Bleed Like Me (14 page)

‘Miss Bailey. You will see there is some discoloration to the face.’

She wrenched her eyes open and looked through the glass to the figure on the bier. Felt something swell, blocking her throat. He was discoloured, his face mottled and dark, smaller
than she remembered, and looked older. His hair had grown longer; he used to be clean shaven, always, but this man had a beard and moustache. So for half a second she felt something release inside her, was about to say no, it’s not him, but the shape of his face . . . She looked at his mouth, stretched down with disappointment. ‘That’s him,’ Rachel said and coughed. Her stomach hurt. Her eyes were stinging. She bit down hard on her tongue. ‘That it?’

‘The post-mortem, confirmation of cause of death, they say it was his liver. Apparently he’d spent some time in hospital recently, cirrhosis.’

Rachel nodded. No surprises there, then.

‘One of the other residents raised the alarm,’ Tintwhistle told her, ‘not seen him for a while. Looks like he’d been there a couple of weeks.’

No!

‘Drive me back,’ Rachel said,
a couple of weeks
banging in her skull over and over like a chant.

‘Must have been proud of you,’ he said, once they reached his car.

Not so’s you’d notice. Not usually, anyway.
Rachel didn’t reply. Concentrating too hard on hiding everything, not wanting to throw up or burst into tears or faint at the copper’s feet.
A couple of weeks
. His own bloody fault really, wasn’t it? No one to blame but himself. Silly old sod.

Days when she’d come home to tell him she’d got into the Special Constables or passed her first aid. Half the time he wasn’t there to tell, already down the pub. The rest he’d look at her. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. Rachel trying to tell if he had a cob on. In which case he’d pontificate about her shortcomings, the fickle way of the world and his own sorry state.
What’s it take for a man to make an honest living these days?

Sobriety would help, getting up and out of the house fully dressed before midday too. He used to do labouring, shovelling and shifting. Nothing skilled. Then it got so he’d just missed the alarm, or Chalky didn’t really need him, or his back was giving him gyp. Till eventually he wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it bit him on the bum.

Rachel kept quiet mostly when he began his tirades, lost it now and then with a sarky comment or a direct challenge that earned her a slap. On the better days, no mood on him, he’d be milder. ‘Have you now,’ he’d say. ‘No flies on you, eh? Sharp as a tack.’ But still a caution: ‘Just remember where you come from.’

What the hell for? Rachel meant to forget where she’d come from as soon as possible. Do a thorough amnesia job on it.

Now with him gone, it’d be even easier.

Janet was coming out of the Ladies when she met Rachel running up the stairs. ‘What did you tell her?’ Rachel said, dragging her back into the loos.

‘Said I didn’t know. What was I supposed to tell her? Where were you, anyway. She’s steaming.’

‘I ran out of fags.’ Rachel ran water into a sink. Scooped back her hair in one hand and splashed her face.

‘Tell me you’re joking.’

‘Ran out of cash?’ Rachel dried her face.

Janet could see Rachel wasn’t making any effort to sound plausible. Janet didn’t understand what was going on but there wasn’t time to try to ferret the truth out of her. ‘Come on,’ she said.

Gill saw Rachel from her office as soon as they walked in and came to the door. ‘Rachel, good of you to join us. Somewhere important to be?’ Disapproval etched into every syllable.

‘I fell down the stairs, boss,’ Rachel said. ‘Banged my head. Thought I’d better get it checked out. Felt sick.’

‘Really?’ Gill obviously didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Is it in the accident book?’

‘No, boss. Bit muddled, I think. I just went straight to A&E.’

‘Who processed you in an hour?’ Gill was furious, eyes bright, jaw taut. Everyone knew A&E was an average three-hour wait. Janet felt sick, worried about what Gill might do or say, worried for Rachel.

‘Felt better,’ Rachel said, ‘came back.’

‘I was going to allocate you and Janet to the surveillance team. Join our colleagues on the ground. However, if you have suspected concussion . . .’

Oh, Christ. Janet could hear what was coming.

‘Please, boss?’ Rachel said.

‘If you can’t be bothered—’

‘I can!’ Rachel interrupted. Never a good move. Gill glared, nostrils flaring.

‘Listen, lady, I don’t need officers of mine doing a Houdini on me. What could possibly be more important than working your balls off on a triple murder and missing children? Unless someone died. Did someone die?’

