Blue Murder

CHAPTER FIVE

Eddie Vincent, sick and old, was dreaming. Mama was there with her pinny on and a flowery scarf to cover her hair. She was chasing him with the broom and he was screeching with delight. Her eyes dancing, chanting in a daft voice, ‘Beware the Boggart who’s come to eat. He’ll drink your blood and eat your meat.’

Eddie Vincent heard knocking. The bell hadn’t worked for years. He considered getting up out of bed and making his way downstairs but knew it was beyond him. He closed his eyes. His mouth was parched. He tried to swallow, to move his tongue and summon up some spit but it was all clemmed up. A drink of water. Over on the drawers but even that was too far. Never mind, he was warm now and the pain had blurred to an ache. Knocking. He’d expected someone, hadn’t he? It was there, just round the corner of his memory but he couldn’t quite reach it. Happen it’d be clearer in the morning. He’d be brighter in the morning, usually worked that way.

The police, that was it! They’d come back, wouldn’t they? The police. If not he’d call them. Ring them up and get them to send someone round to hear what he had to say. But he was too weak now. Slowly, he pulled the corner of the bedspread up to cover his head, leaving a small gap for his nose and mouth. Keep the heat in.

Maisie had laughed at him when he used to do that, she never felt the cold, slept with her arms flung out and often as not half a leg showing. Big and warm, she was. God, he missed her. Even after all these years. Sixteen years. Still such a keen loss. Like a cut that wouldn’t heal properly.

Aw, Maisie. He didn’t believe in heaven but he’d a notion he’d be nearer to her in death than he was now. Never expected her to go first. He’d always imagined she’d be the one to get a phone call from a stranger or to find him slumped in his chair.

Cycling club. That’s where they met. He smiled, let himself drift in echoing memories of those times. Freewheeling down from Hayfield, stopping for sandwiches and Pale Ale at a country pub, cycling behind Maisie, aching to touch her. Getting a kiss for fixing her puncture.

Then the first time they spent the day alone together. A picnic up in Peak Forest near Buxton. Cider in a flask and pork pies and hard-boiled eggs. She kissed him, slow and soft, tasting of apples. She had sighed with pleasure and stretched. She was a lioness, big boned, tawny coloured. She kissed him again, mischief in her eyes. By the end of the long, dreamy afternoon, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

Lesley Tulley’s sister arrived within twenty minutes.

By then two uniformed officers had been drafted in to guard Ashgrove from the press pack.

Emma was a taller version of Lesley Tulley; same dark hair, same shaped face but lacking the particular combination of features that made Lesley Tulley a beautiful rather than just a pretty woman. Emma was pallid and trembling as she hugged her sister.

Janine introduced herself and answered Emma’s questions as best as she could. She suggested that the Tulleys’ GP be contacted in case Lesley required a sedative or sleeping pills. ‘It’s a huge shock at the moment, she may become more distressed later when it begins to sink in,’ she spoke quietly to Emma, aware of Lesley curled into the corner of the sofa.

Janine left them to get ready for the trip to the mortuary and the formal identification and waited outside in her car with Richard.

‘She never asked where he was.’ Janine pointed out. ‘Neither of us mentioned the allotment.’

‘She knew that was where he was heading.’

‘But he could have been attacked en route, rough area, more people about.’

‘What do you make of her?’

Janine considered the question. It was too early to tell, really. She shrugged. Lesley and Emma emerged from the house and approached the car. Richard stepped out to open the doors for them.

Janine drove, Richard beside her. Lesley and Emma silent in the back, faces bleached by shock. At the bottom of Princess Parkway, Janine swung off the round about and took the road to the mortuary. The building was adjacent to the police station. From the outside it all looked bright and shiny and proud, glass and steel, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, the glint of the sun. A façade and behind it, inside the mortuary, waiting for them, was something grim and sordid and humbling.

Before Lesley went in she could feel her heart climbing into her gullet. She held her hand against her throat, the other gripping Emma’s. She barely heard the man gently explaining the procedure. DCI Lewis put her hand on her arm saying, ‘Take your time, just let us know if it’s Matthew.’ Though they’d said they were certain. She had to face the reality. To see he was dead for herself. To try and understand. She nodded to let them know she was ready.

