Blue Murder

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Take your time,’ said the policeman. ‘Would you like them to turn to the side?’

  ‘No, I saw him from the front.’ He could hardly ask them to look desperate, haunted. ‘But can you get them to look right and left, like they’re watching out for something?’

  The parade were instructed to do so. The movements were stilted and made Eddie more uncertain. He felt foolish for agreeing to come. When they had all finished he turned to the policeman. ‘It’s no good, the nearest is number one but I couldn’t say he was the chap I saw. Couldn’t swear to it in a court of law.’ He had to be honest.

  *****

  Butchers was adding to the boards again. All the bits of information they could verify and that might have a bearing were going up. He pinned the memo about the Tulley parents up above the picture of the dead man. DS Shap sidled over. Butchers waited for some smart arse comment. He didn’t have long to wait.

  ‘Dead loss, your old codger, Mr Vincent,’ Shap said. ‘Picked Andy from traffic.’

  Butchers sighed and stabbed a drawing pin into the display and the whole thing clattered down, scattering papers and pins and the board landing with one edge on his left foot, the tender spot where he’d damaged a toe joint in a school rugby game. A sarcastic cheer rang through the room from the handful of staff working there.

  ‘Piss off,’ shouted Butchers, righting himself and looking at the holes in the wall. Some idiot had fixed it up with nails, instead of using screws and rawlplugs. If a job’s worth doing … thought Butchers. Be the bloody handyman cum caretaker. Had some fancy title: Building Resources Manager. Hah! Couldn’t manage fuzzy-felt. Butchers sighed and began gathering up the bits of paper.

  *****

  Janine pulled up outside the address where Matthew Tulley’s parents lived. Nice bungalow, low-maintenance garden at the front, conservatory at the side.

  ‘Lot chillier, today,’ Richard looked at her. Not smiling. ‘Not just the weather. Have I missed something?’

  She tensed up. ‘Can we just concentrate on the job?’

  Her phone went. It was Shap.

  ‘The line-up,’ she told Richard, ‘no joy.’ She hit the steering wheel in frustration. It was disheartening, too many leads going nowhere. The Lemon was right, they did need to narrow it down but nothing concrete was coming out yet. She couldn’t disregard Ferdie simply because the ID parade had failed. Eyewitnesses were notoriously inaccurate. Just because the old guy hadn’t picked him out didn’t mean Ferdie was in the clear. He still had the history with Tulley and she knew Colin had been lying about the morning.

  Jack Tulley came out to greet them and took them in to meet his wife, Connie. They sat in the lounge. A room awash with floral patterns.

  The couple looked shell-shocked, expressions slack with the impact of the news they had had, clothes flung on with little care, hair tousled.

  ‘When we spoke on the phone you said you hadn’t seen your son recently?’ Janine began.

  ‘Not for years,’ Connie explained, her frame shaking. ‘We didn’t even know Matthew had got married again. He’s got nephews and nieces he’s never even seen. He just didn’t want to know. And now –’ her voice trembled.

  ‘Matthew had been married before?’

  ‘Awful business,’ Jack patted his wife’s hand, his voice husky. ‘They were divorced before they’d even given it a go. They were far too young, still at college.’

  ‘When was this?’ Richard asked. ‘Nineteen seventy-nine.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Laura, Laura Belling.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s living,’ Janine said.

  ‘No’ said Jack. ‘He told this Lesley we were dead, didn’t he?’

  Janine gave a small nod.

  Connie made a mewling sound. Her husband shuddered.

  Oh, God, thought Janine, aware of their pain and the awful humiliation. She took in the framed photographs on the wall. The sister they’d mentioned, young family, smiling parents.

  ‘Julia and her crew – four grandchildren,’ Jack told her, sniffing hard.

  ‘And you’ve no idea who did it?’ Connie’s eyes shone with tears.

  Janine shook her head.

  ‘Or why? They said there was no idea why he’d been killed.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Janine, ‘but we’re doing everything we can.’

  The journey back from Lymm was turning out to be a nightmare. A lorry had shed its load of tinned goods just outside Manchester and traffic was backed up for four miles. The air was still and thick with the stench of exhaust fumes.

