The Girl in the Green Dress

by Cath Staincliffe

  Perhaps she’d go in tomorrow. The thought made her stomach cramp. But it wasn’t as though anything about Oliver had been made public yet, apart from the photo-fits, which were anonymous. If she kept her head down, told people she was still a bit fluey, she should be able to get through her shift. It might even help to be distracted by customers and cock-ups with the scanners or the security-tag remover.

  Rose had to take her dad for his podiatrist appointment but promised to call round after tea. She had been amazing. What would Sonia do without her?

  The kitchen was a tip. The cat’s bowl was crusted with dried-on food. Muddy footprints on the floor, cat hairs. The window over the sink mottled with splashes. And the hob spattered with grease. Sonia ran a sink full of hot soapy water and began cleaning.

  Ten minutes in and her phone rang. It was DC Bradshaw. Sonia sat down heavily, her heart pattering fast.

  ‘Oliver has been in a series of interviews this afternoon and has given us a new statement,’ DC Bradshaw said.

  ‘Right.’ Sonia closed her eyes, concentrated.

  ‘He’s made a confession.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘As a result he’s been formally charged and will be appearing at the magistrates’ court in the morning.’

  ‘He’s been charged?’ Her voice shook with shock.

  ‘Yes. He’s been charged with murder,’ DC Bradshaw said.

  ‘Oh, no. No. Please no.’ Any slender hope Sonia had had that Oliver was innocent was ripped apart. She’d been right. He had done it. The room seemed to close in on her. Her head hummed with fear.

  ‘The magistrate will refer the matter to the Crown Court and Oliver will be remanded in custody.’

  ‘He confessed?’ Sonia said.

  ‘That’s right. That means he’ll probably appear as a witness for the prosecution.’

  ‘And the other boy?’

  ‘Dale Harris is likely to plead not guilty.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s Oliver . . . I think I knew but . . . it’s like at the same time I didn’t . . . I didn’t want it to be true. How could he do that?’

  DC Bradshaw said nothing.

  ‘If he’s confessed does that mean he’ll go to prison?’ Sonia said.

  ‘Pretty much, given his involvement. But his cooperation probably means a lighter sentence and an earlier chance at parole. The conviction may be for manslaughter rather than murder because there wasn’t any clear intent to kill.’

  ‘But it’ll be years?’ Sonia said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say why . . . why they did it?’ Sonia said. Part of her numb with disbelief. This is not happening. Oliver. Murder.

  ‘He says they were both drunk and had taken drugs. He said Dale Harris grabbed Allie and sexually assaulted her. On discovering she was transgender he became violent and Oliver joined in the attack.’

  Sonia couldn’t speak.

  ‘The officer you dealt with at the station, Detective Sergeant Harris, you should know that Dale Harris is his son.’

  ‘What?’ A chill ran over Sonia’s skin.

  ‘Dale Harris is DS Harris’s son.’

  Sonia thought of the man and his promises. The advice he’d given her. Then his appearance yesterday, talking about crossed wires. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘DS Harris has also been arrested and charged with conspiring to pervert the course of justice and assisting an offender.’

  ‘He knew?’ Sonia said. ‘When I came in to tell someone about Oliver matching the photo-fits, when I saw him, he already knew?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ DC Bradshaw said. ‘He used his position to try to corrupt the inquiry.’

  And Sonia had mistrusted this young detective when she’d come to the house yesterday. ‘When you were here,’ Sonia said, ‘I rang him to see if I should talk to you or not. He didn’t answer.’

  A pause, then: ‘The detectives dealing with his case will see that when they examine his phone and they’ll want to talk to you about it. They’ll also want to talk to you about how DS Harris dealt with your visit to the station. Just tell them what you told me. You may well be called as a witness.’

  The thought made Sonia feel ill.

  ‘You’ll most likely hear from Oliver tomorrow afternoon. Once he arrives in custody he can make a phone call. You’ll be able to arrange to see him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  She didn’t know much about prison, about what it was really like to be behind bars, but from the little she did know, the documentaries on television, the features in the paper, she thought it would destroy Oliver. Spit him out years later – how many? Fifteen, twenty? – damaged, stunted, broken. Oh, Oliver. Oliver. Oliver.

