Blue Murder (6 page)

He passed the joint back. Douggie stopped giggling long enough to inhale which set him off coughing. ‘Get a drink,’ he choked. He waved the spliff at Dean, giving it back, and stumbled out. Dean smoked, let his eyes close, leant his head back against the couch. The video finished. He’d better catch the news later, see what was happening back in Manchester. He could hear birds twittering and the seesaw drone of scramble bikes, some dog barking for Britain. Exile, he thought, I’m in bleeding exile. Better than the nick, though. Had the police got interested in him yet?

Douggie came back in, clutching a tub of ice cream, a bottle of strawberry syrup, bowls and spoons. He put them down, took the smoke from Dean’s fingers and slid onto the armchair. With a full belly and a couple of tins inside him Dean felt better than he had all day. He helped himself to ice cream.

‘The money?’ he asked Douggie.

‘Errands,’ Douggie replied. ‘Doing the business.’

Dean knew he wasn’t talking groceries. But Douggie wouldn’t last another stretch inside. Dean shook his head.

‘This is steady,’ Douggie said, all wide-eyed, ‘low key.’

‘For now.’

‘Who says it’s going to change?’ Douggie pulled the tub across the carpet, scooped some out.

‘Course it will,’ said Dean, ‘everything changes, all the time, that’s life.’ Sounded like some crap song lyric. He shuffled, stretched his hands behind his head, tugging at the hair on his neck.

‘It’s cool.’ Douggie insisted. ‘You like a line now and then same as anyone.’

Dean sighed. ‘Look, Douggie, less I know the better.’

‘Kay.’ Douggie shrugged. ‘Sure. But if you want to make a bit of ready, I could put a word in …’

‘There’s always room for extra couriers …’

‘No!’ Dean’s shout made Douggie jump. ‘I don’t need it … the mess I’m in, I need to stay clean. You understand?’

‘Yeah.’ Douggie glared.

Douggie’d be asking soon, wanting to know why he was here.

‘I don’t want to be around when anything’s going down.’

‘Okay.’ Douggie nodded. ‘I gotta go to Manchester Monday, not far from yours, this guy …’

‘Douggie,’ Dean said sharply, ‘I don’t need to know. Nothing.’

‘Aright.’ Douggie ate some ice cream. Looking at Dean from under his eyelids, mock sulk. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and nodded at the sauce bottle, ‘pass the Treat.’

But he couldn’t leave it alone. Like a kid. ‘Dean? What’s going on, man? Why you here?’

‘Kin’ mind reader or what?

*****

Detective Sergeant Butchers consulted his list. Seven Gorton Avenue, Eddie Vincent, getting on in years. He walked along to the house and knocked on the tatty green door. This place needed work an’ all. Guttering loose, rotting window frames, chimney listing to one side, looked like the pointing hadn’t been touched since it was built. Only little places but a shame to see them being neglected until they were past saving.

Another knock, long and loud. Come on, come on. He waited. He could hear shouts from some local match, football or hockey? Cursing, Butchers made a

note on his sheet. He wondered how Shap and the others were doing on Denholme. With both roads framing the allotments the chances were that someone in the houses would have seen something that could help them. But so far all Butchers had got was a lot of ear ache about not having enough bobbies on the beat. He exhaled noisily and moved on.

Eddie Vincent, sick and old, was dreaming. Mama was there with her pinny on and a flowery scarf to cover her hair. She was chasing him with the broom and he was screeching with delight. Her eyes dancing, chanting in a daft voice, ‘Beware the Boggart who’s come to eat. He’ll drink your blood and eat your meat.’

Eddie Vincent heard knocking. The bell hadn’t worked for years. He considered getting up out of bed and making his way downstairs but knew it was beyond him. He closed his eyes. His mouth was parched. He tried to swallow, to move his tongue and summon up some spit but it was all clemmed up. A drink of water. Over on the drawers but even that was too far. Never mind, he was warm now and the pain had blurred to an ache. Knocking. He’d expected someone, hadn’t he? It was there, just round the corner of his memory but he couldn’t quite reach it. Happen it’d be clearer in the morning. He’d be brighter in the morning, usually worked that way.

The police, that was it! They’d come back, wouldn’t they? The police. If not he’d call them. Ring them up and get them to send someone round to hear what he had to say. But he was too weak now. Slowly, he pulled the corner of the bedspread up to cover his head, leaving a small gap for his nose and mouth. Keep the heat in.