  ‘So what does that tell us about Matthew Tulley?’ she said to Richard.

  ‘That he was a liar.’

  ‘Why pretend they’re dead? Why deny the existence of family?’

  ‘Couldn’t stand them?’

  ‘But not a dickey bird in … what … nearly twenty

  years, eighteen years?’

  ‘They cramp his style?’ Richard suggested.

  ‘Hardly Steptoe and Son though, were they?’

  ‘Perhaps he was being economical with the truth in other ways; didn’t want them blowing the gaff?’

  ‘Like the first marriage? That was news. See if we can find her, see what she has to say about Tulley.’

  ‘Yep.’ Richard cracked open a can of Lilt. ‘We’re moving,’ he gestured at the cars in front. His mobile sounded and he took the call. Relayed the details to Janine. ‘Next lot of forensics in.’

  ‘The bonfire?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘As if! The trainer: Hi-Tec, Walklite, tens.’

  ‘Get Shap to check out Ferdie Gibson’s shoes. We know how unreliable IL parades are – doesn’t mean he’s off the hook. Anything from Lesley?’

  ‘Hair and skin traces on his body and clothing,’ Richard shrugged. ‘Gets us nowhere: they shared a bed. Also the lab reckons the killer would have been awash with blood, and so would the knife – if they were carrying it.’

  Janine tried to imagine the scene. The killer leaving the body, blood everywhere. ‘Send Butchers back to Mr Vincent, take him through it, bit by bit. In minute detail. Oh, damn.’

  They came to another standstill because of road works. Janine groaned. She was dying to pee, another symptom of her pregnancy. She put on the handbrake and shifted in her seat to ease the pressure on her bladder. She helped herself to a chocolate bar.

  ‘One thing came up when I talked to the school,’ Richard had visited St Columbus after seeing Bobby Mac, ‘according to an old classmate, Gibson had been making personal comments about Tulley’s wife. That’s when Tulley went ballistic.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘There’s a chance.’

  ‘We need to dig around some more. Did Ferdie Gibson know Mrs Tulley? I want to press her on the car park business, the times don’t tally and cutting herself up – perhaps everything in the garden wasn’t quite so rosy?’

  Janine’s phone went then. Her mum again. She was expecting more about the VCR but her mum’s voice was full of panic.

  ‘Janine, it’s Tom, he’s had an asthma attack. They’ve taken him to hospital.’

  Tom! Her guts twisted in fear and she felt the blood jump in her veins. ‘Oh, my god. Which hospital?’

  ‘Wythenshawe.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, I’m on my way.’ She turned to Richard, her face white with panic. ‘It’s Tom. He’s had an asthma attack at school. They had to get an ambulance.’

  Richard leant forward and opened the compartment, retrieved the magnetic blue light and siren from the glove compartment and wound down his window.

  Janine looked at him, shocked. It was against all the rules to do that. Only ever police business, only ever a genuine emergency.

  She frowned. Richard placed it on the car roof. Nodded at her. ‘Go for it, Janine.’

  She hesitated. He nodded again. She thought of Tom, her Tom, struggling to breathe. Took a gulp of air herself and shifted into gear as the siren began its wail. Prayers already tumbling
through her head fast as her heartbeat.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She was breathless herself when she arrived in the ward. Tom in the bed, so small and fragile against the solid metal-framed bed, a mask over his nose and mouth. Pete was there, he stood and immediately reassured her. ‘He’s all right. He responded well.’

  Janine sat down, unsteady, giddy with relief. She closed her eyes, put her hands over her mouth and took a minute. Then she reached out a hand to stroke Tom’s hair.

  Pete cleared his throat. ‘It was–’ he faltered. She could read in his eyes how scared he had been. ‘They want to keep him in overnight.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You thought he was okay for school?’ he asked.

  She paused. Not knowing what to say. Yes, she had doubts but he’d seemed fit enough. Was it her fault?

  Pete shot her a look of disgust. Stood up and moved away.

