Bleed Like Me (13 page)

‘PC Martin Tintwhistle,’ he said. Not a flicker of warmth. Rachel could feel the tension in the back of her legs, in her neck, in the soles of her feet. ‘Based at Langley.’

‘Right.’ She watched his lips, waiting for the caution. Aware that the CCTV above the front desk would be filming it all in glorious technicolour. That in half an hour’s time the clip of him reading her the caution and snapping the cuffs on would provide a few minutes’ rest and relaxation for the officers embroiled in the investigation and the staff in the custody suite. Could go viral.
YouTube
. Except any dickhead did that and they’d be disciplined for unprofessional conduct or prejudicing an ongoing investigation.

‘You are related to Brian Bailey, date of birth fourth of November 1950?’

What the fuck had that to do with anything? She wanted to deny it, disown the connection, lie about her parentage, but she just said yes. Irritability a useful mask for the fear drilling through her.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ the man said and she saw him draw back very slightly, putting a fraction more distance between them. Worried that she’d what? Thump him? Spit at him? Burst into tears and collapse on him?

Bad news? Bad news wasn’t a usual lead-in to a caution on arrest.

‘What?’ Rachel snapped.

‘We were called to an address in Langley earlier today,’ the constable said, his voice dull and uninflected. ‘When the resident did not answer the door we gained entry to the premises.’

Rachel was at sea. Why was he telling her this? She thought of the Cottams, the local bobbies breaking in, calling out, creeping upstairs. One potato, two potato, three potato . . .

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you . . .’

She watched his lips. He’d got freckles on his face, one on his upper lip, a light brown stain. His teeth stuck out: no braces at that crucial age.

‘. . . but the occupant, whom we believe to be Brian Bailey, was unresponsive and subsequently pronounced dead.’

Oh, God. Fuck. She felt something fall inside, a swirl of pain. Why had they come to her with this? Why not Alison? Alison was the one who still ran up the white flag every so often and mounted a mercy mission. Trying to get the old feller to have a proper wash and some clean clothes, dragging him to the GP or A&E, talking rehab. Pretending there was hope for five minutes until the old man sloped off back to his tins and his baccy and his helpless mess of a life.

Tintwhistle, message delivered, was watching her.

‘Suspicious circumstances?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

‘Right,’ she said, ‘thanks.’ Turning to go.

‘DC Bailey,’ he said, ‘we need you to formally identify the body.’

‘No.’ Rachel said it without thinking. She didn’t want anything to do with it.

‘I appreciate that it must be a shock—’

‘I’ve a sister,’ Rachel said, ‘she’ll do it.’ Talking over him, not wanting sympathy, not one bloody drop of sympathy. Why should she? She didn’t deserve it, didn’t warrant it. How long since she had seen her dad? Six years, maybe more. Ran into him one time when she was working sex crimes in the early days, investigating a rape, talking to potential witnesses outside a pub near Langley. The area a black hole disguised with a smattering of shops. Offie, mini-market, nail bar, launderette. Among those potential eye witnesses, a group of alkies who occupied a bench near the bus stop. And chief rabble-rouser, with what looked like sick down his coat, was her father. Back then Rachel had turned on her heel and told her colleagues she’d talk to the woman in the launderette then try the nail bar. Now she keyed in Alison’s number. And got her voicemail.

‘I’ve not really time,’ Rachel said but Tintwhistle stood there, batting his cap against his other hand.

‘It shouldn’t take very long,’ he said, ‘if you’d like to find somebody to accompany you.’

Fuck no! Janet, who first came to mind, assumed Rachel had a quiet, dull, Janet and John family stashed away somewhere. An assumption Rachel had deliberately cultivated. The prospect of sharing this with anyone was even more sickening than the thought of doing it alone.

She tried Alison again, just in case, got the same message.

Her phone showed twenty past eleven. ‘I need to be back here before midday,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He nodded, and put his hat on.

She followed him to the car park, every bone in her body seething with resentment.

Getting into the car she was struck by the thought that minutes earlier she was expecting to be escorted into the back seat, hand on her head easing her into place, wrists cuffed, wreathed in shame. So it wasn’t the worst that could have happened, was it? Not by a long chalk.

‘Where was he, then?’ she said. ‘You said Langley.’

‘B&B on St Michael’s Road.’

