Bleed Like Me (2 page)

Gerry turned left. ‘First scene – master bedroom,’ he said. The room would look out on to the road at the front. Viewed from the road it would be in the extreme right corner of the building.

Gill could hear the murmur of voices, the sound of the CSM and CSI techs already busy at work. She pulled her mask on. They stepped inside. Gill greeted the people there, who were filming in the light from a stand of specially rigged lamps, then focused on the scene.

The victim lay in the double bed. Face up, eyes closed, covered by the duvet from the waist down. Her hands were out of sight. The woman, dark-haired, looked to be in her late thirties, Gill thought. She wore a nightdress. From the short sleeves you could see it had once been blue with sprigs of dark blue flowers printed on it, but now the bulk of it across the whole of the woman’s torso was dark red, the colour of drying blood. The smell, sickly sweet, hung in the air.

The room was otherwise undisturbed. Make-up and jewellery on the dressing table. A round stool in front of it. A fitted wardrobe along the outer wall, easy chair by the window, blue velvet curtains closed. Wicker laundry basket by the door. Gill noticed the bedside tables, his and hers, water glasses and lamps on both, alarm clock on his side, a mobile phone, indigestion mixture and book on hers.

‘No sign of a struggle,’ Gill said.

‘No defence wounds, or nothing visible anyway,’ Gerry agreed.

‘She’s not been posed,’ Gill said.

‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Be hard to move her without getting blood everywhere.’

Gill peered closer. Could see two puncture slits on the chest where a sharp implement had pierced the nightdress and the woman’s body. The puckered fabric, knitted to the congealing blood around the edges of wounds.

A sudden volley of barking made Gill start.
What the fuck?

‘Pet dog in the kitchen,’ Gerry said, nodding back towards the stairs. ‘The next one’s this way.’

In the hall, crime scene tape demarcated the next crime scene, in the adjoining room. In order not to contaminate either by tracking evidence with them, both Gill and Gerry changed into fresh paper suits, boots, gloves and mask. Sealing the ones they had already used in bags and labelling them.

For the same reason a separate team of CSIs were at work in this room under the guidance of their own crime scene manager. And a further log was being kept of who entered and left each scene.

A plaque on the door read
Penny
, the letters made out of pink and red hearts. A girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, lay prone on her bed, face partly hidden by her dark hair turned to one side. The back of her pyjama jacket was thick with blood. The duvet was hanging off the foot of the bed, smeared with blood. Gill noticed the girl had painted toenails, glittery pink. She was slightly built, bony ankles and slender wrists. Just a child. Gill felt her guts tighten in response, the pity of it, always that extra sense of tragedy with a child involved, but it would not affect her ability to do her job. If anything, she would strive even harder.

Gill surveyed the room. One wall had fitted wardrobes, white with folding shuttered doors, the others were a mix of posters, One Direction and Justin Bieber, and drawings: cartoon figures, anime style,
Penny
signed at the bottom of them. The girl had liked to draw. There was a photograph
too, which Gill looked closely at. A family group on a sofa. The woman from the room next door with a baby in her arms; a man, well built, with a moustache and close dark hair, had a toddler on his lap. In between the adults was Penny. They were smiling for the camera. The toddler had one hand up, touching the man’s cheek; the child was turned slightly towards the man and his mouth was open as though he was telling him something.

A row of stuffed toys – a dragon, a panda, a meerkat – occupied a long shelf next to a desk cum dressing table. Homework and make-up littered the table and mounted above it was a flat screen television.

Though the bedding was less neat here, still there was very little disruption. In both cases it looked to Gill as if the victims had been attacked where they lay.

‘They could have been sleeping,’ she said to Gerry.

‘Looks that way,’ he said.

The dog barked again, fast and furious. Gill turned to Gerry and gave a nod to say she was ready for the next. They moved further along the hallway to the end of that crime scene cordon and repeated the business of changing their protective clothing and logging in.

The next scene was the bedroom at the far end, at the back of the building.

The man was on a single bed, partially on his side, head bent backwards, hands closed on his breastbone, the gaping wound on his neck curving open, giving a glimpse of the tube of his oesophagus and a gleam of white bone. Blood had sprayed on to the headboard and the wall behind the bed. His fingers and T-shirt were stained with it. The man had very short hair and his eyes were open, filmy. Part of a tattoo showed beneath the sleeve of his top.

