Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Owen Cottam?’ Gill asked. The name on the licensee plate. Had someone broken in and slaughtered the three of them? But he didn’t bear any resemblance to the man in the family snapshot.

  ‘No IDs yet,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Not the man from the photo next door. Too old to be a son,’ Gill thought aloud, ‘only looks a few years younger than the woman. Sleeping in a single room.’ She looked again at the savage cut. Sensed the enormity of the crime. Three dead. And the killer? ‘Looks like they used a knife.’

  ‘We found it in here,’ Gerry said, ‘under the bed.’ He asked one of the men in the room for the knife which was in a rigid, clear-plastic knife tube. Gill took hold of the tube. The weapon, a sizeable kitchen knife, non-serrated, was smeared with blood.

  ‘Fast-track this for swabbing and prints,’ Gill said. ‘The whisky bottle from the bathroom as well.’

  She scoured the room, the curtains still closed but some light coming in through the gaps where the hooks had gone missing. A Man City scarf the only decoration. Chest of drawers with clothes spilling out, more clothes littered on the floor. A small telly and a gaming console. Xbox. Same as Sammy’s.

  ‘Who called us?’

  ‘Brewery. Delivery arrived at eight to find the place deserted, no one answering the door and the dog howling the place down. Wagon driver rang his boss who assumed Cottam had done a runner, abandoning the dog.’

  ‘Bit of a leap,’ Gill said. ‘Might just have nipped out for milk and a paper.’

  ‘Except no one else was responding,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Maybe there was some existing trouble with the business, then,’ Gill said, ‘if their first thought is he’s done a moonlight flit.’ All questions that would be asked and hopefully answered once the investigation got under way.

  ‘Local bobby came out, found it all locked up and forced entry.’

  ‘Found a bloodbath,’ Gill said. ‘Which door?’

  ‘The single one. The family entrance,’ Gerry said. ‘Look at this.’ He took her back along the hallway, to the room opposite the daughter’s. A child’s bed and a cot. Everything, the blue décor, the duvet covers, the toys scattered on the carpet, the train frieze running around the walls, screamed little boys.

  ‘No sign?’ Gill asked. The baby and the toddler. The toddler with his hand up to his father’s face.

  Gerry shook his head.

  ‘Upstairs?’ Gill said: the third storey.

  ‘Padlocked. Been up – full of junk, nothing else. And the cellars are clear.’

  No more bodies. Small bodies. So where were the other children?

  The dog was yelping and whining, scratching at the kitchen door.

  ‘Can we get shot of Fido?’ Gill said.

  ‘In hand,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll call the coroner.’

  Ten minutes later Gill had secured the coroner’s authorization to order forensic post-mortems on the three victims. Next she contacted the Home Office pathologist and asked him to attend the scene.

  Gerry called her name from the ground floor. Gill peered down.

  ‘Someone here with intel on the household,’ Gerry said.

  Gill descended, went through the pub and outside. The sun was warm and Gill was steaming inside the protective suit.

  ‘Jack Biddle, CID,’ the man waiting for her introduced himself, then began to read off the facts. ‘Owen Cottam, publican, aged forty-five . . .’

  Not the man in the single bed then, she was right about that.

  ‘. . . wife Pamela, forty, daughter Penny, eleven – just moved up to high school.’

  Gill nodded. ‘You know the family?’

  ‘My lass is at school with Penny.’ He swallowed but retained his composure.

  Hearing the names, learning them, names that would become second nature, part of her waking life as the investigation progressed. People she’d come to know inside out. ‘Looks like Pamela and Penny,’ Gill said. ‘We’ve a man as well, ten years younger than Pamela perhaps, very short hair, tattoos.’

  She saw a flicker of recognition in Biddle’s eyes. ‘Pamela’s brother Michael Milne. The two little ones, Theo and Harry?’

  ‘Not here. How old?’

  ‘Toddlers.’ He dipped his hand, palm down by his knee, indicating their stature. ‘I can check the ages.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gill said. ‘No sign of them or Cottam. Any ructions you heard about? Domestic violence, family feud?’

