Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  Hardly the high life, Gill thought. The pub had a shoddy, tired appearance which the family flat above shared. Furniture was mismatched and mostly cheap, the soft furnishings too. The kitchen/living area looked as though it had been fitted twenty years ago or more, the sandy brown worktop fraying along the edge with water damage. The room had smelled of dog and a faint whiff of gas. Tiling behind the counter top in cream and flecks of burnt orange, every so often a feature tile, a picture of a tree. The rustic feel circa 1980s.

  Other things were newer, the flat-screen televisions and the computer. And the clothing that Gill had seen all looked in good condition.

  ‘The pub wasn’t doing much of a turnover,’ Pete said.

  Smoking ban, people drinking at home.

  ‘Should have tried a sports bar,’ Kevin said. ‘Massive screen. Course, you’ve got the outlay—’

  ‘Kevin.’ Gill yanked his lead, stopped him wittering on. Kevin was Gill’s crown of thorns. Struggling to make the grade and Gill had sworn she’d knock him into shape. It was just taking way longer than she’d anticipated.

  ‘There were rumours on house-to-house it was losing money,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘There’s no work on the Larks; his clientele’s mainly benefit drinkers.’

  Pete said, ‘I spoke to the brewery. They were talking about pulling the plug after New Year. Tenancy is up for renewal then. Informed Cottam by registered letter, which he received on the thirtieth of September.’

  ‘Something like that could be a trigger?’ Gill said.

  Leonard nodded. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘He’d debts too,’ Pete said. ‘Credit cards – only paying off the interest. Payday loans.’

  ‘Owen was owing.’ Kevin grinned, looked round the room for a response. Got a scoff and rolling eyes from Rachel, a slow blink from Janet and a shake of the head from Lee. ‘Rhymes, doesn’t it?’ Kevin, crap at reading the signs, dug his hole even deeper.

  ‘Kevin,’ Andy said wearily.

  ‘What was he spending it on?’ Gill asked Pete.

  ‘Clothes, food, essentials, nothing flash. Utility bills. His car’s six years old, pick one up for six grand.’

  ‘Still – it’s a Mondeo,’ Mitch said. ‘Lot of car for the price.’

  ‘Tells us what?’ Gill said, not wanting them to get into a Top Gear riff. Mitch was mad about cars.

  ‘Not flash,’ Andy said, ‘but he’s looking at reasonable quality.’

  ‘Anything flash round the Larks and it’d soon disappear,’ Rachel said.

  ‘The family had a holiday to Minorca in May, not paid that off yet,’ Pete added.

  ‘He was already in debt by then?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pete said.

  ‘Keeping up appearances,’ said Lee. ‘He had to be seen to be providing for his family. He’ll keep the illusion going as long as possible.’

  That would tally with the clothes, Gill thought. People would see the kids well dressed and assume the household were managing well.

  Janet raised her pen and addressed Leonard Petty. ‘What’s he feeling then, about things going down the drain?’

  ‘Shame and anger. This is his responsibility. Any failure in that regard would be excruciating for him. He won’t admit to anyone it’s happening. He feels outraged, betrayed that his livelihood is on the line. It’s common enough: the recession, businesses folding, layoffs, but as far as this man is concerned it’s his problem and his alone. He’s been singled out, his status about to be destroyed, his self-esteem undermined.’

  ‘Even for us,’ Gill said. Numbers in the police force were going to be cut in an effort to make savings. At what cost, she thought? As people became poorer, more desperate, as unemployment increased, crime would rise, with fewer officers to deal with it all. Crime stats had been falling. It was something she was proud to be associated with, but the future was far more uncertain.

  ‘Did we find a will?’

  ‘Yes,’ Andy said. ‘They both had one. Standard stuff – spouse inherits and then the children.’

  ‘Okay. Moving on to our crime scenes,’ Gill said, ‘we’re awaiting further forensics but already we can agree a likely sequence of events. Last customers left the pub at eleven twenty-three.’

  Rachel picked up the thread. ‘A group celebrating a thirtieth birthday with whisky chasers and rounds of pool.’

  ‘CCTV from the pub tells us all was well then,’ Gill said. ‘Pamela, Owen and Michael clearing up.’

