Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  But the woman just looked puzzled.

  ‘Could I have your name?’ Janet said.

  ‘Tessa Bowen.’

  ‘Date of birth?’ Janet noted her answer. ‘Does anyone else live here?’

  ‘No, just me. What sort of incident?’

  ‘Suspected murder,’ Janet said, and saw the colour drain from the woman’s face.

  ‘Good God. But who?’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tighter as though it might offer protection.

  ‘We’ve yet to formally identify the victims,’ Janet said. ‘But they are believed to be members of the Cottam family, a man, a woman and a child.’

  Tessa’s hands flew to her mouth and she swayed.

  Janet asked if she needed to sit down, if Janet could come in.

  The lounge was dominated by a bright red leather sofa. They sat either end of it. ‘A child?’ Tessa said. She looked dazed. ‘And a man and a woman. Pamela? But Owen was fine this morning.’

  Janet’s stomach fell. ‘You saw Mr Cottam?’ She jotted notes in her book.

  ‘Yes – about half past six. I took the dog back.’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘Yes. She’s not their dog but they’re looking after her. Billy, the owner, he’s in hospital, operation for bowel cancer. He’s my neighbour, number four.’ She tipped her head to the right. ‘He needed someone to take the dog.’

  ‘Yes.’ Janet nodded, waiting for the rest of the story.

  ‘So, erm, Pamela and Owen said they’d have her, till we knew what was what with Billy.’ She stopped and looked at Janet, bewildered.

  ‘So this morning?’ Janet prompted.

  ‘I was coming back from work, night shift, Oldham Royal, I’m a nurse. And, erm, Pepper, the dog, she was on the road.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘The other side of the hill, about quarter of a mile beyond the pub. I stopped and fetched her – took her up round the back. Owen answered the door.’

  Janet gave a small nod, not betraying the flush of adrenalin that increased her heartbeat. They would have to establish the time and all the other hard details but now she just needed Tessa to finish the story, to let it flow as much as possible, while it was still clear in her mind, unmuddied by the fallout of shock and speculation.

  ‘He said she must have got out,’ Tessa said.

  ‘They kept her in the house?’ Janet checked.

  ‘Yes, they have to. The gate on the drive’s never shut. And I said, she’d better not have got in with Grainger’s sheep or he’d be up there with a shotgun. Or get the police round.’ A look of alarm bloomed across her face. ‘They weren’t . . .?’

  Shot. ‘No,’ said Janet.

  Tessa swallowed, her hands clenched tight in her lap. ‘The boys, they came downstairs while we were talking.’

  ‘Theo and Harry?’

  ‘They’re all right?’ Tessa said.

  ‘We believe Mr Cottam has taken them with him.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gave a little gasp.

  ‘You saw the boys, and then?’

  ‘That was it. I came home.’

  ‘Tell me more about Grainger?’

  ‘He owns a lot of the land beyond the pub. The farmhouse is further down the valley, going away from town. There’ve been a few problems: kids from the estate on those mini motorbikes, and dogs worrying the sheep. That’s why I said that to Owen about Pepper. She’s been in there before and Billy managed to get her back before she did any damage, but Grainger, he always calls the police.’

  ‘That’s very helpful,’ Janet said. ‘We’re going to need a full witness statement from you and it would be very useful to do that at the police station. I realize this is a lot to take in. Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just get dressed,’ Tessa said.

  ‘Of course. I’ll come back in half an hour and we’ll get you down to the station then,’ Janet said.

  Tessa stood up but paused at the door. ‘How could he do that?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Janet said. ‘We only have a limited amount of information at the moment.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ she said, ‘he just wouldn’t.’ She bit her lips together and shook her head, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The boys – do you think they’re going to be all right?’

  Janet didn’t reply. What answer could she possibly give?

  Rachel could see that what Janet had found out from Tessa Bowen was crucial to the inquiry, giving them a possible last sighting of Owen Cottam, and she radioed through the information immediately. She was keen to get her to the station and take a written statement.

