Bleed Like Me (11 page)

‘I know! I was there!’ she yelled. ‘And he asked for me, if you must know.’

He stared. ‘Oh, that’s priceless.’

Janet shouted over him. ‘And because I came
that close
and survived, I will do it for all the others who weren’t so lucky.’

‘Oh, very noble,’ he sneered. ‘You don’t see, do you? He’s playing you, Janet. Some sick little mind game, another way to make you dance to his tune. Just like you did when he first asked you to help.’

‘What’s all the shouting?’ Elise said, coming in, fourteen yet sounding like someone’s mother.

‘Nothing.’ Janet warned Ade with a glare that she didn’t want to share this with the children. ‘Go wake Taisie.’

‘She doesn’t need to get up yet,’ Elise said.

‘I don’t care!’ Janet bawled, anger boiling inside her. Resisting the overwhelming desire to seize her daughter and shake some sense into her. ‘Just do it, Elise.’

‘Not if you shout like that. I’m sick of you bossing me about.’

‘Do what I tell you to! I’m sick too, sick of you arguing over every bloody little thing.’ Janet’s throat felt raw.

Elise glared at her, her face reddening, and Janet felt a rush of guilt. What the hell was she doing taking it out on Elise?

Her daughter left the room without a word.

‘Nicely done,’ Ade said.

Janet couldn’t handle it. If she stayed she was scared she’d break something. She picked up her car keys and left, the roar of her own anger still crashing loud in her head and roiling hot in her stomach.

‘Right, lads.’ Gill called them to attention. ‘No ANPR, nothing from traffic cameras or patrols since three twenty-nine yesterday. How come?’

‘Laying low, parked up somewhere overnight,’ said Rachel.

Or busy getting rid of the kids?
‘We are increasing patrols in the Lancashire/South Lakes area and, of course, continuing to examine coverage anywhere close to the two locations, Penrith and then Ribbleton. Mr Cottam is coming in to film an appeal late morning, which should be carried on all lunchtime news broadcasts, and of course headlines thereafter. Crime scene reports are now available.’ Gill summarized the substance for them. ‘Our initial theory of the sequence is supported by the blood spatter analysis. Time of deaths estimated to be between four and six a.m. Rigor not fully established and factoring in the ambient temperature I think we can be pretty sure that’s a solid estimate.’

‘Why did he cut Michael’s throat and not the others?’ Mitch said.

‘Didn’t like him,’ said Kevin.

‘No animosity according to the mother,’ said Janet, ‘though the friend Lynn thought Michael might occasionally have got on his nerves.’

‘Well, would you want your brother-in-law living with you, working with you? Especially if he was a bit mental,’ Kevin said.

Before anyone could respond to that, Rachel said quickly, ‘The body, he was on his side, right? But the girl was on her stomach, the wife on her back . . .’

‘Yes.’ Gill watched as Rachel spoke. She’d a keen instinct for things, Rachel, a gift that could sometimes lead her astray, trusting her gut feeling, and she could get stuck stubbornly on one track, but on many occasions her contributions were incisive and valuable.

‘. . . so if someone’s on their side how do you stab ’em? It’s all ribs, isn’t it? He went for the most accessible and vulnerable spot, so the man wouldn’t wake or fight, or the knife get stuck.’

It happened, Gill knew, one of the many surprises that tripped up the novice killer. Those who had not been taught to use weapons. The fact that knives got lodged in bones, or glanced off, or snapped at the tip. That very quickly a knife would become slippery with blood and hard to grip. Same with firearms – mechanisms jammed, a gunshot without a silencer rendered the shooter unable to hear for several hours. The recoil could damage the arm, burn the skin on the hand. Then there was the unbelievable weight and unwieldy shape of a dead body. The immense effort required to dig even a shallow grave.

‘Makes sense,’ Gill said.

Only Owen Cottam could tell them if Rachel’s theory was right. Whether he would, whether they’d find him alive and
get the chance to ask him, whether he’d respond, was impossible to know.

‘No mention of marital problems, other parties, affairs. No criminal activity. To date our only motive appears to be financial insecurity, the imminent loss of the business and thus the family’s livelihood. Cottam remains at large. I want to catch that bastard and I want to nail him. And I want you lot to make that happen. Pick up on your actions from yesterday but stand by for reassignment in case we’ve any movement.’

