Bleed Like Me (29 page)

‘Are you sorry?’ Janet asked him.

‘Sorry I couldn’t finish it,’ he said, regret heavy in his voice, but not malice. ‘If you hadn’t stopped me—’

‘You’d have done what?’ Janet said.

‘Gone with my lads.’

‘Why did you wait?’ Janet said. ‘Once you’d got to Lundfell?’

He blinked slowly as though it was a stupid question. ‘I had to do it right. The three of us.’

‘Do what?’

‘Drown them, hang myself. Together.’

‘That’s what the bin bags were for?’

He nodded. ‘There were some stones near the lock, to weigh them down. We should have gone together,’ he said. ‘We should all have been together.’

‘The deaths at your home, the pathologist tells us they were very quick. The victims would not have suffered for long, if at all. Yet you were prepared to let Theo and Harry die of thirst and dehydration, left them alone and unprotected from vermin, predators, cold and thirst. Can you explain that to me?’

‘That’s your fault,’ he said. ‘The police, you lot interfering. You messed it all up.’ His eyes were flinty. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen. You made that happen.’

Shifting the blame. And you sat there and allowed it, Janet thought. Thank God they had saved the boys. How much more grotesque would it have been if they’d lain there undiscovered, imprisoned in the old barge until they died.

‘You cared more about yourself, about seeing your plan through, than the suffering of those children,’ she said.

‘I love my children,’ he said dangerously.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I love them,’ he insisted, but there was bitterness in his eyes and the edges of his lips were white with tension.

‘That’s not love,’ Janet said.

She had it – his confession.
I killed them.
It must be enough to pass the threshold test, meaning the case was likely to result in a successful prosecution, but she had to get the say-so of a solicitor from the Crown Prosecution Service before she could charge him.

Cottam was taken back to his cell while Janet completed her case summary and then sought out the CPS solicitor. She gave her the written file and waited while she read it.

‘That’s good,’ the solicitor concluded. ‘Happy with that.’ And she signed the form.

Janet took it through to the custody officer and waited while he typed up the charges.

When everything was ready, Owen Cottam was brought through.

Janet relaxed her shoulders, waited a moment before she spoke. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Pamela Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he said, a single word, the slightest tremor in his voice. He was trembling, the muscles shifting under the skin on his face, but his expression was bland, empty. Janet had no idea what was going on in his head.

Janet went on to the second charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are charged that on the tenth of October 2011, at Oldham in the county of Greater Manchester, you did murder Penny Cottam contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

As she continued to read out the charges, Janet thought that this was what it all led up to, all the speculating and hunting for information, all the accumulation of evidence and typing up of reports, all the hours of careful questioning and testing. To this. The moment when she could charge someone with the crime. And when those left devastated and bereaved could begin to see the prospect of justice.

She got to the fifth and final charge. ‘Owen Cottam, you are also charged that between the tenth of October 2011 and the fourteenth of October 2011 at Wigan in the county of Greater Manchester you did attempt to murder Harry Cottam, contrary to section one of the Criminal Attempts Act 1981. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention now something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Owen Cottam made no comment and the custody officer noted that and indicated to Janet that they were done.

Cottam was led away.

I killed them.
A normal bloke, she thought, an average family man. Nothing remarkable about him. A settled, uneventful life. Nothing that could ever have pointed to his
having the capacity to slaughter his family. Not like the rest of the criminals they dealt with, their lives chaotic, their families fractured, haunted by abuse and neglect and poverty. Seeking solace in drink and drugs and confusing violence with love.

Janet didn’t believe Owen Cottam had loved too much; rather that he’d mistaken possession, ownership, for love. Seeing his wife and children as chattels without free will and his own needs as paramount.

The cell door shut behind him with a clang that echoed along the corridor.

‘Nice one, Janet,’ said the custody sergeant.

Janet smiled and gave a nod. Glad it was done, glad it was all over.

‘Gill thinks the grandmother will take the kids,’ Janet said.

