Dead To Me

by Staincliffe, Cath

  Dalbeattie’s number burned a hole in Rachel’s notebook all Saturday night. She went to the gym, worked the treadmill, did some weights, swam fifty lengths after. She could still feel the pull in the back of her thighs from chasing Kasim when she hadn’t been warmed up. One call. One call and devise a clever way of finding out where he’d been on Monday afternoon. Market research perhaps? Don’t be a tit, she told herself, he’s off limits.

  She’d hoped Nick might be back for the weekend, but when she had sounded him out Friday morning, him in a rush, he said he was staying in London and catching up with some old friends. What friends? Had he known them at school or law school? She wondered briefly if she had anything to worry about but squashed the thought. Nick was into her, no doubts on that score. He made the running when they met and Rachel had been careful to appear interested but relaxed. Played it casual and saw it made him want her more. Want more of her. Each time it was Nick who raised the stakes, calling her to get together again, pushing for a weekend away, persuading her to meet up even when they could only snatch a couple of hours and he had to go out after and entertain clients. So she wasn’t going to turn into Little Miss Needy anytime soon. Quickest way to kill the relationship stone dead.

  Sunday the boss had given them off. Sunday morning she drove up to Marsden and went for a run up along Stannedge Edge. Then she mugged up her tier three modules. It was a tough qualification to pass and not worth putting in for without plenty of preparation.

  Rachel rang Nick. Listened to him talk about his weekend in London and how they should have a weekend there together some time, and then he asked how her new job was going, said she sounded a bit tired.

  ‘Not great,’ she said. ‘I tried to bring a girl in for sectioning on Thursday and she jumped from the fourth-floor flat. Topped herself.’

  Suicide Act 1961 decriminalized the offence of taking one’s own life. Still a criminal offence to aid, abet, counsel or procure …

  ‘Rachel! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Middle of the night before I got back, and Friday there wasn’t a chance.’

  ‘God, how awful. You OK?’

  ‘Yes, just … bit shitty. Works do Friday night.’ Trying to sound brighter.

  ‘Any funny business with the photocopier?’

  ‘No. Was at this hotel.’

  ‘So you’re making friends?’

  And enemies. ‘Janet’s OK, I guess.’

  ‘High praise indeed,’ he laughed.

  ‘I have high standards, me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Is this the same Janet you described as an uptight WI reject?’

  ‘Modified my opinion a bit.’ Suddenly she really missed him, wanted to be having this conversation face to face over a meal in one of the Michelin places in town, or at his flat afterwards. Wanted to be making love, or laughing with him. Not going to bed on her own. ‘Do you know what you’re doing at Christmas?’ she asked, surprising herself because she always let him take the initiative. Maybe his parents would expect him there?

  ‘Ah …’ he sounded disappointed, ‘Monty has invited me to his. Three-line whip.’

  Monty, sort of poncey name you’d give a poodle, was Nick’s head of chambers. Monty was God in pinstripes. Rachel waited a beat, just in case the invitation extended to her. Imagined four-poster beds and vast rooms with huge fires, sweeping staircases, people with frightful accents and fabulous wealth.

  ‘Shooting and fishing,’ Nick added. ‘You’ll see your folks?’ Was he worried about her being lonely?

  ‘Yeah, probably. Same old.’ She’d put in an appearance at Alison’s on Christmas day. Watch the kids get fractious with all the excitement and sugar, have turkey and the works, keep her glass well topped up and slope off soon as she could.

  By four o’clock Sunday afternoon she couldn’t sit still. She prepared her spiel: … a survey of local transport, it’ll only take two minutes, we sample a day of the week, ask you to tell us the time and distance of any journeys you made and the method of transport used. If I can ask you about Monday …

  If he refused to tell her, she’d have to find another way to dig. Of course, he might just lie: No, never went out of the house all day and there’d be no way, posing as a market researcher, to verify it.

  She had a beer and some cheese and crackers, said her spiel again then punched in his number before she changed her mind.

