‘So far,’ Andy added.
‘Why didn’t he just finish the job?’ Rachel said. ‘He’s done three of them, why suddenly stop and leg it with the youngest two? And the dog,’ she said. ‘Usually they kill the pets too, don’t they?’
‘That’s right,’ said Lee.
‘Usually planned?’ Godzilla said.
‘Yes,’ Lee said. ‘Media coverage tends to emphasize the good father runs amok angle but in most cases the men have prepared to some degree, acquired the means, decided when to act, and so on.’
‘Not exactly in the heat of the moment, then,’ Janet said.
‘Could the flight be part of the plan?’ Rachel asked.
Lee shrugged. ‘Unusual.’
‘Or maybe there’s trouble in the marriage, they’re splitting up, all he wants is to abduct the kids and run?’
‘Doesn’t explain our three victims, especially the girl,’ the boss said.
Rachel shrugged. Early days; they were still working out what the hell was going on.
Her Maj picked up and waved one of the reports through from the CSIs. ‘Initial observations suggest our victims were asleep when attacked. Bodies on the beds. No sign of struggle. Nothing to suggest they were moved or posed.’
‘What order?’ Pete said.
‘Still waiting for more on that from the scene.’
‘The wife is usually first,’ Lee said.
‘And the knife was in the brother’s room, Michael, so he’d be last,’ said Rachel. Made sense.
‘He intended to kill everyone,’ Lee said, ‘himself included.’
‘What stopped him?’ Rachel said.
‘And why didn’t he take the weapon with him?’
‘Plenty of questions we need answers to,’ the boss said, ‘though top of the list,’ she held up an index finger, ‘is, where is Cottam now? If we’re to find Cottam before he completes his grisly little mission we need to know everything about him: boxers or Y-fronts, where does he go on holiday, who are his mates, childhood haunts, health, money, favourite colour? We’re appealing to the public for sightings.’ Gill held up a photograph of Owen Cottam. Rachel looked at it: tall, thickset bloke, not overweight but solid looking, thinning hairline, moustache. Nothing in the man’s expression to suggest he was a monster, a nutter who’d stick a knife into his eleven-year-old daughter as she slept.
His wife, okay, Rachel could understand that. She had fantasized taking a knife to Nick Savage on many an occasion during their relationship over the past two years. First when she found out he was married and had kids and that she, Rachel, had been his bit on the side. Disposable, irrelevant. Then when he’d learnt she was pregnant and told her to get rid of it. No discussion. After that he’d come squirming back to her, talked her into thinking he really did care, but he was just watching his back. Because by then Rachel knew Nick was dirty, had broken all the rules by sleeping with a juror during a trial. She had that over him and to protect his own skin he’d tried to have her killed. Some dick in a car tried to mow her down. She’d dreamed of taking a knife to him, cutting his balls off, countless times since then. So, if there was jealousy going on in Cottam’s head the wife was halfway understandable. But not the daughter, nor the brother-in-law.
‘I’m now going to show you the video of our scene, taken by our crime-scene coordinator,’ Godzilla said, starting the recording. The video began. The boss making odd comments now and then. The camera taking them up the stairs and into the family’s flat. Surveying each crime. First the wife, then the girl. The man, Michael, his neck agape, slathered with blood. Rachel felt her stomach churn and her wrists prickle. Her own dream still too close, a cloying aftertaste.
‘Now, from her phone we can see that Pamela Cottam texted a contact, Lynn, at eleven fifty-two last night. Janet, you talk to her, then join Rachel,’ the boss said. She continued, allocating further tasks, sounding off a rapid-fire list of actions, each accompanied by a sharp nod of her head. A bit like one of those office toys, the bird drinking the water. And those mad hand gestures she did, hand-jive crossed with karate.
Rachel shivered, waiting for the briefing to conclude, eager to get out and on with the job.
