Blue Murder

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

News had come in that Lesley Tulley had lit a fire in her back garden the previous night.

‘What was she burning?’ Janine asked.

‘Holiday videos, if you believe that.’ Richard said.

‘She must think we’re stupid. Get samples and tell the lab to fast track them. I think Mrs Tulley might just have burnt her bridges.’

Richard took a step closer. Lowered his voice, ‘Look, last night-’

Janine moved away raising her own voice. In no mood to go into the mistakes of the night before. ‘And you’re following up on the knife too. Good.’

DS Shap rewound the film yet again and reviewed the frames showing the car entering the car park. He copied down the time from the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

‘Boss. We’ve got something here.’ They gathered round the monitor. ‘Here she is arriving,’ Shap froze the frame which showed Lesley’s car at the car park entrance. ‘Spot the difference?’

Janine looked, then smiled. Who said Dean Hendrix should be the only one they looked at. She nodded. Butchers scowled, struggling.

‘Ten twenty-seven,’ she gave him a clue reading out the time from the tape.

‘And her ticket says nine twenty-two,’ Richard said.

Another inconsistency which quickened her interest in Mrs Tulley. Burning things in the garden, missing clothes, and now a misleading parking ticket. What exactly was going on?

Dean had finally got his bottle up to ring Paula.

‘Paula. Did you get my message?’

‘Yeah.’ Not sounding happy about it. ‘Where are you?’

‘Douggie’s had this spot of trouble like, I said I’d, erm, stay for a bit, you know.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ Dean put a laugh in it.

‘Wrong, Dean!’ warning him.

‘It’s difficult.’

‘Tell me about it. I don’t need this, Dean. I want to see you.’

‘A few days…’

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘The police want to talk to you.’

Aw, hell.

‘They came to work, they wanted to know where you were.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What could I say? I didn’t know, did I? Don’t know if he believed me, even.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Dean.’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t asked why,’ she said quickly, like she was accusing him, ‘why they wanted to see you.’

‘Why?’ said Dean, knowing it was pathetic, knowing it wouldn’t wash.

‘’S not funny, Dean. I don’t like this. I dunno what’s going on and you’re behaving like some prize dick-head. About that murder, Mr Tulley, you heard about it?’

‘On the news. I was up here, left Friday. The police, what did they say?’

She sighed. ‘They want to know if you saw anything. You’ve got to ring them. You can just say you were at Douggie’s, can’t you?’

‘No, I can’t.’

Silence. ‘Oh, God. This trouble Douggie’s in – is that what it is?’ Horror dawning in her voice.

‘No, no. Nothing like that. He owes some money. He’ll have it soon but they’ve been threatening him, that’s all.’

‘So what are you? Bodyguard? Dean, they’ll have you for breakfast.’

‘Paula!’ Outraged that she had so little faith in his ability to protect himself.

‘Think about it. What are you going to do when they come calling?’

He thought of the bag in the cellar, what he could do with that. ‘There’s a few of us,’ he lied.

‘I don’t like it, Dean.’ He said nothing. ‘You gonna ring the police?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He nodded as if she could see. ‘Cos I don’t want them coming round here giving me grief.’

‘Yep,’ still nodding, ‘I’ll do that.’

‘When you coming back?’

‘Dunno. Depends.’

‘I wanna see you, Dean.’ She paused. ‘I can come there.’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

If he put her off she might dump him.

‘Dean?’

‘Erm. I’ll meet you in Oldham, the coach station.’

‘Oldham?’ Like it was Outer Mongolia.

He gave her directions. Paula’s driving was good but her sense of direction was crap.

‘All right. ‘Bout three then.’

Dean came off the phone smelling so bad he needed a shower. Went upstairs. All her questions ringing in his head. One of his own banging like a big bass drum:

what the hell was he going to tell Paula?

Bobby Mac, the rough-sleeper, was an irritable drunk. He’d been held at Bootle Street and that was where Richard interviewed him. It was the Duty Sergeant at Bootle Street who passed on the details to his opposite number at South Manchester. Told him about a vagrant, one Bobby Mac, no fixed abode, who’d been given bed and board after an affray in Market Street. Been rampaging around with a knife, a knife that matched the description in the bulletin that they had issued earlier that day. Long shot but you never know. The message was passed on to the murder room, both men aware that someone would want the knife sent for forensic examination and would probably want to discuss with Bobby Mac how it came into his possession.

