Dead To Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Martin?’ Bewildered, she gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ she said, little gulps as she spoke. ‘You shouldn’t have come – he’ll know, he’ll come back.’ She looked round the room, her eyes darting this way and that, seeing terrors at every turn. ‘You get out! You’ve brought them in.’ Them? Who’s them? Rosie jabbed the knife towards Rachel, who edged away. The angry cuts on the girl’s arm were slashes, but now she was making a stabbing motion. Her breath fast, and shallow, hyperventilating.

  Rachel was pretty sure she could overpower her, but whether she could do it and avoid Rosie injuring herself, she was uncertain. She was empowered under the Mental Health Act to detain someone for their own safety when they were in immediate risk of serious harm to themselves or anyone else. This was that sort of call. Rachel was no psychiatrist, but Rosie was mad as a box of frogs. ‘Will you come with me, Rosie?’ Rachel said simply, as though she needed her hand holding. ‘I can take you somewhere safe.’

  Rosie gave a laugh or a sob, hard to tell. ‘You lying bitch – you brought them here.’

  ‘Brought who?’

  ‘All the devils.’

  Oh, fuck: loonytunes. ‘You don’t feel safe here, we don’t have to stay. We can go together – my car’s downstairs. You’ll have to leave the knife, though. I’ll take you to a doctor.’

  ‘Get out!’ Rosie yelled and leapt. Rachel jumped back, but not quick enough to prevent the knife catching the edge of her left hand. Bringing a stinging pain then a throb, nauseating as the blood welled up.

  Rosie seized the chance to slam the living-room door.

  Rachel was through it in a second, but already Rosie was at the balcony doors, pulling them open.

  As she ran, Rachel called to the girl, ‘Rosie wait, come in, wait.’ The wind snatched at her cries, so she had no idea if Rosie heard them. The girl never hesitated; still clutching the knife, she scrambled up over the balcony wall and fell.

  Rachel ran to the balcony, looked down, saw the bundle that was Rosie on the tarmac below. Felt her own heart clench and burn, tears start in her eyes. Oh, you daft, bloody bitch.

  She ran down the stairs, jumping two and three at a time, feeling sick.

  There was nothing she could do for the girl.

  No sound, it was so quiet, just Rachel’s breath coming fast. She wanted to run. To run as far as she could and hide herself away. She could feel the impulse in her legs, in the back of her skull. Quick! Now! Go! Panic rising through her, high and fierce. She clamped down on all those reactions. In case of sudden death report to Division …

  She called an ambulance, then Janet – she didn’t know who else to try. Janet answered, sounding wary: ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Janet …’ Choking up, she couldn’t speak, she bit her cheek hard, fought hard to keep from breaking down.

  ‘Rachel? You OK? What’s going on?’

  ‘I fucked up,’ Rachel cried.

  ‘Where are you?’

  27

  RACHEL WAS HUDDLED under a blanket, trembling like a leaf. She looked up at Janet, an expression of bitter regret on her face.

  ‘You all right?’ Janet said.

  What do you think? Rachel thought.

  ‘What went on here?’

  Rachel told her, fractured sentences, covering her eyes with the heels of her hands on occasion. ‘I am in such deep shit,’ Rachel said.

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking that they were both at Ryelands, I was thinking they both had the same social worker. All I wanted was for Rosie to tell me if I was on the right track.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Rachel groaned. ‘No. But she was mad as a bat. I was going to get her sectioned. She wasn’t fit to be left on her own. Then she did the high-dive routine.’

  ‘Let’s get you to hospital, have that seen to.’ Janet meant the cut on her arm.

  ‘No,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s fine.’

  ‘Are your jabs up to date?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Janet fetched her first-aid kit and began to dress the wound. The cut, just like Lisa, and for a crazy moment Rachel wondered if Rosie had killed Lisa. As soon as she looked closer at that scenario, it fell apart: Rosie was ill, paranoid, she could barely function. Rachel couldn’t see her travelling a couple of miles to Lisa’s, killing her and running away. She was a thousand times more likely to hurt herself rather than another person. Or to be hurt. And now both those things had happened.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’

  Gill was across the other side of the square, bearing down on Rachel like a drone. She stopped close by and Janet stepped aside.

