Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Yes,’ Lynn said, unsmiling. ‘You want to talk to Margaret as well?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘She’s been trying to rest,’ Lynn said. ‘We’ll go in here. I’ll let her know.’

  Rachel waited in the front room. The television was on mute, showing some chat show. Rachel had no idea what it was. She watched precious little television and never in the afternoon.

  Margaret Milne looked wretched, broken. Hair flattened at one side of her head, face a sickly grey, no make-up. She shook hands with Rachel and her hand felt cool and limp as though there wasn’t enough blood pumping round her veins any more.

  ‘As you know,’ Rachel began when both women were seated, ‘Owen was detained yesterday.’

  ‘There’s still no news?’ Margaret said slowly, her eyes painfully bright in contrast with her dull complexion and sluggish manner.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Rachel said. ‘Can either of you think of anywhere in Lancashire that Owen has a connection with, perhaps near Porlow, or Wigan? I’ve brought a map to help you see exactly where we’re talking about.’

  Rachel’s hand stung as she unfolded the map, a large-scale one, which made it easier to see the towns, villages and natural features in the area.

  ‘This,’ she touched the map south of Lundfell, at the edge of Gallows Wood, with the wrong end of her pen, ‘is where Owen’s car was found. Over here,’ she tapped the retail park over to the right at Porlow, ‘is where he was apprehended. That’s a distance of ten miles. You can see these are the main towns.’ She named them: Ormskirk to the west, Wigan to the east, Skelmersdale between them, Parbold and Lundfell in the north. ‘Anything?’ She looked from Margaret to Lynn.

  ‘No,’ Lynn said, and Margaret shook her head.

  ‘He was working at the pub nearly all the time,’ Lynn said. ‘It was hard for them to get away. They had to get cover.’

  Margaret nodded. ‘It wasn’t like he had a social life or a gang of fellers he’d be going off with,’ she said. ‘You are still looking?’ Fear trembled in her eyes. ‘There is a search going on?’

  ‘There is, but it’s a large area and we’d be more effective if we could narrow it down,’ Rachel said.

  ‘But there might not be a link,’ Lynn said. ‘Owen might never have been there in his life before. That’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel agreed, getting ready to leave. And if that is the case, she thought privately, then we really are buggered.

  She had just opened the car door when Lynn came rushing down the path. ‘I’ve just remembered,’ she said. ‘When Owen took Michael fishing, I think they went somewhere over that way, going towards Liverpool. That’s the right direction, isn’t it? I don’t know if that helps.’

  ‘Why go all that way to fish?’ Rachel said. ‘Surely there’s fish nearer?’ She remembered kids in Langley heading off down the cut with makeshift rods. Anything they pulled out of there would be toxic, but no one bothered.

  Lynn shrugged. ‘I think it was one of the regulars put them on to it, went with them at first. Perhaps he had a ticket thing, the thing you need.’

  ‘Fishing licence,’ Rachel remembered from training. You could be fined for fishing without one. Bought them at the post office. ‘You know who he was, the feller that took them?’

  ‘No,’ Lynn said.

  ‘Might Margaret?’

  Lynn shrugged. They went back through to the lounge, where Margaret was sitting staring into space. She hadn’t moved since Rachel had left. Rachel wondered what she was thinking about, or if she’d escaped into some blank vacuum away from her sorrow. She asked her about the fishing, about a pub regular who introduced Owen and Michael to it, but Margaret just gave a small shake of her head.

  From doing the house-to-house, Rachel had a clear tally of the regulars in her mind. There weren’t many: the pub had been on its way out. She drove back to the Larks estate. The inn was still cordoned off and a couple of CSI vans were parked on the roadside as the investigators continued to work at the scene. Floral tributes lined the grass verge.

  Rachel followed one of the crescents round to the house where the birthday boy lived. He had been celebrating his thirtieth at the pub on the night of the murders. One of the last group of customers to be served by Owen Cottam.

