Blue Murder (7 page)

The following day Janine had made time for a lunch break and had returned to her office with a small kettle and cafetiere, a selection of teas and coffees and a dinky mini-fridge which she plugged in and proceeded to stock with mineral water, milk and fruit juices. Sorted.

She put her feet up and began a list of items to cover at the briefing meeting. Initial reports would be given and tasks assigned to the various teams involved in the first frantic stages that followed the discovery of a body. She worked steadily, her concentration betrayed by the way she pulled and twisted her hair with her left hand.

She was interrupted by her phone. It was Michael.

‘Mum, can you give me a lift home?’

‘Where are you?’

‘The Trafford Centre.’

‘The Trafford Centre? I’m at work, Michael. Why can’t you get the bus? Or try Dad.’ Teenagers were like toddlers, Janine thought, the centre of their own universe, constitutionally unable to put themselves in any one else’s shoes.

The phone went dead. ‘Hello?’ Janine tried to call him back but there was no answer. She shook her head. What was he playing at? ‘They seem to think their father’s incapable,’ she muttered to herself.

There was a sharp rap at the door and The Lemon came in. Janine slid her feet down. Wished she had her shoes on.

‘Sir?’

‘These actions, Chief Inspector Lewis,’ he waved the sheaf of paperwork she had sent through. ‘Some sort of joke?’

Janine frowned.

‘The forensics alone will wipe out the budget and as for overtime,’ his lips compressed with impatience and he threw the papers onto her desk. ‘We’re not a bloody charity, you can’t trot around slapping it all on a credit card either. Get that back on my desk by the end of the day and cut thirty percent.’ And he swept out.

Tight bastard, she thought to herself. They all knew that you had to account for every penny spent in these days of Best Value but she really hadn’t gone over the

top.

*****

Bobby Mac, a homeless man, was roaring drunk. Wheeling round and round on Market Street, his over coat flying out like a Cossack’s skirt. He tried to kick a leg out and stumbled backwards, knocking into a stroller pushed by a young man. ‘Piss off,’ the lad shouted. ‘Watch the baby. Bloody nutter.’

Bobby scrambled to his feet, swung round. Who was calling him? He’d have ‘em. People looking at him. ‘Piss off,’ he echoed, ‘go on the lot of you.’ He ran at a knot of teenage girls. They scattered, squealing and swearing.

‘Come on, now.’ One of the Big Issue sellers moved towards Bobby. ‘S alright. Calm down, calm down. It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’

‘Bugger off,’ said Bobby though his manner was less aggressive. ‘What you looking at?’ He shrieked at the Saturday afternoon crowd gathering round.

The busker playing the saxophone stopped and bent to collect his change.

‘I’m as good as you. I was in the army. BFPO BFPO …’ He couldn’t remember the number. ‘I had a wife and an ‘ouse. I had a wife.’ He stopped, suddenly bewildered. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, teetering on his feet. The men at the stall selling inflatable hammers, umbrellas and socks, four pairs for a pound, were watching.

‘Sit down, mate,’ the Big Issue bloke nodded to the benches in the middle, ‘have a rest. Come on.’ He put his hand out.

‘They want to clear them off the streets,’ a woman’s voice rang out. ‘Beggars.’

‘Keep away.’ Bobby’ eyes narrowed. Spit flew as he spoke to the paper seller. ‘I know your sort. You’re just like the rest.’

The vendor moved away, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

‘Well, I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I know how to look after myself. I was a soldier. BFPO. Yes sir!’ he shouted. Fumbled in his coat. Coughed and hawked a gob of phlegm to the floor. He withdrew the knife with a clumsy flourish. ‘Used to be bayonets. See?’ He pushed it at the boy. ‘See?’

‘Aw, hell,’ said the vendor taking another step back. The store guard at New Look punched in the code to call the police from the Arndale Centre.

*****

Dean told Douggie everything. By the time he’d finished Douggie was in no mood to giggle.

‘What am I gonna do? I’m not going down again, Douggie. No way. It’d kill me, man. And Paula …’ He stumbled to a halt, eyes hot, mouth dry

Douggie shrugged. ‘Stay here, man. That’s fine. Long as it takes.’

*****

While she waited to start the briefing, Janine took round Eleanor’s sponsorship form.

Butchers methodically entered an amount and returned the form. Janine looked. ‘50p – Total!’ she said in disgust. ‘Push the boat out, Butchers, why don’t you.’

