Bleed Like Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Mr Cottam, your clothes were taken for examination on your admission to hospital. We have found traces of blood from Penny and Michael on them. How did that blood get on to your clothing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘That evidence suggests that you were present at the scene when the murders were committed or afterwards. How do you account for that?’

  He was silent. He lifted his head to the ceiling, the pulse in his neck jumping again and again. Sweat, in rivulets now, snaked down his face. He made a noise in his throat, a hitching sound.

  ‘Pamela and Penny and Michael,’ Janet said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  He raised his hands and rubbed at his face, at his hair, like someone emerging from a pool or a shower. His breath was choppy, uneven.

  ‘Did Pamela know what you planned to do? You’d been together eighteen years, married, working together. Three children. Through thick and thin. What changed?’ Janet watched and waited. After a few moments she spoke again. ‘Penny had just started high school. She was doing well – she’d made friends, joined the netball team.’

  Something moved in his cheek, a tic he couldn’t suppress.

  ‘What did you do, Mr Cottam? The early hours of Monday morning? We have film of you drinking whisky. We have very persuasive evidence that tells us you were there, that you handled the weapon. Tell me your side of things.’

  He sat there on the chair and touched his knuckles together, sniffed loudly a couple of times. He had resisted appeals to his better nature and seemed almost oblivious of the evidence presented. He really didn’t care, Janet understood. He still wanted to die and nothing else mattered any more. All along Janet had played the game, pandering to his world view, never challenging his actions. She had nothing to lose now.

  ‘You can refuse to cooperate,’ she said, ‘and we will question you for as long as the law allows and then we will, in all likelihood, charge you with murder and attempted murder. After that you will be asked to plead. If you continue to withhold information you will have to plead not guilty and that means there will be a public trial. Witnesses will be called to give evidence, not just experts but people close to you and Pamela and the children. You will be in the dock and your family will be the subject of intense debate and speculation. Your life, your actions, will be picked apart in full public view. You’re entitled to a trial. Is that what you want?’

  He twisted his head to the side, as though the paper suit was too tight at the neck.

  ‘I don’t think you did discuss it with Pamela. She’d never have agreed in a million years. They didn’t stand a chance, did they? Fast asleep, defenceless. Are you ashamed of what you did?’

  He shuddered. She felt she was getting to him, piercing that shell of pretend indifference.

  ‘You failed,’ she said. ‘We saved the boys. You’ve lost your whole family but you’re still here. Are you ashamed? Is that why you won’t talk to me?’

  ‘No,’ he said, eyes blazing, fists hitting his knees. ‘No! I did what I had to.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I killed them,’ he said softly, and every hair on Janet’s skin stood up. Ice ran through her spine. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘You killed them,’ she echoed, hoping to prompt more from him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and rubbed at his forehead.

  ‘Tell me, from closing up the bar, everything you can remember after that.’

  His eyes met hers then and for the first time she saw vulnerability there, distress and fear. ‘I don’t want to,’ he said, his voice hollow.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ she agreed. ‘A step at a time. You cashed up, then what?’

  ‘Went upstairs. The others went to bed.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Pamela, Michael.’ He coughed.

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘They were already asleep.’

  Janet nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went down, had a few drinks.’ His fingertips were tapping together, a tattoo, a dance of dread. ‘Then I got the knife.’ He screwed up his face, gave a sharp exhalation. He hadn’t mentioned the dog yet but Janet didn’t want to interrupt him. She could ask questions later.

  ‘You got the knife from where?’

  ‘The kitchen. The sharp knife, that’s what we always called it.’

  Janet nodded. Every household had something like that, didn’t they? The only knife that cut bread properly or sliced through meat like butter. She and Ade had one, a wedding gift. The handle was burnt on one side but they never considered throwing it out. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I, erm . . . I had some more to drink and then I went into our room.’ He bowed forward, pressing his lips together. ‘I stabbed Pamela,’ he said quickly. ‘She barely made a sound.’ He looked at Janet intently. ‘Like she understood? Then Penny, with the knife. And Michael . . .’ He swallowed, fingers curled, clenched now, something in that memory appearing to distress him more. His mouth worked. ‘He . . . I stabbed Michael . . . the sound . . . he woke up . . .’ Cottam stuttered and gasped. She saw tears in his eyes. At last. Had he wept since? As he drove frantically up and down the motorway, those noises fresh in his ears? In the car park by the lake during the long, cold night with his sons, his plans in tatters? Or when he woke in hospital after crashing the Hyundai to find himself very much alive and remembered all that he had done? Or was he the sort of man who never cried?

  ‘What happened next?’ Janet said. All the cross-checking, all the elaboration – how many times did you use the knife, where on the body, where did you stand – still to come.

  ‘Someone was at the door. It was this woman, Tessa, with the dog. I’d let the dog out.’ He shook his head, Janet wasn’t sure whether at his own folly for letting the dog out or at the woman’s action in returning her. ‘And she said the farmer had called the police. So I got the boys and we went.’