Maisie had laughed at him when he used to do that, she never felt the cold, slept with her arms flung out and often as not half a leg showing. Big and warm, she was. God, he missed her. Even after all these years. Sixteen years. Still such a keen loss. Like a cut that wouldn’t heal properly.

Aw, Maisie. He didn’t believe in heaven but he’d a notion he’d be nearer to her in death than he was now. Never expected her to go first. He’d always imagined she’d be the one to get a phone call from a stranger or to find him slumped in his chair.

Cycling club. That’s where they met. He smiled, let himself drift in echoing memories of those times. Freewheeling down from Hayfield, stopping for sandwiches and Pale Ale at a country pub, cycling behind Maisie, aching to touch her. Getting a kiss for fixing her puncture.

Then the first time they spent the day alone together. A picnic up in Peak Forest near Buxton. Cider in a flask and pork pies and hard-boiled eggs. She kissed him, slow and soft, tasting of apples. She had sighed with pleasure and stretched. She was a lioness, big boned, tawny coloured. She kissed him again, mischief in her eyes. By the end of the long, dreamy afternoon, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

*****

Lesley Tulley’s sister arrived within twenty minutes.

By then two uniformed officers had been drafted in to guard Ashgrove from the press pack.

Emma was a taller version of Lesley Tulley; same dark hair, same shaped face but lacking the particular combination of features that made Lesley Tulley a beautiful rather than just a pretty woman. Emma was pallid and trembling as she hugged her sister.

Janine introduced herself and answered Emma’s questions as best as she could. She suggested that the Tulleys’ GP be contacted in case Lesley required a sedative or sleeping pills. ‘It’s a huge shock at the moment, she may become more distressed later when it begins to sink in,’ she spoke quietly to Emma, aware of Lesley curled into the corner of the sofa.

Janine left them to get ready for the trip to the mortuary and the formal identification and waited outside in her car with Richard.

‘She never asked where he was.’ Janine pointed out. ‘Neither of us mentioned the allotment.’

‘She knew that was where he was heading.’

‘But he could have been attacked en route, rough area, more people about.’

‘What do you make of her?’

Janine considered the question. It was too early to tell, really. She shrugged. Lesley and Emma emerged from the house and approached the car. Richard stepped out to open the doors for them.

Janine drove, Richard beside her. Lesley and Emma silent in the back, faces bleached by shock. At the bottom of Princess Parkway, Janine swung off the round about and took the road to the mortuary. The building was adjacent to the police station. From the outside it all looked bright and shiny and proud, glass and steel, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, the glint of the sun. A façade and behind it, inside the mortuary, waiting for them, was something grim and sordid and humbling.

*****

Before Lesley went in she could feel her heart climbing into her gullet. She held her hand against her throat, the other gripping Emma’s. She barely heard the man gently explaining the procedure. DCI Lewis put her hand on her arm saying, ‘Take your time, just let us know if it’s Matthew.’ Though they’d said they were certain. She had to face the reality. To see he was dead for herself. To try and understand. She nodded to let them know she was ready.

A flashback came; her wedding day. Ivory silk dress, little country church outside Chester. Nodding and taking the first slow steps down the aisle. Matthew in a charcoal suit, turning to watch her coming. A quiet wedding, a handful of family and friends. A perfect day.

That night, in the country inn with its four poster bed and real log fire, he’d undressed her, laid her on the bed and watched her. Always watching. When at last he entered her, he slid in deep, just this side of pain, again and again, his gaze locked on hers. ‘I love you, Lesley,’ he said. ‘You are so beautiful.’ She cried when she came. He wanted to take her photograph. ‘You look so beautiful.’

Suddenly shy, she said ‘I don’t know.’

‘We’re married,’ he said. They both laughed.

‘Mrs Tulley?’ She dipped her head now to let them know she was ready and they went in to view the body.

Lesley stared through the glass at the still body of her husband. Unable to speak, she nodded to confirm his identity.

It looked like a model of Matthew, she thought, not the real thing. His skin had a yellow hue accentuated by the lighting, his hair brushed with a parting at one side; he never wore it like that. His mouth turned down giving him a glum expression. He looked older.

She wasn’t allowed to touch him, they’d explained to her. The body had yet to be examined. The sheet covered everything but his head. No sign of what had been done to him. The viewing room was cold. A faint anti septic smell percolated from somewhere as though the hard vinyl floors had just been mopped.

Lesley turned to Emma and the detectives. ‘I’d like a few minutes on my own?’

