Ruthless

6

Kevin, on the hunt for a surviving spouse, had traced and eliminated Ruth King, who had died in a car crash along with her husband, John Smith. He had been unable as yet to find Jennifer Keele, née Simpson, but Mrs Richard Kavanagh, née Judith Smith, was at an address in Rhyl.

Godzilla told Rachel and Janet to take the ring and see if Mrs Kavanagh could identify it, and whether her husband was missing. ‘If the other facts fit: height, age, ethnicity, then advise her of the death and see what she can tell us.’

Rachel had booked the ring out from Pete, who was handling exhibits. It was important to keep the chain of custody unbroken for all items, any of which might form part of the evidence presented at trial. They were almost out of the door when Her Maj called out, ‘And Janet…’

Janet turned.

‘Potted shrimp wouldn’t go amiss,’ the boss said.

‘Not rock then?’ Janet said.

‘No, shrimp.’

‘Got it.’

They were mates, the boss and Janet. Like Janet and Rachel. Not a trio though, never that. Janet in the middle. Godzilla spent half her life racked off with Rachel – they had a professional relationship at best, boss and junior officer – but Janet and Gill went way back.

It was a dull day, layers of cloud, thick and grey, threatening drizzle. A contrast to the past couple of days of fine weather.

‘Richard Kavanagh’s not come up on the MisPers database,’ Rachel said. She was driving. It was a straight run so Janet didn’t need to navigate, and once they got close to the seaside town the satnav would guide them to their destination.

‘Could be reported missing in Wales but not got on to the system yet. They’d wait forty-eight hours anyway,’ Janet said.

Rachel looked at her own wedding ring. ‘Forty years. Can you imagine it? Mind you, you and Ade have done twenty-six now.’

‘Not sure we’ll make another year,’ Janet said.

Rachel glanced at her swiftly. ‘That bad?’

‘Whatever there was – that sparkle is long gone.’

‘Sparkle?’ said Rachel.

‘OK, not sparkle, but that attraction. And what comes after, comfort, companionship, happy to be raising a family together. Even that’s not the same any more. I feel like a nun,’ Janet said.

‘A nun?’

‘Celibate. What if that’s it, Rachel? The end of my sex life.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Rachel said, ‘you’ll meet someone else.’

‘How, where?’

‘At work maybe?’

‘And that went really well last time,’ Janet said dryly. Meaning Andy.

‘Dating sites, then,’ Rachel said.

‘No way!’

‘Some of them are all right.’

‘And what if you end up with some nutter who’s got a thing for spanking?’ Janet said.

‘You don’t like a good spanking?’ Rachel kept a straight face. ‘You and Ade never-’

‘Shut up.’

‘As long as you agree a safe word you’re fine,’ Rachel said.

‘How do people ever pick those?’ Janet said. ‘How do you choose something you might not say anyway?’

‘Have to be something daft, like pineapple.’

‘Pineapple?’ Janet laughed.

‘Or a weird phrase, “It’s foggy in Paris”.’

‘Too long,’ Janet said, ‘sounds like a spy novel. The kids had a safe word when they were little. If there was a change of plan and someone had to pick them up, someone they weren’t expecting, then they’d have this password. It was Pikachu for a while, then Ariel. And Taisie went through this phase when this girl was sort of stalking her. Wanted to be friends, dead clingy, and Taisie didn’t like her but didn’t want to be blunt so I’d get these phone calls: Maria wanted her to stay over, Maria wanted her to go back after school, and Maria was going ice skating, could Taisie go. She’d get herself that wound up and we were always trying to find out what Taisie really wanted to do, knowing that this girl was there listening. In the end we worked out this code. We’d say something like “How you feeling?” or “You up to it?” and if she said “Fine” then off she’d go. That was usually because there were a group of them going. But if she didn’t want to, she’d say, “I think I’m getting a migraine.”’

‘Does she get migraines?’ Rachel said.

‘Does she heck. That meant “Come get me now”. We’d ride to the rescue and no feelings were hurt.’

‘Did this friend get the hint?’

‘No. But they ended up at different secondary schools. Never seen her since. So, you and Sean, what’s your safe word?’

Rachel laughed. ‘You must be joking. No way does he get to tie me up and hit me. Other way round maybe.’

‘Dominatrix,’ Janet said.

‘You should try that with Ade, long black boots, fishnets-’

‘Shut up! We’re way past that.’

‘You’re blushing,’ Rachel said.

