Ruthless

16

Gill was dreaming, more of a nightmare than a dream. Dave had moved back in with her, bringing the whore of Pendlebury and her spawn, and Gill was having to sleep on the sofa while they took the master bedroom. The smoke alarm was beeping but Gill couldn’t find it. She ran upstairs and down again, Dave shouting at her to turn the bloody thing off but she couldn’t see it. They’d all die in their beds. She came awake to find her phone ringing, the middle of the night. She picked it up. Trevor Hyatt, the fire investigation officer.

‘Trevor?’

‘Sorry to be so early but I knew you’d want to hear.’

‘What?’

‘The warehouse fire, Shuttling Way…’

‘Yes?’ She was expecting, if anything, him to say it was definitely the same accelerant or even that someone had seen the twins, but wouldn’t that wait till morning?

‘We found two bodies.’

Oh my God. Her heart rate doubled. She was wide awake now, mind spinning, trying to grasp all the ramifications.

‘I’m on my way.’

She snapped on the light.

Two bodies. Two more bodies. What the fuck was going on?

The warehouse was a huge structure, five storeys high and extending for over a hundred yards alongside the canal. In its heyday it would’ve housed bales of cotton for transport by the waterway to the ports at Manchester and Liverpool. Lorries would’ve done the job latterly.

Surveying the scene in the first light of dawn reminded Gill of photographs from the Second World War, bombings in Coventry and Dresden, everything shattered, black.

Hyatt led her along a dedicated pathway to the building. He explained that it had last been occupied by a foam and furniture wholesaler who used part of the ground floor. Remnants of foam and pieces of furniture were left when the business moved out. These had fed the fire, making the blaze fierce enough to consume the floors above. The whole thing had collapsed in. She fancied she could smell the plastic chemical smell of the foam in the stink of burning that filled the space.

The bodies had, in effect, been excavated from the layer of ash and cinders. A few feet apart, opposite each other, they were crouched, curled, half reclining. Macabre in their positioning. Skulls bent forward, the skin stretched like scorched parchment tight over the skeleton. Here and there a glint of bone. Adults, Gill thought from the length of the leg bones, but beyond that it was impossible to tell anything.

‘Sitting in chairs, we think. See the springs.’ Hyatt pointed out the spiral of metal beside one of the bodies. As the seats burned, they’d collapsed back and the victims with them.

Shot? she wondered.

‘I’d like the CSIs to take the bodies and all the debris around them,’ she glanced at him, ‘like we did at the chapel.’

He nodded.

‘You’re sure it’s arson?’ she said.

‘Looks like it. The seat of the fire is here.’ He pointed between the two figures where the floor itself had been eaten away. ‘Looks like an accelerant was used and the foam on the chairs would also act to speed up the fire.’

‘Petrol?’ Gill asked.

‘I don’t think so. I want to do some more investigation here but this looks like a smaller initial ignition area, whereas with the Old Chapel we had petrol splashed around and when that goes up it’s the vapour that ignites. This is more localized. And we’ve got melted glass.’

She looked as he indicated a shiny blob in the ash. ‘Could be innocuous, a drinking glass. But it could be a bottle.’

‘Molotov cocktail,’ she said.

‘That sort of thing. We’ll get an analysis done, we can do a headspace gas chromatograph, might be able to find out what it is.’

Gill knew the rudiments of the test, a way to identify and quantify volatile compounds. ‘If it’s not petrol then what is it?’

‘Could be paint thinner, acetone or a kerosene-based accelerant,’ he said.

‘Kerosene?’ Gill asked.

‘You’re looking at paraffin for heaters or lamps or lighter fuel, the sort of thing people use to light a barbecue.’

Neil Perry had made a comment about a barbecue when Rachel asked him to account for the petrol on his clothes. ‘We only found petrol on the Perrys’ clothing. No kerosene.’

‘True. Of course a device can be thrown from some distance so you don’t get that splashback effect you have when emptying a petrol can.’

‘Light the blue touch paper and stand well back,’ Gill said. ‘Have you been doing any house-to-house yet?’

‘We have, I’ll get everything sent through to you. You’ll merge the inquiries?’

‘If it’s murder,’ she said.

‘You think it is?’

‘Don’t you?’

He tipped his head in agreement.

‘Let’s see what pathologist finds.’ She opened her phone, ready to rouse all and sundry from their beds to get the investigation moving.

The post-mortems gave Gill a sense of déjà vu. The smell of charred flesh in the room, the blackened forms on the tables. The procedures were carried out on each body in turn. Gradually, methodically, Garvey built up a profile of the victims.

Victim number one was a woman, height five foot nine, evidence of historic injuries to the right arm and leg. Teeth showed poor dental care. African ethnicity. Age estimated between eighteen and twenty-five. Victim number two, male, height five foot ten, evidence of malnourishment with poor bone density. The same ethnicity and estimated age.

X-rays showed that both victims had been shot.

The woman had two bullets in her chest cavity.

The man had one in his chest and one in his head.

It was murder.

Nobody was grumbling about being pulled into work so early, certainly not Rachel. This was what she lived for. The court had granted them a further thirty-six hours to question the Perry brothers for the Kavanagh murder and Rachel reckoned that they nearly had enough to discuss going to charge with the CPS. Sometimes the Crown Prosecution Service were too cautious, bleating about insufficient evidence and letting people walk – that was the pits. When after all the work, all the hours they put in, gathering evidence, interviewing, carefully putting it together, the scumbags waltzed off, scot-free, a smirk on their face and a hard-on, no doubt: fucked the system.

Now this had blown up. Two more bodies, same neck of the woods, same MO. It was possible the twins would be looking at charges on three counts of murder, not just one. The boss had barely got her coat off and she was bringing them up to speed. They had drafted in extra officers to cope with the challenge of working three murder investigations.

‘Fire investigation officers had already been speaking to the community when this was believed to be simply a case of arson,’ the boss said. ‘Summaries of those interviews, along with any significant intelligence, will be available within the hour. I understand that the Perry brothers are persons of interest but as yet we have not had any information putting them at the warehouse on Friday. What we have been hearing is that the premises were being used for drug-dealing in the last few months.’

No surprise there, Rachel thought. An abandoned building was a magnet for junkies and other lowlifes. Off the radar, no water or electric but walls and a roof, somewhere to shelter. Attractive to dealers too, off the streets and out of sight, away from prying eyes. Though these days some of them were bold as brass, hanging about on street corners, and taking orders with kids on bikes to run the drugs. Students of The Wire.

‘This could be a drug dispute?’ Rachel said.

‘Possible,’ said the boss.

‘Intel are still saying no known hostile takeovers,’ Mitch said.

‘Maybe this is it, just kicking off.’ Rachel again.

‘Could be our two victims were dealers then someone robbed them,’ said Lee.

‘If they’ve been dealing for some months they’re going to be getting the supply from Marcus Williams,’ Mitch said. ‘Anyone mad enough to go after them must have a death wish themselves. Williams is still in pole position and he’s vicious as a pitbull when he’s crossed.’

‘Allegedly,’ the boss said, reminding them Williams had never been charged with any crime. ‘And his lieutenant, Stanley Keane, allegedly, does the nasty when needs must. As I said, we have no ID for our two victims so that is top of the list.’ Godzilla went on, ‘The crimes look very similar except for one significant difference: the accelerant used was not the same in both cases.’

‘Ballistics?’ Rachel was wondering if the same gun had been used.

‘They’re busy with it now,’ the boss said.

Kevin spoke up. ‘The men in prison for the post office robbery-’

‘In which the same weapon was used,’ the boss said.

‘Refused to comment,’ Kevin said.

Fancy that, thought Rachel. ‘Pretty safe bet they got it from Tandy.’

‘You want a flutter, Rachel, get yourself down Paddy Power’s. We need facts, not bets,’ Her Maj said, ‘and we need Tandy.’

‘Not answering his phone,’ Mitch said.

‘Maybe he’s left the area,’ said Kevin.

‘Why?’ asked the boss.

‘Because of the murder, he doesn’t want to be taken down with the Perry twins,’ Kevin said.

‘Where would he go? Has he any associates elsewhere, family?’

‘No,’ Pete said, ‘stays close to home when he’s not banged up.’

The boss shook her head, irritated at their failure to find the man.

Without Janet available as acting sergeant, Her Maj asked for a volunteer to allocate actions and Lee volunteered. Rachel didn’t. She didn’t want to be coordinating other people, she wanted to be back out there, finding the dirt on Neil and Noel Perry that would see them looking at life in prison.

‘As we did with Kavanagh,’ the boss said, ‘talk to local organizations and residents, churches, charities, whatever. Do any of them recall a young, black couple? Of course this will be bad for public confidence and for our crime stats. The Chief Con and the reducing crime bods can worry about the statistics, we can’t do anything about that. But what we can do, in terms of community morale and public relations, is put every ounce of energy into finding out who killed these people and bringing them to trial. Any questions?’

The room was quiet.

‘Before you go, I need to make you aware that Janet Scott is taking some personal time. As most of you will know by now, the teenager Olivia Canning was a close friend of Janet’s daughter. For the purposes of that investigation, Janet is a civilian. Should you acquire any information on that inquiry from our colleagues on division, those details shall remain confidential from Janet.’ The boss swivelled her head this way and that, checking they’d taken in what she was saying. ‘Regarding our friends in the fourth estate…’

Godzilla’s phone rang, she broke off and held up a hand for quiet.

‘You’re sure,’ she said, ‘both of them?’

Rachel could see light gleam in her eyes. Godzilla palmed her phone. ‘Analysis on the bullets shows the same weapon used in all three murders. We’ve got a series. Now let’s see what you can bring me. Quick as you like.’