When Janet went to see her, Lynn Garstang was at work. She was the friend who had exchanged texts with Pamela Cottam the previous night. The last person known to have communicated with Pamela before her death. In this age of social networking and camera phones, someone would soon be tweeting about the police activity at Journeys Inn, so the police press office were on the brink of releasing a statement rather than let rumours flourish over the ether. Local officers had informed immediate next of kin of the deaths – messengers bearing the worst possible news. It was terrible when the family heard about a loved one’s violent death on a news broadcast. The shock compounded by a sense of betrayal at the failure of the authorities, their appalling in sensitivity and disregard. Even if names weren’t made public, with a place so specific as a pub it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out who were the victims behind the headlines. But getting the news out into the public domain, alerting people and enlisting their help in an effort to save further lives, was paramount. If there was any comeback, Janet knew it was Gill who would face the music and explain to the relatives the very sound reasoning for the publicity.
The call centre was in a double industrial unit off the ring road. Janet showed her warrant card to the woman at the front office and asked for Lynn and whether there was anywhere private they could talk. The girl’s face went still with curiosity but she bit her tongue and showed Janet into a tiny meeting room the size of a lift, a bare round table, two chairs and a slim filing cabinet the only furniture. Presumably where staff were hired and fired.
Lynn was rake thin, her face hollowed at the cheeks, her dark skin dry-looking. Janet wondered if she had been ill or lost weight or normally looked like that.
‘Hello,’ Lynn said, looking a little puzzled but waiting for enlightenment.
‘Please sit down,’ Janet said. ‘I’m DC Janet Scott from Manchester Metropolitan Police. You’re a friend of Pamela Cottam?’
‘Yes.’ Her smile faded. Her eyes, dark eyes, locked on to Janet’s.
‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news,’ Janet said. ‘We were called to Journeys Inn earlier today and found the bodies of three people. We believe them to be Pamela, her daughter Penny and Pamela’s brother Michael.’
Lynn’s eyelids flickered and her mouth moved for a couple of seconds before she said, ‘Bodies?’
‘I’m very, very sorry,’ Janet said, talking slowly, for Lynn would need time to comprehend what was being said. ‘An investigation into the deaths is now under way.’ Important to use the word death. To make sure that there could be no misinterpretation.
‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ Lynn put her hand to her forehead. Her voice shook. ‘Pamela? And Penny and Michael?’
‘We think so. We have yet to complete the formal identification but we believe those are the victims.’
‘But how? Was there a fire?’
Lynn had finally found some explanation that half made sense but before she could elaborate on it, let it take wing and find some comfort – a fluke, an accident, a tragedy – Janet said, ‘No, we’re treating these deaths as suspicious. I’m afraid all the indications are that the victims died as a result of knife wounds.’ She couldn’t say for definite until the post-mortem results were in, and even then they’d have to be very careful in the wording of such information. That was something that was drilled into them throughout training. It got so it became second nature, qualifying statements with phrases that, if held up in court, made it clear that the police had not made assumptions but had been punctilious about facts, only making categorical statements where they had the hard evidence to prove them.
‘A knife?’ Lynn said.
‘We believe so,’ Janet said quietly.
Lynn sat for a full minute, her mouth slightly ajar. Then she spoke again. ‘The boys, Theo and Ha
rry, they’re all right?’
‘They’re missing,’ Janet said. ‘So is Owen.’
There was another pause. Lynn covered her eyes with her hands. Janet could hear her breathing. Then Lynn moved, her face wet with tears. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone do that? And then take Owen and the boys?’
‘We are still trying to establish what happened,’ Janet said, ‘but at this point there is nothing to suggest that an outside party was involved.’
A fraction of a second, then the shock fell through Lynn’s face and she recoiled. ‘You think . . . Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh my God,’ hands pressed to her cheeks.
‘I am sorry,’ Janet said again. ‘If you feel able I’d like to ask you some questions. We’re trying to find Owen and the little ones.’
‘Right,’ Lynn said huskily.
‘Pamela texted you last night?’
‘Yes, about Tuesday.’
‘You were going shopping?’
She halted, momentarily surprised that Janet knew this, but then said, ‘Yes.’
