Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Dad!’ The man who interrupted looked more like Owen than his father, stocky rather than wiry, with a paunch and a florid complexion. ‘Dad?’

  ‘He was in debt,’ Dennis Cottam, his voice still loud, still agitated, said to him. ‘She said they were due to close the pub down.’

  ‘Good God.’ Barry sighed heavily. ‘Just sit down,’ he said to his father. ‘Sit down now.’

  Rachel nodded her thanks and introduced herself formally. ‘You’d not heard about that either?’

  ‘No,’ Barry said.

  ‘And you last saw Owen at the get-together in August?’

  ‘Yeah. We were expecting to see them in a few weeks’ time, as well,’ he said. ‘Christening.’ Instead of which they had funerals to attend. Rachel knew from her briefing notes that Barry and Bev had two children, the younger a baby.

  ‘He was a good bloke,’ Barry said. ‘It doesn’t add up, you know.’ He jiggled his car keys in one hand.

  ‘I understand it’s a terrible shock,’ Rachel said. Important to acknowledge the impact of the crime, though for something this massive it was hard to find big enough words. Rachel could practically smell the grief. About to destroy them. All she could do was get them to focus on the practical.

  ‘We’d like your help in trying to think of places where Owen might go. It might be somewhere he spent time as a child or more recently, it could be related to an interest or a hobby or work. I’d like to go through every place you can think of starting from when he was little. Was he born here?’

  It took nearly an hour, with a pause for a cup of tea, to list a lifetime’s locations. Everywhere from the hall where the Boys’ Brigade band met, where Owen briefly played bass drum, through a campsite in Morecambe Bay where the Cottam lads went as teenagers and the further education college in Preston where he did a day release course to get his car mechanic’s qualification, to the holiday apartment in Malaga that Barry had rented for both families just before Theo was born. In between there were diversions to the TT races in the Isle of Man and a trip to New York.

  ‘Where was he happiest?’ Rachel asked. Which sounded like a fluffy touchy-feely question but might help.

  There was silence for a moment, then Dennis said, ‘Meeting Pamela.’

  ‘And recently, we thought, with the boys coming along,’ said Barry. He always wanted boys.’ He spoke softly, the unspoken questions suffocating in the room: Where are the boys? What has he done to them?

  Rachel cleared her throat. ‘What about your wife, his mother?’

  ‘She’s in Australia,’ Dennis said. ‘Melbourne.’

  ‘Was Owen in touch with her?’

  ‘No,’ they said together.

  ‘It wasn’t easy, her going like that, not for any of us,’ Barry said.

  ‘Was he resentful?’

  ‘We both were. What kid wouldn’t be?’

  With you on that, pal.

  The list would need close examination and assessment as to which were the most likely places to carry out further investigation or surveillance. Any further identification of Cottam’s vehicle on the ANPR system would help narrow it down but it was still a massive undertaking.

  ‘We may wish to do a televised appeal,’ Rachel said. ‘I believe my boss, DCI Murray, spoke to you on the phone earlier about that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Cottam nodded. ‘Anything, of course, anything.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship?’

  ‘He’s my son,’ grief lancing through his blue eyes, sharp and frank, ‘my flesh and blood.’

  ‘Would he trust you? I need to ask because that could affect how he’ll respond to the appeal. Or whether we ask Barry to do it, for example.’

  ‘We weren’t all that close, to be honest,’ Barry said. ‘We’d only meet up with the families – that sort of thing.’

  Rachel nodded.

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ Dennis Cottam said, his voice hollow with desolation. ‘I don’t know anything any more, with this . . .’ His hands sought his chest again, first one hand, then the other, knotted, pressing hard. His face tight with effort. ‘I don’t know who he is any more,’ he said. ‘The man who did that . . . he is not my son.’

  It was cold when Janet left the building, a hint of frost in the air. And a hint of chemicals too, petrol and something else, but preferable to the stale air in the office. Janet couldn’t wait to get home. Still feeling queasy and too hot. Taisie had been ill with some bug a couple of weeks earlier and Ade had caught it but Janet thought she had been spared.

