Desperate Measures (10 page)

Janine tried Pete before leaving for home and got the answerphone message again.

He was avoiding her. Irritated, she felt her cheeks glow. He was acting like a teenager, missing his night with Tom and then ducking all attempts to face up to it.

If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…

Janine had never been inside the townhouse that Pete and Tina shared near Salford Quays. On occasions she had dropped the kids off there but it was far more usual for Pete to ferry them from her house.

It was dark and a wind was blowing leaves and litter about as Janine parked outside.

Twee, she thought looking at the house, ill-proportioned then she caught herself. Get a grip – don’t be petty.

She used the door-knocker, three loud raps, and waited. She heard the baby crying and it grew louder until Pete opened the door, Alfie over one shoulder, legs pumping, head twisting, face red with exertion.

An expression of dismay crossed Pete’s face.

‘Tom was expecting you last night,’ Janine said, ‘we all were. I left you messages.’ She spoke loudly to be heard above the squalling.

‘Not now,’ Pete said and she saw from the set of his lips and the light in his eyes that he was very angry.

‘When then? You’ve been avoiding—’

He held up a hand to stop her. The baby bawled.

‘Not now,’ Pete said again.

‘Pete, Tom needs you—’

He shut the door on her.

She stood there, dumbfounded.

She was tempted to bang on the door again, hammer on it until he had to respond but she judged it would not be a wise thing to do.

She simmered with outrage all the way home, holding imaginary conversations with him in her head. Re-running the doorstep encounter so that she got what she wanted: an honest apology and a renewed commitment to his duties as a father.

She chewed it over as she helped Tom with his homework and found his missing PE kit, as she left a note for the nanny with a request to get some fresh fruit and sliced bread for school lunches. She probed at it like poking at a sore tooth while she got changed and ready for bed.

She wouldn’t let him off the hook, she decided, she would ring him every day until they sorted out what on earth he was playing at. Plonker.

When she slept she dreamt of going to the house and shooting Pete on the doorstep. It should have been satisfying, comic even, but it filled her with a dark dread as she desperately tried to stop the blood and revive him.

That day, the day the police came to Adele’s door, was a Tuesday, a bright, sunny Tuesday and she hadn’t seen Marcie for four days. Her stomach fell and then there was a moment when she forced hope to rise in her chest. Marcie had been caught stealing, that would be it. Nothing they hadn’t handled before. Nothing to panic about.

‘Dead,’ the woman said once they were in the house. There were other words,
for identification, sorry, suspected overdose, post-mortem
but Adele barely heard them. Acid flooded her veins, stripping her nerves, burning her skin. She felt the ground beneath her buckle and crack. Howard was calling to her, holding her. She was hitting out, screaming, but the gestures, the cries came from a long way away through the dense, cold clouds of shock.

It was hard to remember the sequence of things, the memories were like a slideshow, a horror-show of images. At some point Dr Halliwell had come, bringing condolences and the offer of tranquilizers. ‘To help you deal with these difficult few days.’ Christ, talk about the art of understatement.

There had been the waiting till they could go to identify Marcie. Then they wouldn’t let her touch her, wouldn’t let her anywhere near. It was clinical, impersonal, she could’ve been looking through the glass to choose a piece of meat.

Adele tried to explain and said, ‘Howard, I want to be with her.’

‘You’re welcome to sit here,’ the attendant said, ‘we could get you a chair.’

Adele looked back at her daughter, shook her head. ‘That’s not what I mean, I want to hold her.’

‘Once the body’s released—’ the woman began.

‘How long will that take?’ Howard said.

‘A few days,’ she said, sounding uncertain.

Adele wanted to press through the glass, lift her daughter up, take her home, make her warm and clean, breathe life back into her, put cornrows in her hair and kiss her eyelids. She wanted a fucking fairy tale and it wasn’t going to happen.

She worked it out one night, Marcie had been alive for fifteen years, four months, and two days. With her gone, the centre of Adele’s world, the focus of her life went too. And her future. Adele would have drowned in her grief had it not been for a growing flame of anger at Marcie’s death; the sense that it was not an inevitable outcome but one that Adele had feared and tried so hard to prevent.

Lisa couldn’t settle, replaying the events of the day over and over: racing after Matthews, triumphant when she caught him, the look on DI Mayne’s face when he realised she had failed to follow procedure, feeling stupid, so stupid.