Janet just narrowed her eyes and pointedly put the radio on.

It started to rain as they entered the town; a mist of fine drops speckled the windscreen and blurred the view. The address they had was a few streets back from the seafront. Pale-blue painted walls and a stripy awning over the front door. SAT TV, Wi-Fi and Vacancies signs in the window. A B &B. One of many. All with vacancies, from what Rachel could see.

The woman who answered the door was in her sixties, on the fat side and wore denim trousers and a navy needlecord shirt with a small print of birds on it. Her hair was brown, dyed, Rachel reckoned, cut fairly short. Practical, easy to look after.

‘Judith Kavanagh?’ Janet said.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m DC Janet Scott from the Manchester Metropolitan Police and this is my colleague DC Rachel Bailey. Could we come in for a minute?’

The woman pulled a face, half-wry, puzzled to find the police on her doorstep but not alarmed, which was a more common reaction. Was she hiding any consternation? Probably not fair to cast her as a potential villain on first sight but Rachel understood that most victims were known to their killers. Though picturing Mrs Kavanagh with a gun and a can of petrol took some doing.

The property was bigger than it looked from the outside. ‘We’d better go through to the back,’ Judith Kavanagh said. They passed a residents’ lounge, dining room and kitchen and then went through a door marked private and into what served as her own living room. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said once they’d sat down. A slight Welsh lilt in her accent.

‘No, thank you,’ said Janet. ‘Can I just check, you are married to Richard Kavanagh?’

‘Yes. Why?’ Worry was creeping into her expression.

‘I’m sorry, I need to check a few more details,’ Janet said. ‘You married on the twenty-third of April 1972?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you please give me your date of birth.’

She did and Janet noted it. ‘And this is your usual address?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And your husband lives here?’

‘No, we’re separated,’ she said.

That makes things slightly easier, thought Rachel.

‘We’re investigating a major incident and I wonder if you could look at an item of jewellery to see if you recognize it,’ Janet said.

Judith Kavanagh coughed, increasingly uneasy. ‘Yes of course,’ she said.

Janet took the ring in its sealed evidence bag and handed it to Mrs Kavanagh. The awkward smile faded from her lips, her posture altered, her shoulders sank. ‘It’s Richard’s ring, his wedding ring.’

‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘Please would you describe him for us.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘How tall is he?’ Janet said.

‘Six foot two.’

‘And he was born in 1952 so he would be sixty years old now?’

‘That’s right,’ Judith Kavanagh said.

Rachel looked around the room, saw family photos of a wedding, not Mrs Kavanagh’s, a son or daughter’s perhaps?

At Rachel’s insistence that their own wedding be simple and planned with a minimum of fuss, she and Sean had not had a professional photographer, but he had arranged for a mate of his to take photos of them before everyone got half cut and Sean had got one printed and framed.

Mrs Kavanagh’s other photos showed a couple with a baby, a young man in a gown and mortarboard. None of the man who was their victim.

‘What’s this all about?’ Mrs Kavanagh set the bag containing the ring down on a side table.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m so very sorry to tell you that the body of a man was recovered from a building in the Manorclough area of Oldham, near Manchester, on Wednesday night,’ said Janet. ‘We believe that man to be your husband. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he is dead. We will be doing all we can to make a positive identification but the man was of the same age and height as Mr Kavanagh and he was wearing that ring.’

‘Oh, my God,’ she said, colour draining from her face.

She was shocked but not overly emotional, which Rachel was thankful for. When they were sobbing their hearts out it was hard to get the information needed to push on with the investigation. It was common to have to go away and come back later. Often as not, grieving relatives would be tranqued up to the eyeballs by then and hard-pressed to remember left from right, let alone their loved one’s movements over the previous days and weeks.

‘If you feel up to it we would like to ask you some questions. Could you tell us when you last saw your husband?’ Silence. ‘Mrs Kavanagh?’ Janet prompted.

‘1999,’ she said.

‘1999?’ Janet flicked her eyes at Rachel, who pulled a face. If they’d been estranged for thirteen years they might not learn much from Mrs Kavanagh.

‘Yes, we separated. We were already separated then but that’s the last time I saw him.’

‘And where was that?’ Janet asked.

‘In Bury,’ she said, ‘we lived in Bury, we ran a shop there. Had a shop. Until…’ she sighed, fisted one hand and gripped it with the other. No wedding ring, Rachel saw. ‘… he drank it away,’ she said, ‘the business, the marriage, everything. In 1999, I told him the kids didn’t want to see him again, and neither did I. Not unless he sorted himself out.’