They nodded and withdrew. She hitched her little knapsack over one shoulder and pressed her hands against the glass of the viewing window, tears running from her eyes. ‘Matthew,’ she whispered, trying the name in her mouth. The sound resonated in the stark room. But what could she possibly say? There were no words. His eyes were closed. It looked as though they had sunk a little. She imagined them drying up, the fluids leaving his body. He would never gaze at her again. His eyes a stunning blue. Hers brown. What will our children look like? A game she had played when it was still a possibility.

The thought brought a sob to her throat. She didn’t know how to say goodbye, didn’t know that she even wanted to. So she turned and left him.

In the corridor Emma was crying too. Lesley hugged her sister. ‘Oh, Emma,’ she cried, ‘who would do such a thing?’ Suddenly a wave of nausea swept through her, she pulled away from Emma, covered her mouth.

Janine Lewis realised what was happening. ‘This way.’ She led Lesley to the Ladies, waited while she went into a cubicle. Impossible not to hear the noise of her vomiting. Janine leant against the wall and tilted her head back trying to squash the rising queasiness. Blame the pregnancy – anything would set her off.

*****

In The Parkway pub on Princess Parkway, nineteen-year-old Ferdie Gibson, his head cropped so close that his scalp was visible, a badly executed tattoo of an eagle on his neck, rolled up to the bar and ordered two Stellas. The giant-sized TV screen above broadcast Man U’s fixture. Ferdie sauntered over to the corner where his mates were. He passed Colin his drink.

‘Ow yer doin’, Ferdie?’ someone said.

‘Aright.’

‘Tosser,’ one of the lads screamed at the screen. ‘Did you see that?’ He swung round challenging the others to share in his indignation. ‘Total crap. They ought to cut his legs off.’

Ferdie sat down, took a swig of his drink, the eagle on his neck rippled. Ferdie waited for the right moment then leant forward. ‘You lot, you heard the news?’

‘What?’

‘Bout Tulley? Someone’s done him. He’s history.’ Ferdie Gibson gave a wide grin. ‘Down the allotments, he was. Knifed they reckon. They took him away in a body bag. He’s dead.’ Ferdie’s eyes gleamed. ‘Come on, you lot, I’m buying.’ Ferdie flourished a twenty pound note and winked at Colin. ‘We,’ he announced ‘are going to get plated.’ Laughter swirled around the group but Colin glanced away, uneasy. Then Beckham scored and the whole place erupted.

*****

‘I just need to lie down,’ Lesley said. Her voice was shaky; even her skin felt tight and tired.

‘Okay.’ Emma said. ‘Anything you want? Tea?’

‘No, I’ll go up, try to sleep.’

Lesley reached the door and rested there a moment. ‘It’s like a dream, Emma. I keep thinking I’ll wake up,’ her mouth quivered and she turned away.

As she walked into the bedroom she tried to comprehend the fact that Matthew would never be here again. Not here, in this room, not in this bed, not in this house. It was a life she could not imagine. To be without him every hour of every day for the rest of her life. She closed the heavy blue woven curtains, removed her earrings and her clothes. The room was warm but she shivered and she pulled a long, soft, cotton night-dress from her dressing table drawer. She lay down at her side of the bed. How long till she took his pillow away? Grief clutched at her throat and she made a choking sound. Matthew’s dead, she told herself. Matthew is dead. Matthew is dead. Sobbing, she repeated it to herself over and over until she was exhausted and had no more tears.

*****

‘Briefing in half-an-hour. Make sure everyone knows.’

‘Yes, boss.’ DC Jenny Chen nodded and withdrew.

When Chen had closed the door, Janine slipped off her shoes and stood for a moment, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension around her neck, then kneading the small of her back. She stretched her arms up towards the ceiling and stood on tiptoe, repeated the movements several times and then made tea.

A decent cup of tea. Eighteen months ago the powers that be had installed monstrous catering machines throughout the division. They dispensed tea, coffee, chocolate, soup, Bovril and, this being the North West, Vimto. She’d tried a taste of the coffee. Once. In a briefing meeting with The Lemon. Janine had taken one mouthful from the polystyrene cup and gagged at the smell, redolent of rotting mushrooms, and at the unidentifiable bitterness which brought back memories of the stuff her mother used to paint on her nails to stop her biting them. The silky texture of the man-made creamer coated her tongue like chalk. She had leant forward as if to take a second sip and discreetly released the mouthful back into her cup, swallowed hard and brought her full attention back to the meeting.