‘Owen Cottam?’ Gill asked. The name on the licensee plate.
Had someone broken in and slaughtered the three of them? But he didn’t bear any resemblance to the man in the family snapshot.

‘No IDs yet,’ said Gerry.

‘Not the man from the photo next door. Too old to be a son,’ Gill thought aloud, ‘only looks a few years younger than the woman. Sleeping in a single room.’ She looked again at the savage cut. Sensed the enormity of the crime. Three dead. And the killer? ‘Looks like they used a knife.’

‘We found it in here,’ Gerry said, ‘under the bed.’ He asked one of the men in the room for the knife which was in a rigid, clear-plastic knife tube. Gill took hold of the tube. The weapon, a sizeable kitchen knife, non-serrated, was smeared with blood.

‘Fast-track this for swabbing and prints,’ Gill said. ‘The whisky bottle from the bathroom as well.’

She scoured the room, the curtains still closed but some light coming in through the gaps where the hooks had gone missing. A Man City scarf the only decoration. Chest of drawers with clothes spilling out, more clothes littered on the floor. A small telly and a gaming console. Xbox. Same as Sammy’s.

‘Who called us?’

‘Brewery. Delivery arrived at eight to find the place deserted, no one answering the door and the dog howling the place down. Wagon driver rang his boss who assumed Cottam had done a runner, abandoning the dog.’

‘Bit of a leap,’ Gill said. ‘Might just have nipped out for milk and a paper.’

‘Except no one else was responding,’ said Gerry.

‘Maybe there was some existing trouble with the business, then,’ Gill said, ‘if their first thought is he’s done a moonlight flit.’ All questions that would be asked and hopefully answered once the investigation got under way.

‘Local bobby came out, found it all locked up and forced entry.’

‘Found a bloodbath,’ Gill said. ‘Which door?’

‘The single one. The family entrance,’ Gerry said. ‘Look at this.’ He took her back along the hallway, to the room opposite the daughter’s. A child’s bed and a cot. Everything, the blue décor, the duvet covers, the toys scattered on the carpet, the train frieze running around the walls, screamed little boys.

‘No sign?’ Gill asked.
The baby and the toddler. The toddler with his hand up to his father’s face.

Gerry shook his head.

‘Upstairs?’ Gill said: the third storey.

‘Padlocked. Been up – full of junk, nothing else. And the cellars are clear.’

No more bodies. Small bodies. So where were the other children?

The dog was yelping and whining, scratching at the kitchen door.

‘Can we get shot of Fido?’ Gill said.

‘In hand,’ he said.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll call the coroner.’

Ten minutes later Gill had secured the coroner’s authorization to order forensic post-mortems on the three victims. Next she contacted the Home Office pathologist and asked him to attend the scene.

Gerry called her name from the ground floor. Gill peered down.

‘Someone here with intel on the household,’ Gerry said.

Gill descended, went through the pub and outside. The sun was warm and Gill was steaming inside the protective suit.

‘Jack Biddle, CID,’ the man waiting for her introduced
himself, then began to read off the facts. ‘Owen Cottam, publican, aged forty-five . . .’

Not the man in the single bed then, she was right about that.

‘. . . wife Pamela, forty, daughter Penny, eleven – just moved up to high school.’

Gill nodded. ‘You know the family?’

‘My lass is at school with Penny.’ He swallowed but retained his composure.

Hearing the names, learning them, names that would become second nature, part of her waking life as the investigation progressed. People she’d come to know inside out. ‘Looks like Pamela and Penny,’ Gill said. ‘We’ve a man as well, ten years younger than Pamela perhaps, very short hair, tattoos.’

She saw a flicker of recognition in Biddle’s eyes. ‘Pamela’s brother Michael Milne. The two little ones, Theo and Harry?’

‘Not here. How old?’

‘Toddlers.’ He dipped his hand, palm down by his knee, indicating their stature. ‘I can check the ages.’

‘Thanks,’ Gill said. ‘No sign of them or Cottam. Any ructions you heard about? Domestic violence, family feud?’

Biddle shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Any criminal associates, prior offences?’

‘Nothing,’ Biddle said. ‘Magistrates approved his licence every time.’

‘Car reg?’

He read it off. No match to the Vauxhall at the edge of the car park. ‘Blue Ford Mondeo.’

‘Whose is that?’ she asked, pointing at the car.