‘He left the family home?’ said Janet.

‘Yes, about two years before.’

‘Where was he living in 1999?’

‘In his car,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. ‘The children, they dreaded his visits.’

‘Was he violent?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health… but you said a fire?’

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.

‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’

‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.

‘Yes,’ Janet said.

‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.

‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’

‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.

‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’

‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’

‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.

‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’

‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.

‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’

‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’

‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They…’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’

That’s how it works, Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.

‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.

She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’

‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.

‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’

‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’

‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.

‘It’ll be years old.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.

They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B &Bs.

Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He was shot first?’

‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the shots were fired before the fire was started. It would have been quick,’ she said.

Mrs Kavanagh nodded, her lip trembling. ‘Thank you.’

‘Can you write down contact details for your son and daughter – we’ll need to talk to them as well,’ Janet said.

‘Yes, of course.’

Mrs Kavanagh reached out for a small address book on the side table and copied out the details. She handed the note to Janet.

‘And are there any relatives on your husband’s side who might have kept in contact with him?’ Janet asked.

Judith Kavanagh shook her head. ‘His parents are dead. He had a sister, she emigrated, met a South African, a Methodist preacher. As you can imagine, Richard’s drinking went down like a lead balloon. They didn’t even exchange Christmas cards once the parents had died. What will happen now?’

‘Our inquiries will continue,’ Janet said. ‘We will confirm identity and let you know. While the investigation goes on, Richard’s body will be held by the coroner. The release of the body will be at their discretion. You appear to be next of kin so the body will be released to you when the time comes.’

‘Yes.’ Her face flickered with emotion, tears stood in her eyes but she sniffed loudly, rubbing her forearm with her other hand.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kavanagh,’ said Janet. ‘It is a very difficult situation. Is there anyone you’d like me to contact, anyone you’d like to be with?’

‘No, thank you, I’ll be all right.’

‘Thank you for your help. Please can we take a short statement from you now, confirming what you’ve told us?’

The woman nodded and cleared her throat and they began.

Karen and Barry Kavanagh still lived in Rhyl. Rachel and Janet spoke to Karen at the restaurant where she was a chef and to Barry at the local high school. Both confirmed the information that Mrs Kavanagh had given them. While each of his children were shocked to learn of Kavanagh’s death, neither of them seemed particularly upset. And why should they, Rachel thought, they’d not seen him for years, only remembered the chaos he’d caused.

She snatched the chance to smoke as they walked to the front, in search of potted shrimp. The place was more or less deserted, just a few tourists wearing raincoats and carrying brollies, but in the amusement park most of the machines stood idle, there was no queue at the ice cream van. The tide was up and the grey water empty save for some seagulls.

They stopped at a café for a cuppa and a bite to eat.

‘Staying long?’ the bloke in the café asked.

‘No, just passing through,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s quiet.’

‘The weather, and money, people watching their pennies. First thing to go, holidays and that, luxuries. Sometimes I wish they’d gag the weather forecaster. You hear it’s going to be unsettled again, you’ll not be eager to come down here.’

‘He kept the ring,’ Janet said, on their way back to the car.

‘Probably couldn’t get it off,’ said Rachel.

‘What?’

‘His fingers got swollen, his knuckles. The only reason an alkie down on his luck wouldn’t part with a piece of gold like that is because he’d have to cut his finger off to get at it.’

‘You are such a cynic,’ Janet said.

‘A realist.’

‘He could have had the ring cut off.’

‘Not easy if it’s really tight. And most jewellers won’t let someone like that over the threshold.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Janet said. ‘I think he kept it because it was all he had left to remind him of what he’d had, what he’d lost.’

Rachel stared at her. ‘Cue the violins.’

‘Harsh,’ Janet said. ‘So where has he been since Bury in 1999? What was he doing on Manorclough?’

‘Rick!’ Rachel exclaimed, making Janet jump out of her skin.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Hang on.’ Rachel looked back through her notes, eyes running across the pages, flipping paper over then back. ‘Not written it down.’

Janet tutted. ‘Naughty.’ Write it down, a mantra the boss drummed into them.

‘Can we stop on Manorclough?’ Rachel said. ‘Something the woman at the newsagent’s said. A tramp they gave handouts to, called Rick.’

‘Brilliant,’ Janet smiled. ‘Let’s go see, shall we?’

