The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  He helped himself to her card while she finished her cigarette. She heard the slam of the front door. He always banged it too hard, rattling the glass in the windows and the pots on the kitchen shelves.

  She could hear next-door-but-one – him shouting again, on and on. And one of the kids crying. They’d not been moved in long but had soon made their presence felt. There were times she wanted to go round, knock on the door and ask if they were all OK. Maybe it was just verbal but that counted as abuse, these days. Still, interfering would probably only make things worse. At the end of the day people had to help themselves, didn’t they?

  She’d bought a lottery ticket, £16 million rollover. She knew the odds were like a trillion to one but somebody had to win. And she liked to dream it would be her, fantasize about how she would spend the money. That was what she thought about going to sleep at night, instead of fretting over the debts or worrying about Oliver. The only thing worry brought was an early grave.

  Top of her wish-list was a house, a beautiful house in a nice area. She’d buy a business as well, something Oliver could make a go of. She wouldn’t be idle. Well, not after a good holiday or three. She’d volunteer for charities and make a really big donation, for Alzheimer’s Research and the RSPCA, maybe even set up her own foundation, hospices or animal rescue. Not sure which yet. If she ever hit the jackpot she’d have to settle on one thing and stick to it. Mind you, if she won enough, she could maybe have a few good causes, spread the love.

  She put away the groceries and tucked the washing powder under the sink behind the old box, which was nearly empty. She used half the recommended dose and the clothes still came out perfectly clean, though she had learnt to soak anything very mucky, like the stuff Oliver wore for kick-about at the park, before running it through the machine.

  She made a cup of tea, and when the oven had heated she put in the pizza and checked the time.

  She’d have a soak, she decided, after Oliver had showered and finished in the bathroom. A soak and some telly, an early night, although she never slept properly till she heard the door go and knew he was home safe. She was on at eight in the morning. She could make a few more cards tonight. Aseef took them at the corner shop, sold them for one fifty apiece and split the takings with her. She was low on bits and bobs to fancy up the fronts but had enough to rustle up half a dozen or so. Congratulations would be good and Good Luck, what with exams and results in the offing. She had some silver Congratulations stickers somewhere, she was pretty sure.

  She heard Oliver’s key in the lock. ‘Don’t slam it,’ she yelled, but if he did hear it was too late. ‘You’ll have the house down,’ she said, as he came in. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times.’

  He handed her back her card. ‘I got sixty,’ he said. Another ten! ‘They only had twenties in the machine.’

  She believed him – well, ninety per cent. ‘You can bring me a tenner home, then.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’

  ‘Well, it’s that or no more cereal when those boxes are done. Your call,’ she said.

  Another shrug. His phone rang, some jangle of music that always set her nerves on edge: too brash, too loud.

  ‘Foz!’ he said in greeting, wheeling away. No doubt plans for the night ahead.

  ‘Fifty quid,’ Sonia muttered, fetching plates, then the Coke bottle from the fridge. I must be mad. I hope it’s bloody worth it.

  Still, she daydreamed, when my numbers come up, there’ll be no more begging and scraping. I’ll set him up with all he needs, clothes and games and the latest phone, and he’ll soon be making his own money. The details of what the business might be were a little hazy but you could get advice on that. They’d need an accountant and everything. She’d tear up the tax credit forms.

  She emptied the bag of ready salad into the colander, rinsed it and tipped it into a bowl – it needed eating today. She cut up the pizza, poured the Coke.

  ‘Oliver, it’s ready.’

  He’d be there in a minute. Never knowingly missed an opportunity to eat.

  He came in and loaded his plate, lifted the Coke, headed up to his room. She’d half hoped he’d eat with her, play nice, given he’d talked her out of fifty, sixty quid, whichever. Suck up, you mean? Why bother when he’d achieved his objective?

  ‘And bring your plate down,’ she shouted after him.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Before you go out.’

  ‘Got it,’ he said.

  He didn’t. She was in the bath when he left. ‘I’m off now.’ Then the thump of the door.

