Blue Murder

CHAPTER TWO

Lesley Tulley had found parking space in the Pay and Display beyond The Triangle shopping centre. Sometimes she’d drive round for ages looking for a place. She didn’t like the multi-storeys; huge and grim, they made her feel claustrophobic. She had got out to get a parking ticket, already planning which shops she needed to visit and where to start. Her sister’s birthday was the following weekend. What could she get? She drew out her mobile and rang her but wasn’t surprised when the answer phone kicked in. Saturday morning, after all. Lesley left a message.

A blue van slowed beside her, the driver leaving the car park, his eyes grazing ever so slightly down to her breasts, then back to her face. Eyes gleaming with appreciation. She didn’t let herself react, refusing to blush or flirt even when he wound down his window and spoke to her.

Lesley was used to her beauty, the attention it drew. Her large, dark eyes, fine bone structure, glossy brown hair, full mouth, the slim, shapely figure. It was her beauty that had brought her Matthew.

‘Queen,’ he’d called her, adopting a Liverpool twang. Joking, for he came from the comfortable suburbs and if his mother were still alive she would have been horrified at his Souse impersonation. ‘My Queen, you are,’ he’d said, ‘the most beautiful. I want to watch you for the rest of my life.’

She had laughed but he meant it and before long they were married and he would gaze at her for hours. Even now. She smiled.

In The Triangle Lesley bought the first thing that attracted her; a soft wool scarf, an abstract design of browns and cream. She chatted to the shop assistant about the colour; asked if there were any hats in that chocolate shade. She was peckish but she’d get Matthew’s shirt first. It was easy to shop for Matthew. He knew what he liked and what colours suited him. And for school he only ever wore a white shirt and a suit. She crossed to the department store and soon found what she wanted. She put the shirt in her basket and made her way down the escalators to the food section. Got a sandwich and a yoghurt drink.

She ate the snack in Millennium Gardens then went to Boots. There Lesley bought most of the holiday things they needed for their Easter break: sunscreen, mosquito spray, sunglasses. The carrier bag was heavy and she had to shift it from hand to hand as it bit into her fingers.

She hadn’t found anything for her sister’s birthday yet. Maybe something for the flat? Emma had moved recently into one of the new developments in the city centre. An old warehouse which had been converted into luxury apartments with views over the Rochdale canal and the railway, line. No garden but the buzz of being right in the middle of town, walking distance from the clubs and cafe bars. Lesley hadn’t seen the place yet but it sounded very stylish: angled ceilings and curved walls, glass blocks and wooden flooring.

She stared into the window and wasn’t sure whether the revivalist lava lamps and brightly coloured quirky clocks and ornaments would appeal to her sister or not. She’d try somewhere else. She crossed Saint Ann’s square, went past the church with its arched windows and round pillars. The mellow red sandstone seemed to glow in the harsh light. She reached King Street with its parades of exclusive shops. The window displays vying for attention; some adventurous and arty, others restrained with only a select item or two on show. She settled for a set of six tall wineglasses. Frivolous and fragile but beautifully frosted with spots of colour.

Janine rang Pete while she was getting dressed. She couldn’t remember what part of the shifts cycle he was on. He could be at work, at the airport. She hated it when Tina answered the phone. If he was in he’d probably complain, the short notice, the disruption. But there was no answer. She tried her mum next.

‘Janine, hello. How are you?’

‘Fine, Mum. Look it’s work. Could you have the children?’ She’d never say no though sometimes Janine wished she had a few more options open. Her parents weren’t getting any younger and the kids wore them out. Lately Dad had been ill, too, arthritis getting worse and his energy a fraction of what it used to be.

‘Of course, it’d be lovely,’ her mum said.

Janine chivvied the kids to get ready and hustled them from the house.

‘Why d’you have to work?’ Eleanor complained.

‘That’s how it goes, Ellie. If I get called up I have to go in.’

Tom ran to the car. Had he got his inhaler. ‘Tom?’ He knew what she was asking and patted his pocket.

