared, her eyes shining, fizzing with energy. ‘We’ve got the boys. Alive!’

‘Oh, God!’ Janet stared at her. ‘Where?’

‘A barge on the canal. Rachel found them.’

‘Alive?’ Janet checked. After all this time.

‘Dehydrated, hypothermic, dosed up with paracetamol but they should be fine. Taken to Manchester Children’s Hospital.’

Janet swallowed. ‘So now what? You don’t want me to interview yet?’

‘No. Give me an hour. I’m going to see the CPS to run through what we’ve already got. Wait till I’m back and we’ll discuss it then. Might let us go straight to charges.’

‘Be better to see if we can get a confession to the murders first,’ Janet said. Then she thought that if they did move on to questioning Cottam about the murders it might be hard for her to get away later. So she said, ‘Is it okay if I nip to the hospital now?’

‘No problem,’ Gill said.

Dorothy was sitting up in bed and looking almost normal.

‘The scan they did, well, apparently they found a growth on my uterus,’ she said.

Janet’s stomach contracted. ‘Oh, Mum.’

‘No, listen. They’re pretty sure it’s just a cyst but the womb’s enlarged so they think, at my age, it’s best to take the whole lot out.’

‘Hysterectomy?’

‘Yes. It’s a big op. Take me a few months to get back to normal.’

‘You’ll stay with us,’ Janet said.

‘If you’ll have me,’ her mum said.

‘Course we’ll have you. You got any better offers?’ Again that wash of relief, that she was sitting here joking with her mum instead of grieving.

‘Not yet, but I’ll let you know if I do,’ Dorothy said, a gleam of merriment in her eye.

When Janet got back to the station, she saw Rachel in her smoking spot, clutching a large coffee. Janet went over. ‘Hey, well done you. Amazing.’

Rachel looked peaky, her face drained of colour, her lips pale.

‘You’re a hero,’ Janet said. ‘Wait till word gets out.’

‘I don’t want to be a hero.’

‘Why not? Looks good on the old CV.’

Rachel looked away and released a trail of smoke. ‘I thought they were dead,’ she said flatly. She bit her lip, blinked.

Janet wasn’t sure what to say, what Rachel needed from her. ‘A shock?’ she ventured. It wasn’t like Rachel to get bound up in a case, to let it get to her like this. True for all of them, really. To do the work well you needed resilience, a way of detaching yourself so that you could concentrate on the facts of the investigation and not get damaged emotionally. Of course some cases were harder, poignant or downright sad, especially those involving kids, but Janet had never seen Rachel respond like this. If anything she demonstrated a lack of empathy verging on the autistic.

Janet felt a wave of concern for her friend. Something felt wrong. Had done for days. It would be simple to turn a blind eye, gloss it over, pretend all was well, but Janet wouldn’t let herself take the easy option.

‘What’s really going on?’ she said directly.

‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel scowled at her.

‘We’re supposed to be mates,’ Janet said. ‘Talk to me.’

‘What about?’ Rachel said scornfully. ‘There’s nothing to say.’ She dropped her cigarette, crushed it underfoot. Irritation flickered through Janet, and she was tempted to tell her to pick the tab end up and bin it. Have some consideration for once. But she resisted getting sidetracked.

‘Look, it’s not just this case or those little boys. I don’t know if it’s to do with Nick Savage or-’

‘Not that again,’ Rachel said.

‘You tell me,’ Janet said. ‘What’s the point of being mates if it’s a one-way street? If I’m the only one putting the effort in.’

‘You tell me,’ Rachel echoed. Her face set, mutinous.

Janet wanted to clout her, or hug her. Instead she said, ‘You shut me out. I know there’s something up and you won’t talk to me about it. Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’ll go running to Gill, telling tales?’

Rachel put her hand up to her head, clutched her ponytail, closed her eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘You’re not fine,’ Janet said crossly. ‘You’re a long way from fine. And I don’t know how to help because you won’t let me in.’ She felt close to tears. Bloody hormones. ‘Have you done something stupid, is that it?’

