Dead To Me (18 page)

‘What about Benny?’ Janet asked her, once they were all assembled.

‘Not the brightest bunny in the burrow,’ Gill said. ‘He’s got mild learning disabilities, so we’re waiting for an appropriate adult. I’d like Janet, with Mitch, to chat to him before we start on Sean. That also gives us time to see if we get anything through forensics on the Broughton house and to find out what the cabbie can give us. Save Sean for the main course.’

Janet nodded, amended her notes.

‘Rachel and Pete – with Kasim. I’ll have a word with his brief – maybe he’ll play ball. You can start, Rachel, see how you do. Run through your strategy with Andy.’

* * *

Gill took Kasim’s solicitor aside and explained that there was no way they could do anything about the drug charge; the evidence was so overwhelming, CPS would wave it through without drawing breath. ‘We show them a picture of what we found in the cab and it’s a done deal. But the fact that your client was the last person to see our victim alive means we have a very great interest in what he might be able to tell us. I can give you an undertaking that we will not prefer any charges of intent to supply our victim – that won’t be pursued. In return, we’re interested in information he may be able to furnish us with regarding the murder and not the drugs.’

‘I’ll put it to him,’ the solicitor said.

It was a fairly simple matter to test for blood traces – Luminol glows blue when it comes into contact with blood – so Gill soon got word that none of Sean’s clothing at his house gave a positive result. It was a disappointment. But the news wasn’t all bad. Lee came to her, eager to talk about an item recovered from Sean’s house: a small gold-plated chain with a chunky cross on. The chain was broken.

‘Something else he nicked from Lisa?’ Gill ventured. ‘Remember the abrasions on her neck?’

‘Could be.’

‘We’ll ask the mother if she recognizes it. I need to meet her, anyway,’ Gill said. It was expected practice for the SIO in a murder inquiry to meet the next of kin in the early days of an investigation. The family needed to know who was ultimately in charge of their fate and the hunt for the truth, to see that someone with authority was dedicated to their case.

Gill phoned the FLO and asked him to set up a meeting with Denise Finn at a place of her choice. And told him to inform her about the arrest. He came back on and said that Denise wanted to see her at the police station. That was preferable from Gill’s point of view; it meant she could talk to Denise first, then have one of her DCs ask her about the cross and chain.

A sense of anticlimax spread through the room as Gill passed on the news that the team at Sean’s house had not found either bloodstained clothing or the murder weapon. She needed to get them thinking where this took them. ‘Did Sean Broughton go somewhere else before he called us? Dispose of the murder weapon and his clothes?’ she put it to them. ‘Perhaps he had spare clothes at Lisa’s that he could change into. Andy, have we got cameras in the area?’

‘Traffic lights on Oldham Road are nearest; four hundred metres away from the junction with Garrigan Street, heading out of town. Next camera is at the petrol station on Oldham Road, about three hundred metres towards the city centre.’

Gill nodded. ‘Can we do a trawl of those, between one and four p.m. on Monday, specifically for any sign of Sean on foot, or of Kasim’s cab leaving.’

‘If he went back to base after dropping Lisa,’ Mitch said, ‘he’d pass the petrol station.’

‘Good – Kevin, see what you can find.’

‘Can’t Rachel do it?’ he objected. ‘Keep her off the streets – road safety,’ he sniggered.

‘I’m asking you,’ Gill said brusquely.

She reminded them of the progress they had already made, aiming to keep them keen. ‘I’m very pleased,’ she announced. ‘We’ve made substantial headway and Sean Broughton is giving us more each time we talk to him. We’ve still a lot of ground to cover, but we should have help from DNA before very long. So let’s get on with it.’

23

CHRISTOPHER DANES, THE
FLO, brought Denise in to the station. Gill greeted her and introduced herself, offered her tea or coffee, which she declined. Denise was dishevelled, looked unwashed, her glasses smeared. She reeked of booze.

‘I’m leading the investigation and I wanted to tell you that we are doing everything we can to find out who did this to your daughter. I know Christopher has been keeping you up to date with developments, but if there’s anything you want to ask me I’ll do my best to answer it.’