‘Where did you get the knife, Bobby?’ Richard asked.

Bobby rubbed his hand over his mouth and over the pale bristles around it. He rocked a little in his chair.

‘The knife,’ Richard reminded him, ‘where did you get the knife?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Humour me. Did you buy it? Someone give you it? Eh?’

Bobby shook his head, an erratic movement, like he was trying to dislodge something. ‘Found it.’

‘Whereabouts?’

He shook his head again.

‘Listen,’ said Richard, ‘you were arrested for threatening people with a defensive weapon. That’s bad news. Get quite a stretch for that, Bobby. But it so happens we have a particular interest in how you came across that knife. Now, you tell us where you found it and they might take that into account when they consider your case.’

Bobby yawned then, giving the inspector a front row view of yellow-coated tongue and discoloured teeth along with a blast of fetid breath that caused Richard to sit back sharply.

‘You don’t wear a uniform.’

‘CID,’ said Richard, ‘plainclothes.’

‘I was in uniform, the army,’ he waved a finger at Richard. ‘Good soldier. It’s a hard life, you know. This lot these days…’

‘Bobby,’ Richard broke in. ‘This knife,’ he pushed the evidence bag closer, the knife sealed within, ‘where did you find it?’

‘That place near Marks, where there’s that stream thing?’

‘Millennium Gardens?’ Richard pictured the pedestrianised area, The Triangle at one side, Selfridges and M &S at the other, curving steps and a water course, where the stream bubbled between crazy-paving step ping stones, tall windmill sculptures. Part of the city’s re-build in the wake of the IRA bomb.

‘Whereabouts?’

‘In a bin.’

‘The knife was in a bin?’

Bobby looked at him, eyes bloodshot, blinking slowly. ‘I was hungry,’ he said, ‘you’ve no idea. I was a soldier. Her Majesty’s armed forces. Germany. The Falls Road, Belfast.’

‘You were looking for something to eat and you found the knife?’

Bobby nodded at the carriers neatly folded in the second evidence pouch, the department store logo visible on one. ‘I thought it was a sandwich.’

‘What?’ said Richard, lost now.

‘The knife. I thought it was a sandwich. They have those bags. I was looking for some grub.’

‘Did you see who dumped it?’

Bobby Mac considered this then shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see nobody.’

Lesley Tulley sat in front of the blue partition screens flanked by her sister Emma on one side and Detective Chief Inspector Lewis on the other. Beyond Emma was someone from the police press office. Next to DCI Lewis was her boss, Mr Hackett.

They had all been rehearsed in where to sit and when to speak before the Press came in. Then they had to wait in the anteroom until everyone was ready.

Lesley felt cold even though the room was stuffy. She wore a grey cotton blouse with long sleeves and a grey slim-line skirt to match, chosen for the occasion.

Mr Hackett was speaking first, describing the efforts of the police, the reason for the Press Conference, the faith he had in his officers. For Lesley the words droned together. She kept her eyes cast down at the plain white laminate surface of the table. Her hands rested together at the edge of it, two small, limp fists. It occurred to her that they looked posed, unnatural and she moved to fold one hand over the other.

Mr Hackett was sitting down now. DCI Lewis speaking, introducing her. Lesley could hear buzzing, her heart felt too big, her chest tightened. She waited for her cue. ‘Mrs Tulley.’

A battery of flashes;’ clicks, whirrs. Cameras like some flock of scolding, chattering birds.

‘Please,’ Lesley began, her voice surprisingly clear, ‘if you know anything at all, anything that might help the police catch whoever did this to Matthew, please ring them up, tell them.’

She stopped, panic widened her face, she couldn’t remember whether there was more. Had she said it all? More flashes. Emma put her hand out, squeezed hers in reassurance.

Chief Inspector Lewis was giving out the contact number, repeating the request for information. Lesley could feel the room bearing down on her, she wanted a drink but was fearful of spilling some, of not being able to swallow. She wondered if anyone ever had a drink on these occasions or was it just there for show?