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Unless you tell me, I’m imagining all sorts. It’s like dealing with a bloody teenager.’

‘Yeah, you’re imagining all sorts, and that’s all it is – your imagination. I’m not telling you anything because there’s nothing to tell.’

Whatever was going on, and Janet was even more convinced there was something going on, she could see that Rachel was not going to tell her. The friendship had boundaries, limits, set by Rachel, and Janet either put up with that or walked away. Rachel was proud and stubborn and Janet knew she would not bend. For all her flaws and fuck-ups, Rachel was too big a part of Janet’s life to lose. Janet resigned herself. Let the frustration leak away. Drew her coat tighter and closed her collar.

‘Have it your own way, then,’ she said.

Rachel raised her drink. Janet saw that her hand was shaking. ‘When did you last eat?’ she said.

Rachel didn’t answer, just shook her head with impatience. ‘Right,’ Janet said decisively. ‘When we’re done tonight, we’ll go out. Italian, yeah? Break from all this.’

‘I don’t need-’

‘Maybe I do,’ Janet said. ‘Not exactly been a cakewalk for me, this last couple of days, my mum and all.’ Pulling a bit of a guilt trip.

Rachel opened her mouth. Janet expected her to refuse, but then something softened in her eyes and she gave a nod. ‘Sorry. Okay, you’re on.’

When Rachel walked into the briefing room, everyone applauded, Gill included. Rachel looked taken aback at first, as if it was a practical joke that couldn’t be trusted rather than a genuine and spontaneous response to her success. Then she relaxed and sketched a half-bow but held her hand up too, asking them to stop.

It struck Gill that Rachel’s success had been a solo number yet again. Through circumstance perhaps, rather than Rachel’s heading out alone with a mission in mind, but it was a familiar pattern. On the one hand, Gill valued her DC’s flair, her passion and tenacity, the drive that led her to be out on that canal before dawn. But on the other, she worried that results like this undermined her efforts to get Rachel to improve her teamwork skills.

‘Well done, Rachel,’ she said, as the clapping died down. ‘The press office want to see you after this.’

‘Poster girl!’ Kevin said.

‘No way,’ Rachel said quickly, then visibly flinched as she heard herself refusing to do something. Disrespecting Gill.

‘I think you’ll find that’s yes ma’am, three bags full, ma’am. Clear?’ Gill said crisply.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Rachel was quick to answer, some colour in her face now.

‘Oh, and both Margaret Milne and Dennis Cottam want to thank you in person.’

Rachel closed her eyes. It didn’t look as though that idea appealed either.

‘Doesn’t have to be now,’ Gill said. ‘Let the dust settle, wait until the children are given the all clear. Right – we have a lot to get through. Forensics from the barge show Cottam’s fingerprints all over and on the pack of nappies and the Calpol from the filling station. Items we can link to him. Another few hours without fluids and the children would have died. CPS have read the triple murder case file and believe we have strong enough evidence to warrant charges, but we’ve not yet spoken to Mr Cottam about the murders so we have agreed to do that and see how he plays it. A confession would be nice.’

‘He’s not given us anything yet,’ Pete said.

‘True,’ Gill agreed, ‘but now we’ve found the boys and prevented their deaths he may feel he’s nothing left to lose. Lee?’

‘Yes,’ Lee said, ‘though he might refuse to cooperate if our success makes him angry.’

‘Timeline, forensics and crime scene reports all hang together,’ Gill said. She talked them through the evidence on the electronic whiteboard. ‘CCTV from Journeys Inn. Eleven forty our last sighting of Pamela and Michael. Eleven fifty-two – Pamela texts Lynn. No activity on anyone’s phone or computer after that. Three ten a.m.’ Gill indicated the time in the frame. ‘Last sighting of Owen Cottam on CCTV with a whisky bottle. CCTV then switched off. Blood spatter analysis and analysis of blood samples on the victims and at the crime scenes confirms the order of attack. Pamela, then Penny, last Michael. Knife with fingerprint evidence from Owen Cottam and blood from Michael also carries blood traces from the previous two victims. Microscopic traces recovered from Owen Cottam’s jeans and top link to Michael and to Penny. At six thirty a.m., Cottam was spoken to by Tessa returning the dog. Six forty-five car seen leaving by neighbour Grainger. Subsequent movements we know from the investigation into the missing children, though we still have some gaps. Updates on inquiries so far. The marriage? Either of them shagging around?’