‘Good boy.’ She caught sight of his trainers which were in an atrocious state. No time to sort that out today. There was never enough time. It had been even harder since Pete had gone. She hadn’t had the heart to advertise for a new home help, and as a result things felt chaotic.

‘Can’t we go to Dad’s?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Dad’s not in,’ Janine told her. And you’ll probably have to go there tomorrow if this turns out to be what I think it is, she added to herself.

Twenty minutes later she had deposited the children and driven to the new South Manchester headquarters. On the way, waiting at traffic lights, she had checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Dark hair with highlights cut just below chin length which framed her face, an attractive face, her eyes large, mid-blue, accented by a barely discernible trace of make-up. She’d a generous mouth, full lips and a good smile. She ran a sheer lipstick over her mouth.

It wouldn’t be her first murder; she’d worked plenty of those, but her first time in charge. What if she was wrong? What if she’d been summoned for, something completely different? What? What else could it be?

She knocked on The Lemon’s door, read the plaque for the umpteenth time: Detective Chief Superintendent L. Hackett, and heard him call her in.

‘Morning.’ He gestured that she take a seat. He looked across at her, intense blue eyes blazing out of folds of skin, mouth puckered, nose wrinkled. Usual expression, like he’d just sucked a lemon or had one shoved somewhere else. He was a sour man, his wit and laughter as acidic as the nickname she had given him.

Janine noticed that Hackett’s computer had crashed, a strange pattern of ghostly folders mosaiced the surface. It was common knowledge that Hackett was baffled by IT and refused even to read e-mails.

‘Sir.’

Hackett fiddled with a pen. ‘Lawson’s on long-term sick.’

She nodded. Stress. He’d cracked up after his wife left him. Everyone had seen it coming. Like an accident waiting to happen. Impossible to avoid. That moment when you saw the car ahead, computed the moment of impact and knew beyond any doubt that you would hit it. Lawson had lost it at Easter. Gone home early one day after smashing the mirrors in the gents. Never came back. She’d called, offered to visit but he said it would be better without his old team around. ‘Just need to sort it out, Janine, sort my head out, you know.’ Heart more like.

‘O’Halloran’s got the airport thing.’ The Lemon continued to list the ongoing murder investigations and the CID officers leading them. He was leading up to giving her a case. It couldn’t be anything else! She wished he’d get his skates on. He was tapping the pen against his blotter as he spoke. ‘Cragg has got annual leave. He reckons his missus will walk out if he cancels.’

‘New Zealand, they’ve family there,’ she said.

He glanced at her, irritated by the interruption. She kept her face set, pleasant and attentive. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He tapped the pen faster. ‘So I’m going to give you a crack of the whip.’

Her heart squeezed in her chest. About bloody time. Yes! Her own case. Leader of the gang. She fought not to beam at him like an idiot.

‘Won’t let you down, sir. What is it?’

‘Gorton Avenue, allotments off Mauldeth Road West. Man found there by one of the other gardeners. We’re treating it as suspicious. You can set up an incident room here. Near enough. Doc’s on his way as are socos.’ He referred to the scene of crime officers. ‘Not sure who’ll assist as yet. Janine?’

‘Yessir.’

‘You report to me on this.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Daily, any concerns, queries, cock-ups – you bring it straight to me. Understood?’

‘Yessir.’

He sat back indicating she should leave.

She stood and nodded at the computer screen in the corner. ‘Alt, control, delete, sir. Only way out.’

His jaw twitched. Only trying to help, Janine thought.

In the corridor she checked there was no one in sight, took two or three steps and then broke into a shimmy, thumbs up. ‘Yes! Yes! Yesss!’

There were buses from the Arndale centre every quarter of an hour. Dean stood with his holdall. The bus station had a chill feel to it. The buses would lumber in every few minutes and disgorge a bunch of people. The drivers exchanging a word with their mates, nipping out for a fag or a cup of tea. Dean was starving but he didn’t want to use up anymore of his cash.