  Once she was dressed, she checked in his room, and there were his plate and glass, as well as several bowls and three mugs. She itched to pick them up but then he’d never learn, would he? ‘You can clear that little lot up tomorrow, lazy sod,’ she said.

  It was nearly time. She fetched her ticket, thumped the sofa cushions to plump them up and got comfy.

  A spark of anticipation inside her as the music started.

  After all, somebody had to win.

  Donna

  Donna had turned off the light, had literally just turned it off and fallen back onto her pillow, hearing Matt’s hamster, Morris, giving his wheel some welly through the wall. She was wondering whether to move the cage downstairs – But he’ll be lonely, Mum, and there’s nowhere to put him downstairs – when her phone rang.

  Beside her Jim grunted once and turned over.

  Donna answered, ‘DI Bell.’ Her desire for sleep had been undermined by the adrenalin prickling in her veins, kick-starting a faster pulse.

  ‘City Central Division here, ma’am. A suspicious death, location Swing Gate Fold, off New Mill Street, close to Deansgate.’

  ‘Exterior?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Message me the coordinates. I’m on my way.’

  In ten minutes she was dressed, suit, shoes, raincoat. Smart enough to portray the authority of rank, the gravity of her role, but practical enough to attend a crime scene in the rain, in the dark. Queasy with anticipation.

  She left a note on the kitchen table, Gone to work xxx Matt, clean out Morris, aware of all the adjustments the family would have to make to their day ahead. The recalibrating of plans, the managing of expectations. She and Jim were past masters at it. The cinema trip would go ahead without her, no refund available. When she next touched base, the kids would vie with each other to tell her what she’d missed and what the best bits were. Maybe not Bryony: at fifteen she was getting chippy, wanting to differentiate herself from the younger ones. Still, she’d agreed to go.

  So Jim would cook the chicken, chivvy people about homework and uniforms, act as taxi service to the twins, if they were still going round to their friend’s house for an evening on the Xbox. She wouldn’t swap places with him for the world. She loved her kids but she loved her work too. And his job as a driving instructor, self-employed, meant he could tailor his hours to fit round the family.

  They’d most likely be tucked up in bed before she got home again. The first few days of a murder were completely full on. Notions of shifts or eight-hour days went out the window. The weeks that followed weren’t much better, not at her level, heading an inquiry, hand on the tiller.

  She left the house and hurried to her car through the rain, a steady, fine, soaking drizzle, the sort that could go on for hours, days. She checked the GPS location on her phone, and set the satnav to direct the route.

  ‘Turn left onto Upper Chorlton Road,’ it said.

  ‘I know that part,’ Donna muttered, clicking on headlights and windscreen wipers, her mind leaping ahead, wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. A knifing victim or someone on the wrong end of a broken bottle? A hit and run?

  Manchester on any Friday or Saturday night was heaving. All the tribes: tourists, locals, students, footie fans and hen parties, people flooding in from the satellite towns that ring the city, drawn to the bright lights. A carnival every weekend. Part
y Central.

  Donna drove carefully, knowing some of the more drunken revellers might spill into the road, try to cross it, convinced that enough Jägerbombs made them invincible.

  A large group of middle-aged men was standing outside a bar to her left. They were mainly smokers, cupping their fags to keep them dry but otherwise oblivious to the rain. Further along she glimpsed a couple kissing under an umbrella, the woman’s dress, short and shiny gold, glinting in the streetlight.

  People were on the move, some heading home, perhaps, others exchanging bar or restaurant for club.

  As she turned off the main road under the railway bridge a man bent forward and vomited in the street. A cheer went up from his pals, who burst into song, ‘Chuck it up, chuck it up, chuck it up, up, up.’

  Opposite she saw some beat officers keeping the peace. In this case that consisted of them restraining a young woman, who was screaming and spitting at another. The target was clearly not helping matters by giving the first woman the finger savagely and repeatedly.

  Life’s rich tapestry.