  ‘Janet, wait,’ Andy called after her.

  Back in April it was Andy who’d picked her up, scooped her up, as she lay bleeding in the hallway after Geoff Hastings had stabbed her. Her vision had failed by then and the effect of sudden blood loss had plunged her into shock. The initial stunning pain had dissolved. She couldn’t feel anything. Everything spinning, sliding away from her: words, language, meaning, identity. But Andy, his words, somehow reaching her through the veil, ‘I love you,’ passion and anguish in the declaration. Since then he had waited, discreet and on the sidelines, while she had healed. Calling at the hospital and then occasionally at her home over the three months of her recuperation. Her mum and Ade looking after her, managing the girls.

  Janet had slept with Andy just the once, before all that, after the works’ Christmas do. A moment’s madness, she thought at the time. And crazed with guilt afterwards she swore not to do it again. The thought of cheating on Ade was hard enough but the prospect of what a separation or divorce might mean for her girls hit her as unbearable.

  The attack had ripped away those certainties, making her acutely aware that life is a fleeting gift. Making her wonder. And leaving her with a hunger, a sense of aching frustration. Work was fine, she loved her job and she loved her kids, but the notion of them growing older and independent was increasingly attractive. And the thought of another twenty or thirty years with Ade made her stomach sink. Yet when she looked at Andy, when she heard his voice, when she walked into the office and caught sight of him, she felt the thrill like something magnetic between them.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, dragging the word out, the inflection making it sound more like so-so. Could he tell she was feeling under the weather? Could anyone else at work? What if it wasn’t a passing bug but a result of the attack and the subsequent treatment, the repairs to her intestine and stomach? The surgeon had said they’d need to monitor for any complications, particularly adhesions, which were not uncommon and would require further surgery.

  ‘Perhaps we—’ He moved in closer as he spoke.

  ‘Shh.’ She shook her head.

  ‘I want you,’ he said. The declaration sent a wave of pleasure through her. She stepped towards him, although the still small sensible voice in her head was whispering caution. Stop it, stop now. Knowing that being caught having a kneetrembler with her sergeant would be disastrous, on oh so many levels.

  A slam of a car door made Janet spring back and she held her breath and listened until she heard the engine start and the vehicle drive away.

  ‘I’m going home,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Janet—’

  ‘I really am going,’ she said. ‘I want you too but not now, not like this. And I need more time.’ The words at odds with what her body was clamouring for. She turned to walk away, then swung back. Kissed him until her head began to spin and she was drunk with him. Then she walked unsteadily away.

  Gill had texted her son Sammy three times in the past week, left messages on his voicemail too. ‘All right? Just wanted a quick catch up, kid. Get in touch.’

  And heard nothing. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the anger she felt, which built up and made her want to smash something – preferably Dave the dickhead’s balls – or the sadness. Dave whom she blamed for the whole debacle. Sammy had only been able to jump ship and move in with Dave because his dad had lured him there, rolled out the red carpet, showered him with
money, promised to get him a car whatever his results. And Dave had done that to punish Gill for having the brass-necked audacity to start seeing someone. No matter that Dave was the cheating shag-bandit who’d broken up the marriage in the first place, choosing his tart from Pendlebury over his family and leaving Gill and Sammy to their own devices.

  ‘She doesn’t interfere,’ Sammy had said the day he announced his defection.

  Maybe not with you, pal – she interfered big time in my marriage. It stuck in her craw.

  Now Gill rang Dave’s number, steeling herself, straightening her back, promising herself to stay calm and collected whatever Captain Thunderpants said.

  ‘Gill,’ he answered coldly.

  ‘Is Sammy there?’

  ‘He’s about somewhere. Why?’

  ‘Put him on, will you?’

  ‘I’ll see if he wants to talk to you. You’ve tried his mobile, have you?’ Almost gloating.