  ‘I’ve left her getting ready,’ Janet told Rachel, ‘said we’d call back for her. Do you think we’d better check out this Grainger fella, just in case he went ballistic, saw the dog worrying his sheep and decided to teach Cottam a lesson he’d never forget?’

  ‘Thought farmers did it with shotguns?’ Rachel said. Not that they came across many on their patch as a rule; not a lot of call for farmers in North Manchester, not unless it was a cannabis farm. Fair few shotguns though. Sawn off, usually.

  ‘Oh, yes, invariably,’ Janet said.

  ‘Besides, what’s he done with his nibs and the nippers? Fed ’em to his pigs?’

  Janet closed her eyes, a pose of martyrdom.

  ‘What?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Your turn of phrase leaves a lot to be desired.’

  ‘Tell your mum was a schoolteacher,’ Rachel said.

  ‘What was yours?’

  A failure. ‘Housewife,’ Rachel invented. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What?’

  Rachel scrabbled through her pockets. ‘Okay. Thought I’d lost the keys for a minute.’ She hadn’t but it served to derail the conversation well enough; now she could shift it to safer ground.

  The track to Grainger’s farm was halfway down the hillside, a turning to the right, tarmac part of the way then given over to dirt and stones. The gate into the farmyard was shut and various warning signs plastered about made it plain that no one was welcome. An impression reinforced by the broken stile just at the side of the gate and the rotting public footpath sign half hidden by brambles.

  In the farmyard there were some geese, big brutes, and Rachel was glad they were the other side of the barrier. A dog, out of sight, was barking its balls off, which brought a man from one of the outbuildings.

  Rat-faced, Rachel thought, no chin, spike of a nose, daft-looking moustache, like something you’d buy on a sheet of cardboard from the toy stall on the market.

  ‘Mr Grainger?’ Janet said.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Always a good start. Rachel and Janet flashed their warrant cards. ‘We’re investigating a serious incident at Journeys Inn,’ Janet said. ‘Have you been aware of any disturbances, anyone entering your property, any unusual traffic in the area?’

  Rachel briefly imagined catamarans, penny-farthings, air balloons. Should have eaten, her mind jittery because she’d not.

  ‘No,’ he said and turned to spit.

  Fuck’s sake, Rachel thought. Wild west. Just need the chaps and spurs. ‘What can you tell us about Mr Cottam?’ she said.

  Grainger pursed his lips, gave a shrug. Bored, indifferent. Rachel wondered if he’d change his tune once he heard the story. Would that get his tongue wagging.

  ‘You know him?’ Janet said.

  ‘By sight.’

  ‘Neighbours though,’ Janet pointed out. Grainger said nothing.

  ‘You seen him recently?’ Rachel said.

  A cat stalked across between the barn and the farmhouse, tail held high, ignoring the geese, though the birds moved and grouped as if they’d attack.

  Grainger shook his head. ‘Saw his car, this morning,’ he said, ‘early.’

  Rachel felt a prick of interest. ‘What time?’ she said.

  ‘Quarter to seven, ten to.’ Minutes after Tessa had returned the dog at six thirty.

  ‘Was he driving?�
�� Rachel said.

  ‘Wasn’t near enough to see.’

  They didn’t get much more from Grainger. He’d not seen the dog, Pepper, and claimed to know little about his closest neighbours. But curiosity finally overcame his mealy-mouthed act and he said, ‘What’s this incident then?’

  ‘Suspected murder,’ Janet said. And Rachel saw the blink signalling his surprise. Quick recovery though.

  ‘The wife?’ he said.

  ‘Why d’you say that?’ Rachel asked him.

  ‘Usually is. Wife or husband, and if you thought he was in the car . . .’

  Columbo.

  Janet did the formal spiel. ‘We have three victims, identities are not as yet confirmed.’

  He didn’t speak. Just gave a nod.

  ‘We’d like you to call into the station as soon as possible, make a witness statement.’ Janet handed him a card. His hand shook as he took it. His age? Or does he actually give a fuck? He tipped his head again.