‘Was there anything unusual about the message, the time, or the content, anything at all?’ Nothing had been obvious to the police.
‘No.’ Lynn shuddered, losing control of her muscles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s the shock,’ Janet told her. ‘Let’s get you some tea.’ She went out and asked the receptionist if she could bring some sweet tea for Lynn as she had been the bearer of bad news. The girl paled and said of course. Once that was accomplished, Janet began again, not knowing how much longer Lynn would be capable of talking. ‘You’re close friends, you and Pamela?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘How long have you known each other?’
‘For ever. We met when she first came over from Ireland. Chambermaids. I was her chief bridesmaid. She was mine. I’m their godmother, all three of them.’ Her face contorted and she began to sob. Janet had some tissues in her bag. Always. Tissues, warrant card, alert alarm, pepper spray, radio, antiseptic spray (for scratches or bites – less exposure to that in serious crime than in uniform), phone, money and keys.
Lynn thanked her for the tissue and wiped her nose.
‘Did you see much of them?’
She cleared her throat. ‘More recently, with us being nearer. I moved to Manchester while they were still in the Lakes and then they went to Birkenhead then here, Oldham, and so we saw more of each other then.’
‘How was the marriage?’
Fresh tears ran to her chin; she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Sniffed hard. But didn’t reply straight away. Janet felt she was trying to frame her reply. ‘Fine. I think.’
‘Did Pamela talk about it, about Owen?’
‘Not often. But sometimes he could be a bit, well, I’d call it controlling.’ She made it sound like a question, as though seeing if Janet agreed. Janet made a neutral sound, encouraging her to say more.
‘Like he always wanted to know where she was, what her plans were. She didn’t have much privacy. Much life of her own. Maybe some marriages work like that.’
Janet thought of her own. She and Ade shared pretty much everything; the logistics of work and home made it crucial. Only now she had secrets, now she told lies and misled Ade if she wanted to catch half an hour with Andy.
‘Wouldn’t have suited me,’ Lynn said, ‘but then my bloke left as soon as a better offer showed up.’
‘You have any family?’
‘Twin boys, two years older than Penny. How am I going to—’ Emotion flickered over her face again.
‘Did either Owen or Pamela ever get involved with anyone else?’ Janet said.
‘No,’ Lynn said, ‘no, she loved him. And he thought the world of her.’
‘Would she have told you if she had been seeing anyone? Or if they’d had problems?’
‘I think so,’ Lynn said.
‘Is there anyone else she might confide in?’
‘No, she didn’t really see anyone else. When we first met up there were a few of us became mates, but over the years . . .’ She pulled a face.
‘What about the pub, the business?’
‘She said things were getting tough. Everyone’s having a hard time. We see it here,’ Lynn said.
‘Did she mention any debts, owing money?’
‘No – nothing like that.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Three weeks ago. We went for a drink in Manchester. She seemed fine. She never said he was depressed or anything. He must have been, he must have had a breakdown, mustn’t he, to do that?’ Her voice was thick now and she shuddered again.
Not necessarily, thought Janet. The debate about mad or bad was an endless one, practised by shrinks and criminologists, kicked about by police officers, the public and lawyers. But according to what Lee had said so far, and supported by the relative normality in the scene surrounding the victims at the inn, Cottam had not gone barmy and raged about in an orgy of destruction, he’d waited and acted when he had been sure of least resistance. While his loved ones slept. The wounds were efficient, not excessive. Janet had seen countless murders, plenty of stabbings, all sorts of obscenities. This was measured, if such a thing can be said to be so.
‘We’re nearly done for now,’ she tried to reassure Lynn. ‘Can you think of anywhere Owen might go to escape notice?’
‘My mind’s gone blank,’ Lynn said. ‘Erm, he went through a fishing phase. When Michael first came over. It didn’t last long. I think Michael probably got on his nerves a bit.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, he was a bit shy in company, but if he knew you well he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, just drivel really, stream of consciousness. Maybe not what you want all day long on the river bank. That poor boy,’ she said suddenly. ‘He was harmless. And Penny . . . Oh, God.’ Her composure, such as it was, collapsed and she began to sob, gulping air and in between asking, ‘Why? How could he do that? Oh, God, why?’
