The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Is he all right?’ Sonia said.

  The woman didn’t reply as she stepped inside, which panicked Sonia further. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘Found who?’

  She should know. Didn’t these people talk to each other? ‘Oliver. My son.’

  ‘Can we sit down?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Sonia took her into the kitchen, moved the cat off one chair and let the visitor have the other. Thought then, ‘Or we could go in the living room?’

  ‘Here’s good.’ DC Bradshaw placed her phone on the table. ‘I’m going to record our conversation so I can make sure I don’t leave anything out of my notes.’ Sonia wasn’t sure whether she was comfortable with that but the woman didn’t give her any option. ‘You came into the station yesterday?’ She opened her notebook, the same type as the man had had.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You spoke to DS Harris?’

  ‘I didn’t get his name.’ Did she? If he had told her it, Sonia didn’t remember.

  ‘A big man, in his fifties. Grey hair, blue striped tie.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonia said.

  ‘I’m following up on your visit.’

  ‘So you’ve not found Oliver?’ Sonia’s hope and the fear matching it ebbed away. Where was he? Where on earth was he?

  ‘No. We haven’t,’ the constable said. She sounded a bit unsure.

  ‘I can’t imagine where he is,’ Sonia said. ‘It’s been three nights. Not a word.’

  The woman was staring at the shelf above the table, the one with cookery books on it and the framed photo of Oliver. ‘That’s Oliver?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonia said.

  ‘Recent?’

  Something was off. Sonia didn’t know what it was but she felt wary. ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘And you came in because of the appeal . . . to talk to us about Oliver?’ Like she was guessing, making it up as she went along.

  Perhaps Sonia should call DS Harris, ask him if it was OK to talk to this colleague. He’d told her to keep quiet but did that include other people in the police? Surely not. Perhaps DS Harris had sent this DC Bradshaw. Maybe she was a bit slow at her job.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Sonia said.

  ‘To follow up, like I said. See if you’ve thought of anything else since yesterday.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing. Will you excuse me a minute? I just need the loo.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sonia went upstairs, climbing over the vacuum hose, closed the bathroom door and dialled the number that DS Harris had given her. There was no answer. She didn’t leave a message because she couldn’t think of what to say.

  She flushed the toilet for effect and went back to the kitchen. The police officer didn’t look as if she’d moved a muscle. ‘If you could go over the facts again for me?’ Her gaze was intense. She didn’t smile and Sonia felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Why?’ she said. She sounded narked. She hadn’t meant to but the woman had her rattled.

  ‘There’s been a bit of a mix-up in communication so we need to get your statement again.’

  A bit of a mix-up? ‘So no one’s been looking for him? Nothing’s happened?’

  There was no reply for long enough. Sonia looked at the way the woman held her pen so tight, her nails ragged and bitten down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ DC Bradshaw said. ‘The sooner we get this done, the better.’

  Sonia shook her head, a bitter taste in her mouth.

  ‘It was very good of you to come forward,’ DC Bradshaw said. ‘That can’t have been easy, your own son. All we want is to find Oliver and make sure he’s safe. Tell me what you told DS Harris.’

  ‘He . . . he was in town on Friday and he came home a bit earlier than I thought and then, it was weird, he’d washed his clothes and his shoes. He never does any washing. When I asked him about it he made up some story about falling in a puddle. Then when I saw the photo-fits—’ She stopped, her heart aching.

  ‘Did you talk to Oliver about it?’

  ‘I tried. He went ballistic, said I was crazy. He left the house. That was on Monday.’

  ‘And no contact since?’

  ‘No.’ Sonia was overtaken by sadness, tears leaking from her eyes. She wiped at them with her fingers and then the backs of her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’

  DC Bradshaw’s phone began to ring, then cut out.

  ‘Do you have the clothes?’