  Janet phoned through to the incident room, then and there, told them they’d a key witness sighting of Cottam’s car from the farmer and that he’d be in to make a formal statement.

  ‘Central casting,’ Rachel muttered as they retraced their steps to the car.

  ‘They’re not all like that,’ Janet said. ‘I met a very nice farmer once, literate, witty, sociable – friend of Gill’s.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Rachel said sceptically.

  ‘Just like “all coppers are bastards”, eh?’ Janet said, a nod to the graffiti initials ACAB that were still regularly daubed on walls and shop shutters and hoardings and reflected the attitude of many of the people they had to deal with day in and day out.

  ‘Right,’ Rachel said, ‘’cept me and you.’

  Gill had attended the post-mortems. Watching in turn as the pathologist did external then internal examinations, combed the hair, taped the body and scraped the fingernails, swabbed the orifices. Photographed and measured the wounds, inspected, weighed and measured the organs.

  Back in the office she received excellent news: they’d an ANPR report of Cottam’s Mondeo heading north on the M6 near Penrith.

  ‘Andy.’ She put her head round her door, into the outer office. Told him about the breakthrough.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So we know he’s still moving.’

  Alive. ‘Yes. Heading up to the Lakes, perhaps? Old stamping ground. I’m going to contact both Lancashire and Cumbria police,’ she said. ‘Bring them up to speed.’

  She made those calls, alerting her colleagues in the neighbouring forces to Cottam’s movements so they could brief their own officers. Then her phone rang – the front desk. Margaret Milne, Pamela and Michael’s mother, had arrived. The family liaison officer who’d met Mrs Milne at Manchester Airport would remain her point of contact with the police. Normally one or two of Gill’s DCs along with the FLO would accompany the next of kin to identify the victims, but on this occasion, Gill intended to go herself.

  Gill knew Janet and Rachel were heading back in with an eyewitness who could place Owen and the two boys alive at six thirty that morning. Had he killed them after that, then taken the bodies with him? As yet there were no additional crime scenes other than those of the first three victims, no ominous pools of blood in the hall, or the living area. If he had killed the boys, why remove them? The fact of their absence seemed to suggest they were still alive when Cottam fled the scene.

  Gill would use Janet to talk to Margaret Milne. Janet was her best interviewer. After the stabbing, in March, when Geoff Hastings had almost killed Janet, in that long week that followed when it was touch and go, Gill didn’t dare to think Janet would ever come back to work. The best she could hope for was that her friend would survive and be able to have some quality of life in the aftermath.

  An attack like that, life threatening, was no easy thing to come back from. Gill knew coppers who would never work again, at any job; others, physically maimed or psychologically troubled, were shadows of their former selves, their previous talents and abilities ruined by the trauma. Janet’s strength, her solidity, her resilience, amazed Gill. Not only had she resumed her duties after convalescing but she retained her ability to empathize with the people she interviewed, to make them comfortable enough, safe enough, to open up. To woo them into her confidence so that talking, telling her what she needed to know, was easier than not.

  Rachel could take the eyewitness and Janet the bereaved mother.

  On her way downstairs her phone rang again. Chris on the display. A little burn of pleasure inside her. She answered the call. ‘You heard?’

  ‘Can’t think why. Triple murder, two missing kids.’

  ‘So tomorrow . . .’ she said regretfully.

  ‘You putting me off?’ he said.

  ‘God knows when I’ll get home. You know the score.’ And he did. Working in the National Policing Improvement Agency, consulting on hard to solve murders, going wherever in the country he was needed. The same job that Gill had done, had loved, until her hubby Dave shag-bandit Murray had finally been caught doing the dirty and left her for the whore of Pendlebury. Leaving Gill holding the baby; well, the fourteen-year-old. Sammy needed at least one parent in the family home on a regular basis. Gill’s high-flying career went out of the window and she took on the syndicate instead. Still working senseless hours but near enough to drive home afterwards and have breakfast in the mornings with her son. And now even that had gone . . . She tore herself away from thoughts of Sammy’s recent flight into the toxic bosom of Dave’s new family and back to Chris.

