Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘In the region of two thousand pounds,’ the funeral director said.

  ‘Two grand!’ Jesus! ‘And that’s it, no VAT on top? Right. I’ll let you know later today.’

  ‘You lashing out?’ Janet must have caught the tail end of the conversation. Rachel’s mind scrabbled about, mouth open but no words coming out, and then she said, ‘New kitchen.’

  Janet laughed. ‘What for? When do you ever cook? Can’t be that old anyway.’

  ‘Don’t like the colour. Just getting some estimates,’ Rachel said. ‘So we going or what?’

  It was raining heavily, drumming on the roof of the car and streaming down the windscreen. Lorries sent up great waves of water and visibility was down to twenty yards, forcing traffic to a crawl.

  Janet was at the wheel, had offered to drive. Rachel knew Janet still mistrusted her driving in anything but peachy conditions because Rachel liked to travel at a decent speed and because of a small incident when they first met and she had pursued a suspect’s vehicle with Janet in the passenger seat. Pranged the car . . . well, okay, rammed it then, but got her man, and Janet acted as though she had driven the wrong way down the M6 or something. So the downpour meant Janet would drive.

  Rachel got a call from Alison, let it go to voicemail, then listened: Dom can get a pass a week on Friday. I thought Friday would be better than Thursday. Why the day of the week should make any difference Rachel didn’t know. If that’s no good let me know. And I’ve been thinking, you know, I probably will say something, maybe a poem. Good God, spare me, Rachel thought.

  Janet glanced at her. Curious. Rachel put her phone away.

  ‘Did Gill seem a bit off to you?’ Janet said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rachel said. ‘She was bitching even before she noticed you were late.’

  ‘Wonder what’s going on.’

  ‘Search me. I’m the last person who’d know.’

  ‘None of the lads say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rachel . . .’ Janet said, and just the way she said it, slow, as if she was broaching something, put Rachel on alert, ‘you thought any more about seeing someone, talking it through?’

  For one God-awful moment Rachel thought Janet had found out about her dad, and all the associated crap – broken home, hand to mouth, sink estate, brother inside – and then it struck her that Janet was on about Nick, about the great betrayal.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘You’re spooked,’ Janet said. ‘Yesterday you practically hit the ground, and it’s not the first time either. You having flashbacks, trouble sleeping?’

  ‘Now you’re a shrink,’ Rachel said.

  ‘I’m just saying—’

  ‘I don’t need counselling. You didn’t have any and you got a lot closer to the pearly gates than I did.’ The terror when Janet had screamed down the phone, the race to reach her, Janet clutching her belly, blood everywhere.

  ‘That’s different,’ Janet said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘That was business. Yours was personal.’

  ‘No.’ Rachel tried to dismiss the distinction. ‘You’re talking shite, Janet.’

  Janet sighed, said, emphatically, ‘I wasn’t in love with Geoff Hastings.’

  ‘Not even the tiniest bit?’ Rachel joked. Hastings was a slimy tosspot, something deeply creepy in his poor-quiet-little-me act. And that something was a deranged serial killer.

  Janet laughed but wouldn’t be put off, which annoyed the hell out of Rachel. ‘Rachel, he was your boyfriend and what he did was unforgivable. It’s too big to deal with on your own. Counselling’s not an admission of weakness. And in the long run—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rachel said firmly. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Really?’ Janet said hotly. ‘No nightmares, no flashbacks, no overwhelming emotions . . .’ ticking off Rachel’s symptoms as if she’d been given a list, ‘sudden rages, tears, nausea? If you don’t address it—’

  ‘Just knock it on the head, will you? I’m okay and coming from you this is a bit rich.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ Janet said, affronted. ‘I’ve told you Geoff Hastings is a stone cold killer and I’m going to get my chance to nail him. Not just for what he did to me,’ Janet was suddenly shouting, red-faced, and Rachel was freaked, ‘and for what he nearly did to my kids, but for all those others.’

  There was a pause, the shush of the rain quiet after Janet’s outburst.