  The cat jumped into her lap and she stroked its head, rubbed at its ears. Her tears fell on its fur as she wept for all that was lost.

  Martin

  Martin Harris let the questions wash over him, waiting only for the detective inspector to stop speaking each time before answering, ‘No comment.’

  He’d been at the other side of the table on countless occasions and knew that refusal to comment wasn’t easy to sustain. There was a natural impulse to set the questioner straight, to rebut accusations and correct mistakes, to answer those seemingly innocuous questions, to defend yourself. Fatal.

  In order not to get caught in any of these traps he tuned out as much as he possibly could. Imagined the bloke was speaking a foreign language, a jumble of nonsense, nothing to do with him. Listened to the rise and fall of the sentences for his cue.

  Martin didn’t know the DI – they’d probably shipped him in from North Manchester for that very reason. He was young, slight, nondescript, and wore rectangular wire-framed specs, more like an accountant than a copper.

  It was a dance: Martin would repeat his moves as long as necessary, and then they’d charge him, if the CPS reckoned there was a strong chance of a successful prosecution.

  His bowels tightened, thinking about that. It should never have happened. He wouldn’t be here, dealing with this fuckery, if it wasn’t for Jade Bradshaw and her devious fucking—

  ‘Mr Harris? Would you like me to repeat the question?’

  ‘No comment,’ Martin said.

  There was bile at the back of his throat, a sharp pain below his ribs. His nose was still blocked with dried blood. He needed more antacids. He wasn’t allowed any medicine in his cell. It had to be doled out by the doctor. In minuscule amounts.

  He had no idea where things were up to with Dale and Oliver, but as long as they stuck to the script there was still a chance.

  For them if not for him.

  ‘You spoke with Mrs Sonia Poole yesterday. Is that correct?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Fran didn’t know he was here yet. Martin had used his phone call to get himself a solicitor. She’d find out soon enough. Christ, what a fucking mess.

  He should have rammed the stun gun into the Paki bitch. Into her gob. Full power till the battery died. Till she was quiet.

  He’d kill her. He would. If they sent him down, he’d do his time, and when he got out he’d turn her inside out, make her suffer, make her scream. Make her disappear.

  ‘No comment.’

  The inspector inhaled loudly and trotted out the next question.

  And the Muslim fucker. It was Bradshaw brought him in. Without him in the picture they had nothing. No witness, no photo-fits, nothing. Dale would still be gearing up for his trials.

  Bradshaw was toxic, a psycho, but Donna, the two-faced bitch, had seen fit to let her work again. Arresting him. It was a joke. Bradshaw arresting him.

  ‘No comment.’

  She’d pay for this, the skanky bitch. She’d pay, with interest for all the time he’d have to wait.

  The acid lapped at his throat. His mouth flooded with saliva.

  ‘Mr Harris?’

  He swallowed. ‘No comment.’ And he stared past the DI to the wall opposite as the next question rolled
over him.

  Donna

  Donna had briefed Yun Li that she wanted to talk to the Kennaways in person to tell them about the latest developments. Only then would the press office release a statement, announcing the names of those charged with the murder and associated offences.

  Yun answered the door and took her into the living room. Steve Kennaway reached to turn off the television. Donna caught a glimpse of an African landscape, a herd of giraffes. Teagan sat beside her father, legs crossed under her.

  Donna looked from father to daughter, and said to Steve, ‘It might be better if we speak in private.’

  ‘Dad,’ Teagan complained.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Steve said to Donna.

  Teagan stared at her, unblinking. Her serious face was framed by dark hair.

  Donna broke the silence. ‘We’ve made significant progress today,’ she said.

  Teagan slipped her hand into her father’s.

  ‘Two men have been charged with Allie’s murder.’

  Steve Kennaway made a sound, indistinct. Creases furrowed his brow.

