The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘No,’ the kid said.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Steve Kennaway said.

  The kid shuffled on the sofa, sat up straighter, as if she was about to enter some quiz or something, keen to score the highest points. Why wasn’t she in bits?

  Jade took more notes as the boss began, asking what time Allie had left the house, whom she’d travelled with, getting their contact details. She broadened it out to questions about sixth-form college and friendships, social media activity, asking about any problems or difficult relationships, digging for any hint of animosity or aggression that might have led to tonight’s savagery.

  Nothing. Yes, Allie had been for counselling sometimes, unhappy in her own skin, as her dad put it, his voice faltering every so often, and then after the death of the mother there had been a difficult couple of years but the last eighteen months had been much more positive.

  ‘She socially transitioned for sixth form,’ the kid said, the jargon rolling off her tongue, ‘and she’ll be starting hormone treatment soon. She’s happier now.’

  Was happier.

  ‘Socially transitioned?’ the boss said. ‘That means living as a girl, as a woman?’

  ‘You have to do that before you can have surgery,’ the kid said. ‘It’s important. You have to be sure, and you mustn’t do it too quickly.’

  The dad blew air out, and shuddered.

  Someone walking over his grave, over and over. Stamping on it, Jade reckoned, with massive fuck-off hobnailed boots on.

  Martin

  Martin was at the social club when he was called in. He’d watched the match live that evening, a charity game at Old Trafford, then gone on for drinks. He had a season ticket. He took Dale with him sometimes when Dale wasn’t busy.

  It had been a beauty of a game, the home team playing a blinder in the first ten minutes, and by half-time the opposition might as well have hung up their boots and knocked off early. He could still feel the warm glow of victory. Well, that and the pleasant flush from a few pints. Not strictly supposed to drink, given he was on call, but by the time things got moving, he’d have pissed away the alcohol and be up to speed.

  ‘Sue,’ he called to the barmaid. ‘Can you do us a coffee, take out, please?’

  ‘Coming up. You leaving us?’

  ‘Duty calls.’

  Sue’s eyes widened but she said no more, knew better than to ask because her bloke had been a copper till he retired on long-term sick. A nasty situation: a break-in that turned out to be an armed robbery. Machetes and baseball bats. Chaos by all accounts. Tasered one of the scumbags and got beaten halfway to Blackpool. The bruises faded but the flashbacks never did. Poor sod. Retired at thirty-six.

  Martin had two years left before he got the carriage clock, and he needed to make plans. There were the usual options – security, close protection, but he knew how ball-achingly tedious that line of work was. On high alert for eight or ten hours at a time with absolutely fuck-all happening. Some people took up a hobby, sailing or climbing. Gardening, for Chrissake. Rather slit his own throat.

  Training was an option, work as a consultant for the force. Competitive, though.

  He liked doing what he did, appreciated the respect he was shown, not just because of his rank as sergeant but because he had earned it. He enjoyed the camaraderie of the team, the power they had as an institution, the biggest gang on the planet.

  ‘Here you go.’ Sue passed him his coffee. ‘On the house,’ she said. ‘You take care.’

  At the station, Martin parked, then signed in. He took the stairs up to the fourth floor, pausing on each landing to catch his breath. As he opened up the offices, the motion-sensitive lighting flickered into life. He was the only one there as yet, tasked with setting up the incident room ready for the inquiry.

  All over the city, detectives and support staff were being woken or summoned to the phone to be notified of their next major investigation.

  He pulled the whiteboards into place, faint dabs and smears of black and green, indicating the ghostly notes from a previous inquiry. The room was kitted out with computer stations and desks for all the staff who would be logging in and creating the hundreds of reports that a major incident generated. More and more of the work was computerized or involved digital technology.