  ‘Sudden overwhelming emotions?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘All I’m saying is you’re off colour and pretending everything’s fine. I’m not the only one.’

  ‘Ah, so you are struggling,’ Janet said triumphantly.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Rachel said. ‘Pull in at the services.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Comfort break. Cigarette. Calm my shattered nerves.’

  Janet mouthed fuck off but there was a smile tugging at her mouth which meant things were okay again. For now.

  They met the local officers at the mobile incident van now parked up at Gallows Wood, where teams were continuing the search. Janet introduced herself and Rachel. ‘Found anything?’ she asked, but the officer in charge shook his head. He confirmed that the address for the stolen car was a mile and a half along the road to the north.

  ‘That’s the direction the dog went in yesterday,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Think it through,’ Janet said. ‘You’ve two kids and a car, you want another car, what d’you do? Lug the kids with you to steal the car and risk it going pear shaped? Then you’ve two kids hampering a quick getaway. I don’t think so. I think it makes more sense to leave the kids in your car, lock them in and go off and try to nick another vehicle. If that’s a success you can just drive back and pick up the kids.’

  ‘He’d walk it from here in half an hour,’ Rachel said. ‘Less if he shifted it.’

  ‘Do we know when the car went missing?’ Janet said.

  ‘No,’ one of the uniformed officers told them. ‘I’ll take you down there now. You’ll want to speak to the owner in person?’

  Mr Wesley was mid to late sixties, Janet estimated. A fact confirmed when he gave his full name and date of birth as 1946. Mr Wesley had been working in London the previous day. He was a computer programmer who worked from home so he could care for his disabled wife. Once a month he attended meetings at head office, using a taxi to and from the main railway station in Wigan, nine miles to the east.

  The house was a low-roofed cottage, three knocked into one he told them, with a car port at the left reached by the side door. The front door was in the centre of the building and as Mr Wesley had returned home by taxi, in the dark, he had entered by the front door so was unable to tell them when his car had been taken. He only noticed it was no longer parked in its allotted space under the canopy when he glanced out of the window in the side door this morning while making breakfast. Mrs Wesley had heard nothing.

  Glass on the driveway showed that whoever had stolen the car had smashed a window to get into the vehicle.

  ‘Are your keys accounted for?’ Janet asked him.

  ‘Yes, both sets.’

  ‘Any security devices in the car? Crook lock? Immobilizer? Alarm?’

  Mr Wesley shook his head.

  ‘He worked for his father as a mechanic,’ Rachel said of Cottam. ‘He’d have no problem starting the car.’

  ‘How much petrol was in it?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Not very much at all. I was planning to put some in at the weekend.’

  ‘How far would it have taken you?’ Janet said.

  ‘Perhaps thirty miles or so. It was low.’

  Janet looked about at the stone walls and the carefully trimmed conifer hedging. After the incident at the petrol station Janet couldn’t imagine Cottam would want to fill up a new vehicle. But he couldn’t travel very far unless he did. Was his journey almost over, or was the new car a stop-gap until he found something better? It certainly wouldn’t serve
him long now the description and registration number had been circulated to all the neighbouring forces. And with ANPR and CCTV, a car was a lot easier to find than a person. When they did, would Cottam be the one driving it?

  The search dogs unit arrived then. Gareth, the handler, said there could be a problem because of the rain. ‘Washes the scent away, see?’ Janet and Rachel watched while he put the dog through her paces. Giving her a T-shirt of Cottam’s to smell, brought from the laundry basket in his bedroom at the inn, before letting her off the lead. The dog ran along the edge of the road, head dipping this way and that, nose close to the ground. She went straight to the main entrance to the cottage then doubled back and went up the side of the house. Under the car port she barked loudly and sat to attention.

  ‘That’ll be a yes, then,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Sheltered here, see,’ Gareth said, stroking the dog and shaking the ruff of her neck. ‘Stronger scent.’

  Rachel gave a nod to Janet, a smile on her face, happy that they’d got a firm lead.