It was less than twenty minutes later when Gill called her team back in. ‘Sit down, keep your gobs shut and watch this.’ Gill ran the CCTV footage. She’d seen the coverage twice already but it still set her pulse racing. Split screen, four cams, showing respectively two views of a petrol station forecourt and two of the inside of the shop, one view of people coming in to pay, the other trained on the counter. A guy there on his own.

‘Mr Rahid,’ Gill said. ‘The station’s near Ormskirk, on the A577, twenty miles from our last ANPR hit. Here,’ she paused the film, ‘we see Cottam arriving. Clock reads seven fifty-four. He doesn’t buy petrol so perhaps he’s not been riding around all night. He pulls up so.’ They watched the Mondeo draw into the bay at the back of the forecourt where there was an air machine. ‘Gets out.’

‘Same clothes as in the pub,’ Janet said. She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. ‘Are the kids there?’

‘Yes, according to Mr Rahid, but we don’t get a visual. Now . . .’

There was silence as they watched Cottam enter the shop and take items from the shelves, moving from the field of one camera to the other. ‘He gets nappies,’ Gill said.

‘Nappies?’ Janet said. ‘You don’t buy nappies if—’

‘Wait, what’s that?’ Rachel said.

‘Bread rolls,’ said Gill. ‘Then he goes for some bananas and milk and he gets two items at the counter. A bottle of whisky and one of Calpol.’

‘Calpol’s paracetamol, isn’t it?’ Rachel said. ‘Give the kids enough and he’s solved his problem.’

‘I don’t think one bottle would do it,’ Gill said, ‘not reliably, two of them.’

‘Probably wants to just dope them up a bit,’ Janet said.

‘As you do,’ Gill said.

Janet cut her eyes at her. ‘Besides, if he’s planning to feed them and change them maybe he’s not going to hurt them, maybe he’s changed his mind.’

‘Or bottled out,’ Rachel added.

‘Now look,’ Gill said. ‘As he pays, there’s this moment when he flinches, drops some money. It’s not clear why but look at the time on the display.’

‘On the hour,’ Janet said.

‘And,’ Gill said, ‘on the wall behind him is a telly. He’s making headlines. His face is up there and a description of the Mondeo. That’s when Mr Rahid gets it, makes the connection. Though he’s not certain. Cottam leaves.’

One of the cameras picked him up as he walked to the car, opened the driver’s side and leant in. ‘And Mr Rahid leaves too. Runs out and grabs Cottam.’ Gill watched the smaller man grip Cottam by the shoulder, wheeling him round. Cottam shoved him hard, almost decking him, but Rahid regained his balance and moved in again. Cottam swung a fist, a solid blow to Rahid’s face, and the man fell. Rahid lunged and gripped Cottam’s leg. At this point Cottam stamped down hard with his free foot on Rahid’s head. Rahid released his hold and Cottam kicked him hard again in the head, then three swift blows to the abdomen. Rahid by now curled up, trying to protect himself.

‘Ouch!’ said Janet.

‘There he goes,’ Gill said as Cottam leapt into the car, pulled the door shut and drove off at speed. ‘So, go see our have-a-go hero,’ she said.

Janet went dizzy on the stairs, her vision all spotty, like some sixties op-art design, and an ache bloomed low in her spine. She lost her balance but held the rail and kept moving slowly. Rachel, ahead of her, turned to look up. ‘You okay?’

‘Cramps,’ Janet said, something innocuous to explain her slow progress.

‘Time of the month. I’ve tablets,’ Rachel said.

Not menstrual, Janet thought, but didn’t say. She had not had a period since the stabbing, one of the things that was off kilter. Not that she minded really. And she wasn’t pregnant, she couldn’t be, hadn’t slept with anyone, either Ade or Andy, in that time. Was that why Andy was so tempting, because there was nothing much going on at home? Ade had made a couple of overtures more recently but she had been tired, drained, and wasn’t prepared to just go through the motions. The consultant had explained there might be a range of unforeseen side effects to the trauma and the surgery and Janet reckoned not having her period was one of them. And she wasn’t complaining. But the dizziness, the feverish feelings?

‘I’ll be fine,’ Janet said. ‘It’s going off now.’ She didn’t want to tell Rachel how she really felt. Not because she couldn’t trust her to keep it quiet but because telling someone else would make it more real. And then she’d really have to face up to it. Come clean. If there were adhesions, that would account for the bloating and stomach pains, but what about the dizziness and the way she went hot and cold, the nausea and the headaches? Did that mean they’d become infected?
She shouldn’t just keep ignoring it, but when would she have time to see the consultant? She’d be put on a list anyway, wouldn’t she? Perhaps she should see the GP first. Even that would have to wait till work was less frantic.

