by Cari Hunter
“I need to wait for the police. I need to tell them…” Paula paused to swallow the tablet Jem set against her lips, choking slightly when Jem tilted the water too far.
“Tell them what?” Jem asked, blotting up the spillage with a piece of gauze.
“One of the men, he had a tattoo. It was really distinctive. One of those black, angry-looking things on his throat. They might be able to identify him from it or something. I don’t know how it works, but it could help.”
Jem put the water down as a sudden rush of adrenaline made her giddy. “A tribal design?” She pointed to her own neck. “Here?”
“Yeah. It went right up to his ear.”
“Fucking hell. God, I’m such a fucking idiot.” Jem stood and paced away, pulling out her mobile and scrolling through its call register. Rosie’s number was on top of the list, a missed call logged within seconds of Paula’s. Jem hovered over the link, desperate to tell Rosie about this, to use it as an easy way back to her. She didn’t, though. She knew Rosie was the wrong person to contact, and she refused to resort to a coward’s tactic. She found the right person much farther down the register and hit the number before she lost her nerve.
The call was answered promptly.
“Detective Merritt, Major Crimes.”
* * *
Rosie signed the evidence label on the bag she’d just sealed, shimmying her torso from side to side as she did so. Her legs and bum were numb and tingling, and she’d lost most of the feeling in her left foot.
“Kash!” she yelled from her spot on the study floor. “Is it lunchtime yet?” She rolled onto her hands and knees and used Peel’s desk as leverage to stand. “Kash? Come on, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Just finishing the bathroom,” he yelled back.
She limped across the landing and bobbed her head around the door. “Holy shite,” she said, taking in the rows of tablet boxes arranged on the bathmat. “His or hers?”
“Hers, mostly. According to the advice leaflets, she’s a depressed insomniac with chronic pain and a vitamin B deficiency.”
Rosie sat on the loo seat. “And a husband who likes young boys.”
Kash completed his line-up with a box of lorazepam. “That may well be a causative factor.”
“Aye,” Rosie said, but she had lost all interest in the mini-pharmacy. Using her foot, she slid the mat away from the side of the Jacuzzi bath, toppling the tablets like a row of dominoes. Kash scowled at the mess she’d made, but one look at her expression curtailed any remonstration.
“What is it?” he asked.
She dropped off the loo and knelt beside him. “That panel’s been moved.” She ran her finger along a faint line of grime ingrained on the lino. “This marks where it was, but they’ve pushed it farther back when they replaced it.”
He caught on at once. “I wonder when and why.”
“Who knows?” She began to scout around for anything she could use to unscrew the fixings. “Could have been a leaky tap, but it would be remiss of us not to double-check. Hang on a tick, I think there was a toolbox in the hallway.”
She was back before he could destroy the nail file he’d co-opted in lieu of a screwdriver.
“Here, try this, you daft bugger.” She handed him a Phillips, and he worked the panel free, setting the screws in her waiting palm and then easing the top edge away from the lip of the bath. She directed her torch into the void and gave a low whistle as its beam caught a plastic bag tucked in the farthest corner. “Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb and say it wasn’t a leaky tap.” Aware of his aversion to creepy crawlies, she shoved her gloved hand into the gap and gasped as something multi-legged scurried over her wrist.
“Is it gone? What was it?” he asked from the safety of the doorway.
“Yes, it is, and I’d rather not know. Lay that towel out.” She snatched at the bag, feeling the plastic snag and tear on the bare floorboards. The bag was knotted at the top and stuffed to the brim. She could see fabric through the gaps and knew before they’d opened it what they were about to find. “I’ll buzz Steph,” she said, unravelling the sleeve of a pale blue shirt. “Leave everything in situ and tag it as a job lot.”
Radio in hand, she went onto the landing but took an unconscious step back as she saw Steph striding up the stairs. There was a gleam in Steph’s eyes that automatically put her on guard.
“I was just about to call you,” she said. “We’ve found the clothes Peel was wearing the night of Kyle’s death.”
“Bag them and prioritise them for the labs,” Steph said, dismissing the discovery with a flick of her hand. “When did you last speak to Jem?”