  ‘Hello?’ Woman’s voice, middle-aged.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Dalbeattie, please?’

  ‘Sorry, he’s not here.’

  Oh my God, he’s done a runner! Her pulse increased. ‘Can I try later?’

  ‘No, he won’t be back till Wednesday. I can take a message.’

  Back from where? ‘I did try Monday,’ she blagged.

  ‘Sorry, I must have missed you,’ the woman said.

  I, not we. ‘He was away then? Anywhere nice?’ Rachel gritted her teeth, wondering if such nosiness from a caller who hadn’t even identified herself would spook the woman.

  ‘The Algarve, two weeks’ golf. All right for some. Do you want to leave a message?’

  ‘Just doing a telephone survey on local transport, that’s all. Thanks for your time.’

  Mission accomplished. But that left Rachel strangely deflated without anyone in her sights for the Lisa Finn killing or the rape of Rosie Vaughan.

  Sammy usually rode his bicycle to school. Not possible now. Gill started work too early to be able to give him a lift.

  He said it didn’t hurt so much, but she could imagine he’d be knocked and jostled in the course of the day and wondered if she should keep him home. She couldn’t take a day off now though, that’d be impossible.

  ‘We’ve got PE in the afternoon, I can’t do that,’ Sammy said. ‘So I could come home at lunch.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll get your dad to take you and fetch you home. You’ll be all right till I get back after that. Order a takeaway if you get hungry.’

  ‘OK.’

  Dave had already spoken to Sammy about his accident earlier that day and Gill had warned him then that he would need to help out, not knowing if Pendlebury had passed on that bit of the message. Now Gill rang again and explained what Sammy needed.

  ‘Maybe he should just take the day,’ Dave said.

  ‘His exams start in January,’ she said, ‘he can’t afford to miss anything.’

  He sighed. ‘OK, what time’s lunch?’

  ‘They break at twelve twenty,’ she said. Couldn’t resist adding, ‘You do remember where the school is?’

  He hung up on her. The phone rang again almost immediately.

  ‘Now what?’ she snapped.

  ‘Gill?’ Not Dave. Fuck.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Matthew, Matthew Parkinson.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Sorry, thought it was someone else.’

  ‘How’s Sammy?’

  ‘He’s fine, really. Probably be fit for school tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. I … erm … got a quote from the garage for the car.’

  ‘That was quick!’

  ‘Called on my way home yesterday – bloke’s a marvel, workaholic.’

  ‘And …?’ Gill steeled herself.

  ‘Seven five nine,’ he said.

  Ouch! ‘Fine.’

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll drop you a cheque in. If you’re there now …’ Gill did not want to put it off and forget it and then find herself even more embarrassed.

  It was a twenty-minute walk along the dirt track to the farm and Matthew’s barn. The bad weather had left the lane churned up with black mud from the surrounding peat, scattered with pockets of water. Gill had her wellies on. She should get out more, walk more, she never seemed to have a moment to do so. Certainly not when she was heading a major inquiry. She could hear the whine of a power tool growing louder as she got closer to the dwellings. Sheep were grazing in one of the farm meadows and the farmer had left a bale of hay there for them.

  The
lane divided in two and she took the fork to the barn. Matthew’s car was parked outside the building. She felt nauseous when she saw the damage, the crumpled metal and shattered headlamp. It was a miracle that Sammy had survived with only a fractured wrist.

  The outside of the barn looked finished, large windows and door, slate roof, the stone walls repointed. He must be raking it in. The door was ajar and the drone of the power tool came from inside. She waited for the sound to stop, then called out, ‘Hello?’

  Matthew came out, looking dishevelled and dusty. Pulling a dust-mask from his nose. ‘Hi, come in. Come in.’

  Gill looked down at her wellies.

  ‘Don’t worry, the floors are covered.’ There were dustsheets underfoot.

  Inside, a wide central hall led through to doors at the back and a flagged patio overlooking the moor and the reservoir beyond. Either side of the hallway freshly plastered walls divided off the rooms.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Will be,’ he said. ‘Let me give you the tour.’

