Dead To Me - [2]

The DCI threw up her hands, bawled, ‘No exceptions, ma’am!’

‘Right, ma’am.’ Rachel should have automatically added a term of respect, either boss or ma’am or chief inspector. Failing to do so gave an impression of insubordination. You never knew with bosses what they’d favour: some wanted rank and only rank, others were on first-name terms with everyone. Rachel had decided when she got to fling her weight around she’d want to be called boss. Not ma’am like some minor royalty, an old trout in a tiara.

Gill Murray flailed her hands again, turned round on the spot, first one way then the other, as if she was doing some weird robotic dance, then stalked off back across the grass.

Rachel had imagined she’d be taller, tall and slim like Rachel herself. But Murray was more petite. Looked good for her age; must have fifteen years on Rachel. Perhaps she’d had some ‘work’ done.

Inside her jacket, Rachel could feel a prickle of sweat under her arms. Stuff her, she told herself, if I’d let her through without ID, I’d have been in for a bollocking by the crime-scene manager. ‘Procedure is there for a reason,’ the instructor had drilled into them at training, ‘because it works. Brains far mightier than yours have spent years identifying how we detect and prosecute crimes. You prat about, missing a step, trying to take a shortcut and nine times out of ten you’re handing our offender a get-off-scot-free card. Do it. Do it how it should be done. Do it right.’

The DCI arrived back, her mouth screwed up tight, thrust a lanyard with her warrant card at Rachel. Painted nails, Rachel noticed, scarlet talons. There was something birdlike about the woman. Hawkish, attractive, cheekbones like scalpels, but hawkish all the same.

‘DCI Gill Murray,’ the woman said, her eyes flashing. Or reptilian, Rachel thought: lizard, velociraptor.

‘Thank you,’ Rachel said. She pulled off one of her thermal gloves and made a note in the log.

‘And your name, Constable?’ Gill Murray said brusquely, pulling on her disposable gloves with a snap-snap.

Rachel took a breath. Oh God I am such a dick. She’s gonna what… report me for doing my job? ‘DC Rachel Bailey.’

‘Working out of…?’ Nose wrinkled, as if Rachel was something she’d found on her shoe.

‘Sex Crimes, boss.’

‘Line manager?’

‘John Sutton.’ Sutton the Glutton.

‘Right,’ the DCI said, a sharp jerk of her head and she stepped through to the crime scene.

Rachel put her glove back on, her fingertips stung with cold. She wanted a fag now; a fag, a pee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich. And a hole in the ground to hide in while Gilly-knickers dreamt up her punishment.

They told us there were no superior officers, Rachel thought; senior, but not superior. Reflecting a more democratic force. You weren’t supposed to say force any more either – too many connotations of police brutality and deaths in custody, riot gear. A service not a force, partnership with the people. Seemed they’d forgotten to tell Gill Murray she was no longer superior, treating Rachel like a kid who’d wet herself in assembly. I don’t care, Rachel told herself, screw her. Godzilla. But she did care really. She really, really cared, because Gill Murray – well, she’d been the one Rachel wanted to be. The one Rachel followed in the news, the one everybody agreed was a superb detective, an inspired strategist, a charismatic leader. Clever and forward-thinking. The one who had broken through the glass ceiling without a scratch to show for it. And hadn’t hauled the ladder up after her. Rachel had dreamed of meeting her, working with her someday. But now? She shook her head, annoyed, stamped her feet. The clouds were darkening, heavy and slate-coloured, blotting out the horizon. Sleet on the way. A kid on a bike circled at the edge of the outer cordon, stared over at her for a moment, then spat on the floor and swooped off.

Tosser, Rachel thought. Infanticide… killing by any wilful act or omission of a child under twelve months old…

The call came three weeks later. Rachel was processing papers for an indecency hearing. She’d got a head cold and it felt as though all the cavities in her skull were filled with heavy-duty glue and her throat with sand. She was still in work. Never took a sickie: she might miss something.

Her phone rang and she picked it up. ‘DC Bailey.’ Checked the time, pen poised over her daybook.

‘Rachel – Gill Murray.’ Clipped, bossy.

Rachel waited for the blow to land. Drew a noose in her notebook.

‘I want you in my syndicate, week on Monday, Chadderton. Shift starts at eight.’

2

‘RACHEL BAILEY.’

She said it like a threat, thought Janet, studying the woman who slammed her bag down on the desk facing hers and looked about as if disgruntled at what she found.

‘DC,’ Rachel Bailey added, and message delivered, gave a nod. Sat down.

‘Janet Scott,’ Janet said.

‘Yeah, she said she wanted to put me with you.’

Oh, joy. Janet kept her expression open, pleasant, as she wondered what on earth Gill was playing at. They were already carrying Kevin, a knob who did knobby things, as a favour to Gill’s mate on one of the other syndicates. And now she pitches up with a kid who has far too much attitude, a half-sneer on her face, and should have gone into modelling or lap-dancing, got the looks for it, and dumps her on Janet.