‘You’ve arrested him?’

‘I can tell you that we have arrested a twenty-two-year-old man who is helping with our inquiries.’

‘It’s him though, isn’t it?’ she grimaced, a note of bitter triumph in her tone.

Gill paused, deliberately not denying it before saying, ‘I’m not at liberty to say. As soon as we can tell you any more, I give you my assurance you will be the first to hear.’

‘I’ve a right to know,’ Denise said defiantly.

‘Yes,’ Gill agreed, ‘and as soon as any steps are taken, any charges brought, anything like that, you will be told. You have my word.’

‘And the funeral?’ The muscles in her face twitched.

‘We can’t release Lisa yet, the defence have the right to have Lisa examined for themselves.’

‘I can’t afford to bury her.’ Tears filled her eyes and the red blotches across her nose and cheeks darkened.

‘There’s help available,’ Gill said. ‘Christopher will put you in touch, help you with that.’ What had she done for her son? Burial? Cremation? Gill thought it prudent not to go there. Add more weight to the woman’s burden. ‘The Press Office are planning to send out a release – an update on the inquiry so far. They would like to include a few words about Lisa, and wonder if you could suggest something.’

Denise drew back, appalled. ‘On the telly?’

‘No, no,’ Gill rushed to reassure her. God, no! Seeing Denise in the state she was in would be unlikely to attract much sympathy or propel people to try and assist the police. The fact that Lisa had been in care and was living alone at seventeen already influenced some of the reporting. The tone would have been far different if she’d been from a cosy, middle-class home, a model pupil with a clutch of GCSEs and a bright future.

‘It would be written down,’ Gill said, ‘and something I might quote from in interviews.’

Gill quite enjoyed press conferences; the performer in her, perhaps. She felt confident and articulate and didn’t ruffle easily. She had had plenty of practice, too, all those years in the crime faculty when the cases were invariably high profile. In one way or another, the regional media liked to make much of the ‘invasion’ of the national detectives into their local patch:
SUPERSLEUTHS TAKE THE REINS
,
MURDER ELITE IN TOWN
,
TOP COPS FOR THE LONG SLOG
– some of the headlines she remembered. Their reception in the regional forces had varied. Many colleagues had been glad of the faculty’s help, keen to solve the murders that were frustrating them and grateful for the extra staff and resources, the fresh viewpoint that they brought. But others were prats with a parochial, dog-in-the-manger attitude:
If we can’t solve this then no bugger will
. That meant everything took twice as long, with obstruction bordering on sabotage in some cases, the faculty detectives working in an atmosphere of thinly veiled hostility. It had only served to make Gill even more determined to solve the case.

‘What would I say?’ Denise asked her.

‘People often say something about the person’s interests and personality.’ Best not mention the nasty temper or the hard drugs, though. ‘Something to make people realize that Lisa was someone’s daughter, somebody’s family. Not just a photo in the paper but a real person.’

‘She used to sing,’ Denise said. ‘She’d a lovely voice, hit all the top notes.’

‘That’s good.’

‘And I, erm …’ She broke off, pressed a hand to her mouth. Distressed.

‘Perhaps we could say something about the family being devastated to lose her?’

‘Yes,’ her voice wobbled.

‘Lively, perhaps?’ Not bubbly. Gill hated bubbly. Pendlebury was bubbly.

‘She was definitely that.’ Denise half rose. ‘Sorry, I can’t—’

‘That’s all right. Please, sit down. Take your time. I know DC Bailey wants to talk to you, if you could stay a little bit longer. How about that cup of tea now?’

Denise gave a nod and took a tissue to wipe at her eyes.

Gill found Christopher and took him aside. ‘She seems to be all alone in the world. Has she any support?’

‘Couple of neighbours have been round with offers of help, left some food. She’s not touched it.’

‘What happened to the sister? The one who took Nathan in when Denise couldn’t cope?’

‘Moved to Wales back in 2005. Died in a motorway pile-up three weeks later.’