The warehouse stood between the main road, Shuttling Way, and the canal. Derby Fold Lane bordered the plot to the west, leading from the dual carriageway and over the canal bridge. Where the lane descended from the bridge was the spot that the fire investigation officers had identified as the point of entry. The boards there had rotted away at the base and someone had smashed a hole big as a doorway to gain access to the site. So anyone going to the building would have to go along Derby Fold Lane. To the east was a small terraced row, Pocklington Street. Any view those houses might once have had across the yard to the building had since been blocked by high sheet fencing, so only the upper floors were visible. Rachel turned the map around and checked. The land at the far side of Derby Fold Lane was unoccupied scrubland. Which left Manton Street over the canal as the nearest houses likely to have seen any comings and goings. Manton Street, where Greg Tandy lived with his wife and son.

Rachel began there.

Connor answered the door, rolling his eyes when he saw who it was.

‘Your dad back?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

‘You seen him since yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘What about your mum, she in?’

‘Work,’ he sniffed.

‘The bodies of two people were recovered from the fire at the warehouse,’ Rachel said, ‘a man and woman, we’re trying to identify them. Early twenties, both black.’

‘Dunno,’ he shrugged.

‘Not seen anyone like that about?’ Rachel said.

‘They all look the same to me, niggers,’ he said. Trying to wind her up?

‘What about the warehouse, people coming and going there, you notice that?’

He pulled a face, shook his head. She didn’t believe him.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

‘Where?’ Rachel said.

‘School.’

‘You’re late, aren’t you?’

He didn’t answer, rubbed his nose.

‘Word has it the warehouse was used for drug-dealing. You know anything about that?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ Something altered in his eyes.

‘You’ve not been there, buying stuff?’

‘No,’ he scowled.

‘So, if we were to arrange a drugs test, you’d be clear?’

‘You can’t do that without permission, I’m only fourteen,’ he said. ‘Need an appropriate adult with me, too.’

‘Been reading up on your rights, have you?’ she said. ‘Look, I just don’t think you’ve been very honest with me, and that makes me think you might have something to hide. Maybe you do know where your dad is but you’re not saying, maybe you know something about the drug deals but you’re too scared to say.’

‘I’m not scared,’ he sneered.

‘But you are concealing something and that would warrant us cautioning you and holding you for formal questioning. Your mum could be the appropriate adult if you wish.’

He set his jaw, the edges of his lips whitened with tension. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ he said, ‘I swear.’

Rachel didn’t respond, she wanted more.

He cleared his throat. ‘But I seen them about, the blacks.’

‘You know their names?’

He shook his head.

‘Come on, Connor.’

‘It’s the fucking truth!’ His face flushed red. ‘Look, there’s this girl, Shirelle, she used to hang with the bloke. Talk to her.’

‘Shirelle who?’

He shook his head.

‘Where will I find her?’

‘She lives in Hawkins,’ he said.

The high-rise, Hawkins Tower. Over a hundred flats. ‘That really narrows it down,’ Rachel said.

‘That’s all I can tell you.’

‘What’s she look like, this Shirelle?’

‘Half-caste,’ he said.

‘How old?’

‘Twenty?’ he said uncertainly. ‘I didn’t tell you, and I’m no grass.’ For a moment he sounded very young, scared. He bit his lip. How many times had he answered the door to the police already? His father not out five minutes and already looking at a recall. Return to jail, do not pass go.

‘You ever done any boxing?’ Rachel said.

‘What?’ He was thrown by the change of topic.

‘Boxing. The gym in town. They do boxing, self-defence.’

‘I can look after myself.’ He bristled, probably thought she was calling him a weed.

‘Not saying you can’t. Bet you’d be a good bantamweight with the right training.’

‘What’s this? Olympics crap?’

The country was awash with promotional stuff for the London Olympics. ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘You should give it a go. There’s five-a-side too, table football. What else you going to do? Hang around here and end up getting into trouble?’

‘You a social worker?’ he said scornfully.

‘Try it,’ Rachel said.

‘Fuck off.’

‘I dare you.’

He looked askance.

‘Bring the bike, we’re building a stunt circuit. You can do stunts, can’t you?’

He glared at her.

‘Open three till ten every day. Doesn’t have to be like this,’ she said. Cursing herself as the words left her mouth, sounding all touchy-feely like Alison. He looked at her, raised eyebrows, a hint of humour in his eyes. Why did she bother? She’d tried this sort of thing with Dom and that had worked out really well, hadn’t it?

17

Janet sat with Elise and two detectives from division in the soft interview room at Middleton police station.

DC Goodman was doing most of the questioning. Young – well, young in Janet’s eyes – and mild-mannered with a slight stutter, he had explained to Elise her rights, why she was there and that she was free to leave at any time.

His colleague, DC Khan, spoke to introduce herself, then kept notes and listened intently to Elise’s answers.

So far Elise herself had been subdued, cooperative. No tears today, though she sometimes came close. There were tissues on the table, water and glasses.

‘Then we went to get a drink in the kitchen,’ Elise said.

‘What did you have?’

‘Cider,’ she said.

‘And Olivia?’

‘Same.’

‘And then?’

‘We talked to some people there and then went in the living room. Someone was playing music, on decks,’ she said. ‘We got another drink, more people came and then this girl was going round, talking to people and selling things, drugs.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Olivia said we should try some, to have a laugh. The girl stopped by us and she said, “What are you after?” Olivia said, “Something for the party,” and the girl held up some pills with smileys on. “Es,” she said. I said, “No, it’s all right.” I didn’t want to get them but then she said, “How about some Paradise?” We didn’t know what she meant. Then she showed us these tablets, said it was legal, there was no law against taking it or buying or selling it. And that it would put a smile on our faces like E. I thought maybe she was making it up, but she said check it online if you want to, everyone’s selling it, you go into Headspace in town and you can get it there. It just sounded better. So we said yes.’

‘How much did you get?’ DC Goodman asked.

‘Two each, ten pounds altogether,’ Elise said.

‘And who paid?’

‘Me, I did,’ she said, glancing at Janet, her face clouded with misery.

‘Can you describe the person who sold you the drugs?’ DC Goodman said.

‘She wasn’t as tall as me, she had black hair, wavy. I think she was mixed race. I don’t remember anything else.’

‘Did you hear anyone use a name?’ DC Goodman said.

‘No.’

‘What did she do after you bought the drugs?’ he said.

‘She carried on into the other room. Then she went,’ Elise said.

‘You saw her leave?’

‘Yes.’

Home delivery, someone at the party knew a dealer to call on for the occasion.

‘What happened then?’ DC Goodman said.

‘We took the stuff and we sat on the stairs for a bit, just hanging out and erm… Olivia said she felt dizzy, and I said…’ Elise gulped.

Janet could feel the mounting tension in her.

‘… “Isn’t that the point?” We thought it was really funny and laughed but then she said she felt worse. She said she was cold but when I felt her head she was really hot so I said to get a drink of water. We went in the kitchen and erm…’ a wobble in her voice, ‘then she, then she had the fit. Some people thought she was messing about but she wasn’t and then she wasn’t talking or answering. And I rang Mum and then the ambulance.’

‘You both took the drugs?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t expect there’d be any harmful effects?’ DC Goodman said.

‘No. We thought it would be fun.’

‘Thank you. We’re going to get your statement written up and then you’ll be asked to check it, tell us if anything isn’t correct or if you’d forgotten anything, and then you’ll sign it. If you do that you are also agreeing to testify in court, if required.’

Janet had lost count of the number of times she’d said the very same words. Elise nodded vigorously. Janet felt a flicker of fear. If charges were brought against the dealer, Elise could be in a vulnerable position, people might try to prevent her from giving evidence. Elise, naïve, sheltered, was unaware of this.

It might not get that far, Janet told herself, and they might not need Elise as a witness. Charges would focus on drugs banned by law, there must be other youngsters from the party who had bought illegal drugs, who would be witnesses to that. If it did come to a trial and they wanted Elise for some reason, they could ask for special measures, so she could give evidence anonymously from a video link or from behind screens.

‘Mum,’ Elise said, while they were waiting, ‘could we get a card for Vivien and Ken, is that what people do?’

‘Yes, if you’d like to.’

Elise gave a nod.

DC Goodman returned and Elise read through the statement and signed it.

‘What happens now?’ Janet asked him, for Elise’s benefit rather than her own.

‘We’ve some more inquiries to make. When those are completed, we consult with the Crown Prosecution Service as to whether there are any grounds for bringing charges.’

‘Like what?’ Elise said.

‘That would be up to them but in your situation, you didn’t break the law buying the Paradise or giving some to your friend. You had no reason to expect that the substance would cause harm, you took some yourself. So I really can’t see that any crime has been committed.’

Janet agreed and was very grateful that the man had tried to reassure Elise. But the irony kept hitting home; if Elise had bought weed or cocaine then she’d be liable for prosecution and in all likelihood Olivia would still be alive. The law-abiding option had proved the most deadly.

Rachel called at the newsagent’s first – to see if Liam Kelly knew the girl Shirelle’s address.

He shook his head. ‘I know who you mean but I’ve no idea which flat she’s in, sorry.’

Rachel was leaving when he said, ‘I hear you’ve arrested the Perrys.’

‘No names at this stage,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘That poor bloke.’ Word had yet to reach the public that another two victims had been found.

Hawkins House was just across the way from the shops, beside Beaumont House, home to the Perry twins. A concrete pile with a buzzer entry system.

Rachel pressed a few buttons, a disembodied voice answered, ‘What?’

‘DC Rachel Bailey, Manchester Metropolitan Police.’

‘He’s not here,’ the voice said, ‘he’s still in Strangeways. Don’t they tell you anything?’

‘Who am I speaking to?’ Rachel said.

‘The Wizard of Oz,’ the woman said and the line went dead.

Rachel peered inside through the safety glass and could see the lights on the lift shaft changing, someone coming down.

Rachel waited and watched as a young woman emerged dragging a buggy. She swung it round and headed for the door. The child in the pram was huge, fat-faced. Could babies be obese? Rachel had no idea.

