Ruthless

1

Rachel stopped at the brow of the hill to catch her breath, a stitch in her side and sweat trickling down her back. Panting, she bent double, touched her toes then straightened up.

It was almost dark and she watched the streetlights come on in the valley below, delineating the ring road and the motorway and the web of residential streets that sprawled up the sides of the hills. Mills and churches and tower blocks were dotted here and there, rising among the terraced housing.

She hadn’t brought a torch and the track back to the car would be treacherous in the gloom, rutted and riven by tree roots and the gnarled heather that clung to the slope.

Rachel felt something nip her neck and waved a hand to swat it away. Gnats.

As the darkness deepened it seemed to bring a silence with it, an interruption of the distant traffic sounds so she could hear the tick of the ground cooling and something rustle in the foliage behind her.

A flash of black disturbed the air by her face and she cried out then felt like a right tit. A bat, that was all. Fetching its supper.

The glow caught her eyes, down in the west of town. A rich orange that reminded her of bonfire night. Looked too big to be a bonfire, wrong time of year – May. Perhaps a car had been torched, the petrol tank going up in flames. Joyriders, some lowlife toe-rags, getting rid of a vehicle used in a robbery. Looks bigger than that, too, she thought, flinching slightly as the bat swooped past again.

A shriek carried on the still air, high and hoarse. Fox, owl? Some predator. She felt her muscles stiffen in her calves and kicked each foot in turn. Time to head back. The thought brought a sullen burn in her guts. Daft. She was just being daft.

As if on cue, her mobile trilled. She yanked it from her pocket. Sean on the display. Her husband. How the fuck had that happened? She knew of course. He asked her and she said no, joked with him, shagged him, kept saying no and he kept on asking until one day, everything else gone to shit and he was still there, kind, shaggable, cheering her on and she had buckled, said yes, defences down.

She read the text: spag carbonara half an hour x.

He was more of a pie and chips, kebab and onion rings bloke. Born on the same estate in Langley as she was. Dragged up like Rachel and her lot had been. And like Rachel he escaped into the police. But since the wedding he’d gone all Jamie Oliver on her. Trying out this and that. Rachel hadn’t a clue why. She’d be just as happy with egg and chips or burger and beans but she went along with it. A phase, she reckoned. Least Sean never had any expectations that she’d be cooking or ironing his boxers or any of that malarkey. That was one thing they had going: he knew the score. He was a PC, the fire-fighting side of crime, out on patrol, while she was a detective on MIT, investigating murder and serious assault.

She texted him back: OK x. Considered putting a smiley face instead. Kisses on texts seemed adolescent – well, on texts to Sean anyway. And they weren’t kids, were they, not now? But they’d had a thing back then, from time to time, when there was nothing better on offer.

She ran as hard as she could on the path back down, savouring the feeling of speed and power, feet thudding and her heart beating fast in her chest. If she could just keep running, how great would that be? To just go, leave it all behind, Sean and her mother and her brother Dominic. Except for the job, she didn’t want to leave the job. Or Janet, who she worked alongside.

Halfway down she pitched forward, her left foot catching on a stone, she yelled out, slammed into the ground with a jarring thud. She staggered to her feet. Her knees stung. She took a couple of deep breaths then carried on.

At the car, she saw the dark slashes of blood on her knees. Nothing to worry about. She ran a towel over her face and neck, her arms.

The route back to her flat, their flat, she reminded herself, took her through Manorclough, where the blaze she’d seen from the tops was still raging. One of the buildings was on fire. Curious, she parked in the car park at the small shopping precinct and walked past the shops and on to the road where the fire was.

She knew the area. They’d done a few jobs roundabout here in her time: a domestic where the bloke had paid a mate to knife his ex, to teach her a lesson for chucking him out; and the rape and murder of an elderly woman.

Closer to the blaze, the stench of the fire filled the air and she could see fire tenders at the scene, three of them, as she walked up the road. Uniformed officers were keeping the crowd away from the site. The Old Chapel, she realized, now belching clouds of acrid smoke into the air, the inferno roaring. Hoses were spraying water but bright flames were still visible through the holes in the roof and the windows where the shutters had burned away.

Fire always drew a crowd, a spectacle and free at that. It hadn’t been a chapel for ages. Probably closed back in the seventies and she remembered it was a carpet place for a while then that went bust. Rachel had no idea what it was used for now, if anything. The state of the grounds, neglected and overgrown behind the wire fencing, and the holes in the roof suggested it was derelict. Just begging for some fire-starter to come along and set light to it.

She looked at the crowd. Whole families, mum with a pram and a bunch of kids around. Teenagers, some of them filming with their phones. A few older people too; one man had made it with his Zimmer, determined to be at the party. A lad on a BMX bike, stunt pegs on the rear wheel. Dom had wanted one of them, their dad had played along but they all knew the only way it would happen was if it was robbed. So it never happened. Rachel had found an old racing bike at the tip and dragged it home and Sean had begged new tyres off a cousin and they’d done it up for Dominic. Never had working brakes but Dom was made up.

All we need is an ice cream van, she thought, or toffee apples. A loud cracking sound and the crowd responded, oohing and aahing, as part of the roof collapsed and fell inside the building sending fresh flames and sparks heavenwards. Rachel shivered, damp from her run and not near enough to the heat from the fire.

She should go. She hated the word should. She would go. Get some grub, glass of wine, swap news of the working day with Sean. She was already late.

As Rachel went back to the car she caught a different smell on the air, the stink of skunk, dark and pungent. Saw two figures walking away down the alley next to the old dole office, hoodies up, slogan emblazoned on the back in Gothic typeface, CLASS OF 88 and an outline of an eagle. More interested in getting smashed than watching the fire. Or maybe they’d just gone to get refreshments at the shops for the next round. The dole office closed down some years back. People had to travel into town to sign on nowadays.

‘I’ll zap it,’ Sean said, when she apologized for being late, ‘you get a shower, no worries. What have you done to your knees?’

‘It’s nothing, I tripped, that’s all.’

‘You want to clean it.’ He peered closer, touched the side of her leg.

‘Don’t fuss,’ she snapped. Then felt awful for the edge in her voice. ‘I’m fine. Big girl.’

‘In all the right places,’ he winked. Not put off his stride at all.

Why couldn’t she just relax? She had it all, didn’t she? Job, flat, fella? The run was supposed to get rid of it, the tension, the irritation, the sickening sense of disappointment. Only weeks since they wed, this was meant to be the honeymoon period. Instead she felt trapped, stuck and restless. She kept waiting for Sean to go but he was here, always bloody here.

Give it time, she thought, I need to get used to it. Too comfortable with her own company, too used to her own way of doing things, to her hard-won independence. So she sat and ate pasta and shared a bottle of wine and listened to Sean. She smiled and nodded and chewed and swallowed and kept on breathing. And they went to bed and shagged and then she lay in the dark, listening to him breathe. Wondering what the fuck was wrong with her.

Day 1

Thursday 10 May

2

Janet was making packed lunches, cheese and tomato butty for Elise, peanut butter for Taisie, crisps, apples, fruit juice, muesli bars. She snapped each lunchbox shut and set them on the counter by the door. She probably ought to get the girls to do their own, they were old enough, but she’d not got round to talking to them about it. Best to discuss it first with Ade, who made the lunches more often than Janet, as he didn’t need to leave the house as early as she did. Better to present them with a united front. Not that there had been much unity since he’d moved back in. He seemed to disagree with her at every chance he got. Still punishing her.

She tried to be conciliatory, play the penitent, smooth the waters but it rankled. She heard the slam of the letter box, the thud as the paper hit the mat, Ade’s footsteps coming downstairs. He was scanning the front page as he came into the kitchen, his hair wet from the shower, smelling of deodorant. In his teacher’s garb, white shirt, navy tie, black trousers. He always wore a tie. School expected staff as well as students to conform to their dress code. Smart, respectable. Dull, a little voice whispered in her head.

‘I’ve done their lunches,’ Janet said.

‘Right.’ He put the paper down. Janet took her breakfast, a round of toast and a cup of coffee, to the table. Read the headlines upside down, GROOMING GANG GUILTY, while Ade filled the kettle and put bread in the toaster.

‘Mum?’ Elise, still in her pyjamas, stood at the door. ‘This party. Can I go?’

‘Yes,’ Janet said.

‘No,’ said Ade.

‘We’ve not had time to discuss it.’ Janet took a bite of her toast.

‘What do you need to discuss?’ said Elise.

‘Whether you can go,’ Janet said.