  Twenty-eight years Martin had been serving. Two-thirds of that he’d worked in the Major Incident Team but he’d done stints in uniform throughout. Periods when he got tired of the slow shuffle, the pen-pushing and double-checking that made up most detective work. Nothing came close to the rush of being a front-line copper. The blues and twos, the chases and collars. All officers started in uniform, learning the basics, and after that the majority put their chips down on one side of the table or the other. There was little love lost between the beat bobbies, risking life and limb, and those in plain clothes with their paperclips, driving desks not Panda cars. Fran worried herself sick he’d be on the receiving end of some scrote with a shooter or a nutter with a knife (not an entirely misplaced fear, given what he had encountered and his two commendations for bravery) so he’d had a pendulum career, bouncing between the two wings of the force.

  This last stretch on the fourth floor had been eight years. But once he was off the streets, and wearing civvies, Fran had started in again. Mithering now about his sedentary lifestyle. Frightening herself with stories in the paper about men’s health. She’d forced him to see the GP, who had confirmed that Martin was overweight, with high blood pressure and high cholesterol. He was prescribed medication and advised on dietary changes and an exercise regime. That jag must have lasted all of a month, he thought, as he powered up a computer and began a request for information to the emergency call-handling centre. Rabbit food was not his notion of a decent diet.

  ‘I like my food,’ he had told Fran, ‘and I like a drink now and then. It helps me relax. And if I relax my blood pressure comes down.’

  ‘But they say drinking—’

  ‘That’s the end of it, Fran,’ he said. ‘The medicine can do its stuff but I’d rather drop down dead a few years sooner than live like a fucking saint.’

  ‘Your funeral.’ She shrugged.

  ‘As I said.’ He spread his hands.

  Eight years as a desk jockey and he’d be hard pressed now to run fast enough to catch the clap. He could hold his own in a fight, always big and strong, but fit? Well, fit was stretching it.

  Martin looked at their Dale sometimes on the pitch, moving like lightning, dodging through the defence to line one up, and he pined for those years, that grace and skill, the physical prowess.

  The trials should be any time. Dale was training hard. It still felt like a knife in his gut when he thought of the boy’s injury. A tendon torn to shreds just as some of the major clubs were showing an interest. It had put the lad out of the running and in with the physios for months on end. Touch and go for a while whether he would ever recover full strength and flexibility and so be eligible for consideration again. But he was getting there, working his way up now, playing in the local league and about to make his bid for a chance at the next level. Martin’s pride in him was a physical thing, a fist in his chest opening wide. He knew Dale could make it. He was professional standard and he deserved to make it. And Martin would be with him every step of the way.

  He heard steps in the corridor outside and the door swung open. Support staff there, arms full of boxes – stationery and office supplies.

  ‘Sarge,’ one said, and they moved into the room.

  Outside there was the peal of a siren from a car leaving the station. Martin went to the windows, looked at the city skyline. He could see the Hilton Tower dominating the vista and the distinctive sloping wedge that was the Great Northern Tower, all the lights smeared by the veil of rain. Somewhere down there was the victim, the crime scene, the centre of his universe for the foreseeable future.

  Steve

  The two detectives had gone and there was another policeman at the house, the family liaison offi
cer. A Chinese guy. He was staying with them.

  ‘Sleeping here?’ Teagan had said.

  ‘No, I’ll be awake. I go home for breaks but I’ll be here all day today and for as long as I’m needed. When I do go home I’m at the end of the phone, day or night, for anything you need.’

  Steve had come upstairs for a piss and now stood in the doorway to Allie’s room. When he switched the light on he saw the clutter of the earlier preparations, hairdryer, brush and a jumble of clothes on the bed, the long table littered with glasses, make-up and a pile of college books and papers. On top of the chest of drawers, her screen, console and laptop among a tangle of wires. The smell of Malibu in the air, coconut and alcohol, along with perfume and the bite of nail varnish. He spotted a bottle upturned on the table, a small pool of bright silver, congealing. All as it should be. Which didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. His throat ached. He wanted Sarah, with a sudden vicious craving. He needed her to be here now, to help him, to guide him. His wife. Allie’s mother. She should be here – she should fucking be here. He couldn’t do this. None of it. Not on his own. He felt sick.

