Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  There were guidelines to the wording of these appeals, Gill knew, just as there were techniques to be used when negotiating with a hostage taker, which Owen Cottam was at this stage. Nothing that would increase the pressure or exacerbate the tension. Nothing judgemental or punitive. The aim was to start a dialogue, create a breathing space, open a door, defuse the situation as much as possible. To demonstrate understanding and empathy rather than revulsion and incomprehension. There should be nothing in what his father said to panic Cottam, no nugget of criticism to fuel mistrust or paranoia, no bartering or bribery – not yet.

  ‘Stage one is the equivalent of a smile,’ she’d heard one trainer say. ‘It’s a pair of open arms. Until that’s accepted we can’t build the rapport we need to effect a safe resolution.’

  Lisa took her into the little room adjacent to the conference room and introduced her. Gill shook hands with all three of them. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you personally for doing this today. I understand it can’t be easy.’

  ‘Keep thinking I’ll forget it,’ Dennis Cottam said gruffly. A wiry, weather-beaten man with a shirt fresh from the packet and a shaving nick on his chin.

  ‘You don’t need to learn it,’ Gill said. ‘You take all the time you need. I’ll be there, and you’ve got the paper.’

  ‘I’ll need my specs,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Here,’ Bev said, ‘I’ve got them.’ She held out a glasses case. ‘I’ve cleaned them, too,’ she said.

  ‘Right, thanks.’

  Gill suspected that Bev had bought the shirt as well. She was pretty, blonde, radiated a tense energy probably brought about by the ghastly situation. Some people fell to bits, others grew practical. Gill put Bev in the latter category.

  ‘You’ll sit on my left and Barry next to you,’ Gill said to Dennis Cottam. ‘I’ll introduce you and then you read your piece. Try and imagine you’re talking directly to Owen. Yes? It will be very quick, no questions. I need to warn you there will be cameras and flashes going off so be prepared for that.’

  Dennis Cottam nodded. ‘He was never any trouble, you know?’ he said, the incongruity of what had happened hitting him anew. ‘Not a scrap of bother, was there?’ He looked to Barry, who swallowed and shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Two minutes,’ Lisa said. ‘Okay? We’ll get your microphones on.’

  Dennis puffed his cheeks out, exhaled, obviously sick with nerves. While Lisa wired up Dennis Cottam, Gill clipped the lapel mic on to her jacket and checked the power light showed red on her transmitter before tucking it into the waistband of her skirt.

  Then it was time. They went through to the larger room and Gill waited by her chair until they were both seated. With Lisa to her right and Dennis Cottam to her left she looked out at the bank of journalists. The case was big enough, brutal enough, to have brought in some foreign crews too. The fact that Cottam was still at large with two youngsters at risk created an extra dimension of human interest.

  Some reporters were typing into their iPads or tablets, others tweeting. Around them colleagues wielded cameras of varying shapes and sizes.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am DCI Gill Murray, senior investigating officer in this case. I’d like to introduce Mr Dennis Cottam who is here today to speak directly to his son Owen.’

  Gill turned to Dennis. The man’s eyes swam behind his spectacles as he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘Owen, we’d like you to come in, son. Things have not been easy but there’s people can help us sort it all out. You’ve family here and we want to help. We care for you, you and—’ He broke off, face collapsing, on the brink of weeping. He began to shiver, his shoulders heaving, the paper jerking in his grip.

  Barry reached over and put his arm round his father’s shoulders and took the paper from him. He wasn’t miked up but the room was so quiet his voice carried. ‘We want you back, we want you and the boys safe. Please come in and we’ll be with you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gill said.

  Dennis continued to tremble, his hand over his face now. Beside him, his son Barry, eyes bright with grief, carried on holding him as Gill made her final remarks. Then Gill touched his shoulder and they slowly made their way from the room.

  Rachel’s arms were shaking as they walked into the mortuary, her arms and hands. She tried to hide it.

  ‘It’s just along here,’ Tintwhistle said.

  ‘I know the drill,’ Rachel told him but her voice sounded shivery and uncertain. They carried on, his shoes squeaking on the floor with each step.

