Blue Murder

by Staincliffe, Cath

  He noticed her eyes on him and beamed. She smiled back. He was fine. Don’t go looking for extra problems, she admonished herself, you’ve enough on. She heard the mail arrive and went to pick it up. Bills, offers of a platinum card and a home loan, a letter. Parents of Michael Lewis. She ripped it open. Read the contents with mounting dismay.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Lewis,

  I am writing to you because I am extremely concerned about the deterioration in Michael’s school-work and problems at school that have been brought to my attention. I would like to meet with you as a matter of some urgency and will be available during lunchtime recess every day this week.

  Yours sincerely, Mr Corkland, Head of Year 10

  She stuffed the letter in her pocket. She would try and get in today; the sooner she knew what was going on the better.

  ‘Yer Dad had a terrible night,’ her mum announced when they got there.

  She felt guilty. ‘Oh, Mum. Look, get a taxi, save him driving.’

  ‘A taxi? It’ll cost the earth.’

  Janine pulled out her purse. ‘I’ll pay.’

  Her mum put up her hand. ‘We’ll manage.’ She was stubborn over money and would never spend anything she saw as unnecessary. Came from years of watching the pennies. Sometimes it drove Janine nuts – it wasn’t as if she and Pete struggled. They had enough money – just too little time.

  The Lemon reacted pretty much as she had anticipated.

  ‘Three?! Good God woman, the intention is to narrow down the number of suspects not keep adding to the collection.’ He gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘This case. If it’s too much, in your condition …’

  How bloody dare he! She gave him an icy stare. She noticed his computer had crashed again. Well, he could stay in virtual limbo for ever as far as she was concerned.

  ‘O’Halloran’s winding up the airport thing now. He should be clear by midweek. He can take the wheel if you’ve not made significant headway.’

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. He couldn’t take the case off her. He couldn’t! She sat mutinous, feeling her blood rising. Watching him sneer and carp.

  ‘Cut to the chase, Janine. We are committed to an eight percent improvement in clear up rate, by next month. One cock-up and we’ll all be under the magnifying glass. You’ve got forty-eight hours.’

  She finally lost it. Not prepared any longer to tug her forelock and toe the line. Just what exactly was his problem? She got to her feet. ‘Why are you constantly undermining me?’

  He stared at her, incredulous.

  ‘Rather we take it to Human Resources?’ she challenged him. Knowing he’d loathe that, an internal enquiry asking him to account for his behaviour. Though of course she’d have to fight like hell to get personnel to touch it. Why couldn’t he just let her get on with the job? ‘I’m a detective she began, raising her voice, ‘why can’t you–’

  ‘I was a detective,’ he let rip, ‘thirty-five years – and this,’ he swept his arms at the computer, the piles of paperwork, ‘performance reviews, financial audits, measurable outcomes. I’m buried alive.’ The veins on his forehead stood out, his teeth were bared. He was livid. ‘The force – you – it’s all changed.’

  ‘So, is that my fault?’ she demanded.

  Silence. Then he broke eye contact, acknowledging with a dip of his head that she made fair comment.

  ‘I’ll get back to work,’ she said, and he made no move to stop her going.

  It was like a double whammy. Still shaken by the confrontation with The Lemon, Janine walked into the murder room to hear Shap, in the process of scanning the CCTV footage, sounding off to all and sundry.

  ‘Serial shagger, that’s why Wendy dumped him. Anything in a skirt. Ten quid says he’ll have scored by the weekend.’

  She flinched. Was that what she was? Someone for Richard to practise his technique on. Anything in a skirt. She felt sick. Of course he didn’t really fancy her. She should have known as much.

  ‘Morning,’ she announced her presence. Went over to study the board where Butchers was laboriously updating information in his slow, neat script.

  Richard came in then. She nodded at him, keeping it cool.

  ‘Two days,’ she told them all. ‘I’ve just come from The Lemon and we’ve got two days and then he’s bringing O’Halloran in and your lives won’t be worth living.’