‘No,’ Rachel said, sounding miserable as sin.

‘Boss . . .’ Janet tried to intervene though she hadn’t a clue what she could say to mitigate Rachel’s offence. ‘Boss’ was all that came out, a bleat that Gill ignored.

‘As it is—’ Gill continued, then her phone went and she held up her hand, warning them to wait while she took the call. Eyes flaring with excitement. ‘The Mondeo . . . abandoned.’ Janet saw the moment’s disappointment dampen Gill’s energy, but her recovery was almost instantaneous. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . agreed.’ She turned to them, face alight. ‘We’ve found the car. Woods near Lundfell.’

‘Yes!’ Rachel’s manner changed in a flash, alert and engaged. ‘Cottam?’

‘He is not with the vehicle but we hope to trace him from there.’

‘The kids?’ Janet said.

Gill shook her head, ‘No.’

That was good, though, thought Janet, no news better than what they might have found. Or had he already killed them and dumped them somewhere?

‘Forensics are all over it now and we’re getting tracker dogs and a scout.’

‘The old Indian bloke,’ said Rachel.

‘Native American,’ Gill said swiftly.

Janet had met him once on a training day. Nice bloke. One of the whole range of experts the police work with, who come in all shapes and sizes, everything from translators to underwater teams, forensic soil scientists and geographical profilers. The scout had the old tracking skills, had inherited a legacy from generations who had hunted their food; he could see where people had walked, changed direction or hesitated by studying the ground and the vegetation.

‘How far can Cottam go with two kids?’ Janet said. ‘The whole country’s looking out for him.’

‘Stolen vehicles?’ Rachel said.

‘They’re on to it,’ Gill replied. ‘May need to issue another alert for the area – beds and sheds – but I need to check with the psychs and the hostage negotiator whether that might force his hand. We don’t want to panic him into taking action.’ Meaning harming the children, Janet knew. The two little ones. Harder or easier than killing his wife and daughter?

‘Where’s he heading?’ Rachel said. She was keen, totally absorbed now, so what had led her to slope off like that, like a kid bunking off school?

‘Let’s see what the maps tell us and if we can connect the location to anything we’ve learnt so far.’

The three of them went into the larger operations room where Andy and Pete were working. Janet felt a little lurch
when she saw Andy. He had maps of the area up on the whiteboards, map and satellite views. There was a checklist too – the actions currently under way: police officers checking taxi firms, stolen vehicles, train timetables, bus routes, CCTV coverage.

Andy had received the news and entered the coordinates. ‘Why did he pick here?’ he said. ‘Gallows Wood, Lancashire.’

‘Gallows? You’re joking,’ said Janet. Some sick irony in the name given what they might find there.

‘Cyclist noticed it,’ Gill said, ‘vehicle smashed through fencing, and reported it to the local police. Thought it was joy-riders until they got the number plate.’

Andy said, ‘Public path and bridleway enter here, and there’s a lay-by for parking. Anything from the mother?’

Janet shook her head. Margaret Milne had listed all the locations she could recall that had any significance for the family. Holidays in the Norfolk Broads, Black Rock Sands, Malaga and Minorca. A trip to New York. Weddings of friends in Leeds and Bristol. No mention of East Lancashire.

‘I’ve a list here,’ Janet said. ‘Nothing fits. He might just have seen an opportunity. Somewhere to hide, or a vehicle he could take. Any CCTV close by?’

‘No, nearest is Lundfell town centre – couple of miles away.’ Andy moved the pointer on the map, showing her. She studied the map, the village . . . was it too small to be called a town? Small in her eyes, clustered around a central high street, the canal and the railway that ran along the valley bottom. The high street connected to the A road that led in turn to the motorway six miles away. The proximity to the road network presumably responsible for an increase in house building and the open plan estates that ringed the older areas and were scattered along the A road.

Fluke? Or did Cottam know where the cameras were? How clever was he? How collected, given he was on the run and fleeing from the harrowing events of the night before last, from the near miss at the petrol station. Or was he numb, operating on some sort of autopilot? ‘How clear is his thinking going to be?’ Janet said to Andy.

‘Impossible to say,’ Gill answered.

