Told him what? She was off her trolley.
‘He’s going to come back now. I promised.’
‘I can protect you,’ Rachel said, trying to get on the same wavelength. ‘I haven’t told anybody anything. It was Martin Dalbeattie, Rosie, wasn’t it?’
‘Martin?’ Bewildered, she gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ she said, little gulps as she spoke. ‘You shouldn’t have come – he’ll know, he’ll come back.’ She looked round the room, her eyes darting this way and that, seeing terrors at every turn. ‘You get out! You’ve brought them in.’ Them? Who’s them? Rosie jabbed the knife towards Rachel, who edged away. The angry cuts on the girl’s arm were slashes, but now she was making a stabbing motion. Her breath fast, and shallow, hyperventilating.
Rachel was pretty sure she could overpower her, but whether she could do it and avoid Rosie injuring herself, she was uncertain. She was empowered under the Mental Health Act to detain someone for their own safety when they were in immediate risk of serious harm to themselves or anyone else. This was that sort of call. Rachel was no psychiatrist, but Rosie was mad as a box of frogs. ‘Will you come with me, Rosie?’ Rachel said simply, as though she needed her hand holding. ‘I can take you somewhere safe.’
Rosie gave a laugh or a sob, hard to tell. ‘You lying bitch – you brought them here.’
‘Brought who?’
‘All the devils.’
Oh, fuck: loonytunes. ‘You don’t feel safe here, we don’t have to stay. We can go together – my car’s downstairs. You’ll have to leave the knife, though. I’ll take you to a doctor.’
‘Get out!’ Rosie yelled and leapt. Rachel jumped back, but not quick enough to prevent the knife catching the edge of her left hand. Bringing a stinging pain then a throb, nauseating as the blood welled up.
Rosie seized the chance to slam the living-room door.
Rachel was through it in a second, but already Rosie was at the balcony doors, pulling them open.
As she ran, Rachel called to the girl, ‘Rosie wait, come in, wait.’ The wind snatched at her cries, so she had no idea if Rosie heard them. The girl never hesitated; still clutching the knife, she scrambled up over the balcony wall and fell.
Rachel ran to the balcony, looked down, saw the bundle that was Rosie on the tarmac below. Felt her own heart clench and burn, tears start in her eyes. Oh, you daft, bloody bitch.
She ran down the stairs, jumping two and three at a time, feeling sick.
There was nothing she could do for the girl.
No sound, it was so quiet, just Rachel’s breath coming fast. She wanted to run. To run as far as she could and hide herself away. She could feel the impulse in her legs, in the back of her skull. Quick! Now! Go! Panic rising through her, high and fierce. She clamped down on all those reactions. In case of sudden death report to Division…
She called an ambulance, then Janet – she didn’t know who else to try. Janet answered, sounding wary: ‘Rachel?’
‘Janet…’ Choking up, she couldn’t speak, she bit her cheek hard, fought hard to keep from breaking down.
‘Rachel? You OK? What’s going on?’
‘I fucked up,’ Rachel cried.
‘Where are you?’
27
RACHEL WAS HUDDLED under a blanket, trembling like a leaf. She looked up at Janet, an expression of bitter regret on her face.
‘You all right?’ Janet said.
What do you think? Rachel thought.
‘What went on here?’
Rachel told her, fractured sentences, covering her eyes with the heels of her hands on occasion. ‘I am in such deep shit,’ Rachel said.
‘What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that they were both at Ryelands, I was thinking they both had the same social worker. All I wanted was for Rosie to tell me if I was on the right track.’
‘Did she?’
Rachel groaned. ‘No. But she was mad as a bat. I was going to get her sectioned. She wasn’t fit to be left on her own. Then she did the high-dive routine.’
‘Let’s get you to hospital, have that seen to.’ Janet meant the cut on her arm.
‘No,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s fine.’
‘Are your jabs up to date?’
‘Yeah.’
Janet fetched her first-aid kit and began to dress the wound. The cut, just like Lisa, and for a crazy moment Rachel wondered if Rosie had killed Lisa. As soon as she looked closer at that scenario, it fell apart: Rosie was ill, paranoid, she could barely function. Rachel couldn’t see her travelling a couple of miles to Lisa’s, killing her and running away. She was a thousand times more likely to hurt herself rather than another person. Or to be hurt. And now both those things had happened.
‘Oh, Christ!’
Gill was across the other side of the square, bearing down on Rachel like a drone. She stopped close by and Janet stepped aside.
‘Do you go looking for trouble, or does it just find you?’ Gill snapped.
Rachel didn’t think she expected an answer.
‘The rape case?’ Gill said.
Who’d told her? Rachel looked up, startled. Gill had done her homework fast. ‘Rosie Vaughan, seventeen, attacked here – well, her flat, up there,’ Rachel said. All the lights were on now. People rubber-necking. Regular circus. ‘Back in 2008. Downstairs neighbour called us after hearing screams. She’d been half-killed, beaten to a pulp, raped at knifepoint. Not sure of the sequence. She spoke a little at first, gibberish some of it, but that’s how we knew about the knife. We got her to St Mary’s, did a rape exam. He used a condom, but there were traces.’ Hard to batter someone so comprehensively and not leave some traces behind. ‘Then she closed down, refused to make a statement, wouldn’t cooperate. We built a DNA profile of the suspect, no match – left on file. The neighbour opposite, on her landing, was considered but didn’t fit the DNA. Strong suspicion she knew her attacker and so wouldn’t dob him in.’
Gill rubbed her hands together briskly against the cold.
‘She was at Ryelands, too,’ Rachel said, studying her feet. Waiting for the lash to fall.
‘And you ran this by me, when?’ Gill clapped her hands. ‘Oops, sorry. Never. That right?’
‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said. She’d lose her job, be in uniform on the beat for the rest of her career.
‘I am your SIO. What do those letters stand for?’
‘Senior investigating officer.’
They were erecting screens around Rosie’s body. There would have to be an inquiry, a full IPCC investigation, a sudden death, even with Rachel’s account to go on; a post-mortem would be required to confirm cause of death, an inquest held to establish the material facts. A forum for the family to get their questions answered. What family? The mother who’d ruined her? Who’d mourn for her? The dozy lads she got high with at the canal?
‘Senior investigating officer,’ Gill went on. ‘That means I run the team. Yes?’ Her fury was barely contained.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘This is my syndicate, you are my DC.’
Were. She’d soon be using the past tense.
‘The safety of my officers is my primary concern. You are my responsibility. I do not expect my DCs to start freelancing on the side. No forethought, no strategy, no backup. No fucking sense.’
Rachel couldn’t work out whether the correct response was Yes, boss, or No, boss, so she made do with, ‘Boss.’ She was shivering, cold in her bones.
The air felt icy with each breath. She had flown downstairs, leaping three or four steps at a time on to the landings, heart smacking like a jackhammer, mind chanting No no no no no! Oh, Rosie, you daft mare.
Rosie had landed spreadeagled, the glaring light reflecting the pool of blood around her head. Her glasses beside her, the gauzy dress riffling in the faint breeze. Rachel reached her, felt for her pulse as she keyed in her mobile. Ascertain signs of life. None there.