  Sonia looked at her: she didn’t seem to know anything. Had she even talked to DS Harris? ‘No. He came back,’ Sonia said. ‘He came back sometime on Tuesday when I was at work. They’ve gone, them and the shoes.’

  ‘OK.’ The constable wrote more notes and said, ‘We’re going to need some more detail but this is good for now. You have Oliver’s phone number?’ Sonia gave it to her. ‘And you’ve no idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘No. None.’

  ‘Do you know who he was with on Friday night?’

  ‘Not really. Just their nicknames. Someone called Foz and another lad, Seggie. That’s all I know.’

  ‘And can you tell me how you left things with DS Harris at your meeting yesterday?’

  ‘Why don’t you know?’ Sonia said. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ It was weird. She was being messed about in some way but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  The woman stared at Sonia, her eyes almost black, and said. ‘DS Harris was taken ill last night so we’re trying to work out where he was up to with everything.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ If he was ill that would explain why he wasn’t answering his phone. Sonia said, ‘He told me to carry on as normal and that you’d keep looking for Oliver. He said if anyone talked about the . . .’ she didn’t want to use the filthy word but she steeled herself ‘. . . about the murder, I was to change the subject, and if people asked about Oliver to say he was away. He said there was already someone else being questioned, a suspect. I don’t know if that was the other one from the photos.’

  The constable was writing quickly, and Sonia could see her lips pressed tight together. Was she angry? What right had she to be angry? Sonia had done all she could to help and it sounded like one big cock-up.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sonia said, the enormity of it all bearing down on her. ‘It’s a nightmare. I thought you were all out there looking for him. Anything could have happened to him.’ She was furious with them, with the police and with Oliver. Was he sleeping rough? Taking drugs to help him forget what he’d done? He’d no money. Had he already thrown himself in the canal? ‘Why weren’t you looking for him? While I’m sat here going out of my mind. Why weren’t you trying to find him?’

  Sonia’s phone rang. Unknown number. She answered it.

  ‘Mum?’ He was alive! Her heart flew into her mouth. She jumped to her feet. ‘Oliver? Oh, God, Oliver, are you all right?’

  ‘Mum, I’m at the police station, the main one. I’ve been arrested.’ He sounded subdued, young and scared. None of the swagger and scorn of late.

  ‘Oh, love.’ Her hand went to her throat.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said, his voice shaking a little. ‘I told you, I didn’t do it. I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Oliver, I love you,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  Sonia looked across to DC Bradshaw. The officer was watching her carefully.

  ‘He’s been arrested,’ Sonia said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘He’s at the police station now.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Martin

  ‘Why have they arrested him? What the fuck is going on?’ Fran screeched. She’d been there when the police arrived, had seen them read Dale his rights and bundle him into the back of a squad car. Martin had had to wait it out at the station while Professional Standards were informed of his close connection to a person of interest in the investigation. It also served to prevent him warning Dale or trying to interfere in his apprehension.

  ‘You know as much as I do,’ M
artin said.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Fran said. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘What have I done?’ His temper flared hot through his torso. ‘It’s not what I’ve done. I’m not the one they’ve nicked, you stupid bitch.’

  ‘And you knew nothing?’ she said, all sarcasm.

  He wanted to lamp her, wipe the smirk off her face. He turned and swept a backhand across the side table, sent the glass vase with its bouquet of roses and lilies halfway across the room to shatter, showering water and flowers everywhere.

  Fran was silent then. He could just hear her breathing. Fast and shallow.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. He walked to the French windows, stared out at the garden. The patio with its teak furniture, the smooth green lawn, the first apples coming in on the tree, the water feature bubbling away in the corner. All picture perfect. Like the house. Paid for by years of work, of long shifts seeing what the worst dregs of humanity had to offer. Twenty-eight years’ paying for the house, the holidays, the landscaping, the new car every year.

  Two years to retirement. And now this.

  ‘Murder, they said,’ Fran began again. ‘There’s only one murder I’m aware of. And you’re working it.’