  Biddle shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any criminal associates, prior offences?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Biddle said. ‘Magistrates approved his licence every time.’

  ‘Car reg?’

  He read it off. No match to the Vauxhall at the edge of the car park. ‘Blue Ford Mondeo.’

  ‘Whose is that?’ she asked, pointing at the car.

  ‘The brother’s – Michael’s.’

  Gill had a sudden chilling thought: had the boot been checked? ‘Give me a minute,’ she said and went to ask Gerry.

  Minutes later a CSI came down from Michael Milne’s room with a set of car keys, accompanied by a woman with a camera. She ran off a series of shots of the Vauxhall before the boot was opened. Gill was holding her breath but when they found only a pair of wellies, a carrier bag of old drinks cans and a leaking can of motor oil she could breathe again. Drew in a strong draught of air perfumed with the smell of moorland. The CSI went to look in the old stables too, though as they were pretty much open to view anyway, Gill didn’t think the children would be there.

  ‘You think Owen . . .’ Biddle broke off, trying to digest the news.

  ‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘I think he’s our suspect. Killed his daughter, his wife, his brother-in-law, then took off for the hills with his sons. I’m sorry. We have to find the bastard.’ She gazed out over the sweep of the hills. Sheep dotted here and there. Heard the burbling of a grouse on the wind. Before it’s too late. She didn’t say it out loud. And hard on the heels of that thought came another. It probably already is.

  3

  ‘Family annihilation.’ Janet caught the urgency in Andy’s voice as she walked into the incident room. The buzz was palpable, people talking across each other. ‘That’s what they call it in the US,’ Andy said, his lean face brightening as he set eyes on Janet.

  ‘Multiple homicide,’ Rachel said. Rachel looked rough, Janet thought. Her friend burning the candle at both ends again, no doubt.

  ‘Whereabouts?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘In the UK,’ Rachel said slowly, tapping her own head.

  ‘No, where’s the murders?’ Kevin said.

  The term woodentop could have been invented for Kevin but this time it was Rachel who’d got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘The Larks,’ said Andy. ‘Journeys Inn.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Janet stopped by her desk, jacket over her arm.

  ‘You know it?’ said Andy.

  Suddenly there was another agenda, a subtext beneath the interchange. Forcing her to censor her words slightly. ‘Used to go there when the kids were little, walk and a pub lunch.’ Leaving out Ade’s name. Because Ade, his name, the very fact of his existence, was there like a pit, a snare, a trapdoor, something to stumble over. The small matter of him being her husband something that she and Andy were trying very hard to ignore, to forget about, to glide over.

  ‘Three dead,’ said Andy, all businesslike. ‘Believed to be the wife, daughter and wife’s brother, still awaiting formal identification. Gill’s on her way back. Suspect Owen Cottam, landlord there, missing along with two younger children.’

  There was a pause as they each absorbed the information. Janet felt dizzy, the floor swirling under her feet. She could feel Andy’s eyes on her. She pulled out her chair and sat down. Felt sick and bloated. Her hand moved protectively across her abdomen over the scar where they’d sewn her up after surgery. Injuries sustained in the line of duty. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She’d recovered well over th
e last six months. Been back at work after three.

  ‘You okay?’ Rachel, standing opposite, leant forward, hands on her own desk.

  ‘Fine.’ Janet smiled. Rachel stared, head tilted, waiting for something closer to the truth.

  ‘Okay,’ Janet said sotto voce, ‘I’m knackered. Up till the early hours on homework duty with Elise, the Long March and the Cultural Revolution. Then Taisie has a nightmare at half three and the alarm’s set for six. What’s new?’

  ‘Why’s she having nightmares?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Because she can?’ Janet shook her head. It was one thing after another with Taisie. No sooner through one crisis or drama than she swanned in with another. ‘And because she’s stupid enough to watch some 18 certificate Japanese horror movie at the sleepover she went on, even though she knows she’ll freak out after.’

  Gill arrived then, issuing instructions as she walked. ‘Briefing in ten. Get me sandwiches – no onions – and coffee. Andy, bring the press office in, we’ll be holding hands on this. All other actions suspended for the foreseeable. Kevin – exhibits.’