She pushed away the pasta she had made, too queasy to eat. Their prime suspect and she’d ruined their chance at questioning him. They knew Aaron Matthews had been part of the Wilson crew, and in his previous offence he had used the gun that later killed Halliwell. He was also a patient of Halliwell’s. Had he a motive for shooting the GP? Or did Halliwell just get in the way? Lisa felt confused, muddled. Now they would have to start again, see if there was anything else to link Matthews to the crime.

Why wait for tomorrow, she asked herself? There was no way she was going to do anything staying home but sit here feeling sorry for herself and working up a panic about what DI Mayne would decide to do with her tomorrow. She might as well put the time to good use, see if she could find anything else.

She picked up her ID, turned off the lights and set off.

Opening the morning team briefing, Janine started with the weapon. ‘Back to basics. Our killer had access to a gun; Aaron Matthews’ gun. Two possibilities.’ Janine counted them off on her fingers. ‘Matthews fired the gun; or our killer obtained the gun from Matthews at some juncture and used it. We couldn’t hold Matthews but he is still our number one suspect.

‘The Range Rover, the one that was seen outside the surgery on Monday and was used to ram Halliwell’s car, I bet that’s our killer’s,’ Shap said.

‘Let’s see if we can find a car like that on local CCTV approaching the surgery on the Tuesday prior to the shooting or on the Monday when Dr Gupta saw it. Lisa can you do that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘We’ve still not found the briefcase,’ Janine said, ‘are any of these people suddenly chucking prescriptions around?’ She pointed to the boards, all the names connected to the inquiry. ‘Is anyone bragging about a hit? Meanwhile we throw everything we can at links to Aaron Matthews: friends and family, the gang network, hangers-on, wannabees.’

‘Boss,’ Lisa raised her hand. ‘I found a connection last night.’

‘Go on,’ Janine said.

‘Aaron Matthews’ uncle is Howard Urwin,’ Lisa said, ‘Adele Young’s partner.’

Janine felt the hairs on her neck lift. The atmosphere in the room shifted. Richard turned to face Lisa, Shap sat up in his seat and Butchers leant forward.

‘Has Urwin any criminal record?’ Janine asked.

‘No, boss,’ Lisa said.

‘Any association with the Wilson Crew?’ Richard said.

‘No, boss.’

‘You found this out how?’

‘Did some digging,’ Lisa said. ‘Urwin had given a character reference for Aaron Matthews when he was on trial, how he deserved another chance, that sort of thing.’

‘He backed a wrong ‘un there,’ Shap said.

‘Urwin was mouthing off outside the inquest,’ Richard said.

‘So Howard Urwin could have got the gun from Matthews two years ago?’ Janine weighed this up. ‘He hangs onto it then suddenly wants vengeance and hey presto he is armed and dangerous and ready to go?’ She shook her head, it was iffy.

‘Matthews could have stashed it before his arrest,’ Shap said. He’s released and then Uncle Howard asks him for a favour when Doc Halliwell gets off scot free.’

‘Urwin asks Matthews to do the deed?’ Richard said.

‘Or lend him the gun,’ Shap said.

‘Matthews keeps insisting he’s gone straight,’ Lisa said.

‘Well, he would,’ Shap said, ‘It could have been Adele Young out for blood – on the house to house reports she was seen in the area on Tuesday.’

‘She lives in the area,’ Butchers said.

‘Here,’ Shap found the reference, ‘seen out in the vicinity, just before half-six.’

Janine felt her pulse quicken. ‘Close to the time of the attack. That gives us motive, means and opportunity.’ She went up to the boards, drew a line to connect one side, one line of inquiry, to the other.

‘We thought it was either a gang crime or something linked to the practice,’ Janine said, ‘maybe it’s a bit of both: the motive’s a vengeful patient or their relative – Adele Young or Howard Urwin – but the gang link, in the shape of Matthews, supplies the weapon.’

‘It’s personal not business,’ Richard said.

‘Shall we bring her in, boss?’ Butchers offered.

‘I’ll go and talk to her first,’ Janine said, ‘I still think this runs counter to her crusade for legal redress.’

‘Urwin might favour different tactics,’ Shap said.

‘Yes. Someone for Howard Urwin?’ Janine said. Butchers got to his feet. ‘Not you, Butchers. You’re still on the files. Shap?’

