No one about. It was dreamlike. The harsh lighting, the frosted air and no one appeared. Falling bodies made a noise, there would have been a thump, a sickening moist sound from the impact. But they were all alone, no bystanders drawn to gawp and chunter, just Rachel and the dead girl. For a laughable moment Rachel wondered if she really might be dreaming and she’d wake up at home or in Nick’s bed and the fist in the pit of her stomach would disappear, the anxiety melt away.
‘Rachel?’
Rachel looked from the screens and back to Gill, whose breath streamed out of her nostrils white: dragon’s smoke. ‘Complaints will want to see you soon as. Don’t come in until you’re ready. They can wait, if needs be. Something like this – you’re going to feel crap.’
You’re not exactly helping.
Gill gave another puff of breath. ‘Forty-eight hours and you’ve totalled one of our cars, apparently launched your own private investigation, presented us with a jumper to explain…’ Meaning Rosie ‘… and brought the IPCC rummaging through my knicker drawer. Far too much attention.’
Rachel wanted to weep, her eyes ached, but she sniffed hard, rubbed at her face. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
‘Occupational health – there if you need them.’ Gill held up her hands, as if she was shoving Rachel away, disowning her, turned on her heels and walked back the way she’d come.
Janet invited her for a drink.
‘Haven’t you a home to go to?’ Rachel said.
‘They’ll survive,’ Janet said.
She took her to a pub, an old-fashioned place with a real fire and lots of little rooms. No bells or whistles.
‘Wine, lager, vodka…?’
‘Wine. Red, please.’ Then she felt a wave of sadness. Why was Janet being so nice to her? She’d really, really messed up. Rachel’s throat closed. She tried to swallow.
Janet noticed. Eagle eyes. ‘Hey, go sit down.’
‘She was only nineteen,’ Rachel said, when Janet set their drinks on the table. ‘I thought I could talk her into-’
‘Did you push her off?’
‘No.’
‘Threaten her?’
‘No – I tried to get her out of there, get her sectioned.’
‘So, it’s not your fault.’
Rachel still felt lousy. ‘But if I’d-’
Janet gave a snort. ‘That way lies madness.’
Rachel took a mouthful of wine. She wanted a fag, but she’d have to go and stand in the cold and she couldn’t face that yet. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘if you want Gill to reassign me…’
‘Don’t be daft. She came down hard on you because she cares about her team. You put yourself at risk, that’s what’s freaking her out – not what happened to Rosie. No one could have foreseen that. She jumped – she wasn’t pushed.’
‘But-’
‘Look, you’re a liability. You’re disorganized, you don’t think things through, you don’t know when to keep your gob shut, you’re tactless, and you’re not much of a team player. You can be rude and patronizing and arrogant…’
Rachel blinked. ‘Don’t hold back,’ she managed.
‘… and you’re judgemental. But Gill thinks you’ve got potential. And in among the Evel Knievel stunt, the unauthorized visits and the slagging off of our victims’ relatives, I can see that she might just be on to something. So, I’ll put up with you as long as she does.’
All of five minutes then. Rachel wondered if she should justify her downer on Denise, but that would mean talking about her own mother swanning off without a backward glance, leaving three kids with a drunken excuse for a man. And Rachel didn’t want pity or understanding or shrinks or questions. Besides, Janet was a mother herself, so she could get all defensive or righteous or, even worse, go all gooey and brain-dead, the way Alison did when children came into the conversation.
‘You rate Gill, don’t you?’ Rachel said.
‘She’s the best,’ Janet replied.
‘But you’re mates, too. Did you train together?’
Janet paused a moment. ‘No. Met not long after.’ Rachel expected more, but Janet didn’t elaborate. They talked about the murder instead.
‘Look – Martin Dalbeattie…’ Rachel said.
Janet shook her head, ‘God. You’re like a terrier!’
‘In a good way?’
Janet raised her eyebrows, ‘Depends if you’ve found a rat or you’re savaging next door’s guinea pig.’
28
ON THE DRIVE home, Gill tried to shake off the anger zapping about inside. What a cock-up! The girl playing Nancy fucking Drew and landing them with another dead body. Not that her syndicate would take it. Division would investigate and conclude no foul play, unless someone had a brainstorm and fancied Rachel for it.
She needed to decompress before she got home. The bloody gall of it! They’re all working their arses off and Miss Marple’s sneaking around on her own shiny new line of inquiry without having the decency to inform her colleagues. You wanna be in my gang, you stay loyal. That’s what it was like: being stabbed in the back. And Gill had history in that department.
When she caught Dave cheating, she’d been wounded, deep inside. As though the whole marriage had been a sham. Work was her salvation. Work and Sammy. But it became apparent that she’d have to resign; her role in the crime faculty took her away from home, all over the country as a matter of course. And she could be away for long periods, assisting regional forces with particularly taxing murders. It was high-profile work, demanding, painstaking, exhilarating. She loved it. The sense of being that good, of being in an élite unit of detectives with skill and experience so highly regarded. But without Dave, all the parenting, all the school stuff and the family arrangements, all the daily chores would fall on her shoulders. And much as she loved her job, she loved her boy and she needed to be there for him.
The day she handed in her resignation had been the low point. Her boss had expressed great disappointment, promising her that if she ever had the desire to return there’d be an open door for her. Her colleagues took her out for a boozy lunch and she got a taxi back to the digs where they were staying.
That afternoon she had walked to the promenade in nearby Cleethorpes, the wind brisk, smelling of brine and seaweed and candy floss. She’d carried on walking past the pier and on to the wide sands, a handful of figures scattered here and there. She had taken off her socks and shoes and stood at the water’s edge. The North Sea was cold, numbing her feet and stinging her ankles. Gulls wheeled above, their harsh cries competing with the thundering waves.
Gill retreated up the beach, to the top of one of the groynes, the lines of rocks that divided the sands and protected against coastal erosion. She sat there till it grew dark. Mourning. For her marriage, for her job. Salt in her hair and on her face.
Then, stiff and cold and thirsty, she went back to pack. Ready for the morning train home. To pick up the pieces, determined not to let that cheating bastard ruin her life.
But the worst moment? Oh, God, worse even than finding them in bed – it still made her feel ill. Three weeks after she had walked in on Dave and his bimbo, Gill and he sat down to talk. She was expecting him to beg forgiveness, plead for a second chance, him thinking that she’d be keen to save the marriage. He had another think coming. Gill had been to a solicitor to obtain advice on her legal rights and how to proceed if she wanted to keep the marital home and ditch Dave, as well as information on his obligations where Sammy’s maintenance was concerned. She’d told Sammy his dad was on a training course. They’d not seen each other since she’d finished in Grimsby and come back to Shaw. Unless he’d heard it on the grapevine, he wouldn’t know she’d resigned from the faculty. Dave had been staying somewhere else; at his mother’s, she assumed. Unless the uniform had taken him in. She couldn’t see that working for them. A roll in the hay with one of the lower orders was a whole different prospect from sharing a laundry basket, a microwave and a cheap double bed. Hell, the girl probably still lived at home. Her parents not best pleased with her seeing a man over twenty years older. A forty-eight-year-old. A married forty-eight-year-old with a teenage son.