  They didn’t like that. Shap cursed, Butchers flung his marker down, Richard groaned.

  *****

  Jade was halfway dressed before the funny feeling came back. She could hear Mam moving around down stairs so she went into Mam’s room and looked out of the windows. No police cars anywhere. She went back to her own room and peered out the back. The stupid tent thing was still there and there was a policeman near it. Her heart began to jump about. But he was just standing there. Guarding it, she realised. He had to stay there and stop people going in the tent. He wouldn’t be allowed to come to the house and ask Mam and Jade lots of questions because then anyone might go in the tent. Jade wondered if the dead man was in the tent still, and if he looked like a skeleton.

  She could set off for school really early and get there before the doors were open. Lots of people did that and you could play in the playground for ages. Jade was usually late and had to go and get her mark from reception. Miss Cornish always sounded tired when she saw her, ‘Yes, Jade,’ she said, with a big sigh, ‘late again, off you go.’

  She put her old shorts and t-shirt in her lion bag and clattered downstairs. Mam had made toast.

  ‘I don’t want jam,’ said Jade.

  ‘Now you tell me. It’s jam or nowt. That’s the last of the bread.’

  Jade tried to decide. She picked up a piece of toast and closed her eyes. She was so hungry. She nibbled the edge, then pushed the piece in all in one go, chewed it quickly and swallowed it as soon as she could.

  ‘Can we go early? Miss said we had to be early.’

  ‘I haven’t finished my tea yet.’

  ‘We can’t be late,’ said Jade, ‘I’ll get in trouble if we’re late.’

  ‘Jade, we’re not going to be late. Yer stressing me out! You’re like an old woman. Mithering all the time.’

  Jade went and sat on the sofa clutching her lion bag.

  *****

  Not all murders made headline news but Matthew Tulley’s did. A stack of newspapers, broadsheets and tabloids bore witness. Some had covered the murder in their Sunday editions but ran it again in more depth. To do with him being a deputy head teacher, Janine reckoned; doctors, lawyers, headmasters – always more interest when the victim was a professional. An added fascination with the stories of middle-class life gone horribly awry. The mighty fallen. Gloat factor in there for some but also the shock that violence could rip apart those with a well-paid job, private medical insurance, school fees and a two car garage in much the same way as it did anyone else.

  The circumstances of Tulley’s murder attracted interest too – the homely setting of the allotments, the fact that there was no clear motive or suspect as yet. She skimmed the headlines; Allotment Slaying Mystery, Manchester Teacher Murdered – Police Hunt Killer, Tulley Killing Latest. Most gave versions of the press release rehashed in their own house style. Photographs of the allotments, of Ashgrove, and a poor shot of Lesley Tulley and Janine hurrying into the house, were accompanied by the official photograph of Matthew Tulley.

  Jenny Chen came in, clutching a pile of reports. ‘Boss, forensics are back.’

  Everyone stopped, all eyes on Janine as she took the reports. Her pulse raced and she was all thumbs as she leafed through to the appropriate sheet. Fingerprints:

  the one on the allotment tap. She read it swiftly. Yes! Then read it again in case she’d made a mistake.

  ‘We’ve got a match on the fingerprint.’

  She regarded the expectant faces around her.

  ‘One of them?’ Richard nodded at the wall.

  ‘Oh, yes!’
She moved closer, looked at the three mugshots: Ferdie Gibson, shaved head, his narrow face set with a cold, cocky stare; Dean Hendrix, looking lost; Lesley Tulley, her beauty impaired by the glazed disorientation that the Press shot had captured.

  Janine saw Shap smirk, thinking he knew who it was. Butchers frowned, uncertain, probably worrying about losing his tenner. Chen’s eyes widened with the intrigue.

  Janine tilted her head. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Hendrix,’ yelled Shap.

  ‘Ferdie Gibson,’ shouted Butchers.

  ‘Lesley Tulley,’ called Chen.

  ‘Inspector?’ Janine invited Richard to cast his vote.