  ‘It’s a mix-up,’ Martin said, still staring at the view, watching birds on the feeder, goldfinches and coal tits. ‘Our Dale hasn’t killed anybody. No way.’

  ‘Can’t you do something?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got him a solicitor,’ Martin said. ‘Other than that I can’t go anywhere near him.’

  ‘He’s just a kid,’ she said, beginning to cry, the strange, huffing sound he hated.

  ‘He’s eighteen, legally an adult.’ He turned. ‘Fran, I hate this as much as you but I believe in him. He’s not a killer.’

  ‘So why is he arrested?’

  She needed to know that side of it or she might get suspicious that Martin hadn’t told her. ‘The DNA found at the crime scene, there was no match to anyone on the database. They ran familial DNA tests. That led them to me, which gave them Dale.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ She sat down, patting at her chest.

  ‘All it proves—’

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she said.

  ‘All it proves is Dale was there,’ Martin said.

  ‘Yes, it proves he was there,’ she said. ‘And if he was there, then—’

  ‘It doesn’t prove who did what,’ Martin said. ‘Can you seriously see our Dale kicking someone to death? Because that’s not my boy.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said.

  ‘Mistakes get made,’ Martin said.

  ‘You think that’s what this is? Some mistake? It’s a pretty big fucking mistake,’ she said. ‘Can’t you speak to someone? Sort it out.’

  He crossed to her. Crouched down. She leant away. Stock still.

  ‘I can’t be involved,’ he said. ‘Use your brain. All we can do is sit tight, let the solicitor do his job. It’s a long, long way from arrest to charge. And even further from charge to trial, if it comes to that. We’re nowhere near that. Right?’

  She gave a nod and he patted her knee.

  ‘Can I see him?’ she said.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  She started on with the crying again. Huff, huff, huff. Martin stood, and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘There’s going to be an explanation,’ he said. ‘We just have to wait.’ He rolled back his shoulders. Made a decision. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said, panicky.

  ‘Stretch my legs.’

  She opened her mouth. He knew she wanted him to stay and he couldn’t. He couldn’t face the neediness, the endless questions. He looked at her dead on. And she thought better of it.

  ‘You could go to Mel’s for a bit,’ he said, ‘till things are clearer.’ Better off at her sister’s than here on his back twenty-four seven.

  She gave a nod.

  He went to fetch his coat. Familial fucking DNA. He could have throttled Donna. Why hadn’t she run that past him? Strictly speaking, he was acting SIO when she’d put that request in. If he could have dissuaded her, it wouldn’t have come to this. Dale would be getting ready for Saturday’s trials and the inquiry would be stalled. How could Donna do that? Go behind his back. Something slithered in his guts. Had she suspected him at that point? Had some part of Jade’s lunatic raving made Donna question his behaviour? No. He rejected the thought. Donna believed his story about the CCTV tape. She’d acted on it, after all. Donna wasn’t a problem. Jade had been but now she was out of the picture, a manipulative little slag off her box on meds. One problem solved.

  Donna running to the lab without consulting him had completely fucked up all his efforts to spare Dale and Oliver from coming onto the radar, but at least Plan B might save his son from a lengthy jail sentence.

  He wanted a drink and decided it would be best to find a boozer where he wasn’t known, take a paper, avoid conversation. Sit there long enough to drown his sorrows. By then Fran should have shifted to Mel’s and he’d have the place to himself.

  At the very least Donna would let him know if they brought charges. And what they were. Wouldn’t she?

  What a bloody mess. All of it. A fucking nightmare.

  Steve

  ‘Dad!’

  His first thought was danger. She needed him. He was halfway to his feet, trying to get his bearings, before he saw Teagan, arms crossed, staring at him.

  ‘You slept on the sofa?’ she said, like it was a betrayal of some sort.

  There was a pounding in his temples, a ripple of pain through his skull. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Have you got a hangover?’