She turned to Richard. ‘Come on, our Eleanor’s sponsored skip. Good cause.’

He smiled and took it from her. She watched and did a double take as he offered a pound a lap. ‘She’ll do the whole lot, you know,’ she warned him. ‘Serious skipper.’

Richard shrugged.

Rachel Grassmere arrived and Janine put the form away and moved to the front of the room in front of the boards that already held details about the case. Time to begin the briefing. Her throat went dry and she felt her chest tighten. Nerves. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, determined to show the team that she could handle it.

‘Good afternoon, everybody. DS Butchers,’ she nodded to the plump, ginger-haired man who wore one of his collection of appalling character ties, ‘and DS Shap.’ Ferret-faced Shap cocked his head, a half-smile on his lips. She knew Shap to be an effective detective, quick off the mark but a little too lax about playing by the rules. The opposite of Butchers, in fact, who had struggled to make Sergeant and was a stickler for detail.

‘DC Jenny Chen.’

Chen was new, a bit of an unknown quantity. Tall, willowy, gorgeous-looking. Janine wondered whether her beauty would be an asset or a handicap in the job.

‘DI Richard Mayne,’ Richard lifted a hand in greeting as she introduced him, ‘back from far flung parts, he’ll be my second in command.’

‘And Miss – erm …’ Damn! She’d gone blank. She stared at the woman, forensic specialist, mid-length blonde hair, lovely face. Rachel … Rachel … she felt her face get warm. Just as panic began to kick in Rachel helped her out.

‘Grassmere.’

Janine smiled, nodded her thanks. ‘Grassmere, from Forensics. Good to see you all. So what have we got?’ She pointed to the picture of the teacher behind her. ‘Victim, Matthew Tulley, age forty-two, deputy head master at St Columbus Roman Catholic High School in Whalley Range. Wife, Lesley Tulley, age twenty-eight, both lived at Ashgrove, Barnes Lane. Last alleged sighting of Matthew Tulley, at home about nine this morning when he left Mrs Tulley to go to his allotment.’

She referred again to the display where there was a sketch of the allotment and nearby streets. ‘Deceased discovered and reported at eleven a.m. by a Mr Simon who has the adjoining plot.’

Janine’s stomach took a dive as she realised that there were no scene of crime photos up. Oh, hell! ‘Where’s scene of crime shots?’ she said irritably.

DC Chen answered. ‘On the way, printer’s playing up …’

‘The white heat of technology, eh?’

That won her a laugh.

‘Okay. Mr Tulley was prostrate, face down, feet in the shed, torso and head out. Waiting for confirmation on the weapon, some sort of knife.’

‘We heard it was a ritual killing, boss – he was disembowelled,’ said Shap.

She raised her eyes to heaven. The men and women here, like any other people, were quick to spread rumours and latch on to any opportunity for sensationalism. ‘Bollocks.’ A ripple of laughter. ‘No, they were intact, actually.’ Janine continued. ‘The wound was large enough to release the intestines, that’s all. I’m off tripe for the duration.’

‘Besides,’ Grassmere chipped in, ‘looks like he moved after the attack. There was no ritual positioning of the body post mortem, no tokens removed, no paraphernalia. Nothing like that.’

‘Carry on, Miss Grassmere.’

Janine sat down, allowing the forensic scientist to take the floor. Grassmere outlined their initial findings and some of those assembled made notes in their books, and murmured comments that only their immediate neighbours could hear. ‘The post mortem is underway now, fingerprints have gone off so we should have both those by the morning. PNSC have arrived,’ Grassmere referred to the Police National Search Centre, ‘and they are carrying out a detailed search of the allotments and environs. All sealed off till they’re through.’

Janine thanked her.

‘House-to-house, you know who you are?’ Eight heads nodded in response. ‘Carry on till dusk. Cover any sightings of people going to the allotments or coming away, any time before eleven o’ clock. Also recent disturbances, unusual events in the area and any information on the victim.’

As she spoke a part of her was observing her performance, assessing her choice of words, her manner, her gestures and identifying areas for improvement. She had to be good, twice as good.

‘Reports here for tomorrow morning, eight a.m. sharp.’

A couple of half-hearted groans greeted the announcement of an early Sunday.

‘I could make it earlier?’

‘No, boss, eight is fine.’

‘Friends and associates,’ she moved on. ‘Inspector Mayne?’