‘Nothing,’ Andy said. ‘Not a whisper. Her phone, the computer, friends and acquaintances. They were squeaky clean.’

‘No evidence of domestic violence, no rumours either,’ said Mitch.

‘And the children?’ Gill said.

‘No concerns,’ said Lee. ‘Penny was thriving at school, health visitor never had any worries about the younger ones.’

‘Happy families,’ Gill said. ‘So our motive remains financial. Did Pamela know the situation?’

‘According to Lynn,’ Janet said, ‘she knew things were tight but that’s all.’

‘He kept spending,’ Pete pointed out. ‘He dealt with all their finances.’

‘Didn’t she have her own bank account?’ Rachel said, sounding horrified.

‘She did,’ Pete said, ‘but it was peanuts. Only thing going in was her child benefit and she used that to clear her credit card when she’d bought something. All the bills, the direct debits, are on his account. He’d several credit cards and taken out payday loans. He wasn’t profligate…’

Gill noticed Kevin blink, not familiar with the word.

‘… just living beyond his means.’

‘And he can hide the debts from her,’ Gill said, ‘until he gets word that the brewery are pulling the plug.’ She paused a moment. ‘How long before the murders was that?’

‘Nine days,’ Kevin said.

Nine days. Gill wondered at what point in that period his idea of a way out had come to Cottam. And how long till it had crystallized into a plan? Had he counted down to that Sunday night, choosing it for some reason known only to him, or had the decision been made on the day itself? Some comment of Pamela’s or a remark from one of the customers the spark that lit the fuse.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘any loose ends, any callbacks you need to do, try and get them cleared. I’d like to hope we can press charges later today, and the more comprehensive our case file is the better.’

Gill concluded the briefing and asked Rachel to stay behind a moment. When they were alone she said, ‘I’ve persuaded Ben Cragg that your actions at the retail park were as a result of over-enthusiasm and, given that both of his officers are expected to return to work without any problems, he’s willing to accept that.’

Rachel dipped her chin in acknowledgement.

‘But you came close, Rachel. No one wants to work with you if you’re a liability. This lot tolerate you, just about, but word gets out you’re impulsive, thoughtless, that you’re a potential booby trap, and it could derail your career. You understand?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘I’d rather not have this conversation again. Got it?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Why am I not convinced, Gill thought as Rachel left. Why am I really not convinced?

Janet faced Owen Cottam and took a steady breath in and out. He looked blank, absent, his unfocused gaze directed at the far wall over Janet’s shoulder.

‘Mr Cottam,’ she said, ‘I have some news for you.’

His eyes wandered to her, though his eyelids were low, wary.

‘I’m pleased to say that we have found Theo and Harry and they are safe and responding well to medical treatment.’

‘You’re lying!’ he burst out.

‘No. I don’t tell lies. That wouldn’t get us anywhere. I only tell you the truth and I would like you to tell me the truth.’

‘Where, then?’ he said, his voice agitated. ‘Where were they?’

‘In a canal barge on the Leeds & Liverpool canal near the lock at Betty Lane bridge.’

A spasm flickered across the lower part of his face as the hard fact of the matter hit home.

You would have let them starve, Janet thought, die from thirst and hypothermia rather than give us the location. Die like trapped animals, helpless. She waited until the moment’s antagonism she felt subsided, then said, ‘In our earlier interviews, I’ve been asking you about the boys, trying to establish where they were, but now I want to move on to talk to you about the murders of your wife, Pamela, your daughter Penny and your brother-in-law Michael at Journeys Inn on Monday the tenth of October. Do you understand, Mr Cottam?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Can you tell me what happened, Mr Cottam?’