‘I know we see all sorts,’ Janet said, as she manoeuvred past vehicles queuing for the slip road, ‘but this one . . .’

‘ ’Cos of the kids?’ Rachel said. ‘The girl?’

‘Partly that, but it’s more the whole thing, so methodical. He cashes up the night’s takings, wipes down the counter. He sees them off to bed, presumably, prowls about with his bottle. Then, one after another. Cold. Was it cold? Maybe he was weeping, maybe he was crying. I don’t know, Rachel. A father. I can’t get my head round it.’

‘You don’t have to. Leave it to the shrinks. That’s what we pay them for. All we need to do is catch him.’

Janet frowned, glanced in the rear view mirror then overtook, nudging past a coach, kids with faces pressed to the glass, one lad making a wanking gesture. Rachel flipped him the finger.

‘Don’t encourage them,’ Janet complained. ‘But most men, most fathers, this whole notion of a family being yours, being part of you . . .’

‘Is a load of selfish crap,’ Rachel said. ‘We get it all the time, the bloke who freaks out ’cos the ex has a new fella so kills them both—’

‘No,’ Janet argued, ‘this is different. That’s jealousy, crime of passion, though I know that isn’t recognized in British law, but there’s no passion in this. Despair, more like.’

‘Loved them too much, one of the guys said.’

‘That’s not love. How can that be love?’ Janet said.

‘A better place?’ Rachel said.

‘You’re confusing love and power. Control.’

‘I’m not confusing anything. It’s not what I think,’ Rachel said baldly.

‘Take my dad, or Ade. Never do anything like that in a million years. They didn’t “rule” the family . . .’

‘Can’t see anyone ruling your mother,’ Rachel said.

‘Precisely,’ Janet said. ‘Yours probably the same.’

‘Yes – so what are you saying?’

‘Just . . . that sort of person, the man who’s head of the household, the one who wears the trousers, all those trite little phrases, that’s seen as normal, isn’t it? Acceptable. And that’s what everyone keeps telling us: he was a normal bloke, a regular guy, a good provider. But maybe there’s something unhealthy in that, having that grip on the family.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘You’ve lost me.’

Janet sighed.

‘Look, there’s millions of blokes like that, yeah?’ Rachel said. ‘But only one in a million, less than that, ever goes off his rocker and slays the family. He’s an aberration. You’ll drive yourself bonkers trying to make sense of it. Most of the toerags we deal with, it’s messy, it’s stupid and pathetic and grubby, isn’t it?
She was shagging my best friend, so I shot her. He hadn’t paid me my money back, so I did him. I can’t remember. I was bladdered, she looked at me funny, he was a queer, he was a Paki
. It’s all ugly, senseless, waste. This too. This is no different. And he’s a nutter.’

‘Really? So you’d have him in Broadmoor unfit to plead?’

‘I’ll leave that to the CPS, but think about it. He’s all ready, everyone’s asleep and what does he do? He lets the dog out. That is mental, that.’

‘I don’t know – gave him a few brownie points. If he’d killed the dog as well the outrage would be multiplied ten times over.’
The great British public.

Rahid had refused all suggestions from the paramedics that he go to A&E. His wife, summoned from home, had dressed the worst cuts on his hands and face. The effect of the encounter and assault had flooded the man with adrenalin: he was high as a kite, eyes shining, words tumbling over each other as his brain accelerated away from the limitations of physical speech. His nose was very swollen, his speech thick as a result, and from his posture Rachel reckoned his belly hurt like hell. Each time he laughed, he winced. Something not right.

The area where the Mondeo had parked and the attack happened had been cordoned off. Forensics would be looking for any debris that might indicate where the car had been since the last ANPR capture. Rahid’s brother served in the shop while they squeezed into the stockroom at the back and Rahid talked them through the incident. Rachel knew the elation would evaporate like so much spilled water, leaving him flat and shaken and probably critical of himself. The sort of self-loathing that comes after a night on the lam. Hangover shame. Because at the end of the day he’d risked his neck and failed. Cottam had driven off. And that’s before anyone else put their oar in with observations undermining his actions and saying what they’d have done in his place. But for now he
was the man of the moment. His account mirrored the tape they’d watched but now they needed to dig a bit deeper, see what else they might glean.

‘Did he appear sober?’ Rachel asked.

‘Yes. Didn’t say much but he wasn’t wobbly, like.’