  They waited while Mr Wesley made a list of items that were left in the car, everything from a road atlas and torch to CDs, screen wash and motor oil, tartan picnic blanket, wellies and a cotton sun hat. Where would Cottam go, Janet wondered for the umpteenth time. None of the locations familiar to Cottam were near here. But surely if you were looking to end it all you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere you knew suited your purposes.

  The day had not started well for Gill. She had risen at five thirty. She always was an early riser but today anticipated the alarm, switching it off. Chris stirred as she got up and she put out a hand to cup his shoulder. ‘Stay there,’ she whispered.

  By the time she had showered any remnants of sleepiness had gone and she was feeling more ready to meet the day, buoyed up by the pleasure of Chris’s visit: the food, the sex, the intimacy. The fact that he’d chosen to snatch a few hours with her rather than jet off to some island paradise made her glow with pleasure. They spent so little time together, his job even more impossibly antisocial than hers, and she’d worried that the whole thing would peter out, never really get off the ground. She’d almost resigned herself to that and had decided to be philosophical, take what she could while it was on offer. But Chris seemed ever more interested, eager to carve out opportunities to meet, always talking about things they should do together, see together, places he’d like to visit with her. Likelihood was one of them would have to stop work to make even a fraction of it happen. And she was a helluva lot closer to retirement then he was. She found her thoughts running on and yanked them back. Live in the present. Or maybe dwell on last night instead, and the way he’d made love to her.

  She left the house at six forty and was on Dave’s doorstep by just shy of seven, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling behind her breastbone.

  The house didn’t look quite as small or as cheap as she had imagined. Pity. Dave answered the door, yawning, bleary-eyed in boxers and a T-shirt. She averted her eyes from his bare legs, filing away a flash of Chris’s slimmer, more buff body.

  He blinked, obviously surprised to see her. ‘Now what?’ he said.

  ‘Sammy was supposed to go to an open day in Leeds on Thursday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He missed it. Did he even tell you about it?’

  Dave shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know what he’s playing at,’ Gill said.

  ‘Well, ask him,’ Dave said.

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’ Peabrain. Gill was striving to be civil against every impulse. ‘Get him up,’ she said.

  Dave frowned. ‘He went to your place.’

  ‘What?’ Her spine tingled.

  ‘Last night. He had his tea then said he was off to yours.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him.’ She felt cold suddenly, cold and cross and anxious.

  ‘Can you shut the door?’ A woman’s voice called out, then Gill heard footsteps coming downstairs.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ Dave said with a heavy sigh.

  Oh, shit. She really didn’t want to but there was no way out of it. She stepped inside and saw his floozie, child astride her hip.

  Dave flushed. ‘Emma, this is Gill.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Emma said, barely looking at Gill.

  ‘Sammy never arrived at Gill’s,’ Dave said.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ the woman said melodramatically, making the child glance up at her with concern. ‘You think something’s happened?’

  ‘No,’ Gill said briskly, squashing it, even the thought of it. ‘When did he leave?’

  Dave looked at Emma. ‘Half past seven?’ he said.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Why? What did he say?’ said Gill.

  There was a hiatus. The brat seized the chance to whinge. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Come through,’ Dave said, shifting them all into the kitchen. ‘He just said he was going to yours.’

  ‘Why? I’m not exactly flavour of the month.’ Gill thought of Sammy’s parting words.

  Dave rubbed at the back of his neck and stared at Emma again. Couldn’t he speak for himself? Emma gave him a look which Gill interpreted as don’t ask me and poured cereal into a bowl.

  ‘He just kicked off,’ Dave said.

  ‘You argued?’ Gill said.

  ‘He wasn’t pulling his weight. We’d asked him countless times to clear up. Then he’d wake the little one.’

  Gill hid the little wriggle of relish she felt inside. Petty. Where was Sammy? That was all that mattered. ‘So, what, you give him a bollocking and he says he’s running home to me?’

  ‘Near enough,’ Dave said.