He swung his head, closed his eyes.

‘When did you last see your wife Pamela?’ Janet said.

His eyes remained shut.

Janet said, ‘Please – open your eyes.’

He complied.

‘When police entered the premises, Pamela was found, fatally injured, dead in bed. What can you tell me about that?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, with little inflection.

‘Do you know how she died?’

He shook his head, touched the tips of his fingers to his moustache and pressed.

‘Can you answer out loud?’ Janet said. ‘We need it for the recording.’

He let his hands fall. ‘Don’t know,’ he said, a weak response but not an outright denial.

‘Penny was in her bedroom. She was dead, too. How did that happen?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said again, strain twisting his features.

‘A knife was recovered from a third bedroom, Michael’s bedroom. A knife consistent with the weapon used on the victims. This knife carried traces of blood from Michael and both Penny and Pamela. And this knife had your fingerprints on it. Can you explain that to me?’

‘No,’ he said tightly. Janet could hear that his breathing had altered, the pattern faster and ragged. He’d begun to sweat, a sheen on his forehead, and a drop ran down the side of his face, past his ear and under his chin. The sharp smell of him was rancid in the room.

‘Mr Cottam, your clothes were taken for examination on your admission to hospital. We have found traces of blood from Penny and Michael on them. How did that blood get on to your clothing?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘That evidence suggests that you were present at the scene when the murders were committed or afterwards. How do you account for that?’

He was silent. He lifted his head to the ceiling, the pulse in his neck jumping again and again. Sweat, in rivulets now, snaked down his face. He made a noise in his throat, a hitching sound.

‘Pamela and Penny and Michael,’ Janet said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

He raised his hands and rubbed at his face, at his hair, like someone emerging from a pool or a shower. His breath was choppy, uneven.

‘Did Pamela know what you planned to do? You’d been together eighteen years, married, working together. Three children. Through thick and thin. What changed?’ Janet watched and waited. After a few moments she spoke again. ‘Penny had just started high school. She was doing well – she’d made friends, joined the netball team.’

Something moved in his cheek, a tic he couldn’t suppress.

‘What did you do, Mr Cottam? The early hours of Monday morning? We have film of you drinking whisky. We have very persuasive evidence that tells us you were there, that you handled the weapon. Tell me your side of things.’

He sat there on the chair and touched his knuckles together, sniffed loudly a couple of times. He had resisted appeals to his better nature and seemed almost oblivious of the evidence presented. He really didn’t care, Janet understood. He still wanted to die and nothing else mattered any more. All along Janet had played the game, pandering to his world view, never challenging his actions. She had nothing to lose now.

‘You can refuse to cooperate,’ she said, ‘and we will question you for as long as the law allows and then we will, in all likelihood, charge you with murder and attempted murder. After that you will be asked to plead. If you continue to withhold information you will have to plead not guilty and that means there will be a public trial. Witnesses will be called to give evidence, not just experts but people close to you and Pamela and the children. You will be in the dock and your family will be the subject of intense debate and speculation. Your life, your actions, will be picked apart in full public view. You’re entitled to a trial. Is that what you want?’

He twisted his head to the side, as though the paper suit was too tight at the neck.

‘I don’t think you did discuss it with Pamela. She’d never have agreed in a million years. They didn’t stand a chance, did they? Fast asleep, defenceless. Are you ashamed of what you did?’

He shuddered. She felt she was getting to him, piercing that shell of pretend indifference.

‘You failed,’ she said. ‘We saved the boys. You’ve lost your whole family but you’re still here. Are you ashamed? Is that why you won’t talk to me?’

‘No,’ he said, eyes blazing, fists hitting his knees. ‘No! I did what I had to.’

‘What was that?’

‘I killed them,’ he said softly, and every hair on Janet’s skin stood up. Ice ran through her spine. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘You killed them,’ she echoed, hoping to prompt more from him.