  Gill blazed. ‘Just put him on the fucking phone!’ She heard him sigh then a clatter and a rustling as he moved.

  Gill had never been to the house in the four years since the split and imagined it to be a crowded little town house, no character and not enough space. Liking the picture of Dave having his style cramped while she and Sammy had remained in the beautiful family home.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sammy, it’s Mum. How’s things?’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Have you been looking at open days?’

  He was applying to uni, still uncertain as to which courses. She had spent hours looking at options with him and helping him redraft his personal statement and then suddenly he was gone.

  ‘Yeah.’ Monosyllables. It wasn’t really what she wanted to know, what she really wanted to ask was Are you happy? Do you miss me? Please come home, will you? Now that the case had broken she couldn’t even ask him out to eat because she’d be working sixteen-hour days for the duration.

  ‘Have you booked them?’ she said.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, you need to get it sorted. How are you going to choose if you’ve not been to visit?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, suddenly irritable, and she felt herself losing the battle. Hearts and minds.

  It’s very quiet without you. I miss you so much, longing to say it but determined not to. Guilt-tripping not her style. Needy Mum neither. Her brain scrabbled around searching for something else, something to get him talking. It never used to be like this; time was she could barely shut him up. Her Sammy. ‘What you been up to?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  For Pete’s sake. ‘Been out anywhere?’

  ‘Alton Towers.’

  ‘Right.’ He loved the roller coasters. Last time the two of them had been he’d talked her into riding with him. Fantastic and utterly terrifying. ‘Good stuff! You keep your breakfast down?’

  ‘Course,’ just the edge of a laugh bubbling there.

  ‘Your dad go on with you?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Pussycat,’ Gill scoffed.

  ‘Emma did. And we went straight back on,’ he said gleefully. Gill grew cold. Hating the thought of that bitch having fun with her son. Knowing she had to swallow her jealousy.

  ‘Wow,’ she managed.

  ‘Dad wants his phone,’ Sammy said.

  ‘Okay, look, keep in touch, will you? Just message me or whatever. Let me know you’re still alive. That you’re okay. I worry.’

  ‘Course I’m okay.’

  I don’t know that. You could be pining or lonely or bored senseless and I wouldn’t know. A year’s time and he’d likely be gone for good; she had expected to have him for these last few months, as he finished his schooling. It felt as if Dave had snatched it away to get back at her. ‘You take care,’ she said. ‘Love you, kid.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grunted, ‘later.’ The phone went dead. She resisted the temptation to hurl it across the room, instead slapped the wall with her hand. Which hurt like hell, stinging her palm and bringing a burning pain to her eyes.

  Then she set about updating the policy book on the various actions of the inquiry and outlining her reasons for each decision she had made.

  The house was in darkness though the security lighting in the car park came on as Rachel drove in. Once inside her flat, she headed straight for the kitchen, poured a large glass of red wine and drank half of it before shaking off her coat. She felt hollow, cold even though the room was warm enough. And hungry. It took her three minutes to sort out a chicken noodle meal in the microwave and another three to demolish it.

  She refilled her glass and sat down to check her phone. No messages from work, which meant no significant progress. Cottam still out there. And the kids? Dead or alive?

  With the wine taking hold she felt her muscles loosen, her concentration blur. She drank more. Put on the twenty-four hour news to see what they were saying. Saw the scant details of the murders scrolling under the current item. When the wine bottle was empty she headed for bed.

  It reared up to meet her, a ghost, a blizzard of white. She screamed. Then saw it was feathers, just the feathers from her bloody pillow, a wraith brought to life by the sudden change in air pressure when she’d swung the door open. She sucked in a breath. Then another. Felt her heart pounding. Her face on fire. Thought briefly of the sofa and a sleeping bag but couldn’t face that. Got a cushion from the living room, undressed and climbed into bed. The knife under her pillow. Fingers clutched around it. Clenched tight, clinging on for dear life.