  ‘Dale Anthony Harris and Oliver Poole, both eighteen.’

  ‘Same age as her,’ Steve Kennaway said, his voice thin.

  ‘It’s likely to be several months until they come to trial,’ Donna said. ‘There will be various stages to the judicial process. Yun can explain those to you over the next few days. He’ll remain a point of contact for you indefinitely.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Steve said. ‘Why did they do it? Do you know why?’

  Donna wiped her hands on her trousers, took a breath. ‘Only one of them, Oliver Poole, has admitted the crime. According to Oliver, it was Dale Harris who began sexually harassing Allie and allegedly became violent when he realized she was transgender. In effect a hate crime.’

  ‘Dad,’ Teagan said.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Steve Kennaway.

  ‘The other man, Dale Harris, claims to have interrupted an attack on Allie by a man called Mahmoud Bishaar, the one who helped us with the photo-fits. Dale Harris alleges Bishaar then drew a knife and forced him and Oliver Poole to assault Allie, leading to death.’

  Steve Kennaway gasped, and Teagan looked at her father, an expression of confusion on her face.

  ‘Initially that account was given by both suspects but Oliver Poole altered his statement this afternoon.’

  ‘So the other one is lying?’ Teagan said.

  ‘We think he is,’ Donna said. ‘And we’re charging him with conspiring to pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘Good.’ Teagan nodded for emphasis. ‘What about Mr Bishaar? He called the ambulance?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And he tried to save her. He should get an award or something.’

  If only it worked like that.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Bishaar is a failed asylum-seeker,’ Donna said. ‘He will remain in a detention centre until the trial, but then he’ll be deported.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Teagan said. ‘That’s so not fair. How can they do that? We should do something.’

  Steve Kennaway looked at Donna.

  ‘I’m not sure anything can be done,’ she said.

  Yun spoke up: ‘There may be the opportunity to launch a fresh appeal for asylum. We could get some legal advice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Steve Kennaway said.

  Teagan echoed him, ‘Yes, do that.’

  ‘There is more, I’m afraid,’ Donna said, her breath catching. ‘We’ve also charged one of the officers on the team with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. DS Martin Harris. He’s Dale Harris’s father.’

  Steve Kennaway stared at her. His mouth slack. Then he said, ‘What are you—’ He stood swiftly, letting go of Teagan’s hand. The dog raised its head. ‘But I spoke to him.’

  He moved away from the sofa. ‘I talked to the man. I was desperate to know what was happening.’ He began to shout: ‘He sat there. You’re telling me he fucking sat there, knowing?’ He kicked out at the coffee-table, toppling it.

  Teagan shouted, ‘Dad! Dad, don’t.’

  ‘Get out!’ Steve yelled at Donna. ‘His son did that to my daughter. He was working for you. The fucking bastard. I went to him and begged for her body. To him!’ His face was blotched with red. His hands raised, an angry supplication.

  Donna felt his rage, his sense of impotence, shared them. She felt wretched that she had failed the family, failed to discern Martin was manipulating her, that Jade, even if she had lied at her medical, was to be trusted.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Donna said. Service policy was never to apologize, never to admit culpability or accept blame. When those seeking redress were persistent, when every other avenue had been exhausted, an expression of regret was made. A full and frank apology was extremely rare. The chief constable and the Federation would spontaneously combust if they could hear her now. ‘I should have known. I should have found out sooner. So I will do everything—’

  ‘Get out,’ Steve Kennaway said again, cold and quiet.

  Donna went without another word, her throat and chest tight, her eyes stinging.

  At the front door, Yun said, ‘Are you all right, boss?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She shivered. ‘Look, tell them everything you can. Stay close. Go the extra mile. God knows they deserve it.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Tell them about the complaints procedures too, though it’ll have to wait till after trial.’

  ‘Sure.’ Yun opened the door. ‘DS Harris . . . He always seemed so . . . How could he turn like that? When this gets out . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Donna said, looking up at the cloudy sky, the colour of steel and bone. ‘I know.’