  ‘Yes, boss, course boss.’

  Gill, DCI Gill Murray, was Janet’s age, late forties, but the similarities stopped there. Friends for years, Janet had finally joined Gill’s team seven years ago. Gill was a human dynamo with an ability to think strategically; she relished the role of leading her syndicate. Janet knew her own skills were as a communicator, an interviewer. And she’d rather sit opposite some witness or suspect and persuade them to tell her the truth than command a team, oversee development, play the public relations game and manage resources.

  Gill could inspire, she had inspired many a young detective, but cross her and she was a formidable foe. Even when she was working all hours, like now, Gill crackled with an energy and zeal, a lucidity and clarity that Janet envied. But also found exhausting at times. Of course Gill only had one teenager at home, but she’d managed the last four years as a single parent since Dave had left. Recently Sammy had moved in with his dad, to Gill’s dismay. But even when Gill had been looking after him on her own she had still managed eighteen-hour days and turned up for work looking impeccable. Hair neat and shiny, a practical cut that skimmed her chin, trademark red lacquered nails, clothes clean and pressed. Gill was one of those people who could get by on four hours’ sleep a night.

  And I, thought Janet, getting up with her notebook and pen, am most definitely not. Gill’s driven. I’m just driven up the wall.

  Godzilla, as Rachel most frequently thought of her boss, was briefing them on the Journeys Inn crime scene and the unfolding manhunt for suspect Owen Cottam. The whole team were there. After two years, Rachel felt like she belonged, as much as she belonged anywhere. They were a mixed bunch. Pete, the doughnut man, solid, steady, paunchy, balding. And next to him, big man Mitch, ex-army. Turn his hand to any job, Mitch could. Loads of experience, well travelled, he was the oldest detective constable in the syndicate. He’d a quiet confidence, perhaps from knowing he was good at what he did, and he could handle himself in a fight, of course. Andy, at the head of the table beside Gill, was their sergeant, which set him apart in his roles and responsibilities. A sharp dresser, bit of a mod about him: Rachel could just see him on a scooter, a Lambretta. Andy was single and now and again she wondered what that was about. Not bad looking, probably the best of the bunch, but Rachel had never actually clicked with him; he was a bit cool, a bit distant – and he was her supervisor. Lee, on Rachel’s right, he was more of a thinker, letters after his name and widely read. Sort that made Rachel feel uneducated. She learned from Lee, soaked it up like a sponge, stuff she could regurgitate to impress Nick. Back in the days when she was still trying. Before the assassination attempt. Lee was the only black member of the syndicate. Lee was the one got sent on courses for offender profiling, criminal psychology and behaviour analysis.

  Then Janet, of course. Rachel couldn’t imagine the syndicate without Janet and usually the two of them were paired up, which Rachel liked. And Kevin Lumb. They got that wrong by one letter. Kevin Dumb it should have been, the div, like an eight-year-old. Kevin and Rachel the youngest on the team, but she was light years ahead of him most of the time.

  ‘Question one,’ the boss said, ‘why is Owen Cottam our prime suspect? We have three members of the family dead in their beds, father and two youngest children missing. As is Owen Cottam’s car. No sign of burglary or forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. Cottam is not a known associate of the criminal fraternity and there have been no problems, no forfeiture of his personal pub licence. Of course he was CRB checked prior to being granted that by the local authority in Birkenhead. To date no talk of any enemies, any feuds or threats made to the family, though we’ll need to see what we get from house-to-house and talking to friends and family.’

  She stopped for breath and then continued, ‘Nothing is ever sure in this game, you all know that, but to date there is nothing to suggest a third party was involved. Knife recovered from the third crime scene is being fast-tracked for evidence, as is a whisky bottle and items belonging to Owen Cottam. As far as the public is aware we urgently wish to speak to Owen Cottam in connection with our inquiries. And we want to find two children missing from home. We are setting up for a child rescue operation running concurrently alongside our murder investigations. Priority of course is to prevent further loss of life. That means we have the authorizations in place as of now for telecoms, warrants and so on so we can work in real time.’