  ‘Do you go looking for trouble, or does it just find you?’ Gill snapped.

  Rachel didn’t think she expected an answer.

  ‘The rape case?’ Gill said.

  Who’d told her? Rachel looked up, startled. Gill had done her homework fast. ‘Rosie Vaughan, seventeen, attacked here – well, her flat, up there,’ Rachel said. All the lights were on now. People rubber-necking. Regular circus. ‘Back in 2008. Downstairs neighbour called us after hearing screams. She’d been half-killed, beaten to a pulp, raped at knifepoint. Not sure of the sequence. She spoke a little at first, gibberish some of it, but that’s how we knew about the knife. We got her to St Mary’s, did a rape exam. He used a condom, but there were traces.’ Hard to batter someone so comprehensively and not leave some traces behind. ‘Then she closed down, refused to make a statement, wouldn’t cooperate. We built a DNA profile of the suspect, no match – left on file. The neighbour opposite, on her landing, was considered but didn’t fit the DNA. Strong suspicion she knew her attacker and so wouldn’t dob him in.’

  Gill rubbed her hands together briskly against the cold.

  ‘She was at Ryelands, too,’ Rachel said, studying her feet. Waiting for the lash to fall.

  ‘And you ran this by me, when?’ Gill clapped her hands. ‘Oops, sorry. Never. That right?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said. She’d lose her job, be in uniform on the beat for the rest of her career.

  ‘I am your SIO. What do those letters stand for?’

  ‘Senior investigating officer.’

  They were erecting screens around Rosie’s body. There would have to be an inquiry, a full IPCC investigation, a sudden death, even with Rachel’s account to go on; a post-mortem would be required to confirm cause of death, an inquest held to establish the material facts. A forum for the family to get their questions answered. What family? The mother who’d ruined her? Who’d mourn for her? The dozy lads she got high with at the canal?

  ‘Senior investigating officer,’ Gill went on. ‘That means I run the team. Yes?’ Her fury was barely contained.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘This is my syndicate, you are my DC.’

  Were. She’d soon be using the past tense.

  ‘The safety of my officers is my primary concern. You are my responsibility. I do not expect my DCs to start freelancing on the side. No forethought, no strategy, no backup. No fucking sense.’

  Rachel couldn’t work out whether the correct response was Yes, boss, or No, boss, so she made do with, ‘Boss.’ She was shivering, cold in her bones.

  The air felt icy with each breath. She had flown downstairs, leaping three or four steps at a time on to the landings, heart smacking like a jackhammer, mind chanting No no no no no! Oh, Rosie, you daft mare.

  Rosie had landed spreadeagled, the glaring light reflecting the pool of blood around her head. Her glasses beside her, the gauzy dress riffling in the faint breeze. Rachel reached her, felt for her pulse as she keyed in her mobile. Ascertain signs of life. None there.

  No one about. It was dreamlike. The harsh lighting, the frosted air and no one appeared. Falling bodies made a noise, there would have been a thump, a sickening moist sound from the impact. But they were all alone, no bystanders drawn to gawp and chunter, just Rachel and the dead girl. For a laughable moment Rachel wondered if she re
ally might be dreaming and she’d wake up at home or in Nick’s bed and the fist in the pit of her stomach would disappear, the anxiety melt away.

  ‘Rachel?’

  Rachel looked from the screens and back to Gill, whose breath streamed out of her nostrils white: dragon’s smoke. ‘Complaints will want to see you soon as. Don’t come in until you’re ready. They can wait, if needs be. Something like this – you’re going to feel crap.’

  You’re not exactly helping.

  Gill gave another puff of breath. ‘Forty-eight hours and you’ve totalled one of our cars, apparently launched your own private investigation, presented us with a jumper to explain …’ Meaning Rosie ‘… and brought the IPCC rummaging through my knicker drawer. Far too much attention.’

  Rachel wanted to weep, her eyes ached, but she sniffed hard, rubbed at her face. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  ‘Occupational health – there if you need them.’ Gill held up her hands, as if she was shoving Rachel away, disowning her, turned on her heels and walked back the way she’d come.

