Dead To Me (24 page)

‘Boss,’ the chorus went round. Not fired up as such, but dogged. Dogged would do fine.

While the custody sergeant and Janet went to charge Sean, Gill contacted the FLO and asked him to inform Denise Finn that Sean was being released. Charged with
theft
and possession.

‘She’ll love that,’ he said.

‘No solid evidence,’ Gill said. ‘He’s looking much less likely.’

‘Still a chance?’

‘Not enough to mention. Don’t get her hopes up. Unless something new and very serious comes to light, Sean Broughton is no longer in the running.’

Christopher Danes was back on to her in ten minutes, while she was going over the draft of the press release. ‘She wants a word,’ he said. ‘I told her you might be tied up,’ giving Gill a get-out clause.

But she was a big girl. ‘Put her on.’

‘How can you let him out?’ Denise demanded. ‘You know what he’s like, what he’s done. He’s guilty as sin.’

‘We
don’t
know that,’ Gill said. ‘I can only charge someone if I have the evidence to do so.’

‘He battered her, he’s a fucking druggie, what about that?’ Denise said.

‘That’s not proof. Every single officer working on this inquiry is putting one hundred per cent into their work. It might take us weeks, months even, but we will look for the evidence that proves who is responsible for Lisa’s death.’

‘He’s a liar, you know. You can’t trust a word he said. He’s a liar and a thief and a vicious, nasty bastard. And you just let him go!’

Gill saw that Denise was beyond reason or logic, operating only on her belief that Sean was a murderer.
Still
, she kept repeating her position. ‘We had no grounds to hold him any longer without charging him. He has been charged with theft and possession of illegal drugs, those are the only crimes we have evidence for at present. What happened to Lisa was unforgivable, a terrible crime, and we want to make sure that the right person is caught and punished.’

There was a noise at the other end of the line and Gill couldn’t tell if Denise was crying or spluttering or even laughing with derision. Then Christopher came back on, ‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘My pleasure,’ Gill said drily. Put the phone down and carried on with her work.

Gill had read through her prepared statement enough times to be able to say it from memory at the press conference. It gave a better impression, appeared more genuine than someone with their head buried in a piece of paper. In common with every other officer at her level, she’d been on several media training courses, learning how to project herself (that came naturally), build a media strategy, how to field inappropriate or challenging questions, how to debate with clarity and precision without getting muddled or personal. Keeping on message, conveying crucial points in a concise way.

Having told the assembled press that Sean Broughton, a twenty-two-year-old man, had now been charged with theft and possession of Class A drugs and released, and having repeated the key facts of the crime in an effort to jog memories, ring bells buried deep in people’s skulls, when it came to the ending of her speech, she picked up her notes.

‘I’d like to read out a statement from Lisa’s family,’ she said, and paused, waiting a moment for the attention in the room to focus, the noise levels to settle. ‘Lisa was a lively girl, a girl with a beautiful voice who loved to sing. A girl who had her whole life ahead of her. She was loved very much and we are desperately sad at this terrible loss. If anyone knows anything that can help the police, please come forward.’

31

THE GUY FROM
the Police Federation was on the phone; he wanted to offer Rachel support. Wanted her to be aware that if she was still suffering any mental or physical trauma as a result of the incident she could postpone meeting the IPCC. No one would think any the worse of her for it.

‘I’m fine,’ Rachel said, ignoring the cold cramps in her stomach and the sense of trepidation.

‘We can get a federation rep to be there, make sure your interests are protected.’

‘No, really, I’m fine,’ Rachel said. Didn’t they get it? Any delay would make it even worse.

Rachel had already written her account of Rosie’s suicide in her duty report. She had kept it pared back, plain and to the point. Leaving out any thoughts or feelings about the incident. Not relevant. Not helpful.