Rosie felt for the wall behind her, letting its cool weight ground her. She hated the way Steph said Jem’s name.
“Why?” she hedged.
“Not today, then.” Steph smiled, evidently regarding that as some kind of victory. “I just got off the phone with her.”
“Right.” Rosie waited for the punch line. If Steph played true to form, it would come before long, and it would almost certainly hurt.
“She’s at West Pennine A&E,” Steph said, and everything else seemed to disappear beneath the boom of Rosie’s pulse in her ears.
“Is she okay?” she snapped, cutting off whatever Steph was saying.
“What?” Steph paused, looking puzzled. “Jem? Yes, she’s fine. She’s there with a friend.”
“God.” The thudding in Rosie’s head slowed and began to fade. Had she not still felt so off-kilter, she would have been humiliated by her reaction. “Steph, what’s going on?”
Steph took out her notepad and flicked to a page full of neat handwriting. “A couple of hours ago, a woman called Paula was assaulted at the cafe she owns. Jem had told her about Olly’s, and it seems someone didn’t take too kindly to Paula asking questions of her customers. When she described the perps, Jem recognised one of them from a car crash she’d attended.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow at the coincidence. “Small world.”
“He has a rather conspicuous tattoo and, fortunately for us, an equally conspicuous vanity plate on his Range Rover. Jem remembered it because it was about the only thing damaged in the accident.” Steph turned her notepad and tapped a line written in all caps: “FGN1.”
“Fuck off.” Rosie let out an astonished laugh. “Did we just find our Fagin?”
Steph smiled back. “It would seem so. His full name is Frank Galpin, so I’m sure he finds the pseudonym ingenious. I’ve got the TAU heading to his address. If you’re done bagging and tagging here, do you fancy an afternoon doing likewise out in Droylsden?”
Rosie nodded and then caught hold of Steph’s arm. “Was Jem really okay?” she asked quietly.
“She was fine,” Steph said, for once choosing not to be an arsehole. “Ray’s with them now, taking statements. She said she was going back to work tomorrow.”
“That sounds about right. Thanks, Steph.”
Steph shrugged. “We’ll be leaving in ten. Get that clothing to SOCO and meet us outside.”
* * *
At the soft sound of approaching footsteps, Rosie closed the drawer she’d been rooting through and went to stand by the bedroom window. Mrs. Galpin, Frank Galpin’s elderly and very accommodating mother, had been plying the search team with brews since their arrival in her house, her generosity undiminished by the abrupt invasion of her privacy. According to the TAU sarge, she had requested that Galpin be allowed to put on a shirt and tie before they arrested him.
“Here you go, dear.” Mrs. Galpin placed a tray laden with coffee and fondant fancies on the dresser.
“Thank you,” Rosie said. “But please don’t feel you have to go to any trouble for us.”
Mrs. Galpin waved away her protest. “Nonsense, I know how hard you all work, and I’m sure we’ll have this misunderstanding cleared up in no time.”
Rosie busied herself adding milk to her coffee, stirring it for longer than necessary in the hope Mrs. Gal
pin would sense her discomfiture and leave her to squirm in peace.
“He’s never been in bother of any kind, you know,” Mrs. Galpin continued, as Rosie added a spoonful of sugar she didn’t even want. “He’s a good lad. He looks after me and holds down a full-time job.”
Giving up on the idea of Mrs. Galpin making a diplomatic exit, Rosie perched on the corner of the bed with a fondant fancy. “What does he do?” she asked.
“He’s self-employed. He renovates properties for the buy-to-let market.” Mrs. Galpin brushed a couple of crumbs into her palm. The four-bed detached house was well appointed and spotless, and her air of general fastidiousness suggested she would still do her own cleaning were she physically able.
“Must be a handy person to have around the house,” Rosie said, mentally noting the information and drawing a big flashing asterisk beside it. Galpin’s property portfolio would make for interesting reading, though she suspected a three-storey Edwardian might recently have been struck from his list.
