Dead To Me - [29]

‘I’ll give you that.’

‘I am not going to be that woman who stands by her man, smile glued in place,’ Gill said.

‘Whatever happens, you’ll be all right. You’ve got a fantastic job, you’ve got Sammy, you’ve got mates.’

‘And a big fuck-off house,’ Gill added. ‘He’s not getting his paws on that.’

‘Can you afford to buy him out?’

‘Probably not, but I’m not losing that house. I’ll live on bread and dripping first. Take in lodgers, anything. But I’ll keep that house.’

‘Good,’ Janet said.

And I have, Gill thought now. Still here, living and breathing. She opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of milk. Took it through and sat down on the sofa. Sammy moved over, raising his feet so she could massage them.

‘You showered?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Forget it then.’

He laughed and slid his legs off her knees.

Gill smiled and turned her attention to the screen where one of the characters was going into meltdown. She should make a date with Janet. Hard with so much on, but you let things slide and when you finally look up your social life has curled up in a corner and died. Yes, she’d do that. Time they had a proper catch-up.

15

RACHEL AND KEVIN walked the streets around Shudehill, identifying cameras before visiting the monitoring centre to download the relevant files. Lee, as exhibits officer, checked the downloads in and then Rachel and Kevin settled in for the duration. Sitting side by side, with a screen each, running film from different cameras, aiming to retrace Lisa’s movements back through town. Rachel found her on the footage within ten minutes of starting, found Kasim’s cab first, on Shudehill at 13.06, opposite the bus station. Played the tape backwards to see Lisa stepping out of the taxi, with a load of shopping bags in her hands. The taxi reversing away and Lisa setting the bags down on the pavement. Rachel’s pulse gave a jump. Yes! ‘Someone’s had fun,’ she said.

That was by far the easiest part of the task. It had taken another hour and a half, by which point Rachel’s back was killing her and she was gagging for a smoke, to find Lisa coming out of the Arndale, down the big steps, on Cross Street. To trace the movements inside the complex, they needed to view the separate footage from the retailers’ cameras. Kevin rang and put in a request via the security manager there.

Rachel could have gone home then, she knew she probably should have gone home then, but should was a word she refused to kowtow to. It’s worth checking out, she told herself. All my own time. If it’s a dead end who’s to know?

She could still remember where Rosie Vaughan had lived, a block of flats in New Moston. She could still remember her first glimpse of the girl, the misshapen face, the bloodied eye, split lips, the bruises that marked her body. The smell of shit. Rosie had soiled herself in the course of the beating.

A neighbour had called them – not the pervy one but the tenant below who had heard shouts and screams above the noise from the television. Unable to get a response and with reason to believe there was a risk of harm, the police had broken in. The assailant had gone by then.

Now Rachel parked and made her way to the entrance, didn’t have to wait long for someone to leave the building and let her into the foyer. Once inside she chose the stairwell over the lift. Stepped over the chip papers and lager cans that littered the half-landings. She could smell the concrete and piss and a trace of gunpowder. Kids messing with fireworks.

Rachel knocked on the door and listened. Heard only vacant silence. And from somewhere down below a dog barking, rapid and gruff.

She knocked again, louder, and the door across the hall opened, the pervy bloke appeared. ‘She’s probably out,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. Was he trying to place her? Rachel hadn’t ever interviewed the man, she’d dealt with Rosie mainly.

‘Rosie?’ Rachel said, needed to check she still lived in the block, that they were talking about the same person.

‘You can come in and wait,’ he leered, scratching at his chest.

Jesus, she could smell him from here. The sweet stench of human grime. His fingernails were black with dirt. Food crumbs in his beard. Rachel tensed, ready to run, or knee the bloke if he lunged for her. ‘Where would she be?’

He’d mad eyes, glittering like beads. ‘The canal, or maybe the old chapel.’

Rachel walked off, not too quickly, not prepared to let him think he’d rattled her, but on her toes, ready. He didn’t follow.

She reached the canal on foot, it ran behind the flats. The street lighting was brutal, an attempt to improve security. The water between the stone banks looked oily in the glare. Smelled pungent in the cold air. The canal was full of rubbish, plastic bags and bottles, chunks of polystyrene. There was no one about, but ahead on the left she saw the bridge and a glow of yellow flickering in the tunnel underneath. A fire.

She walked, as quietly as she could, along the towpath and drawing closer made out a group of people huddled round the flames. Three lads, and at the far side of the semicircle, Rosie. Stick thin, ginger hair, glasses, a denim jacket. She didn’t even have a hat on, though it was close to freezing.