Janine Lewis didn’t give straight answers to most of the questions; just said they were still pursuing their enquiries or it was too early to say.

‘Any news about the murder weapon?’ one of the journalists called out.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a knife matching the design of the one used on Matthew Tulley has been recovered. Forensic tests will be carried out to determine whether this was the murder weapon.’

Lesley froze, a picture of bewilderment. The flash bulbs erupted. This was the photo that most of the papers would carry the following day.

Hackett and the Press Liaison Officer thanked the family and said their goodbyes as soon as they left the conference hail.

‘Why didn’t you tell us about the knife?’ Emma rounded on Janine. ‘You knew when we got here. You trample all over-’

‘Emma.’ Lesley’s protest went unheeded.

‘Matthew was her life and you treat her like dirt, like she had something to do with it. She’s never had it easy. You’re not getting anywhere, are you? That’s why you’re messing us about?’

Janine ignored the remarks. She focused on Lesley. ‘What was the bonfire for, Lesley?’

‘You cow!’ Emma said.

Lesley looked stung but upset too. ‘I couldn’t bear – we’d been so happy, holidays and I…’ she began to cry, ‘… I never thought about evidence, it wasn’t evidence.’ Distraught, she pushed at her hair and then at her sleeves.

Janine saw ugly red weals, shiny puckered scars, across her inner arms.

Oh, Christ, thought Janine, she’s cutting herself. What will she do if we push her too far? Be a bloody disaster. Janine wanted to catch a murderer, not cause a suicide.

‘If Matthew’s killer was known to him then we hope to find some information among his personal effects. Please leave everything else as it is at the house. I’ll call round later. By then we should also have some results from the Press Conference, an idea of what level of response we’re getting. It’ll be going out on the lunchtime news and again early evening Thank you again for your help.’

Emma still looked disgruntled. Lesley just looked worn out, thought Janine. Emma put an arm around her sister and walked her to the door where a uniform was waiting to take them to a car.

The Lemon had another axe to grind, complaining about her instruction to have the lab process the remains of Lesley Tulley’ fire. ‘You should have cleared it with me first. You know forensics cost a fortune.’

‘I think it’s crucial, sir.’

Her phone interrupted them, she blushed furiously and answered it with a hiss. Her mother!

‘Janine, he can’t get the video working! The news is starting any minute.’

‘Mum, it doesn’t matter.’ She knew they were proud of her but honestly, watching re-runs of herself at the Press Conference was the giddy limit. Janine heard her mum shout to her dad. ‘Press record.’

She was aware of The Lemon’s eyes boring into her. ‘Mum, really.’

‘Have you got the tape in?’ her mother yelled.

‘Mum, listen-’

‘Is it switched on?’

‘I’ll ring you back.’ She ended the call. ‘Sorry, sir. The bonfire – I believe that’s how she got rid of the washing that was there on Saturday.’

‘You’re squandering resources on three separate tracks. Narrow it down.’

Back in the murder room, officers were fielding calls from the public. All the lunchtime television news broadcasts led with the Press Conference and among the calls flooding into the incident room were the usual number of hoaxers, attention-seekers and fanatics with their own personal agendas. These included one who knew that Matthew Tulley had been killed by aliens and another who saw the murder as God’s sign to a corrupt society and predicted there would be one a week till the second coming of Christ.

All calls would be logged and anything that deserved closer attention was relayed to senior officers.

Janine made a quick call to reassure her mum. ‘The Press Office can always get me a copy. And how’s Dad?’ Apart from in the doghouse?

‘He’s had a letter, he’s an appointment next week.’

DC Chen came over with a memo.

‘Good,’ Janine said. ‘I’ll come with you, try and get some sense out of them about waiting times.’

‘Oh, that’d be great.’ She could hear the gratitude in her mum’s voice and hoped that work wouldn’t prevent her from keeping her promise.

‘Bye bye.’ Janine finished the call and turned to the DC.

‘Anonymous call from a woman,’ said Chen. ‘Claims Matthew Tulley was a right bastard and his wife should be glad he’s dead.’

‘Crank?’

Chen shrugged. Could be.