7

The misty rain at the coast had turned to a steady downpour back in the Pennines. The shop was busy, a bunch of rowdy kids in uniform, buying sweets and fizzy drinks. The air peppered with ‘fucks’ and ‘knobs’ and ‘slags’.

‘Ten Lambert & Butler,’ one of the kids said. Liam Kelly’s eyes flicked towards Rachel.

‘Proof of age?’ he said.

‘Come on, Liam,’ the lad complained.

Liam Kelly simply shook his head. The lad wheeled round, arms raised in exasperation.

‘One twenty-nine,’ Liam Kelly said, pointing to the snacks.

‘I need some fags.’

‘Against the law, I could be prosecuted,’ Liam Kelly said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, DC Bailey?’ The kids looked at Rachel and Janet. The hubbub quietened.

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘And this is DC Scott.’

‘Aah!’ the lad who’d been refused service groaned. ‘The dibble.’

‘Cagney and Lacey,’ someone called out.

‘Is it about the murder?’ said a girl with teeth covered in braces and a narrow face like a shrew’s. ‘That fella what was shot and burned alive?’

‘If he was shot, he wouldn’t be alive, thicko,’ the first lad said.

‘Depends where they shot him,’ she snapped back, shoving the boy for good measure.

‘It is about the murder,’ Rachel said, ‘and if anyone here knows anything that might help, you can call at the mobile incident unit up the road. In complete confidence,’ she added.

‘Not very confidential if everyone can see who’s going in,’ piped up a very small boy with a brutally shaved head. He had a point.

‘You can ring in,’ Rachel said.

‘You ever shot anyone?’ This from the shrew girl.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Rachel said. ‘You’re not armed,’ said the small lad. ‘Only special units carry guns.’

‘Now we’d like a word with Mr Kelly…’ Janet said.

‘Ooh!’ a voice called out.

‘A threesome, eh?’ the shrew girl said.

A bout of laughter.

‘Who’s got the handcuffs?’ More laughter as they spilled out on to the streets.

Liam Kelly raised his eyebrows, shook his head.

‘Your partner,’ Rachel said, ‘she mentioned someone yesterday, hadn’t been round for his food parcel?’

‘Rodeo Rick, yeah.’

‘Seen him today?’

‘No,’ Liam Kelly said.

‘Where’s he live?’

‘He’s homeless, dosses where he can.’

‘Can you describe him?’ Rachel said.

‘Tall, on the skinny side, long hair.’

‘White guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How old?’

‘Hard to say, fifties, sixties.’

‘You know his full name?’ Rachel said.

He shrugged. ‘No. Goes by Rodeo Rick, wears check shirts, an old cowboy hat.’

Rachel looked at Janet, who nodded her agreement.

Rachel picked out the best photo from Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Could this be him, when he was younger?’

Liam Kelly took the picture. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s not…’ He looked at Rachel, his shoulders sagging. ‘You think it’s him?’

Rachel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, yes. Was he dossing in the chapel?’

He frowned. ‘Could’ve been. God, I never thought…’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t say where he stayed, best to be cautious.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, some places, he could be done for trespassing. But he liked to be off the streets, out of sight, come dark. He’d get a bit of aggro, people having a go.’

‘How long had he been in the area?’

‘Few months. Found him going through the bins before Christmas, told him he’d no need, we’d give him out-of-date stuff.’

‘Ever hear of him mixing in bad company?’ Rachel said.

‘Never. Kept to himself. He was on the drink. That’s all he could be bothered with. He’d beg now and then if he had to,’ said Liam Kelly.

‘Any enemies?’

‘Not that I know of.’ He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Poor old sod.’

The confirmation of identity represented a significant breakthrough, dental records putting the seal on what already seemed to be the case. Gill called the syndicate together for an update.

She was about to speak, the room quiet, when Pete leaned over and muttered something to Mitch.

Gill caught the words, better defence and injury time.

‘Do I look like Sir Alex frigging Ferguson?’ she said.

Pete straightened up, a sick look on his face. ‘No, boss.’

‘José Mourinho? Arsène Wenger?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Then why are you talking football twaddle in my briefing? You in the wrong job, Pete? Want to go try out for the Latics?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Mitch?’

‘No, boss.’