She knew the place. B&B shorthand for dosshouse. Hostel, more or less. Scuzzy rooms at rock-bottom prices, sort of place that welcomed people on benefits. Not the type of B&B you’d see on Trip Advisor. Not a good base for exploring the cultural highlights of sunny Manchester. Full of people who had nowhere else to sleep: alkies or nut jobs, people coming out of prison or heading back in. Breakfast was dished up in a canteen style kitchen. Only meal most of them ate. She knew all this because she had been in places like it countless times for work. Down with the pond life.

The car dropped down the hill among the terraced housing, towards the jumble of dual carriageways that ringed the centre of Oldham. Godzilla had been here earlier with Margaret Milne. Christ, she hoped no one would recognize her from her job. This was personal, nothing to do with anyone else.

How come they knew he was related to Rachel? A question she couldn’t get out of her head. Wasn’t like she kept in touch or she’d helped him pay his way or anything. What could possibly connect them? She’d severed every tie she could and that didn’t take much doing. Leaving home as soon as she got into the police. Alison already married. Dom still there. She hadn’t liked leaving Dom and made sure to stay in touch with
him, showing him there was a life beyond Langley and the daily grind. Fat lot of good that did. Then Dom pulled his stupid trick and got locked up and she heard from Alison that the old feller had left not long after. Evicted.

Riddled with curiosity and unable to figure it out she finally asked Tintwhistle. ‘How did you know to contact me?’

‘Cuttings in his room.’ Tintwhistle slowed behind a bus.

‘Cuttings?’ Rachel thought of fingernails and hair. Flashed back to her dad dabbing Brylcreem on his hair and running a comb through it, pocketing the comb, then heading out. How old was she then?

‘From the local papers,’ Tintwhistle said. ‘Features about you, sponsored run for that kiddies’ charity. And the half-marathon.’

Rachel’s belly turned over as her vision darkened. Him sat in his chair, studying the paper from front to back, reading it all. News and then the racing pages. She blinked to clear her eyes. Stupid bastard, she thought. Why did he bother? Why the fuck did he bother? Her throat ached and the bus ahead slowed again, needling her with impatience. ‘Can’t you overtake?’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

Gill met Dennis Cottam, his son Barry and his daughter-in-law Bev prior to the appeal. Lisa had assisted them in putting together a few lines which Dennis Cottam would read out.

There were guidelines to the wording of these appeals, Gill knew, just as there were techniques to be used when negotiating with a hostage taker, which Owen Cottam was at this stage. Nothing that would increase the pressure or exacerbate the tension. Nothing judgemental or punitive. The aim was to start a dialogue, create a breathing space, open a door, defuse the situation as much as possible. To demonstrate understanding and empathy rather than revulsion and incomprehension.
There should be nothing in what his father said to panic Cottam, no nugget of criticism to fuel mistrust or paranoia, no bartering or bribery – not yet.

‘Stage one is the equivalent of a smile,’ she’d heard one trainer say. ‘It’s a pair of open arms. Until that’s accepted we can’t build the rapport we need to effect a safe resolution.’

Lisa took her into the little room adjacent to the conference room and introduced her. Gill shook hands with all three of them. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you personally for doing this today. I understand it can’t be easy.’

‘Keep thinking I’ll forget it,’ Dennis Cottam said gruffly. A wiry, weather-beaten man with a shirt fresh from the packet and a shaving nick on his chin.

‘You don’t need to learn it,’ Gill said. ‘You take all the time you need. I’ll be there, and you’ve got the paper.’

‘I’ll need my specs,’ he said suddenly.

‘Here,’ Bev said, ‘I’ve got them.’ She held out a glasses case. ‘I’ve cleaned them, too,’ she said.

‘Right, thanks.’

Gill suspected that Bev had bought the shirt as well. She was pretty, blonde, radiated a tense energy probably brought about by the ghastly situation. Some people fell to bits, others grew practical. Gill put Bev in the latter category.

‘You’ll sit on my left and Barry next to you,’ Gill said to Dennis Cottam. ‘I’ll introduce you and then you read your piece. Try and imagine you’re talking directly to Owen. Yes? It will be very quick, no questions. I need to warn you there will be cameras and flashes going off so be prepared for that.’