Ade poured water into coffee. ‘Whose party is it anyway?’

‘A friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘John Planter – well, his brother,’ Elise said.

‘We don’t know them,’ Janet said.

‘So? Please?’

‘Look, we don’t have time to talk about it now,’ Janet said.

‘Olivia is going. We can share a taxi back to hers.’

‘Where is it?’ Ade said.

‘Middleton.’

‘Middleton where?’ he said.

‘Don’t know.’

‘What’s the party for?’ Janet said.

‘Why does it have to be for anything? It’s just a party, God!’

‘Look,’ Ade said, ‘if you want to go, here’s what you do: you find out exactly who is having it, what they’re called, where they live. Whether their parents will be there to supervise.’

Elise opened her mouth in protest. ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘You’re fifteen, Elise,’ Ade said, ‘we’re not letting you swan off, God knows where, with a bunch of strangers without asking any questions.’

Elise rounded on Janet. ‘You said yes, you said I could. If Dad hadn’t said-’

‘Enough!’ said Ade.

‘Find out,’ Janet said, ‘and when it starts and finishes. When we know all that, your dad and I can have an informed discussion and let you know our decision.’

‘This is outrageous,’ Elise said.

Janet did think Ade was going a bit over the top but better safe than sorry. ‘We’re not doing this to be awkward,’ she said, standing up.

‘Yes, you are. It’s like living in a prison camp.’ Elise kicked the back of the door with her foot and stormed off upstairs.

Ade sighed, Janet choked back a laugh. ‘She might want to turn the poor-oppressed-victim act down a bit if she wants to go,’ Janet said. ‘Not like Elise to be so moody.’ Elise was the sensible one, the elder daughter, hard-working, responsible. Usually it was Taisie who tested their patience. ‘I’m off, so we’ll talk about it when she’s done her research, shall we?’

‘Yeah,’ Ade said, face in the paper. Janet had a sudden urge to share a memory with him, a party they’d gone to as teenagers. One room full of couples smooching, the kitchen crammed. Janet had felt jittery, sensed people watching her, and Ade had tried to help her relax by pouring her a large glass of Southern Comfort which she drank far too quickly. They indulged in some heavy petting out in the alley behind the house then Janet had been sick as a dog all down her front. Ade had walked her the four miles home as they didn’t expect to be allowed on the bus.

She’d not been out of hospital long then and social situations were still awkward. She’d feel people’s curiosity, sticky and keen, could hear their unspoken comments and questions as they swapped glances, she’s a psycho, a nutter, been in the loony bin. Did they strap her down, shock her? Do we need to hide the sharp objects? And their fear, as if having a breakdown might be catching and distress was an airborne virus. Keep your distance.

Not Ade though. God knows where he got that compassion, that understanding, mature beyond his years – but it wasn’t much in evidence nowadays. Maybe it had all been used up, burned out. Maybe Ade was spent. He’d said at Rachel’s wedding perhaps they should get divorced. That it wasn’t really working, them sharing the house, putting it up for sale and not expecting to sell, stuck there. Had they just run out of steam, of passion, of love? Didn’t the years of backing each other up, of pulling together, of routine and quiet affection, didn’t they count?

Twenty-six years. She owed it to him to hang on. It was Janet who had risked it all for a few snatched nights with another man. Janet who had brought mistrust and jealousy and disruption into the marriage. The least she could do now was bide her time, see if it really was possible to salvage anything.

She looked at the back of his head, the hair thinning, and the folds of skin where his neck had thickened over the years. The warm flush of nostalgia evaporated.

Janet picked up her keys and bag and left for work.

The Old Chapel reeked. DCI Gill Murray could smell it as soon as she parked, even before she opened her car door. And once she’d been logged in and admitted into the scene, the acrid smell filled her nostrils and clawed at her throat.

Not the worst smell at a crime scene, the worst were the corpses left undiscovered until nature had its way. Decay blooming like green and black flowers on the skin, body fat and fluids breaking down, melting, leaking from the corpse, flesh rotting, home to blowfly and their maggots. That truly was the most god-awful reek. This was simply unpleasant.

The fire service had alerted the Major Incident Team earlier that morning, when officers doing a sweep of the Old Chapel had recovered human remains half buried among the charred debris of the fire.

On the threshold, where the main doors had once hung, Gill surveyed the building. Or what was left of it. Above her, open sky, blue and streaked with thin clouds, was framed by the jagged remnants of roof beams. The centre, the spine of the roof, had collapsed taking many ribs with it but others, broken, split, now ringed the gaping hole like so many blackened, jagged teeth.

The place was simply designed, a rectangular prayer hall with a rounded apse. Small anterooms off to either side of where the altar would have been. She could pick out several lumps of beams, charcoal now, among the ash and smashed roof tiles that covered the floor. The brick walls had withstood the ferocity of the fire though they were coated black with soot. Here and there were holes on the ground where the wooden floorboards had burned away.

‘Theresa Barton, crime scene manager,’ the plump woman introduced herself.

‘Trevor Hyatt, fire investigation,’ the man with her said. He was tall and bald with a red face and a nose that looked like it had been broken.

‘Body’s over here,’ Barton said, pointing. Gill followed her, taking care to tread only on the stepping plates. The figure, burned black, was partially concealed by a timber. Face and shoulders exposed, lying on its side, fist and forearm close to its neck. Pugilist pose – a side effect of the fire, the intense heat causing the muscles to contract. The wreckage covered the torso and abdomen but poking out below were the legs and feet, the feet curled like claws. No clothing remained.

‘No shoes?’ Gill said. ‘They’d burn?’

‘Yes,’ Hyatt said.

Here and there the scorched skin was split to reveal seams of meat. The lips had shrivelled back to expose long, discoloured teeth, an uneven skeletal grin. It was impossible for Gill to tell from the remains whether this was a man or a woman, to determine age or ethnicity. All questions for the pathologist.

‘Could it be accidental?’ she asked the fire officer.

He shook his head. ‘Almost certainly deliberate. It looks like an accelerant, petrol or something, was used and we can tell by the spread that the seat of the fire was here,’ he gestured to the body, ‘and around this area.’

So whoever had used the accelerant had been inside the building. It wasn’t a case of petrol poured through the doorway, which was three or four yards away.

‘Self-immolation?’ Gill wondered aloud. ‘They usually want an audience, don’t they? Act in public.’ And as for suicide, burning was an appalling way to die, our fear of fire as intense as the pain it delivered. She could not recall one sudden unexplained death she had been asked to investigate where the victim had set themselves on fire as a way to end it all.

‘The body was set alight?’ she said.

‘It’s a possibility.’ Hyatt was cautious. They were all cautious until they had the evidence, theories were no more than that. The job was about facts, science and hard data. The body on the floor might be a fatality due to some awful accident but for now the very presence of accelerant meant it was suspicious. And that meant Gill needed to inform the coroner and ask permission to carry out a forensic post-mortem.

She coughed, hot inside her protective suit. The face mask did nothing to hide the smell.

‘When were you called?’ she asked the fire investigation officer.

‘999 came in at eight o’clock last night,’ he said, ‘no reports of occupants. Place had been empty for several years. Last officially used as storage for a carpet wholesaler in 2009.’

‘We will document as much as we can here,’ Theresa Barton said, ‘but there’s little chance of recovering trace materials after an inferno like that.’

In the normal course of things they would hope to find evidence of any recent contact between the victim and other people. Fingerprints, DNA from hair or saliva, blood or sperm that might lead them to witnesses or, if foul play was suspected, to potential suspects. The fire compromised all that.

‘The remains are at risk of further disintegration when we move them,’ Barton said.

‘Just do your best,’ said Gill.

‘Seeing as it’s you,’ Barton said.

‘Let’s just suppose it was an accident,’ Gill said, ‘our victim decided they were going to make a fire, to keep warm.’

‘Not especially cold last night,’ said Barton.

‘Not outside,’ Gill agreed, ‘but in here it might be like a tomb. No heating for several years. Damp.’

‘OK, go on,’ the crime scene manager nodded.

‘So they build a fire, they’ve got some petrol, slosh it on and don’t realize they’ve splashed some on their sleeves or shoes. They light the fire and puff!’ She splayed her fingers wide. ‘Up in smoke.’

Hyatt was pulling a face, not convinced.

‘But it is possible?’ said Gill.

‘Possible,’ he said slowly.

‘We found a container?’ Gill asked.

‘Not yet, still a lot of debris to sort through. It may have been destroyed with the heat,’ he said. ‘Third case of arson in the area in the past six months.’