‘Originally a mining town,’ Andy said, ‘way back; copper and tin here, quarrying up on the tops.’

‘Mine shafts?’ Gill asked. ‘Somewhere to hide bodies. Talk to the local bobbies, countryside rangers, anyone who knows the area.’

‘Nearest railway station has a service every two hours,’ Pete said. ‘Staffed in the morning when there’s most traffic. Commuters travelling to connecting services in Wigan or Warrington. I’ve requested CCTV footage.’

‘Images of the scene should be coming through now,’ Andy said.

Janet watched with the rest of them as Andy imported the files and posted them on the screen. She saw the Mondeo, the broken fencing and a shallow bank to the left where the car was, bonnet pointing downwards.

‘Accident?’ Rachel asked.

‘Hard to tell. No obvious blood in the vehicle,’ Andy said.

‘Could he have left it there to come back to?’ Janet suggested.

Gill shook her head. ‘After the petrol station, he had to get rid of it, and with two kids on foot he’s not going far.’ She waved at Andy to change the image. The second photograph showed the car side on, both doors open on the driver’s side.

‘He’s left the child seats, which might mean . . .’ Janet said.

‘Doesn’t need them any more?’ Rachel looked at Janet.

Which in turn meant . . .

‘Cordon is being erected now, search parties preparing,’ Gill said.

Rachel half rose. ‘Boss? Please, boss, me and Janet.’

Gill gestured, moved with Rachel until they were just outside the door but Janet could still hear.

‘Can I rely on you, Rachel?’

‘Yes, course, I swear.’

A pause. Then, ‘Go on then,’ Gill said, ‘but don’t make me regret it.’

‘Yes boss, no boss.’

Rachel came back in the room, gave a ghost of a smile and jerked her head at Janet. ‘Let’s go then.’

‘So do I get to know?’ Janet asked as they approached the car.

‘What?’ Rachel said, heading for the passenger side.

‘You can drive.’ Janet threw her the keys.

‘God, you must be peaky. You’re not going to faint on me, are you? You getting enough iron?’

Janet ignored her, got in the car. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’

Rachel started the engine. End of discussion.

Janet knew better than to push her but it did rankle a bit. Supposed to be best mates, not just at work, looking out for each other, but Rachel had her secrets.
And you don’t?
Her health worries. Andy. Janet felt a swirl of nausea and the prickle of sweat across her neck. She wound down the window, letting some air in before they reached the motorway.

On their approach to Gallows Wood they passed two patrol cars, some of the units which were driving around the woods, watching for movement. The tracker guide had the CSIs documenting signs of foot traffic but as the car had been dumped near a public entrance to the area there was plenty of evidence of activity. A talk with the cyclist had told the
police that it was a popular spot with local dog walkers too.

The dog handler, Gareth, was looking despondent and when Janet said hello he explained. ‘We’ve tried her with both Owen Cottam’s clothing and the kids’. Made a bit of a start up that way,’ he pointed along the road to the right, ‘but soon petered out.’

Could she trust Rachel? Gill had a sense that the woman was coming apart, this disappearing business not like her unless she had been looking into something to do with the case, working some angle, which she was prone to do, in her time off if need be, and then she’d come running to Gill with the winnings. A cat proudly presenting a dead mouse. But she’d not said anything in her defence and that made Gill doubt it was work-related.

There was something volcanic about her. Some source of steady pressure that built and built until it finally erupted in disaster, or near disaster. Gill had no idea where it came from, the recklessness, the wild side: her background, most likely, but it made her a nightmare to manage and it threatened her future and hopes of promotion.

Brilliance was worth very little if it came bundled with chaotic episodes and sudden meltdowns. As yet Rachel hadn’t learnt the lesson that she needed to master and tame that side of her behaviour.

Gill turned her thoughts to Sammy, to the conversation earlier. There was something nagging at her, something that didn’t quite gel. Before the stuff he’d said about Alton Towers and the whore of Pendlebury proving to be such a jolly good sport. Open days? Yes, open days – that was it. He’d said it was in hand, he was sorting it out. But shouldn’t he have already been to one?

She got her diary out. There it was –
Open day, Leeds
. Last
week. One of the four courses he was looking at. She checked her watch and rang him; should be back from sixth form college by now. Would he pick up?

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Open day last Thursday, Leeds,’ she said.