  ‘You’ve arrested him?’ he said, looking concerned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still hard to believe.’ He was shaking his head, looking for her to respond. After a murder everyone they came across wanted to go over it with them, pick apart the reasons, relive the shock of hearing, speculate on how close they’d been to the horrific event. But once the police had taken initial statements they simply didn’t have time to stand around chewing the cud.

  ‘I don’t need to come in,’ Rachel said. ‘I wanted to ask you about Owen and Michael going fishing. If you knew of a regular at the pub who took them with him?’

  ‘That’d be Billy,’ he said. The neighbour, the one whose dog Cottam let loose. ‘Billy Dawson. He was from Ormskirk originally – think he was in an angling club that way. He’s in hospital now. Cancer.’

  Rachel had no idea whether Billy knew anything about events at the inn but presumably Tessa would have had to tell him something to explain why his dog Pepper was no longer being looked after by the Cottams. And unless Billy was comatose he’d have heard about the murders from the news and the papers and the gossip swirling round the town.

  Rachel rang Andy before she set off. Avoiding too much one to one with Her Maj till things blew over.

  ‘The dog, the one from the crime scene, who’s got it now?’ she said.

  ‘Not sure, hang on . . .’ Before she could object she heard him say, ‘Gill, where did the black Lab end up?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Rachel heard the boss ask.

  ‘Rachel,’ Andy said.

  Rachel’s heart sank. There was a clatter, then, ‘Rachel?’ Godzilla’s voice came on.

  ‘I might have found a connection to the area,’ Rachel said, ‘but I need to talk to Billy Dawson. If he asks about his dog I wondered what to tell him.’

  ‘Neighbour’s got it. Tessa,’ Godzilla said and hung up. No pretence at civility. Stuff her, thought Rachel. She can’t keep it up for ever. Though it felt like a lifetime already. Because the boss was everything Rachel wanted to be, in the professional sphere. She led the best syndicate in Manchester. Ninety-nine per cent of the time she was solid, giving support and encouragement in equal measure. But when she wasn’t, when she went off on one, it was fucking horrible. And it always seemed to be Rachel on the receiving end. Sometimes Rachel wondered if Her Maj was jealous, of Rachel’s youth, perhaps, or of how much easier it was to progress in the twenty-first century. But then she felt a tit for thinking like that. The boss had no need to be jealous of anyone.

  Billy was tucked up in his hospital bed. A ward of four. Three old blokes and a younger man who was sitting up, his eyes closed and earphones on.

  With his wild white hair and full beard, Billy looked like an old seaman. Just needed a pipe and a stripy jumper. And a monkey or a parrot.

  ‘Mr Dawson, I’m DC Bailey,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Been a naughty boy, have I?’ he said. ‘Got the handcuffs, have you, ossifer?’

  Great! He’s a joker. Rachel didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. Stupid old fart. She drew the curtains round the bed to give them a semblance of privacy. ‘I want to talk to you in connection with a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She moved the bedside chair to face him but not too close to the bed. His face straightened and he gave a stiff nod.

  ‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘When you find him he wants stringing up. I’d do it for you if you’re short-handed, like.’

  ‘You used to go fishing?’ Rachel said.

  ‘That’s right.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Always was a good man with a rod.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. You got all sorts, Rachel knew, but she did wonder if his illness had addled his brains a bit, s
o that he didn’t know what was appropriate any more. Or was it simply that after a lifetime of taking the piss and saying everything with a nod and a salacious wink it was impossible to abandon the habit.

  ‘And you accompanied Owen and Michael Milne sometimes?’

  ‘I did, before all this.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Kittle Lake. Lundfell Anglers have rights there. They’ve a few pitches round thereabouts.’

  Rachel felt her heart thump. ‘Thank you.’ She closed her notebook.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re not going to ask me what we caught?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She pulled the curtains back. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  Still he spoke, determined to play his game. ‘I caught a whopper, naturally. Hah!’ He gave a laugh, but then his tone changed as he said, ‘He was a good lad, you know.’

