Ruthless (12 page)

Her instinct was to claw at his hands, try to peel them away from her neck, but her training and experience had taught her that, especially with someone so strong, it would be futile. She needed to distract him from choking her by going for something soft and vulnerable – eyes, nose, groin. She saw dots dancing at the edge of her vision, felt the force crushing the cartilage in her throat, the pressure mounting in the back of her skull. She raised her hands, fingers bent like talons, and grabbed at his face. He reared back and his grip loosened slightly. Then he moved sharply, whipping her head forward then back, like a rag doll. Rachel’s head smacked against the wall, a wave of nausea washed through her, saliva thick in her mouth.

She went limp, deliberately, letting her body weight drag her down, him with it. He lost his balance slightly and had to let go. Rachel kicked out hard, her heel connecting with his kneecap, and Perry yelled in pain and staggered back.

‘Fucking bastard toe-rag,’ she said, her voice dry, grating.

She was up and swung out her other leg, catching the back of his foot and tripping him up. A burst of triumph gave her fresh energy as he landed heavily.

‘Knobhead.’ She drew her foot back, ready to kick him, to kick his face in, to turn his head to pulp, as several officers piled in and were on him.

Rachel stood panting. ‘That’s all on record,’ she said, clearing her throat, trying to make herself heard above the din of the alarm. ‘You’ve been framed, pal. You’ll not be getting the fifty quid, mind. What a spectacle.’ Neil Perry gave her a look of contempt but Rachel didn’t care, the case against him was growing and she was beginning to think they’d be able to nail him and his scumbag brother for Richard Kavanagh’s murder.

She turned to the solicitor, who looked shaken, close to tears. ‘Break?’ And then to the men hoisting Perry to his feet. ‘Put him back in the cell, will you. And turn that bloody alarm off.’

Mitch was on the phone reporting back to Gill: no response at Greg Tandy’s address on Manton Road. According to probation records, Tandy was living there with his wife and son.

‘Try again in the morning,’ Gill said.

There was suddenly a crashing sound in the outer office and raised voices.

‘Night,’ she ended the call and flung open her office door. ‘What the fuck is going—’

Dave
. On his hands and knees trying to pick up the contents of Kevin’s desk, by the looks of it. Lee bending over him. Dave threw up an arm, holding a fistful of papers, released them on to the desk. Then saw her.

‘Gill.’ He practically dribbled the word. ‘I just wanted …’

She just wanted … to die. There and then. To disappear.

‘All right?’ Kevin stood at the door from the landing, coffee in hand, bemused.

‘Kevin, Lee,’ she said briskly, ‘I’ve got this.’ No introductions needed. They both knew Chief Superintendent Murray.

‘Shall I get a first-aider?’ Kevin said. ‘Or the paramedics?’

‘No need,’ Gill said.

‘Give you a hand,’ Kevin said, ‘my desk, don’t mind.’

Fuck off and die.
‘Kevin – thanks. No. Leave. Now. See you in the morning.’ The messages hit their target. Kevin stopped, Lee nodded, grabbed his jacket and left. Kevin trotted after him.

She could just imagine the conversation. The humiliation.

‘Get up,’ she told Dave, though maybe he’d be safer on his hands and knees. She couldn’t lift him. He was half her weight again. Probably more these days.

He levered himself upright using the desk as ballast. ‘Sit there,’ she pointed to Kevin’s chair, ‘and stay there.’

She went for coffee, praying that no one would come in meanwhile, no cleaners or any of her syndicate. Rachel and Janet were still interviewing. No one else was due back. She might get lucky. Lee and Kevin had seen the floorshow and although Lee might be tactful, respectful, Kevin was a gobby little git. He struggled at work and she’d ridden him hard and he’d probably see this as his chance for payback:
Lady Muck reckons she’s got it all under control, never puts a foot wrong, but her old man is a pisshead.

She went back upstairs with the drinks. Dave was where she’d left him. He smiled inanely when he saw her. She gave him a coffee. Told him to drink it.

‘Why are you here?’ She intended to be calm, to try to reason with him. Get him to understand the boundaries.

‘Sorry,’ he slurred. He reeked. 40 per cent proof in his veins instead of blood. ‘To say sorry, sorry for last night.’

‘Sorry? Look at you now.’

‘Got a taxi,’ he said, ‘not the car, no car.’ As though that made everything all right.