‘OK, we have a lot to get through,’ she began, ‘and it doesn’t involve dribbling or fancy footwork. Our victim is Richard Kavanagh, aged sixty, separated from wife Judith in 1997, last seen by her two years later, when she told him not to visit again. Shopkeeper, artist, husband, father in his glory days. Alcoholic, rendered destitute. Known locally as Rodeo Rick on account of his liking for flannel shirts and a leather cowboy hat. He’d been sleeping rough for several months on Manorclough. No one reporting any criminal behaviour, he has a clean sheet and not known to be involved with any illegal activity on the estate. So why does he end up shot and set on fire in the Old Chapel?’

‘Mistaken identity?’ suggested Pete.

‘Possibly. If so, mistaken by who, for who?’ Gill said. ‘Talk to people, see if we can find out anything more about him, his movements, contacts, any possible enemies. This man so far has no reputation for violence. Test that out. Had he any drinking buddies who can tell us more? Was he known to homeless charities or hostels in the area?’ Nine times out of ten, building a profile of the victim led you to their killer. Usually someone close by. Who’d been close to Richard Kavanagh?

She turned to the notes on the whiteboard. ‘Two elements we are investigating, firearms and arson. Firearms first. The lab reports the bullets are both from the same gun. The gun was used in 2007 in a post office shooting in Stockport – not a million miles away. Perpetrators were arrested, charged and are currently enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality at Strangeways. We’ll have a chat with them, see if they’d like to earn some Brownie points by telling us what happened to the weapon. Did they sell it on, give it to someone for safekeeping?’

She saw Rachel roll her eyes. ‘You’d like to contribute, Rachel?’

Rachel seemed skittish. Gill knew the young officer had been through the mill in the last few months, but dared to hope that settling down with her bloke would help stabilize her, ground her. When Rachel had turned her brother in, revealing his involvement in the death of sleazeball barrister Nick Savage, Gill had stood up for her. She had sung her praises at the subsequent hearing with the top brass. And she meant every word she said: Rachel was a great asset to the police service, had huge potential and had already done excellent work on a number of major investigations. Gill believed Rachel had nothing to do with any revenge attack on the barrister. She’d shown great self-control in not going after him when he escaped prosecution for trying to have Rachel herself killed to save his own skin. Corrupt and venal was Nick Savage, and with the connections he had he’d been able to evade the law, while Dominic Bailey felt its long cold grip all too swiftly. But marriage hadn’t mellowed Rachel, she still seemed impatient, volatile. Perhaps she just needed more time to process what had happened.

‘Well, it’s not likely, is it?’ Rachel was saying. ‘They’ve taken the fall, banged up, they’re not gonna cough now.’

‘So we don’t bother?’ Gill said. ‘We close down that line of inquiry? Take our bat home?’

‘I’m not saying that,’ Rachel argued.

‘Good,’ Gill said. ‘It is our job to be thorough, to be meticulous, and to go where the evidence takes us, even if that turns out to be a complete waste of time. Yes?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said, fingers twirling her pen like it was a marching baton.

‘Kevin, see about making a prison visit,’ Gill said.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Arson – the same accelerant, petrol, was used in the previous arson attacks at the mosque and the school.’ Gill summarized what they had from the fire investigation officer. ‘What more do we know?’

‘No joy so far on the garages,’ Kevin said. ‘Also following up on two incidents of theft from vehicles. Siphoning.’

‘Whereabouts?’ Gill said.

‘One Royton, one Middleton.’

‘Bit risky,’ Janet said, ‘you could be caught by the owner, seen by neighbours.’

‘Yes, but you won’t be on CCTV like you would if it was station forecourt,’ said Kevin.

‘Good point,’ Gill told him and almost wished she hadn’t when he started to preen. She indicated the boards. ‘And the Perry twins?’

‘They attended an EBA, Bulldog Army, meeting earlier in the month,’ Lee checked his notebook, ‘at the George Inn on Sunday.’

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘where talk was heard about “sending a message”.’ She wiggled quote marks with her fingers.

‘We know this how?’ Janet said.

Gill smiled, raised an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Intelligence from infiltrators was a double-edged sword. You couldn’t reveal a source without jeopardizing an ongoing investigation and risking an informant’s safety. Sometimes that informant would be a CI, a community informant, someone willing to risk spying on friends and neighbours for a regular few quid to help get by. The other informants were officers in deep cover. Gill couldn’t think of anything worse than pretending to be a lowlife or a fascist or a fanatic. And sometimes infiltration went horribly wrong, with officers going rogue or crossing the murky lines into deeply unethical territory, as had happened with those policemen who’d infiltrated various protest movements, sleeping with the activists, fathering children. Disastrous.

