Dead To Me

26

THE BOSS HAD told them they’d leave Sean to have his eight hours and review the situation in the morning. If it’d been up to Rachel, she’d have kept going, wear the bastard down, but they had to keep to PACE rules, or anything he did say wouldn’t be watertight. His defence would whinge about coercion or contravention of his human rights and a case could be chucked out of court: Section 76 of the PACE Act 1984 any evidence obtained by oppression must not be admitted in court. Oppression includes torture, inhuman and degrading treatment and the use or threat of violence.

The lack of anything tangible linking Sean to the stabbing was a disappointment. They’d found a partial fingerprint on the cross, but it hadn’t been his. He’d not shown himself to be a particularly quick thinker (what with all the pratting about over the bins), so Rachel didn’t think he’d had some brilliant plan to hide bloody clothes and the knife. That in turn made her question if he was their man. After all, if Sean had killed Lisa and wanted to cover his tracks, wouldn’t he say he’d arrived at four p.m. and called them straight away? Not fess up to an awkward half-hour gap.

If it wasn’t Sean, the only other whiff of where to look was in the link to Rosie Vaughan and Ryelands. Another bite of the cherry couldn’t hurt.

At first Rosie wouldn’t open the door. That brought knobby neighbour out, and Rachel had to hold her breath so she wouldn’t breathe in his miasma.

‘You back? Can’t stay away, eh? I never forget a pretty face.’

Rachel ignored him and banged on the door again. Heard movement inside. The door began to open, but as soon as Rosie was able to see who was there, she tried to shut it in Rachel’s face. Rachel had already edged her foot in the gap and kept pushing. The girl was pin thin, weak with neglect, it wasn’t a fair contest.

‘I just want to talk to you,’ Rachel said.

‘No! Leave me alone.’ Rosie’s eyes were sunken behind her glasses, her cheeks hollow. Was she starving herself, too? She wore a flimsy dress, cream and pink, handkerchief sleeves, with leggings and broken-down jewelled slippers. The flat was perishing.

Rachel wondered whether she’d get further if she tried a different tack. ‘Let me get you something to eat,’ she said, moving towards Rosie along the small hallway. ‘Got some bread?’

‘Get out.’ Rosie was quaking. ‘It’s my flat, I don’t want you here.’

Rachel passed the bedroom. The door was ajar so she could see into the room; light from the walkway outside bled through the windows. The room was bare, not a stick of furniture or any carpet. Nothing. It was there Rosie had suffered the rape, the worst of the beating. That’s where they found her.

Rosie, still backing away, reached the door to the living room and Rachel could see the window at the far side, the tiny balcony.

‘Get out.’ Rosie lifted her arm: she held a knife, a large penknife. Rachel glimpsed the ladder of scars on the underside of her forearm. Deliberate self-harm. Still doing it. No wonder.

Rachel paused. She hadn’t got her body armour on, hadn’t got anything, gas or radio. She was meant to carry personal safety equipment at all times but didn’t bother. And this wasn’t strictly official business. Which meant nobody knew she was here.

Rosie’s eyes glittered, she looked feverish.

Rachel ignored the knife, acted as though there was nothing to be worried about, kept moving forward. Rosie stepped over the threshold into the living room, the knife shaking in her hand. In the centre of the living room was a low couch with a sleeping bag and cushions on it, and around it on the floor a bizarre array of cans and bottles and foil food trays. Not litter – arranged in a wide circle, strung together with wool. ‘What’s this?’ Rachel said, and then she understood: an early warning system, like the things people rigged up on their allotments to scare birds or cats. If anyone entered the room while the girl slept on the couch, they would trip over the wool and make a noise. Except they wouldn’t. It was easy to see, simple to step across. Pathetic.

‘You’ve told him, haven’t you? You’ve told him,’ Rosie repeated, the knife jerking as she spoke.

Told him what? She was off her trolley.

‘He’s going to come back now. I promised.’

‘I can protect you,’ Rachel said, trying to get on the same wavelength. ‘I haven’t told anybody anything. It was Martin Dalbeattie, Rosie, wasn’t it?’

‘Martin?’ Bewildered, she gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ she said, little gulps as she spoke. ‘You shouldn’t have come – he’ll know, he’ll come back.’ She looked round the room, her eyes darting this way and that, seeing terrors at every turn. ‘You get out! You’ve brought them in.’ Them? Who’s them? Rosie jabbed the knife towards Rachel, who edged away. The angry cuts on the girl’s arm were slashes, but now she was making a stabbing motion. Her breath fast, and shallow, hyperventilating.

Rachel was pretty sure she could overpower her, but whether she could do it and avoid Rosie injuring herself, she was uncertain. She was empowered under the Mental Health Act to detain someone for their own safety when they were in immediate risk of serious harm to themselves or anyone else. This was that sort of call. Rachel was no psychiatrist, but Rosie was mad as a box of frogs. ‘Will you come with me, Rosie?’ Rachel said simply, as though she needed her hand holding. ‘I can take you somewhere safe.’

Rosie gave a laugh or a sob, hard to tell. ‘You lying bitch – you brought them here.’

‘Brought who?’

‘All the devils.’

Oh, fuck: loonytunes. ‘You don’t feel safe here, we don’t have to stay. We can go together – my car’s downstairs. You’ll have to leave the knife, though. I’ll take you to a doctor.’

‘Get out!’ Rosie yelled and leapt. Rachel jumped back, but not quick enough to prevent the knife catching the edge of her left hand. Bringing a stinging pain then a throb, nauseating as the blood welled up.

Rosie seized the chance to slam the living-room door.

Rachel was through it in a second, but already Rosie was at the balcony doors, pulling them open.

As she ran, Rachel called to the girl, ‘Rosie wait, come in, wait.’ The wind snatched at her cries, so she had no idea if Rosie heard them. The girl never hesitated; still clutching the knife, she scrambled up over the balcony wall and fell.

Rachel ran to the balcony, looked down, saw the bundle that was Rosie on the tarmac below. Felt her own heart clench and burn, tears start in her eyes. Oh, you daft, bloody bitch.

She ran down the stairs, jumping two and three at a time, feeling sick.

There was nothing she could do for the girl.

No sound, it was so quiet, just Rachel’s breath coming fast. She wanted to run. To run as far as she could and hide herself away. She could feel the impulse in her legs, in the back of her skull. Quick! Now! Go! Panic rising through her, high and fierce. She clamped down on all those reactions. In case of sudden death report to Division…

She called an ambulance, then Janet – she didn’t know who else to try. Janet answered, sounding wary: ‘Rachel?’

‘Janet…’ Choking up, she couldn’t speak, she bit her cheek hard, fought hard to keep from breaking down.

‘Rachel? You OK? What’s going on?’

‘I fucked up,’ Rachel cried.

‘Where are you?’