  ‘Owen?’ Rachel was aware that not only could the other patients now hear the exchange, they could see it too. She edged closer to the bed, masking Billy from the room.

  ‘No, Michael,’ he said. ‘Slow like, simple, born before his crust was done, they used to say.’

  ‘How did he and Owen get on?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  ‘But they gave up the fishing?’

  ‘They went a few times after but they didn’t stick it. Not got the staying power,’ he winked, ‘if you get my drift.’ He licked at his lips. Rachel felt like throwing up. ‘Why’re you interested in all that?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I can keep a secret, if you can. Strong silent type, I am.’

  Gill was working her way through the latest reports when Mary Biddulph from the forensic science lab called her up. ‘I’m emailing you our reports on the Ford Mondeo,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to tell you what we’ve got in person. Something that might be of use. Material from the tyre treads on the Mondeo includes a significant proportion of guano.’

  ‘Bird-shit,’ Gill said, her mind running ahead. ‘Just testing. Canada geese.’

  ‘Which gives us?’

  ‘Open water. Bird reserve, lake, canal, river. Several sites with colonies in your area, according to my bloke at the RSPB.’

  ‘What about his footwear?’

  ‘Still being examined.’

  Gill sighed. ‘I wanted that done as a priority. That was what I asked you to do.’

  ‘Going as fast as we can,’ Mary said sharply. ‘As well as the bird droppings, we have material from a number of native trees, willow, oak, beech and alder, suggestive of mixed woodland. A lot of that in your area but the willow also suggests a location close to water.’

  When Rachel phoned through the news about the fishing trips, that coupled with the forensic material from the Mondeo was enough to focus attention on Kittle Lake. Gill instructed CSIs to make an initial assessment. Within twenty minutes of their reaching the lakeside, word came back that tyre tracks matching the Mondeo had been found in a shaded area of the car park used by visitors to the lake. Gill immediately got back on to Mark Tovey from POLSA and contacted the fire and rescue service to plan a search of the lake. Local uniforms were drafted in to cordon off the area.

  Gill sent word to the team so everyone would be up to speed and asked Kevin to look for anything in the exhibits that might be pertinent to the new line of inquiry. She felt hopeful that they were getting closer. She did not want to dwell on the possibility that the children were already dead. Drowned in the lake. Time would tell. Time and their best efforts.

  19

  Janet had placed a small table at her side in the interview room. On it were a pile of photographs requisitioned from the exhibits. Some were framed. She had also asked for the family photograph album and had a selection of pictures from that at the ready.

  ‘I’d like to show you something, Owen.’

  ‘Mr Cottam,’ he said. ‘You call me Mr Cottam.’ Still trying to master the situation, control what he can, thought Janet.

  ‘Of course, Mr Cottam. Here, for the purposes of the tape, I am showing Mr Cottam a framed photograph, exhibit KL41.’ She held it so it was square on to him. ‘You and Theo and Harry, just after Harry was born. Tell me about this picture.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You look very happy. Your father told us you always wanted boys. Is that right?’

  ‘A man likes to have a son,’ he said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  If she could just get him talking, keep him talking, unpick his mute resistance, she’d have a better chance of getting the crucial information they wanted.

  He shrugged.

  ‘It felt different from having Penny?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Tell me about them. Theo – what’s he like?’

  No answer.

  ‘He looks like you,’ she said. ‘Am I right?’

  He rubbed at his forehead and sat back in his seat.

  ‘It’s confusing for us,’ she said. ‘People say you’re a good father, there looking out for your kids. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘But now your boys are on their own, no one to protect them. Doesn’t that bother you?’

  He looked torn between the desire to respond and the wish to conceal the facts from her.

  ‘You can’t be with them. You’re stuck here. They must feel you’ve abandoned them.’

  ‘No,’ he said vehemently. ‘No, I’ve not.’

  ‘Not intentionally, but I need to make it clear to you that you will be held here and probably charged and it is almost inevitable that you will be remanded in custody. You have no chance whatsoever of getting back to them. The only way they can be reached is if you tell us where they are.’

