Dead To Me

27

RACHEL WAS HUDDLED under a blanket, trembling like a leaf. She looked up at Janet, an expression of bitter regret on her face.

‘You all right?’ Janet said.

What do you think? Rachel thought.

‘What went on here?’

Rachel told her, fractured sentences, covering her eyes with the heels of her hands on occasion. ‘I am in such deep shit,’ Rachel said.

‘What were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking that they were both at Ryelands, I was thinking they both had the same social worker. All I wanted was for Rosie to tell me if I was on the right track.’

‘Did she?’

Rachel groaned. ‘No. But she was mad as a bat. I was going to get her sectioned. She wasn’t fit to be left on her own. Then she did the high-dive routine.’

‘Let’s get you to hospital, have that seen to.’ Janet meant the cut on her arm.

‘No,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s fine.’

‘Are your jabs up to date?’

‘Yeah.’

Janet fetched her first-aid kit and began to dress the wound. The cut, just like Lisa, and for a crazy moment Rachel wondered if Rosie had killed Lisa. As soon as she looked closer at that scenario, it fell apart: Rosie was ill, paranoid, she could barely function. Rachel couldn’t see her travelling a couple of miles to Lisa’s, killing her and running away. She was a thousand times more likely to hurt herself rather than another person. Or to be hurt. And now both those things had happened.

‘Oh, Christ!’

Gill was across the other side of the square, bearing down on Rachel like a drone. She stopped close by and Janet stepped aside.

‘Do you go looking for trouble, or does it just find you?’ Gill snapped.

Rachel didn’t think she expected an answer.

‘The rape case?’ Gill said.

Who’d told her? Rachel looked up, startled. Gill had done her homework fast. ‘Rosie Vaughan, seventeen, attacked here – well, her flat, up there,’ Rachel said. All the lights were on now. People rubber-necking. Regular circus. ‘Back in 2008. Downstairs neighbour called us after hearing screams. She’d been half-killed, beaten to a pulp, raped at knifepoint. Not sure of the sequence. She spoke a little at first, gibberish some of it, but that’s how we knew about the knife. We got her to St Mary’s, did a rape exam. He used a condom, but there were traces.’ Hard to batter someone so comprehensively and not leave some traces behind. ‘Then she closed down, refused to make a statement, wouldn’t cooperate. We built a DNA profile of the suspect, no match – left on file. The neighbour opposite, on her landing, was considered but didn’t fit the DNA. Strong suspicion she knew her attacker and so wouldn’t dob him in.’

Gill rubbed her hands together briskly against the cold.

‘She was at Ryelands, too,’ Rachel said, studying her feet. Waiting for the lash to fall.

‘And you ran this by me, when?’ Gill clapped her hands. ‘Oops, sorry. Never. That right?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said. She’d lose her job, be in uniform on the beat for the rest of her career.

‘I am your SIO. What do those letters stand for?’

‘Senior investigating officer.’

They were erecting screens around Rosie’s body. There would have to be an inquiry, a full IPCC investigation, a sudden death, even with Rachel’s account to go on; a post-mortem would be required to confirm cause of death, an inquest held to establish the material facts. A forum for the family to get their questions answered. What family? The mother who’d ruined her? Who’d mourn for her? The dozy lads she got high with at the canal?

‘Senior investigating officer,’ Gill went on. ‘That means I run the team. Yes?’ Her fury was barely contained.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘This is my syndicate, you are my DC.’

Were. She’d soon be using the past tense.

‘The safety of my officers is my primary concern. You are my responsibility. I do not expect my DCs to start freelancing on the side. No forethought, no strategy, no backup. No fucking sense.’

Rachel couldn’t work out whether the correct response was Yes, boss, or No, boss, so she made do with, ‘Boss.’ She was shivering, cold in her bones.

The air felt icy with each breath. She had flown downstairs, leaping three or four steps at a time on to the landings, heart smacking like a jackhammer, mind chanting No no no no no! Oh, Rosie, you daft mare.