  She tried to explain. ‘Pete – it’s not. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘And the job comes first?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Really?’ He was angry, the edge of his nostrils were flared and white, his jaw set. ‘Michael’s going off the rails, he’ll be pulling some stupid stunt that lands him in court before long, Tom’s left to fend for himself–’

  Janine stood then, a flash of anger dislodging the guilt. ‘Oh, come on. You can’t say that. They’re your kids as well. I can’t do it all on my own though I’m having a bloody good try. You walked out on them, that has a lot more to do with it–’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Back to that,’ he spat the words out.

  ‘Pete, you left them. It hurts.’

  They stood, a few yards apart, the wreckage of their marriage all too apparent. Janine sighed and went back to Tom, cradled his hand in her own. She sat for a while and watched his chest rise and fall with the apparatus. He’d need pyjamas, some of his favourite toys.

  ‘Can you stay till teatime?’ Already thinking about the practicalities, who could cover when. Pete looked at her in horror. What did he expect? ‘Or would you rather do overnight?’ she continued.

  He had the sense to look abashed and shook his head.

  ‘Okay. I’ll get Sarah to bring Eleanor home, stay at ours. I’ll bring Tom’s things.’ She kissed Tom and told him she’d be back later. He slept on.

  ‘If anything happens. Anything. Ring me.’

  Pete nodded. He looked desolate. For a moment she wanted to hug him, to be back to before when they weren’t on different sides, when everything wasn’t a battle for the moral high ground.

  *****

  Colin wasn’t sure if he could go through with it. Ferdie should be here. If Ferdie didn’t come soon he didn’t know what he’d do. What if it was a trap? A set-up?

  He wished he’d never got into it, any of it. Ferdie – all the drama, he got a buzz off of it, but Colin just felt like the stress was going to kill him. Must have a weak heart or something. If the police had still got Ferdie at the station … if they charged him with the murder … if he got sent down.

  Colin had a glimpse of life after Ferdie Gibson and it was sweet. He’d better try Ferdie’s mobile. If there was no answer then maybe he was still at the nick, ‘cos they wouldn’t let him take calls there, would they?

  ‘Ferdie?’

  ‘Colin.’

  ‘Where are you? It’s after two.’

  There was knocking at Colin ’s door. His knees went weak. ‘Shit! There’s someone at the door, Ferdie.’

  ‘It’s me, Colin.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open the effin’ door.’

  He did. Ferdie stood there scowling with impatience.

  ‘They let you out?’ Colin said.

  ‘They been here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Same as before. They didn’t believe me though. Kept going on, threatening me with being an accessory and obstruction and that. Perverting the course of justice.’

  ‘They always do that. You didn’t tell them anything?’

  ‘No, honest.’

  ‘They reckon someone seen me near Tulley’s allotment. They wanted me in a line-up. Voluntary. So I went and they sent me home. Couldn’t identify me, could they. Obvious innit?’

  Colin nodded, no longer trying to figure it all out. Just wanting it to be over.

  ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘Bog,’ said Colin.

  Ferdie followed him to the minute bathroom compartment. Colin removed the floor panel from the peach-coloured shower which hadn’t ever worked since he’d had the place and fished out a canvas shoe bag.

  He handed it to Ferdie who grinned like a demon and swore softly with pleasure.

  They counted twenties and tens into piles.

  ‘There,’ Ferdie set the piles aside. ‘Two grand. And a bit left over for me pension.’

  *****

  Dean heard Douggie and Gary leave. Knew it was Douggie by the whistling. Whistle like a bird, Douggie could. Do bird songs too and sound effects with his mouth; water pouring from a bottle, creaking doors and footsteps, MetroLink tram hooting. Brilliant. Hardly a career option though. Dean reckoned they must have used people like Douggie on the radio years back, when they still called it the wireless. Be all computers now. No need for a bloke in the corner knocking two coconut shells together or chugging like a steam train.

  Douggie used to do his sounds when they were in Hegley together. Party trick. Douggie would play the fool, he got spared ‘cos he entertained people. Even the

  British National Party nutters appreciated Douggie’s talents.

