Desperate Measures (8 page)

The methadone replacement programme had a mixed press, Adele knew that. Some people hailed it as a proven route to breaking addiction, others pointed to a number of pitfalls, the addicts who sold the methadone to buy heroin, the problem of withdrawal from the methadone itself.

It was a chance, Adele thought, and Marcie responded better than she had imagined. It was still difficult to accept her daughter was taking the drug. Marcie usually did so in private in her bedroom, the dosage carefully set to give her just enough relief from the craving for heroin. Methadone mimicked the effects too, the rush, the slump of energy, nodding off. It was important to support her in altering her lifestyle and routine, to avoid other drug users, stay clear of the lifestyle, the locations of that world, the GP had explained.

Adele did all she could to encourage her. It would have helped if Marcie had been allowed back to school but she’d been excluded, no one wanted a junkie in the classroom. Or if she could have worked, that would’ve helped with her confidence but at almost fifteen she could only do a few hours and people in the area knew she was a user. She would not be trusted, not even to wash pots, until she had proved herself. Maybe she’d go to college then, Adele thought. Find her feet, learn a trade, have a brighter future.

He’s cut my dose,’ Marcie had said slamming her bag onto the kitchen counter.

‘Already?’

‘Cut it in half.’ There was confusion in her eyes and panic too.

Adele felt an answering burst of alarm. ‘Why? Did he say why?’

‘Just said it’s the best thing, so I don’t get too dependent.’

Of course you’re dependent, Adele thought, you’re an addict, this is a substitute. ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ Adele said, ‘we’ll go in tomorrow. Tell them it’s too soon. Yes?’

Marcie nodded.

Adele had to argue with the receptionist to get in to see him but she held her ground, just kept repeating that there was a serious problem with Marcie’s medication that she needed to discuss with Dr Halliwell. It sounded silly after the third repetition but she kept her voice level and maintained eye contact, with Marcie fidgeting at her side, and as the queue built up behind her she felt the pressure increase on the woman, who finally said, ‘Well, I can’t give you a time, he’s fully booked all morning.’

‘Whenever,’ Adele said. ‘We need to see the doctor and we need to see him today.’

They waited an hour and twenty-five minutes before an apparent no-show meant they got called in.

He greeted them by name. He had a grandfatherly style, smiling, at least to start with.

‘We feel the reduction in Marcie’s dosage is too much, too soon,’ Adele said.

The smile disappeared.

‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘that I’m satisfied she has stabilized on the current dose and best practice is now to reduce the amount.’

‘But she’s not—’

He held up a finger to silence her, his eyes now flat and cold. ‘We do not simply want to replace one addiction with another.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Marcie said, shakily.

His eyes flicked her way and back. ‘I’ll be the best judge of that,’ he said. ‘In my opinion your best chance of recovery from drug abuse rests in sticking with my treatment plan. Otherwise we are all wasting our time.’

Adele felt a flush of anger, the afterburn of resentment. ‘Based on what?’ she said, sounding more bullish than she meant to.

‘Based on a lifetime’s experience in medical practice.’

‘We could get a second opinion,’ Adele said.

‘That is your prerogative. The relationship between doctor and patient is one of trust and cooperation. If that breaks down …’

He was threatening them, the arrogant wanker. Adele had no idea how easy or hard it might be to find a new GP, to get the help Marcie needed. And if it took some time, if there was a gap in her treatment, she could soon be back on the streets.

‘A cut in half is a big step,’ Adele said, ‘and patients must vary. If that was staggered, say over a month or two.’ She spoke too quickly, babbling.

Dr Halliwell watched her with unforgiving eyes and then said, ‘If I thought that was appropriate then that’s what I would have done. We can’t all be experts.’

Marcie made a little sound, a sigh or a laugh, Adele couldn’t tell.

‘She’s my daughter,’ Adele said, ‘and I believe her when she says it’s too early, that she won’t be able to cope.’