‘Yes,’ he said, and rubbed at his forehead.

‘Tell me, from closing up the bar, everything you can remember after that.’

His eyes met hers then and for the first time she saw vulnerability there, distress and fear. ‘I don’t want to,’ he said, his voice hollow.

‘It’s difficult,’ she agreed. ‘A step at a time. You cashed up, then what?’

‘Went upstairs. The others went to bed.’

‘The others?’

‘Pamela, Michael.’ He coughed.

‘And the children?’

‘They were already asleep.’

Janet nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘I went down, had a few drinks.’ His fingertips were tapping together, a tattoo, a dance of dread. ‘Then I got the knife.’ He screwed up his face, gave a sharp exhalation. He hadn’t mentioned the dog yet but Janet didn’t want to interrupt him. She could ask questions later.

‘You got the knife from where?’

‘The kitchen. The sharp knife, that’s what we always called it.’

Janet nodded. Every household had something like that, didn’t they? The only knife that cut bread properly or sliced through meat like butter. She and Ade had one, a wedding gift. The handle was burnt on one side but they never considered throwing it out. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘I, erm… I had some more to drink and then I went into our room.’ He bowed forward, pressing his lips together. ‘I stabbed Pamela,’ he said quickly. ‘She barely made a sound.’ He looked at Janet intently. ‘Like she understood? Then Penny, with the knife. And Michael…’ He swallowed, fingers curled, clenched now, something in that memory appearing to distress him more. His mouth worked. ‘He… I stabbed Michael… the sound… he woke up…’ Cottam stuttered and gasped. She saw tears in his eyes. At last. Had he wept since? As he drove frantically up and down the motorway, those noises fresh in his ears? In the car park by the lake during the long, cold night with his sons, his plans in tatters? Or when he woke in hospital after crashing the Hyundai to find himself very much alive and remembered all that he had done? Or was he the sort of man who never cried?

‘What happened next?’ Janet said. All the cross-checking, all the elaboration – how many times did you use the knife, where on the body, where did you stand – still to come.

‘Someone was at the door. It was this woman, Tessa, with the dog. I’d let the dog out.’ He shook his head, Janet wasn’t sure whether at his own folly for letting the dog out or at the woman’s action in returning her. ‘And she said the farmer had called the police. So I got the boys and we went.’

Tessa’s comment had just been a warning, but in the midst of the murders Cottam interpreted it as a much more definite and imminent threat. If he hadn’t thought the police were about to arrive might he have gone on killing undeterred?

‘If she hadn’t come with the dog, what did you intend doing?’

‘Kill the boys, then myself.’ His voice was close to breaking.

‘How?’

‘The knife. Cut my throat.’

‘Why?’ Janet asked.

His shoulders rose, then fell. ‘For the best,’ he said. ‘It had all gone to shit. We were losing the pub, the bank was on my back, bleeding us dry. Better off out of it,’ he said, quietly emphatic. Not a scintilla of doubt there that Janet could discern, but complete belief that the path he had chosen was the right one. For some killers, along with the confession came guilt and grief and expressions of sorrow for what they had brought down upon the victims and their families. There was none of that with Owen Cottam. No remorse at all.

‘Are you sorry?’ Janet asked him.

‘Sorry I couldn’t finish it,’ he said, regret heavy in his voice, but not malice. ‘If you hadn’t stopped me-’

‘You’d have done what?’ Janet said.

‘Gone with my lads.’

‘Why did you wait?’ Janet said. ‘Once you’d got to Lundfell?’

He blinked slowly as though it was a stupid question. ‘I had to do it right. The three of us.’

‘Do what?’

‘Drown them, hang myself. Together.’

‘That’s what the bin bags were for?’

He nodded. ‘There were some stones near the lock, to weigh them down. We should have gone together,’ he said. ‘We should all have been together.’