Rachel took another piece of garlic bread, dipped it in the oil and balsamic vinegar, savoured the tang. ‘They’ll not remember, will they? That age? Though she’ll have to tell them eventually.’

‘Doubt it. Though I can remember being in my high chair and my mum dancing. She reckons I was only two then.’

‘I don’t remember anything before school,’ Rachel said, partly to stop Janet asking. ‘Do you want that last bit?’ She pointed at the bread.

‘You have it,’ Janet said, ‘you need it more than I do. So – have you decided on your new kitchen?’

‘What?’ Then Rachel remembered in a rush. ‘Oh, no, not bothering.’

Janet nodded, filled their glasses. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she said, ‘me flying off the handle, being under the weather . . .’

Rachel froze, expecting cancer or some wasting disease. Imagining Janet in a hospital bed shrinking away. This their Last Supper.

‘. . . I’m fine.’ Janet laughed. ‘Least, I’m pretty sure I am. It’s the menopause.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Rachel. ‘So you’re turning into an old bag?’

‘It’s the solidarity I love,’ Janet said sarcastically. She took a drink. ‘Just a new phase of life.’

‘You think?’ Rachel wasn’t so sure. ‘From what I hear, it’s all dry skin and facial hair and bingo wings, isn’t it?’

‘And freedom from periods, the acquisition of a certain age and authority, perhaps,’ Janet said. ‘Your time will come.’

Rachel had another mouthful of wine. ‘Godzilla’s forgiven me,’ she said, ‘sort of.’

‘Good. No more racing into burning buildings then, eh? I turn my back for five minutes . . .’ Janet said, mock scolding.

‘Sod off,’ Rachel said. She sat back from the table while the waiter took their starter plates away.

‘Funerals next week,’ Janet said.

Rachel’s heart stopped. She felt her skin chill. How the fuck had Janet found out?

‘Gill’d like us to be there, Thursday, but if you can’t face it . . .’

The Cottams! The Cottams’ funerals!
‘No, it’s fine.’ Rachel drank some wine quickly, felt her head swim. ‘Course. Show respect,’ she said. ‘How are the kids, your kids, Elise and Taisie?’ Rachel went on, thinking
change the bleeding subject
.

Janet looked at her, a smile in her eyes, but a question mark too. Of course it came out clumsy and Rachel wasn’t in the habit of asking after them, but it always worked with Alison when Rachel wanted to escape scrutiny.

‘They’re great,’ Janet said. ‘Elise has righteousness down to a fine art and is practising her martyrdom skills and Taisie’s up every other night with bad dreams and
in lurve
by day – a sight to behold.’

Their main meals arrived and they began to eat. Rachel’s thoughts kept circling back to Cottam. ‘He’ll get life, right?’ she said to Janet, not even needing to name him. ‘But
he won’t do life, will he? He’ll find a way to kill himself.’

‘And there’s me thinking this was a nice bit of socializing away from work,’ Janet said.

Rachel let her complain, hung on for her answer.

‘Yes – probably, eventually,’ Janet said. ‘We’ve done our bit. And we did good,
you
did good. Front pages, bet you.’

Rachel closed her eyes. She had already seen the copy the press office was sending out. Along with photos of her.

‘What d’you reckon?’ Janet said. ‘Super-cop? That’s always a popular one. Or, erm . . . Avenging Angel? Rachel to the Rescue?’

‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, a laugh undermining her very real irritation.

‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Janet said.

Rachel pointed her fork at her. ‘You’re the one having hot flushes.’

‘Touché!’ said Janet and picked up her glass, touching it to Rachel’s. ‘To us,’ she said.

Rachel joined her, ‘To us,’ and downed her drink.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gill said. She had been called down to the front desk to find Sammy sitting there.

He swung his head, as though he was casting about for an explanation, then said, ‘Dad said to tell you in person.’

Oh, God, no
. Gill’s mind Rolodexed through the possibilities: pregnancy, drugs, self-harm, expulsion.

Sammy had his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears, riddled with embarrassment. He looked about and she was aware that they could be overheard, that the reception area was perhaps not the best place for potentially devastating news.