  Janet invited her for a drink.

  ‘Haven’t you a home to go to?’ Rachel said.

  ‘They’ll survive,’ Janet said.

  She took her to a pub, an old-fashioned place with a real fire and lots of little rooms. No bells or whistles.

  ‘Wine, lager, vodka …?’

  ‘Wine. Red, please.’ Then she felt a wave of sadness. Why was Janet being so nice to her? She’d really, really messed up. Rachel’s throat closed. She tried to swallow.

  Janet noticed. Eagle eyes. ‘Hey, go sit down.’

  ‘She was only nineteen,’ Rachel said, when Janet set their drinks on the table. ‘I thought I could talk her into—’

  ‘Did you push her off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Threaten her?’

  ‘No – I tried to get her out of there, get her sectioned.’

  ‘So, it’s not your fault.’

  Rachel still felt lousy. ‘But if I’d—’

  Janet gave a snort. ‘That way lies madness.’

  Rachel took a mouthful of wine. She wanted a fag, but she’d have to go and stand in the cold and she couldn’t face that yet. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘if you want Gill to reassign me …’

  ‘Don’t be daft. She came down hard on you because she cares about her team. You put yourself at risk, that’s what’s freaking her out – not what happened to Rosie. No one could have foreseen that. She jumped – she wasn’t pushed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, you’re a liability. You’re disorganized, you don’t think things through, you don’t know when to keep your gob shut, you’re tactless, and you’re not much of a team player. You can be rude and patronizing and arrogant …’

  Rachel blinked. ‘Don’t hold back,’ she managed.

  ‘… and you’re judgemental. But Gill thinks you’ve got potential. And in among the Evel Knievel stunt, the unauthorized visits and the slagging off of our victims’ relatives, I can see that she might just be on to something. So, I’ll put up with you as long as she does.’

  All of five minutes then. Rachel wondered if she should justify her downer on Denise, but that would mean talking about her own mother swanning off without a backward glance, leaving three kids with a drunken excuse for a man. And Rachel didn’t want pity or understanding or shrinks or questions. Besides, Janet was a mother herself, so she could get all defensive or righteous or, even worse, go all gooey and brain-dead, the way Alison did when children came into the conversation.

  ‘You rate Gill, don’t you?’ Rachel said.

  ‘She’s the best,’ Janet replied.

  ‘But you’re mates, too. Did you train together?’

  Janet paused a moment. ‘No. Met not long after.’ Rachel expected more, but Janet didn’t elaborate. They talked about the murder instead.

  ‘Look – Martin Dalbeattie …’ Rachel said.

  Janet shook her head, ‘God. You’re like a terrier!’

  ‘In a good way?’

  Janet raised her eyebrows, ‘Depends if you’ve found a rat or you’re savaging next door’s guinea pig.’

  28

  ON THE DRIVE home, Gill tried to shake off the anger zapping about inside. What a cock-up! The girl playing Nancy fucking Drew and landing them with another dead body. Not that her syndicate would take it. Division would investigate and conclude no foul play, unless someone had a brainstorm and fancied Rachel for it.

  She needed to decompress before she got home. The bloody gall of it! They’re all working their arses off and Miss Marple’s sneaking around on her own shiny new line of inquiry without having the decency to inform her colleagues. You wanna be in my gang, you stay loyal. That’s what it was like: being stabbed in the back. And Gill had history in that department.

  When she caught Dave cheating, she’d been wounded, deep inside. As though the whole marriage had been a sham. Work was her salvation. Work and Sammy. But it became apparent that she’d have to resign; her role in the crime faculty took her away from home, all over the country as a matter of course. And she could be away for long periods, assisting regional forces with particularly taxing murders. It was high-profile work, demanding, painstaking, exhilarating. She loved it. The sense of being that good, of being in an élite unit of detectives with skill and experience so highly regarded. But without Dave, all the parenting, all the school stuff and the family arrangements, all the daily chores would fall on her shoulders. And much as she loved her job, she loved her boy and she needed to be there for him.