Christ, talk about broken families. At least Sammy had spent fourteen years in a stable home. Gill’s turning a blind eye to Dave’s philandering had contributed to that. And when the shit did hit the fan, Gill had made it clear to Sammy that Dave still loved him – that in betraying her, he was not betraying his son. But her guts told her differently: collateral damage was damage all the same. She remembered Sammy’s face when she had sat him down to explain why Dave wouldn’t be living with them any more. His expression close to tears, the way he bit at his lip. ‘He’s met someone else,’ she said.

‘How d’you know?’ Sammy had asked.

She refrained from sharing the grisly facts. ‘Your dad’s told me. He’s coming round tonight, he wants to take you out for a—’

‘I’m not going!’ Sammy jumped to his feet. ‘He can eff off.’

‘Sammy, he didn’t want to hurt you. Come here, come here.’ Her eyes burning, she’d opened her arms.

He had stomped towards her, hugged her, then she felt his shoulders shake as he began to cry. Gulping back her own emotion, she squeezed him tight. ‘It’s gonna be all right, kid. You and me, eh? You’re my best boy’ – her familiar phrase – ‘always will be. My lovely boy. And it’s all right to be sad and it’s all right to be angry. But this is not your fault – don’t you ever even think that. And it’s not my fault,’ she added. Which leaves …

Sammy was angry, furious for weeks, refusing to speak to his father. Gill wasn’t sure she could ever forgive Dave for that. Screw forgiveness.

‘I know you’ve arrested him,’ Denise said to Rachel, mouth pinched tight.

‘We’ve arrested a twenty-two-year-old male, that’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ Rachel said. The standard response. But Denise knew, course she did. Rachel could tell. They always did. How many other twenty-two-year-old men had been potential suspects in the murder?

Rachel watched Denise nod emphatically. ‘I told you it was him. First time I set eyes on him, I knew he was the worst thing that could happen to her.’

Weren’t so hot yourself, Rachel thought. James Raleigh’s words came back:
a wreck unable to cope … depression and alcohol dependency
. Though Denise had at least tried a bit, she supposed, unlike Rosie’s mother, who had closed her eyes, stuck two fingers in her ears and sung la-la-la at the top of her voice every time her new fella or any of his mates abused her daughter. Rosie had been removed to local authority care for her own safety. And then the rape on top of all that. No wonder the girl was struggling. What a life. Rachel wondered where Rosie’s social worker was. She’d be someone’s responsibility, surely, given the state of her. In 2008 the woman looking after her was run off her feet, struggling to keep up with her caseload. Assuming someone was still seeing her now, how much could they realistically do? They had offered rape crisis counselling for Rosie, back then, at St Mary’s, the specialist unit, one of the best services in the country. She’d refused. It seemed she no longer had the resources to hope, to contemplate change, to consider herself worth saving.

‘We’ve recovered something from a property today that we would like you to look at and tell us if you recognize it,’ Rachel said.

Denise leaned forward. Up close, the smell of booze was sickening, sweet and chemical. The woman was probably sweating pure alcohol.

Rachel put the exhibits bag containing the cross and chain on the table.

Denise’s hands went to her mouth; her hands were wrinkled and liver-spotted, though she was only in her thirties. Tears glimmered behind her glasses. ‘It’s Lisa’s,’ she said. ‘Where was it?’

‘You’re sure it’s Lisa’s?’

‘I gave her it her, for her seventeenth.’ April. ‘She never took it off.’

‘You last saw Lisa in October, you said?’

‘Yes, my birthday. She came round for a bit. She’d got me a present,’ her voice faded to a whisper: ‘a scarf.’

‘Was Lisa wearing the cross and chain then?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t see her after that?’ Rachel tried not to imply anything untoward, but given that they only lived a bus ride apart, you’d have thought she’d have made more of an effort.

‘It was his fault,’ Denise said. ‘He turned her against me.’

Not far to turn, maybe a couple of degrees, judging by what James Raleigh had said about the family set-up.