Ruthless
Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
About the Book
A community on the brink.
An abandoned chapel burns. In this part of Manchester, destruction is not unusual. But this time, the body of a man lies inside.
And it’s down to Scott and Bailey to save them all...
Detective Constable Rachel Bailey is struggling to come to terms with huge change, just as her partner, DC Janet Scott grapples with a horrifying tragedy. But they must put aside their own troubles if they are to solve this murder investigation. Especially when a second building goes up in flames...
Contents
RUTHLESS
Cath Staincliffe
For Ellie, who lights up my life
Wednesday 9 May
1
Rachel stopped at the brow of the hill to catch her breath, a stitch in her side and sweat trickling down her back. Panting, she bent double, touched her toes then straightened up.
It was almost dark and she watched the streetlights come on in the valley below, delineating the ring road and the motorway and the web of residential streets that sprawled up the sides of the hills. Mills and churches and tower blocks were dotted here and there, rising among the terraced housing.
She hadn’t brought a torch and the track back to the car would be treacherous in the gloom, rutted and riven by tree roots and the gnarled heather that clung to the slope.
Rachel felt something nip her neck and waved a hand to swat it away. Gnats.
As the darkness deepened it seemed to bring a silence with it, an interruption of the distant traffic sounds so she could hear the tick of the ground cooling and something rustle in the foliage behind her.
A flash of black disturbed the air by her face and she cried out then felt like a right tit. A bat, that was all. Fetching its supper.
The glow caught her eyes, down in the west of town. A rich orange that reminded her of bonfire night. Looked too big to be a bonfire, wrong time of year – May. Perhaps a car had been torched, the petrol tank going up in flames. Joyriders, some lowlife toe-rags, getting rid of a vehicle used in a robbery.
Looks bigger than that, too
, she thought, flinching slightly as the bat swooped past again.
A shriek carried on the still air, high and hoarse. Fox, owl? Some predator. She felt her muscles stiffen in her calves and kicked each foot in turn. Time to head back. The thought brought a sullen burn in her guts. Daft. She was just being daft.
As if on cue, her mobile trilled. She yanked it from her pocket.
Sean
on the display. Her husband. How the fuck had that happened? She knew of course. He asked her and she said no, joked with him, shagged him, kept saying no and he kept on asking until one day, everything else gone to shit and he was still there, kind, shaggable, cheering her on and she had buckled, said yes, defences down.
She read the text:
spag carbonara half an hour x
.
He was more of a pie and chips, kebab and onion rings bloke. Born on the same estate in Langley as she was. Dragged up like Rachel and her lot had been. And like Rachel he escaped into the police. But since the wedding he’d gone all Jamie Oliver on her. Trying out this and that. Rachel hadn’t a clue why. She’d be just as happy with egg and chips or burger and beans but she went along with it. A phase, she reckoned. Least Sean never had any expectations that she’d be cooking or ironing his boxers or any of that malarkey. That was one thing they had going: he knew the score. He was a PC, the fire-fighting side of crime, out on patrol, while she was a detective on MIT, investigating murder and serious assault.
She texted him back:
OK x
. Considered putting a smiley face instead. Kisses on texts seemed adolescent – well, on texts to Sean anyway. And they weren’t kids, were they, not now? But they’d had a thing back then, from time to time, when there was nothing better on offer.
She ran as hard as she could on the path back down, savouring the feeling of speed and power, feet thudding and her heart beating fast in her chest. If she could just keep running, how great would that be? To just go, leave it all behind, Sean and her mother and her brother Dominic. Except for the job, she didn’t want to leave the job. Or Janet, who she worked alongside.
Halfway down she pitched forward, her left foot catching on a stone, she yelled out, slammed into the ground with a jarring thud. She staggered to her feet. Her knees stung. She took a couple of deep breaths then carried on.
At the car, she saw the dark slashes of blood on her knees. Nothing to worry about. She ran a towel over her face and neck, her arms.
The route back to her flat,
their flat
, she reminded herself, took her through Manorclough, where the blaze she’d seen from the tops was still raging. One of the buildings was on fire. Curious, she parked in the car park at the small shopping precinct and walked past the shops and on to the road where the fire was.
She knew the area. They’d done a few jobs roundabout here in her time: a domestic where the bloke had paid a mate to knife his ex, to teach her a lesson for chucking him out; and the rape and murder of an elderly woman.
Closer to the blaze, the stench of the fire filled the air and she could see fire tenders at the scene, three of them, as she walked up the road. Uniformed officers were keeping the crowd away from the site. The Old Chapel, she realized, now belching clouds of acrid smoke into the air, the inferno roaring. Hoses were spraying water but bright flames were still visible through the holes in the roof and the windows where the shutters had burned away.
Fire always drew a crowd, a spectacle and free at that. It hadn’t been a chapel for ages. Probably closed back in the seventies and she remembered it was a carpet place for a while then that went bust. Rachel had no idea what it was used for now, if anything. The state of the grounds, neglected and overgrown behind the wire fencing, and the holes in the roof suggested it was derelict. Just begging for some fire-starter to come along and set light to it.