  She played the film. There was little communication between the three adults as they went about the routine. But it was unnerving witnessing the footage, so mundane and unremarkable, knowing what was to come. ‘No reports of anything out of the ordinary,’ Gill went on. ‘Pamela Milne texted her friend Lynn after going upstairs.’ She gave Janet the nod.

  ‘The women were due to be going shopping in Manchester,’ Janet said. ‘Pamela suggested Tuesday in her text. Nothing untoward in the exchange.’

  ‘No CCTV in the flat itself,’ Gill said. ‘The cameras are inside downstairs and outside covering the entrance and the car park. We see nothing until three in the morning.’ The film showed Owen Cottam entering the pub from the internal door and going behind the bar. He opened a bottle of whisky and then went into the small room behind the bar. The screen went black.

  ‘He switched the system off then. Note he is fully dressed and wearing clothes the same as or similar to the ones described by Tessa when he spoke to her at six thirty in the morning. Until forensics give us more hard data all we can be sure of is that between eleven thirty last night and eight, when the wagon driver from the brewery arrived, Cottam used a knife recovered from the property to kill his wife and his daughter and his brother-in-law. The sighting of the car by Grainger, the neighbouring farmer, before seven makes me think we can probably shave an hour off that. Analysis of drops of blood on the landing between the three bedrooms should help us confirm which direction Cottam was walking in and therefore the order in which the attacks took place. We believe he was interrupted during or soon after the attack on Michael, leading him to abandon the weapon in Michael’s room. The bottle of whisky, three-quarters empty, with a smear of blood visible on the label, was recovered from the bathroom. Owen Cottam’s fingerprints are on the bottle, which is the same brand as the one he had on the film from the bar. Evidence suggests he washed his hands in the bathroom after the attacks: blood traces in the sink and on a towel. Cottam shut the dog in the kitchen and fled the property between six thirty and eight with the two younger children. Mitch, friends and associates?’

  ‘Not finding many,’ Mitch said. ‘Seems to have kept himself to himself, family man.’

  ‘Acting alone?’ Gill said, and Leonard nodded. ‘Not likely to have any allies.’

  ‘He wouldn’t trust anyone else to help, would he,’ Lee said. ‘He believes he’s on his own. Any emotional investment he has is with his immediate family. Not beyond that.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Leonard Petty said. ‘So although we know he might be looking for places to regroup we’re not expecting him to contact friends or wider family.’

  ‘What places will be of interest?’ Gill said.

  ‘Possibly remote, isolated, where he won’t be at risk of identification,’ Leonard Petty said.

  ‘What if he’s clever, though? You’ve two kids, you want to go unnoticed, why not go where there’s loads of kids. A theme park or summat,’ Rachel said.

  ‘In plain sight.’ Gill considered it.

  ‘More risky, I’d have thought,’ said Janet.

  ‘I agree,’ the forensic psychologist said. ‘He wants to be somewhere where he believes he can control the scenario. Somewhere to take stock and redesign his plan.’

  ‘He didn’t take the knife, so we don’t know how he might be trying to kill them,’ Pete said.

  ‘He could buy another knife,’ said Kevin.

  ‘He’s got a car,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘If he’s got a bit of hosepipe he could have alread
y done it. That’s what I’d do, or jump off a cliff with them.’ Rachel blunt as ever.

  Gill tipped her head to Leonard Petty, inviting him to respond.

  ‘Hard to second guess, but it’s an eventuality we should prepare for if we do find the vehicle,’ he said.

  Gill imagined it. The Mondeo in some lay-by. Unremarkable until someone sees the line of tubing snaking in the top of the window. Catches a glimpse of the driver’s face, or the kiddies’ – red as toffee apples: the side effect of cyanotic poisoning. ‘Let’s hope the bastard didn’t have time to take anything with him. That he’s still trolling up and down the M6 trying to work out where to go, what to do. You’ll all be entitled to overtime thanks to the powers that be.’ A cheer went up. She knew most of them would have put the time in regardless. Not interested in their social lives or feet up in front of the box in the midst of a case like this.

  ‘So, Rachel, take the father and the brother. As well as general background we specifically want a list of locations. We want to know where Cottam might be headed.’