  Gill thought quickly. Where would he go? She pulled out her phone and rang his number. He didn’t pick up. ‘I’ll try Josh and Ricky,’ she said.

  ‘Ricky?’ Dave said.

  ‘Glennister.’

  ‘Right,’ but it seemed he’d not a clue who his son’s friends were. How could that be, given he was sharing a roof with him? Didn’t he talk to him? Wasn’t he curious?

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Josh, it’s Sammy’s mum, Gill. Is Sammy with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see him last night?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Always polite, Josh, but Gill suspected he was one of the more reckless kids among Sammy’s friends. Whether he’d lie to her outright was another matter. ‘You see him before I do, will you ask him to call me or his dad?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Gill felt a little wobble. What if it was more serious? What if he was missing? Not just AWOL but missing?

  She tried Ricky. His phone went to voicemail and she had just left a message when he rang her back. ‘I’ve not seen him for a couple of days,’ Ricky said. ‘I’ve been off college.’

  ‘Neither of them have seen him,’ Gill said to Dave. ‘Where can he be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dave spread out his arms. ‘How should I know?’

  At the table the child was stirring its cereal round and round and humming some little song under its breath.

  ‘You must know who he’s hanging out with.’

  ‘Well you clearly don’t.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him for the last six weeks.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ Dave said nastily.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He couldn’t stomach it – his own mother—’

  Any self-control fled. ‘No,’ she pointed a finger at him, ‘he was fine with it, with me and Chris, me and my younger man.’ Determined to call a spade a spade. ‘Until you stuck your oar in. You are the one who can’t stomach it. Does she know that?’ Gill nodded at the younger woman. ‘ ’Cos it’d bother me, my bloke in a tizzy about his ex’s sex life. You can get a younger model but I’m not allowed, eh?’

  Dave had gone puce, his teeth gritted. Emma, face set, seized the bottle of milk from the table, flung open the fridge door.

  ‘You should know who his friends
are,’ Gill said.

  ‘Like you do?’ Dave sneered.

  ‘He’s probably with Orla,’ Emma said, arms folded, plainly brassed off.

  Dave and Gill stared at her and spoke in unison. ‘Who the fuck is Orla?’

  ‘His girlfriend,’ Emma said.

  What the fuck? ‘How long’s he had a girlfriend?’ Gill said.

  ‘Ages,’ Emma said, something smug sprawling across her face.

  A girlfriend! How come Sammy hadn’t told her? How come she hadn’t known? And Emma had.

  Orla lived in a council house on the other side of Shaw. Gill felt acutely uncomfortable as she knocked on the door. A teenager answered – was this Orla? Black leggings, denim shorts that could not possibly be any shorter without turning into a belt, tank top and blouse in neon yellow. Tattoo visible on her shoulder through the flimsy material. Shaggy blonde hair and a nose stud.

  ‘Yes?’ she said brightly.

  ‘Orla?’

  ‘Yeah,’ less certain now.

  ‘Is Sammy here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I have a word? I’m his mum.’

  ‘Oh, cool, yes.’ She shut the door. A minute later Sammy opened it. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, flushed and sounding irate.

  ‘That’s my line,’ Gill said. ‘Get in the car.’

  ‘I’m not going back—’

  ‘I just want to talk to you. Get in the car.’

  He’d only socks on his feet but the ground was dry at present so Gill just stood waiting. Sammy leaned back into the house and called, ‘Back in a minute.’

  She’d been shaken by his disappearing stunt. The prospect, however remote, that he was missing, even hurt, had niggled away and she was trying to shed the sensation now, telling herself that it was all right. Everything was all right. No harm done. Panic over.

  They sat side by side, Gill staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the way he was picking at his nails, the clicking sound making her cringe, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ she said. ‘Lying to your dad. We’d no idea where you were.’

  ‘So?’ he said sullenly.

  ‘We’re your parents, Sammy. We need to know where you are. Where you’re staying at night at the very least.’

  ‘Why? I’m seventeen. I could get married if I wanted to.’