‘Really?’

‘The mosque at the far end of Shuttling Way in December,’ he said, ‘and the school, the one over the road, in February.’

Gill nodded. St Agnes’s, a little primary school, most of the kids on free school meals, a significant number on the at-risk register. Manorclough was dirt poor and beset by all the problems that came with poverty, including a high crime rate.

‘We’ll be comparing them,’ Hyatt said.

‘You think this might be the same person?’

‘Often is, and there are clear similarities with the first two incidents.’

‘So maybe this is them,’ Gill pointed to the body, ‘the fire-setter, and we’re looking at a case of arson that went horribly wrong. We need an ID, whatever cause of death is, doesn’t get us very far if we don’t know who this is. Right, I’ll let you get on.’

Gill made her first call, waited for the coroner to answer. ‘Mr Tompkins, it’s DCI Gill Murray. I’m at the site of an unexplained death at the Old Chapel, Manorclough. I have a body discovered in a suspicious fire, accelerants found. Identity unknown as yet. I’d like permission for a forensic post-mortem in order to determine cause of death.’

‘Go ahead, DCI Murray.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He liked to be called sir and it was no skin off Gill’s nose to be respectful. Best to keep on the right side of the coroner. It was his dead body now: the body officially belonged to the coroner, not the police, not the family, and the coroner would determine whether and when the body could be released for burial or cremation, when an inquest was required, and whether to interrogate the police on their actions.

Next she rang Garvey, the home office pathologist. ‘Got a victim, burned to a crisp but I still need a doctor’s certificate of death.’

‘Be there in five,’ he said.

‘Express service? I’m honoured.’

‘I’m heading into the General, you’re on my way,’ Garvey said.

‘That’s it,’ she joked, ‘destroy the moment.’

It was a matter of minutes for them to complete the documentation Gill required, once Garvey had pronounced the death. She liked working with him, he was meticulous, pleasant company, had a sharp intelligence that she appreciated and was easy on the eye too, more than easy. Sadly for Gill he was also gay and happily ensconced in a civil partnership.

‘Doesn’t seem much point taking body temp,’ he said. The measurement was routinely used to help estimate time of death of the victim, but given he or she had been consumed by fire the body had undergone catastrophic changes. ‘And could be destructive to try.’

Theresa Barton agreed with him. ‘Leave it. Suggest we bag the victim and recover all material beneath and around the body,’ she traced an oval in the air, ‘say two metres either side.’

‘Pray it doesn’t rain.’ Gill nodded to the open roof.

‘We’ll erect shelters in any case,’ said Hyatt. ‘From our end we’ll want to spend several days examining the scene.’ In the same way that the work of the crime scene manager and CSIs was to find the evidence to try to build the narrative as to how someone died, so the fire investigating officer would be doing the same to establish the story of how the fire started and developed.

‘Buzz me,’ Gill said as Garvey peeled off his protective suit outside the building, the all-in-one smudged with soot and ash despite his efforts to disrupt the scene as little as possible.

She watched him leave, taking the chance to lower her mask, breathe some less tainted air and let her face cool a little before returning to the chapel. Most people who died in a fire died of smoke inhalation, not from the ravages of the flames. Losing consciousness and dying before the heat reached them. But if this victim had been doused in accelerant and then set alight it would have been a truly horrific death.

Garvey rang as soon as the post-mortem was ready to start and Gill attended along with Pete Readymough, who would be exhibits officer for the investigation. She had briefed her syndicate to stand by in case they were unable to rule out foul play. And she had met with the press officer to instruct her as to the facts that could be made public at such an early stage: Unidentified body recovered from a fire at Old Chapel in Manorclough. A post-mortem will be carried out later today, after which police hope to release further details. The fire itself would have made the front pages of the local paper. With news now of a body, interest would be even keener.

The smell filled the dissection room, the stink of burned bone and charred meat overpowering the background smells of bleach and disinfectant. Gill listened to Garvey dictating notes as the body lay on the mortuary table, in exactly the same pose as it had been in at the chapel. The effects of the heat had fused the body in position, carbonizing the flesh. Once the external exam was over it would be necessary to break the limbs to gain access to the internal organs, most of which were likely to be cinders, Gill thought.

Garvey measured the body in sections to ascertain the height. Crown of the head to top of the spine, the curved back, the zigzag of the cramped-up legs. Added together it translated as six foot two inches. ‘Victim presents in the foetal position, left side uppermost. Cranial base evaluation and angle of the pelvic bone tells us victim is male.’ Garvey analysed the shape of the skull and concluded that the man was Caucasian. ‘Substantial charring, absence of clothing, body hair. Visible fractures to the lower ribs on the presenting left thorax. Dislocation to the hip.’ From the beam that had fallen, crushing the man where he lay. Fragments of rib poked through the frazzled skin, reminding Gill of the gaping roof at the chapel.

A wedding ring on the victim’s left ring finger, thick with sooty grease, was photographed in situ then Garvey removed it, small crumbs of flesh dropping from the finger as he did so. He peered at the band under one of the powerful lights above the table, took a sample swab from inside and out, then cleaned it up. ‘Inscribed,’ he said, ‘R.K. and J.S. 23.4.72.’ He glanced at Gill and sketched a bow. Gill smiled: this could be a useful lead, to identity if nothing else. Pete got an evidence bag ready and placed the ring inside.

As well as photographs of the victim, a number of X-rays were taken of different sections of the body, Garvey, Pete and Gill withdrawing from the room each time while the scanner did its job. The resultant images came up on the computer screen. Garvey clicked on the first, the skull.

‘Forensic odontology?’ Gill said, suggesting another route to identification. The teeth were uneven, some missing, some broken. ‘Doesn’t look like he had a check-up every six months.’ Must cancel my check-up, she thought, the day after tomorrow but she’d be up to her neck with this. Garvey clicked on the second picture. The hand and neck.

‘Some evidence of wear in the vertebrae,’ he pointed out.

‘Middle-aged?’ said Gill.

‘Most likely.’

Then the third image. The mesh of broken ribs, the main part of the chest. Gill noticed the dark smudges at the same moment as Garvey said, ‘What have we got here, then?’

He clicked closer. The smudges were clearer now, two of them, small cylindrical forms with a conical nose, the size of cigarette butts.

Gill’s heart missed a beat. ‘I think we can safely rule out accidental death, or suicide,’ she said. ‘The poor bugger’s been shot.’

3

They were ready and waiting in the incident meeting room when the boss arrived, having sent word that she was launching a murder inquiry. Rachel had been part of DCI Gill Murray’s syndicate for three years now. Could’ve been sergeant if things hadn’t conspired to make her miss her exam. But there’d be chance again if she stuck at it. And she was determined to do so. Things had been rocky and Godzilla had been on her back on more than one occasion, making Rachel feel like shit, but she’d not yet been chucked out. Janet reckoned that the boss rated Rachel as a keeper, someone who’d fly up the career ladder if she put her mind to it, but Rachel wasn’t so sure. She’d been on the receiving end of Godzilla’s tongue-lashing so many times that she sometimes thought the boss had it in for her. Though to be fair there had always been good reasons for the bollockings. Not as if they were trumped up, bullying or whatever.

‘This morning I attended the scene at Old Chapel, Lower Manorclough.’

‘There was a fire,’ Rachel said, interrupting without thinking, ‘last night.’

‘There was indeed,’ the boss went on after a short pause, ‘reported on the local news.’

‘No,’ Rachel said, wanting to set the record straight, ‘I saw it, I was there…’

Janet, on the other side of the conference table, raised her eyebrows at Rachel, either querying why she’d been there or warning her about butting in when the DCI was speaking.

‘… that’s how I know,’ Rachel tailed off.

‘Glad we’ve cleared that up,’ the boss said smartly. ‘What you won’t know is that our victim, male, Caucasian, identity unknown, was inside the building and initial evidence suggests he was shot, twice, then doused with accelerant and set alight. I must warn you the photographs are not particularly pleasant and are not required viewing. Avoid looking at them if you wish. Garvey found no soot inside what remained of lung tissue, which suggests the victim was already dead when the fire started.’

The photographs were projected on to the large screen. Kevin Lumb, on Rachel’s right, reared back. ‘Whoa!’ he said. ‘Barbecued or what?’

What a knob.

Kevin, dim though he was, realized he’d spoken out of turn when stony silence greeted his adolescent comment. ‘Shock innit?’ he said weakly.

It wasn’t enough.