  Rachel had only just lit up, sucked a lungful of smoke in and closed her eyes when she heard someone approach, footsteps fast on the ground, setting her nerves jangling as she swung round prepared to bolt.

  ‘Found you!’ Her sister Alison, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘I wasn’t lost.’ Rachel took another drag, willed her hand to stop shaking.

  ‘Well, I’ve been ringing you for the last fortnight,’ Alison said, bossy big sister act, hands on her hips. ‘Thought you’d given up.’ She nodded her head at Rachel’s fag. ‘Those things’ll kill you.’

  Who cares, thought Rachel? Something’s got to. ‘What’re you here for, Alison? Only I’m working. Busy. Very busy.’

  Alison was about to hurl something back. Rachel could see it: Busy? You have no idea. I’ve three kids and a job as well. But then something clearly dawned on Alison, bringing light to her eyes and making her mouth drop open. ‘God, it’s not the Journeys Inn thing, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rachel sucked more smoke, another couple of tokes, getting ready to head back inside.

  ‘That’s awful, that,’ Alison said, ‘awful.’ Then quieter, more confidential, a greedy look on her face, ‘Do they know where he is? Why he—’

  ‘Can’t discuss it.’ Rachel dropped her fag, ground it out. ‘So . . .’

  Alison crossed her arms. ‘Another couple of months and Dom’ll be released.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Rachel breathed, ‘not that again.’

  ‘What d’you mean, that again? He’s family, Rachel. We’re all he’s got.’

  ‘Count me out.’ Rachel had been over this time and again. Dom had messed up, silly pillock, made his bed, he could lie in it. She didn’t need a convicted criminal for a brother, convicted of armed robbery. Imagining how well Godzilla would take that little nugget of information.

  ‘What’s prison for?’ Alison said.

  ‘Low-lifes? Scumbags?’

  ‘Rehabilitation,’ Alison said.

  ‘Spare me the philosophical debate.’ Rachel began to move away.

  ‘He needs us, Rachel. He’s done his time, he’s paid for his mistake. No support and he is way more likely to get into bother again. Is that what you want?’

  What did she want? For it never to have happened. For Dom to have stayed on the straight and narrow. Got a job, found someone to spend his wages on. For Dom to have grown up and got his act together, instead of throwing it all away. ‘What’s done is done.’

  ‘He’ll listen to you,’ Alison said. ‘He always was closest to you. He always asks after you, you know. You washed your hands of him.’ She was getting aerated now. ‘Four years – not one visit, not even a birthday card. How do you think that’s helped his self-esteem? Fresh start, Rachel, doesn’t he deserve that?’

  Rachel didn’t want to think about it. About Dom who she’d tried to raise right after her mum had sodded off and left them to it. Her dad a waste of space, living his life in a triangle: bookies, pub, home, with occasional appearances at the dole office. Alison tried to keep everything going. Rachel had finally escaped, left it all behind. Now Alison was wanting to drag her back into it. ‘He didn’t listen to me, did he? Or he wouldn’t be there. Look, now is not the time—’

  ‘When the hell is, then?’ Alison shouted. ‘You’re never in if I come round. You ignore my calls.’ A couple of bobbies going round to the entrance halted, sussing out if help was required. Rachel raised a hand, showing them she was okay.

  ‘You’d rather he went back inside?’ Alison said. ‘All I’m asking is you see him, buy him a meal now and then. Be his sister. Please, Rachel?’

  Rachel ground her teeth. She didn’t need this. Not on top of everything else.

  ‘What is it?’ Alison rattled on. ‘He cramp your style, would he? Now you’ve got the brilliant job and the fancy luxury conversion and you’re hanging round with big-shot barristers. Looking down on the rest of us.’ Alison didn’t know about Nick Savage. Rachel had told her he was off the scene but left out the bit about him trying to get her killed. ‘Joined the Masons, have you? Funny handshakes?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘You’re just writing him off, me and all? Is that it? You’re too good for us now?’

  ‘It’s not about you. You didn’t commit armed robbery with a sawn-off shotgun.’

  ‘He was a teenager, Rachel. He was young and daft.’

  ‘He had a choice,’ Rachel said. That’s what made her so mad, that the stupid little scally could have taken another road. Turned down the offer of a rock solid way to make easy money and stayed honest.