A flashback came; her wedding day. Ivory silk dress, little country church outside Chester. Nodding and taking the first slow steps down the aisle. Matthew in a charcoal suit, turning to watch her coming. A quiet wedding, a handful of family and friends. A perfect day.

That night, in the country inn with its four poster bed and real log fire, he’d undressed her, laid her on the bed and watched her. Always watching. When at last he entered her, he slid in deep, just this side of pain, again and again, his gaze locked on hers. ‘I love you, Lesley,’ he said. ‘You are so beautiful.’ She cried when she came. He wanted to take her photograph. ‘You look so beautiful.’

Suddenly shy, she said ‘I don’t know.’

‘We’re married,’ he said. They both laughed.

‘Mrs Tulley?’ She dipped her head now to let them know she was ready and they went in to view the body.

Lesley stared through the glass at the still body of her husband. Unable to speak, she nodded to confirm his identity.

It looked like a model of Matthew, she thought, not the real thing. His skin had a yellow hue accentuated by the lighting, his hair brushed with a parting at one side; he never wore it like that. His mouth turned down giving him a glum expression. He looked older.

She wasn’t allowed to touch him, they’d explained to her. The body had yet to be examined. The sheet covered everything but his head. No sign of what had been done to him. The viewing room was cold. A faint anti septic smell percolated from somewhere as though the hard vinyl floors had just been mopped.

Lesley turned to Emma and the detectives. ‘I’d like a few minutes on my own?’

They nodded and withdrew. She hitched her little knapsack over one shoulder and pressed her hands against the glass of the viewing window, tears running from her eyes. ‘Matthew,’ she whispered, trying the name in her mouth. The sound resonated in the stark room. But what could she possibly say? There were no words. His eyes were closed. It looked as though they had sunk a little. She imagined them drying up, the fluids leaving his body. He would never gaze at her again. His eyes a stunning blue. Hers brown. What will our children look like? A game she had played when it was still a possibility.

The thought brought a sob to her throat. She didn’t know how to say goodbye, didn’t know that she even wanted to. So she turned and left him.

In the corridor Emma was crying too. Lesley hugged her sister. ‘Oh, Emma,’ she cried, ‘who would do such a thing?’ Suddenly a wave of nausea swept through her, she pulled away from Emma, covered her mouth.

Janine Lewis realised what was happening. ‘This way.’ She led Lesley to the Ladies, waited while she went into a cubicle. Impossible not to hear the noise of her vomiting. Janine leant against the wall and tilted her head back trying to squash the rising queasiness. Blame the pregnancy – anything would set her off.

In The Parkway pub on Princess Parkway, nineteen-year-old Ferdie Gibson, his head cropped so close that his scalp was visible, a badly executed tattoo of an eagle on his neck, rolled up to the bar and ordered two Stellas. The giant-sized TV screen above broadcast Man U’s fixture. Ferdie sauntered over to the corner where his mates were. He passed Colin his drink.

‘Ow yer doin’, Ferdie?’ someone said.

‘Aright.’

‘Tosser,’ one of the lads screamed at the screen. ‘Did you see that?’ He swung round challenging the others to share in his indignation. ‘Total crap. They ought to cut his legs off.’

Ferdie sat down, took a swig of his drink, the eagle on his neck rippled. Ferdie waited for the right moment then leant forward. ‘You lot, you heard the news?’

‘What?’

‘Bout Tulley? Someone’s done him. He’s history.’ Ferdie Gibson gave a wide grin. ‘Down the allotments, he was. Knifed they reckon. They took him away in a body bag. He’s dead.’ Ferdie’s eyes gleamed. ‘Come on, you lot, I’m buying.’ Ferdie flourished a twenty pound note and winked at Colin. ‘We,’ he announced ‘are going to get plated.’ Laughter swirled around the group but Colin glanced away, uneasy. Then Beckham scored and the whole place erupted.