  The day she handed in her resignation had been the low point. Her boss had expressed great disappointment, promising her that if she ever had the desire to return there’d be an open door for her. Her colleagues took her out for a boozy lunch and she got a taxi back to the digs where they were staying.

  That afternoon she had walked to the promenade in nearby Cleethorpes, the wind brisk, smelling of brine and seaweed and candy floss. She’d carried on walking past the pier and on to the wide sands, a handful of figures scattered here and there. She had taken off her socks and shoes and stood at the water’s edge. The North Sea was cold, numbing her feet and stinging her ankles. Gulls wheeled above, their harsh cries competing with the thundering waves.

  Gill retreated up the beach, to the top of one of the groynes, the lines of rocks that divided the sands and protected against coastal erosion. She sat there till it grew dark. Mourning. For her marriage, for her job. Salt in her hair and on her face.

  Then, stiff and cold and thirsty, she went back to pack. Ready for the morning train home. To pick up the pieces, determined not to let that cheating bastard ruin her life.

  But the worst moment? Oh, God, worse even than finding them in bed – it still made her feel ill. Three weeks after she had walked in on Dave and his bimbo, Gill and he sat down to talk. She was expecting him to beg forgiveness, plead for a second chance, him thinking that she’d be keen to save the marriage. He had another think coming. Gill had been to a solicitor to obtain advice on her legal rights and how to proceed if she wanted to keep the marital home and ditch Dave, as well as information on his obligations where Sammy’s maintenance was concerned. She’d told Sammy his dad was on a training course. They’d not seen each other since she’d finished in Grimsby and come back to Shaw. Unless he’d heard it on the grapevine, he wouldn’t know she’d resigned from the faculty. Dave had been staying somewhere else; at his mother’s, she assumed. Unless the uniform had taken him in. She couldn’t see that working for them. A roll in the hay with one of the lower orders was a whole different prospect from sharing a laundry basket, a microwave and a cheap double bed. Hell, the girl probably still lived at home. Her parents not best pleased with her seeing a man over twenty years older. A forty-eight-year-old. A married forty-eight-year-old with a teenage son.

  Dave arrived on time, she heard his car on the gravel, steeled herself. He came in, shucked off his coat and pulled up a chair. He still had it, that
presence, that magnetism, even in this toilet of a situation. Not just his physique – tall, broad, handsome, piercing blue eyes – but there in the way he carried himself and something indefinable. Pheromones? Gill could not believe her response. She still fancied him, was still drawn to him. Her Judas body betraying her too.

  They had been so good together. Bright, energetic, ambitious. Matching each other stride for stride. The sex had been phenomenal. State of permanent arousal, and there like a promise, like a drug, at the end of each exhausting day’s work. There too in the morning. Times they met for lunch, took a room, frenetic, greedy.

  He didn’t say anything now. Sat four-square, arms on the table, hands folded. Wary, perhaps? Something of the big cat in him, waiting. Muscles tensed. She had loved the size of him, the power in his back, in his arms, the way they fit together making love.

  ‘I want a separation,’ she said, her voice sounding loud in the kitchen. ‘Move your stuff out by the end of the month.’ She couldn’t help trembling, but fought to keep her voice steady.

  Dave nodded once. No quarrel, no question, no pleading. No ‘sorry’ either. No regret. ‘I’ve moved in with Emma,’ he said.

  Gill blinked. ‘Really? You didn’t hang about!’ Thinking: do you love me? Did you ever? When did you stop? You cold-hearted prick.

  ‘She’s … we’re …’ He gave a sort of a gasp.

  ‘What?’ Spit it out.

  ‘We’re having a baby,’ he said.

  Gill’s heart thumped, she felt adrenalin spike through her, scalding. God, the gift that just keeps on giving! It hurt, deep hurt. She screwed up her mouth, biting her cheek; to no avail, tears, treacherous tears, stood in her eyes. ‘Get out,’ she managed.

  ‘Gill …’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Enraged.

  ‘The house,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to sort out the house.’

  ‘No.’ Her face was wet and she was shaking with fury. ‘No way, matey. I’ll see you in a fucking hostel first.’ The unholy family: Dickhead, Pendlebury and the spawn of Satan.

  ‘Gill, this is completely—’