He hoped Douggie was there. He’d tried his mobile but there was no answer. Eejit had probably switched it off. He smiled. Douggie was a good mate. The best but he wasn’t all that sharp sometimes. They’d met in Hegley Young Offenders Institution, Deadly Hegley they called it on account of all the suicides. Kids had been dying to get out of there. Literally. Swingers; found dangling in their cells, or bleeders; hacking away at veins with any bit of an edge they could find. Rumour had it that one lad tried to top himself by smacking his head against the wall. Again and again, like trying to crack a coconut. He’d not managed but he had given himself brain damage, which was probably just as good a way out. Then another rumour flies round how it was the screws that did it; bit of punishment got out of hand. Sex and violence with a lad who’d never tell. Couldn’t after that, anyroad.

Maybe he’d call Paula from Oldham. Explain that he had to get away. Try and assure her. He had a sudden glimpse of her face, a frown puckering her forehead, swinging her hair in a shake of annoyance that rattled her beads together.

He thought of losing her and felt his eyes smart. She didn’t go with anyone else but him. She had wanted that. It was an easy promise to keep – he’d never had such good sex or so much of it. He felt himself swelling at the thought. Paula had taught him the intoxicating art of seduction, of teasing and waiting and playing and making it last and last so they could be up most of the night with dirty soul music on the CD player, stopping now and then for a spliff or some wine or even some food and then back to it. He groaned, partly because of the sensation in his groin but mainly because of the despair that the prospect of life without Paula raised in him. And he couldn’t see his way round the problem.

A gust of diesel-filled air swirled the litter up and cast it around the place. His mouth was dry. Sod it, a can of Coke and a bag of crisps wouldn’t break the bank. If he missed the bus there’d soon be another. He pushed himself off the shelter and headed off in search of a kiosk.

From the bridge on Withington Road Janine Lewis could see the tent they’d erected to protect the scene of the crime. It would be hidden to passing motorists, as would the whole of the allotments which were on lower ground adjacent to the disused railway line. The cutting was awash with rubbish: mattresses, spilt bin liners and rusting metal. Plenty to clear up if they were going to use this for the MetroLink extension and bring the trams along here to link Chorlton and Didsbury.

She took in the scene before her. The allotments stretched below, in a rough rectangular patchwork, five rows deep and five or six plots across. The railway line formed the boundary to the left, and Gorton Avenue, a row of terraced houses with their yards and a back alley, ran along the right. A similar row, Denholme Avenue, stood at the far end facing her and parallel with Withington Road.

The city was full of housing like this, built to accommodate the workforce that had piled into Manchester to work in the cotton mills, the docks, the warehouses, on the canals and railways. Serried ranks of redbrick terraces, grey slate roofs.

Most of the garden tracts were models of industry, rows of winter cabbages and sprouts, soil dug ready for sowing, canes like wigwams for the coming season’s beans and sweet peas, greenhouses, piles of pots and compost heaps. A couple of the allotments had run to neglect, with tall weeds, long grass and ruined sheds.

The whole picture glinted in the silvery winter sun.

The allotments could be reached from either of the stretches of housing. Plenty of escape routes. Someone fleeing the scene could have headed for the houses, or gone along the railway line in either direction or even up the steps to the bridge and away along the road.

She turned back to the tent and the comings and goings of small figures. It was pitched in the corner plot nearest to her, on the back row furthest from the long stretch of houses. Here and there faces peered out of bedroom windows, a child sat on a back alley wall and a small knot of neighbours waited in the alleyway near to the scene. She needed to get the house-to-house started. But first, she had a corpse to view. She opened the car boot and pulled out protective overalls and shoe covers; lucky they were a fit and she was able to close the zip up over her bump.

Janine made her way to the young PC who was guarding the entrance to the scene.

‘You got the call?’

‘Yes, ma’am, boss,’ he stumbled over his words. Couldn’t be much older than Michael.