  He walked her through, discussing the choices he’d made for the heating system (wood burning stoves and back boilers), how he’d found a drystone waller to repair some of the boundary at the rear, and showed her the job he was currently occupied with: sanding reclaimed timber for surfaces in the kitchen. His enthusiasm reminded Gill of her own when she and Dave were planning their home. She took her wellies off to go up to one of the mezzanine rooms; the new wooden staircases glowed clean, the colour of honey. ‘This will be a twin room,’ he said. ‘I’ve a daughter, first year at uni, so she can visit – and friends, of course. The other side is bigger and the bathroom’s in between.’

  He offered her tea: a microwave and a calor gas stove served as a makeshift kitchen.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I’d better be getting back, let you get on with your sanding,’ Gill said. ‘Here,’ she passed him the cheque.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ he said.

  She nodded. He walked her to the door. She pulled her boots on. As she stepped out, he spoke in a rush, ‘I wondered if you’d like to go out for a meal sometime?’

  Oh. My. God! Gill coughed. A date! He was asking her on a date! ‘I’m pretty busy at the moment …’ she began.

  ‘When it’s quieter?’

  Is it ever? ‘Yes, yes, that’d be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled.

  Gill felt a fresh spring in her step and had a daft grin on her face as she went back up the lane, deliberately walking in all the puddles.

  36

  ‘MADAM.’ MONDAY MORNING and Gill stood at her office door, her dark eyes sparkling, but not with humour.

  ‘Boss?’ Rachel said.

  With a twitch of her head, Gill indicated that Rachel should join her. Had the IPCC been on? Was there some problem about Rosie’s death? Apart from the fact it had happened? Had Gill found out that she had called Dalbeattie?

  ‘You know what an order is, do you?’

  She wasn’t a happy bunny. Rachel’s stomach tightened.

  ‘Because from where I’m standing it’s hard to tell. Marlene Potter?’

  Fuck.

  ‘Now, I don’t videotape our conversations, but I could swear I told you to ask Ryelands about residents, looked-after kids, any scrotes or scallies among them with form for sexual violence or knife crime. I’m not imagining that, am I?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘You heard it too?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Then where in buggeration do you get off making totally unfounded allegations about staff?’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Tunnel vision, Rachel. You go around like that in this job, banging on about your pet theory and not looking at the wider picture, you’ll either walk into a wall or off a sodding cliff. Marlene wants to make an official complaint.’

  Oh fuck-a-duck with knobs on.

  ‘I have asked her to reconsider. One professional,’ she weighted the word, sticking her neb forward, implying that Rachel was a far cry from belonging to that club, ‘to another. Told her you’d witnessed the suicide, messed your head up, robbing you of sense and manners.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  Gill snorted. ‘Don’t thank me yet. You got right up her nose, girl, and she doesn’t rattle easily. She’ll be back to us tomorrow. I’ll ask her to wait in line.’

  Rachel frowned.

  ‘Me, Janet …’

  ‘What about Janet?’ Rachel said.

  ‘She’d like to live long enough to collect her pension, see her daughters grown up.’

  The car chase. But she’s over that, Rachel thought, she stood up for me on Friday. ‘But she—’

  Gill glared. She jabbed a finger in her direction. ‘Out. Now. Go.’

  Bet she’s going through the change, evil-tempered witch.

  ‘Maybe I made a mistake,’ Gill said to Janet.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I can ship her back to Sutton.’

  ‘Is that fair?’ Janet said.

  ‘Not five minutes ago you wanted her head on a platter. You begged me to get shot. Why are you batting for her now?’

  ‘Look at her, Gill; we were like that once, remember?’ Janet had joined the force not long after Gill. Still a man’s world back then, the training course at Bramshill an ordeal of sweaty men oozing testosterone, a minefield of sexist innuendo and harassment. Andy a higher life form among the Neanderthals. Janet felt a flare of heat in her cheeks. Bloody Andy. She avoided Gill’s eyes, not wanting her friend to read anything there that shouldn’t be. The hardest thing wasn’t going to be keeping it from Ade (he probably wouldn’t notice if she brought the Chippendales home for a group shag) but keeping it from Gill. Who would come down on them both like a ton of bricks, if she ever found out. Gill knew only too well what it was like to be cuckolded. She’d hate Janet for this. ‘We had it so hard, we fought every step of the way, we even made mistakes.’