‘I just need to lie down,’ Lesley said. Her voice was shaky; even her skin felt tight and tired.

‘Okay.’ Emma said. ‘Anything you want? Tea?’

‘No, I’ll go up, try to sleep.’

Lesley reached the door and rested there a moment. ‘It’s like a dream, Emma. I keep thinking I’ll wake up,’ her mouth quivered and she turned away.

As she walked into the bedroom she tried to comprehend the fact that Matthew would never be here again. Not here, in this room, not in this bed, not in this house. It was a life she could not imagine. To be without him every hour of every day for the rest of her life. She closed the heavy blue woven curtains, removed her earrings and her clothes. The room was warm but she shivered and she pulled a long, soft, cotton night-dress from her dressing table drawer. She lay down at her side of the bed. How long till she took his pillow away? Grief clutched at her throat and she made a choking sound. Matthew’s dead, she told herself. Matthew is dead. Matthew is dead. Sobbing, she repeated it to herself over and over until she was exhausted and had no more tears.

‘Briefing in half-an-hour. Make sure everyone knows.’

‘Yes, boss.’ DC Jenny Chen nodded and withdrew.

When Chen had closed the door, Janine slipped off her shoes and stood for a moment, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension around her neck, then kneading the small of her back. She stretched her arms up towards the ceiling and stood on tiptoe, repeated the movements several times and then made tea.

A decent cup of tea. Eighteen months ago the powers that be had installed monstrous catering machines throughout the division. They dispensed tea, coffee, chocolate, soup, Bovril and, this being the North West, Vimto. She’d tried a taste of the coffee. Once. In a briefing meeting with The Lemon. Janine had taken one mouthful from the polystyrene cup and gagged at the smell, redolent of rotting mushrooms, and at the unidentifiable bitterness which brought back memories of the stuff her mother used to paint on her nails to stop her biting them. The silky texture of the man-made creamer coated her tongue like chalk. She had leant forward as if to take a second sip and discreetly released the mouthful back into her cup, swallowed hard and brought her full attention back to the meeting.

The following day Janine had made time for a lunch break and had returned to her office with a small kettle and cafetiere, a selection of teas and coffees and a dinky mini-fridge which she plugged in and proceeded to stock with mineral water, milk and fruit juices. Sorted.

She put her feet up and began a list of items to cover at the briefing meeting. Initial reports would be given and tasks assigned to the various teams involved in the first frantic stages that followed the discovery of a body. She worked steadily, her concentration betrayed by the way she pulled and twisted her hair with her left hand.

She was interrupted by her phone. It was Michael.

‘Mum, can you give me a lift home?’

‘Where are you?’

‘The Trafford Centre.’

‘The Trafford Centre? I’m at work, Michael. Why can’t you get the bus? Or try Dad.’ Teenagers were like toddlers, Janine thought, the centre of their own universe, constitutionally unable to put themselves in any one else’s shoes.

The phone went dead. ‘Hello?’ Janine tried to call him back but there was no answer. She shook her head. What was he playing at? ‘They seem to think their father’s incapable,’ she muttered to herself.

There was a sharp rap at the door and The Lemon came in. Janine slid her feet down. Wished she had her shoes on.

‘Sir?’

‘These actions, Chief Inspector Lewis,’ he waved the sheaf of paperwork she had sent through. ‘Some sort of joke?’

Janine frowned.

‘The forensics alone will wipe out the budget and as for overtime,’ his lips compressed with impatience and he threw the papers onto her desk. ‘We’re not a bloody charity, you can’t trot around slapping it all on a credit card either. Get that back on my desk by the end of the day and cut thirty percent.’ And he swept out.

Tight bastard, she thought to herself. They all knew that you had to account for every penny spent in these days of Best Value but she really hadn’t gone over the

top.

Bobby Mac, a homeless man, was roaring drunk. Wheeling round and round on Market Street, his over coat flying out like a Cossack’s skirt. He tried to kick a leg out and stumbled backwards, knocking into a stroller pushed by a young man. ‘Piss off,’ the lad shouted. ‘Watch the baby. Bloody nutter.’