‘DC Lumb,’ the boss said, no iron in her voice as yet but Rachel could tell it was coming, ‘our role as members of a major incident team is to represent the interests of victims of serious crime and attempt, to the best of our ability, to determine who perpetrated said crime. To make every effort to see a suspect apprehended, charged and, God-and-the-jury willing, convicted of that crime. And we carry out that role with professionalism, affording every victim the respect and dignity that any one of us might expect if it was one of our own in the mortuary. So just close your gob and put your brain in gear. Got it?’

Pete Readymough, to Rachel’s left, put down his breakfast butty and wiped his fingers on a tissue. Put off by the photos, she imagined. Pete could do with skipping a few meals, Rachel thought. He could probably survive several weeks on his reserves of body fat.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Kevin said. He gave Rachel a sideways, shamefaced look, as though he expected her to feel sorry for him. Ever since Sean had chosen Kevin as best man (fuck knows why, he barely knew the guy) Kevin had acted like he was one of the family. Chumming up to Rachel, oblivious to her put-downs, thinking she was joking when she told him to do one. Like his mind couldn’t really compute a universe where he wasn’t at its centre, loved by one and all. She might feel sorry for him if he had the nous to learn from his mistakes but he just repeated them.

The boss resumed, ‘Our priority is to establish identity: who is this man? Once that’s clear we may be able to establish who had reason to want to kill him.’

‘Could he have been killed elsewhere and dumped there?’ Mitch asked.

‘It’s possible,’ the boss answered.

‘Any sign of how they got in?’ Rachel said. ‘The place was boarded up, wasn’t it?’

‘No answers yet,’ the boss said. ‘Find out who the current owner is, talk to them, any history of break-ins and so on. CSI and fire investigation still ongoing. Could be some time. What we do have is a gold wedding ring recovered from our victim, inscribed R.K. and J.S. 23.4.72.’

‘Forty years,’ said Pete.

‘To that end, Kevin,’ Her Maj’s beady eyes bored into Kevin’s head, ‘start a trawl of the marriage records, beginning locally, that date and those initials.’

‘Narrows it down,’ Lee said dryly.

‘I know,’ the boss agreed, ‘without an ID, motive is likewise obscure. But perhaps Kevin will be able to help us with the name and next of kin and we can trace the widow. Rachel, Janet, Lee and Mitch, house-to-house in the area. Janet, you’re still acting sergeant, you coordinate it,’ Godzilla instructed. ‘Did anyone see any activity at the chapel on Wednesday? I’ll be meeting with the area intelligence manager.’

‘Use of a firearm,’ said Mitch. Ex-army was Mitch, good on hardware. ‘That size – we’re talking a small handgun.’ Mitch pointed to the magnified image of the two bullets that had been taken once they were recovered from the body. ‘Do we know what weapon?’

‘At the lab now,’ Godzilla said.

‘Could be a hit,’ Mitch said. ‘Though no bullet to the head, which is a little unusual.’

‘An assassination?’ the boss said. ‘Why burn the body? With an organized hit half the intention is to send a message, “Look what big scary fuckers we are, anyone else tries it gets the same.”’

‘Setting the fire, that’s quite different, that’s twisted,’ Rachel said. ‘The desire to hurt, isn’t it?’

Lee nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, think of all the ex-partners who stuff burning rags into houses, kids upstairs in bed. Whole families.’

‘Personal,’ Her Maj mused, ‘which doesn’t sit easily alongside the organized hit scenario.’

‘Drugs?’ said Rachel. Drugs and guns, like fish and chips, rum and Coke.

‘Mitch,’ the boss said, ‘have a chat with the drug squad, find out what little sleaze-ball’s running the supply on Manorclough. We should know later today or tomorrow what weapon we’re looking for and whether there’s a tie-in to any other shootings. The first call to the fire service was from a Zainab Muhammad at the flats opposite. Several more calls came in after. So house-to-house, speak to Mrs Muhammad and her neighbours.’

‘Any reports of gunfire?’ Rachel said.

‘Nothing logged,’ said the boss, ‘see what the locals tell you. The residential properties are across the road from the chapel, no homes on the chapel side. Our colleagues in the fire service are also looking into similarities between this arson and two prior incidents.’

Rachel thought of the crowd she’d seen gawking at the inferno. Wondered if any of those watching knew that a man was inside the building. Would any of those who’d rubber-necked feel differently once they heard? A harmless spectacle, a bit of a thrill in their dull, tedious little lives transformed into a tragic loss of life. Some would probably get a kick out of the notion, Rachel thought, that X-factor moment of coming close to murder, death, scandal.

‘What were you doing loitering on Manorclough?’ Janet asked Rachel as they got in the car.

‘Why?’ Rachel said.

‘I’m nosy, humour me.’

‘I’d been for a run.’ Rachel started the engine.

‘A run. I’m not sure I could run for a bus,’ Janet said. There never seemed to be any time to take exercise.

‘Running twice a week. Boxing club every Tuesday. Well, that was the plan,’ Rachel said.

‘Boxing! What does Sean think about you boxing?’

‘I’m not boxing,’ Rachel laughed. ‘I’m helping train ’em up. Self-defence. Though I can do a mean kickbox if pushed. It’s the youth project. Keep ’em off the streets. Community-minded, right?’

‘I suppose,’ Janet said.

‘There’s fuck all else for kids to do, I used to help out back when I was on probation. Good for the CV. Tried to get Dom along-’ She stopped abruptly. Janet knew Rachel was still devastated about her brother and also that she hated talking about it. Before Janet could say anything Rachel ran on, ‘Anyway, what’s Sean got to do with it? He’s not the boss of me.’

‘No, I am,’ said Janet.

‘Sarge!’ Rachel laughed.

‘Give over.’

‘Someone should ring Andy, let him know.’

‘Shut. Up,’ Janet enunciated clearly. Sergeant Andy Roper had been abruptly transferred to another syndicate in the meltdown that had followed their brief affair, with Andy morphing from Janet’s secret lover to stalker then saboteur. His removal had led to Janet’s temporary promotion. She hoped it wouldn’t last too long. She didn’t need any new challenges, was eager to just let everything settle, subside. She craved some stability. She owed it to the girls, as well. No sooner had Ade moved out after a miserable, gut-wrenching row than their grandma, Janet’s mum, Dorothy, had moved in needing support after her hysterectomy. Now Dorothy was back in her own home and Ade was back in the marital bed. It felt like musical chairs. Without the fun. And now Ade was talking divorce.

Janet looked at the map of the area surrounding the Old Chapel. A large roundabout marked the middle of the estate, perhaps designed as Oldham’s answer to the village green. The main roads met at the roundabout. Off Manorclough Road was the shopping precinct. On the far side of the roundabout two tower blocks stood. Opposite the Old Chapel, slum housing had been cleared in the 1980s and replaced by new-built maisonettes. There were a few larger buildings marked on the map to the north between the canal and Shuttling Way, the dual carriageway they were driving along. Janet looked up and identified the mill, now converted into retail use: paint, furniture, mirrors, fabric and lighting. Further clues as to the area’s past were in the names of the streets, Fullers Yard, Tanners Back Lane, Mill Lane and Spindle Road. Cotton had driven the expansion of the area, cotton too brought workers from Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. Ade, a geography teacher, would be proud of her.

Janet directed Rachel to take the next turning off Shuttling Way and to park at the precinct.

‘I’ll start with Mrs Muhammad,’ Janet said, touching her finger on the map to the houses opposite the chapel. ‘You do the neighbours.’

‘There may be some CCTV at the shops,’ Rachel said.

‘Yes, we’ll go there next. If anyone’s got tapes, we’ll take them,’ Janet said.

‘After that?’

‘See where we’re up to.’

Mrs Muhammad’s small yellow and cream brick house had been embellished with fancy double-glazing, etched diamond patterns on the windows and elaborate wrought-iron gates with oval tips on top of the upright rods, reminiscent of a row of spears, Janet thought. Handy for security though, slip on those and you’d soon know about it.

There was no answer when Janet repeatedly rang the bell, so she tried the mobile number that Mrs Muhammad had left when she reported the fire.

‘Soapy Joe’s,’ a woman answered.

‘I’m looking for Mrs Muhammad,’ Janet said.

‘That’s me.’

Janet explained the reason for her call and was directed to the launderette. ‘Go up to the shops and we’re the next to last unit on the parade,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘before the tanning salon.’