  ‘Yes.’ Honesty was the best policy with Teagan. He closed his eyes. His mouth was full of paste.

  ‘Are you going to be sick?’

  ‘Only if you keep talking about it,’ Steve said.

  ‘Shall I get you some breakfast?’

  Oh, Teagan. I should be doing that, looking after you. ‘I’ll make toast. Just get a quick shower and wake myself up.’

  ‘We could go for a walk with Dix,’ she called, as he went upstairs.

  ‘We could.’

  The shower helped a little, but when he went to brush his teeth, the sensation of the toothbrush in his mouth made him gag.

  He managed a slice of toast. Coffee. Paracetamol. But the ache in his head seemed to pulse with every beat of his blood. Serves me right.

  ‘Yun Li rang,’ Teagan said. ‘He won’t be here today but we can call if we need him. I told him we were going out.’

  ‘What about the reporters?’ Steve said. He’d walked through them, tight-lipped, yesterday on his way to the police station. Registering but not replying to every quick-fire question.

  ‘Tell us about Allie, Mr Kennaway.’

  ‘How are you bearing up?’

  ‘Do you think someone’s sheltering those responsible?’

  ‘Are you happy with how the police are handling things?’

  ‘They’ve all gone,’ Teagan said.

  He looked out of the front door. She was right. He wondered what new tragedy they were flocking to. Like scavengers after carrion. That wasn’t fair. After all, publicizing Allie’s murder was part of trying to find those responsible.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ Steve tried to summon some energy, inject a note of anticipation into his voice.

  ‘Lyme Park,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’

  Steve had to lift Dix into the back of the car. ‘Lost your spring, boy, eh?’

  The deer park was a fourteen-mile drive away. A rolling estate surrounded the grand house and gardens. The day was fine, a clear blue sky and warm winds. Steve felt fragile, raw at being outside and away from the cocoon of the house, the headache still gnawing behind his eyes.

  They walked up through the pine woods, the air rich with the smell of loam and vegetation, cool and watery in the shade. Teagan showered encouragement on the dog and stopped every so often to photograph item
s of interest, pine cones, the trees, the canopy silhouetted against the sky.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Steve said.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.

  He tried to empty his mind, to focus on the present, as they climbed over the stile at the far end of the copse onto the open heathland. He noted the colours of the grasses and the meandering drystone walls, the sounds of birds, the burble of the rivulets that streamed down the hillside, and the drone of engine noise from an occasional jet passing overhead.

  Their descent took them into a gully between two slopes. The path was narrow, treacherous, a morass of mud and stones. At times they had to use their hands as well as their feet to navigate the steepest stretches.

  Dix was slow climbing out on the far side and Teagan called him on. The three paused for breath at the top.

  There was a tree in flower, small white stars. Steve didn’t know its name. Sweetly perfumed. Allie. Longing for her – for her and for Sarah – swamped him. He put a hand on the tree trunk, turning away from Teagan, his composure fissuring, splitting like the patterns of the bark, like the patterns on the skin of his hand.

  ‘You go ahead,’ he said. ‘I need a pee.’

  He scrambled back round the crown of the hill until he was out of her sight, then knelt, his knees instantly soaked by the waterlogged peat. Covering his face, he sobbed until the worst of the pressure had eased and he felt capable of walking again, his head still banging with every step.

  Donna

  The mood when Donna walked in was radically different. People were sombre, silent, barely relating to each other, turned in on themselves. Disbelief, anger, mistrust about Martin had undermined morale.

  Donna needed to motivate them, to reassure them, to bring them back together in some sort of unity and restore trust. People talked about cops being like family. And you were. You shared the most testing, most horrific, most dangerous experiences, peering into the pit of savagery, loss and cruelty, and then you switched off, went home and acted halfway sane for your other family. So, when someone took that bond, that camaraderie and trust, and shat all over it, the blow was visceral. A betrayal of kinship.