‘Get a name?’ Janine asked Chen.

‘No, number withheld, too.’

Shap came over then, obviously excited about something, a glint in his eyes, smile playing round the edge of his lips. ‘Matthew Tulley’s parents. Back from a weekend in Paris and just seen the news. Want to know why we didn’t try to contact them.’

‘What with? A ouija board? We were told they were dead!’ Janine was astonished. ‘When I asked about notifying close family on Saturday, Lesley Tulley said that both his parents were dead. Bloody hell!’ She stood up and paced a few steps to the wall and back. She tried to work out the significance of this bombshell. ‘So someone has been telling lies.’

‘I said you’d ring them straight back, boss.’

‘Of course. I’ll want to see them as well. Where are they?’

‘Lymm.’

‘Right. I’m taking an early lunch, parents stuff, Michael’s school. Then DI Mayne and I visit Ferdie Gibson’s friend Colin, we’ll see what Mr and Mrs Lazarus have to say after that.’

‘We are very worried about Michael’s attitude.’ Mr Corkland, Michael’s Head of Year, spoke gravely. ‘His performance is disappointing and now these allegations of bullying have been made.’

Bullying! Oh, no. Her heart went out to Michael. The thought of him braving school each day. Waiting for the next attack. Had they hit him, verbally abused him or what? She’d had no inkling of it. ‘No wonder his work’s going downhill,’ she said. ‘You have an anti bullying policy, don’t you?’

‘Mrs Lewis,. Michael isn’t being bullied.’

‘But you just said-’

‘He’s doing the bullying.’

Janine stared at the man, opened her mouth then shut it again. ‘Michael?’ She finally managed.

‘There are four of them. They’ve been harassing two students in their year, sending text messages. There may have been thefts too. Mobile phones.’

‘Why isn’t Michael here? He should know what he’s being accused of.’

‘Michael’s not in school, he appears to have left school after registration.’

Janine’s heart sank. Bullying and now missing school. And the policeman last night, the one she’d sent away with a flea in his ear, who claimed Michael had been accused of an attempted mugging. She felt sick and dizzy. Michael. What on earth was going on?

She rang Pete from the police station car park where she was meeting Richard. ‘Is Michael with you?’

‘No. Why?’

She sighed. ‘He’s bunked off school. I’ve just been in. He’s got in with the wrong crowd. Oh, Pete, they’ve been nicking mobile phones, bullying other kids.’

He exhaled noisily. ‘So, he got a taste of his own medicine, Saturday?’

Janine closed her eyes. Wished this wasn’t happening.

‘Janine?’

Across the car park she watched Richard leave the building with Jenny Chen. He whispered something to her and the beautiful young woman flung back her head and laughed, put a hand on his arm to steady herself. Very chummy.

‘I don’t think he gave us the full story,’ she told Pete. ‘The police came round last night. Their version was that Michael was the villain of the piece.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Christ, Janine.’

Don’t shoot the messenger, she thought. ‘It was late and I thought they’d cocked it up, and,’ she added reluctantly, ‘Michael was drunk.’

DC Chen drove off and Richard scanned the cars. Janine waved him over.

‘What! He’s fifteen!’ Pete sounded completely appalled.

‘And how old were you, first time you got drunk?’

‘I was never a thief.’

Janine gave another sigh. Richard reached the car, she nodded for him to get in. ‘I expect he’s with these mates. If you hear from him…’

‘What?’

‘Just, don’t… don’t go mad at him.’

Pete cut the connection, obviously resenting her for the comment. She just didn’t think a full-blown row would help Michael.

Richard looked curious but she wasn’t in any mood to share it with him.

‘Any word on Dean Hendrix?’

He shook his head. Janine started the engine.

Even at school they were talking about it. Maria going on about how her mam knew the man that had been murdered. Then Megan saying that everyone who went to church knew him because he was there every week. He sat near the back with the Hennesseys. Jade couldn’t remember him but she didn’t go every week. Only when Mam felt up to it. And someone said the police had started a manhunt.

