Bleed Like Me (24 page)

Billy was tucked up in his hospital bed. A ward of four. Three old blokes and a younger man who was sitting up, his eyes closed and earphones on.

With his wild white hair and full beard, Billy looked like an old seaman. Just needed a pipe and a stripy jumper. And a monkey or a parrot.

‘Mr Dawson, I’m DC Bailey,’ Rachel said.

‘Been a naughty boy, have I?’ he said. ‘Got the handcuffs, have you, ossifer?’

Great! He’s a joker.
Rachel didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile.
Stupid old fart
. She drew the curtains round the bed to give them a semblance of privacy. ‘I want to talk to you in connection with a serious incident at Journeys Inn.’ She moved the bedside chair to face him but not too close
to the bed. His face straightened and he gave a stiff nod.

‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘When you find him he wants stringing up. I’d do it for you if you’re short-handed, like.’

‘You used to go fishing?’ Rachel said.

‘That’s right.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Always was a good man with a rod.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake.
You got all sorts, Rachel knew, but she did wonder if his illness had addled his brains a bit, so that he didn’t know what was appropriate any more. Or was it simply that after a lifetime of taking the piss and saying everything with a nod and a salacious wink it was impossible to abandon the habit.

‘And you accompanied Owen and Michael Milne sometimes?’

‘I did, before all this.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Kittle Lake. Lundfell Anglers have rights there. They’ve a few pitches round thereabouts.’

Rachel felt her heart thump. ‘Thank you.’ She closed her notebook.

‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re not going to ask me what we caught?’

‘No, I’m not.’ She pulled the curtains back. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

Still he spoke, determined to play his game. ‘I caught a whopper, naturally. Hah!’ He gave a laugh, but then his tone changed as he said, ‘He was a good lad, you know.’

‘Owen?’ Rachel was aware that not only could the other patients now hear the exchange, they could see it too. She edged closer to the bed, masking Billy from the room.

‘No, Michael,’ he said. ‘Slow like, simple, born before his crust was done, they used to say.’

‘How did he and Owen get on?’

‘Fair enough,’ he said.

‘But they gave up the fishing?’

‘They went a few times after but they didn’t stick it. Not got the staying power,’ he winked, ‘if you get my drift.’ He licked at his lips. Rachel felt like throwing up. ‘Why’re you interested in all that?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I can keep a secret, if you can. Strong silent type, I am.’

Gill was working her way through the latest reports when Mary Biddulph from the forensic science lab called her up. ‘I’m emailing you our reports on the Ford Mondeo,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to tell you what we’ve got in person. Something that might be of use. Material from the tyre treads on the Mondeo includes a significant proportion of guano.’

‘Bird-shit,’ Gill said, her mind running ahead. ‘Just testing. Canada geese.’

‘Which gives us?’

‘Open water. Bird reserve, lake, canal, river. Several sites with colonies in your area, according to my bloke at the RSPB.’

‘What about his footwear?’

‘Still being examined.’

Gill sighed. ‘I wanted that done as a priority. That was what I asked you to do.’

‘Going as fast as we can,’ Mary said sharply. ‘As well as the bird droppings, we have material from a number of native trees, willow, oak, beech and alder, suggestive of mixed woodland. A lot of that in your area but the willow also suggests a location close to water.’

When Rachel phoned through the news about the fishing
trips, that coupled with the forensic material from the Mondeo was enough to focus attention on Kittle Lake. Gill instructed CSIs to make an initial assessment. Within twenty minutes of their reaching the lakeside, word came back that tyre tracks matching the Mondeo had been found in a shaded area of the car park used by visitors to the lake. Gill immediately got back on to Mark Tovey from POLSA and contacted the fire and rescue service to plan a search of the lake. Local uniforms were drafted in to cordon off the area.

Gill sent word to the team so everyone would be up to speed and asked Kevin to look for anything in the exhibits that might be pertinent to the new line of inquiry. She felt hopeful that they were getting closer. She did not want to dwell on the possibility that the children were already dead. Drowned in the lake. Time would tell. Time and their best efforts.

Janet had placed a small table at her side in the interview room. On it were a pile of photographs requisitioned from the exhibits. Some were framed. She had also asked for the family photograph album and had a selection of pictures from that at the ready.