  Some of the lads in there had scared the life out of Dean. Hard men. Wound up tight, always ready to snap. Getting or giving a kicking on a daily basis. Violence the only language they spoke. Second nature. First nature. Only nature. Others, equally scary, got off on it. Sick. Not talking kinky sex, weekend S&M, hit me harder, baby. No. Not that at all. Talking some guy screaming, blood all over his face, bubbling from his nose, broken bone making his elbow hang all wrong. Battery and rape. It happened. He knew all about it.

  One time, Dean had only been in there three weeks, he’s in the bog and one of them comes in. McGowan they call him. Dean hears his voice. Then McGowan’s climbing up the next cubicle, leaning over, looking down on him. ‘Well, what have we got here then? Open the door. C’mon, open the fucking door.’

  Dean, dread flooding his mouth, hand reaching for the door. Fumbling, pulling it open.

  ‘Boo!’

  Jesus! One of McGowan’s stooges on sentry duty. Dean slams the door shut. Dean, flying on fear; everything sharp as razors, can hear a distant footfall: the squeak of rubber soles on the hard vinyl floor. He knows that squeak.

  ‘Douggie,’ he screams.

  Footsteps. Squeak, squeak, squeak. ‘Dean?’ Douggie shouting.

  ‘Douggie. Douggie.’ No missing the need for help.

  Glass breaking and then mayhem as the bell starts ringing and the sprinklers come on. McGowan disappears.

  Later, sitting quiet with Douggie, he’s amazed they haven’t disciplined Douggie for setting off the alarm, not that anyone saw him but that didn’t usually stop them. Douggie, sitting on the floor, his back to the bed. Dean lying curled on the mattress, arms wrapped round his belly, telling Douggie about what happened. What brought him to Hegley. Why he’d knifed the guy. Different from the statement he’d signed, the one they read out in court and different too from the story his victim had given. The first, last and the only time, that Dean ever told anyone the truth about it.

  Dean finished and it’s quiet. Douggie turns round puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, face tight with emotion, holding on. ‘’S all right, mate,’ Douggie says, husky throat. ‘All right, Dean.’

  He had the nous to go then, leave Dean on his own, door shut, so no one could see him weep.

  *****

  Lesley heard someone at the door and then Emma’s voice. Emma was as
king them in. He was here! Lesley stood, ready to bolt, to plead illness, anything.

  ‘Lesley, it’s a friend of yours? I don’t know if you feel up to it.’

  Lesley froze then realised it wasn’t him – it was another man. From the car park. Saturday, the man who’d stopped his blue van.

  ‘Such an awful thing,’ he was saying. ‘I wanted to come and see how you were. If I’m not intruding.’

  ‘No,’ she said. All smiles. On the brink of tears. ‘This is my sister, Emma. This is … John.’ Very original. ‘I’m pretty wobbly,’ she said. ‘Come through.’

  He sat down on the sofa, stretching his arms wide across the back. She closed the door. Stood with her back to it.

  He was sizing the place up. ‘Very nice. Not the best area, though. Place like this in, Didsbury, you’d be looking at least 300K.’ He sat forward. ‘You were very good on the telly. Your appeal for information. I have some.’

  She stared at him in confusion, then Emma interrupted them, ‘Inspector Mayne on the phone.’

  John got up. ‘ I’ll be in touch.’ She watched him leave, her heart thudding in her chest.

  *****

  There was knocking at Colin’s door.

  ‘And that’ll be our man.’ Ferdie said

  Colin felt sick. He went and opened the door.

  ‘All right, mate,’ Douggie said and nodded a greeting.

  ‘Right.’ Colin swallowed. ‘Erm, come in … in here.’

  ‘All right, mate,’ Douggie greeted Ferdie. He sat down and slid the rucksack from his back, retrieved two bags of cocaine wrapped in cling-film. ‘Like a sample?’

  Ferdie nodded.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Ferdie opened one of the parcels, licked his finger, dipped it into the powder and rubbed it onto his gums. Nodded. Repeated the process and smiled broadly. ‘Nice one.’ He slid the money over the table. ‘Two grand.’