Bobby scrambled to his feet, swung round. Who was calling him? He’d have ‘em. People looking at him. ‘Piss off,’ he echoed, ‘go on the lot of you.’ He ran at a knot of teenage girls. They scattered, squealing and swearing.

‘Come on, now.’ One of the Big Issue sellers moved towards Bobby. ‘S alright. Calm down, calm down. It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’

‘Bugger off,’ said Bobby though his manner was less aggressive. ‘What you looking at?’ He shrieked at the Saturday afternoon crowd gathering round.

The busker playing the saxophone stopped and bent to collect his change.

‘I’m as good as you. I was in the army. BFPO BFPO…’ He couldn’t remember the number. ‘I had a wife and an ‘ouse. I had a wife.’ He stopped, suddenly bewildered. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, teetering on his feet. The men at the stall selling inflatable hammers, umbrellas and socks, four pairs for a pound, were watching.

‘Sit down, mate,’ the Big Issue bloke nodded to the benches in the middle, ‘have a rest. Come on.’ He put his hand out.

‘They want to clear them off the streets,’ a woman’s voice rang out. ‘Beggars.’

‘Keep away.’ Bobby’ eyes narrowed. Spit flew as he spoke to the paper seller. ‘I know your sort. You’re just like the rest.’

The vendor moved away, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

‘Well, I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I know how to look after myself. I was a soldier. BFPO. Yes sir!’ he shouted. Fumbled in his coat. Coughed and hawked a gob of phlegm to the floor. He withdrew the knife with a clumsy flourish. ‘Used to be bayonets. See?’ He pushed it at the boy. ‘See?’

‘Aw, hell,’ said the vendor taking another step back. The store guard at New Look punched in the code to call the police from the Arndale Centre.

Dean told Douggie everything. By the time he’d finished Douggie was in no mood to giggle.

‘What am I gonna do? I’m not going down again, Douggie. No way. It’d kill me, man. And Paula…’ He stumbled to a halt, eyes hot, mouth dry

Douggie shrugged. ‘Stay here, man. That’s fine. Long as it takes.’

While she waited to start the briefing, Janine took round Eleanor’s sponsorship form.

Butchers methodically entered an amount and returned the form. Janine looked. ‘50p – Total!’ she said in disgust. ‘Push the boat out, Butchers, why don’t you.’

She turned to Richard. ‘Come on, our Eleanor’s sponsored skip. Good cause.’

He smiled and took it from her. She watched and did a double take as he offered a pound a lap. ‘She’ll do the whole lot, you know,’ she warned him. ‘Serious skipper.’

Richard shrugged.

Rachel Grassmere arrived and Janine put the form away and moved to the front of the room in front of the boards that already held details about the case. Time to begin the briefing. Her throat went dry and she felt her chest tighten. Nerves. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, determined to show the team that she could handle it.

‘Good afternoon, everybody. DS Butchers,’ she nodded to the plump, ginger-haired man who wore one of his collection of appalling character ties, ‘and DS Shap.’ Ferret-faced Shap cocked his head, a half-smile on his lips. She knew Shap to be an effective detective, quick off the mark but a little too lax about playing by the rules. The opposite of Butchers, in fact, who had struggled to make Sergeant and was a stickler for detail.

‘DC Jenny Chen.’

Chen was new, a bit of an unknown quantity. Tall, willowy, gorgeous-looking. Janine wondered whether her beauty would be an asset or a handicap in the job.

‘DI Richard Mayne,’ Richard lifted a hand in greeting as she introduced him, ‘back from far flung parts, he’ll be my second in command.’

‘And Miss – erm…’ Damn! She’d gone blank. She stared at the woman, forensic specialist, mid-length blonde hair, lovely face. Rachel… Rachel… she felt her face get warm. Just as panic began to kick in Rachel helped her out.

‘Grassmere.’