‘You come here, you barge into my office in front of my colleagues, you can’t even see straight, you stink like a brewery and you call this some sort of apology.’

‘Sorry,’ he said again.

‘You can’t do this, Dave. You are not part of my life any more.’

‘Just friends.’

‘No.’ She shook her head irritably. ‘Not friends. Not even that. Not anything. You left me, Dave. It’s over. It’s dead and buried. I’ve moved on and you need to do the same. And this, getting pissed out of your head, have you any idea what people think? Word gets round – and it will – you’ll be suspended.’

‘OK, OK.’ He waved his hands to shut her up. ‘You are out of control,’ she said, ‘sort it.’ She felt her temper rising, warmth in her face.

‘You don’t understand—’

‘You’ve got that right. And you need to understand …’ she said hotly, ‘… you need to understand that you are making a complete prick of yourself. You could lose everything.’

‘I already have,’ he said.

‘Oh, spare me the bloody melodrama.’

She began to clear up the stuff scattered over the floor, papers and pens and Post-it notes. Kevin’s in-tray, his Man United trinkets. Arranged them roughly on the desk.

‘Get up,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ She didn’t want to say ‘to your mother’s’, didn’t want to rub it in.

‘I can get a cab,’ he offered.

‘No.’ She didn’t trust him not to just head off to some pub or off-licence. At least if he got into the house he might sleep it off. God knows how his mother was coping with it. But that wasn’t Gill’s concern.

Dave went to stand up, failed, tried again and made it.

There was a dark patch round his crotch. Oh God, he’d pissed himself. He wasn’t even aware he’d done it. She felt her stomach drop, a moment’s sadness. This had gone way beyond the occasional bender. He had been a proud man, a vain man who thought he was cleverer than he really was. Sometimes a stupid, weak man, particularly where women were concerned. Now he was a wreck. How could he not see that, sense her disgust, want to stop it?

‘You come here again,’ she said, ‘off your face and I will have you escorted from the building and inform professional standards.’

12

Noel Perry requested a break after an hour and a half of denial and stonewalling. Janet went up to the incident room. She switched her phone on. Elise had replied to Janet’s earlier text which had read
Money in jar 4 taxi. Take extra £20 in case. Have fun xxx
. Elise’s reply:
LYSM
. Love You So Much. Did Rachel know that one? Janet liked to test her every so often.

Rachel was still in with Neil Perry but Gill had disappeared. No Lee or Kevin either; it was getting late but they always worked late on a murder. Kevin had left his desk in a right mess. There was a stapler on the floor nearby and a whiff of booze in the air. Had someone been spicing up their brew with a drop of the hard stuff? If Gill found out, they’d be off the syndicate so fast their feet wouldn’t touch the floor.

Janet drank some juice from the carton she kept in the fridge and checked her e-mails. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been totally alone in the office. It felt spooky. Like the Marie Celeste. Tired, she told herself, that’s all. She logged off and washed her cup. The tap made a clanking sound which startled her and brought a rash of gooseflesh to her arms.

When her phone rang, she was halfway downstairs, her footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.
Elise
.

‘Hi,’ Janet answered. Only ten o’clock. Had they not been able to find the party? Had they had enough?

‘Mum.’ Elise’s voice was high with panic. ‘Mum, it’s Olivia. I don’t know what to do. I can’t wake her up. Mum, please.’

Shock riveted Janet to the spot. She could hear noises in the background, voices, more distantly the thud of a bass line. A shout of laughter.

‘Where are you?’ Janet said.

‘At the party.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Olivia’s collapsed. I can’t wake her up.’

‘Why’s she collapsed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Elise said wildly, ‘I don’t know, she just … she just fell down.’

‘Call an ambulance—’

‘But—’

‘Elise, listen, call an ambulance and tell them exactly what happened. Stay with Olivia. Do whatever they tell you. Yes?’

‘Mum—’

‘I’m coming. What number is it?’

‘Sixty-four,’ she said, beginning to cry.

‘Elise, hang up and call the ambulance. Call them now.’ The line went dead.

Janet ran downstairs, heart in her mouth. She told the custody sergeant she was leaving, a family emergency, and to inform Noel Perry’s solicitor to attend the following morning at 9am for a 24-hour superintendent review. At that point, all being well, they’d be granted another twelve hours to talk to the Perrys, and if they needed yet more time then they’d go to court to apply for a further thirty-six hours.