  That appealed to Rachel. Their work on the Major Incident Team was investigating murders and the information was usually gathered slowly and painstakingly with often frustrating waits for data from telecom providers and financial institutions and the like. Those protocols went out of the window when a life was at risk. Already data on Owen Cottam would be flowing in to be logged and analysed by readers and actioned by receivers for the various strands of the investigation.

  ‘Border control, ports and airports, alerted,’ the boss said.

  ‘Found his passport at the pub,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Kevin’s exhibits officer on this one,’ Godzilla said.

  Sooner you than me, Rachel thought. Keeping track of all the potential evidence from a scene meant you were stuck in the office for the duration. Drowning in evidence bags and chain of custody forms.

  ‘His computer has been removed for examination,’ the boss said. ‘As yet nothing obvious leaping out at us, no Google maps or ferry sailings. His phone is missing.’

  ‘Do we know if he has access to firearms?’ Mitch asked. Rachel knew he’d be trying to assess how dangerous the man was.

  ‘No guns licensed to him,’ the DCI said. ‘Now, we’ve ANPR, of course,’ referring to the automatic number plate recognition system that had fast become a major tool in police work, routinely recording vehicle registrations on major routes nationwide. ‘So if Cottam’s in the Mondeo we’ll find him before too long. Soon as we’re done here I want Rachel heading house-to-house, looking for witnesses. Good revision for your sergeant’s exam.’

  Rachel nodded, a glow of satisfaction at being allocated the task. She glanced across at Janet, who winked at her.

  ‘Next of kin have been notified. Pamela Cottam’s mother, Margaret Milne, is on her way over from Cork. Post-mortems expected to start later this afternoon. A complex scene means the CSIs will be there for several days. Cottam has a father, Dennis, in Liverpool and a brother, Barry, Preston way. We are talking to the brewery and his family as well as his neighbours on the Larks. So far the picture emerging is that of a regular guy, a family man. Lee.’ The boss raised a finger to him. ‘We’ll be liaising with a forensic psychologist on this and a hostage negotiator obviously,’ she said, ‘but in the meanwhile Lee can tell us something about this particular type of homicide.’

  Lee nodded; he’d got a psychology degree and was studying for a master’s in his spare time. Rachel knew he was fascinated by what made people tick, what pushed them over the edge to
kill, why one individual would take a life when another similar person would not. Frankly, Rachel didn’t give a toss. They’d done it: her only interest was in catching the toerags and seeing them banged up for it. Whether their parents had been a walking disaster zone or they’d been bullied at school or there was something buggered in their brain chemistry was neither here nor there to Rachel. You broke the law – you paid the price. End of.

  Lee put his pen down and tugged at his tie, loosening it as he began to speak. ‘We average a handful a year, single figures, though that’s on the rise: in periods of recession we tend to get an increase. Economic hardship is often a trigger point. The man loses his job, or gets into debt, and views that as catastrophic failure. He reasons he’s better off dead and the family too.’

  ‘Why the family?’ Janet asked.

  ‘The profile of this sort of man is a dominant, often controlling personality. He sees himself as the provider, the head of his family, and he regards the family as extensions of himself. Part of him. He won’t leave them behind to face the disgrace, the collapse of lifestyle and so on.’ Rachel thought briefly of her ex Nick Savage and his downfall. From shit-hot criminal barrister to criminal. One minute he’s defending clients, the next he’s on a charge himself. Attempted murder. The city centre flat and the bespoke suits exchanged for a cell in Strangeways and prison sweats.

  ‘All for one and one for all,’ Pete said.

  ‘Except nobody else gets a say,’ Janet pointed out.

  Lee continued. ‘In many cases, the wife’s been having an affair or wants to end the marriage.’

  ‘Is that not just revenge?’ Godzilla said.

  ‘May well be,’ Lee agreed. ‘In that situation the wife is killed to punish her but the children are killed because the father doesn’t want to leave them behind. It’s almost like a duty. I’m better off dead and so are they. Of course research is limited because few of the men survive to explain their motives or thinking.’

  ‘But Cottam has,’ Rachel said.