‘From the beginning, Constable. Nice and slow.’ Janine told him. She knew she’d get a better response if she gave the lad some time to get his act together. He fumbled with his notebook.

‘I was on Mauldeth Road West when I heard the dispatch. Eleven o’clock. I got here and a Mr Simon said there was a Mr Matthew Tulley, he knew him, like, on the allotment. He rang from home, Mr Simon I mean.’

Well it would hardly be Mr Tulley, would it? She nodded.

‘Mr Simon lives at the end there,’ he pointed to the terrace nearest to the road bridge where Janine had surveyed the scene. ‘So I come down and have a look and checked for signs of life but there weren’t none.’ The man swallowed hard. His first body, she assumed.

‘Did you touch anything else?’

‘Only the body… the deceased.’ He remembered the correct terminology. ‘His neck and his back, when I was checking him.’

‘And since then?’

‘Socos arrived and secured the scene.’

‘Good.’

An appalling blush suffused the young man’s face. Christ, she thought, they’ll eat this one alive.

She walked along the path towards the far plot where the plastic tarpaulin had been erected and the soco team were busy. Janine ducked underneath the blue and white police tape that cordoned off the area and trod carefully on the metal plates that had been laid down for everyone to walk on, to minimise disturbance of the scene. She could see the body, the head and shoulders on the ground immediately outside the shed door.

Rachel Grassmere, the scene of crime specialist, was taking notes, peering carefully at the floor and adding to the small card markers that had been numbered and placed at points to indicate possible evidence. Other scene of crime officers worked the scene: measuring, recording, filming, collecting, in among the little white markers.

Doc was kneeling beside the corpse, a Dictaphone in one gloved hand. The still cool air held a sickening mix of aromas; the stink of faeces and the nauseating tang of spilt blood. Janine sucked at her tongue to forestall the retching reflex. She wanted it under control before she looked any more closely at what was making the smell.

Rachel Grassmere glanced up and nodded hello, handed Janine a packet of Fisherman’s Friends. She took one gratefully, crunching on the lozenge to release the powerful fumes into her nose and mouth, to mask the stench.

‘Chief Inspector Lewis,’ Rachel Grassmere said.

‘This your baby?’

‘You could say that,’ Janine looked at Grassmere then at her bump. Raised her eyebrows. Grassmere grinned.

Janine studied the body. The man lay face down with his hands beneath him, half in and half out of the shed. His head was turned to the side so she could see the peculiar glassy stare of one eyeball and the right side of his ashen face. His mouth was pulled down in the slack repose that death left. He had black hair. Around him on the earth, his blood had spread, a pool of dark, lustrous liquid. The victim was wearing dark corduroy trousers, an anorak. She couldn’t see his footwear clearly, his feet rested inside the shed but they looked like some sort of boot, chunky soles. Had he fallen here? Or crawled out from the shed? She would ask forensics to try and establish that.

‘No visible sign of injury on the back, back of the skull or legs,’ Rachel Grassmere told her. ‘Doc’s just finishing off. We think we’ve got a shoe-print.’ Grassmere pointed and Janine followed her out to where a green plastic butt with a simple tap stood, the ground a little damp around it. ‘Looks like a partial sole from a trainer.’

She could barely make out the geometric pattern, would never have known it was there if she hadn’t been shown.

‘Went to wash his hands, or his shoes?’

‘Mr Tulley?’ Janine asked.

Grassmere shook her head. ‘Different tread.’

Janine waited at the edge of the area observing the socos at their work. She was eager to hear what they had found, what tiny clues pointed this way or that, but knew better than to press for information too soon.

She heard someone call her name and turned to look. Someone approaching. Tall bloke, slim build, nice face… she recognised that face… Richard Mayne! What on earth was he doing here? He lived down in London, had done since Tom was a baby. He carried a protective suit closely rolled in his hand.

‘Richard!’

He smiled. ‘Hello, stranger.’

Janine felt slightly embarrassed as she realised what she must look like in the Andy Pandy suit.

‘What you doing on my patch, then?’