4
Janet joined Rachel at the church hall on the Larks estate which they were using as a meeting point for the house-to-house. She handed out plans of the estate to the team of uniformed officers who were working door to door, while Rachel briefed them. Janet could hear an aggressive edge in Rachel’s tone and knew that her friend was finding it difficult. Bark first, before they do, was Rachel’s approach to most encounters. Probably worrying that she’d mess up. She needn’t have bothered. None of these PCs would dare undermine her. They were all too keen to get stuck in, hoping to find something useful for the investigation.
As they peeled off and left the hall, Janet said, ‘That was fine.’
‘Yeah?’ Rachel said guardedly.
‘Well, you could have relaxed a little bit more, perhaps made eye contact now and then.’
‘I did make eye contact,’ Rachel objected.
‘With the distant horizon, maybe.’
‘So what’re you saying? I was crap?’ Rachel set off for the door, clutching the file.
‘No, Rachel. I’m saying you are good at your job and you need to believe that so you have confidence, and that confidence shows. You were just a bit . . . prickly.’
‘Prickly?’
Oh, she should never have said anything. ‘We’re all on the same side,’ Janet said, ‘but sometimes it feels like you’re not sure about that. Rachel Bailey against the world.’
‘Don’t you start,’ Rachel said. ‘I get enough shit from Godzilla about being a team player.’
‘It matters,’ Janet said, ‘especially if you get your sergeant’s exam – you’ll be managing people. It’s not just bossing them about.’
‘Shall we get on with this?’ Rachel, frowning in irritation, shook the plans in her hand.
‘Wait.’
‘Now what?’ Rachel’s scowl deepened. But even scowling she was attractive, large brown eyes, high cheekbones.
‘Feather.’ Janet reached out and pulled a curled white feather from
the back of Rachel’s hair. ‘Two.’ She picked out the other one. ‘You been pillow fighting? No wonder you look knackered. Anyone I know?’
‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, pushing through the double doors.
‘Seeing him again, whoever he is?’ Janet said.
‘Nah,’ Rachel said.
They turned left on the crescent which led up to the top of the estate. Their remit the twenty-five properties closest to Journeys Inn.
Janet wasn’t sure what was going on in Rachel’s personal life. Since the whole sordid, sickening business with Nick Savage, Rachel had barely mentioned men. Barely mentioned anything outside work. Couldn’t blame her really. Betrayal didn’t come any bigger. Celibacy probably an attractive option, sensible. But Janet knew Rachel didn’t do sensible. Never for very long, anyway. There was a chaotic, self-destructive side that seemed to be her default position when under stress. And she seemed drawn to danger. Janet worried about her. It was like watching a toddler trot towards an open fire, or teeter on a window ledge.
Janet thought about the Cottam kids. Two and a half and eighteen months. Talking, walking but powerless, dependent. Still alive? Anybody’s guess. But the way it worked in a hostage situation was you assumed the best as you planned for the worst.
They reached the edge of the estate and Janet was panting, the pain in her side a dull throb. She turned away, pretending to survey the view, the roof of the inn visible above the back of the houses.
They split up, Janet taking the even numbers and Rachel doing the other side of the road. The estate was quiet, that time of day when anyone who had anywhere to go, school, work, shopping, had gone.
Janet got no answer at the first two houses but at the third, where a car was parked on the pavement outside, a woman wearing a dressing gown answered. Eyes soft with sleep, hair messy, face marked with creases on one cheek.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Janet said, holding up her warrant card. ‘DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She paused, expecting the woman to show some recognition: the scant details had been broadcast, stating that the police were investigating suspected murder after three bodies had been found at a public house on the Larks estate. TV and press crews were arriving to film the pub and the hive of activity there as the CSIs went about their work.
Bleed Like Me Page 3