Jade wondered if the manhunt had horses or maybe they just used the helicopter because they could see where you were from that even if you were hiding. It was on the telly and they showed these men in some bushes and they were hot and the helicopter could see them with a special thing. They could even see you in a wheelie bin. Jade nearly told them what she’d seen. That would show them. They’d all want to sit with Jade at school dinners.

Then in assembly they had to say a special prayer for Mr Tulley and Mrs Tulley. He was a teacher at St Columbus. That’s where you went to big school. They had the same colour uniform. At break, Anthony said Mr Tulley had his head chopped off but he was just making it up ‘cos when Liam asked him how he knew he said he just did and he went red. Liam kicked him and said liar, liar, pants on fire and Liam said Mr Tulley had been shot with an aykay forty-seven. He pointed his finger at Jade and shot her ‘pyew, pyew’.

‘You are so sad,’ Jade told him and she went to sit by the wall. She wondered if Mr Tulley would be in heaven already or if he had to go to purgatory for a bit. You only went straight to heaven if you’d no sins. So if you’d done something wrong and you died before your next confession then you went to purgatory and you suffered until your sins were cleaned up. Then you could go up.

If you had loads of sins, if your soul was all black with sins then you’d go straight to hell. Everlasting torment. If they were mortal sins. It was really hard, thought Jade, to be good all the time. Mainly remembering all the time was hard. Just one little thing and you’d committed a sin.

Even babies weren’t pure. They were all born with the sins of the world. They didn’t get sent to purgatory though, just limbo. They didn’t suffer, just floated about like astronauts. But they stayed there. That was tight really, ‘cos if you were a baby and you died and went to limbo and then your mam died and went to heaven then you’d never see her again. For all eternity. But a baby was all right if it got baptised. That took away all the sins and then they were saved. Jade knew how to save a baby. You could baptise it yourself. You needed holy water though. You put some on your thumb and you made a sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead and you said, ‘I baptise you in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit. Amen.’ Then it was safe. Jade had baptised all her dolls. It was good practise. Anyway, if Mr Tulley went to mass every week he’d probably be okay.

Janine surveyed the tatty mobile home that Ferdie Gibson’s mate Colin hid in. The place was near Northenden, tucked in between the motorway flyover and the steep banks of the murky brown river. A dismal place, she thought, the roar of the traffic night and day, the shadow of the concrete bridge and a dispirited ram shackle air to the whole site.

Janine wondered what sort of upbringing the lad had had to end up here, on his own. Colin blinked repeatedly and licked his lips as she and Richard stepped in through the narrow doorway and perched on the sagging mattress couch at the dining end of the space.

‘Ferdie Gibson’s down the station now, Colin. Helping us with our enquiries. We thought you could help, too,’ Janine said.

‘I told the other guy everything,’ Colin meant DS Butchers.

‘Tell us again,’ Richard folded his arms.

‘Ferdie came round about one. We went down the pub.’

‘One o’clock?’ Richard made it sound like the wrong answer.

Unnerved, Colin reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Yeah, ‘bout then.’

‘You didn’t see Ferdie earlier on Saturday morning?’ Janine asked.

‘No, I told you, I was in bed.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t believe him. ‘See, we know he’d attacked Mr Tulley once already. Probably talked about having another go. You’ve heard him saying he’d get Tulley, haven’t you?’

‘That was just talk. Everyone says stuff like that,’ Colin puffed quickly on his fag.

‘Ferdie follows through, though,’ she said. ‘We’ve a witness who’s got someone like Ferdie near the scene of the crime. We’re not looking at taking without owner’s consent now, Colin. Murder.’ She paused. The lad’s face was tight with tension. His eyes darting all over the place. ‘If Ferdie is charged and you withheld information then you could be done for obstruction or attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

Colin’s hand shook violently.

‘Be better for you if you’re straight with us,’ she said quietly. ‘Much better. Well?’

In the pause before he spoke she heard the blare of a horn from the overhead traffic and the squeal of brakes. Come on, Colin, she willed, give it up, whatever you’re hiding.

‘I was here. I didn’t see Ferdie till one. All like I said.’ He spoke in a rush, pulled hard on the cigarette.

Damn! Any chance she’d had of persuading him had passed. She flicked her eyes to Richard. No score. Time to go.