‘Whatever you say, boss. I’m at your service.’

Janine shook her head. ‘I didn’t even know you were back.’ But it was great to see him. He was an excellent copper and a good mate. They’d had a laugh in the old days, competed for their sergeant’s badge, enjoyed spinning ideas off each other.

‘First day. I never really felt at home down south. Like another planet.’

‘Realised what you were missing?’

‘Something like that.’ There was a hint of mischief in his eye. She wondered what he meant exactly.

Then Rachel Grassmere called to them. ‘We’ll turn him, now.’

‘Come and see what we’ve got,’ Janine told Richard.

He unrolled the suit and began to pull it on.

Jade was not allowed to play on the allotments. Mam told her very clearly with her mouth pulled back so you could see her gums and the brown bits where her teeth had gone all bad. ‘There’s bad men go there,’ she was told. ‘They get little girls like you and hurt them, cut them into little pieces.’

Jade’s belly hurt and she wanted to go to Nana’s but if she said then Mam might guess something was up and start asking her and she couldn’t tell Mam that she’d been to the allotments.

She sat on the back yard wall, watching. There was a funny tent there now like at a Funday and people waiting on the path but there weren’t any balloons or burgers. Mam was still asleep and Jade wasn’t allowed to wake her up. Not allowed. She was starving. Maybe if she had some food the tummy ache would go away. She jumped from the wall onto the top of the wheelie bin then down. In the kitchen she helped herself to two pieces of sliced white bread. She didn’t want jam today. Okay. She didn’t even want to think about that.

She went and lay in front of the telly. She picked holes in the bread, pulling pieces away and rolling them between her fingers into small, grey balls. She chewed them one at a time. She flicked the channels. Boring tennis, boring film with no colours, boring car racing, boring golf, Channel 5 was so fuzzy you couldn’t tell what was on. She was so bored and her belly still hurt.

Eddie Vincent stood at his bedroom window looking at the hustle and bustle below. He shivered and moved a little to the edge of the frame, peered out with rheumy eyes through the grubby, grey floral nets to the allotment beyond. He couldn’t get warm, no matter what.

Stone-cold from the inside out. There were bobbies swarming all over the place. They’d put some sort of tent up around Matthew Tulley’s shed. He ought to go down there – tell them what he had seen. It was his duty And he had always done his duty. Oh, yes, he thought with rancour, he had always done his duty.

But he was too sick. They’d come calling anyroad wouldn’t they? Door-to-door. On the knocker. Hah He’d loved the door-to-door. Canvassing in the old days. You always had a few grousers, them that nothing were good for and there was no persuading them otherwise. But the rest, they’d turned out for him. And he’d won, hadn’t he? Elected to the council for a good nineteen years, and then the Trots muscled in. Lads, wet around the ears, full of piss and wind and big ideas.

Couldn’t do a thing while Thatcher was hacking away at everything. Thatcher, Thatcher, Milk Snatcher. He’d seen things change, then. People ground down, kids going hungry, turning wild. Apathy blooming like black mildew. And now: rickets back, TB back. Kids still dragged up in poverty. He hadn’t been into Manchester for months but when he used to go he saw all the homeless and the beggars. And the NHS close to collapse they were saying.

Funny place to die, your allotment. He and Maisie had kept theirs on till the end of rationing. Lean years and they’d have been much worse but for the crops they raised there. Not that you could grow sugar or chocolate or butter or raise a pig. But they picked sackfuls of vegetables and fruit.

When he was overseas, supplies had been regular at first, dull but ample. An army marches on its stomach after all, or crawls on it. It got harder later on. He’d eaten cat in Italy, trapped in the mountains with his chums; dark, stringy meat that made him gag but he forced it down. Not something he’d care to repeat. In fact, he’d no desire to relive any part of his life. His time was nearly up, he didn’t think he’d see the year out and with that thought there came a surprising sense of relief.