There were eight units altogether, two-storey buildings. Two blocks of four with a gap in the middle that led to an alleyway behind. Chippy, newsagent cum off-licence, hairdresser, then an empty unit either side of the cut-through, a pound shop which covered half the pavement in brightly coloured plastic boxes, baskets and bins, Soapy Joe’s and beyond that the tancab.

The launderette was noisy and humid, a bank of washing machines down one side, several in use, dryers at the far end, bench seating and areas to fold clothes. The smell of detergent and fabric conditioner and hot metal.

One customer sat on the benches, intent on her phone. Mrs Muhammad emerged from the door at the back. ‘Police?’ she asked Janet. Janet nodded.

‘We’ll go outside,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘can’t hear yourself think in here.’ She pulled up her headscarf and threw the length over her shoulder to hold it in place.

Janet checked Mrs Muhammad’s details and asked her to describe what she’d seen on Wednesday night.

‘I’d just got back from here and I was putting the youngest to bed, he’s at the front in the boys’ room. I went to draw the curtains and I could see smoke coming across the road, from the chapel.’

‘You didn’t see anything unusual before that?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’ Janet was thinking of the gunshots.

‘No. I looked to make sure, you know, then rang the fire brigade. By then there was even more smoke. Now they’re saying this bloke died in there.’ She looked at Janet, keen, curious.

‘That’s right. Did you ever see people going into the building or in the grounds?’

‘Now and then. Not often, you know. I don’t know how they’d get in. Wire fence all round,’ she said, ‘and the building is all boarded up.’ Her eyes flicked over Janet’s shoulder and narrowed. She stepped to one side and yelled, ‘Oy, Rabia. Get here, now!’

Janet turned to see a teenage version of Mrs Muhammad in black jeans, a white blouse and spike-heeled boots, carrying a large sequined bag.

The girl hesitated – she was at the end of the row of shops – then walked up, her heels smacking on the pavement.

‘Why aren’t you in college?’ her mother snapped as she drew close.

‘Free period,’ the girl said, contemptuously. ‘I’m going back after.’

‘Make sure you do,’ Mrs Muhammad said.

‘I will. I said.’ The girl scowled. ‘OK?’ She spun around and stalked off.

‘Girls,’ Mrs Muhammad breathed, ‘ten times more trouble. You got kids?’

‘Two,’ Janet said, ‘girls.’

‘Good luck with that,’ she said and Janet smiled.

‘People trespassing?’ Janet prompted her.

‘Oh right, so sometimes there’s been kids in, not recently. Don’t know why they’d bother, what’s there to do in there, all weeds, i’nt it? It were a right blaze.’ She shook her head, patted at the scarf on her shoulder. ‘The house still stank even with all the windows shut.’

‘There have been other fires started deliberately?’ Janet said.

‘Yeah, the mosque, the school. It’s not good,’ she said. ‘Thought it was racists, the mosque, you know, but the school, we all use the school. What’s all that about? And this,’ she tipped her head in the direction of the Old Chapel, ‘well, it’s not good, is it? Who could do that to a person? That is really horrible.’

‘Are you aware of anyone causing problems in the area, antisocial behaviour, that sort of thing?’ Janet said.

‘You always get a few.’ She grimaced.

‘Can you think of anyone we should be talking to?’

Her expression altered slightly, becoming guarded, suspicious. ‘No,’ she said.

Janet wasn’t sure whether she resented the implication that she might know criminal elements in the area or whether she did know and was frightened to say so.

4

Rachel spoke to the residents at numbers six and eight Low Bank Road, all of whom had seen the blaze but nothing else. She recognized the woman at number six, she’d been there with the buggy and all her kids. The bloke at number ten, Mr Hicks, was housebound. He thought he had seen someone going down the side of the chapel. Running. ‘I think there were two of them,’ he said.

As soon as she asked for more details he faltered.

‘Men?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Black, white?’

‘More likely Pakis round here,’ he said.

‘Could you tell?’ asked Rachel.

‘No.’

‘Height?’ Thinking of the victim who was six foot tall. Might he have seen the victim and someone chasing him?

‘Couldn’t say,’ Mr Hicks replied.

‘What were they wearing?’

His rheumy gaze brightened, like some part of his brain had coughed into life. ‘Them jackets.’

‘Jackets?’ Rachel said. ‘What like?’

‘Football,’ he said.

‘Football strip?’ Hardly counted as jackets.

‘No,’ he sneered. ‘American football.’ What the fuck did American footballers wear?

‘Wi’ hoods.’

Hoodies? Rachel’s sense of progress evaporated. ‘You mean hoodies?’ That would rule in most of the local youth and half their parents.

‘Like…’ he waved one crabby fist, thumb and fingers together as though holding the answer, ‘… baseball.’

Make your mind up.

‘Wi’ numbers on,’ he said.

Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. The couple she’d seen in the alley, puffing billies. Class of 88. ‘Both of them had these jackets?’ she asked.

‘One did, the other was further away and these glasses aren’t so good, need a new prescription from the optician. But how am I supposed to get there? They expect me to fork out for a taxi?’ Shit eyesight didn’t exactly make him prime witness material but still.

‘You make out the numbers?’ Rachel said.

‘Two fat ladies.’

‘Eighty-eight,’ Rachel supplied.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘What time was this?’

‘About half past seven. Half an hour later it’s all on fire.’

Rachel left him and headed for the shops, the buzz that comes with a promising lead simmering beneath her skin.

She found Janet at the parade. ‘Witness sighting of intruders in the chapel grounds,’ Rachel said. ‘The description matches two lads I saw down here last night. Wore hoodies with matching numbers on the back.’

‘A gang thing?’ Janet said.

‘No idea.’

‘Worth asking about,’ Janet said, ‘see if we can get names. I’ve spoken to the launderette, that’s where Mrs Muhammad works, and I’ve done the tancab. I’ll do the hairdresser’s if you take the off-licence and the chip shop.’

The off-licence cum newsagent was staffed by a young white guy with elaborate tattoos on both forearms and around his neckline. Rachel had noticed the CCTV camera outside the shop overlooking the entrance, and another behind the counter. ‘The cameras working?’ she asked him once she’d flashed her warrant card and noted his name. Liam Kelly.

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll take any recordings from last night.’

‘Sure,’ he said.

She asked him about the fire but he couldn’t tell her much. The shop was open until ten so he had heard about the fire but not seen anything till after he’d locked up.

‘You know anything about the Old Chapel, people breaking in there?’

‘No.’ He looked up as the door buzzer went and a woman came in. She picked up a copy of the Sun, asked for twenty fags, paid and left. Once they were alone again Rachel asked him about trouble in the area.

‘What, like the shop being done four times in as many months?’ he said.

‘Your community policing team-’

‘Is a fucking joke,’ he interrupted, ‘and you lot couldn’t catch a cold.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way but I’m dealing with a major incident.’ Before he could moan any more Rachel said, ‘We’d like to talk to two individuals who wear matching hoodies, eighty-eight printed on the back and a picture of an eagle.’ Something like dislike slithered through his eyes, the Celtic knot at the base of his throat rippled. ‘The Perry brothers,’ he said, ‘twins.’

‘They live around here?’

He nodded. ‘Beaumont House, the tower block.’

‘They trouble?’ Rachel said.

‘The community policing team will tell you all about it.’ She gave him a grin.

‘They don’t come in here,’ he said, ‘they’re banned.’

‘How come? They nicking stuff?’

‘Not that so much,’ Liam Kelly replied, ‘threatening people, nutters, idiots the pair of them.’

‘How old?’

‘Nineteen, twenty,’ he ventured. ‘Look,’ he gestured to a stack of boxes, crisps and fizzy drinks, ‘I’ve stuff to sort.’

‘Nearly done,’ Rachel said. ‘You got that tape?’ He fetched it for her and she was about to leave when she heard a door out the back being unlocked and then a slam. A black woman with dreadlocks, wearing combat pants and a green vest, came in, saying, ‘Liam, that stuff’s still out there, shall I chuck it?’

‘Give him another hour, then take it to the food bank.’

The woman glanced at Rachel, able to tell she wasn’t just a passing customer or a rep pushing confectionery. ‘Feeding strays,’ she explained.

‘Dogs?’ Rachel said.

‘No – people.’ The woman laughed. She had a missing tooth. ‘But I think it’s only Rick that takes it.’

‘Stuff past its sell-by date,’ said Liam Kelly.

‘I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not,’ the woman said.

‘Better than giving him money to piss away on booze,’ he replied.

‘Softy at heart.’ She punched his arm.

