Dead To Me - [7]
Other people went numb, they listened and they nodded and didn’t utter a peep. They were polite and cooperative, but when you looked in their eyes there was no one home. They were absent, hiding. Then there were the ones that shot the messenger, tried to shut the door on them, and if they couldn’t do that in time, told them to fuck off, even lashed out, pinching, slapping, shoving.
Janet once had a cup of tea flung at her. A woman whose son had been killed in a homophobic attack. Five of them kicked him to death. When Janet broke the news, the woman had flinched, twisting her head to and fro as if trying to escape the facts she’d just heard, then reached for her mug and hurled the contents at Janet. The tea was hot but not boiling. Though she reared back, Janet had not cried out. She had simply wiped at her face and repeated her condolences, then assured the woman that they would find the people who had done it and put them in prison for life. And the woman had sat, shaking uncontrollably, the sound of her teeth chattering clear and loud in the stuffy room.
Where the victim was embroiled in violent crime already, the next of kin often knew before you said a word. He’s dead, isn’t he? The stupid fucking bastard. And behind the ruptured words all the years of effort and loving and arguing and fighting and the bitter knowledge that this was how it would end and now it had. I told him. Never listened – silly sod wouldn’t have it.
Most were shocked, bewildered, sometimes tearful. It was important to keep things simple, straightforward, to give the minimum amount of information possible, because at that point in time dead, murdered, was all they needed to know. That in itself was overload. The torrent of whys and hows and whens and who and why, why, why came later.
‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ Rachel said, in the car. ‘I’ve done a couple.’ It was pitch-dark now, the temperature dropping; there’d be freezing fog on the hills.
Janet glanced at her. ‘No, you’re fine,’ she said, after a pause.
Rachel considered whether to argue for it. She wondered if Janet was going to be one of those greedy gits who kept all the good stuff for herself so it would take Rachel twice as long to get the experience she needed. Women were still a minority in the service, especially at higher ranks, and most of the ones Rachel had worked with were good teachers, making sure other women coming after them had the same bite of the cherry as their male colleagues, encouraging them to specialize, to set their sights on moving up. There was a lot of mentoring went on. But Janet Scott? Maybe Rachel was a threat? Rachel considered asking her to stop so she could have a fag, but what if she said no? She’d have one after they’d informed the family, Janet could hardly drive off and leave her there without proving herself to be a right cow.
Denise Finn lived in Harpurhey, a short bus ride from Lisa’s, a two-up, two-down. Garden terraces, the estate agents called them, flying in the face of all the evidence. They had no gardens, only titchy backyards that originally housed the outside bog.
The street was still, quiet when they got out of the car, people tucked in, keeping warm. Here and there, where the curtains hadn’t been drawn at upper windows, the neon blue of televisions and computers flickered and swam. The windows at Denise’s were dark, but the hall light was on and the diamond of glass in the front door glowed yellow.
There was no bell or knocker, so Janet rattled the letter box.
Rachel looked up; no stars in the sky, just the blanket of fog. They heard movement in the house. Then a shadow rippled behind the glass in the door.
‘Denise Finn?’ Janet said when the door opened. ‘I’m DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police, and this is DC Rachel Bailey. May we come in?’
‘Why?’ the woman asked. She looked to be in her fifties, her face lined, nose and cheeks criss-crossed with broken veins, jawline softening, grey hair mixed with the brown. Her hair was frizzy, brittle. Her glasses magnified her eyes. She wore a black sweater that had seen better days and navy joggers. 10 Years Younger, thought Rachel, prime candidate. Ten years older once she’s heard what we’ve got to tell her.
‘We’d like to come in,’ Janet said, moving forward, giving the woman no choice but to back away and turn, taking them through the front room, past the open stairs and into the back where the television was showing Emmerdale. The house smelled of cigarettes and chip fat and some floral chemical, air freshener perhaps, that made Rachel want to gag.
Denise stood there. ‘What’s going on?’ She picked up the remote, muted the television. ‘Is it our Lisa? Is she in bother again?’
‘Please, Mrs Finn, sit down,’ Janet said.
The woman frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it. Sat on the sofa; Janet sat beside her. The woman still held the remote, gripped tight in both hands.