Eddie Vincent took two extra tablets to help with the pain. He didn’t want to be doubled up when he had his go at picking out the lad he’d seen. They had promised to send a car for him. He was ready, coat and hat on.

He didn’t ever feel properly warm these days. Like the cancer was draining the heat from him as well as the life. His mother had lived to a ripe old age but Eddie’s father died young. He’d been killed at work. An accident on the docks at Old Trafford. Six dead, several injured. Unloading cotton that had come all the way from India across the oceans and up the Manchester Ship Canal.

There was no compensation. His mother went before the Poor Board to try and get help with the rent. His sisters went into the mill as girls and he followed them. Till the war came long.

Knocking at the door. Eddie got slowly to his feet and went to answer it.

At the police station it was just like the television. A row of men sat behind the glass. They couldn’t see him. They were dressed in similar casual clothing and wore baseball caps turned backwards. He took his time looking at each in turn. They were very alike. He’d expected it to be easy. That the face of the one he had seen would jump out at him, clear as day. But it hadn’t and the more he studied them the more similar they appeared. Although one on the far end, a bit taller, looked most like he remembered, skinny too.

‘Take your time,’ said the policeman. ‘Would you like them to turn to the side?’

‘No, I saw him from the front.’ He could hardly ask them to look desperate, haunted. ‘But can you get them to look right and left, like they’re watching out for something?’

The parade were instructed to do so. The movements were stilted and made Eddie more uncertain. He felt foolish for agreeing to come. When they had all finished he turned to the policeman. ‘It’s no good, the nearest is number one but I couldn’t say he was the chap I saw. Couldn’t swear to it in a court of law.’ He had to be honest.

Butchers was adding to the boards again. All the bits of information they could verify and that might have a bearing were going up. He pinned the memo about the Tulley parents up above the picture of the dead man. DS Shap sidled over. Butchers waited for some smart arse comment. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘Dead loss, your old codger, Mr Vincent,’ Shap said. ‘Picked Andy from traffic.’

Butchers sighed and stabbed a drawing pin into the display and the whole thing clattered down, scattering papers and pins and the board landing with one edge on his left foot, the tender spot where he’d damaged a toe joint in a school rugby game. A sarcastic cheer rang through the room from the handful of staff working there.

‘Piss off,’ shouted Butchers, righting himself and looking at the holes in the wall. Some idiot had fixed it up with nails, instead of using screws and rawlplugs. If a job’s worth doing… thought Butchers. Be the bloody handyman cum caretaker. Had some fancy title: Building Resources Manager. Hah! Couldn’t manage fuzzy-felt. Butchers sighed and began gathering up the bits of paper.

Janine pulled up outside the address where Matthew Tulley’s parents lived. Nice bungalow, low-maintenance garden at the front, conservatory at the side.

‘Lot chillier, today,’ Richard looked at her. Not smiling. ‘Not just the weather. Have I missed something?’

She tensed up. ‘Can we just concentrate on the job?’

Her phone went. It was Shap.

‘The line-up,’ she told Richard, ‘no joy.’ She hit the steering wheel in frustration. It was disheartening, too many leads going nowhere. The Lemon was right, they did need to narrow it down but nothing concrete was coming out yet. She couldn’t disregard Ferdie simply because the ID parade had failed. Eyewitnesses were notoriously inaccurate. Just because the old guy hadn’t picked him out didn’t mean Ferdie was in the clear. He still had the history with Tulley and she knew Colin had been lying about the morning.

Jack Tulley came out to greet them and took them in to meet his wife, Connie. They sat in the lounge. A room awash with floral patterns.

The couple looked shell-shocked, expressions slack with the impact of the news they had had, clothes flung on with little care, hair tousled.

‘When we spoke on the phone you said you hadn’t seen your son recently?’ Janine began.

‘Not for years,’ Connie explained, her frame shaking. ‘We didn’t even know Matthew had got married again. He’s got nephews and nieces he’s never even seen. He just didn’t want to know. And now -’ her voice trembled.

‘Matthew had been married before?’

‘Awful business,’ Jack patted his wife’s hand, his voice husky. ‘They were divorced before they’d even given it a go. They were far too young, still at college.’