When the IPCC got there it was two blokes who spoke to her; they’d both been serving officers before moving to Complaints, which gave them an insight into the world they were monitoring. One of them was an old bloke with a lot of wild white facial hair but none on the top of his head. He had a gold tooth, which added to the pirate look he had going on. His name was Roger Harris. Roger. Really! Did they call him Jolly Roger? The other was a looker, reminded her of Nick, though his suit wasn’t quite up to par. Warm tone to his voice, but he didn’t smile a lot. Jonathan Buckingham.

‘You understand that you are being interviewed as a witness?’ Roger said.

‘Yes,’ Rachel said.

‘And you are happy to talk to us now?’

Delirious. Everyone’s concern, the kid-glove treatment, made it harder for her. She didn’t need comfort or tea and sympathy, just wanted to get on with it, get it over with. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Perhaps you could tell us in your own words …’ Who else’s am I going to use? ‘… what happened.’

‘I went to see Rosie Vaughan at Chapman Tower, New Moston, yesterday at half past eight in the evening,’ Rachel reeled off the facts. ‘I thought she might have some intelligence related to the murder of Lisa Finn. When I gained entry to her flat, Rosie was clearly mentally unsound. She threatened me with a knife in the hallway. I tried to persuade her to leave with me, offered to take her to hospital, but she became highly agitated. She was hallucinating and appeared to be psychotic. I followed her into the living room. She pushed me back into the hall at knifepoint, then ran out on to the balcony and jumped off.’ Rosie had been so frightened, riddled with terror. Whatever demons were fucking with her head were far more powerful than the urge for self-preservation. And if I hadn’t been there, would the demons have come anyway? Rachel knew such thoughts were pointless, didn’t stop them though. ‘I immediately went down to see if there was any chance to preserve life, but she was dead.’ Limbs twisted, her skull shattered, blood like a halo. ‘I summoned an ambulance and reported it to Division.’

Roger did most of the questioning, asking her to recall what Rosie said and exactly where the two of them had been during the exchanges. Jonathan took notes, the video camera blinked away in the corner. There was never a moment’s pressure or hostility. Rachel knew they were on her side and the protocol had to be followed in order to protect the reputation of the police.

Rachel’s throat hurt. She blinked. She would not fucking cry. There was no reason to cry. She held her eyes closed until she was sure the danger was past. Her voice went shaky, which was stupid, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Roger asked if she needed a break or a drink and she snapped at him: ‘What for? Let’s keep going.’

‘When Rosie ran to the balcony,’ Roger said, ‘what did you do?’

‘Ran after her.’ Should have caught her, skinny little druggie, should have got there easily, grabbed her, pulled her back.

At the end of the interview, Roger thanked her and said, ‘It must have been a harrowing experience for you, Rachel. Thank you for talking to us so honestly and openly. It can’t have been easy.’

She gave a jerky nod, her eyes stinging, anxious to get out of the room. Outside, she lit her cigarette, shivering in the cold, sniffing hard, sodding wind in her eyes. She just wanted the day to be done, but now she had to go and play nice at some poxy works disco or no doubt Godzilla would be on her back for lacking team spirit.

32

WHEN THE LAB
reported back on the second tranche of DNA results from the scene, Gill, on the brink of leaving to get changed for the party, was the first to receive the information. The DNA on the duvet and on the sheet in the bedroom triggered an alert on the database: a man, identity unknown, wanted for questioning in connection with an unsolved rape case in New Moston in 2008. The victim’s name was Rosie Vaughan.

At the Christmas bash, shared with Division, there was food and entertainment, a high-end buffet and a comedian. Then a talent show spot, a magician and a singer – a uniform sergeant, a woman Gill knew whose voice could etch glass – then Mitch and Lee. Mitch on sax and Lee on guitar, drums on a backing track run off a laptop. They did ska versions of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ before the disco started. There was also the compulsory raffle for local charities. Rachel won a giant polar bear that she wanted to give back so they could raffle it again next time, until Mitch said his youngest would die for it so she gave it to him. Kevin had brought along an exploding cigarette lighter, which was funny for about half a second, but he kept at it until Gill picked it up and dropped it in his pint.