‘Get off.’ But there was affection in his tone. ‘Police, about the murder,’ he gestured to Rachel. ‘This is Mels.’

‘You see the fire?’ Rachel asked.

‘Some. I was doing cash and carry,’ Mels said, ‘got back and it was all going up. You think it’s a drug thing? They say he was shot.’

‘We don’t know what’s behind it yet. But if you do hear anything, I’d really appreciate it if you got in touch.’ She handed over her card.

The chippy was busy. Rachel ignored the queue and the muttered complaints as she barged to the front and spoke to the Chinese woman serving, telling her she wanted to talk to her about the incident at the Old Chapel.

‘OK.’ She called out something Rachel couldn’t follow and her husband, Rachel assumed, came out from the back and took over at the counter so Rachel could talk to Mrs Lin, who spoke reasonable English. They were working until eleven but their son had told them about the fire. They’d no CCTV and she had no idea who might have been involved in the murder or the fire.

‘What about other trouble?’ Rachel said. ‘In the shop?’

Mrs Lin pulled a face, shook her head. When Rachel referred to the spate of break-ins next door, to the other arson attacks, all she said was, ‘Kids. It’s kids, yes. Very bad.’

Questions about the Perry twins were met with quick, vehement shakes of the head as if she was barely listening to what Rachel was saying. The husband’s approach to serving was heavy-handed, slamming chips on to trays, shovelling fish on top, banging the parcels on the counter top for the customer.

‘I wanted scraps,’ the person at the front of the line said loudly.

The man barked something in Chinese and his wife pulled another face. ‘Finished?’ she said to Rachel.

Rachel briefly considered asking for chips and curry sauce but thought it best not to give the locals anything else to grumble about. ‘For now.’

‘You here about that murder?’ a woman at the back of the queue called out.

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘Can you help?’

‘Me? No.’

‘If anyone can,’ Rachel said, addressing them all, ‘there will be a mobile incident van setting up in the area any time soon. And if anyone is aware of a person missing from home please let us know.’

Coming out of the chip shop, Rachel saw the lad on the stunt bike who had been among the crowd at the fire, cycling her way on the wrong side of the road. Numpty.

‘Hey,’ she called out as he mounted the pavement, braked and slung his bike down. ‘You want to watch that, get yourself killed.’

‘Fuck off,’ he said and spat on the floor.

‘Charming,’ said Rachel. She showed him her warrant card. ‘DC Bailey, Manchester Metropolitan-’ Before she completed the sentence, he snatched his bike and was riding over the roundabout and off along Tanners Back Lane.

Rachel went after him. He was faster than she was and he knew the area so she expected to lose him. But then as he reached the junction with Derby Fold Lane an HGV roared past. The boy didn’t have time to stop, maybe his brakes weren’t working, so he pulled the bike up to do a wheelie and went over backwards, skidding across the road with the bike on top of him. The lorry drove on oblivious.

Rachel caught up to the boy and pulled the bike off him. He scooted to the side of the road, swearing repeatedly and rocking in pain. His arm was skinned, elbow to wrist, and his cheek cut and bruised.

‘Why did you run?’ Rachel said, crouching down.

‘’Cos you were chasing us,’ he said. ‘Not until you scarpered, I wasn’t.’

He winced, twisting his arm over to look at the damage.

‘Nothing broken,’ Rachel said.

‘You a bleeding doctor?’

‘No, but I’m a trained first-aider. Just watch the attitude,’ she said.

‘Huh?’ he grunted. He puffed himself up. ‘You nearly got us killed.’

‘That’s not on me. You ought to do your cycling proficiency. Rules of the road. You get a certificate,’ she teased him.

A twitch that might just have been a smile.

‘What’s your name?’

He squinted at her, blue eyes alert. ‘Connor.’

‘Connor who?’

‘Connor Tandy.’

‘Right.’ She stood up. ‘I’m investigating the murder of a man found in the remains of the Old Chapel after last night’s fire.’

‘So?’

‘So. You were there,’ she said.

‘I was not!’ he said, shocked.

‘Not there, there,’ she said. She pointed. ‘You were watching the fire, last night.’

‘So. It’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Did you see anything? Do you know anything?’

‘Like what?’ He studied his injury again.

Rachel sighed. ‘Anything suspicious?’

‘No.’

‘You heard any rumours?’ she said.

‘I’m not a fucking grass.’ He touched his cheek, gingerly.

‘So you have heard something?’

‘No.’ He got to his feet, limping slightly.

‘Can you wiggle your toes?’ Rachel said.

He just glared at her and bent for his bike.

‘Any idea who he might be, the man who was killed?’

He shook his head.

‘How old are you?’ Rachel said.

‘Sixteen.’

‘I can check.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Not in school?’

‘Off sick,’ he said.

‘How’s that then?’ Rachel said.

‘Hurt my arm.’ He showed her the fresh scrape, beaded with blood.

She fought a smile. Cheeky little bastard.

‘Where d’you live?’

He sighed. ‘Manton Road.’

‘You know it’s an offence to lie to a police officer?’

‘It’s God’s truth,’ he said, outraged again.

‘And you not knowing anything about the murders, that true?’

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘you fucking deaf?’

‘Oi!’ she said sharply. ‘Stop swearing. What about the Perry twins? You know them?’

‘No.’ He spat on the floor.

Rachel thought he was lying, maybe not about the rest but about the twins. If they were as much trouble as Liam Kelly had implied, then every scrote, every scally on the estate, would know exactly who they were. And would either be nervously in thrall to them, or scared shitless and steering well clear.

‘Go on, Bradley Wiggins,’ she said, ‘on your bike.’

He jumped on and cycled off. Rachel couldn’t be certain but when he turned off into the estate the hand gesture he made looked suspiciously like he was flipping her the finger.

5

At the end of the day the team reconvened and Gill led them systematically through the different strands of the inquiry. As senior investigating officer, everything had been fed through to her and now needed to be shared with her detectives.

‘First off, where are we on ID? Kevin?’

He tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Three possibilities for marriages with those initials on that date, one in Oldham, one in Bury and one in Manchester. John Smith and Ruth King, Judith Smith and Richard Kavanagh and Jennifer Simpson and Robert Keele.’

‘Any bells?’ Gill scanned the room to see if any of those names had come up in the course if the day. When no one responded she said, ‘Kevin, keep on with that, see if you can eliminate anyone.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘OK,’ she said, ‘updates on forensics at the crime scene. As expected, the accelerant has been identified as petrol.’

When Mitch groaned, Gill said, ‘I know – ubiquitous but we may be able to be more specific. Meanwhile talk to petrol stations in a ten-mile radius, any cans filled in the days before the murder.’

‘Could be siphoned off,’ Pete said.

‘Yes,’ said Gill, ‘we should look at that as well. Access to and from the building looks to have been gained from the rear where there is a hole cut in the chain-link fence.’

‘Spoke to the current owners,’ Mitch said. ‘The site was last checked eight months ago. They’ve had the fencing up for three years, after a spate of break-ins and vandalism. Fairly quiet since. They want to sell but they’re sitting on the property until there’s an upturn in land values.’

‘Round there?’ Rachel snorted. ‘They’ll have a long wait. Manchester prices have stayed steady, if I owned anything-’

‘Hey,’ Gill said, ‘save the Homes under the Hammer drivel for your own time. Focus. Now, at the other side of the building from the breach, steps lead down to a basement door. It’s a storage area under the anteroom with steps up into the main part of the building. That’s how our killer gained entry. Persons of interest, Noel and Neil Perry.’ Gill nodded to Rachel.

‘Twins,’ Rachel said. ‘They were in the alley on Wednesday night, watching the fire, I saw them. They wear these American baseball-style hoodies, Class of 88 and an eagle printed on the back, and an eyewitness saw them in the grounds of the chapel that night.’

‘Independent? Reliable?’ Gill said.

Rachel nodded. ‘Bit doddery though, not got twenty-twenty vision.’

‘Brilliant – you bring me Mr Magoo.’

‘The sweatshirts,’ Lee said, ‘it’s a fascist thing. Eighty-eight stands for Heil Hitler.’

‘Seriously?’ Kevin said.

Gill felt a kick of adrenaline, the case was growing legs, taking shape. ‘Anyone remember Terence Perry?’

‘Rapist,’ Pete said.

‘That’s right. A nasty shit-bag of a man by all accounts. And these are his kids. He died in prison – poisoning, been brewing his own hooch apparently, recipe went wrong. This was in 2004. Since then his sons have come to the attention of our colleagues on numerous occasions. Spent eighteen months in a young offenders’ institution for arson. Were they interviewed for the other recent fires, the mosque and the school?’