‘The deaths at your home, the pathologist tells us they were very quick. The victims would not have suffered for long, if at all. Yet you were prepared to let Theo and Harry die of thirst and dehydration, left them alone and unprotected from vermin, predators, cold and thirst. Can you explain that to me?’

‘That’s your fault,’ he said. ‘The police, you lot interfering. You messed it all up.’ His eyes were flinty. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen. You made that happen.’

Shifting the blame. And you sat there and allowed it, Janet thought. Thank God they had saved the boys. How much more grotesque would it have been if they’d lain there undiscovered, imprisoned in the old barge until they died.

‘You cared more about yourself, about seeing your plan through, than the suffering of those children,’ she said.

‘I love my children,’ he said dangerously.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I love them,’ he insisted, but there was bitterness in his eyes and the edges of his lips were white with tension.

‘That’s not love,’ Janet said.

She had it – his confession. I killed them. It must be enough to pass the threshold test, meaning the case was likely to result in a successful prosecution, but she had to get the say-so of a solicitor from the Crown Prosecution Service before she could charge him.

Cottam was taken back to his cell while Janet completed her case summary and then sought out the CPS solicitor. She gave her the written file and waited while she read it.

‘That’s good,’ the solicitor concluded. ‘Happy with that.’ And she signed the form.

Janet took it through to the custody officer and waited while he typed up the charges.

When everything was ready, Owen Cottam was brought through.

Janet relaxed her shoulders, waited a moment before she spoke. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Pamela Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he said, a single word, the slightest tremor in his voice. He was trembling, the muscles shifting under the skin on his face, but his expression was bland, empty. Janet had no idea what was going on in his head.

Janet went on to the second charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Penny Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

As she continued to read out the charges, Janet thought that this was what it all led up to, all the speculating and hunting for information, all the accumulation of evidence and typing up of reports, all the hours of careful questioning and testing. To this. The moment when she could charge someone with the crime. And when those left devastated and bereaved could begin to see the prospect of justice.

She got to the fifth and final charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are also charged that between the tenth of October 2011 and the fourteenth of October 2011 at Wigan in the county of Greater Manchester you did attempt to murder Harry Cottam, contrary to section one of the Criminal Attempts Act 1981. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Owen Cottam made no comment and the custody officer noted that and indicated to Janet that they were done.

Cottam was led away.

I killed them. A normal bloke, she thought, an average family man. Nothing remarkable about him. A settled, uneventful life. Nothing that could ever have pointed to his having the capacity to slaughter his family. Not like the rest of the criminals they dealt with, their lives chaotic, their families fractured, haunted by abuse and neglect and poverty. Seeking solace in drink and drugs and confusing violence with love.

Janet didn’t believe Owen Cottam had loved too much; rather that he’d mistaken possession, ownership, for love. Seeing his wife and children as chattels without free will and his own needs as paramount.

The cell door shut behind him with a clang that echoed along the corridor.

‘Nice one, Janet,’ said the custody sergeant.

Janet smiled and gave a nod. Glad it was done, glad it was all over.

23

‘Gill thinks the grandmother will take the kids,’ Janet said.

Rachel took another piece of garlic bread, dipped it in the oil and balsamic vinegar, savoured the tang. ‘They’ll not remember, will they? That age? Though she’ll have to tell them eventually.’

‘Doubt it. Though I can remember being in my high chair and my mum dancing. She reckons I was only two then.’

‘I don’t remember anything before school,’ Rachel said, partly to stop Janet asking. ‘Do you want that last bit?’ She pointed at the bread.

‘You have it,’ Janet said, ‘you need it more than I do. So – have you decided on your new kitchen?’

‘What?’ Then Rachel remembered in a rush. ‘Oh, no, not bothering.’

Janet nodded, filled their glasses. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she said, ‘me flying off the handle, being under the weather…’

Rachel froze, expecting cancer or some wasting disease. Imagining Janet in a hospital bed shrinking away. This their Last Supper.

‘… I’m fine.’ Janet laughed. ‘Least, I’m pretty sure I am. It’s the menopause.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Rachel. ‘So you’re turning into an old bag?’