As the girl came out, Rachel held the door, showed her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Shirelle?’

The girl blinked rapidly. ‘Shirelle?’ she repeated.

‘Look, you can tell me which number now, make life that bit easier, or I can fart around getting her address from the DWP or the housing office, which would really piss me off.’

The girl seemed to be weighing up the options.

‘Might be tempted to get the DWP to check you’re getting the right benefits while I’m there,’ Rachel said.

The baby began crying and kicking its legs. A grating, droning noise that made Rachel want to clamp her hand over its face. Perhaps the mother felt the same. The girl sighed and said, ‘311.’

Rachel stepped aside, letting her pass. She took the stairs, reckoned it might be better than the lift, but she still had to breathe through her mouth to minimize the stink of piss. The smell of skunk hung heavy in the building too, unmistakable.

She found 311 on the fourth floor, nothing but the numbers to distinguish the door from any of its neighbours. All painted a dark moss green, probably meant to look tasteful but it served to darken the gloomy hallways even more. There were recessed lamps in the ceiling, protected by cages, and in the one above Rachel a fat black fly buzzed about.

Rachel listened for a moment, heard the faint chatter from a television inside. Then she knocked. She heard footsteps. ‘Who is it?’

‘Police, can you open the door?’

A pause. ‘Show us your ID.’

Rachel held her warrant card up so it was level with the peephole in the door. She heard a soft curse and the door was unlocked.

‘What’s it about?’ the young woman said. Arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. She was petite, inches shorter than Rachel, with curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore close-fitting sports clothes, trainer socks, and a crucifix round her neck. Her face was peppered with patches of dry flaky skin.

‘Shirelle?’

The girl nodded.

‘Can I come in?’ Rachel said. The girl didn’t reply but moved back and once Rachel stepped inside Shirelle went ahead of her into the living room. Rachel glimpsed the kitchen as she passed. Quarry tiling on the floor, fitted cupboards in a high-gloss finish.

Not a junkie. Rachel could tell that straight away, the place would have been empty of everything that could be sold off to feed the beast. But Shirelle’s flat was well furnished. Curtains in red matched the sofa and the chair, the furniture was upholstered, plump, looked brand new. There was a chandelier for the central light and a large telly and SkyBox. Sean was on at Rachel to get one for the sport.

Framed pictures on the wall were taken from old copies of fashion magazines, Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Browsing the coffee table as she sat down, Rachel saw the buff envelope, addressed to Ms Shirelle Young. Something official.

‘So?’ Shirelle said.

Her legs were crossed tightly together and she was blinking more often than was normal. She was shitting it, not so obvious until you saw those little signs. She reminded Rachel of a dog, a greyhound, the sort that look like they are dying from stress, about to keel over, but will run like the wind given chance. Shirelle picked up rolling tobacco, pulled out a paper. Rachel’s mouth watered.

‘Two bodies were recovered from the warehouse on Shuttling Way today. A man and a woman of African descent.’

Shirelle’s hand shook, she spilled some of the rolling tobacco.

‘We’re trying to identify those people. I believe you might be able to help us.’

‘Who told you that?’ she said.

‘Can you help us?’

Shirelle pinched her lip with her fingers. Rachel wondered what the problem was, why would she hesitate? ‘Shirelle?’

‘Victor,’ Shirelle said, ‘Victor and Lydia.’

‘Do you know surnames?’

‘Victor Tosin and Lydia Oluwaseyi.’

‘And what was your relationship to them?’ Rachel said.

Another pause. ‘I went out with Victor for a bit.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last Christmas. Just a few weeks.’

‘I am sorry,’ Rachel said, ‘this must be an awful shock.’

Shirelle flinched, her face sharpening, as though the sympathy angered her.

‘Can you tell me what the relationship was between Victor and Lydia?’

‘They were together,’ Shirelle said.

‘A couple?’

Shirelle nodded. She was picking strands of tobacco off her clothes, placing them in the paper, trying again.

‘So, was that a problem – you going out with Victor?’

‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘That’s why we stopped.’

‘Whose call?’

Shirelle took a drag on her rollie before answering, ‘Mine.’

‘How come?’ Rachel said.

‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m trying to get as much information as I can about Victor and Lydia to help us work out what’s happened.’

‘Lydia didn’t like it and I didn’t want to share,’ she said.

Could this be a motive? Had something erupted between Shirelle and Lydia or Lydia and Victor? The triangle imploding in violence?

‘Do you know why Victor and Lydia would have been at the warehouse?’ Rachel said.

‘They were squatting there.’

‘Do you know their previous address?’

Shirelle shook her head. ‘They’re illegals.’

‘Immigrants?’ Rachel checked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Where from?’

‘Nigeria,’ she said. Slowly she rolled the cigarette paper, brought it to her lips and licked the gummed edge. Her hand steady until she used her lighter.

‘Were they selling drugs?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ She glanced at Rachel then away. ‘Couldn’t they get out?’ she said. ‘Was it the smoke?’

‘We’re trying to establish exactly what happened but it appears they were killed,’ Rachel said, watching her carefully. ‘They were shot.’

A flare of surprise darted through Shirelle’s eyes and her mouth dropped open. She composed herself quickly, dragging on her smoke, recrossing her legs, but it was enough to convince Rachel that although Shirelle was definitely hiding something, she had not known about the murders.

‘Why would anyone want to kill them?’ Shirelle said, her voice fraying. ‘That’s crazy.’ She sucked in her cheeks, a frown etched on her forehead.

‘Either of them been in any bother? Fights, feuds?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

Shirelle’s phone rang, a polyphonic burst of music, a snatch of vocals and heavy bass. She froze.

‘Answer it, if you like,’ Rachel said.

Shirelle shook her head. ‘You’re fine.’

I might be, Rachel thought, but you’re far from. ‘Had they made any enemies, was anyone threatening them?’

‘No,’ Shirelle said, ‘I’ve not seen them for a while anyway.’

‘You broke up with Victor when exactly?’

‘End of January.’

Shirelle’s phone blared again and the girl started.

‘Answer it,’ said Rachel.

‘S’OK, I’ll text,’ she said. Her fingers flew over the screen, tapping lightly, then a trill of birdsong signalled the text had been sent.

‘Work?’ Rachel hazarded a guess.

‘No,’ she shook her head.

‘You got a job?’

‘Signing on,’ Shirelle said, taking a drag on her rollie.

‘So you can see, we’re concerned to try and find out who would have cause to harm Victor and Lydia. You sure you can’t think of anything?’

Shirelle pressed her lips together, puffed out her cheeks a little. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘They were living in the warehouse,’ Rachel said. ‘What was that like?’

‘Pretty grim,’ Shirelle said, ‘the place was in a state.’

‘They were downstairs?’

‘Yes, they had some old chairs and milk crates and pallets to put stuff on.’

‘How long had they been there when you met them?’ Rachel said.

‘Not sure, a few weeks.’

‘I hope you understand, as a matter of routine I have to ask you where you were on Friday evening,’ Rachel said.

Shirelle stared at her, a look of incredulity spread across her face. ‘What- you are not serious?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Here,’ she said emphatically. She took a final pull on the fag and crushed it out in the cut-glass ashtray.

‘Anyone verify that?’

‘No. Yes. Pizza delivery.’

‘What time?’ Rachel said.

Shirelle shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Some time around eight.’

‘Which takeaway?’ Rachel said.

‘Gino’s.’

Rachel made a note. ‘Noel and Neil Perry,’ she said, ‘you know them?’

A look of dislike crossed Shirelle’s face. ‘A bit.’

‘Did they know Victor and Lydia?’

‘Was it them?’ she said.

‘Did they know Victor and Lydia?’ Rachel repeated.

‘Don’t know.’

There was a sound from outside the flat, Shirelle glanced quickly at the door. Was she expecting somebody? She pulled her attention back to Rachel and said, ‘If that’s it…’ Putting a brave face on but Rachel could tell she was shocked and upset. If Shirelle knew the couple squatted in the warehouse she must have realized they could have been killed in the fire, even if she hadn’t known about the shooting. But she had not contacted anyone in authority to share her fears. All weekend she must have lived with that dreadful suspicion.

‘Almost done. When the warehouse went up in smoke, why didn’t you tell anyone there could be people inside?’ Rachel said.

‘I didn’t know they were still there,’ she said, her eyes darting round the room. ‘Like I said, I’ve not been for ages.’

‘Do you know whereabouts in Nigeria they came from?’ Rachel said.

‘Just Nigeria,’ she said.

‘Any relatives over there?’

‘No idea.’

‘Did Victor talk about Nigeria, why he’d come?’

‘No. Just said it was a nightmare, horror show and that was that. This was his life now. He was getting by. He wanted to go back to school, get an apprenticeship, but he was illegal.’

Rachel thought of the post-mortem report, the historic injuries. She knew fuck all about Nigeria but imagined war, rival factions, chaos. Sound reasons to get out, run and hide.

‘Were either of them religious?’ Rachel said. ‘For the funerals?’

Shirelle swallowed. ‘Christian,’ she said, blinking quickly, ‘both of them.’

‘Shirelle Young, that’s your full name?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your date of birth?’ Rachel said.

‘Why?’

‘I need all your details. There’s a chance you may need to give a witness statement, be prepared to come to court.’

‘No way,’ she said abruptly, ‘I’m not a witness. I don’t know anything about it.’

‘You’ve been very helpful, you’ve given us their identity, you knew them and even if you’ve not been in touch recently I’m sure you want us to catch who did this,’ Rachel said. ‘Date of birth?’

Shirelle still hesitated. Finally, ‘May third, 1992.’ Making her twenty.

As she stepped out into the fresh air, Rachel considered what she’d learned. There were plenty of questions in her head. Not least how someone on Jobseeker’s Allowance paid for designer furniture, a new kitchen and a state-of-the-art TV.