  Tessa’s comment had just been a warning, but in the midst of the murders Cottam interpreted it as a much more definite and imminent threat. If he hadn’t thought the police were about to arrive might he have gone on killing undeterred?

  ‘If she hadn’t come with the dog, what did you intend doing?’

  ‘Kill the boys, then myself.’ His voice was close to breaking.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The knife. Cut my throat.’

  ‘Why?’ Janet asked.

  His shoulders rose, then fell. ‘For the best,’ he said. ‘It had all gone to shit. We were losing the pub, the bank was on my back, bleeding us dry. Better off out of it,’ he said, quietly emphatic. Not a scintilla of doubt there that Janet could discern, but complete belief that the path he had chosen was the right one. For some killers, along with the confession came guilt and grief and expressions of sorrow for what they had brought down upon the victims and their families. There was none of that with Owen Cottam. No remorse at all.

  ‘Are you sorry?’ Janet asked him.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t finish it,’ he said, regret heavy in his voice, but not malice. ‘If you hadn’t stopped me—’

  ‘You’d have done what?’ Janet said.

  ‘Gone with my lads.’

  ‘Why did you wait?’ Janet said. ‘Once you’d got to Lundfell?’

  He blinked slowly as though it was a stupid question. ‘I had to do it right. The three of us.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Drown them, hang myself. Together.’

  ‘That’s what the bin bags were for?’

  He nodded. ‘There were some stones near the lock, to weigh them down. We should have gone together,’ he said. ‘We should all have been together.’

  ‘The deaths at your home, the pathologist tells us they were very quick. The victims would not have suffered for long, if at all. Yet you were prepared to let Theo and Harry die of thirst and dehydration, left them alone and unprotected from vermin, predators, cold and thirst. Can you explain that to me?’

  ‘That’s your
fault,’ he said. ‘The police, you lot interfering. You messed it all up.’ His eyes were flinty. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen. You made that happen.’

  Shifting the blame. And you sat there and allowed it, Janet thought. Thank God they had saved the boys. How much more grotesque would it have been if they’d lain there undiscovered, imprisoned in the old barge until they died.

  ‘You cared more about yourself, about seeing your plan through, than the suffering of those children,’ she said.

  ‘I love my children,’ he said dangerously.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I love them,’ he insisted, but there was bitterness in his eyes and the edges of his lips were white with tension.

  ‘That’s not love,’ Janet said.

  She had it – his confession. I killed them. It must be enough to pass the threshold test, meaning the case was likely to result in a successful prosecution, but she had to get the say-so of a solicitor from the Crown Prosecution Service before she could charge him.

  Cottam was taken back to his cell while Janet completed her case summary and then sought out the CPS solicitor. She gave her the written file and waited while she read it.

  ‘That’s good,’ the solicitor concluded. ‘Happy with that.’ And she signed the form.

  Janet took it through to the custody officer and waited while he typed up the charges.

  When everything was ready, Owen Cottam was brought through.

  Janet relaxed her shoulders, waited a moment before she spoke. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Pamela Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a single word, the slightest tremor in his voice. He was trembling, the muscles shifting under the skin on his face, but his expression was bland, empty. Janet had no idea what was going on in his head.

  Janet went on to the second charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Penny Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  As she continued to read out the charges, Janet thought that this was what it all led up to, all the speculating and hunting for information, all the accumulation of evidence and typing up of reports, all the hours of careful questioning and testing. To this. The moment when she could charge someone with the crime. And when those left devastated and bereaved could begin to see the prospect of justice.

  She got to the fifth and final charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are also charged that between the tenth of October 2011 and the fourteenth of October 2011 at Wigan in the county of Greater Manchester you did attempt to murder Harry Cottam, contrary to section one of the Criminal Attempts Act 1981. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Owen Cottam made no comment and the custody officer noted that and indicated to Janet that they were done.

  Cottam was led away.

  I killed them. A normal bloke, she thought, an average family man. Nothing remarkable about him. A settled, uneventful life. Nothing that could ever have pointed to his having the capacity to slaughter his family. Not like the rest of the criminals they dealt with, their lives chaotic, their families fractured, haunted by abuse and neglect and poverty. Seeking solace in drink and drugs and confusing violence with love.

  Janet didn’t believe Owen Cottam had loved too much; rather that he’d mistaken possession, ownership, for love. Seeing his wife and children as chattels without free will and his own needs as paramount.

  The cell door shut behind him with a clang that echoed along the corridor.

  ‘Nice one, Janet,’ said the custody sergeant.

  Janet smiled and gave a nod. Glad it was done, glad it was all over.

  23

  ‘Gill thinks the grandmother will take the kids,’ Janet said.

  Rachel took another piece of garlic bread, dipped it in the oil and balsamic vinegar, savoured the tang. ‘They’ll not remember, will they? That age? Though she’ll have to tell them eventually.’