  Allie’s booklet, her final project for media studies, lay open on the computer chair. He picked it up and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  The pages were thick, a high-quality paper with a subtle sheen that took the printing ink well and was satisfying to touch. He remembered Allie debating the merits of different weights and finishes, talking about various options for the binding. The objective had been to create a product that could be accessed cross-platform, as an app or game or website as well as a physical item, book, poster, DVD and the like. Allie had created the booklet, published it as an e-book, too, and made a series of podcasts available to download as an MP3. An A–Z of being T.

  ‘It ought to be A to Zee,’ Teagan had said. ‘Then it would rhyme.’

  ‘Zee is so lame,’ Allie said. ‘Too American. I could do A to B.’

  ‘Too short, though,’ Teagan said.

  Allie began to laugh. ‘Not literally, you muppet.’

  ‘But you’d never buy an A to B of Manchester, would you?’ Teagan said.

  Both versions of the book included simple illustrations, cartoons, graphics and some photographs, when Allie had been able to find images that were copyright free.

  Steve read, Gender Recognition Act – became law in the UK in 2005. It allows people to legally change their gender and to obtain a new birth-certificate showing the acquired sex. To apply you must have socially transitioned for two years. You DO NOT have to have gender reassignment surgery to apply.

  He stroked the page, flicked ahead and stopped at a drawing of two figures wearing brightly coloured saris. Hijra – in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, a third gender of people recognized by law. Hijras have existed in South Asia since ancient times. Two-spirit is the term used by some Native American tribes to describe people who have more than one gender identity.

  Steve thumbed through a few more pages. Pronouns – he, she and they. Pronouns are very important in how we think of ourselves and how we want other people to refer to us. Some transgender people use the pronoun of their acquired gender, others may use ‘they’ and ‘them’ (even though they are just one person). Respect what people say. If you’re not sure, ask. Terminology is changing all the time.

  He turned towards the back of the booklet, an entry decorated with hearts and cupids. Sexual Orientation – who do you fancy? That’s all it is. Nothing to do with gender identity. Transgender people can be straight, gay, bi, fluid or any other sexual identity. Just like cisgender people can be.

  And overleaf. Trannie – shorthand for transvestite. We’d rather you didn’t call us this. (Also can mean a transistor radio, if you’re an old-age pensioner.) See Cross-dresser.

  Steve smiled. He remembered Sarah coming down from putting Aled to bed. Aled, he was then. Sarah’s choice. ‘He won’t speak Welsh, will he? He won’t even have a Welsh accent living here. He’ll have your surname, so the least I can do is give my babies Welsh names.’ So it had been Aled, and when they had a girl, Teagan.

  ‘He’s had my knickers on.’ Sarah had laughed.

  Aled had been seven or eight. ‘Bit big, aren’t they?’ Steve had said.

  ‘Huge, but he’d got his shorts on top.’ They’d not realized then. Why would they? Kids were eccentric, unique. Kids liked dressing up. Kids had phases.

  ‘Steve?’ The police officer, the family liaison officer, was there, Yun Li. ‘We need to leave everything in here undisturbed. For the inquiry. We don’t know yet if there’s anything in Allie’s room that might be significant. I realize it must feel very intrusive but it’s likely that the team will want to examine her room.’

  Steve got to his feet.

  ‘The book?’ the officer said.

  ‘Yes?’ Oh, he was so tired. He felt a great pressure, as though everything, his bones and muscles and skin, had doubled in weight, an overbearing strain on his heart.

  ‘It was in the room?’

  ‘I just—’ Steve closed his eyes, folded his arms around the booklet. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. When he looked at the man again he saw a flicker of indecision in his eyes.

  ‘OK,’ Yun Li said. ‘As long as we know where it was. Do you want to try and get some rest?’

  ‘No,’ Steve said. ‘Where’s Teagan?’

  ‘She’s almost asleep, on the sofa. Is there a blanket or something to put over her?’