Rachel, in the car outside Hawkins House, called in the ID information on their latest victims. She also requested someone check out the pizza delivery and establish whether the courier from Gino’s could confirm seeing Shirelle Young on Friday and what time that had been.

Rachel didn’t have to wait long before Shirelle came out of the tower, wearing fancy neon trainers and with a small rucksack on her back. A minicab drew into the side of the road and the girl climbed in. Rachel followed as the cab drove out on to Shuttling Way and headed left away from Oldham town centre. They crossed the ring road and drove into Werneth. Rachel slowed down and allowed a people carrier to overtake her, putting it between her and the taxi so as not to arouse suspicion.

When the taxi stopped outside a house on Crescent Drive, Rachel drove past, noting the number, and parked further down the road outside a barber’s.

The taxi didn’t leave and five minutes later Shirelle came out of the house and got back into the car, which took her home. Shirelle went into Hawkins House again and twenty minutes later she came out and went on foot to the other tower block.

Another fifteen minutes and she reappeared and then headed off into the estate. Rachel couldn’t follow her unless she was on foot.

18

Rachel Bailey looked very pleased with herself, Gill thought. Fair dos. The DC had got them names for the dead couple and identified an associate.

‘She’s got the place kitted out like Ideal Home,’ Rachel was saying. ‘She swore blind that Victor and Lydia didn’t do drugs, but the word on the street is just the opposite.’ She glanced at Mitch, who nodded his agreement.

‘I’m sure she was making house calls after she’d picked the stuff up in Werneth and I’m not talking Avon.’ Rachel’s eyes were dancing, exhilarated by the progress they’d made.

Kevin yawned noisily, arching back in his chair and stretching his arms up and out.

‘Keeping you up, Kevin? Late night?’ Gill said.

‘Bit late,’ Kevin grinned, ‘couple of pints after here then-’

‘Not boring you then?’

‘No, boss.’ Oblivious.

‘Hate to bore you. What with this being a murder inquiry and everything. Keeping you up late an’ all.’

‘It’s fine, boss,’ said Kevin.

‘Is it? Fine?’ She saw his face alter. Light dawning. Dimly but there. ‘Let me tell you, what is far from fine is you sitting here in my syndicate yawning with a mouth like the Mersey Tunnel. That is not fine, that is rude and disrespectful. You want to yawn or fart or belch or scratch your arse, you do it in your own time. Clear?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Now where were we. Oh, murder.’

‘The address in Werneth is for Stanley Keane,’ said Pete.

‘Williams’s muscle man?’ Gill said.

‘That’s right. Previous convictions for assault, GBH, dangerous driving, handling stolen goods and possession with intent.’

‘Mr Nice Guy,’ Gill said.

Pete swung his laptop around so they could see Keane’s charge sheet. The picture showed him to be a bulky man with a bushy beard.

‘Looks to match,’ Gill said. ‘I think we have reasonable grounds for a search of Keane’s house and the same for Shirelle Young’s place ASAP.’

‘Her alibi for Friday is solid,’ Rachel said. ‘Doesn’t necessarily cover the whole of the time frame for the double murder but comes slap bang in the middle of when we estimate it was kicking off, going by when the fire took hold. And when I told her they’d been shot, well, I don’t think she’d any idea.’

Gill looked round the rest of the team. ‘What else do we have? Greg Tandy?’

‘Still no trace,’ Mitch said.

‘Has he got a passport?’ Gill said.

‘Nothing current,’ Kevin said.

‘He could have fled using a false one,’ Rachel said.

Gill’s phone rang and she dragged it out. Dave. She killed it. ‘OK, let’s deal with the Richard Kavanagh charges first. Kevin with Rachel and Mitch in with Lee, hold their hands, walk them through the case, point out the crater-sized holes in their accounts and see if they have anything to add. Then charge them. Happy?’

They were.

Except it wasn’t that simple. Noel Perry, on being brought into the interview room with his lawyer, saw Lee and performed in true knuckle-dragging style. ‘I’m not talking to him.’

The solicitor tried to intervene but Noel wasn’t having it. ‘I’m not talking to some fucking ape in a suit.’

‘Mr Perry,’ Mitch said, ‘abusive language is not acceptable.’

‘So fucking sue me, I ain’t talking to any niggers.’

Gill was watching the unsavoury display, on playback. Lee and Mitch beside her.

‘You OK?’ Gill said.

Lee smiled. ‘Nothing I haven’t heard before. You want to put Pete in?’

‘No way! No lowlife tosser sits in my station and uses that sort of language against one of my officers then gets to call the shots. On the other hand you do not have to take that sort of abuse. Your shout. You go back in, if you’re happy to, and if he won’t play ball then move straight to charge.’ She had paused the video. It showed Noel Perry, eyes blazing, lips pulled back showing his teeth, the tendons in his neck taut like ropes. Every mother’s dream.

‘A pleasure,’ said Lee.

Neil Perry had a sneaky, sly look to him from the start. Cat got the cream. Even the way he sat was cocky, legs wide apart like his balls were the size of grapefruits whereas Rachel knew that steroids made them shrivel. His were probably pea-sized. Like his brain.

‘Mr Perry,’ Rachel said, ‘I want to talk to you some more about the death of Richard Kavanagh. Yesterday you told me you were in Langley on Wednesday evening but we have several eyewitnesses who saw you in Manorclough. Can you explain that to me?’

There was a light in his eyes, not intelligence, not even low cunning but some kind of twisted humour.

‘Must be seeing things. Tapped, probably mental.’ He gave a sickly grin. He’d not brushed his teeth and they were yellow, gummy around the edges.

‘You were also questioned about the presence of gunshot residue on your clothing. Residue which indicated you had fired a gun. How did that residue get on your clothes?’

‘No idea,’ he yawned.

Rachel stifled the reflex to yawn herself. She spoke more quickly. ‘You were unable to account for petrol traces found on your clothing and footwear. Perhaps you could tell me how that got there?’

‘It’s a mystery,’ he said and smiled again. Almost like he was high. But he’d not be able to get drugs in the police station, it was more secure that way than prison, where the drug trade thrived. Half the saddos in jail were addicts and if they couldn’t get stuff smuggled in they’d try making mind-altering substances from cleaning fluids or anything else. She remembered the twins’ father had died from a lethal batch of prison hooch.

‘Mr Perry, have you anything to add?’ she said, wasting her breath but it was important for the record to extend the invitation.

He shook his head.

‘Please wait a moment.’ She got to her feet.

‘You married?’ he said, grinning.

Rachel glared at him. Tosser.

‘You got a ring on. That’s just for show, innit? You’re a muff muncher, i’nt you?’

She wanted to slap his fat, smug face. As she reached the door, he said, ‘All right then, I did it, I shot him. And I set him on fire. I confess.’ The grin widened, showing his gums, and a bead of blood burst on the sore by his mouth.

Fuck me! Perry’s lawyer looked as shocked as Rachel was but the turnaround accounted for why Perry had been smiling like a loon.

‘We would like to get a new statement from Mr Perry in the light of this admission of guilt,’ Rachel said to the solicitor.

‘Go for it,’ Neil Perry said.

Rachel announced that they would begin again in half an hour. Which would just give her time for a fag, a very large coffee and a chance to talk to Godzilla and find out what the other twin was doing.

Elise suggested taking flowers too but flowers didn’t seem right to Janet. They could send some for the funeral if that’s what Vivien and Ken wanted, the card would be enough for now. She said this to Elise, who answered, ‘Just a card?’

‘You could include a note, something personal about Olivia, your memories, what a good friend she was.’

Elise’s face compressed and she turned away. They were in a café. Janet couldn’t get Elise to have anything to eat but she had drunk a milkshake and Janet had a coffee. She’d had far too much coffee in the last forty-eight hours, could feel her nerves singing with false energy. Hard to resist though. There was a television on in the corner, the sound muted, thank God, as the news began with Olivia as the top story. Pictures of Olivia were everywhere. Time and again Janet’s stomach turned over, still not desensitized to the image of the girl who’d been part of their lives in such a shocking context, still not ready to accept the reality of her death.

‘You don’t have to do it all today,’ Janet said. ‘We could drop a card round now and then you can send something more when you’ve had time to think about it.’

‘OK,’ Elise said quietly.

She chose a card without a message, rejecting all the condolence cards with pictures of doves and crosses and phrases that she said were tacky. The card had a white background, embossed with shells, almost abstract. Janet had a pen in her bag.

‘What shall I put?’

‘Keep it simple,’ Janet said, ‘maybe that you’re thinking of them?’

Elise wrote nothing for long enough and Janet was beginning to get impatient. ‘How about we send it from all of us?’ Janet said.

Elise shook her head. She finally put pen to paper. ‘It’s not right.’ She showed Janet.

I am so very sorry. Olivia was the best, most brilliant, loving and caring friend I ever had. I will miss her so much. And I am thinking of you all.

‘It’s fine, it’s lovely. Come on.’

There were several cars on the road outside the house. More family, Janet assumed, come together in support. Janet pulled in across the driveway entrance.

‘Don’t knock, just post it,’ Janet said. ‘They’ll have all sorts going on right now.’

Elise nodded. She got out of the car, leaving the door ajar, and ran up to the porch. At that moment the front door opened, Ken appeared, showing some visitors out. A couple, the man looked like Ken. His brother perhaps?

Elise stood to one side. The pair left.

‘Elise,’ Ken said. He was white, drained.

‘I just brought this.’ Janet could hear Elise. Then she heard Vivien call from inside. ‘Ken?’ Then louder, ‘Ken? Is that Elise?’

Vivien came to the door. Janet got out of the car, ready to explain they were passing, when Vivien said to Elise, ‘How dare you!’

Elise recoiled as if she’d been slapped. ‘How dare you come to my house when you gave her… you. After what you’ve done.’