Shap nodded.

Butchers sat down heavily, Janine knew he was missing the action, probably feeling sidelined, shunted off combing through the paperwork at the surgery but Janine knew that methodical work was often critical – and Butchers was good at it.

‘Urwin works for a floor cleaning company, they operate out of the Portwood industrial estate,’ Lisa said.

‘Nice work, Lisa,’ Janine said.

‘What’s with the long face?’ Shap said to Butchers as he made to leave. ‘You love it there. You’re like a wasp in jam. Got your feet under the desk, surrounded by women.’

‘Piss off,’ Butchers said.

‘It’s that Vicky Stonnall, she’s the one, isn’t she?’ Shap said. ‘Bet you’re dying for her to take your temperature.’

Janine turned away stifling a laugh as Butchers’ face flooded with red.

Janine went to see Adele Young on her own, preferring a softly-softly approach. The woman had lost her only child and the man she held accountable for the death of her daughter had been cleared of any wrongdoing. She must be hurt, angry. But angry enough to turn to violence?

The surgery straddled two communities. On the leafier side was a haven for professionals and also bohemian types. You’d have to be a professional, have a well-paid job to afford a mortgage in those parts. Across the far side of the main road, was a council estate, most of it still rented out as social housing.

Adele Young’s house, on the estate, looked well-kept but spartan from the outside, no hanging baskets or garden tubs as there were in the adjoining property. No time for any of that, Janine imagined, all Adele Young’s energy swallowed up by the campaign for justice for Marcie.

Adele answered the door and Janine showed her ID. ‘I’m DCI Lewis, Greater Manchester Police, can I come in?’

‘What for?’ Adele said. Her black hair was cut short, there were dark shadows under her eyes and her lips were chapped, peeling.

‘I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Dr Halliwell,’ Janine said.

‘And?’ Adele’s arms were crossed, the hostility clear on her face.

‘And I would like to ask you a few questions.’

‘We’ve already had your lot knocking on the door,’ Adele Young said. ‘I told them I hadn’t seen anything.’

‘I would still like to talk to you.’ Janine held her gaze and eventually Adele Young turned and walked inside leaving Janine to follow.

In the living room, a coffee table was covered with papers, cuttings and files, material for Adele’s campaign. There were photos of Marcie all around the room; as a toddler with an enormous stuffed rabbit, a schoolgirl with her hair in corn-rows, a teenager dressed up for a big event. Janine thought fleetingly of Eleanor, tried to imagine her getting addicted to drugs, overdosing.

‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter. You thought Dr Halliwell was wrong, the way he dealt with her. There was an incident when you challenged him about that?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said.

‘You were abusive?’ Janine said.

The woman’s lips tightened. ‘I was at my wit’s end. Close to locking her up to stop her going off and getting what she needed and he wouldn’t listen. All he could do was pontificate about his own bloody opinion. I’m watching her fall apart because he’s cut the dose so much, and he didn’t get it. You bet I lost it,’ her voice shook. ‘I could see what was going to happen...I knew … and I couldn’t save her.’ Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘God, I miss her. You do your best to try and keep them safe …’ her voice trailed off. She rubbed at her upper arms as if she was trying to warm herself.

‘And then the inquest, too, that must have been hard,’ Janine said.

‘You’ve no idea,’ Adele said simply.

‘I am sorry,’ Janine said. ‘Adele, I need to ask you where you were on Tuesday evening, between six and seven?’

Adele stared at her, eyes shrewd, mouth twisting. ‘Piss off,’ she said.

‘I need you to answer the question,’ Janine said.

Adele Young gave a shake of her head.

‘Adele, I’m sorry, I need to rule you out of our inquiries and I can’t do that if you won’t cooperate.’

‘Here,’ Adele said.

‘Alone?’

‘With Howard.’

‘All of the time?’ Janine said.

‘Yes.’

‘The thing is, someone saw you on Tuesday, on the high street. Just before half-past six.’

‘I’ve had enough of this. Do you think gunning someone down is the sort of justice I want for my daughter? Get out.’ She stood up, flung her arm towards the door.

‘Where were you going, Adele?’

‘Get out. I’m not having you accuse me of stuff. Don’t you think—’ The woman stopped, trembling, close to breaking down. ‘Just get out. Or arrest me if you think I shot him.’