  He spread his arms wide – no idea.

  ‘Dean Hendrix, ladies and gentleman.’

  The room erupted in uproar. She held up her hands to quieten them. ‘Now our most wanted. Suspect number one.’ They were nodding, shifting in their seats, ready to get on and catch the guy. She had to instil caution in them. ‘But that doesn’t mean we drop Lesley Tulley or Ferdie Gibson,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘But, boss, it’s obvious,’ Shap was outraged.

  ‘One fingerprint doesn’t make a case.’

  ‘If we’re looking at a serial offender …’ Shap said.

  ‘He’s done it before, he’s gone into hiding, he was at the scene. What else do we need?’ Richard said urgently.

  ‘Motive?’ She flung back.

  ‘He’s a nutter!’ Shap stood up. ‘He didn’t even know his last victim, picks a fight and bam, the guy’s opened up and juggling his guts. Hendrix is the man!’

  ‘He’s got a taste for it and he’ll do it again. We’ve got to stop him.’ Butchers joining in now. Agreeing with Shap. Wonders would never cease.

  ‘We’ve got to find him, first.’ She raised her voice. ‘Yes, we keep after him but we work just as hard on our other leads.’

  They continued to protest, Shap shaking his head, Butchers flailing his arms about, Richard frowning.

  ‘We’ve only got two days.’ Richard said. ‘He’s good for it. Listen …’

  ‘No!’ They were like some Wild West posse intent on riding off into the sunset and ignoring the threat that lurked in the other direction.

  ‘… if we concentrate on Hendrix …’

  ‘Inspector!’ She cut him off, using his title to pull rank. ‘I’ll allocate actions, I decide on priorities. We do the Press, we do the ID with Ferdie Gibson and we keep watching him, we work away at Lesley Tulley and we find Dean Hendrix.’ She rode over their objections, adamant that she spoke sense and determined to direct the enquiry her way. ‘He may be top of the list but there are still three suspects up here and it isn’t over until one of them is arrested and charged. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Got it?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  News had come in that Lesley Tulley had lit a fire in her back garden the previous night.

  ‘What was she burning?’ Janine asked.

  ‘Holiday videos, if you believe that.’ Richard said.

  ‘She must think we’re stupid. Get samples and tell the lab to fast track them. I think Mrs Tulley might just have burnt her bridges.’

  Richard took a step closer. Lowered his voice, ‘Look, last night—’

  Janine moved away raising her own voice. In no mood to go into the mistakes of the night before. ‘And you’re following up on the knife too. Good.’

  DS Shap rewound the film yet again and reviewed the frames showing the car entering the car park. He copied down the time from the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

  ‘Boss. We’ve got something here.’ They gathered round the monitor. ‘Here she is arriving,’ Shap froze the frame which showed Lesley’s car at the car park entrance. ‘Spot the difference?’

  Janine looked, then smiled. Who said Dean Hendrix should be the only one they looked at. She nodded. Butchers scowled, struggling.

  ‘Ten twenty-seven,’ she gave him a clue reading out the time from the tape.

  ‘And her ticket says nine twenty-two,’ Richard said.

  Another inconsistency which quickened her interest in Mrs Tulley. Burning things in the garden, missing clothes, and now a misleading parking ticket. What exactly was going on?

  *****

  Dean had finally got his bottle up to ring Paula.

  ‘Paula. Did you get my message?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Not sounding happy about it. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Douggie’s had this spot of trouble like, I said I’d, erm, stay for a bit, you know.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Dean put a laugh in it.

  ‘Wrong, Dean!’ warning him.

  ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I don’t need this, Dean. I want to see you.’

  ‘A few days …’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘The police want to talk to you.’

  Aw, hell.

  ‘They came to work, they wanted to know where you were.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What could I say? I didn’t know, did I? Don’t know if he believed me, even.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Dean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t asked why,’ she said quickly, like she was accusing him, ‘why they wanted to see you.’

  ‘Why?’ said Dean, knowing it was pathetic, knowing it wouldn’t wash.