‘The brother’s – Michael’s.’

Gill had a sudden chilling thought: had the boot been checked? ‘Give me a minute,’ she said and went to ask Gerry.

Minutes later a CSI came down from Michael Milne’s room with a set of car keys, accompanied by a woman with a camera. She ran off a series of shots of the Vauxhall before the boot was opened. Gill was holding her breath but when they found only a pair of wellies, a carrier bag of old drinks cans and a leaking can of motor oil she could breathe again. Drew in a strong draught of air perfumed with the smell of moorland. The CSI went to look in the old stables too, though as they were pretty much open to view anyway, Gill didn’t think the children would be there.

‘You think Owen . . .’ Biddle broke off, trying to digest the news.

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘I think he’s our suspect. Killed his daughter, his wife, his brother-in-law, then took off for the hills with his sons. I’m sorry. We have to find the bastard.’ She gazed out over the sweep of the hills. Sheep dotted here and there. Heard the burbling of a grouse on the wind.
Before it’s too late
. She didn’t say it out loud. And hard on the heels of that thought came another.
It probably already is.

‘Family annihilation.’ Janet caught the urgency in Andy’s voice as she walked into the incident room. The buzz was palpable, people talking across each other. ‘That’s what they call it in the US,’ Andy said, his lean face brightening as he set eyes on Janet.

‘Multiple homicide,’ Rachel said. Rachel looked rough, Janet thought. Her friend burning the candle at both ends again, no doubt.

‘Whereabouts?’ asked Kevin.

‘In the UK,’ Rachel said slowly, tapping her own head.

‘No, where’s the murders?’ Kevin said.

The term woodentop could have been invented for Kevin but this time it was Rachel who’d got the wrong end of the stick.

‘The Larks,’ said Andy. ‘Journeys Inn.’

‘You’re joking!’ Janet stopped by her desk, jacket over her arm.

‘You know it?’ said Andy.

Suddenly there was another agenda, a subtext beneath the interchange. Forcing her to censor her words slightly. ‘Used to go there when the kids were little, walk and a pub lunch.’ Leaving out Ade’s name. Because Ade, his name, the very fact
of his existence, was there like a pit, a snare, a trapdoor, something to stumble over. The small matter of him being her husband something that she and Andy were trying very hard to ignore, to forget about, to glide over.

‘Three dead,’ said Andy, all businesslike. ‘Believed to be the wife, daughter and wife’s brother, still awaiting formal identification. Gill’s on her way back. Suspect Owen Cottam, landlord there, missing along with two younger children.’

There was a pause as they each absorbed the information. Janet felt dizzy, the floor swirling under her feet. She could feel Andy’s eyes on her. She pulled out her chair and sat down. Felt sick and bloated. Her hand moved protectively across her abdomen over the scar where they’d sewn her up after surgery. Injuries sustained in the line of duty. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She’d recovered well over the last six months. Been back at work after three.

‘You okay?’ Rachel, standing opposite, leant forward, hands on her own desk.

‘Fine.’ Janet smiled. Rachel stared, head tilted, waiting for something closer to the truth.

‘Okay,’ Janet said sotto voce, ‘I’m knackered. Up till the early hours on homework duty with Elise, the Long March and the Cultural Revolution. Then Taisie has a nightmare at half three and the alarm’s set for six. What’s new?’

‘Why’s she having nightmares?’ Rachel asked.

‘Because she can?’ Janet shook her head. It was one thing after another with Taisie. No sooner through one crisis or drama than she swanned in with another. ‘And because she’s stupid enough to watch some 18 certificate Japanese horror movie at the sleepover she went on, even though she knows she’ll freak out after.’

Gill arrived then, issuing instructions as she walked. ‘Briefing in ten. Get me sandwiches – no onions – and coffee.
Andy, bring the press office in, we’ll be holding hands on this. All other actions suspended for the foreseeable. Kevin – exhibits.’

‘Yes, boss, course boss.’

Gill, DCI Gill Murray, was Janet’s age, late forties, but the similarities stopped there. Friends for years, Janet had finally joined Gill’s team seven years ago. Gill was a human dynamo with an ability to think strategically; she relished the role of leading her syndicate. Janet knew her own skills were as a communicator, an interviewer. And she’d rather sit opposite some witness or suspect and persuade them to tell her the truth than command a team, oversee development, play the public relations game and manage resources.