‘When was this?’ Richard asked. ‘Nineteen seventy-nine.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Laura, Laura Belling.’

‘Do you know where she’s living,’ Janine said.

‘No’ said Jack. ‘He told this Lesley we were dead, didn’t he?’

Janine gave a small nod.

Connie made a mewling sound. Her husband shuddered.

Oh, God, thought Janine, aware of their pain and the awful humiliation. She took in the framed photographs on the wall. The sister they’d mentioned, young family, smiling parents.

‘Julia and her crew – four grandchildren,’ Jack told her, sniffing hard.

‘And you’ve no idea who did it?’ Connie’s eyes shone with tears.

Janine shook her head.

‘Or why? They said there was no idea why he’d been killed.’

‘Not yet,’ said Janine, ‘but we’re doing everything we can.’

The journey back from Lymm was turning out to be a nightmare. A lorry had shed its load of tinned goods just outside Manchester and traffic was backed up for four miles. The air was still and thick with the stench of exhaust fumes.

‘So what does that tell us about Matthew Tulley?’ she said to Richard.

‘That he was a liar.’

‘Why pretend they’re dead? Why deny the existence of family?’

‘Couldn’t stand them?’

‘But not a dickey bird in… what… nearly twenty

years, eighteen years?’

‘They cramp his style?’ Richard suggested.

‘Hardly Steptoe and Son though, were they?’

‘Perhaps he was being economical with the truth in other ways; didn’t want them blowing the gaff?’

‘Like the first marriage? That was news. See if we can find her, see what she has to say about Tulley.’

‘Yep.’ Richard cracked open a can of Lilt. ‘We’re moving,’ he gestured at the cars in front. His mobile sounded and he took the call. Relayed the details to Janine. ‘Next lot of forensics in.’

‘The bonfire?’ she said eagerly.

‘As if! The trainer: Hi-Tec, Walklite, tens.’

‘Get Shap to check out Ferdie Gibson’s shoes. We know how unreliable IL parades are – doesn’t mean he’s off the hook. Anything from Lesley?’

‘Hair and skin traces on his body and clothing,’ Richard shrugged. ‘Gets us nowhere: they shared a bed. Also the lab reckons the killer would have been awash with blood, and so would the knife – if they were carrying it.’

Janine tried to imagine the scene. The killer leaving the body, blood everywhere. ‘Send Butchers back to Mr Vincent, take him through it, bit by bit. In minute detail. Oh, damn.’

They came to another standstill because of road works. Janine groaned. She was dying to pee, another symptom of her pregnancy. She put on the handbrake and shifted in her seat to ease the pressure on her bladder. She helped herself to a chocolate bar.

‘One thing came up when I talked to the school,’ Richard had visited St Columbus after seeing Bobby Mac, ‘according to an old classmate, Gibson had been making personal comments about Tulley’s wife. That’s when Tulley went ballistic.’

‘Jealous?’

‘There’s a chance.’

‘We need to dig around some more. Did Ferdie Gibson know Mrs Tulley? I want to press her on the car park business, the times don’t tally and cutting herself up – perhaps everything in the garden wasn’t quite so rosy?’

Janine’s phone went then. Her mum again. She was expecting more about the VCR but her mum’s voice was full of panic.

‘Janine, it’s Tom, he’s had an asthma attack. They’ve taken him to hospital.’

Tom! Her guts twisted in fear and she felt the blood jump in her veins. ‘Oh, my god. Which hospital?’

‘Wythenshawe.’

‘Oh, Jesus, I’m on my way.’ She turned to Richard, her face white with panic. ‘It’s Tom. He’s had an asthma attack at school. They had to get an ambulance.’

Richard leant forward and opened the compartment, retrieved the magnetic blue light and siren from the glove compartment and wound down his window.

Janine looked at him, shocked. It was against all the rules to do that. Only ever police business, only ever a genuine emergency.

She frowned. Richard placed it on the car roof. Nodded at her. ‘Go for it, Janine.’

She hesitated. He nodded again. She thought of Tom, her Tom, struggling to breathe. Took a gulp of air herself and shifted into gear as the siren began its wail. Prayers already tumbling through her head fast as her heartbeat.