  ‘’S not funny, Dean. I don’t like this. I dunno what’s going on and you’re behaving like some prize dick-head. About that murder, Mr Tulley, you heard about it?’

  ‘On the news. I was up here, left Friday. The police, what did they say?’

  She sighed. ‘They want to know if you saw anything. You’ve got to ring them. You can just say you were at Douggie’s, can’t you?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  Silence. ‘Oh, God. This trouble Douggie’s in – is that what it is?’ Horror dawning in her voice.

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. He owes some money. He’ll have it soon but they’ve been threatening him, that’s all.’

  ‘So what are you? Bodyguard? Dean, they’ll have you for breakfast.’

  ‘Paula!’ Outraged that she had so little faith in his ability to protect himself.

  ‘Think about it. What are you going to do when they come calling?’

  He thought of the bag in the cellar, what he could do with that. ‘There’s a few of us,’ he lied.

  ‘I don’t like it, Dean.’ He said nothing. ‘You gonna ring the police?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He nodded as if she could see. ‘Cos I don’t want them coming round here giving me grief.’

  ‘Yep,’ still nodding, ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘When you coming back?’

  ‘Dunno. Depends.’

  ‘I wanna see you, Dean.’ She paused. ‘I can come there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where then?’

  If he put her off she might dump him.

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘Erm. I’ll meet you in Oldham, the coach station.’

  ‘Oldham?’ Like it was Outer Mongolia.

  He gave her directions. Paula’s driving was good but her sense of direction was crap.

  ‘All right. ‘Bout three then.’

  Dean came off the phone smelling so bad he needed a shower. Went upstairs. All her questions ringing in his head. One of his own banging like a big bass drum:

  what the hell was he going to tell Paula?

  *****

  Bobby Mac, the rough-sleeper, was an irritable drunk. He’d been held at Bootle Street and that was where Richard interviewed him. It was the Duty Sergeant at Bootle Street who passed on the details to his opposite number at South Manchester. Told him about a vagrant, one Bobby Mac, no fixed abode, who’d been given bed and board after an affray in Market Street. Been rampaging around with a knife, a knife that matched the description in the bulletin that they had issued earlier that day. Long shot but you never
know. The message was passed on to the murder room, both men aware that someone would want the knife sent for forensic examination and would probably want to discuss with Bobby Mac how it came into his possession.

  ‘Where did you get the knife, Bobby?’ Richard asked.

  Bobby rubbed his hand over his mouth and over the pale bristles around it. He rocked a little in his chair.

  ‘The knife,’ Richard reminded him, ‘where did you get the knife?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Humour me. Did you buy it? Someone give you it? Eh?’

  Bobby shook his head, an erratic movement, like he was trying to dislodge something. ‘Found it.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Listen,’ said Richard, ‘you were arrested for threatening people with a defensive weapon. That’s bad news. Get quite a stretch for that, Bobby. But it so happens we have a particular interest in how you came across that knife. Now, you tell us where you found it and they might take that into account when they consider your case.’

  Bobby yawned then, giving the inspector a front row view of yellow-coated tongue and discoloured teeth along with a blast of fetid breath that caused Richard to sit back sharply.

  ‘You don’t wear a uniform.’

  ‘CID,’ said Richard, ‘plainclothes.’

  ‘I was in uniform, the army,’ he waved a finger at Richard. ‘Good soldier. It’s a hard life, you know. This lot these days …’

  ‘Bobby,’ Richard broke in. ‘This knife,’ he pushed the evidence bag closer, the knife sealed within, ‘where did you find it?’

  ‘That place near Marks, where there’s that stream thing?’

  ‘Millennium Gardens?’ Richard pictured the pedestrianised area, The Triangle at one side, Selfridges and M&S at the other, curving steps and a water course, where the stream bubbled between crazy-paving step ping stones, tall windmill sculptures. Part of the city’s re-build in the wake of the IRA bomb.

  ‘Whereabouts?’