  ‘I was never like that,’ Gill said disparagingly, arms crossed.

  ‘No, you sprang fully formed, tits, teeth and political savvy, detective chief inspector.’

  ‘She’s a mad bitch, she’s not house-trained. She’s out of control,’ said Gill.

  ‘She’s scared witless. You know that feeling, the sickness at the pit of your stomach. She reminds me of you.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! Totally ridiculous!’ Gill flung her hands up.

  ‘Easy on the outrage. What’s the quote – the lady doth protest too much?’ said Janet.

  ‘We’ve the crass comment to the mother, now a complaint from a senior social worker—’

  ‘Hang on, the mother didn’t make a complaint. Rachel was trying to find her some support, just put her foot in it.’

  ‘She’s impetuous and she’s a crap communicator. One more incident and I’ll have to put her on efficiency proceedings.’

  That morning Janet and Rachel divided up the names that Marlene sent through, cross-referencing them against the various databases. Janet took the boys and ran them through HOLMES, where all major incidents were catalogued. Rachel used the intelligence database to input the names of the girls who may have been logged as victims.

  Janet’s neck was aching, her eyes feeling the strain. Perhaps she needed new glasses? The rest of the team were out throwing the net wider, digging deeper into Lisa Finn’s recent life. It was like panning for gold, Janet thought, sifting through the muck and mire for long enough until you caught sight of something that gleamed. A crumb, a grain to make it all worthwhile. At least it meant she wasn’t faced with Andy. A dream turned nightmare.

  ‘Lunch?’ Janet looked over to Rachel, who was sucking on her pen as she studied her screen.

  ‘Can do,’ she said, indifferently.

  ‘You don’t usually eat?’ Janet teased.

  ‘Course I eat. You sure you want to be seen eating with me?’ She flicked her eyes towards Gill’s office. Like it was the playground and friendships were
always being tested, little cliques formed and broken.

  ‘I think I can cope,’ Janet said.

  They went into the Old Grapes, the pub opposite that did bar food on a lunchtime. Janet chose hotpot and red cabbage, just the thing for a winter’s day. Rachel picked a spicy chicken dish. As they sat down, Rachel cast a glance at Janet, looking wary.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I thought you might have something to say.’

  ‘About?’ said Janet.

  ‘Me. A talking to, a lecture.’

  She was paranoid. ‘Lunch, Rachel, that’s all it is: lunch. Did they not do lunch in Sex Crimes?’

  ‘Worked through usually, butties on the job.’

  ‘And breakfast? Coffee and a cigarette?’

  Rachel stared at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Janet sat back, ‘it’s my mother act, that’s all.’ Obviously not appreciated.

  The food arrived and they ate, Janet trying to make small talk. ‘Where you from then?’

  ‘Middleton. You?’

  ‘Chadderton, never left. My kids went to the same primary school as I did.’

  ‘That might be another place to try,’ Rachel said, ‘the school Lisa and Rosie went to, when they were in care.’ Back to the case, and suddenly Rachel was engaged again. Much more comfortable than with the personal stuff.

  ‘That’d be North Manchester High. Big school,’ Janet said.

  ‘But the teachers’d know if anyone had been in that sort of serious bother.’

  ‘Yes. Suggest it to Gill.’

  ‘You suggest it. If it comes from me, she’ll sack it.’ Rachel scooped another forkful of chicken, ate it.

  ‘No. She’s not daft – quite the opposite – and she’s not petty.’

  ‘Try standing where I am.’

  ‘Rachel, she has valid concerns about your conduct. You’ll end up on an action plan if you don’t watch your step. Look, if you want to stay in the syndicate—’