  ‘Her duvet.’ Steve nodded towards her bedroom.

  Through the circular window on the landing he could see it was getting light. The pale grey of a new dawn. Which didn’t seem possible.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jade

  They had gone from the victim’s house to interview the two friends who had been with Allie at the prom and Mrs Fallon, the teacher whom the boss had spoken to earlier. All of them gathered at one of the girls’ houses.

  The families were ranged around a large oval dining-table, one with a high sheen and straight-backed matching chairs. The sort you’d not dare sneeze anywhere near for fear of making a mark. Did the family actually eat their tea there or was it just for dinner parties and that sort of thing? There were empty mugs on coasters and several mobile phones on it now. One of the mothers held a packet of cigarettes and was turning it end to end, over and over again. Jade could smell the stale smoke coming off her.

  The girl whose house it was, Helena Jones, blurted out, ‘It’s not true. Tell me it’s not true.’ Close to hysteria. Her parents on either side, hushing and shushing her. She was still in her party clothes, a tight black sheath with lace panels, but her eye make-up was smudged, and her nose swollen with crying. Her friend Betsy Millington was so pale she looked like she’d keel over or float away at any moment.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the boss said. ‘What has happened to Allie is a terrible thing. And it’s crucial that we find out exactly what did happen. You can help us.’ She looked from one girl to the other and Helena made an effort to quieten her crying, taking the tissue her mother offered her.

  ‘It’s been an awful night for all of you and we’ll try not to keep you too long. As I explained to Mrs Fallon, we would ask you to keep Allie’s death and our inquiry completely confidential at the moment. No postings on social media, no texting, no messages left on Allie’s Facebook page or anywhere else.’

  Fat chance, thought Jade. Word would be out already. There’d’ve been – what? – fifty or so kids at the prom, maybe more, and only forty-nine on the coach back, the air thick with panic and speculation. The news, the rumours would be bouncing from phone to tablet, bedroom to bedroom, website to Twitter feed, spreading like flu. One could only hope the family would be too poleaxed to try googling Allie’s name before the official announcement tomorrow.

  The boss suggested they talk to the girls one at a time, and Jade saw a flicker of anxiety pass between them. No one liked talking to the police. But did they have something to hide?

  ‘
If we could use the other room, perhaps?’ the boss said.

  There was a bustle of activity as people rearranged themselves. Jade and the boss ended up on one huge squashy sofa opposite Helena and her parents on another, Jade ready to take notes.

  ‘Tell me about the evening, in your own words,’ the boss said.

  ‘We got ready at Allie’s and Bets’s mum took us to college for the coach.’ Helena paused and looked across as if she needed reassurance.

  The boss nodded. ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘At the prom there was a buffet and disco, and a band from school played a set and then—’ Her voice shrank to a squeak. The mum put an arm around her, kissed her head.

  Helena blew her nose. ‘We’d been dancing and Allie had been to the loo. When she came back, she wanted to know where Bets was. I told her she’d gone out for a smoke.’

  Jade saw the dad roll his eyes and the mum’s lips tighten.

  ‘So, Allie went after her but Bets had come back in. She was checking her make-up and I didn’t know, or I’d never have said.’ Jade could hear the girl’s sense of guilt, hear it in her voice. Daft. How was she to know?

  ‘Of course,’ the boss said. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘When Allie didn’t come back, we rang her phone and there was no answer. Bets texted too, then we went out to see if she was there. But she wasn’t.’

  ‘Where did you look?’

  ‘On the steps and then along each side of the building. Just there. We couldn’t think where she was. And we looked back inside and asked people. And then we rang her dad.’ She began to weep, a horrible sound, and Jade clenched her teeth. She checked her notes. The room was too warm, airless.

  The boss spoke over the noise, soothing words, not saying much at all, until it was possible to carry on. ‘I just have a few more general questions and then we’re done for now. Was Allie involved with anyone, in a relationship?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had she been in a relationship recently?’