‘She’s my patient, Mrs Young. Addicts will do anything to get a fix, perhaps Marcie is not as committed to recovery as she should be.’

‘How dare you!’ Adele said. ‘Why won’t you listen to what she’s saying instead of slagging her off? She needs your help!’ She was trembling with rage, her face hot, her ears singing.

‘I’ll thank you to lower your voice,’ he said sharply, ‘or leave.’ He turned to Marcie. ‘I’ll see you next week. Believing you can do it is half the battle. This may well be a bout of cold feet.’ He sat back and gestured to the door, his face set.

Adele clamped down on the anger, she needed to in order to deal with Marcie. All that mattered was that Marcie didn’t just give up and stop trying.

‘You are going to do this,’ Adele said on the way home, ‘and I’ll help.’

‘How?’ the girl said.

‘Any way I can. It’ll be all right,’ she said, trying to sound truthful. ‘It might not be easy but I know you can do it. It’ll be all right.’ She tried to smile then turned away so Marcie would not see the worry.

The words were a prayer. And a lie.

Adele knew, from her own smoking habit, that addiction acted upon the brain as much as the body, that the whisper of voices in your head was as much responsible for relapse as the physical cravings. The times Adele had tried to stop smoking she had to erect barriers in her mind to prevent those thoughts from entering at all; because it was only five minutes from
just one won’t hurt
or
you can’t keep this up
or
you deserve a smoke, today, don’t you?
to that guilt-ridden sprint to the corner shop and twenty Lambert & Butler. So she could sense that Marcie’s belief that her new dosage was inadequate could, oh so easily, translate into her ‘just needing a proper fix’.

They were watching Big Brother but Marcie was distracted, getting up and down for crisps, then a biscuit, then Bombay mix; shifting on the sofa, making the leather squeak, rubbing at her leg then her stomach, as if her skin was crawling: one of the responses to withdrawal Adele had read about in the leaflets and online.

‘It might take a day or two to get used to it,’ Adele said. ‘Your body would have to adjust, give it a couple of days and you’ll feel much better.’

Marcie shot her a look, sullen. She bit her nails. Adele stopped herself commenting.
Christ, if that helps then go for it.

When Howard came home, she cooked chicken fillets, oven chips and peas hoping the food might fill some of the hunger that Marcie was feeling. Adele watched Marcie eat, waiting until she went upstairs to tell Howard about their visit to the doctor.

‘She’ll be all right.’ He reached over and rubbed Adele’s shoulder. ‘It’s bound to get easier.’

‘Just don’t leave any money about.’

He turned to look at her, muting the sound on the TV.
You really think?
his expression said.

Adele shrugged. ‘Just don’t.’ She lay awake most of the night, listening for the creak of the top step or the click of the front door but Marcie never left her room.

Adele was on early the following day, six till two, serving food at the airport. Work was purgatory. She resisted the temptation to ring Marcie every five minutes. Howard was there until mid-day and that meant Marcie would only have two and a half hours on her own, as long as Adele’s bus was on time.

When Adele got home, Marcie was safe on the sofa. Adele felt as though she’d been holding her breath all day long. ‘Do you want a brew?’ Adele asked Marcie, who nodded. She looked miserable, preoccupied.

‘Can I have a cig?’ Marcie asked when Adele brought her drink.

‘Of course.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘Here.’ She passed the packet. ‘In the yard.’ Adele never smoked in the house, well, very, very rarely. Howard didn’t like it and she didn’t want the place smelling like an ashtray.

It was cool outside, a sharp wind. Marcie hunched her shoulders up, and smoked like an old hand. Adele shivered, the smoke and her breath both coming in great clouds. ‘How’re we doing?’ she said.

Marcie creased her nose, then tears filled her eyes.

‘Hey,’ Adele said gently, ‘it will get better. And I am so proud of you, you know that, don’t you?’

Marcie gulped. ‘What? Your junkie daughter?’

‘My girl,’ Adele said, ‘and you’re trying, it must be so hard and you’re sticking with it and that is totally brilliant.’ She hurried the last words, sensing her voice might break and not wanting to upset Marcie and show that sort of emotion.