‘I’d like to show you something, Owen.’

‘Mr Cottam,’ he said. ‘You call me Mr Cottam.’ Still trying to master the situation, control what he can, thought Janet.

‘Of course, Mr Cottam. Here, for the purposes of the tape, I am showing Mr Cottam a framed photograph, exhibit KL41.’ She held it so it was square on to him. ‘You and Theo and Harry, just after Harry was born. Tell me about this picture.’

He shook his head.

‘You look very happy. Your father told us you always wanted boys. Is that right?’

‘A man likes to have a son,’ he said.

‘Why is that?’

If she could just get him talking, keep him talking, unpick his mute resistance, she’d have a better chance of getting the crucial information they wanted.

He shrugged.

‘It felt different from having Penny?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

Another shrug.

‘Tell me about them. Theo – what’s he like?’

No answer.

‘He looks like you,’ she said. ‘Am I right?’

He rubbed at his forehead and sat back in his seat.

‘It’s confusing for us,’ she said. ‘People say you’re a good father, there looking out for your kids. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘But now your boys are on their own, no one to protect them. Doesn’t that bother you?’

He looked torn between the desire to respond and the wish to conceal the facts from her.

‘You can’t be with them. You’re stuck here. They must feel you’ve abandoned them.’

‘No,’ he said vehemently. ‘No, I’ve not.’

‘Not intentionally, but I need to make it clear to you that you will be held here and probably charged and it is almost inevitable that you will be remanded in custody. You have no chance whatsoever of getting back to them. The only way they can be reached is if you tell us where they are.’

His left fist was clenched, bumping on his chin. The tension in him was palpable.

‘A good father,’ Janet said. ‘What would a good father do?’ She put down the photograph and picked up another: Theo on a bouncy castle. He was sitting near the edge and looking at the camera. Perhaps someone had called his name. He wasn’t grinning or mugging for the camera as so many children do in that situation, but his face was bright and open as though a smile might follow.

She held the photograph up, facing Cottam. ‘Theo won’t go to sleep on his own. One of you has to stay with him. He’s just a little boy – your little boy. Please, Mr Cottam, tell me where he is.’

He was trembling, the muscles under the skin of his face flickering, but he said, ‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ Janet said. ‘Tiger, that’s his nickname, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t you—’ He didn’t like the intimacy. ‘Don’t.’ Didn’t like where it was taking him, she suspected.

‘You can help him, you can let us fetch him and his brother back. If they’re alive—’

‘They’re not.’

‘But they are alone. You don’t want that. To leave them alone.’

‘It’s . . . it’s done,’ he stammered, which made him sound less sure than he might. Was there uncertainty there? Could she exploit that?

‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’

‘I am.’ He turned his face to the side, pinched his moustache. Hiding his mouth, hiding the lie, Janet wondered?

‘If that’s the case, if Theo and Harry are dead, then why would you care about what happens now? Why not just let us recover them? You’re an intelligent man.’

‘No,’ he said, which was no answer at all.

‘I think you’re letting them down.’ Janet wanted to provoke a response but there was a risk that the provocation might make him refuse to answer, which would be disastrous. She said, ‘If they are dead, shouldn’t they be with their mum and their sister? And if they’re alive surely they’ll be frightened. They might be cold and hungry and thirsty. Is that how you want it to be? You know what people are saying about you? They’re saying you didn’t care.’

Janet heard a tiny explosion of air from his nose, a snort of derision that he tried to mask.

‘People are saying you betrayed your own family.’

He stood swiftly, roaring, ‘They are my kids, mine. You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t.’ Rage made his face red, thickening the veins in his neck and on his forehead, but Janet remained calm. At least on the outside.

‘Isn’t it about time you accepted your responsibility for them, then? Acted like a man? Like a decent man?’

He stood for a moment, shaking, then sat without her needing to ask.

‘Where are Theo and Harry? Look.’ She held up a picture of Harry crawling, one that had been on the living room table at the inn and had Cottam’s prints on it. Had he been looking at it while he waited to begin the killings? ‘He’s only eighteen months old, Harry – he’s the cheeky one, into everything. He’s not old enough to understand why you’ve left. He can’t ask for help and he might be crying. Crying for you. There could be a ground frost tonight. Harry, he’ll be at risk of hypothermia if he’s not somewhere warm. He’ll be confused. He’ll be shivering. He might be thirsty, too. But he’s too little to find a drink for himself. Did you leave him a drink?’