‘Come on, come with me.’ She took him along to one of the small interview rooms, changed the sign on the door to
occupied and followed him in. She sat down. Sammy loitered by the door. ‘What is it?’ she said, sounding much calmer than she felt.
HIV? Oh, God. Or hepatitis?
He didn’t speak.

‘Sammy?’ Her stomach flipped over.

His face flooded with colour and she saw tears start in his eyes

Oh, bloody hell.

‘I want to come home,’ he said, sounding half his age. ‘I don’t want to stay at Dad’s any more. I want to come home.’

Gill was stunned, waited in case there was more he had to say, in case there was a bombshell. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and sniffed.

‘Is it because of the row you had?’

‘No,’ Sammy said.

‘Because you’ll do chores at mine same as you did before. More, probably.’

‘I don’t care about that. I just . . . I missed you,’ he said awkwardly.

Now she was going to cry, which was ridiculous. ‘Right.’ She swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling tiles, the recessed lights. ‘Fine, okay, and you’ve spoken to Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, and you’ve got your key?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, I won’t be home until,’ she glanced at the clock on the wall, ‘well, another couple of hours.’

‘I need to pack my stuff,’ Sammy said.

‘Okay,’ Gill nodded. ‘You go do that and I’ll pick you up on my way back. Yes?’

‘Okay.’

She stood up. ‘Come here,’ she said, opening her arms, and he trudged forward, and she hugged him tight and he snuffled a bit. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘’Cos I missed you too,
you know. Apart from the sweaty feet. And the wet towels.’

‘Mum!’ His protest was half-hearted.

‘Go on. I’ll see you later.’

He loped off and Gill pinched the top of her nose and blinked and blew out breaths until she was fit to be seen in public again.

Cottam was pleading guilty and once he was up for sentencing everyone expected he’d be given a full-term life sentence. The story, with its power to fascinate, remained in the papers and they all knew there would be another flurry of articles once sentence was passed. And with them, fresh demands for Rachel to give interviews: radio, women’s magazines, chat shows. She’d made it as plain as she could to Lisa that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming and would rather Taser her tits than do any more PR. There was a difference between a news story in the midst of an investigation where the public were being encouraged to help the police and the sort of celebrity merry-go-round people wanted to stick her on.

Fortunately, Gill backed her up on that, especially when Rachel said she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t end up speaking her mind.

Rachel was at home. She had spent the night before bagging up her dad’s stuff, ready to chuck. He’d an envelope containing half a dozen photographs, pictures of her and Alison and Dom as kids. None of her mum. The corners of the prints were curled and the images scratched with marks, spills or something on some. Alison could have them. Nothing else was worth keeping. Clothes not fit for anything but landfill, faded, full of tears and stains and round holes from cigarette burns. A plastic case with a comb and a toothbrush and an
unopened bar of soap; small and cheap, like the packs they give out in the hostels. A tin of athlete’s foot powder. Letters from the DWP about his benefits.

A life in three bin bags.

Rachel looked through the clutch of press cuttings: herself, three and four years ago. She tore them in half, then in half again, put them in an ashtray and took it outside. Set her lighter to it, watched the newsprint flare and shrivel and turn to flakes of ash. A gust of wind snatched at the remnants and blew them to dust. Swirling up and round.

Rachel fetched the bin bags out and stuffed them in the wheelie bin.

Then she rang Alison. The scabs on her hands had gone, leaving shiny, pink skin that still itched. She ran her nails over the heel of one thumb while she waited for a reply.

‘Yes?’ Alison sounding flustered, strained.

‘I’m not coming,’ Rachel said.

‘What? Are you meeting us there?’ Alison said.

‘No. I’m not coming at all.’ Rachel watched the boughs on the big tree by the road bend and sway. The leaves were dead now, crisp, red and brown. They rattled in the wind.

‘What d’you mean?’ Alison said. ‘You can’t not come. Dom’s here, the car’s on its way.’

‘It’s all paid for,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s all sorted. It can happen whether I’m there or not. And I’m not.’