She looked at the crowd. Whole families, mum with a pram and a bunch of kids around. Teenagers, some of them filming with their phones. A few older people too; one man had made it with his Zimmer, determined to be at the party. A lad on a BMX bike, stunt pegs on the rear wheel. Dom had wanted one of them, their dad had played along but they all knew the only way it would happen was if it was robbed. So it never happened. Rachel had found an old racing bike at the tip and dragged it home and Sean had begged new tyres off a cousin and they’d done it up for Dominic. Never had working brakes but Dom was made up.
All we need is an ice cream van
, she thought,
or toffee apples
. A loud cracking sound and the crowd responded, oohing and aahing, as part of the roof collapsed and fell inside the building sending fresh flames and sparks heavenwards. Rachel shivered, damp from her run and not near enough to the heat from the fire.
She should go. She hated the word
should
. She
would
go. Get some grub, glass of wine, swap news of the working day with Sean. She was already late.
As Rachel went back to the car she caught a different smell on the air, the stink of skunk, dark and pungent. Saw two figures walking away down the alley next to the old dole office, hoodies up, slogan emblazoned on the back in Gothic typeface,
CLASS OF 88
and an outline of an eagle. More interested in getting smashed than watching the fire. Or maybe they’d just gone to get refreshments at the shops for the next round. The dole office closed down some years back. People had to travel into town to sign on nowadays.
‘I’ll zap it,’ Sean said, when she apologized for being late, ‘you get a shower, no worries. What have you done to your knees?’
‘It’s nothing, I tripped, that’s all.’
‘You want to clean it.’ He peered closer, touched the side of her leg.
‘Don’t fuss,’ she snapped. Then felt awful for the edge in her voice. ‘I’m fine. Big girl.’
‘In all the right places,’ he winked. Not put off his stride at all.
Why couldn’t she just relax? She had it all, didn’t she? Job, flat, fella? The run was supposed to get rid of it, the tension, the irritation, the sickening sense of disappointment. Only weeks since they wed, this was meant to be the honeymoon period. Instead she felt trapped, stuck and restless. She kept waiting for Sean to go but he was here, always bloody here.
Give it time, she thought, I need to get used to it. Too comfortable with her own company, too used to her own way of doing things, to her hard-won independence. So she sat and ate pasta and shared a bottle of wine and listened to Sean. She smiled and nodded and chewed and swallowed and kept on breathing. And they went to bed and shagged and then she lay in the dark, listening to him breathe. Wondering what the fuck was wrong with her.
Day 1
Thursday 10 May
2
Janet was making packed lunches, cheese and tomato butty for Elise, peanut butter for Taisie, crisps, apples, fruit juice, muesli bars. She snapped each lunchbox shut and set them on the counter by the door. She probably ought to get the girls to do their own, they were old enough, but she’d not got round to talking to them about it. Best to discuss it first with Ade, who made the lunches more often than Janet, as he didn’t need to leave the house as early as she did. Better to present them with a united front. Not that there had been much unity since he’d moved back in. He seemed to disagree with her at every chance he got. Still punishing her.
She tried to be conciliatory, play the penitent, smooth the waters but it rankled. She heard the slam of the letter box, the thud as the paper hit the mat, Ade’s footsteps coming downstairs. He was scanning the front page as he came into the kitchen, his hair wet from the shower, smelling of deodorant. In his teacher’s garb, white shirt, navy tie, black trousers. He always wore a tie. School expected staff as well as students to conform to their dress code. Smart, respectable. Dull, a little voice whispered in her head.
‘I’ve done their lunches,’ Janet said.
‘Right.’ He put the paper down. Janet took her breakfast, a round of toast and a cup of coffee, to the table. Read the headlines upside down,
GROOMING GANG GUILTY
, while Ade filled the kettle and put bread in the toaster.
‘Mum?’ Elise, still in her pyjamas, stood at the door. ‘This party. Can I go?’
‘Yes,’ Janet said.
‘No,’ said Ade.
‘We’ve not had time to discuss it.’ Janet took a bite of her toast.
‘What do you need to discuss?’ said Elise.
‘Whether you can go,’ Janet said.
Ade poured water into coffee. ‘Whose party is it anyway?’
‘A friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘John Planter – well, his brother,’ Elise said.
‘We don’t know them,’ Janet said.
‘So? Please?’
‘Look, we don’t have time to talk about it now,’ Janet said.
‘Olivia is going. We can share a taxi back to hers.’
‘Where is it?’ Ade said.
‘Middleton.’
‘Middleton where?’ he said.
‘Don’t know.’
‘What’s the party for?’ Janet said.
‘Why does it have to be for anything? It’s just a party, God!’
‘Look,’ Ade said, ‘if you want to go, here’s what you do: you find out exactly who is having it, what they’re called, where they live. Whether their parents will be there to supervise.’