  ‘Doubt it. Though I can remember being in my high chair and my mum dancing. She reckons I was only two then.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything before school,’ Rachel said, partly to stop Janet asking. ‘Do you want that last bit?’ She pointed at the bread.

  ‘You have it,’ Janet said, ‘you need it more than I do. So – have you decided on your new kitchen?’

  ‘What?’ Then Rachel remembered in a rush. ‘Oh, no, not bothering.’

  Janet nodded, filled their glasses. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she said, ‘me flying off the handle, being under the weather . . .’

  Rachel froze, expecting cancer or some wasting disease. Imagining Janet in a hospital bed shrinking away. This their Last Supper.

  ‘. . . I’m fine.’ Janet laughed. ‘Least, I’m pretty sure I am. It’s the menopause.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Rachel. ‘So you’re turning into an old bag?’

  ‘It’s the solidarity I love,’ Janet said sarcastically. She took a drink. ‘Just a new phase of life.’

  ‘You think?’ Rachel wasn’t so sure. ‘From what I hear, it’s all dry skin and facial hair and bingo wings, isn’t it?’

  ‘And freedom from periods, the acquisition of a certain age and authority, perhaps,’ Janet said. ‘Your time will come.’

  Rachel had another mouthful of wine. ‘Godzilla’s forgiven me,’ she said, ‘sort of.’

  ‘Good. No more racing into burning buildings then, eh? I turn my back for five minutes . . .’ Janet said, mock scolding.

  ‘Sod off,’ Rachel said. She sat back from the table while the waiter took their starter plates away.

  ‘Funerals next week,’ Janet said.

  Rachel’s heart stopped. She felt her skin chill. How the fuck had Janet found out?

  ‘Gill’d like us to be there, Thursday, but if you can’t face it . . .’

  The Cottams! The Cottams’ funerals! ‘No, it’s fine.’ Rachel drank some wine quickly, felt her head swim. ‘Course. Show respect,’ she said. ‘How are the kids, your kids, Elise and Taisie?’ Rachel went on, thinking change the bleeding subject.

  Janet looked at her, a smile in her eyes, but a question mark too. Of course it came out clumsy and Rachel wasn’t in the habit of asking after them, but it always worked with Alison when Rachel wanted to escape scrutiny.

  ‘They’re great,’ Janet said. ‘Elise has righteousness down to a fine art and is practising her martyrdom skills and Taisie’s up every other night with bad dreams and in lurve by day – a sight to behold.’

  Their main meals arrived and they began to eat. Rachel’s thoughts kept circling back to Cottam. ‘He’ll get life, right?’ she said to Janet, not even needing to name him. ‘But he won’t do life, will he? He’ll find a way to kill himself.’

  ‘And there’s me thinking this was a nice bit of socializing away from work,’ Janet said.

  Rachel let her complain, hung on for her answer.

  ‘Yes – probably, eventually,’ Janet said. ‘We’ve done our bit. And we did good, you did good. Front pages, bet you.’

  Rachel closed her eyes. She had already seen the copy the press office was sending out. Along with photos of her.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ Janet said. ‘Super-cop? That’s always a popular one. Or, erm . . . Avenging Angel? Rachel to the Rescue?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, a laugh undermining her very real irritation.

  ‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Janet said.

  Rachel
pointed her fork at her. ‘You’re the one having hot flushes.’

  ‘Touché!’ said Janet and picked up her glass, touching it to Rachel’s. ‘To us,’ she said.

  Rachel joined her, ‘To us,’ and downed her drink.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Gill said. She had been called down to the front desk to find Sammy sitting there.

  He swung his head, as though he was casting about for an explanation, then said, ‘Dad said to tell you in person.’

  Oh, God, no. Gill’s mind Rolodexed through the possibilities: pregnancy, drugs, self-harm, expulsion.

  Sammy had his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears, riddled with embarrassment. He looked about and she was aware that they could be overheard, that the reception area was perhaps not the best place for potentially devastating news.

  ‘Come on, come with me.’ She took him along to one of the small interview rooms, changed the sign on the door to occupied and followed him in. She sat down. Sammy loitered by the door. ‘What is it?’ she said, sounding much calmer than she felt. HIV? Oh, God. Or hepatitis? He didn’t speak.

  ‘Sammy?’ Her stomach flipped over.

  His face flooded with colour and she saw tears start in his eyes

  Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘I want to come home,’ he said, sounding half his age. ‘I don’t want to stay at Dad’s any more. I want to come home.’

  Gill was stunned, waited in case there was more he had to say, in case there was a bombshell. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and sniffed.

  ‘Is it because of the row you had?’

  ‘No,’ Sammy said.

  ‘Because you’ll do chores at mine same as you did before. More, probably.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I just . . . I missed you,’ he said awkwardly.

  Now she was going to cry, which was ridiculous. ‘Right.’ She swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling tiles, the recessed lights. ‘Fine, okay, and you’ve spoken to Dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, and you’ve got your key?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.