He glared at her, then away.

‘Mr Cottam, I will sit here asking you these questions all day and all night for however long it takes. My duty as a police officer is to preserve life, to prevent crime. I’m committed to saving the lives of two tiny little boys who, through no fault of their own, have been abandoned. I hope Theo and Harry are still alive. I’m not prepared to accept otherwise unless you give me proof. So I will continue to act as if they
are
alive. I’m asking for your help. You can do the right thing, as a loving parent would do, and end this now. Tell me where to find them.’ She sat and let the silence swell
to fill the room till the pressure in the air seemed to alter, making it dense and oppressive, but still Owen Cottam sat impassive and unyielding.

A cordon had been erected preventing public access to Kittle Lake and a dive team from the fire and rescue service were preparing to search. Gill had spoken to Mark Tovey, who told her that the biggest problem would be limited visibility. It always was with water. The lake was not particularly deep but silt would soon cloud the water and the search would be as much a tactile as a visual exercise. They had three hours of daylight left, at best. Only enough to cover a fraction of the area. She wanted someone from her team down there, a direct conduit, able to shortcut questions if the divers found anything.

She called Rachel into her office. ‘If I task you with attending the search at Kittle Lake can I trust you not to turn it into some extreme sports event? You won’t try and join in? No misguided heroic stupidity?’

Rachel had the grace to flush. ‘You can trust me, boss.’

‘Have you completed your written report on the Porlow incident?’

‘Yes, boss.’

She chewed at her lip, stared at the floor.

‘Sometimes you act like you’re bullet-proof, Rachel. You’re not; none of us are. You saw what happened to Janet. I thought that might have taught you a lesson. Stab us and we bleed. In this job we need three hundred and sixty degrees thinking. A situation like that, there is you,’ Gill demonstrated with her hands, ‘and there is the suspect. You,’ Gill pointed at her, ‘you think in a straight line, like a dog after a rabbit. But if that dog is running through a minefield then it’s boom! Pedigree Chum. Three hundred and sixty degrees; not just
your target but what’s either side. Who’s behind you. Who has your back. You have to think of other people. Impact assessment. Risk assessment. Not there for fun or because some wanker with a set of shiny pencils wants to make life harder. There for a reason. How do I drum it into you?’

‘I know, boss, I’m sorry. Have you decided what—’

‘No. When I have you’ll be informed.’

‘Yes, boss.’

The lake was reached by a narrow track from the car park, where a sign told visitors that the fishing rights belonged to the Lundfell Angling Association and gave a phone number to ring.

Rachel met the man coordinating the search, Mark Tovey, who took her to see the tread mark which a simple cast had proved to be a match to the front nearside tyre on the Mondeo.

The extent of the lake was visible from the shore where she stood, larger than she’d expected and oval in shape. At the far end the land rose up and was covered in trees and the right bank above the car park was wooded too. But the left-hand side was bare scrubland. A path circled the water and small wooden platforms here and there marked fishing spots. A large flock of Canada geese, maybe twenty, seemed unruffled by the activity and continued to peck at the fringes of the lake and the grassland around and leave curds of greeny-brown shit everywhere. There were some sort of seagulls too, squawking away. The sky felt low. Fat grey clouds moved overhead, pushed by the wind that sent waves rippling across the surface of the water, breaking up the reflections there.

Rachel watched from the lakeside as the dive team went about their work. There were no buildings in sight, which was an added attraction if you were looking for somewhere to
dispose of a body, or two. Rachel kept coming back to the bin liners. If the children had already drowned, why buy bin bags? Unless he’d drowned them in very shallow water and now had two corpses to dispose of. It only took a couple of inches, didn’t it? Toddlers drowned in the garden pond, in the bath. As a beat copper, way back, Rachel had once been sent to exactly such a scene. A grandmother it was, babysitting, and the granddaughter playing in the bath. ‘Two minutes,’ the woman kept saying over and over, ‘I was only out of the room two minutes, to answer the phone.’ The phone call had been the child’s mother, calling to check if everything was all right, to say night night. Away with friends at a hen party. Two minutes. And the child was dead.