Ken was talking, trying to restrain his wife. ‘Vivien, don’t. Just leave her, let’s go in.’ But Vivien was frantic with distress. ‘She wouldn’t have been there if-’

‘Elise.’ Janet reached her, took her arm.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elise, her face bright red, said to Vivien.

‘You stupid little fool,’ Vivien cried.

‘That’s enough,’ Janet said, ‘it wasn’t Elise’s fault. It was nobody’s fault.’

‘Rubbish! If it hadn’t been for your bloody daughter, Olivia would still be here!’

Other people, alerted by the noise, appeared behind Vivien and Ken in the hall. Ken took Vivien’s shoulder, she thrust his hand away angrily.

Janet was trembling with adrenaline, anger bubbling inside but, determined to defuse rather than inflate the situation, she spoke slowly, emphatically. ‘What happened was an awful, awful tragedy. It was an accident. It could’ve been Elise who died, or anyone else at the party. The girls were there together, they thought the world of each other. You know that.’

Vivien shook her head violently, not wanting to hear what Janet was saying. ‘I’ve lost my child. You have no idea what I’m going through.’

The tiny body, unnaturally still, blue lips, their first baby, Joshua. That raw terror, the endless black grief. Janet said nothing. This wasn’t a competition. She just needed Vivien to stop persecuting Elise. To see how wrong she was. ‘No one forced Olivia to go there, to take what she did. That’s the awful thing about an accidental death, there is no one to blame.’

Ken said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but Vivien did not relent. ‘Go away,’ she said, looking from Janet to Elise. ‘Get in your car and piss off and don’t come here again. You’re not welcome.’

Elise burst into tears and ran back to the car.

‘Vivien,’ Ken remonstrated.

Janet, stung, turned and walked away.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Janet, ‘she’s mad with grief. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s just lashing out. Come on, I’ll take you home.’

‘Can we go to Gran’s?’

‘Gran’s?’

‘Please. I want to go there. You could go back to work.’

‘I’m going nowhere,’ Janet said.

‘I want you to.’ She turned her tear-stained face to her mother. ‘I want things to be normal again. There’s nothing you can do now anyway, is there?’

‘I can be around.’

‘I know but you don’t have to be around all the time. You’ll be home tonight.’

‘I don’t know,’ Janet said.

But Elise seemed set on it and Janet felt like a spare part after half an hour sitting with her mother and daughter. Finally she stood up, said maybe she would call into work, just for an hour or so, if Elise still felt OK about it.

‘I do,’ Elise said, ‘I want you to.’

Dorothy arranged to take Elise home once Ade and Taisie were back.

‘I am sorry,’ Janet said as she was going. She kissed Elise’s head. ‘For all of it. Listen, it will get better. It might not seem like it now but it won’t always feel like this.’

Janet rang and left a message for Ade, telling him that Vivien had lost it, that Elise had sent her back to work and that she’d be home later. ‘Be gentle with her,’ she added, still aching for her daughter.

19

Gill said two words when she saw Janet in the office: ‘Go home.’

‘I’m fine,’ Janet said.

‘You’re on leave, go on.’ Gill tipped her hand towards the door. ‘You should be with Elise.’

‘It was Elise who sent me here, and I’ll be back there like a shot if she so much as whistles, but there’s no point in me sitting there twiddling my thumbs when she’s happier with her gran.’

‘How is she?’ Gill said.

‘Gutted, totally.’ Janet felt the pressure rise in her chest. ‘Vivien, Olivia’s mother, had a go at her. But this is what Elise wants.’

‘She’s made a statement?’ Gill asked.

‘Yes, this morning.’

Gill looked at her, apparently coming to a decision. ‘We could do with you. We’ve a double murder now as well, two bodies from the warehouse fire, young couple from Nigeria shot.’

‘Good God! Just give me something to do,’ Janet said, ‘please. Where are we up to with Kavanagh, with the Perry twins?’

‘Mea culpa,’ Gill said.

‘Really! They confessed?’

‘Singing in harmony and all consistent with the forensics,’ the boss said. ‘We’re about to get full statements, if you’re up to another round with the delightful Noel?’

Janet smiled.

‘Before you go down, get yourself up to speed.’ Gill nodded to the incident room where the latest reports were collated and displayed on the whiteboards.

When Janet went in, the indexers were typing away, inputting material on the HOLMES system, a web of information covering every last detail of the lines of inquiry. Invaluable for finding connections. Other staff, the readers, were analysing what came in.

Janet was familiarizing herself with the day’s developments, reading about Rachel’s encounter with Shirelle Young, when she felt a sting of recognition. She went to find Gill. ‘Where’s Rachel?’

‘In with Neil Perry, why?’

‘Shirelle Young, the description, that’s exactly how Elise described the dealer supplying drugs to the party.’

Gill’s face was intent. ‘Right, you leave that with me. We still don’t know exactly what Shirelle can tell us about the murders but she had a previous close relationship with the male victim in the double shooting and she has apparently lied to us on a number of points. We’re about to execute a warrant for her place. You can’t go anywhere near her.’

Janet was burning to find out more but had to distance herself. Anything related to Shirelle Young she must treat as though it had a great big No Entry sign slapped over it. That was the only way to ensure that further down the line there wouldn’t be any repercussions. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ Janet said, holding her hands up, ‘I don’t intend to.’

‘Better than monkey man, anyway,’ Noel Perry said once they were settled.

Janet ignored the comment, focused on getting down to business.

‘Mr Perry, earlier today you confessed to the murder of Richard Kavanagh. What we wish to do now is get a full statement from you about the events of that night, Wednesday night. Can you tell me what happened?’

‘We went to the chapel,’ he said.

‘You and-?’ She couldn’t put words into his mouth.

‘Our Neil. We went there and we shot him and then we set fire to him.’ His tone was gloating.

They needed more detail and Janet set about gathering it. ‘What time did you go to the Old Chapel?’

‘Half seven,’ he said.

‘And how did you get in?’

‘There’s a gap in the fence and then you go down these steps, to the cellar door.’

‘Did you know Mr Kavanagh would be there?’ Janet said.

‘Yeah. We’ve seen him, we was watching him.’

‘Why was that?’

‘’Cos we wanted to do him,’ he said.

Janet felt a chill at the casual nature of his words. ‘Do him?’ she said.

‘Kill him.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Old wino, i’nt he. Vermin. Needed getting rid of.’

Janet thought of the websites the twins had visited, the comments they posted, the twisted crap they espoused. Hate was what it boiled down to, hate and rage.

She took a breath, said calmly, ‘When you entered the building, could you see Mr Kavanagh?’

‘Yeah. He was dossing down.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Told him we were gonna kill him,’ he smiled.

‘What did Mr Kavanagh do?’

‘He stood up, started gabbing.’

‘Then what?’

‘I shot him,’ he gave a quick laugh, ‘and then I give the gun to Neil, and he shot him.’

‘You shot him where?’

‘In the chest, aim for the heart, head shot’s too risky,’ he said.

‘Then what happened?’ Janet said.

‘We chucked some petrol on him and round about and then we lit it.’

‘Who lit it?’

‘Neil.’

‘What with?’

‘Matches.’ He was grinning.

‘Then?’ Janet said.

‘We went up the shops, the precinct, could see from there, near enough.’ He made an explosive sound, gestured with his hands. ‘Didn’t take long to get going.’

‘Had you had any contact with Mr Kavanagh before this?’

‘No,’ he sneered.

‘Where did you get the gun?’

His face stilled. ‘No comment,’ he said.

‘Where is the gun now?’

‘No comment.’ A complete change of attitude.

‘Does the name Greg Tandy mean anything to you?’ Janet said.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Even though we showed you film taken of you outside Bobbins on Tuesday, when your brother went in to meet with Mr Tandy? Do you remember now?’

‘No comment.’

‘We have reason to suspect you acquired a firearm from Greg Tandy on Tuesday, is that true?’

‘No comment.’

‘Where did you get the petrol?’

He scratched his side. ‘Petrol station.’

‘When?’

‘Coupla weeks back,’ he said.

‘What did you carry it in?’

‘Petrol can,’ he sneered.

‘Which petrol station?’ Janet said.

‘Shell, on the ring road.’

‘What were you wearing on Wednesday evening?’

‘Hoodie, jeans, trainers.’

Janet produced the evidence bags. ‘Are these the items?’ She read the evidence log numbers for the tape.

‘Yeah, them’s mine.’

Everything fitted. She saw no reason to prolong the interview.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You will now be formally charged and remanded in custody. You will appear before the magistrates’ court in the morning. Is there anything you wish to add?’

He gave a slow smile, his gums showing. ‘One down.’ He raised his hand. Made a pistol shape, pointed it at Janet, mimed shooting and made an explosive noise. ‘A million to go.’

While Lee and Kevin went to execute the warrant at Shirelle’s, Rachel paired up with Mitch for Stanley Keane’s. They took a couple of uniformed officers with them.

Stanley Keane’s house was a new-build on an open-plan development. Tiny houses, big cars, 4x4s in several of the driveways, outsize satellite dishes on each house.

The uniforms went round to guard the back and stop anyone trying to exit.

Mitch knocked on the door and they waited for a response. When none came, he banged again, more loudly.

Rachel saw movement out of the side of her eye, a woman next door peering out of the window, probably alerted by the police cars parked outside, blocking Keane’s driveway and his car.

Sudden commotion from the back sent them both racing around the side of the house to the rear. Stanley Keane had apparently opened the back door, seen the welcome party and bolted back inside with the uniforms trying unsuccessfully to gain entry.

Rachel rolled her eyes at Mitch and at that very moment realized the front of the property was now unprotected. Shit!

She ran back round, vaulting over the little garden wall and scouring the street. There he was. Running. Perhaps two hundred yards ahead, just before the road bent to the right, an impression of bulk, dark clothing. Rachel gave chase, willing herself on, the houses passing in a blur, her footsteps loud on the paving stones, breath coming fast. He was soon out of sight. Reaching the T-junction, breathless and sweaty, she looked right and left, alert to any movement, but there was nothing save for the two or three cars travelling along it. She listened, tried to discern anything beyond the thud of her heart and the swoosh of blood in her ears. There was no sign of the man. Fuck!