‘Interviewed and released, nothing to put them there. Alibied by a family member, the grandmother, Eileen Perry,’ said Mitch.

‘Terence’s mother,’ said Pete, ‘she’d swear black is white to cover for the family. Odds on she’ll alibi them this time.’

‘Liam Kelly, the newsagent, he banned them,’ Rachel said.

‘Do we know why?’ Gill asked.

‘Causing trouble, violent, nasty. And Mrs Lin at the Chinese didn’t want to talk about them, gave me the bum’s rush.’

‘Flagged up by the community team as well,’ Lee said. ‘Affray, disturbing the peace. Word is the mosque fire was down to the EBA, English Bulldog Army, a spin-off from the English Defence League. Where the worst of the nutters go, to use a technical term.’

‘Are the Perrys members?’ said Gill.

‘It’s a fluid organization,’ said Lee, ‘all the dregs, raving racist loonies who are too openly violent even for the EDL, end up there. The twins could well be, judging by their clothing and reputation. We’ll make some inquiries.’

‘So we can agree the Perrys have unsavoury political views,’ Gill said.

‘Is the EBA a banned organization?’ Janet asked.

‘Not yet, there hasn’t been time, but I believe it’s under consideration,’ Gill said. ‘Have the Perrys any history of firearm offences?’

‘No,’ Mitch said.

‘Connected?’ she asked, thinking about the criminal fraternity.

Mitch shook his head.

‘Right,’ Gill said, ‘once we’ve more hard evidence we’ll have a word with the Chuckle Brothers. Who are the main players on the estate? Who’s causing us grief on Manorclough these days?’

‘Most of the drug traffic is believed to be controlled by Marcus Williams,’ Mitch said. He’d been talking to the neighbourhood policing team and to the drug squad. ‘Williams stepped up when Keith Grant was busted. Been in charge ever since. A cannabis farm closed down in January was believed to be his. Steady business, handles the lot, Class Bs, some Class As.’

‘Except he doesn’t handle anything,’ Gill said.

‘That’s right, hands free.’ Mitch showed his palms. ‘There’s even talk of him standing for the local council.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Janet.

‘The lure of respectability,’ Gill said.

Mitch smiled.

‘Anyone picked up for the cannabis farm?’ Gill said.

‘Suspects are awaiting trial, no one’s talking,’ Mitch said.

‘So who is our victim? Has he started a turf war? Is Williams the trigger-happy type?’

‘No. Things been very quiet on that front,’ Mitch said.

‘Is Williams into any other business, prostitution, loan sharks?’

‘Concentrates on the drugs,’ said Mitch. ‘Known associate, Stanley Keane, a bruiser, he’s probably Williams’s enforcer.’

‘We park that information,’ said Gill. ‘If we find any link between Williams and company and our victim then we’ll come back to it.’

‘Maybe it’s been set up to look like a hit when it’s actually a domestic,’ Kevin said. ‘The wife or whoever has had enough. Hires a hitman.’

‘Thinking on an empty stomach, Kevin, never a good idea,’ said Gill.

‘It happens,’ Kevin said.

‘Thinking?’ This from Rachel.

‘Hired hitmen,’ Kevin said.

‘Rarely,’ Gill said. ‘If you’re right I’ll buy you a pint. And a pot to put it in. OK, what else… nothing as yet to indicate the body was moved to the site post-mortem. Good start,’ she wound things up, ‘get some kip. See you tomorrow.’

Gill was surprised to find Sammy at home when she finally got back after ten. ‘Thought you were going to your dad’s,’ she said, surveying the empty pizza box, the baking tray in the sink, and half a dozen dirty mugs and glasses on the counter.

‘We rearranged,’ he said.

‘How come?’

‘Just did.’ He opened the fridge.

‘Hey, this lot first, dishwasher and paper bin,’ she said, nodding at the mess.

‘I was,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Hardly.’ She wondered who’d rearranged. Had Sammy put his dad off? She could see why he might. Dave wasn’t great company these days. His love nest with the whore of Pendlebury and their spawn had disintegrated and Dave was now back living with his mother. Not a good look for a man in his fifties. Sammy liked his grandma but was of an age where a handful of visits a year would suffice. But for all Dave’s failings, and they were legion, Gill still thought it best that Sammy maintain regular contact with his dad. It’d help Dave too, she reckoned, to know there was still somebody who loved him. A solid relationship that wasn’t going to go tits up when a younger model rolled along. Did Dave still see his second child? She’d never asked. It wasn’t her business, anyway. Dave was an adult, fact. Despite his sometimes childish behaviour. He could handle the fallout from his midlife crisis by himself. Why the hell should Gill concern herself with it?

Sammy put the crockery in the dishwasher and took the carton outside to the recycling bin while Gill fixed herself an omelette.

‘I need a suit,’ he said as he came in, ‘for the prom.’

‘What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?’

‘Too short.’ He went back to the fridge, opened it. The light shining out on him. Like a shrine, Gill thought, where he worships. He can’t eat enough. Eighteen and still growing.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, it’s halfway up my legs. I look like a knob.’

‘Well, I think your dad’ll have to take you,’ she said, forking up the last of her food.

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because I’ve just started an investigation. I’m not going to have time to draw breath.’

He sighed heavily, brought ham and cheese out of the fridge.

‘Or take Orla,’ Gill said.

‘Cool.’ Shopping with his girlfriend obviously appealed more.

‘Revision?’ she said.

‘Done some.’ He’d three more exams to sit, then his schooldays would be over.

‘Orla’s being nominated for prom queen,’ he said.

‘Is she now?’

‘Yeah. I think Daisy Tuttle will get it, she’s more popular.’

‘We never had any of that sort of thing,’ she said, ‘proms.’

‘You had a party, though, didn’t you?’

‘Of sorts. Smuggled in vodka to mix with fruit juice, crammed into the school hall. Smelled of sweaty trainers. Disco – that was our lot. No limos, or kings and queens. If anyone had worn a suit they’d have been laughed out of court. The only people who wore suits were teachers and squares.’ She laughed.

‘Sounds rubbish,’ he said.

‘It was brilliant,’ she said. ‘We were free, school’s out, all that business, we burned our ties. None of this American tosh.’

‘And you knew then you wanted to join the police?’

She studied him for a moment. ‘I did. Never thought about doing anything else. With Grandma and Grandpa in the job, although Grandma left when she married.’

‘Why?’ he said. He took a huge bite of the sub sandwich he’d made.

‘That’s how people did it back then. Married women weren’t supposed to work, a man was expected to support the whole family. Guess it was in my DNA, the police.’

‘And mine,’ he said with his mouth full.

‘Lot easier to join then.’

‘You keep saying that, like you want to put me off,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t. But it is important you know how tough it will be.’

‘I do know. I’ve got to get more experience. I’ve applied to join the special constabulary, so I can start that as soon as the exams are done, and I’ve got my driving licence. Once I’ve done some time volunteering with them I can try for the police community support officers and the police proper after that.’

‘Yes, but who knows how long there’ll be a freeze on police recruitment,’ she said.

‘You still think I should have gone to university.’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I think it might have given you more options. You’d have a degree, which is a valuable qualification, in the police as much as anywhere else. If there aren’t any openings in the police, if you don’t get in, then what?’

‘Go abroad, Australia or somewhere.’

‘Seriously!’ She had never imagined him emigrating. Felt a squirt of panic but then thought about his future, his life. ‘That would be amazing,’ she said. ‘I could come and visit.’

‘How? You’re always at work.’

‘When I retire. Not all that long now.’ She could barely imagine it. Work, the job, had shaped her life over twenty-eight years. What on earth would she do without it? Maybe there’d be space as an adviser, a specialist. Retired officers did sometimes keep their hand in, working as consultants.

The force had changed almost beyond recognition in Gill’s time. Advances in science and technology had perhaps made the biggest impact. Everything from DNA profiling and CCTV coverage to mobile phones, the internet and a plethora of software systems provided tools for the detection of crime. There had been improvements in prevention as well: the police advised on secure building design, for example, features that reduced the opportunities for crime, neighbourhood watch schemes. Crime was falling as a result. How much more would change in Sammy’s lifetime?

But beyond all those tools, the most important resource was the staff themselves. Trained, monitored, mentored, assessed. There was no space for slackers or the mediocre in the service. God knows how Kevin Lumb had got through selection. Officers had to be highly motivated, intelligent and personable, able to work with others and show initiative. Sammy was all those and then some, but she was biased, she was his mother and there’d be another hundred kids like him all vying for the same sweet spot.