  His left fist was clenched, bumping on his chin. The tension in him was palpable.

  ‘A good father,’ Janet said. ‘What would a good father do?’ She put down the photograph and picked up another: Theo on a bouncy castle. He was sitting near the edge and looking at the camera. Perhaps someone had called his name. He wasn’t grinning or mugging for the camera as so many children do in that situation, but his face was bright and open as though a smile might follow.

  She held the photograph up, facing Cottam. ‘Theo won’t go to sleep on his own. One of you has to stay with him. He’s just a little boy – your little boy. Please, Mr Cottam, tell me where he is.’

  He was trembling, the muscles under the skin of his face flickering, but he said, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can,’ Janet said. ‘Tiger, that’s his nickname, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t you—’ He didn’t like the intimacy. ‘Don’t.’ Didn’t like where it was taking him, she suspected.

  ‘You can help him, you can let us fetch him and his brother back. If they’re alive—’

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘But they are alone. You don’t want that. To leave them alone.’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s done,’ he stammered, which made him sound less sure than he might. Was there uncertainty there? Could she exploit that?

  ‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’

  ‘I am.’ He turned his face to the side, pinched his moustache. Hiding his mouth, hiding the lie, Janet wondered?

  ‘If that’s the case, if Theo and Harry are dead, then why would you care about what happens now? Why not just let us recover them? You’re an intelligent man.’

  ‘No,’ he said, which was no answer at all.

  ‘I think you’re letting them down.’ Janet wanted to provoke a response but there was a risk that the provocation might make him refuse to answer, which would be disastrous. She said, ‘If they are dead, shouldn’t they be with their mum and their sister? And if they’re alive surely they’ll be frightened. They might be cold and hungry and thirsty. Is that how you want it to be? You know what people are saying about you? They’re saying you didn’t care.’

  J
anet heard a tiny explosion of air from his nose, a snort of derision that he tried to mask.

  ‘People are saying you betrayed your own family.’

  He stood swiftly, roaring, ‘They are my kids, mine. You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t.’ Rage made his face red, thickening the veins in his neck and on his forehead, but Janet remained calm. At least on the outside.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you accepted your responsibility for them, then? Acted like a man? Like a decent man?’

  He stood for a moment, shaking, then sat without her needing to ask.

  ‘Where are Theo and Harry? Look.’ She held up a picture of Harry crawling, one that had been on the living room table at the inn and had Cottam’s prints on it. Had he been looking at it while he waited to begin the killings? ‘He’s only eighteen months old, Harry – he’s the cheeky one, into everything. He’s not old enough to understand why you’ve left. He can’t ask for help and he might be crying. Crying for you. There could be a ground frost tonight. Harry, he’ll be at risk of hypothermia if he’s not somewhere warm. He’ll be confused. He’ll be shivering. He might be thirsty, too. But he’s too little to find a drink for himself. Did you leave him a drink?’

  He glared at her, then away.

  ‘Mr Cottam, I will sit here asking you these questions all day and all night for however long it takes. My duty as a police officer is to preserve life, to prevent crime. I’m committed to saving the lives of two tiny little boys who, through no fault of their own, have been abandoned. I hope Theo and Harry are still alive. I’m not prepared to accept otherwise unless you give me proof. So I will continue to act as if they are alive. I’m asking for your help. You can do the right thing, as a loving parent would do, and end this now. Tell me where to find them.’ She sat and let the silence swell to fill the room till the pressure in the air seemed to alter, making it dense and oppressive, but still Owen Cottam sat impassive and unyielding.

  A cordon had been erected preventing public access to Kittle Lake and a dive team from the fire and rescue service were preparing to search. Gill had spoken to Mark Tovey, who told her that the biggest problem would be limited visibility. It always was with water. The lake was not particularly deep but silt would soon cloud the water and the search would be as much a tactile as a visual exercise. They had three hours of daylight left, at best. Only enough to cover a fraction of the area. She wanted someone from her team down there, a direct conduit, able to shortcut questions if the divers found anything.