Janine smiled, nodded her thanks. ‘Grassmere, from Forensics. Good to see you all. So what have we got?’ She pointed to the picture of the teacher behind her. ‘Victim, Matthew Tulley, age forty-two, deputy head master at St Columbus Roman Catholic High School in Whalley Range. Wife, Lesley Tulley, age twenty-eight, both lived at Ashgrove, Barnes Lane. Last alleged sighting of Matthew Tulley, at home about nine this morning when he left Mrs Tulley to go to his allotment.’

She referred again to the display where there was a sketch of the allotment and nearby streets. ‘Deceased discovered and reported at eleven a.m. by a Mr Simon who has the adjoining plot.’

Janine’s stomach took a dive as she realised that there were no scene of crime photos up. Oh, hell! ‘Where’s scene of crime shots?’ she said irritably.

DC Chen answered. ‘On the way, printer’s playing up…’

‘The white heat of technology, eh?’

That won her a laugh.

‘Okay. Mr Tulley was prostrate, face down, feet in the shed, torso and head out. Waiting for confirmation on the weapon, some sort of knife.’

‘We heard it was a ritual killing, boss – he was disembowelled,’ said Shap.

She raised her eyes to heaven. The men and women here, like any other people, were quick to spread rumours and latch on to any opportunity for sensationalism. ‘Bollocks.’ A ripple of laughter. ‘No, they were intact, actually.’ Janine continued. ‘The wound was large enough to release the intestines, that’s all. I’m off tripe for the duration.’

‘Besides,’ Grassmere chipped in, ‘looks like he moved after the attack. There was no ritual positioning of the body post mortem, no tokens removed, no paraphernalia. Nothing like that.’

‘Carry on, Miss Grassmere.’

Janine sat down, allowing the forensic scientist to take the floor. Grassmere outlined their initial findings and some of those assembled made notes in their books, and murmured comments that only their immediate neighbours could hear. ‘The post mortem is underway now, fingerprints have gone off so we should have both those by the morning. PNSC have arrived,’ Grassmere referred to the Police National Search Centre, ‘and they are carrying out a detailed search of the allotments and environs. All sealed off till they’re through.’

Janine thanked her.

‘House-to-house, you know who you are?’ Eight heads nodded in response. ‘Carry on till dusk. Cover any sightings of people going to the allotments or coming away, any time before eleven o’ clock. Also recent disturbances, unusual events in the area and any information on the victim.’

As she spoke a part of her was observing her performance, assessing her choice of words, her manner, her gestures and identifying areas for improvement. She had to be good, twice as good.

‘Reports here for tomorrow morning, eight a.m. sharp.’

A couple of half-hearted groans greeted the announcement of an early Sunday.

‘I could make it earlier?’

‘No, boss, eight is fine.’

‘Friends and associates,’ she moved on. ‘Inspector Mayne?’

‘Appointment arranged for the morning with the Headmaster, Mr Deaking.’

‘Good.’ She referred to her notes. ‘We’ll be getting a list tomorrow morning from Mrs Tulley of other friends and associates and we’ll be establishing her movements this morning as well as talking to her sister. Emma is staying at Ashgrove with Mrs Tulley. Any questions?’

‘Deceased have any form, boss?’ Shap put in.

‘Nothing on HOLMES so far.’ She referred to the national computerised database that the police forces share. ‘At this point no known suspects. As far as the Press goes, we’ve issued a statement. Word travelled fast and they’re camped outside the Tulleys’ at present. Two officers are there to keep an eye on things. If nothing emerges in the next 24 hours we will ask Mrs Tulley to make an appeal for information. Anything else? Right, then…’

Her closing of the meeting was interrupted by the arrival of an officer with a box of ten by eight digital computer prints from the crime scene. ‘Sorry about this,’ he wheezed. ‘Bloody printer’s on the blink.’

Grassmere and Richard helped to pin up the photo graphs. They depicted the allotments from various vantage points, as well as the nearby housing, Tulley’s plot, the shed inside and out, Matthew Tulley prone and on his back and close-ups of his wounds.

‘Death in all its glory,’ Janine said quietly.

She noted the way the squad settled, a shift in the atmosphere as each person saw what had been done to the man and as each adopted an image of the murder that would drive their work and, for some, haunt their dreams.