Bleed Like Me (3 page)

Gill could inspire, she had inspired many a young detective, but cross her and she was a formidable foe. Even when she was working all hours, like now, Gill crackled with an energy and zeal, a lucidity and clarity that Janet envied. But also found exhausting at times. Of course Gill only had one teenager at home, but she’d managed the last four years as a single parent since Dave had left. Recently Sammy had moved in with his dad, to Gill’s dismay. But even when Gill had been looking after him on her own she had still managed eighteen-hour days and turned up for work looking impeccable. Hair neat and shiny, a practical cut that skimmed her chin, trademark red lacquered nails, clothes clean and pressed. Gill was one of those people who could get by on four hours’ sleep a night.

And I, thought Janet, getting up with her notebook and pen, am most definitely not.
Gill’s driven. I’m just driven up the wall.

Godzilla, as Rachel most frequently thought of her boss, was briefing them on the Journeys Inn crime scene and the
unfolding manhunt for suspect Owen Cottam. The whole team were there. After two years, Rachel felt like she belonged, as much as she belonged anywhere. They were a mixed bunch. Pete, the doughnut man, solid, steady, paunchy, balding. And next to him, big man Mitch, ex-army. Turn his hand to any job, Mitch could. Loads of experience, well travelled, he was the oldest detective constable in the syndicate. He’d a quiet confidence, perhaps from knowing he was good at what he did, and he could handle himself in a fight, of course. Andy, at the head of the table beside Gill, was their sergeant, which set him apart in his roles and responsibilities. A sharp dresser, bit of a mod about him: Rachel could just see him on a scooter, a Lambretta. Andy was single and now and again she wondered what that was about. Not bad looking, probably the best of the bunch, but Rachel had never actually clicked with him; he was a bit cool, a bit distant – and he was her supervisor. Lee, on Rachel’s right, he was more of a thinker, letters after his name and widely read. Sort that made Rachel feel uneducated. She learned from Lee, soaked it up like a sponge, stuff she could regurgitate to impress Nick. Back in the days when she was still trying. Before the assassination attempt. Lee was the only black member of the syndicate. Lee was the one got sent on courses for offender profiling, criminal psychology and behaviour analysis.

Then Janet, of course. Rachel couldn’t imagine the syndicate without Janet and usually the two of them were paired up, which Rachel liked. And Kevin Lumb. They got that wrong by one letter. Kevin Dumb it should have been, the div, like an eight-year-old. Kevin and Rachel the youngest on the team, but she was light years ahead of him most of the time.

‘Question one,’ the boss said, ‘why is Owen Cottam our prime suspect? We have three members of the family dead in their beds, father and two youngest children missing. As is
Owen Cottam’s car. No sign of burglary or forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. Cottam is not a known associate of the criminal fraternity and there have been no problems, no forfeiture of his personal pub licence. Of course he was CRB checked prior to being granted that by the local authority in Birkenhead. To date no talk of any enemies, any feuds or threats made to the family, though we’ll need to see what we get from house-to-house and talking to friends and family.’

She stopped for breath and then continued, ‘Nothing is ever sure in this game, you all know that, but to date there is nothing to suggest a third party was involved. Knife recovered from the third crime scene is being fast-tracked for evidence, as is a whisky bottle and items belonging to Owen Cottam. As far as the public is aware we urgently wish to speak to Owen Cottam in connection with our inquiries. And we want to find two children missing from home. We are setting up for a child rescue operation running concurrently alongside our murder investigations. Priority of course is to prevent further loss of life. That means we have the authorizations in place as of now for telecoms, warrants and so on so we can work in real time.’

That appealed to Rachel. Their work on the Major Incident Team was investigating murders and the information was usually gathered slowly and painstakingly with often frustrating waits for data from telecom providers and financial institutions and the like. Those protocols went out of the window when a life was at risk. Already data on Owen Cottam would be flowing in to be logged and analysed by readers and actioned by receivers for the various strands of the investigation.

‘Border control, ports and airports, alerted,’ the boss said.

‘Found his passport at the pub,’ Kevin said.

‘Kevin’s exhibits officer on this one,’ Godzilla said.

Sooner you than me, Rachel thought. Keeping track of all
the potential evidence from a scene meant you were stuck in the office for the duration. Drowning in evidence bags and chain of custody forms.