“He is.” Mrs. Galpin beamed, obviously proud of her multifaceted son. “Did you see the wet room? He put that in himself, and he did our conservatory.” She sniffled suddenly and dabbed her moist eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Is he going to be home soon?”
Rosie put down her cake, the token bite she had taken sticking in her throat. A hurriedly arranged computerised identity parade had seen Jem pinpoint Galpin, while Paula had matched his tattoo but not his face. Jem was still at A&E, going through the misper files in an attempt to pick out the children she had seen in the back of the Range Rover. About his adult female passenger, she could recall little other than dark hair that had possibly been cut into a bob. As yet, there were insufficient grounds to charge Galpin, but he would probably be in custody for forty-eight hours.
“I’m not sure,” Rosie hedged. “Will you be all right here on your own?”
Mrs. Galpin nodded and jutted out her chin. “I’m only seventy-four, dear. Of course I’ll be all right.”
Although Rosie was wary of turning a casual chat into an interview, she decided to risk Steph’s wrath and make hay while Mrs. Galpin was being forthcoming. It was too late to turn her body cam off, so she left it recording. “Do you have any other family or friends?” she asked. “Someone who might be able to help out with the bits and pieces Frank would usually do? Maybe a daughter-in-law or grandchildren?”
“I have no one but Frank,” Mrs. Galpin said. “And he never married. He never needed to.”
It was such a strange turn of phrase that Rosie’s coffee went down the wrong way and made her cough. As Mrs. Galpin handed her a glass of water and a tissue, Rosie took advantage of their proximity, noting the confidence with which Mrs. Galpin moved, her deft grip and unflinching eye contact. Beguiled by her hospitality, Rosie hadn’t paid her much attention, a cursory first impression dismissing her as a sweet, obliging old dear, but perhaps that had been Mrs. Galpin’s intention all along.
“Sorry,” Rosie said, continuing to splutter a little for effect. “I was in hospital with smoke inhalation over the weekend.” She watched Mrs. Galpin’s reaction, but there wasn’t the slightest flicker of recognition, no indication that Mrs. Galpin had put two and two together and linked Rosie to the fire at Mansfield Street. All she did was tut and take Rosie’s glass from her.
“You poor thing. What on earth are you doing back at work?”
“I can’t afford to go on the sick,” Rosie said, still thinking on her feet. “I have a younger brother and sister depending on me.” She dug out her mobile and flicked to her photo gallery. “This is Sam. He’s a bright little chap, but he’s dead cheeky.”
Mrs. Galpin smiled and lowered her glasses onto her nose. “Bonny lad. Look at that grin.”
“Yeah, he gets away with murder,” Rosie said without inflection. She took the phone back and found another photo. “Here you go, this is Janelle.”
Rosie had to give Mrs. Galpin credit, she was very good at this, but Rosie was equal to the challenge, and she caught the split-second look of confusion that was immediately swallowed by something altogether darker as Mrs. Galpin realised what Rosie had done.
“What a sweetheart,” Mrs. Galpin said, picking up the tea tray.
Rosie closed down the image of Tahlia Mansoor and slipped the phone back into her pocket. “This shouldn’t take much longer,” she said, and reopened the drawer.
* * *
The final page of the file loaded another gallery of lost children. A few glared out from young offender mug shots, but most of the submissions were random snaps: school photos mingling with candids taken on the beach or at birthday parties. One of the youngest girls grinned and stuck her tongue out for the camera, the shot inappropriate for identification purposes but perhaps chosen by a parent desperate to prove they had raised her in a loving home.
Jem considered each image in turn, maximising the child’s profile on the laptop’s screen so she could give it her undivided attention. She had found the lad from Galpin’s car six pages in, but the girl didn’t feature in any of the photographs. She pushed the overbed table aside as Paula shook off another dose of morphine and reached for a glass of water with her bandaged hand.
“Hey, easy. Let me get that.” Jem helped her to drink and used a damp paper towel to wipe the sweat from her face. “Dan should be here in about half an hour,” she said, pre-empting Paula’s repeated enquiry. “You might have a bed over at Wythenshawe by then, so he’ll be able to travel with you.”