‘It’s the solidarity I love,’ Janet said sarcastically. She took a drink. ‘Just a new phase of life.’

‘You think?’ Rachel wasn’t so sure. ‘From what I hear, it’s all dry skin and facial hair and bingo wings, isn’t it?’

‘And freedom from periods, the acquisition of a certain age and authority, perhaps,’ Janet said. ‘Your time will come.’

Rachel had another mouthful of wine. ‘Godzilla’s forgiven me,’ she said, ‘sort of.’

‘Good. No more racing into burning buildings then, eh? I turn my back for five minutes…’ Janet said, mock scolding.

‘Sod off,’ Rachel said. She sat back from the table while the waiter took their starter plates away.

‘Funerals next week,’ Janet said.

Rachel’s heart stopped. She felt her skin chill. How the fuck had Janet found out?

‘Gill’d like us to be there, Thursday, but if you can’t face it…’

The Cottams! The Cottams’ funerals! ‘No, it’s fine.’ Rachel drank some wine quickly, felt her head swim. ‘Course. Show respect,’ she said. ‘How are the kids, your kids, Elise and Taisie?’ Rachel went on, thinking change the bleeding subject.

Janet looked at her, a smile in her eyes, but a question mark too. Of course it came out clumsy and Rachel wasn’t in the habit of asking after them, but it always worked with Alison when Rachel wanted to escape scrutiny.

‘They’re great,’ Janet said. ‘Elise has righteousness down to a fine art and is practising her martyrdom skills and Taisie’s up every other night with bad dreams and in lurve by day – a sight to behold.’

Their main meals arrived and they began to eat. Rachel’s thoughts kept circling back to Cottam. ‘He’ll get life, right?’ she said to Janet, not even needing to name him. ‘But he won’t do life, will he? He’ll find a way to kill himself.’

‘And there’s me thinking this was a nice bit of socializing away from work,’ Janet said.

Rachel let her complain, hung on for her answer.

‘Yes – probably, eventually,’ Janet said. ‘We’ve done our bit. And we did good, you did good. Front pages, bet you.’

Rachel closed her eyes. She had already seen the copy the press office was sending out. Along with photos of her.

‘What d’you reckon?’ Janet said. ‘Super-cop? That’s always a popular one. Or, erm… Avenging Angel? Rachel to the Rescue?’

‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, a laugh undermining her very real irritation.

‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Janet said.

Rachel pointed her fork at her. ‘You’re the one having hot flushes.’

‘Touché!’ said Janet and picked up her glass, touching it to Rachel’s. ‘To us,’ she said.

Rachel joined her, ‘To us,’ and downed her drink.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gill said. She had been called down to the front desk to find Sammy sitting there.

He swung his head, as though he was casting about for an explanation, then said, ‘Dad said to tell you in person.’

Oh, God, no. Gill’s mind Rolodexed through the possibilities: pregnancy, drugs, self-harm, expulsion.

Sammy had his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears, riddled with embarrassment. He looked about and she was aware that they could be overheard, that the reception area was perhaps not the best place for potentially devastating news.

‘Come on, come with me.’ She took him along to one of the small interview rooms, changed the sign on the door to occupied and followed him in. She sat down. Sammy loitered by the door. ‘What is it?’ she said, sounding much calmer than she felt. HIV? Oh, God. Or hepatitis? He didn’t speak.

‘Sammy?’ Her stomach flipped over.

His face flooded with colour and she saw tears start in his eyes

Oh, bloody hell.

‘I want to come home,’ he said, sounding half his age. ‘I don’t want to stay at Dad’s any more. I want to come home.’

Gill was stunned, waited in case there was more he had to say, in case there was a bombshell. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and sniffed.

‘Is it because of the row you had?’

‘No,’ Sammy said.

‘Because you’ll do chores at mine same as you did before. More, probably.’

‘I don’t care about that. I just… I missed you,’ he said awkwardly.