  Halfway along Deansgate, Donna took another left onto New Mill Street, between two of the tall warehouse buildings that dominated this part of town. The road curved, and as Donna rounded the bend she saw the cordon on her right, fifty feet ahead, blocking a smaller side street, Swing Gate Fold.

  The satnav announced, ‘You have reached your destination.’

  A few figures stood outside the tape, some in police uniform. And the others? Perhaps friends of the victim, otherwise witnesses or gawkers.

  When she drew level she could see the white tent down the small road glowing in the gloom. Her stomach tightened. She pulled in beyond a row of police cars and forensic vans.

  At the cordon she introduced herself to the officer keeping the scene log and asked who the first responder had been.

  ‘PC Collins, in the middle.’ He gestured to the three uniformed officers huddled in a wide doorway. Donna could hear music coming from somewhere nearby, a disco beat, a snatch of voices raucous in chorus.

  ‘You got the call?’ Donna asked PC Collins, who was tall, narrow-faced and looked like she’d been crying. Her first dead body, perhaps.

  ‘Yes.’ The constable pulled out her daybook. Donna noticed the shake in her hands, the blood smeared on her fingers, as she opened it. At least she’d had the wherewithal to get some notes down in spite of the shock she must have had.

  ‘Eleven forty, I was on Deansgate. Told there was a possible incident here. She was—’ The officer swallowed. ‘She was unresponsive.’

  A woman, then. ‘You checked for signs of life?’

  A nod. ‘Nothing . . . The state of her . . . A lot of blood. Just a girl, you know? The ambulance was right behind me. They confirmed it.’ She shook her head quickly. ‘She hadn’t even got a coat on.’

  The officers beside her shifted, as if they shared her distress and outrage.

  ‘I got back to Control, reported a suspicious death. Asked for Major Crimes and Forensics. I secured the scene.’

  ‘Well done,’ Donna said.

  The officer dismissed the praise with a twitch of her head.

  ‘You touch anything else?’ Donna said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘See anyone?’ Donna said.

  ‘No.’

  So whoever had called 999 hadn’t waited for the police. Or had it been the victim herself?

  ‘Did you remove anything from the scene?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve been swabbed?’ As well as the blood on her hands, Donna could see another dab on her chin.

  ‘Yes. I need to leave my uniform – I’m just waiting for spares.’

  ‘Any trouble earlier tonight?’ Donna said.

  ‘Usual public-order stuff, a few cautions, no arrests.’ An arrest would have taken her back to the station, and she’d have spent most of her shift processing it. She’d not have caught this job.

  ‘Thank you,’ Donna said. ‘Good work.’

  The constable dipped her head, tears springing to her eyes, and Donna felt a wave of pity. The murder sounded vicious, the state of her . . . a lot of blood. People didn’t always understand how traumatic it could be, facing something like that. Donna had learnt to deal with it – no use as a detective otherwise. A trick of distancing, of focusing on the task at hand.

  She returned to her car and changed into her protective clothing before entering the scene. A lamppost on the main road cast some light into the mouth of the alley. The narrow street smelt of wet stone and rotting rubbish. The buildings either side, four or five storeys high, were dark. One place was boarded up but the others had obviously been renovated – offices, she assumed, given there were no signs of life at this time. She could see a rubbish skip further down the street, past the illuminated tent.

  There was a sense of isolation in spite of the steady activity as the crime scene investigators went about their work. A set of lights had been rigged up now to illuminate the area that the photographers were recording inch by inch. A fingertip search would follow. It was imperative to recover everything as quickly as possible, with the scene exposed to the rain.

  Yellow numbered markers were in place indicating items of interest. Donna saw a single shoe next to one, a black high-heel. Oh, God. She took a breath, then followed the series of stepping plates along the road to the tent and slipped inside.

  Sweet Jesus.

  The girl lay on her left side against the kerb, her cheek touching the kerb stone. Her left arm was trapped beneath her, the hand visible, torn and bloodied, close to the base of the spine. She wore a green dress, an evening dress, ripped and mottled with dark bloodstains. Blood caked her hair and face, marked her bare arms and legs. Donna could see bruises too. A teenager at a guess, though the cuts and swellings on her face made it hard to be sure.