  When they reached the waiting room adjacent to the viewing area, he said, ‘I’ll just go and tell them you’re here.’

  Rachel’s mind skittered around. She tried to concentrate on what she’d be doing when she got back to work but the image of the cuttings, the scraps of paper he’d carefully torn out and saved, him poring over them, remained stuck in the centre of her mind, like a poster slapped on a shop window obscuring everything else. She needed a smoke; she couldn’t do this without one.

  Getting rapidly to her feet she half ran to the entrance, then along the front of the building, firing up as soon as she could wrestle her cigs and lighter from her bag.

  She inhaled, went dizzy for a moment. Closed her eyes. The day was warm and humid and her skin felt moist, almost greasy. She’d only had a few drags when she heard her name called.

  ‘DC Bailey.’ Tintwhistle, face like a smacked arse.

  ‘A minute.’ Rachel raised the fag between her fingers. He wasn’t happy but what could he do? Gave a tight little shrug and went back in the building.

  Rachel smoked down to the filter, gazing across at the shop on the corner, the steady trail of customers nipping in for sweets or fags or papers. Only noticed it then, as she made to stub out her cigarette, been staring at it long enough: the sandwich board, MURDER HUNT FOR TOTS in flat, black capitals.

  As she turned to go back in her phone rang. Janet calling. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘She wants you here now.’

  ‘Tell her I’m on my way,’ Rachel said.

  ‘An explanation might help,’ Janet said.

  She could just go, leave all this for Alison to do tomorrow. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? She thought of her dad’s voice, the way he’d sing if he was in a good mood, Sunny Side of the Street, Spanish Harlem, Love Me Tender, taking the floor at parties before it all began to sour.

  How could she explain this? Her mind was blank. ‘Make something up,’ she said and ended the call.

  Once she found Tintwhistle, they went through to the viewing room. Rachel studied the floor, cast her eyes around the ceiling. They’d lowered it at some point. Probably had those high ceilings, fancy plasterwork around the edges, like the rest of the old municipal buildings. Stained glass and frilly bits on the stonework, or the latticed windows, diamond shapes and . . .

  ‘Miss Bailey. You will see there is some discoloration to the face.’

  She wrenched her eyes open and looked through the glass to the figure on the bier. Felt something swell, blocking her throat. He was discoloured, his face mottled and dark, smaller than she remembered, and looked older. His hair had grown longer; he used to be clean shaven, always, but this man had a beard and moustache. So for half a second she felt something release inside her, was about to say no, it’s not him, but the shape of his face . . . She looked at his mouth, stretched down with disappointment. ‘That’s him,’ Rachel said and coughed. Her stomach hurt. Her eyes were stinging. She bit down hard on her tongue. ‘That it?’

  ‘The post-mortem, confirmation of cause of death, they say it was his liver. Apparently he’d spent some time in hospital recently, cirrhosis.’

  Rachel nodded. No surprises there, then.

  ‘One of the other residents raised the alarm,’ Tintwhistle told her, ‘not seen him for a while. Looks like he’d been there a couple of weeks.’

&
nbsp; No!

  ‘Drive me back,’ Rachel said, a couple of weeks banging in her skull over and over like a chant.

  ‘Must have been proud of you,’ he said, once they reached his car.

  Not so’s you’d notice. Not usually, anyway. Rachel didn’t reply. Concentrating too hard on hiding everything, not wanting to throw up or burst into tears or faint at the copper’s feet. A couple of weeks. His own bloody fault really, wasn’t it? No one to blame but himself. Silly old sod.

  Days when she’d come home to tell him she’d got into the Special Constables or passed her first aid. Half the time he wasn’t there to tell, already down the pub. The rest he’d look at her. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. Rachel trying to tell if he had a cob on. In which case he’d pontificate about her shortcomings, the fickle way of the world and his own sorry state. What’s it take for a man to make an honest living these days?

  Sobriety would help, getting up and out of the house fully dressed before midday too. He used to do labouring, shovelling and shifting. Nothing skilled. Then it got so he’d just missed the alarm, or Chalky didn’t really need him, or his back was giving him gyp. Till eventually he wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it bit him on the bum.