They got a take-away from the Bengal for tea. Adele found it hard to eat, to force food down her gullet. The knots in her stomach got worse. She smoked more than usual and by bedtime she had a thumping headache over one eye.

Another early shift tomorrow. She did sleep but fitfully and the alarm woke her at five.

She opened her eyes. Her phone was gone. A kick in her belly. A fleeting moment’s thought told her that she
had
brought it upstairs last night. She felt under the pillow. Her purse was still there. She got up and went straight to Marcie’s room knowing already that it was too late, that the room would be empty, that Marcie had gone.

The next time Adele saw her she was laid out on a mortuary table, covered in a sheet.

Wednesday was Pete’s night for the kids, though it tended to be Tom who spent most time with him: Pete would put Charlotte to bed and Eleanor was of an age where time on her own in her bedroom was preferable to any interaction with either of her boring parents. When Janine pulled into the drive she was surprised to see there was no sign of Pete’s car outside the house.

Janine went in and called out ‘Hello? Tom?’

She found him in the living room, sprawled on the couch, a game on the TV.

‘Where’s your Dad?’ Janine said.

Tom shrugged, never taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Oh, he’s probably got held up with Alfie,’ Janine said, annoyed that she had to make up excuses for Pete. ‘Did you ring him?’

Tom gave a shake of his head.

Janine heard Eleanor coming downstairs and went into the hallway to catch her.

‘Your dad’s not been, then?’ Janine said.

‘Who?’ Eleanor said, not breaking her stride.

Janine pulled out her phone and dialled Pete’s landline. His voice mail was on. ‘Hi, you’ve reached Pete, Tina and Alfie. Leave a message.’
All very cosy but what about your other kids?

‘Pete,’ Janine said after the beep, ‘Tom was expecting you tonight. Can you call me back? Be nice if you called him too, or text, smoke signals, whatever.’

It’s not fair, Janine thought, she hated the idea of Tom waiting for his dad, of his anticipation turning to disappointment. Pete had sworn that he’d have regular time with them, even if it had to be less time than before with Alfie’s arrival. She was sick of having to nag and cajole and negotiate with Pete. Why couldn’t he just get his act together and do as he promised?

Janine took a breath and then went upstairs to check on Charlotte. She was in bed and fast asleep.

Eleanor came back up and Janine went onto the landing. ‘Did you put Charlotte to bed?’

‘Someone had to,’ she said, heading for her room.

‘Thanks,’ Janine said.

‘Add it to what you owe me for last night,’ Eleanor said over her shoulder.

Brilliant! Now Eleanor would be charging her for everything. Perhaps if Pete had to chip in too, that’d concentrate his mind.

The break came on Thursday morning. The team were collating statements and reports, cross-referencing information from the inquiry when Lisa answered a call to the incident room. ‘Boss, ballistics.’

Janine took the phone from Lisa. ‘Good morning, DCI Lewis speaking.’

‘Morning. We’ve a result on the bullets in the Donald Halliwell case. The same weapon was used in a non-fatal shooting here two years ago. The perpetrator was one Aaron Matthews. Matthews was convicted but the gun was never found.’

Janine felt the fizz of adrenalin in her veins. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘excellent news.’ She ended the call aware of the expectant faces around her. ‘We’ve a match,’ she said. ‘Aaron Matthews.’ Janine waved at Shap to get on the computer and look up the details. There was a buzz of anticipation in the room, a quickening of the energy. It was just what they needed after being jerked about by Fraser McKee. A solid lead.

Shap logged on to the database, murmuring, ‘Press red on your remote now.’ He clicked on the criminal record of Aaron Matthews. A photograph appeared of a young black man, along with his charge sheet and related intelligence. ‘Known associate of the Wilson Crew,’ Shap read out loud, ‘twenty months inside for assault with a firearm. Released last month. The timing’s sweet.’