  ‘I miss you,’ Chris said and she felt her stomach drop.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. It was impossible. If she wasn’t up to her eyes he was in Cornwall or Northumberland or wherever. Then when they did schedule something together, like now with him taking leave to come up for a week, she was landed with a trio of dead bodies and the prospect of more to come.

  ‘Could still come up,’ he said.

  ‘And do what? Twiddle your thumbs while I’m here night and day?’ Nice thumbs he had, like the rest of him. ‘Book a flight somewhere,’ she said. ‘Treat yourself.’ She imagined him at the beach: tall, really tall, but he carried it so well. She loved his height, his youth, her toyboy. ‘Send me a postcard.’ And the fact he really liked her, her mind as much as her body. They spent hours talking about work and he got it, got the same buzz she did from solving the puzzles they were set, from strategy and insight. With Dave she’d shared anecdotes but there’d been an undercurrent of resentment on his part. Although he’d lumbered up his own career ladder, more or less winched up by a crane, she thought sourly, he had never had the smarts that Gill knew she had. Of course back then she’d done that whole modest act, so he wouldn’t look dim. No need with Chris. Equals.

  ‘Think of it as research,’ she said. ‘Find somewhere perfect we can go together next time I take leave.’

  ‘Do you ever take leave?’

  ‘Yes,’ she protested, though probably not always her full quota.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Talk to you later.’

  ‘Sardinia,’ she said. ‘Sardinia sounds nice. Or New York?’ and ended the call.

  Margaret Milne’s complexion was so grey Gill wondered if the woman was having heart failure. She asked her if she’d like anything to eat or drink or whether she would like to see a doctor if she wasn’t feeling well.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said, her voice wavering.

  ‘Perhaps just a cup of tea,’ the FLO, Julia, suggested. No one wanted her keeling over when they got to the mortuary.

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’ She nodded.

  While tea was fetched, Gill gave the woman her condolences. ‘I’m so very sorry for your losses,’ she said, ‘for what has happened to Pamela and Michael and Penny. And I promise you we will do everything in our power to find and punish the person or people responsible.’

  ‘Owen,’ Margaret Milne said, her lips puckered as though the name itself was bitter.


  ‘If he’s responsible,’ Gill said. Important to acknowledge that they were working on assumptions, bloody likely ones, but assumptions all the same. Until the evidence was in place and firm enough everything was modified with ‘alleged’, ‘probable’, ‘believed to be’, not ‘known to be’. Not least because giving a grieving relative information that sounded cast-iron and was later disproved caused extra anguish.

  ‘And the babbies?’ she said, her Irish accent sounding stronger.

  ‘No news. We believe Owen took them with him when he left the area this morning. Our sole aim now is to prevent any further loss of life. We have specialist staff, hostage negotiators and so on, ready to act as soon as we find them.’

  The tea arrived and Margaret Milne picked up her cup then stared at it, at a loss. And she hadn’t even seen the victims yet. Her son and daughter, her granddaughter.

  ‘After we’ve been to the mortuary, if you are able to confirm that it is Pamela and Michael and Penny, we’d very much like your help.’

  ‘How?’ She looked astonished, as though Gill had suggested something improper.

  ‘You can tell us about the family, about Owen and Pamela. It may help us know where to look.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. She put her cup down, her hand shaking, spilling some tea over the edge. ‘Can we go?’ she said, her mouth twisting and twitching. ‘Please can we go now?’

  Gill smiled and got to her feet, shared a swift glance with Julia, knowing how bloody heartbreaking the next half-hour would be.

  With a dignity that was painful and humbling to witness, Margaret Milne solemnly identified her forty-year-old daughter Pamela, her eleven-year-old granddaughter Penny, and her twenty-nine-year-old son Michael. She stood in the viewing room facing the window, tears coursing silently down her face. Then she turned to Julia and asked when she would be allowed to touch them.

  ‘We have to wait for the coroner to release the bodies,’ Julia said quietly. ‘It may take some time. The defence have the right to request an independent post-mortem, you see.’