Gill watched Rachel, joking with the lads; the girl seemed to be coping all right, but underneath …? You needed resilience to do the job. Emotional resilience. Some of the things you saw and heard were truly horrific. Some of the cases you had to deal with were stomach-churning. If you let it get to you, you wouldn’t last ten minutes. You had to be able to sleep at night. You had to believe that most people were not like the scum, the bottom feeders that you had to deal with every day. Coppers needed a measure of detachment, a protective, professional shell to keep away the nightmares, the breakdowns, the straitjacket.

Gill knew people coped in different ways; some talked about the strains of work with trusted confidants, others found sport or charity work or creativity was a way of maintaining a healthy outlook. One of her mentors found peace at his allotment, in the rhythm of planting and harvesting, another in his grandchildren. Gill had no idea what support structure Rachel Bailey had. Whether she’d a tight circle of mates to rely on, to go clubbing with and dance it off, or a boyfriend who looked out for her. Whether she still lived at home with her mum on hand to comfort her and help her feel OK.
Whatever
, whoever, she’d likely need them in the next few weeks. Because not only would Rachel have to deal with the trauma of witnessing a suicide but she’d also be wrestling with the fact that she had tried and failed to help the girl.

There were a handful of cases that had got to Gill, pierced her defences. One had been Janet’s baby. Not a murder at all, but an unexplained natural death. Gill had handled it all with equilibrium over that long, long day. Trying to support the family, to be sensitive even as she knew she was intruding: having to secure items for forensics, and then to persuade the couple to let the infant go. She had held it all together while she was with them, while she completed her records and checked all the exhibits had been logged, even while she attended the post-mortem, the tiny body poignant on thetable.

She had driven home in the early hours and parked on the drive. And then it had hit her. The utter, bloody sadness of it, and she finally let go, weeping and sobbing until she was drained. Exhausted. She had been young herself then, just twenty-six. Younger than Rachel Bailey was now.

There were a few times after that when she found herself haunted by the horrors of a murder, or the suffering of those left behind. Early on, one of her bosses in CID had advised her:
Don’t think about the victim’s feelings, don’t dwell on what it was like for them, or the atmosphere. Concentrate on the facts, the evidence. Stay dispassionate, objective, distanced
. That was the only way to do it without going under. Even the best detectives were only human and at risk; some found themselves on long-term sick, or plagued by PTSD or drinking 40-per-cent-proof for breakfast.

‘You are luckier than you’ll ever know,’ Gill said to Rachel, sitting down beside her.

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Because the second DNA profile gives us a scene-to-scene link. Unknown offender involved with both Rosie Vaughan and Lisa Finn.’

Rachel stared at her, excitement shining in her eyes. ‘A match?’

‘Yes, cock. So tomorrow you get off your arse and see where that takes us next.’

Rachel grinned, nodded her agreement. ‘They had the same social worker, Martin Dalbeattie,’ she said.

Gill barked a laugh. ‘They lived in the same house. They probably had the same everything: doctor, dentist, candlestick maker. Janet,’ she called her over. ‘DNA links Rosie Vaughan and Lisa Finn.’

Janet looked stunned. Gill saw Rachel smirk.

‘How many kids at Ryelands?’ Gill asked Janet.

‘Twenty, bit more,’ Janet said.

‘Go back tomorrow, the two of you, and see if any of them, past or present, are looking good for this. Not on the database, may have slipped through the net. I’m talking
residents
.’ She wagged a finger at Rachel. ‘Sexual offences, inappropriate relationships with other kids there … If you uncover any candidates, see whether they can be alibied for Monday.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Janet.

* * *

Janet had one eye on Rachel, who’d been chugging it down like there was no tomorrow and was back at the bar. Still – get away with it at that age.