Back at the house, her windpipe tight from the run and the sweat now cold on her back, she found Mitch and the two others had forced an entry. Harder these days when everything was made from PVC and double glazing.

‘Check down here,’ Mitch said to the uniforms, ‘we’ll take upstairs.’

The stairs led up to a short landing, where the door straight ahead was most likely the bathroom. Rachel waited to one side while Mitch swung it open. Empty. Two steps took them up on to the main landing with three doors, back, middle and front. All closed. Mitch gestured to Rachel that he’d take the front ones. Keane lived alone as far as their intel went, an assumption that was reinforced when Mitch gave her the thumbs-up from his end of the corridor.

Rachel opened the door of the back bedroom on to a small space that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. The single bed was rumpled, the ashtray on the floor at its side half full. Clothes, men’s clothes, were draped over the chair by the window to her right. An old-fashioned wooden wardrobe on the wall opposite was the only other furniture. Rachel walked round the bed to reach it. She was almost there when she heard the rustle of movement behind her, felt the change in the air as a man darted out from behind the bedroom door and ran.

Rachel yelled, ‘Stop! Police, stop,’ and flew after him, aware of Mitch in her wake.

He raced downstairs and had reached the front door when Rachel, halfway down, jumped the remaining distance. She felt the giddy sensation of flying and then the solid impact of the man as she landed on his back, smashing him into the door, banging her knees and shoulder.

‘Bloody hell!’ said one of the uniforms.

‘Lara Croft, innit,’ the other one added.

Rachel ignored the jarring pains and yanked the man around. Slick black hair, red cheeks, startled eyes. The bloke from the CCTV at Bobbins, the one meeting Neil Perry. Greg Tandy. Missing for days. He was twitching, poised to bolt. Rachel shoved him round again. ‘Hands behind your back. Now. Do it.’ She snapped the cuffs on, her hands shaking from the adrenaline.

After losing Stanley Keane, Rachel took great satisfaction in arresting Tandy on suspicion of firearms offences. And sending him to the police station with the uniforms.

Rachel and Mitch searched the house. They found a substantial quantity of illegal drugs, glassine bags containing white powder, various forms of cannabis and an array of brightly coloured pills.

‘Pick and mix,’ said Rachel.

In the back bedroom, on top of the wardrobe, they found something else even more interesting.

Rachel rang the boss. ‘We’re at Stanley Keane’s,’ she said. ‘Guess who’s been sleeping over?’

‘Goldilocks?’

‘Greg Tandy,’ said Rachel, ‘we just picked him up. Greg Tandy and a bag full of guns.’

Godzilla called Rachel in as soon as she got back. Janet was already there.

‘The gun we want, it’s not with the cache of arms, so it’s still missing,’ the boss said.

Rachel had a thought. ‘It could be at Tandy’s own place.’

‘We’ll look, I’ll apply for a warrant,’ the boss said. ‘Janet, can you step out a minute?’

Janet nodded, no argument.

Once she’d left, Her Maj said, ‘Searches at Shirelle Young’s turned up Class A and Class Bs as well as some unclassified, Paradise and meow meow or some version of. From what you told me earlier I think we can show that she was dealing. Same as the drugs you recovered from Stanley Keane’s house.’

‘He was supplying Shirelle,’ Rachel said, just like she’d guessed. ‘Shirelle gets the goods from Keane’s and goes off on her rounds. Maybe Victor and Lydia were one of her stops.’

‘Never mix business and pleasure,’ Gill said.

‘And all that stuff about not seeing Victor since January, that’s bollocks. She’s just trying to cover her tracks. Though she’s in the clear for the murders.’ Rachel thought for a moment. ‘Greg Tandy knows the Perry brothers, he sells them the gun, he also knows Stanley Keane – well enough to be staying there.’ She considered the connections.

‘Why did Tandy leave home?’ Godzilla said. ‘And when? Suspicious to do so when he’s out on licence, as is hoiking a case of firearms about. Find out.’

If Neil Perry reminded Rachel of a malevolent teddy bear, Greg Tandy made her think of a ventriloquist’s dummy. The large round eyes under the monobrow, the dark slicked-back hair, round cheeks splotched with colour, too many teeth in his mouth. He stank of fags, and he’d buggered up his lungs with it because he wheezed and whistled with each breath. Prison, one of the few public institutions where you could still smoke.

‘Mr Tandy, you have been arrested on suspicion of supplying a firearm and for possession of a firearm as a prohibited person.’ She read him the caution and then said, ‘Before we begin, do you understand the charge?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘On Tuesday the eighth of May you met Neil Perry at Bobbins public house, can you confirm that?’

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘You know Mr Perry?’

‘No comment.’

So that was how it was going to be.

‘Did you supply Neil Perry with a handgun?’

‘No comment.’

And so it went. He offered no comment to all Rachel’s questions. It didn’t matter whether she asked him about his move from the marital home, or the weapons, or his movements over the last few days. In between the repetitive replies was the hiss and squeak of his breath.

Rachel wondered how Mrs Tandy put up with the sound. Sean snored when he’d had a skinful, but a sharp elbow was enough to get him to roll over and pack it in. But this chronic noise, it’d drive you barmy. Mind you, Mrs Tandy had had the bed to herself for the past few years. Maybe she kicked him out for disturbing her sleep.

Rachel kept going. ‘I am now showing Mr Tandy a CCTV recording, exhibit number JS18. This is you on the tape, is that correct?’

‘No comment.’

‘And here you leave the bar with Mr Perry and go into the men’s toilets. Can you tell me why?’

‘No comment.’ All that he said. On and on, with his clownish face and his toothy mouth and the rattling breath.

20

‘I’ll not keep you long,’ Gill told the team together, ‘but I want to make sure you’ve all got your eyes on the ball. One slip, one cock-up and we risk losing all the hours you put in, all the work you’ve done. Perrys have been charged for the Kavanagh murder, they’re up in court in the morning, we ask for them to be remanded in custody and then we arrest them on new charges for Victor and Lydia and begin interviews.’

‘The only thing we don’t have from the confessions is the gun,’ Janet said.

‘Protecting their source on that,’ the boss said. ‘What about motive for the double murder, any thoughts?’

‘If Victor and Lydia were dealing,’ said Pete, ‘maybe they were taking liberties, hands in the till and Williams wanted to teach them a lesson.’

‘Bit extreme,’ Gill said, ‘a rap over the knuckles would be enough. You think he put out a contract on the couple? We haven’t found any intelligence that links the Perry brothers to Williams.’

‘What about switching it round?’ said Lee. ‘A robbery, the twins decide to help themselves but Victor and Lydia resist. Bang. Bang.’

‘They were sitting down, weren’t they?’ Rachel said. ‘Not like there’d been a struggle, or either of them made a run for it.’

‘If someone is pointing a gun, you’re not going to run, that’s an invitation to open fire,’ Kevin said.

‘True,’ Gill nodded to Kevin, ‘but also true there was no sign of a fight.’

‘They could have been sleeping,’ said Mitch.

‘The Perrys are known racists. Kavanagh was a hate crime, this could be too,’ Lee said.

‘So… what? Noddy and Big Ears are on some cleanup-the-streets mission?’ Gill said.

‘One down, a million to go,’ said Janet, repeating Noel Perry’s sound bite.

Bragging or more than that?

‘Or they’re just dickheads,’ Rachel said, getting a laugh.

Gill’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the display, Dave, left it. ‘We have no formal proof of identity for Victor and Lydia?’ she asked, looking at Mitch.

‘No, but surnames used at the food bank are the same as those given when Lydia attended the walk-in clinic: Lydia Oluwaseyi and Victor Tosin.’

‘Refer to them as “known as” to be on the safe side,’ Gill said. ‘We don’t want some smart-arse defence lawyer down the line claiming that Lydia Oluwaseyi was actually Lydia Oluwa, and so the charges were inaccurate.’

Rachel nodded and Janet made a note in her book.

‘We are looking for Shirelle Young.’ Gill glanced over at Lee.

‘Not been back to the flat,’ he said.

‘Not with us crawling all over it,’ said Rachel.

‘Done a runner?’ Kevin said.

‘It’s possible,’ Gill said. ‘Local neighbourhood patrols will continue to be on the lookout. What have we got from house-to-house in the vicinity of the warehouse?’

‘Dead loss,’ Kevin said, ‘no one saw anything.’

‘Or they’re not willing to admit it,’ Rachel said.

‘The fire investigation officer tells me a fifth bullet has been recovered among the debris at the warehouse.’ Gill glanced at her watch. ‘Anything else? OK. Coffee run?’

Lee volunteered, raising his hand.

‘Double americano,’ Gill requested. She picked up her files and went to the office. Stretched to relieve some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. She checked her phone: missed call, no message. She was relieved Dave hadn’t left some rambling diatribe she’d have to listen to.

Gill thought of the phone call she had made earlier to Richard Kavanagh’s wife, now widow, who had not seen her husband for thirteen years but nevertheless was appalled and saddened by the manner of his death and the purported reason.

‘We have charged both men,’ Gill had told Judith Kavanagh, ‘and we have every expectation that they will be convicted as they have confessed to the crime.’

‘Why did they do it?’ Judith had said. ‘Was it a fight?’

More like an execution, Gill thought. The murder of Richard Kavanagh had not been carried out in the heat of a furious bust-up but as a calculated, cold-blooded killing of someone the men hated, simply because of his lifestyle.

‘Did they get into an argument?’ Judith went on. ‘Richard never argued. He used to walk away. He never even raised his voice. How many men can you say that about?’ She was talking too much; Gill recognized the behaviour – not ready for an answer to her question.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to have to tell you that this is what we call a hate crime: when someone is targeted simply because of who they are, their identity, their membership of a group which the attacker hates.’