  Day Two

  8

  Janet didn’t often discuss work with Ade. After all these years he had heard most of it before and talk at home, when there was any, centred on the girls and domestic affairs.

  But she knew she had to tell him about Geoff Hastings, the fact that she had agreed to interview him. She couldn’t keep putting it off. Janet had refused at first when Gill asked. Never wanting to set eyes on the man again. Preferring never to hear his name. Certainly not wanting to be in the same room as him, breathing the same air as him. Gill had emphasized it was Janet’s decision, no one would think any the worse of her if she refused. Gill had also let slip, on purpose Janet was sure, that Geoff Hastings was refusing to speak to anyone else. Had asked for Janet specifically. And the thought that if she bottled it they might never know what happened to the women he’d killed ate away at her. Eventually her anger at the possibility that he might escape with less than full disclosure, full punishment, equalled her anxiety at the prospect of encountering him.

  Geoff Hastings was accused of killing his sister Veronica, Janet’s school mate, and then several other women in the ensuing years. He’d had the perverted audacity to ask Janet to help him by looking into the unsolved case of Veronica’s murder. Why? Some twisted desire to play games and test the police? Or had he secretly wanted to be caught? To be stopped?

  It had been Rachel who made the leap, seeing a pattern to the other unsolved murders: the women all of a type, their ages consistent with how old Veronica would be if she had not been asphyxiated as a little girl. Then, working out the geographical profile, that all the deaths occurred when Geoff Hastings was working as a lorry driver in the relevant area.

  Rachel had rung Janet with her light-bulb moment. Geoff Hastings there, in Janet’s kitchen, as she took the call. Reading Janet’s face, Geoff Hastings grabbing the knife, Janet fighting, using every ounce of strength of will and energy . . .

  She wrenched herself back to the present and buttered toast. Put some down on the table and filled the kettle.

  Ade got up for the jam. She waited until he was seated. Choosing breakfast time because if there was a row, and she anticipated at least a few choice expletives, they’d be forced to adjourn for work, whereas if she told him in the evening it could rumble on for hours.

  They’d not argued much at all since her injury. First too fragile, then too thankful. Perhaps the new grateful Ade would take a different tack from the one she anticipated.

  Janet p
oured tea. ‘Something’s come up at work,’ she said.

  ‘What, on top of three murders?’

  She gave a faint smile. ‘I’m going to be interviewing Geoff Hastings.’

  His face froze and he put down his toast. ‘What? They can’t make you do that. They can’t, can they?’

  ‘No one’s making me do anything.’

  ‘You can’t do it, Janet.’

  ‘Ade, look—’

  ‘No!’ He began to shout. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near the man. How can you even think of it?’ He hit at the table, slid his chair back, the noise fraying Janet’s nerves.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she said, ‘it’s work.’ She felt her temperature rising and with it her temper.

  ‘You’re my wife.’ He jabbed his finger towards her, proprietorially. ‘Don’t I get a say?’

  ‘No. This is my professional life. It’s none of your business. I’m only telling you—’

  ‘Whose idea was it,’ he demanded. ‘Yours?’

  ‘I agreed.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ he shouted.

  ‘Gill.’

  He swung away, clapping his hands to his head. ‘Has she lost the plot? You came that close . . .’ He held his thumb and forefinger millimetres apart. His face was red with exertion, a blob of spit on his chin. Janet knew she should try to calm him, take some heat out of the situation, but her own ill temper needled at her, pushing her on, avid to shout him down.

  ‘I know! I was there!’ she yelled. ‘And he asked for me, if you must know.’

  He stared. ‘Oh, that’s priceless.’

  Janet shouted over him. ‘And because I came that close and survived, I will do it for all the others who weren’t so lucky.’

  ‘Oh, very noble,’ he sneered. ‘You don’t see, do you? He’s playing you, Janet. Some sick little mind game, another way to make you dance to his tune. Just like you did when he first asked you to help.’

  ‘What’s all the shouting?’ Elise said, coming in, fourteen yet sounding like someone’s mother.