“Wythenshawe? Why am I going there?”
“You’re being transferred to the burns unit.” Jem spoke slowly, but this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and it wouldn’t be the last. “Your burns aren’t too severe, but anything involving hands tends to make the A&E docs a bit twitchy.”
“Okay.” Paula’s eyes were already closing. “And Dan’s coming, right?”
Jem tucked the sheet around her. “Half an hour. I’m going to stay till then.”
“Thank you,” Paula said. She didn’t stir as the curtain around her bed opened and Steph Merritt walked in. Raising a peremptory finger to her lips, Jem led Steph into a corner away from the general hubbub of Majors.
“Anything from the last file?” Steph asked without preamble. She sounded frazzled, and the latest downpour to hit the region appeared to have caught her unawares; her coat was dripping, and her hair was beginning to curl at the edges. She probably wouldn’t have put in a personal appearance had she not entrusted Jem with a Major Crimes laptop.
“No, nothing.” Jem sidestepped a nurse carrying a bedpan to the sluice and waited until the sluice door closed. “Did you speak to Ava and Chloe?”
“Yes, but they’ve thrown a bloody spanner in the works.”
“How?” Jem asked. Steph seemed in the mood to offload her frustrations on someone, and Jem wasn’t above taking advantage of that.
“They’ve both identified Galpin from his mug shot, but they identified him as Bill not Fagin. Galpin will most likely claim the reg plate is a coincidence when we question him.”
“Shit. Where does that leave you?”
“Back to square one,” Steph said. “Roz has come up with some harebrained theory about Galpin’s mother, but she has absolutely nothing to base it on, and I can’t go around arresting grannies on supposition alone.”
It took Jem a moment to work out who “Roz” was, and she placed the nickname more by Steph’s air of contempt than anything else. She smiled, glad that Rosie was still out there, pushing all of Steph’s buttons and driving her to distraction.
“His mum, eh?” Jem mulled the idea over. “Some men do have that weird Freudian thing going on. He lives with her, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but she’s eighty if she’s a day, and highly unlikely to be the kingpin of an underage forced labour ring.” Steph’s mobile buzzed, and she answered it, asking the caller to hold. “Are you finished with the laptop?” she asked Jem.
“Yep.”
“Good. I’ll phone you if I need anything else from you.”
Jem checked her watch as Steph headed for Paula’s cubicle: 7.35 p.m. Rosie should be home by now, if she had managed to bypass the myriad flooded roads around Hearts Cross, and Jem had a stack of missed calls to return. Reluctant to bump into Steph again, she pulled up the hood on her sweater and slipped out of the department via the ambulance entrance.
For once, the ambulance bay stood empty. Rain dripped from its canopy, washing away a thick pool of blood and swirling the fag ends into the gutter. Jem found a sheltered spot by the oxygen store and bit her thumbnail as Rosie’s phone flirted her straight to voice mail. She didn’t want to leave another message, and she was vacillating between trying again or giving up and going back to Paula when Rosie returned her call.
“Hello? Jem?” Rosie sounded as if she’d been running, and a door slammed, silencing the roar of the weather. “God, sorry, the wind caught it. I’ve only just got in. I thought I was going to miss you again.”
“It’s okay,” Jem said, the chaos of Rosie’s life wrapping around her like a comfort blanket. “I’m still at A&E with Paula, and I can’t get reception in her bay.”
“I heard, Steph told me the basics. Is Paula all right?”
“She will be. Her husband was in Newcastle on business, but he should be here before too long.”
“Good. You’ll need an early night.”
“Ah,” Jem said. “Steph told you I’d resumed for work, did she?”
“She did. You are thoroughly rumbled, Jemima.”
Jem closed her eyes. She had expected the call to be tense and awkward, not this sweet, instant familiarity that made her want to drive over to Rosie’s and pretend the last couple of days had never happened.
“I need to speak to you properly. To explain everything,” she said, determined to get the conversation back on track. She couldn’t indulge herself. It wasn’t fair to Rosie. “Will you be in tomorrow night?”