Now she was going to cry, which was ridiculous. ‘Right.’ She swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling tiles, the recessed lights. ‘Fine, okay, and you’ve spoken to Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, and you’ve got your key?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, I won’t be home until,’ she glanced at the clock on the wall, ‘well, another couple of hours.’

‘I need to pack my stuff,’ Sammy said.

‘Okay,’ Gill nodded. ‘You go do that and I’ll pick you up on my way back. Yes?’

‘Okay.’

She stood up. ‘Come here,’ she said, opening her arms, and he trudged forward, and she hugged him tight and he snuffled a bit. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘’Cos I missed you too, you know. Apart from the sweaty feet. And the wet towels.’

‘Mum!’ His protest was half-hearted.

‘Go on. I’ll see you later.’

He loped off and Gill pinched the top of her nose and blinked and blew out breaths until she was fit to be seen in public again.

Cottam was pleading guilty and once he was up for sentencing everyone expected he’d be given a full-term life sentence. The story, with its power to fascinate, remained in the papers and they all knew there would be another flurry of articles once sentence was passed. And with them, fresh demands for Rachel to give interviews: radio, women’s magazines, chat shows. She’d made it as plain as she could to Lisa that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming and would rather Taser her tits than do any more PR. There was a difference between a news story in the midst of an investigation where the public were being encouraged to help the police and the sort of celebrity merry-go-round people wanted to stick her on.

Fortunately, Gill backed her up on that, especially when Rachel said she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t end up speaking her mind.

Rachel was at home. She had spent the night before bagging up her dad’s stuff, ready to chuck. He’d an envelope containing half a dozen photographs, pictures of her and Alison and Dom as kids. None of her mum. The corners of the prints were curled and the images scratched with marks, spills or something on some. Alison could have them. Nothing else was worth keeping. Clothes not fit for anything but landfill, faded, full of tears and stains and round holes from cigarette burns. A plastic case with a comb and a toothbrush and an unopened bar of soap; small and cheap, like the packs they give out in the hostels. A tin of athlete’s foot powder. Letters from the DWP about his benefits.

A life in three bin bags.

Rachel looked through the clutch of press cuttings: herself, three and four years ago. She tore them in half, then in half again, put them in an ashtray and took it outside. Set her lighter to it, watched the newsprint flare and shrivel and turn to flakes of ash. A gust of wind snatched at the remnants and blew them to dust. Swirling up and round.

Rachel fetched the bin bags out and stuffed them in the wheelie bin.

Then she rang Alison. The scabs on her hands had gone, leaving shiny, pink skin that still itched. She ran her nails over the heel of one thumb while she waited for a reply.

‘Yes?’ Alison sounding flustered, strained.

‘I’m not coming,’ Rachel said.

‘What? Are you meeting us there?’ Alison said.

‘No. I’m not coming at all.’ Rachel watched the boughs on the big tree by the road bend and sway. The leaves were dead now, crisp, red and brown. They rattled in the wind.

‘What d’you mean?’ Alison said. ‘You can’t not come. Dom’s here, the car’s on its way.’

‘It’s all paid for,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s all sorted. It can happen whether I’m there or not. And I’m not.’

‘Bloody hell, Rachel,’ Alison said, ‘this is the only chance you get to say goodbye. And when all’s said and done, this is your father we’re talking about. Your father.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Rachel said, and hung up.

The phone went as she went back inside. Janet calling. ‘Hi. Have you left yet?’

‘Just about to. Why?’ Rachel said.

‘We’ve picked one up in Kirkholt. Twenty-two-year-old man, suspected domestic. Police called to the house twice in the last month. Boss wants you at the scene.’

‘I’ll go straight there,’ Rachel said.

‘I’ll text you the postcode,’ Janet said. ‘See you later.’

‘Yes.’ Rachel felt the familiar rush, the leap of energy that came with a new case. The buzz that got her out of bed every day and kept her working for sixteen-hour stretches. The sweet, dark thrill of the chase.

Rachel was running.