‘You mean like racists?’

‘Yes, exactly, but we also use this term for any group who can be singled out in this way, gay people or travellers for example,’ Gill said.

‘So what… because Richard was homeless?’ she said slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘I keep thinking about the fire-’

‘I can tell you that Richard was shot twice in the chest. He would have died very quickly from those injuries. He would not have been conscious when the fire was lit.’ Gill knew Rachel and Janet would have told her as much when they visited but it bore repeating – as often as was necessary.

Gill listened to the other woman breathe, heard her composing herself. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ Mrs Kavanagh said eventually.

Now Gill wondered how on earth they might find the relatives of the young immigrants. Checks had confirmed no record of them entering the country legally, as asylum-seekers for example. With no dates of birth, no documents, it would be a long search. The Nigerian community in the UK might help get word out. Had they been sending money to their families? Immigrants often did, it could be a lifesaver for people back home. Or were Lydia and Victor orphans, or estranged from their families? Whoever they were, whatever they had done with their short lives, no one on earth deserved to die like that, shot then burned. No one deserved to die at the hand of another. Gill couldn’t do much to stop it happening but she would do her utmost to make those responsible pay.

She allowed herself a flush of pleasure at the thought of being able to solve all three murders and the prospect of taking Topsy and Turvy out of circulation for good.

Rachel’s phone went. She didn’t recognize the number. ‘DC Rachel Bailey,’ she answered.

‘It’s Liam Kelly, from the shop.’

‘Yes.’ The newsagent.

‘We’ve just found Shirelle in the alley outside, beaten up,’ he said. ‘You were asking about her. I’ve called an ambulance.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Rachel went to the boss. ‘Shirelle Young, beaten up at the shops. I’ll go see.’

‘Keep me posted,’ the boss said.

‘Yes.’ Rachel was already wondering if the beating related to the murders or the drug-dealing or if it was personal. Remembering the slightly built girl, her nerves as they had talked at the flat, the way she repeatedly looked to the door. Expecting trouble.

Shirelle was still there, on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance that had manoeuvred down the alley and stopped outside the back entrance of the newsagent’s.

Rachel identified herself to a uniformed officer and then spoke to the paramedics. ‘How is she?’

‘Battered. Respiration and circulation’s satisfactory. Concussed.’

‘Can I?’ Rachel nodded to the ambulance.

‘We’re going now.’

‘Two ticks,’ Rachel said.

She stepped up into the van. The girl’s face was a mess, swollen, one eye pulped, cuts across her cheek and a torn lip. Her white leather jacket scuffed and spotted with blood.

There’d be no talking to her until she was back in the land of the living.

Rachel recognized some of the group waiting in the alley, Liam Kelly and Mels from the newsagent’s and Connor Tandy. Connor presumably had no idea his father had been picked up and was mixed up in the murder inquiry. And Rachel knew she mustn’t give anything away or the search at the Tandys’ in the morning and the further questions for mother and son could go tits up. No sign of the chip-shop woman, though judging by the smell in the air they were still serving. Liam Kelly introduced her to Mrs Muhammad from Soapy Joe’s, whom Janet had spoken to, and her daughter Rabia, and in turn Rabia named her friend, Amina.

‘Can you all move back.’ Rachel assisted the uniformed officer to secure the area. It was hard to see if there was anything of interest in the dim light from the lamp post at the end of the passageway; people had probably already trampled over any evidence but it was still important to try to recover what they could.

‘Come down to our shop,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘there’s more room in there than yours,’ she gestured to Liam Kelly.

Mrs Muhammad led the way, skirting the cobbles where Shirelle had been lying, and going into the back of the launderette. She switched the alarm off and put the strip lights on.

‘How did you find her?’ Rachel asked Liam Kelly.

‘It was Mrs Muhammad,’ he said.

‘Rabia told me,’ the Asian woman said.

‘She was just lying there,’ the teenager explained, ‘when we were coming back through the alley.’

‘You were smoking,’ her mother interrupted, ‘you think I’m daft? I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘Did she say anything?’ Rachel asked them.

‘No, she was unconscious,’ Rabia said.

‘Was she breathing though?’ Amina said dramatically, clutching Rabia’s arm.

‘Course she was, you div, or they’d have used the oxygen.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’ Rachel asked the girls. ‘Hear anyone? A car driving off?’ Had she been attacked where she was found or dumped in the alley afterwards?

They shook their heads.

‘Do you all know Shirelle?’ Rachel asked.

Everyone nodded.

‘She’s a local,’ Mels said.

And a drug pusher, Rachel thought. Did they all know that too?

‘Are you aware of anyone who wished her harm?’

No one spoke.

‘Any boyfriend, partner?’

Mels shook her head. ‘She used to come in with Victor,’ she said. ‘Not for a while though.’

There was a moment’s quiet – news of the double murder had been released late that afternoon. Another shock for the community.

‘Maybe she shot them, Victor and that,’ Amina said, a thrill dancing in her eyes, like it wasn’t real, unaffected by seeing the mess that someone had made of Shirelle’s face.

‘Don’t be thick,’ Rabia nudged her friend.

‘Do you know anything about that?’ Rachel said to Amina.

‘No.’

‘Who’d want to hurt Shirelle?’ Rachel said, looking around.

‘The EBA,’ Rabia said. ‘They’re stirring things up. People say we need to defend ourselves. This is our estate as well.’

‘That sort of talk just makes things worse,’ Mrs Muhammad said. ‘One lot of hotheads after another.’

‘No, Ma,’ Rabia said, ‘we need protection. You know what they say, take the town back for the British.’

‘You’re British,’ her mother said.

‘Try telling them that!’ Rabia said.

‘The police are here to protect you,’ Rachel said.

‘Oh, great. Like you did in the riots?’ The girl’s tone was sarcastic.

Eleven years ago, Rachel thought, Rabia would have been a little kid but she’d probably grown up hearing all about it.

‘You think it was a racist attack?’ Rachel said.

‘She’s mixed race, worst of both worlds,’ Amina chipped in.

Liam Kelly shrugged.

It was all speculation, bound to happen but she’d got nothing she could take back to the inquiry.

‘Anyone think of anything else, hear anything, call me,’ Rachel said.

‘Have you any more news about Rick – Richard?’ Liam Kelly said.

‘We have charged two men with his murder.’

‘The Perrys?’ Connor said.

Rachel inclined her head slightly but did not commit herself verbally. ‘It’ll be made public in the morning.’

After leaving them, Rachel rang in and reported the serious assault of a person of interest, then called the hospital and left her details so they could contact her once Shirelle was fit to be interviewed.

Sean had left her a voicemail message: We’re at the pub if you fancy a drink on the way home.

She did. A drink with her husband at the end of a long, long day.

Rachel walked round from the pub car park and in the main entrance to the Ladies where she gave her hair a quick brush-through and applied some lip gloss. She’d do. Sean probably wouldn’t notice. He thought she was gorgeous, told her so at regular intervals.

She went through to the bar and spotted him playing darts with a couple of the lads. She signalled to him to see if he wanted a drink. He shook his head, raised a full pint. Rachel bought herself a large red wine, had a sip then set it on a table near the lads and went out to the beer garden for a fag.

And found her mother.

‘What the f- are you doing here?’ Rachel said.

Sharon, wearing some sort of tiger-striped fake-fur jacket, was leaning back against the wall, fag in hand, and a drink on the table in front of her. She cut her eyes at Rachel.

‘Sean was coming for a drink, he invited me along.’

You invited yourself, more like.

Rachel didn’t know what to say, couldn’t bring herself to say what she really felt: Fuck off and leave me alone. When I said I’d meet you, I didn’t mean every other bloody night.

Instead she remembered telling her mother to wait for an invitation. Rachel needed the distance. Twenty years Sharon had been on the lam, she couldn’t just pick up the reins like it had never happened.

‘He ring you up, did he?’ Rachel couldn’t leave it. She struck her lighter, a tug of wind snuffed out the flame.

‘I rang him, as it happens, see how you all were. He said he was coming here.’

‘I’ve no cash,’ Rachel said, ‘if that’s what you’re angling for.’

‘How dare you,’ Sharon said, her face alive with outrage.

‘Just a few free drinks, was it?’

‘You little bitch.’

‘Listen, you… you can’t just waltz back in,’ Rachel said.

‘You think you’re better than me,’ Sharon said, ‘you think because you’ve got a job as a copper and a fancy flat and a few bob you can look down on me.’

‘It’s nothing to do with-’

Sharon interrupted, ‘How could you do it? Your own brother, flesh and blood. That gain you a step up the ladder, did it?’

What the fuck? ‘Who told you?’ Rachel said.

‘That doesn’t matter, what matters-’

‘Who told you?’ Rachel shouted. Sharon was not meant to know. She was a virtual stranger, this woman, and Rachel was certainly not ready to share something so personal, so important, with her. And Sharon hadn’t seen Alison, so…

‘Sean,’ Sharon said, ‘he thought I already knew. I should’ve known. My own daughter dobbing in my own son. Grassing up her little brother.’

Rachel’s cheeks were burning, her chest felt tight. Her hand was shaking as she pointed two fingers, ciggie between them, at Sharon. ‘He killed someone,’ Rachel said.

‘He was looking after you, by all accounts,’ she retorted.

‘By taking a life? By making it look like I put him up to it? I’d have been in there with him if Sean hadn’t found I’d an alibi.’ The taxi driver who had taken a very drunken Rachel home while Dominic was kicking seven shades of shit out of her ex-lover Nick Savage.

‘This fellow, he’d tried to have you killed, Sean says, this lawyer bloke.’

‘That doesn’t make it right,’ Rachel said.

‘Grassing on your family’s not right, neither. Not in my book.’

‘It’s got fuck all to do with you.’