Janet caught on soon enough. ‘Classified?’ she said. ‘We’re treading on someone’s toes?’

‘We might be,’ Gill said, ‘except we are going to focus our attention on the machinations of the far right, neo-Nazis, only in so far as it relates to the murder of Richard Kavanagh.’

‘This could be a hate crime,’ Lee said. ‘Homeless people are at increased risk of violence, seen as other, dirty parasites.’

‘Possible,’ Gill said. ‘The Perry boys are still our only leads. We’ve not found any more evidence on them so I think rather than hang on we arrest them on suspicion, tomorrow morning.’

‘Do we need an armed response unit?’ said Mitch. ‘They may still have the firearm.’

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘wear your protective vests. Good work,’ she addressed them all. ‘A reminder, we use our victim’s given name, we accord him the same dignity and respect as we would any other person. I don’t want to hear talk of tramps or dossers or winos or hobos, or Rodeo Rick. He is Richard Kavanagh. Clear?’

They nodded.

‘I am happy. You should be too. Goodnight.’

Rachel nearly walked straight back out again. Her mother there, at her flat, on her sofa, making jolly with Sean and Haydn. Nachos and dips and a bottle of tequila open.

‘Rachel,’ Sean beamed, ‘get a glass, there’s lemon on the side.’

‘Mexican night. Olé,’ Sharon raised her glass, smeared with pink lipstick, and winked.

Rachel felt her palms tingle, her throat tighten. This was her place, private, separate from work, from family. No one came here without an invitation and hardly anyone got an invitation. Sharon sure as hell hadn’t. She couldn’t fuck off for twenty years and then expect to be welcomed with hugs and kisses and Sunday bloody lunch.

‘Thought you were going away?’ Rachel said to Sean.

‘Early start tomorrow,’ he said, ‘slot’s at half nine. We’re going to nail it, aren’t we, Haydn?’ Sean held up his hand and the kid high-fived him.

‘Bottoms up,’ said Sharon, having another swig.

Rachel felt irritation trembling under her skin. It was a matter of weeks since she’d met Sharon again and the only way she could cope with it was by taking it very slowly, by having some sense of control so she didn’t feel overwhelmed, railroaded by the woman who’d fucked off and left them to it.

Sharon had changed, she said, she wanted to make amends. At their first meeting she’d explained how hard she’d found it to be a parent looking after three kids as well as a wastrel of a man. How she couldn’t cope. And us? Rachel kept coming back to that. Alison, Dom, me? We had to cope. We had to fend for ourselves, one eye on Dad in case he kicked off.

Even so, Rachel had determined to give Sharon a second chance, but that did not mean Sharon could muscle in on Rachel’s life. ‘She’s a user,’ Alison had said, but then it was Alison who’d had to pick up the reins, back then, drop her plans for college, find work to support the family and take over the parenting role.

‘Aren’t you staying? Come on,’ Sharon said, patting the sofa.

‘Sean, here a minute,’ Rachel said. His face fell, he must have noticed the edge in her voice. She went into the hall and he followed. ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Sharon?’

‘Yes, Sharon. Why, have you any other women stashed away? Of course, Sharon.’

‘She just popped in,’ he said.

Popped in. ‘Popped in? Did you invite her?’

‘No!’ He was affronted.

‘Why did she pop in? I was at work,’ Rachel said.

‘Well, I told her you’d probably be back before long.’

‘You told her to wait?’ she said.

‘Sort of.’

‘What the fuck for?’

He looked uneasy. ‘It’s what families do, Rachel.’

‘Not mine, not me. I don’t want her coming here. Not unless she’s expressly asked,’ she said.

‘You’re meant to be getting to know each other,’ he said.

‘Maybe. But I’m not having this. It’s too much, too soon. She pops round again, you don’t invite her in. Got it?’

‘OK.’ He didn’t try to argue though he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

Rachel went back to the living room. ‘I’ve got a really early start, Sean too, so…’

Sharon looked, nodded. ‘Course. I’ll get out from under your feet. Adios!’ She laughed. ‘I just wanted a quick word.’ She pulled on a cream leather jacket, tugged a cigarette out of her pack. She’d been at the fake tan, dark stains in the creases on her neck made her look like she hadn’t washed for weeks. She’d silver eye shadow on and thick black eyeliner and what looked like false lashes. Her hands were decked with rings and chains, mainly gold coloured. Rachel doubted there was any real gold in any of it. Her lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her lips. She wasn’t that old but she looked well worn and dressing like a teenager didn’t help. Rachel felt like a bitch. Wished she could switch off the critical commentary in her head. Accept that Sharon was doing her best, that it couldn’t be easy for her, the clumsiness of trying to rub along after all that had happened. But going at it like a bull at a gate, rushing it, was not helping.