  ‘But Oliver Poole confessed. That changes everything,’ Yun said. ‘There’s no way a jury will believe Dale Harris now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Donna said. ‘Let’s hope so.’ She felt drained, no sense of triumph or achievement, but he was right. When the case came to trial it was more than likely that just verdicts would be reached: the men who had killed Allie Kennaway would be found guilty and punished for the crime.

  Jade

  On her way home, Jade remembered Mina’s shopping. Shit, shit, shit. She’d no idea where the list was. She made a detour to Aldi and got some basics, the things Mina always asked for: bread, crumpets, milk, biscuits, cheese, eggs, pork, potatoes, bananas, tins of tomatoes.

  When she knocked on Mina’s door there was no answer. That wasn’t right. Mina never went anywhere bar the GP’s, certainly not at night. Maybe she’d the TV on too loud but when Jade pressed her ear to the door she couldn’t hear anything.

  Jade put the shopping down and got her own key out. She walked swiftly along the corridor, holding her breath.

  Scraping sounds, voices. From Jade’s flat. Someone in there. Fear scrabbled up her back, dug needle fingers under her skin. Who? Friends of Harris? She couldn’t call DD – it would be a good while, if ever, before she had the balls to ask for DD’s help again.

  How had they got in? The door was closed, no damage. Still the clatter from inside, murmuring. A laugh, a man’s laugh.

  Some scrotebag in there, laughing. Rage chased the fear away. Jade ran back to Mina’s and fetched two tins of tomatoes. She unlocked her door and, with a can in each hand, kicked it wide open and launched herself into the room, screaming, ‘Fuck off! Fuck off now!’

  Movement. Jade hurled one of the tins towards it, missing the figure. The can bounced off the wall.

  ‘Jade!’ It was Bert. Bert, and Mina on the other side. Mina with a sweeping brush in her hand.

  ‘Jesus.’ Jade circled round, slung the other can down. ‘What are you doing? I’m having a heart attack here. I could have killed you.’

  ‘We were clearing up,’ Mina said. She waved at a pile of broken glass, fragments from the TV, bits of chair.

  ‘Jesus,’ Jade said. She didn’t want them there, messing with her stuff. Even her broken stuff. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘You p
ut the kettle on,’ Bert said.

  ‘No, honest, I’ll do it,’ Jade said. ‘You two get off.’ It’d take them hours anyway, the pair of them as doddery as each other. She didn’t need them fussing about. ‘I’ll do it.’ She reached for the brush. Mina’s eyebrows knitted together, her mouth pinched small. For a moment it looked like Jade would have to wrench the thing out of her hands.

  But Mina let go. She nodded to the tin Jade had used as a missile. ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jade said. ‘I only had a chance to get a few bits. I’ll go back tomorrow.’

  Bert reached for the can, his legs shaking.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Jade sprinted before he could topple over.

  She picked it up and handed both to Mina. ‘The rest is by your door.’

  Mina glanced back at the pile of crap, like she was itching to carry on.

  ‘I can do it now,’ Jade said.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Mina said. ‘You should see the doctor.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ And I’ll be even better when you two fuck off home.

  Bert got his stick, which was propped in the corner, and said, ‘There’s bin liners there, heavy duty.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That fella,’ Bert said, ‘is he locked up, then?’

  ‘What fella?’ Jade said.

  Bert stared at her, watery eyes like a sheep, but insistent.

  ‘He is,’ Jade said. ‘And we’ve charged two others with the murder.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ Mina said. ‘I really thought he was a fireman. He was so slick.’

  Jade crossed her arms.

  ‘Right, looks like we’re not wanted,’ Bert said to Mina.

  ‘You need a good night’s sleep,’ Mina said to Jade, ‘and proper food.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Just go. ‘And thanks,’ Jade said, as they left, sounding gruff, like she was getting a cold.

  The door closed and she sank to the floor. She leant her head back against the wall. She saw Allie Kennaway, dressed up sweet, joking with her mates, mellow with weed and a few drinks, celebrating the end of sixth form. Breathless from dancing. Going out in the rain, the fine rain.