‘His computer has been removed for examination,’ the boss said. ‘As yet nothing obvious leaping out at us, no Google maps or ferry sailings. His phone is missing.’

‘Do we know if he has access to firearms?’ Mitch asked. Rachel knew he’d be trying to assess how dangerous the man was.

‘No guns licensed to him,’ the DCI said. ‘Now, we’ve ANPR, of course,’ referring to the automatic number plate recognition system that had fast become a major tool in police work, routinely recording vehicle registrations on major routes nationwide. ‘So if Cottam’s in the Mondeo we’ll find him before too long. Soon as we’re done here I want Rachel heading house-to-house, looking for witnesses. Good revision for your sergeant’s exam.’

Rachel nodded, a glow of satisfaction at being allocated the task. She glanced across at Janet, who winked at her.

‘Next of kin have been notified. Pamela Cottam’s mother, Margaret Milne, is on her way over from Cork. Post-mortems expected to start later this afternoon. A complex scene means the CSIs will be there for several days. Cottam has a father, Dennis, in Liverpool and a brother, Barry, Preston way. We are talking to the brewery and his family as well as his neighbours on the Larks. So far the picture emerging is that of a regular guy, a family man. Lee.’ The boss raised a finger to him. ‘We’ll be liaising with a forensic psychologist on this and a hostage negotiator obviously,’ she said, ‘but in the meanwhile Lee can tell us something about this particular type of homicide.’

Lee nodded; he’d got a psychology degree and was studying for a master’s in his spare time. Rachel knew he was fascinated by what made people tick, what pushed them over
the edge to kill, why one individual would take a life when another similar person would not. Frankly, Rachel didn’t give a toss. They’d done it: her only interest was in catching the toerags and seeing them banged up for it. Whether their parents had been a walking disaster zone or they’d been bullied at school or there was something buggered in their brain chemistry was neither here nor there to Rachel. You broke the law – you paid the price. End of.

Lee put his pen down and tugged at his tie, loosening it as he began to speak. ‘We average a handful a year, single figures, though that’s on the rise: in periods of recession we tend to get an increase. Economic hardship is often a trigger point. The man loses his job, or gets into debt, and views that as catastrophic failure. He reasons he’s better off dead and the family too.’

‘Why the family?’ Janet asked.

‘The profile of this sort of man is a dominant, often controlling personality. He sees himself as the provider, the head of his family, and he regards the family as extensions of himself. Part of him. He won’t leave them behind to face the disgrace, the collapse of lifestyle and so on.’ Rachel thought briefly of her ex Nick Savage and his downfall. From shit-hot criminal barrister to criminal. One minute he’s defending clients, the next he’s on a charge himself. Attempted murder. The city centre flat and the bespoke suits exchanged for a cell in Strangeways and prison sweats.

‘All for one and one for all,’ Pete said.

‘Except nobody else gets a say,’ Janet pointed out.

Lee continued. ‘In many cases, the wife’s been having an affair or wants to end the marriage.’

‘Is that not just revenge?’ Godzilla said.

‘May well be,’ Lee agreed. ‘In that situation the wife is killed to punish her but the children are killed because the
father doesn’t want to leave them behind. It’s almost like a duty. I’m better off dead and so are they. Of course research is limited because few of the men survive to explain their motives or thinking.’

‘But Cottam has,’ Rachel said.

‘So far,’ Andy added.

‘Why didn’t he just finish the job?’ Rachel said. ‘He’s done three of them, why suddenly stop and leg it with the youngest two? And the dog,’ she said. ‘Usually they kill the pets too, don’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ said Lee.

‘Usually planned?’ Godzilla said.

‘Yes,’ Lee said. ‘Media coverage tends to emphasize the good father runs amok angle but in most cases the men have prepared to some degree, acquired the means, decided when to act, and so on.’

‘Not exactly in the heat of the moment, then,’ Janet said.

‘Could the flight be part of the plan?’ Rachel asked.

Lee shrugged. ‘Unusual.’

‘Or maybe there’s trouble in the marriage, they’re splitting up, all he wants is to abduct the kids and run?’

‘Doesn’t explain our three victims, especially the girl,’ the boss said.