Rosie had landed spreadeagled, the glaring light reflecting the pool of blood around her head. Her glasses beside her, the gauzy dress riffling in the faint breeze. Rachel reached her, felt for her pulse as she keyed in her mobile. Ascertain signs of life. None there.

No one about. It was dreamlike. The harsh lighting, the frosted air and no one appeared. Falling bodies made a noise, there would have been a thump, a sickening moist sound from the impact. But they were all alone, no bystanders drawn to gawp and chunter, just Rachel and the dead girl. For a laughable moment Rachel wondered if she really might be dreaming and she’d wake up at home or in Nick’s bed and the fist in the pit of her stomach would disappear, the anxiety melt away.

‘Rachel?’

Rachel looked from the screens and back to Gill, whose breath streamed out of her nostrils white: dragon’s smoke. ‘Complaints will want to see you soon as. Don’t come in until you’re ready. They can wait, if needs be. Something like this – you’re going to feel crap.’

You’re not exactly helping.

Gill gave another puff of breath. ‘Forty-eight hours and you’ve totalled one of our cars, apparently launched your own private investigation, presented us with a jumper to explain…’ Meaning Rosie ‘… and brought the IPCC rummaging through my knicker drawer. Far too much attention.’

Rachel wanted to weep, her eyes ached, but she sniffed hard, rubbed at her face. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

‘Occupational health – there if you need them.’ Gill held up her hands, as if she was shoving Rachel away, disowning her, turned on her heels and walked back the way she’d come.

Janet invited her for a drink.

‘Haven’t you a home to go to?’ Rachel said.

‘They’ll survive,’ Janet said.

She took her to a pub, an old-fashioned place with a real fire and lots of little rooms. No bells or whistles.

‘Wine, lager, vodka…?’

‘Wine. Red, please.’ Then she felt a wave of sadness. Why was Janet being so nice to her? She’d really, really messed up. Rachel’s throat closed. She tried to swallow.

Janet noticed. Eagle eyes. ‘Hey, go sit down.’

‘She was only nineteen,’ Rachel said, when Janet set their drinks on the table. ‘I thought I could talk her into-’

‘Did you push her off?’

‘No.’

‘Threaten her?’

‘No – I tried to get her out of there, get her sectioned.’

‘So, it’s not your fault.’

Rachel still felt lousy. ‘But if I’d-’

Janet gave a snort. ‘That way lies madness.’

Rachel took a mouthful of wine. She wanted a fag, but she’d have to go and stand in the cold and she couldn’t face that yet. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘if you want Gill to reassign me…’

‘Don’t be daft. She came down hard on you because she cares about her team. You put yourself at risk, that’s what’s freaking her out – not what happened to Rosie. No one could have foreseen that. She jumped – she wasn’t pushed.’

‘But-’

‘Look, you’re a liability. You’re disorganized, you don’t think things through, you don’t know when to keep your gob shut, you’re tactless, and you’re not much of a team player. You can be rude and patronizing and arrogant…’

Rachel blinked. ‘Don’t hold back,’ she managed.

‘… and you’re judgemental. But Gill thinks you’ve got potential. And in among the Evel Knievel stunt, the unauthorized visits and the slagging off of our victims’ relatives, I can see that she might just be on to something. So, I’ll put up with you as long as she does.’

All of five minutes then. Rachel wondered if she should justify her downer on Denise, but that would mean talking about her own mother swanning off without a backward glance, leaving three kids with a drunken excuse for a man. And Rachel didn’t want pity or understanding or shrinks or questions. Besides, Janet was a mother herself, so she could get all defensive or righteous or, even worse, go all gooey and brain-dead, the way Alison did when children came into the conversation.

‘You rate Gill, don’t you?’ Rachel said.

‘She’s the best,’ Janet replied.

‘But you’re mates, too. Did you train together?’

Janet paused a moment. ‘No. Met not long after.’ Rachel expected more, but Janet didn’t elaborate. They talked about the murder instead.

‘Look – Martin Dalbeattie…’ Rachel said.

Janet shook her head, ‘God. You’re like a terrier!’

‘In a good way?’

Janet raised her eyebrows, ‘Depends if you’ve found a rat or you’re savaging next door’s guinea pig.’