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ Alison said. ‘You could get a bloody medal for it.’

  ‘You know fuck all about me.’ Rachel suddenly hot with rage.

  ‘I’m your sister, your daft mare, course I know about you. And he is your brother.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back,’ Rachel said.

  Alison swung her head, chewing the side of her cheek. Obviously furious with her. Disappointed. She didn’t move as Rachel walked back in, already craving another smoke and imagining the bottle of wine waiting for her at the end of the day.

  7

  Dennis Cottam had the weather-beaten, whittled look of someone whose life had been one of manual labour. Skin leathery and brown. Outdoors all hours, running his car repair workshop. Grease monkey, thought Rachel, something ape-like about him, not in his manner – not crude or uncivilized – but in his physicality: bald with a deeply wrinkled brow, bristles dark around his mouth, arms with muscles and tendons like ropes and hands larger than his frame warranted, out of proportion to the rest of him somehow. He’d got startling blue eyes, like Janet’s, curly hairs thick on his forearms.

  ‘Mr Cottam? DC Rachel Bailey. Someone said I’d be coming?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Local officers had already made the initial visit, broken the news to Cottam senior, established whether he’d had any contact with his eldest son (not for a couple of months) and advised him on what he should do if he did hear anything. Ferried through any facts they collected to the inquiry.

  Dennis Cottam lived in an end terrace next door to his workshop and garage. The house looked clean and tidy from the outside, like its neighbours.

  ‘Barry’s not here yet,’ he said, his knuckles pressing at his chest, the only sign that anything was wrong.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Rachel said. ‘We can make a start.’

  He took her through. The rooms had been knocked through to create an open-plan living area. The furnishings were plain, modern: a small chocolate-coloured sofa and chair, pale grey paint on the walls. Rachel wondered if Dennis had picked it. Or if there was a woman involved.

  She sat in an upright chair beside a small table, presumably where he ate his meals. He sat in the armchair, then started, ‘Would you like a drink, tea or coffee?’ Worried about forgetting his manners.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Rachel said. He was d
azed, she could see that: the way his eyes wandered, drifting, the halting nature of his interaction with her. ‘Can I just go over what you told the officers earlier? You’ve not heard from Owen since August when you all went for a pub lunch.’

  ‘That’s right. Busman’s holiday for them but it saves them the cooking . . .’ he cleared his throat, ‘Pam and Bev, Barry’s wife.’ He pressed his fist against his chest again. You can cry, mate, Rachel thought, I’ll not bother. But he fought against it and picked up his story. ‘There’s a place near the reservoir, Hollingworth way. Big playground. We got into the habit of going there, two or three times a year. Handy for everybody, the driving like.’

  ‘How was Owen, then?’

  ‘Same as ever,’ he said, shaking his head steadily, ‘same as ever.’

  ‘Have you ever known Owen to be violent?’

  ‘No,’ he said, then shrugged. ‘He could hold his own, if things got out of hand, any trouble at the pub. But no, no.’

  Some people knew, Rachel thought, saw it coming, their sons or brothers or fathers always quick to anger or picking fights. Bullies or hard men. Heads full of jealousy and envy and fuck you, mate. Not necessarily psychos but a fist or a bottle the weapon of first resort. And when such men killed, the relatives would berate themselves for not having done something, not having said something. Unless they were cut from the same cloth, when it’d be more a case of so-and-so had it coming. Only so much a bloke can take.

  Dennis Cottam though, Rachel could see, had never imagined this, not in his darkest dreams. And was still trying to absorb the new reality he had been plunged into.

  ‘Did Owen say anything about the business?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Ticking over, that’s the impression I had. Why? Was there a problem?’

  ‘We’ve heard the brewery had plans to close the pub in January. And Owen was carrying a lot of debt.’

  He stared at her, then frowned and rubbed his chin with one hand. ‘He never said a word. Is this why?’ His voice rose. He stood quickly. ‘He needed money?’ A look of disgust pulled his lips back; his teeth were yellow, uneven. ‘I could have lent him money. If it was about money.’ He was appalled. ‘Why didn’t he ask me? I could have sold the garage, for pity’s sake.’