  ‘Donna Bell, SIO,’ Donna said, to those already present.

  ‘Anthea Cartwright, crime-scene manager,’ said one of the suited figures.

  ‘Beaten?’ Donna said, gesturing to the victim.

  ‘Looks like it. We have a bank card from the clutch bag, here.’ Anthea pointed to a small black bag on the floor, beside a yellow marker. One of the CSIs held out an evidence bag with the debit card inside it and Donna took a photograph of it on her phone. Noted the name A. Kennaway.

  ‘Phone too,’ Anthea said.

  ‘Hers?’

  ‘We’re pretty sure. Look at the screen.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Phones were a treasure trove of information. It was in another plastic evidence bag and it took Donna a couple of swipes with her gloves on to activate it. On the home-screen was a photo, a picture of the girl, same colour hair, same slender build, wearing the green dress, posing between two friends. So young, the three of them. Seventeen? Eighteen? Donna copied the image and opened the contact list on the phone. She found an entry for Dad and one for Home. Perhaps Dad didn’t live with them any more. She copied the numbers into her own phone.

  After calling the coroner to report a suspicious death and getting permission to hold a forensic post-mortem, she phoned the Home Office duty pathologist, who would attend the scene to confirm death. Then she rang Jade Bradshaw, her new DC, who answered on the second ring. ‘Boss? What’s up?’

  ‘We’ve a suspected murder. A young woman beaten up in an alleyway near Deansgate. I’m waiting for the pathologist. Once they’ve been, I’ll be contacting family.’

  ‘I’ll come with,’ Jade said, sounding for all the world as if this had made her night. ‘Where shall I meet you?’

  Jade

  Jade couldn’t believe her luck. She’d been in CID only a fortnight – half of that’d been training, paperwork and induction – and already she was partnering with the DI, in at the start of a major inquiry. Twenty-five and playing with the big boys. She must be doing something right.

  She pulled on her trousers and her black sweater, feeling a swooping sensation in her belly. What if it wasn’t a sign of confidence
? What if it was the opposite? A way for the DI to keep Jade close because she wasn’t to be trusted. A newbie. Unknown quantity. Her colleagues might suspect she’d been given the opportunity to work with the boss on the murder-investigation team because she ticked the black and ethnic-minorities box. Selected because she was mixed race – half Pakistani, half Irish – rather than because she was the best candidate for the job. Fuck ’em. She just had to prove them wrong and show herself more than capable.

  She raked her fingers through her fringe. She still wasn’t used to the sensation of air on the back of her neck but the pixie cut was practical, it looked OK, and there was no longer any chance of someone grabbing her ponytail if things got physical.

  She laced up her Docs and got her leather jacket from the chair by the door that served as a coat rack. She should probably tart the place up a bit, get some proper furniture – she wouldn’t need to spend a fortune if she went somewhere like IKEA, like normal people did. Three years here and she’d still not got a bed frame. With the mattress off the floor she could store some stuff underneath. Not that she had much.

  Or was now a good time to move? New job, new place. Find somewhere furnished. She’d pay more, though. And here was as good as anywhere else. There had been rumours from a couple of the neighbours that the flats might be sold, knocked down to make way for some development connected to the hospital nearby. They were past their best, three storeys high, a rectangular block, three flats at the front, three at the back of each level. Eighteen in all. None had double-glazing and, as the tenants paid the bills, the landlord, who was a miserly fucker, showed no interest in installing any.

  Jade checked her bag: warrant card, phone, charger, purse, tissues, pepper spray and wet wipes, spare nitrile gloves and sterile evidence bag. Extremely unlikely she’d be picking up any evidence doing the death call but a good cop, a good detective, was always prepared. Like Scouts, but with powers of arrest. And she had to be good. She had to be excellent. A roll of anxiety made her shiver. Tablets. She shook two out and dry-swallowed them, then put the bottle back into her bag.