  Rachel kept quiet mostly when he began his tirades, lost it now and then with a sarky comment or a direct challenge that earned her a slap. On the better days, no mood on him, he’d be milder. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. ‘No flies on you, eh? Sharp as a tack.’ But still a caution: ‘Just remember where you come from.’

  What the hell for? Rachel meant to forget where she’d come from as soon as possible. Do a thorough amnesia job on it.

  Now with him gone, it’d be even easier.

  11

  Janet was coming out of the Ladies when she met Rachel running up the stairs. ‘What did you tell her?’ Rachel said, dragging her back into the loos.

  ‘Said I didn’t know. What was I supposed to tell her? Where were you, anyway. She’s steaming.’

  ‘I ran out of fags.’ Rachel ran water into a sink. Scooped back her hair in one hand and splashed her face.

  ‘Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘Ran out of cash?’ Rachel dried her face.

  Janet could see Rachel wasn’t making any effort to sound plausible. Janet didn’t understand what was going on but there wasn’t time to try to ferret the truth out of her. ‘Come on,’ she said.

  Gill saw Rachel from her office as soon as they walked in and came to the door. ‘Rachel, good of you to join us. Somewhere important to be?’ Disapproval etched into every syllable.

  ‘I fell down the stairs, boss,’ Rachel said. ‘Banged my head. Thought I’d better get it checked out. Felt sick.’

  ‘Really?’ Gill obviously didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Is it in the accident book?’

  ‘No, boss. Bit muddled, I think. I just went straight to A&E.’

  ‘Who processed you in an hour?’ Gill was furious, eyes bright, jaw taut. Everyone knew A&E was an average three-hour wait. Janet felt sick, worried about what Gill might do or say, worried for Rachel.

  ‘Felt better,’ Rachel said, ‘came back.’

  ‘I was going to allocate you and Janet to the surveillance team. Join our colleagues on the ground. However, if you have suspected concussion . . .’

  Oh, Christ. Janet could hear what was coming.

  ‘Please, boss?’ Rachel said.

  ‘If you can’t be bothered—’

  ‘I can!’ Rachel interrupted. Never a good move. Gill glared, nostrils flaring.

  ‘Listen, lady, I don’t need officers of mine doing a Houdini on me. What could possibly be more important than working your balls off on a triple murder and missing children? Unless someone died. Did someone die?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel said, sounding miserable as sin.

  ‘Boss . . .’ Janet tried to intervene though she hadn’t a clue what she could say to mitigate Rachel’s offence. ‘Boss’ was all that came out, a bleat that Gill ignored.

  ‘As it is—’ Gill continued, then her phone went and she held up her hand, warning them to wait while she took the call. Eyes flaring with excitement. ‘The Mondeo . . . abandoned.’ Janet saw the moment’s disappointment dampen Gill’s energy, but her recovery was almost instantaneous. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . agreed.’ She turned to them, face alight. ‘We’ve found the car. Woods near Lundfell.’

  ‘Yes!’ Rachel’s manner changed in a flash, alert and engaged. ‘Cottam?’

  ‘He is not with the vehicle but we hope to trace him from there.’

  ‘The kids?’ Janet said.

  Gill shook her head, ‘No.’

  That was good, though, thought Janet, no news better than what they might have found. Or had he already killed them and dumped them somewhere?

  ‘Forensics are all over it now and we’re getting tracker dogs and a scout.’

  ‘The old Indian bloke,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Native American,’ Gill said swiftly.

  Janet had met him once on a training day. Nice bloke. One of the whole range of experts the police work with, who come in all shapes and sizes, everything from translators to underwater teams, forensic soil scientists and geographical profilers. The scout had the old tracking skills, had inherited a legacy from generations who had hunted their food; he could see where people had walked, changed direction or hesitated by studying the ground and the vegetation.

  ‘How far can Cottam go with two kids?’ Janet said. ‘The whole country’s looking out for him.’

  ‘Stolen vehicles?’ Rachel said.