‘Appointment arranged for the morning with the Headmaster, Mr Deaking.’

‘Good.’ She referred to her notes. ‘We’ll be getting a list tomorrow morning from Mrs Tulley of other friends and associates and we’ll be establishing her movements this morning as well as talking to her sister. Emma is staying at Ashgrove with Mrs Tulley. Any questions?’

‘Deceased have any form, boss?’ Shap put in.

‘Nothing on HOLMES so far.’ She referred to the national computerised database that the police forces share. ‘At this point no known suspects. As far as the Press goes, we’ve issued a statement. Word travelled fast and they’re camped outside the Tulleys’ at present. Two officers are there to keep an eye on things. If nothing emerges in the next 24 hours we will ask Mrs Tulley to make an appeal for information. Anything else? Right, then …’

Her closing of the meeting was interrupted by the arrival of an officer with a box of ten by eight digital computer prints from the crime scene. ‘Sorry about this,’ he wheezed. ‘Bloody printer’s on the blink.’

Grassmere and Richard helped to pin up the photo graphs. They depicted the allotments from various vantage points, as well as the nearby housing, Tulley’s plot, the shed inside and out, Matthew Tulley prone and on his back and close-ups of his wounds.

‘Death in all its glory,’ Janine said quietly.

She noted the way the squad settled, a shift in the atmosphere as each person saw what had been done to the man and as each adopted an image of the murder that would drive their work and, for some, haunt their dreams.

There was no bread left in the canteen when Janine called on her way out, but she managed to get a bottle of milk. She’d just got into her car, when Richard appeared. She wound down the window.

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Can’t – kids.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe we could get a bite to eat some time?’

‘Be nice.’

‘Tomorrow – depending on …’

‘Yes. I’d like that.’

‘I’ll … erm .. .’ He waved his hand vaguely. She hadn’t got a clue what he was trying to say but she nodded anyway. He’d always had that quirky quality, as if his mind moved too quickly for his mouth to keep up. Richard would become inarticulate or his sentences trail off but it was often because he was distracted by some complex idea or insight.

He stepped away from the car and she gave him a farewell wave.

At her parents’ she felt a wave of exhaustion. The start of the second shift – so much to do before she could get any rest.

She was stunned when Pete opened the door to her. Knew immediately something must be wrong.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Someone has to pick up the pieces,’ Pete said.

Michael came into the hail. Oh, God. He was hurt, his face cut and bruised. ‘Michael! What’s happened?’

Tom ran out from the lounge. ‘Mum, Mum. He was mugged.’

He’d rung her, the Trafford Centre. He’d rung her and she’d practically ignored him. Her stomach lurched with guilt. She put an arm round Michael’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right? Why didn’t you say?’

He shrugged her off. ‘You were busy.’

That stung her.

Tom started fooling about, miming a hold-up.

‘What happened?’ she said again.

‘They tried to get his phone,’ Pete told her, his face set and anxious, ‘then they duffed him up.’

‘You should have just given them it,’ Janine told Michael.

‘I was going to,’ he shouted, ‘then they just ran off.’

She rounded on Pete. ‘You should have rung me.’ He glared back at her. She looked away. She didn’t want to start arguing in front of the kids. Michael had been through enough for one day.

They were halfway home, en route to the take-away pizza place, when Janine asked Michael what the police had said. In the rear-view mirror she saw him look away. There was an uncomfortable silence. He hadn’t reported it. She was shocked, he should report it, of course he should. She bit her tongue. Now wasn’t the time.

She got a chance later, after they’d eaten and she was in the middle of clearing up.

‘Michael …’

He guessed what was coming. ‘I don’t want to.’ He yelled at her and stormed out.

‘Bad time?’ Sarah, her neighbour and friend, was at the back door.

‘Depends.’ Janine said. ‘ If you came bearing gifts

‘Red or white?’

Janine gestured to her bump. She was on the wagon for the duration.

‘Milk or plain?’ Sarah amended. They shared a love of chocolate.

Half-an-hour later they were ensconced in front of the telly. Eleanor sat between Janine’s knees, a towel round her neck. Janine drew the comb through another swathe of slippery hair. Spotted the telltale grey blob on the comb. ‘Eleven. Other children bring home gerbils, hamsters.’

‘When I grow up I’ll invent a death ray for nits: one zap and they’re dead. And we’ll be dead rich and you’ll never have to work at the weekend.’