Gill caught the local television news, saw a picture of the blackened chapel with the briefest of reports. She cleared up and emptied the kitchen bin. Outside it was a clear night, cool, with pinprick stars over the moors.

She wondered about their victim. Was someone missing him tonight? Would DNA lead them to find him or his killer on the police database?

Gill noticed the top of the blue wheelie bin was open. Drawing closer, she could see Sammy had just stuffed the pizza box in without squashing it down, so the lid wouldn’t shut.

As she went to remedy the situation, a dark shape slithered from the bin and shot off into the dark. ‘Jesus!’ Gill started, felt the hairs on her forearms prickle.

She went back to the door and called out, ‘Sammy?’

‘What?’

‘Here. Now.’ He could bloody well sort out the bin himself. She should have called him in the first place. Perhaps an encounter with a rat would be more effective than any amount of nagging from his mother.

‘Test me, Mum.’ Taisie burst into the sitting room, script in hand. She’d obviously heard Janet arriving home. Janet stifled the impulse to groan and said, ‘Two minutes, let me get my breath back.’

‘Where?’ Taisie said. ‘Dad’s watching TV.’

‘Here then.’ Janet found half a bottle of white in the fridge and poured herself a glass. Cut some cheese. In the breadbin she found the heel of a French stick, not quite stale. She sat down, ate a few mouthfuls and drank some wine.

Taisie chattered on, a few mmms and yeses the only input required from Janet.

‘Genevieve missed three rehearsals, right, three and so Miss said Polly could do her part and then Genevieve came back and she said she’d had flu, right, and so Miss said Polly would be stand-in again and Polly burst into tears and Genevieve was all like, “I’m so sorry,” all gushy, yeah? And Miss said if Genevieve was off any more then she’d lose the part but we think they should take turns. And ’cos we said that, right, now Genevieve isn’t talking to us. Except in the play.’

‘Mmm,’ said Janet.

‘But Miss said no, and that is so tight. Polly was bare good too.’

Bare, Janet knew, was the current slang for very.

‘And if you want tickets, I need the slip and money by Friday.’

‘Tomorrow!’ said Janet.

‘Duh,’ said Taisie.

‘Where’s the slip?’

‘I gave you it,’ Taisie said.

‘No,’ said Janet.

‘I did – I left it on here.’ She rapped her knuckles against the table.

‘Well, I didn’t see it.’

Taisie gave a huge sigh.

‘Look, can’t you just get the tickets if I give you the money?’ Janet said.

‘OK.’ Crisis averted as quickly as it had erupted. Taisie was all drama. ‘Go on,’ she said, nodding at the script.

‘Your hand Leonato; we will go together,’ Janet read the cue.

‘Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?’ said Taisie.

They’d almost got through to the finale, Taisie word perfect, when Elise came in. ‘Did you talk to Dad?’ she asked Janet.

‘Shut up,’ Taisie yelled, ‘I’m doing my lines.’

‘This is important,’ Elise sneered.

‘What – a stupid party?’ Taisie said.

‘Just ’cos you’re too young to go,’ said Elise.

‘So are you, isn’t she, Mum? Tell her.’

‘Elise,’ Janet said, ‘let us finish this.’

With ill grace Elise leaned, arms folded, against the counter, a derisory look on her face, and Janet knew she was trying to unsettle Taisie. She suspected that Taisie was made of sterner stuff and was proven right as her younger daughter finished her part faultlessly.

‘Brilliant!’ Janet said. ‘Perfect!’

‘Finally,’ Elise complained.

Perhaps it was healthy, this antagonism between the sisters, an indication that they felt secure enough to bicker and spat. The solidarity, the drawing together there’d been when Ade had left, now easing with the reinstatement of the status quo. The girls no longer relying on each other while the grown-ups messed up. And if/when they got divorced, if the house was sold? Janet felt a shiver, a sour taste in her mouth.

Taisie rolled up her script and skipped off.

‘I haven’t spoken to your dad yet,’ Janet told Elise, ‘I’ve only just got in. Weren’t you supposed to be getting some more details?’

‘I have. It’s Matthew Planter’s party, it’s at his house and we’re invited because his brother is in our year and he’s allowed to invite people.’

‘Where do they live?’ Janet said.

‘Middleton Road and we can get a taxi home to Olivia’s and we have to be back for one o’clock.’

‘Come on,’ Janet said and they went through to the lounge.

‘This party,’ Janet said.

Ade paused his programme, something about the Pharaohs.

‘Tell him,’ Janet said.

Elise rattled off the facts she’d given Janet.

‘And who’s supervising?’ said Ade.

‘His parents. God! It’s like you don’t trust me.’

‘It’s not you we don’t trust,’ Janet said, ‘but we’ve been there, we know what can happen. People drink too much and take stupid risks or they do daft things and end up regretting it.’

‘Please?’ Elise said, her voice aching with frustration.

We should trust her, Janet thought. It’s the only way she’ll learn. She nodded at Ade, who gave a shrug of resignation.

‘All right then but a taxi back by one, promise?’ Janet said.

‘Yes!’ Elise began texting on her phone. ‘Thank you so much.’ Suddenly sounding far too young for what they had just agreed to.

Sean was hunched over his laptop, the sports channel on the box, men in shorts running around on grass on both screens and the smell of fried onions thick in the flat. Rachel lit up and, as an afterthought, opened the window.

‘Chill Factor,’ he said, ‘Saturday, or maybe Sunday. Could do WaterWorld an’ all maybe. Stay over somewhere.’

‘What?’ She’d had too many fags today, the first drag failed to deliver the kick she craved. Instead it just made her mouth feel rancid.

‘You, me and Haydn,’ he said, ‘skiing or snowboarding? He’s here this weekend.’

Oh, joy. Rachel had nothing against the kid, he was harmless enough. A mini Sean, interested in anything that involved balls or sticks. Or food. ‘No can do,’ she said. ‘We picked one up, man in that fire in Manorclough.’

‘That yours?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d better book for two then, unless you want to wait until another time.’

The thought that Sean was worried she might be disappointed at missing out on the trip was both touching and plain daft. ‘You go ahead,’ she said. Relieved that she had a rock-solid reason not to be around for more than a few hours’ kip over the weekend. Sean and Haydn could do their male bonding, father-son stuff and welcome to it. She didn’t want to intrude, or maybe she just felt ill-equipped.

Had her dad ever taken Dom anywhere? Doubtful. Not like her dad would be much use at entertaining the kids. Could barely feed and clothe them. It was Rachel who dragged Dom off to the cinema on the rare occasions when special vouchers meant they could afford it, Rachel who would cheer him on when he played football. Her mum gone by then, Dad taken up residence in the pub to all intents and purposes and her sister Alison working all hours as the sole breadwinner.

Her dad had gone now, as in dead. Ashes blowing in the wind. His liver finally packed up. It had been two weeks before the smell alerted his fellow residents at the doss house to his demise. And now her mum was back.

Which might or might not be a good thing. Rachel was still waiting to see. Sharon had been penitent at their reunion, an occasion engineered by Sean, who was keen to see the family reunited. Then she had been pissed at the wedding, made a right tit of herself, acting like a slapper. Sean said it was just nerves. A wedding wasn’t a wedding without someone having one over the odds, at least there hadn’t been a scrap. No one bared their fists. Quite an achievement considering.

It was Her Maj being there, seeing her mother, that had made Rachel so uneasy. Alison had hated it too. Alison wouldn’t entertain Sharon, was not at all interested. Made things a bit awkward between Rachel and Alison; they always seemed to be taking different sides with family stuff. Alison wouldn’t play nice with Sharon and yet she used to make time for their dad, trying to help him out when she could. And it was Alison who visited Dom in prison the first time round, even though Dom had always been closest to Rachel. Rachel hadn’t been able to stomach seeing him there. Not back then when the twat had been done for armed robbery and certainly not now when he was in for twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years for murder. But Alison did.

She couldn’t think about it. She finished her fag and shut the window.

‘Get us a beer,’ Sean said, busy typing on the laptop.

Get your own fucking beer. She bit down on the thought. What was wrong with her? What did she want? Him to say please? Oh Christ, was she going to turn into one of those women who try to improve the manners of their loutish husbands?

She got his bottle, helped herself to wine, stared at the TV screen for a few minutes.

Sean kissed her on the cheek. ‘Happy?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘course.’