‘I’m still your mother,’ Sharon said. ‘When it suits. Not for twenty years, you weren’t. You can’t be meddling like this.’

‘Meddling! You’re a selfish little shit, Rachel, you always were. And this, this really takes the biscuit.’ She threw her tab end down, snatched up her drink and went inside, heels smacking on the flagstones.

Rachel stared, head raised, blinking back tears. She wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this, not with these people. She’d spent years building a life as different as possible. She’d escaped Langley, escaped her family, and made her own way. But they’d all come crawling after her, zombies who wouldn’t stay buried, determined to drag her back to the fold. Her mother, Dominic, Sean, they wouldn’t let her go. Bloodsuckers. She didn’t want to be that Rachel Bailey, their Rachel Bailey. That wasn’t her any more.

It was hard to breathe, as though there was no air. She looked at the sky above. Only clouds there, sickly orange clouds and nothing else.

21

Gill was at her desk, trying to keep abreast of the multiple strands of the three murder inquiries and make sure her files were up to date, when her phone rang. The ringtone was loud in the empty office, the only background noise the whirr of the computer fan.

‘Gill Murray,’ she answered.

‘Mrs Murray, this is Secure XX, we’ve a call alert through from your security system. Would you like us to check it out?’

Shit! Gill was still embarrassed by the encounter with the local bobbies and would rather not have anyone else coming up to the house until she’d established what was going on. Probably a fox, anyway, setting off the alarm at the gate. She’d closed the gate after Dave’s recent antics and activated that zone. Sammy was at Orla’s tonight so it couldn’t be him.

‘I’m leaving for home now,’ she said, ‘it’s probably a false alarm. I left the outer zone on today, it can be a bit temperamental. I’ll get back to you if I have any concerns. I’m sorry for the bother.’

She switched everything off and made her way down and out to the car park. Her mind was on Greg Tandy. He had committed previous offences in possession and supply of firearms but had not, in the course of his stellar criminal career, ever been found guilty of shooting someone. He was an arms dealer, not a hitman, so what had this been? Had he joined the twins on a killing spree? Or had he been doing a favour for Williams? And why? It was risky enough to be in possession of firearms but murder was a whole other league.

She drove on autopilot. Home, on the edge of the moors, was only a few minutes’ drive at this time of night when the roads were deserted. She slowed when her headlights picked out a dark shadow on the ground ahead. A ball? The ball moved, scuttling to the ditch at the side of the road. Hedgehog. They had them in the garden quite often. Sammy used to put dog food out for them. He wanted to keep one as a pet but she’d explained it was a wild animal, needed to roam and wouldn’t be happy cooped up. They’d got a gerbil instead, which kept Sammy entertained for all of two weeks until the novelty faded and Gill was left nagging him to feed and water the creature and clean it out.

Gill reached the top of the hill and glanced, as she always did, in her rear-view mirror at the lights of the town in the valley below. She took a turning between the stone walls and stopped at the end of the little lane. Ahead her gate was pushed back, wide open. No fox could’ve undone the latch. She looked at the house to her left. The alarm box was flashing. The only lights inside the property were the ones set to come on with the timer.

She considered what to do. She would investigate a little further but leave her car ready for a quick escape in case she found intruders. She had a police baton in the car and a heavy-duty torch. She took them with her. She walked up to the gate, aware that if anyone was there they would’ve heard the engine. She shone the torch along the driveway that led down the right-hand side of the house to the double garage at the end.

And saw Dave’s car.

She let out a breath, felt her shoulders slump with relief. She rang the police station and told them all was well, just the gate not properly secured.

She drove in, and parked alongside Dave’s car. Where was he? He didn’t have a key. She thought he might be sleeping it off in the back seat of the car but when she looked there was no sign.

She shook her head, exasperated by his messing about. He could be in the summerhouse, keeping warm. She needed to disable the burglar alarm first before playing bloody hide and seek in the garden.

After unlocking the door and entering the code on the panel, Sammy’s birthday backwards, she listened for a moment to make completely sure that the house was empty. It sounded and felt exactly like it usually did when she was on her own. Besides, if anyone had got into the property it would’ve triggered other zones on the alarm but only the gate LED had been flashing on the controls.

Gill went back outside, called Dave’s name. Nothing. She swung the torch around, the cone of light travelling over the grass at the far side of the garden, picking out the white pips of the cherries below the tree. The birds had taken all the fruit. No sign of him out here.

The security lights snapped on as she crossed the patio and stepped on to the lawn. The light illuminated the lawn and shrubs but didn’t quite reach as far as the summerhouse. The garden was large, it went round the house on all four sides. It was something they’d asked for when they had the plans drawn up. The front of the house faced across the narrow road to the moors. The summerhouse at the rear caught the afternoon sun. It wasn’t used much these days, usually by Sammy, who would have mates round and set up camp out there, but even that had changed in recent months with the arrival on the scene of Orla. They had electricity out there but there was no glow of light from the mullioned windows.

She pointed the beam ahead of her and walked over the grass, damp with dew and spongy from the recent rain, to the summerhouse. One of the windows was broken; fragments of glass, uneven triangles, ringed the frame. She felt her heart pick up pace.

She shone the light and peered in, saw the camping chairs, folded leaning against the wall, the clutter of bats and sticks and racquets next to them and then Dave, prone on the sun-lounger, his face white in the gloom.

The door wasn’t quite closed and Gill caught the stink of vomit, high and sharp, as she pushed it open and stepped inside, saw by torchlight that his lips and chin were speckled with sick, there was a pool of it by his right cheek and a patch on that shoulder.

He was too still.

Fear zipped through her, heart thundering in her chest, blood pounding in her ears, half-formed thoughts, risk of choking, asphyxiation, major cause of accidental death.

‘Dave!’ she shouted at him. ‘Dave!’

No response.

In the dark she heard the harsh cries of the magpie from the guttering. Those calls he’d made, the ones she’d ignored earlier in the day, would this be happening now if she had answered? Would it have made any difference?

She crouched closer, ignoring the smell, slapped his other cheek, repeating his name. Her mind raced ahead, tripping up over what she might have to do, clear the airways, start chest compressions.

A second slap and he groaned.

‘Dave!’

His upper body jerked, he made a gargling sound and bucked, flung up an arm, his hand slamming into her nose and cheekbone, sending a sickening pain through her face.

She fell back, giddy with relief, blinked away tears and got to her feet. He was breathing, harsh rasping sounds, eyes closed. ‘Dave,’ she said.

He hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Pillock, stupid pillock. Trembling with adrenaline, she pulled her phone from her pocket and took a photograph of him in all his glory. Proof, should she need it.

She saw then that there was blood on his other arm, the left one, lots of blood.

‘Dave, wake up!’

His eyelids fluttered, opened, he struggled to focus.

‘Sit up, get up,’ she said.

He moaned as if complaining.

‘Sit up, now.’

With effort he hoisted himself up on his right elbow. Gill grabbed his feet and swung them round.

He closed his eyes again. His jacket was slashed, the left sleeve, he must have cut it reaching through the shattered pane to release the latch.

Gill pulled at the sleeve, raised it a few inches, did the same with his shirt sleeve. She saw the cut, a gash on the lower edge of his arm, three inches long. Deep, gaping and glistening with blood.

‘You need stitches,’ she said. She might have been able to clean it up and dress it but what if it became infected, if he got blood poisoning? Besides, it might not heal properly without professional medical care.

‘Dave?’

He murmured, she had no idea if he could understand her.

‘Take this off.’ She tugged at his jacket, she wasn’t going to take him anywhere covered in vomit. ‘Come on.’ It was like trying to undress a sleeping fifteen-stone toddler but eventually she wrested the jacket from him and left it on the floor.

Dave swayed gently on the lounger, opening his eyes sporadically.

‘You stupid dickhead,’ she said, ‘what do you think you’re playing at?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Stay there.’

In the house she collected a damp flannel and towel, a clean cloth and some water.

She wiped his face and neck then made him drink some water. She wrapped the cloth around the cut and pinned it in place. Then she brought her car as close to the lawn as she could and chivvied Dave until he got to his feet. She made him walk to the car.

He was unsteady and she knew if he keeled over she had no chance of shifting him, but thankfully he got to the car and she steered him into the passenger seat.

At the hospital she could feel the fury and frustration scalding inside her as they waited for him to be seen and stitched up.

The staff were practical, distant, unsmiling as they asked their questions and cleaned and sewed the wound and gave him the tetanus jab and Gill knew there was a subtext: here was a man who couldn’t hold his drink, who was only in A &E because of his drinking, who had brought injury on himself. A pisshead. It was clear from the smell of him and the sight of him with his bleary, bloodshot eyes and from his behaviour, the clumsy gait, the long pause before he replied to any questions, marshalling the words in the right order, the vacant smile he switched on at seemingly random moments to show what a good guy he was. Like the police, a great many of the people they dealt with in A &E were off their heads.

Back home in the depth of the night, she showed him to the sofa. He’d stopped nodding off but was quiet, avoiding eye contact. She imagined the tide of shame was rising, washing over him in ever larger waves. She made him tea, brought him paracetamols.

He thanked her, his voice whispery.

‘You could have drowned in your own vomit,’ she said, ‘or bled to death, another inch and it would have been an artery. Look.’ She swiped at her phone, pulling up the picture. ‘Look. Proud of that?’

His mouth tightened and he looked away.

‘It stops now,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously incapable of dealing with it yourself so in the-’

‘I’ll ring round tomorrow,’ he said, ‘find a clinic.’

‘You do that.’

He gave a nod and she went upstairs.

She ached everywhere, the shock and upset had lodged in her spine and her limbs making it impossible to relax, to rest. She lay awake, her mind circling around Dave and the grief he’d brought to her door, around the case and the muddle of it all, and in the end she gave up on sleep. She showered and dressed and watched the sun rise over the hills and heard the birds greet the new day, hoping it would be a damn sight better than the one that had gone before.