Dennis Cottam nodded. ‘He was never any trouble, you know?’ he said, the incongruity of what had happened hitting him anew. ‘Not a scrap of bother, was there?’ He looked to Barry, who swallowed and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Two minutes,’ Lisa said. ‘Okay? We’ll get your microphones on.’

Dennis puffed his cheeks out, exhaled, obviously sick with nerves. While Lisa wired up Dennis Cottam, Gill clipped the lapel mic on to her jacket and checked the power light showed red on her transmitter before tucking it into the waistband of her skirt.

Then it was time. They went through to the larger room and Gill waited by her chair until they were both seated. With Lisa to her right and Dennis Cottam to her left she looked out at the bank of journalists. The case was big enough, brutal enough, to have brought in some foreign crews too. The fact that Cottam was still at large with two youngsters at risk created an extra dimension of human interest.

Some reporters were typing into their iPads or tablets, others tweeting. Around them colleagues wielded cameras of varying shapes and sizes.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am DCI Gill Murray, senior investigating officer in this case. I’d like to introduce Mr Dennis Cottam who is here today to speak directly to his son Owen.’

Gill turned to Dennis. The man’s eyes swam behind his spectacles as he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘Owen, we’d like you to come in, son. Things have not been easy but there’s people can help us sort it all out. You’ve family here and we want to help. We care for you, you and—’ He broke off, face collapsing, on the brink of weeping. He began to shiver, his shoulders heaving, the paper jerking in his grip.

Barry reached over and put his arm round his father’s shoulders and took the paper from him. He wasn’t miked up but the room was so quiet his voice carried. ‘We want you
back, we want you and the boys safe. Please come in and we’ll be with you.’

‘Thank you,’ Gill said.

Dennis continued to tremble, his hand over his face now. Beside him, his son Barry, eyes bright with grief, carried on holding him as Gill made her final remarks. Then Gill touched his shoulder and they slowly made their way from the room.

Rachel’s arms were shaking as they walked into the mortuary, her arms and hands. She tried to hide it.

‘It’s just along here,’ Tintwhistle said.

‘I know the drill,’ Rachel told him but her voice sounded shivery and uncertain. They carried on, his shoes squeaking on the floor with each step.

When they reached the waiting room adjacent to the viewing area, he said, ‘I’ll just go and tell them you’re here.’

Rachel’s mind skittered around. She tried to concentrate on what she’d be doing when she got back to work but the image of the cuttings, the scraps of paper he’d carefully torn out and saved, him poring over them, remained stuck in the centre of her mind, like a poster slapped on a shop window obscuring everything else. She needed a smoke; she couldn’t do this without one.

Getting rapidly to her feet she half ran to the entrance, then along the front of the building, firing up as soon as she could wrestle her cigs and lighter from her bag.

She inhaled, went dizzy for a moment. Closed her eyes. The day was warm and humid and her skin felt moist, almost greasy. She’d only had a few drags when she heard her name called.

‘DC Bailey.’ Tintwhistle, face like a smacked arse.

‘A minute.’ Rachel raised the fag between her fingers. He
wasn’t happy but what could he do? Gave a tight little shrug and went back in the building.

Rachel smoked down to the filter, gazing across at the shop on the corner, the steady trail of customers nipping in for sweets or fags or papers. Only noticed it then, as she made to stub out her cigarette, been staring at it long enough: the sandwich board, MURDER HUNT FOR TOTS in flat, black capitals.

As she turned to go back in her phone rang. Janet calling. ‘Where are you?’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘She wants you here now.’

‘Tell her I’m on my way,’ Rachel said.

‘An explanation might help,’ Janet said.

She could just go, leave all this for Alison to do tomorrow. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? She thought of her dad’s voice, the way he’d sing if he was in a good mood,
Sunny Side of the Street
,
Spanish Harlem
,
Love Me Tender
, taking the floor at parties before it all began to sour.

How could she explain this? Her mind was blank. ‘Make something up,’ she said and ended the call.

Once she found Tintwhistle, they went through to the viewing room. Rachel studied the floor, cast her eyes around the ceiling. They’d lowered it at some point. Probably had those high ceilings, fancy plasterwork around the edges, like the rest of the old municipal buildings. Stained glass and frilly bits on the stonework, or the latticed windows, diamond shapes and . . .