Sean called Haydn and they disappeared.

‘Your hair’s nice,’ said Sharon, ‘you done something different?’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘Look, I’ll be working late a lot the next few weeks so I’ll get in touch, you know, when I’ve more time. Yeah? No point in you coming round and we’re all out. Wait to hear from us, yeah?’

‘Right.’ Sharon laughed again, fiddled with her lighter. ‘I’ll get off then. Just wondered if you could see your way to lending me a few bob, I wouldn’t ask but…’

Rachel’s heart sank.

‘… I don’t want to get into arrears and I can pay you back soon.’

Rachel just wanted to stop her talking, hated the bright anxiety in her voice, hated that she didn’t believe her. ‘Here.’ She took sixty quid from her purse.

‘You’re a star.’

Rachel smiled, edged Sharon towards the hall, the door, the outside. Willing her to go. Just go.

‘You really are, you’re a star.’ Sharon paused on the threshold. Outside it was dark, murky and damp.

And you, Rachel thought, are a fucking nightmare. She shut the door after her mother and leaned back, her eyes sore, too long a day, heaviness in her chest making her throat ache, sad, as though she’d lost something but she didn’t know what it was.

8

Gill was dreaming, being chased, her legs rubbery, fire licking at her heels, when she was woken by the sound of a car crossing the gravel outside the house. She sat up. Her heart gave a kick and she felt a moment’s dizziness. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It was far too late for social callers. Or business. Late and dark. Sammy was staying at Orla’s and Gill no longer got romantic fleeting visits from Chris Latham. He’d met someone else and had the guts to be straight with her about it before disappearing from her life.

She was holding her breath, head cocked to one side. The engine cut out. She heard the car door open, footsteps.

Climbing out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown, drew the curtain back a fraction but could see nobody. The car had stopped at the side of the house, near the door, but her bedroom looked out over the front. They were isolated, on the edge of the moors, the nearest neighbour along the road out of sight. Certainly out of earshot. The farmhouse over the fields visible in the distance from the front windows but too far away to help. The house has good security, she reminded herself. Security lights, alarm, top-of-the-range bolts and mortise locks. The burglar alarm was connected to the police station.

Should she go and look out of Sammy’s window? What if they saw her and realized she was alone? Footsteps crossed the gravel, the sound changing as they reached the flagged path that skirted the house. Her pulse was jumping, her throat dry.

Would they go away once they got no response? They couldn’t get in unless they smashed a window. A determined man with a lump hammer could crash his way through the reinforced glass eventually. Gill thought of bus stops, the shower of glass in drifts around them.

And if they got in? How long till the police responded? It was a nine-minute drive from the nearest station – if they left as a matter of urgency.

Violent banging on the door jolted her into action. She grabbed her phone and pressed 999, her heart in her mouth.

The doorbell went, long and shrill, then more banging. A pause. A crashing sound, something breaking? The alarm would sound if the windows broke, she was sure that’s what they’d had set up. More banging, whump, whump, whump. Strong enough for her to feel the vibrations.

‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

‘Police,’ Gill said quickly, knowing there was no need to elaborate to the switchboard, who could only redirect her call.

Thud, whump. She heard a roar of rage which curdled the contents of her stomach and made her tremble.

‘Police, can you tell me the nature of your emergency?’

‘My name is DCI Gill Murray, I’m at Shaw and an intruder is trying to break into my house.’

‘Are you alone in the house?’ the operator said.

‘Yes.’

More shouting downstairs, still outside. Then fast banging, blows raining on the door.

Gill felt a lurch of fear.

‘Do you know how many intruders there are?’

‘No. One, I think.’ She’d heard only one voice, one set of footsteps. Had she? The prospect of more than one of them made her knees weak, her head spin.

‘Please stay on the line. Is there anywhere in the house you can lock yourself in?’

Another shout, she caught some of the words. ‘… fucking door, Gill, I’m warning you.’

She froze. Dave!

‘Are you there, caller? The car will be with you soon.’