Rachel shrugged. Early days; they were still working out what the hell was going on.

Her Maj picked up and waved one of the reports through from the CSIs. ‘Initial observations suggest our victims were asleep when attacked. Bodies on the beds. No sign of struggle. Nothing to suggest they were moved or posed.’

‘What order?’ Pete said.

‘Still waiting for more on that from the scene.’

‘The wife is usually first,’ Lee said.

‘And the knife was in the brother’s room, Michael, so he’d be last,’ said Rachel. Made sense.

‘He intended to kill everyone,’ Lee said, ‘himself included.’

‘What stopped him?’ Rachel said.

‘And why didn’t he take the weapon with him?’

‘Plenty of questions we need answers to,’ the boss said, ‘though top of the list,’ she held up an index finger, ‘is, where is Cottam now? If we’re to find Cottam before he completes his grisly little mission we need to know everything about him: boxers or Y-fronts, where does he go on holiday, who are his mates, childhood haunts, health, money, favourite colour? We’re appealing to the public for sightings.’ Gill held up a photograph of Owen Cottam. Rachel looked at it: tall, thickset bloke, not overweight but solid looking, thinning hairline, moustache. Nothing in the man’s expression to suggest he was a monster, a nutter who’d stick a knife into his eleven-year-old daughter as she slept.

His wife, okay, Rachel could understand that. She had fantasized taking a knife to Nick Savage on many an occasion during their relationship over the past two years. First when she found out he was married and had kids and that she, Rachel, had been his bit on the side. Disposable, irrelevant. Then when he’d learnt she was pregnant and told her to get rid of it. No discussion. After that he’d come squirming back to her, talked her into thinking he really did care, but he was just watching his back. Because by then Rachel knew Nick was dirty, had broken all the rules by sleeping with a juror during a trial. She had that over him and to protect his own skin he’d tried to have her killed. Some dick in a car tried to mow her down. She’d dreamed of taking a knife to him, cutting his balls off, countless times since then. So, if there was jealousy going on in Cottam’s head the wife was halfway understandable. But not the daughter, nor the brother-in-law.

‘I’m now going to show you the video of our scene, taken by our crime-scene coordinator,’ Godzilla said, starting the recording. The video began. The boss making odd comments now and then. The camera taking them up the stairs and into the family’s flat. Surveying each crime. First the wife, then the girl. The man, Michael, his neck agape, slathered with blood. Rachel felt her stomach churn and her wrists prickle. Her own dream still too close, a cloying aftertaste.

‘Now, from her phone we can see that Pamela Cottam texted a contact, Lynn, at eleven fifty-two last night. Janet, you talk to her, then join Rachel,’ the boss said. She continued, allocating further tasks, sounding off a rapid-fire list of actions, each accompanied by a sharp nod of her head. A bit like one of those office toys, the bird drinking the water. And those mad hand gestures she did, hand-jive crossed with karate.

Rachel shivered, waiting for the briefing to conclude, eager to get out and on with the job.

When Janet went to see her, Lynn Garstang was at work. She was the friend who had exchanged texts with Pamela Cottam the previous night. The last person known to have communicated with Pamela before her death. In this age of social networking and camera phones, someone would soon be tweeting about the police activity at Journeys Inn, so the police press office were on the brink of releasing a statement rather than let rumours flourish over the ether. Local officers had informed immediate next of kin of the deaths – messengers bearing the worst possible news. It was terrible when the family heard about a loved one’s violent death on a news broadcast. The shock compounded by a sense of betrayal at the failure of the authorities, their appalling in sensitivity and disregard. Even if names weren’t made public, with a place so specific as a pub it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out
who were the victims behind the headlines. But getting the news out into the public domain, alerting people and enlisting their help in an effort to save further lives, was paramount. If there was any comeback, Janet knew it was Gill who would face the music and explain to the relatives the very sound reasoning for the publicity.

The call centre was in a double industrial unit off the ring road. Janet showed her warrant card to the woman at the front office and asked for Lynn and whether there was anywhere private they could talk. The girl’s face went still with curiosity but she bit her tongue and showed Janet into a tiny meeting room the size of a lift, a bare round table, two chairs and a slim filing cabinet the only furniture. Presumably where staff were hired and fired.