He shivered again and the pain came, sluicing through his belly. He bent forward gasping, then edged along the wall to the chest of drawers. He picked up the bottle, no lid on it, and shook out a tablet. He swallowed it and turned and took two steps to the bed. He climbed in, shucking off his slippers. He pulled the eiderdown and candlewick bedspread round him, curled on his side. His arms wrapped round his belly trying to warm it. The pillow smelt fetid. He imagined clean sheets, smelling of fresh air, a hot water bottle with its rubber scent, warm milk. The comforts that Maisie would have rustled up for him. Or his mother. Dabbing Calamine on his measles, making mustard baths to break his fever, rubbing camphorated oil on his chest on bitter winter mornings. The curtains were still open, the room full of light but he was in bed now. Too weak to move. He closed his eyes.

Dean listened to the older ones chatting to the driver as they boarded.

‘Cold enough for you, chuck?’

‘I hate it. I like the heat, nice and hot I like it.’

‘So I hear, but I was talking about the weather.’

‘Cheeky bugger.’

‘Oy, give her a ticket or we’ll be stuck here callin’ all day.’

Teasing each other, comfortable, as though the bus belonged to them. The driver whistled all the way. Dean watched the city pass. The bleak suburbs of North Manchester, practically a different country from the south where he lived. No students stayed up this side. No media people, no pavement cafes here or tapas bars. Large areas of old terraced housing had been bulldozed to make way for inner relief roads. Retail parks with their curving paths and burglar-proof metal cabins lay between landscaped areas planted with vicious shrubbery.

They went past the stadium they’d built for the Commonwealth Games 2002 and the Velodrome. Great that. Having the games. Sydney beat them for the Olympics, he could remember everyone waiting for the announcement back then, the feeling that they were up there with a chance. Gutted, they were. There was a big party down in Castlefield, he’d watched it on the telly, and people not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Least, after that, they’d got the Commonwealth, all them athletes in town, brilliant.

With a lurch he remembered why he was running. He couldn’t go back inside. He couldn’t. Be Strangeways this time. Twenty-two, wasn’t he. Oh, Paula. Man, what would he tell her? Sick relative? Mate in trouble? Maybe if he turned it round. Told her Douggie needed him, being hassled or something. Make it sound dangerous so she wouldn’t try to come calling. What was he going to do if Douggie was away? The thought drenched his back with sweat. The driver started on a new tune. Oasis – You Gotta Roll With It. Aw, God, thought Dean, if only

The socos took positions at the shoulders, hips, knees of the body. Rachel Grassmere readied the camera and gave the count. ‘On, three. One, two, three.’

They grunted with the strain as they rolled the corpse. Janine stepped back involuntarily as the mass of guts slithered from the abdominal cavity with a sucking sound and came to rest over the corpse and on the ground. Lurid, multi-coloured coils: a shocking sight. She wished she’d taken two Fisherman’s Friends. She thought of the book Catch 22 where the young air man was complaining about the cold as he held his guts in his fingers. She took a small breath through her mouth. And another.

She gagged then, silently, feeling the sour wash hit her throat. She swallowed hard, kept her mouth tight shut. Everything sticky with blood. So much of it. Trousers and t-shirt stiff with the stuff. The left side of his face darker where the blood had pooled after death. She was amazed there’d been any left in him.

‘That is nasty. Very nasty.’ Richard said.

‘Thank God I skipped breakfast,’ said Janine.

She turned away, from the sight and smell, drank in the cold, cleaner air, took a few steps down the plot. He had put a lot of work in here, Mr Tulley. She was no big gardener but she knew enough to recognise the fruits of labour. Rows of cabbages and the tops of root veg at one side. Plots clear and the ground prepared for more. She wondered who he was, this murder victim? What sort of man was he, who’d planted the seeds here and picked the harvest and pottered in his shed? In the hours and days to come she would be finding out everything about him. Nothing would remain private. It would become her property: his life; to study and explore, to sift through and sort and peer into in her efforts to find out who killed him. Who had robbed him of that life, left him to bleed on the cold, winter ground?