Gill moved quickly out of her room and into Sammy’s, overlooking the side of the house. She could see the car, the BMW that Dave drove. Relief drenched through her and with it came a wave of rage so intense she thought she’d explode.

‘I think I know who it is,’ she said to the operator.

She ran downstairs, the house shaking with each great thump on the door. Gill glanced out of the sidelight beside the door and could see Dave, illuminated by the security lamp, his face contorted as he staggered back then launched himself at the building.

‘It’s my husband,’ she told the woman.

‘Any history of violence in the marriage?’

Not yet, Gill thought, seething, but you just bloody wait. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need the response car. I’m fine, really. I’ll be fine.’ Much as she’d love to heap humiliation on Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Fuckwit Murray by having him cuffed and chucked in a cell for the night, she still had sense enough to think of the wider ramifications. The fallout for Dave and his professional standing, which was already a damn sight wobblier than hers, the embarrassment for Sammy, the whole frigging mess. Bollocks!

But of course, they couldn’t cancel the call-out, she could hear the siren already, nee-nawing along the valley. The stupid dream had left her muddled, panicking, when if she’d only gone and checked from Sammy’s room in the first place…

Gill turned off the burglar alarm and waited for Dave to move. He’d settled into a rhythm. A thump then he swayed back again and readied himself. As soon as the next blow fell, Gill slid back the bolt quick as a flash, twisted the key in the lock and snapped off the Yale. She threw open the door just as he charged again.

He fell headlong, feet tangling over the door sill, pitching forward so fast he’d not got time to brace his fall. It didn’t help that his reactions were severely hampered by the amount he’d had to drink. A big man, tall and solidly built, he landed heavily with a great cry, banging his face on the hardwood floor, and the air was knocked out of him. Gill hoped he’d broken something. He groaned, lay dazed. The siren grew louder and soon blue revolving lights flashed into the house and swung round Dave’s prone body.

While Dave sat on a kitchen chair, bleary-eyed, wiping blood from his nose and chin, Gill apologized for wasting their time. She could tell there was some scepticism politely masked in the eyes of the female police constable, who no doubt suspected domestic violence and was unconvinced by Gill’s protestations. ‘I’d no idea it was my ex-husband, he hadn’t phoned to let me know he was coming,’ she said. Could they tell he was pissed? Off his tits? Would they do him for drunk driving? Oh, how she longed to drop him in it. But she buttoned her lip and made nice and apologized and behaved calmly and it seemed to pay off.

The fact that she was a DCI and several ranks up the food chain helped. The service still expected officers to respect and be unfailingly obedient to senior staff.

When their tail lights finally disappeared over the brow of the hill, she imagined they’d be dissecting the call-out, speculating about how long Chief Superintendent Murray had been knocking lumps out of his lady wife. And whether to report the incident. Domestic violence accounted for a substantial amount of violent crime and new guidelines meant the crime could be reported even when the victim did not wish to press charges. The fact that Gill had been demonstrably sanguine and untouched and it was Dave who was injured might have persuaded the coppers that this was a misunderstanding and not a case of abuse. Or perhaps they thought Dave was the victim and Gill’s call had been some mind-fuck to avert suspicion. While men were a far smaller proportion of victims of domestic violence, they were even more reluctant to report the attacks than women were.

Bound to be rumours, she thought. Police officers were the worst gossips and there was always plenty to gossip about, normally who was shagging who – and who’d found out. This would make even juicier material.

Dave’s car was unlocked, the keys still in the ignition. She removed them and put them in her pocket. He was going nowhere, but she was tempted to make him sleep in the summerhouse in the garden. Freeze his balls off overnight.

He tried to sit up straight as she came back into the kitchen. ‘Gill, you and me, Sammy,’ he slurred, ‘you and me and Sammy-’ Blood crusted his nostrils, he’d a scrape on his chin. He wore a suit, a shirt, both creased and stained, his hair was dishevelled, the smell of booze coming off him and sour sweat.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

He leered.

‘That is not a fucking invitation. You can sleep on the couch. There’s a sleeping bag in the utility room.’

‘We need to talk.’ He leaned forward, one hand spread open, imploring her.

‘You got that right. In the morning. We will. I’ll talk, you listen. You-’ She bit off the rant.

‘Gill,’ he chided her.

Sudden tears, tears of anger, pricked her eyes. She clenched her teeth at Dave and his sodding mess.

‘In the morning,’ was all she trusted herself to say.