Thankfully the lights were with her all the way as she drove as quickly as she dared to the address Elise had given her. Reaching the avenue – a development of upmarket three- and four-bedroom modern houses, with open-plan gardens – she saw the ambulance was already there and a patrol car as well. People outside the house, party-goers, Janet assumed, were drifting away in small groups.

The front door was ajar, all the lights on, inside more young people, and an atmosphere she recognized: the drained, worried faces, the stunned silence or muted comments.

‘Where’s Olivia Canning?’ she said to a couple sitting on the stairs. They both held bottles of Spanish beer, slices of lime wedged in the necks.

‘Through there,’ the girl said, nodding at a door towards the back of the house.

As Janet reached it, the door swung open and a uniformed cop came through. Behind him she glimpsed the high-vis jackets of paramedics.

‘Olivia Canning,’ Janet said.

‘You her mother?’ said the cop.

Janet shook her head. ‘My daughter’s with her. I’m DC Scott.’

He blinked, reassessing her. ‘They’re bringing her out soon. Taking her up to A&E.’

‘Do we know how—’ Janet began but he apologized, ‘Sorry, I need to get names and addresses.’

Janet stared at him.

‘She’s unresponsive,’ he said. He didn’t say any more. Janet swallowed, fought the fears crowding behind her breastbone. She went into the room.

‘Mum.’ Elise broke away from a group of teenagers huddled to the left of the room and came to Janet, who hugged her. Olivia lay on the floor on a stretcher. The paramedics had put an oxygen mask over her face, a cellular blanket around her.

‘Can you get the door?’ the nearest paramedic said.

Janet released Elise and pulled the door open.

‘Cheers,’ he said. They lifted the stretcher, releasing the wheels that turned it into a trolley, and guided it slowly through the entrance hall.

‘Which hospital?’ Janet asked.

‘Oldham General.’

‘Did you ring Vivien and Ken?’ Janet said to Elise.

Elise looked wrung out, puffy red nose, swollen lips, mascara smeared black under her eyes. She pressed her lips together and more tears came. ‘They’re away for the weekend,’ she said.

‘But you were staying … Oh God. Away where?’

‘Edinburgh,’ she squeaked.

‘They need to know, now!’ said Janet.

‘I don’t have their numbers.’

‘Christ!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘What? Spin me some story?’ Janet had almost rung Vivien to check she was happy about the arrangements. But she had trusted Elise. She took a deep breath. ‘Never mind about that now. We need to get to the hospital and get Vivien’s number from Olivia’s phone. She’s never collapsed like this before, has she?’ Janet studied her daughter’s face.

‘No.’

‘What was she drinking?’

‘Just cider.’

‘Just cider,’ Janet said. ‘How much cider?’

‘Not much,’ Elise said.

‘Did she take anything?’ Janet was vaguely aware of people in the room clearing up cans and dirty glasses.

‘No,’ Elise said. Too quickly. Janet looked at her; Elise wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘What did she take, Elise?’ Janet lowered her voice, repeated the question, ‘What did she take?’

‘It was legal, Mum.’

‘What?’

‘They call it Paradise.’

‘Paradise,’ Janet said. ‘Did you take it as well?’

‘Yes. It’s supposed to just give you more energy, a bit of a buzz.’

Janet felt like screaming.

‘Did you tell the paramedics?’

‘Yes.’

Thank God for that
. ‘Come on.’ Janet, her blood boiling, frightened and furious, led her daughter out into the hall.

They were stopped at the front door by the police officer. ‘I need your name and contact details,’ he said to Elise.

‘Elise Scott,’ she said. She gave her address and her mobile phone number.

‘And you rang the ambulance?’ he checked.

‘Yes.’

‘You accompanied Olivia to the party?’

‘Yes,’ Elise said.

As they got into the car and Janet started the engine it struck her that she’d seen no other middle-aged adults at the house. ‘Where are the boys’ parents?’ she said. ‘Weren’t they supposed to be supervising?’

‘They went to the theatre,’ Elsie said. ‘They’ll be back later.’

‘Bloody hell, Elise, was there anything else you lied about?’

Elise began to cry.
Christ
, Janet thought,
just let Olivia be all right, please. Let her be OK
.

Janet’s phone rang again while she was parking at the hospital. Unknown number.