  ‘They’re on to it,’ Gill replied. ‘May need to issue another alert for the area – beds and sheds – but I need to check with the psychs and the hostage negotiator whether that might force his hand. We don’t want to panic him into taking action.’ Meaning harming the children, Janet knew. The two little ones. Harder or easier than killing his wife and daughter?

  ‘Where’s he heading?’ Rachel said. She was keen, totally absorbed now, so what had led her to slope off like that, like a kid bunking off school?

  ‘Let’s see what the maps tell us and if we can connect the location to anything we’ve learnt so far.’

  The three of them went into the larger operations room where Andy and Pete were working. Janet felt a little lurch when she saw Andy. He had maps of the area up on the whiteboards, map and satellite views. There was a checklist too – the actions currently under way: police officers checking taxi firms, stolen vehicles, train timetables, bus routes, CCTV coverage.

  Andy had received the news and entered the coordinates. ‘Why did he pick here?’ he said. ‘Gallows Wood, Lancashire.’

  ‘Gallows? You’re joking,’ said Janet. Some sick irony in the name given what they might find there.

  ‘Cyclist noticed it,’ Gill said, ‘vehicle smashed through fencing, and reported it to the local police. Thought it was joy-riders until they got the number plate.’

  Andy said, ‘Public path and bridleway enter here, and there’s a lay-by for parking. Anything from the mother?’

  Janet shook her head. Margaret Milne had listed all the locations she could recall that had any significance for the family. Holidays in the Norfolk Broads, Black Rock Sands, Malaga and Minorca. A trip to New York. Weddings of friends in Leeds and Bristol. No mention of East Lancashire.

  ‘I’ve a list here,’ Janet said. ‘Nothing fits. He might just have seen an opportunity. Somewhere to hide, or a vehicle he could take. Any CCTV close by?’

  ‘No, nearest is Lundfell town centre – couple of miles away.’ Andy moved the pointer on the map, showing her. She studied the map, the village . . . was it too small to be called a town? Small in her eyes, clustered around a central high street, the canal and the railway that ran along the valley bottom. The high street connected to the A road that led in turn to the motorway six miles away. The proximity to the road network presumably responsible for an increase in house building and the open plan estates that ringed the older areas and we
re scattered along the A road.

  Fluke? Or did Cottam know where the cameras were? How clever was he? How collected, given he was on the run and fleeing from the harrowing events of the night before last, from the near miss at the petrol station. Or was he numb, operating on some sort of autopilot? ‘How clear is his thinking going to be?’ Janet said to Andy.

  ‘Impossible to say,’ Gill answered.

  ‘Originally a mining town,’ Andy said, ‘way back; copper and tin here, quarrying up on the tops.’

  ‘Mine shafts?’ Gill asked. ‘Somewhere to hide bodies. Talk to the local bobbies, countryside rangers, anyone who knows the area.’

  ‘Nearest railway station has a service every two hours,’ Pete said. ‘Staffed in the morning when there’s most traffic. Commuters travelling to connecting services in Wigan or Warrington. I’ve requested CCTV footage.’

  ‘Images of the scene should be coming through now,’ Andy said.

  Janet watched with the rest of them as Andy imported the files and posted them on the screen. She saw the Mondeo, the broken fencing and a shallow bank to the left where the car was, bonnet pointing downwards.

  ‘Accident?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Hard to tell. No obvious blood in the vehicle,’ Andy said.

  ‘Could he have left it there to come back to?’ Janet suggested.

  Gill shook her head. ‘After the petrol station, he had to get rid of it, and with two kids on foot he’s not going far.’ She waved at Andy to change the image. The second photograph showed the car side on, both doors open on the driver’s side.

  ‘He’s left the child seats, which might mean . . .’ Janet said.

  ‘Doesn’t need them any more?’ Rachel looked at Janet.

  Which in turn meant . . .

  ‘Cordon is being erected now, search parties preparing,’ Gill said.

  Rachel half rose. ‘Boss? Please, boss, me and Janet.’

  Gill gestured, moved with Rachel until they were just outside the door but Janet could still hear.

  ‘Can I rely on you, Rachel?’

  ‘Yes, course, I swear.’