‘Butchers, establish where he’s living, now,’ Janine said, ‘Lisa – warrants, Richard – run the name past DCS Roper, make sure Matthews is not one of their inner circle, don’t want to tread on their toes.’

‘He could still be carrying,’ Shap said.

‘We’ll pull in an armed response unit,’ Janine said. ‘All other lines of inquiry parked while we follow up on Matthews.’ She relished the feeling of excitement, the prospect that real progress was in sight, and with it the chance of catching the murderer and answering the question that plagued her most. Why?

The area around Aaron Matthews’ maisonette flat had been secured, traffic turned away, residents and passers by prevented from entering. Janine noticed a bystander at the far end of the street busy with a camera phone. The armed response team with their specialist training would approach the flat and hopefully detain the suspect. Janine, Richard, Shap and Lisa waited on the pavement below, out of harm’s way. The block was two storeys high and Matthews’ flat was on the top storey, a blue painted door in the middle of the row.

Janine watched. Her stomach clenched in anticipation, as the leader of the armed unit signalled to his crew to move in. They climbed the stairs at the side of the building swiftly and funnelled along the walkway. The armed officers stopped and took up formation either side of the door. The leader signalled to his unit again then hammered hard on the door, speaking loudly enough for those in the street below to hear. ‘This is Greater Manchester Police. Open the door. Open the door. Police.’
              There was a moment’s pause, Janine’s mouth felt dry, then the blue door opened. Aaron Matthews was visible. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘Arms on your head,’ the leader said.

Matthews complied.

The officer used a metal detector wand and swept it down in front of Matthews, searching for a gun.

‘Turn around,’ the officer said. Matthews shuffled round and the officer moved the wand over his back and down to his feet. ‘Clear,’ he announced.

‘Step onto the landing.’

Matthews stepped outside.

‘Hands behind your back.’
              Matthews was escorted down the steps to Janine. She nodded to Lisa to cuff the suspect and make the formal caution on arrest.

Lisa snapped the cuffs on Matthews and began, ‘Aaron Matthews, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence—’
              Sudden movement and Matthews bolted. Lisa went after him, shouting to him to stop, Shap just behind her. The uniformed officers who were securing the scene gave chase too.

Aaron dodged through the alley that led to the precinct. Lisa forced herself to run faster, her heart thumping, her legs burning with the effort. Matthews jumped over bollards leading to a parking area and Lisa followed, gaining on him. As he turned again, he skidded and slipped, giving her a chance to close the distance between them. She willed herself on, ignoring the cramp biting in her calf and the sharp pain in her windpipe. Closer still, she lunged and grabbed his shoulder, spun him round. Forced him to stop.

Panting, and ignoring all the people gawking on the sidelines, Lisa walked Matthews back to the cars. Janine nodded and Lisa felt a ripple of relief. Thank God she had caught him. She should have considered that he’d be a flight risk. She should have got him into the car sooner.

Now, trying to hide the way she was shaking, she put him in the back of the car and got into the passenger seat. One of the uniformed officers was driving them back.

‘Got something to hide?’ Lisa said.

‘I freaked right, you talking about murder. What murder?’ Matthews was agitated, eyes livid.

‘Come on, Aaron,’ Lisa said, ‘Dr Donald Halliwell.’

‘No way!’ he protested.

‘We’ve got some very good evidence says otherwise,’ Lisa said.

‘You can’t have, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I’m not a part of all that anymore.’

‘Really? Same gun,’ Lisa said.

‘I sold that,’ Matthews said, ‘I walked away – from all of it.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Lisa said.

‘You think it’s easy? There’s places I can’t go, people – I have to steer well clear. And now you lot come and fuck it all up. If they hear about this, they’ll think I’m a snitch, you might as well put a target on my back.’ He turned his face away and looked out of the side window. Lisa’s heart was still loud in her ears, head spinning from the rush. She sat back and relaxed her shoulders, looking forward to seeing what happened once the boss got Aaron Matthews in an interview room.