Her mum put up her hand. ‘We’ll manage.’ She was stubborn over money and would never spend anything she saw as unnecessary. Came from years of watching the pennies. Sometimes it drove Janine nuts – it wasn’t as if she and Pete struggled. They had enough money – just too little time.
The Lemon reacted pretty much as she had anticipated.
‘Three?! Good God woman, the intention is to narrow down the number of suspects not keep adding to the collection.’ He gave an exasperated sigh.
‘Sir.’
‘This case. If it’s too much, in your condition…’
How bloody dare he! She gave him an icy stare. She noticed his computer had crashed again. Well, he could stay in virtual limbo for ever as far as she was concerned.
‘O’Halloran’s winding up the airport thing now. He should be clear by midweek. He can take the wheel if you’ve not made significant headway.’
She didn’t trust herself to speak. He couldn’t take the case off her. He couldn’t! She sat mutinous, feeling her blood rising. Watching him sneer and carp.
‘Cut to the chase, Janine. We are committed to an eight percent improvement in clear up rate, by next month. One cock-up and we’ll all be under the magnifying glass. You’ve got forty-eight hours.’
She finally lost it. Not prepared any longer to tug her forelock and toe the line. Just what exactly was his problem? She got to her feet. ‘Why are you constantly undermining me?’
He stared at her, incredulous.
‘Rather we take it to Human Resources?’ she challenged him. Knowing he’d loathe that, an internal enquiry asking him to account for his behaviour. Though of course she’d have to fight like hell to get personnel to touch it. Why couldn’t he just let her get on with the job? ‘I’m a detective she began, raising her voice, ‘why can’t you-’
‘I was a detective,’ he let rip, ‘thirty-five years – and this,’ he swept his arms at the computer, the piles of paperwork, ‘performance reviews, financial audits, measurable outcomes. I’m buried alive.’ The veins on his forehead stood out, his teeth were bared. He was livid. ‘The force – you – it’s all changed.’
‘So, is that my fault?’ she demanded.
Silence. Then he broke eye contact, acknowledging with a dip of his head that she made fair comment.
‘I’ll get back to work,’ she said, and he made no move to stop her going.
It was like a double whammy. Still shaken by the confrontation with The Lemon, Janine walked into the murder room to hear Shap, in the process of scanning the CCTV footage, sounding off to all and sundry.
‘Serial shagger, that’s why Wendy dumped him. Anything in a skirt. Ten quid says he’ll have scored by the weekend.’
She flinched. Was that what she was? Someone for Richard to practise his technique on. Anything in a skirt. She felt sick. Of course he didn’t really fancy her. She should have known as much.
‘Morning,’ she announced her presence. Went over to study the board where Butchers was laboriously updating information in his slow, neat script.
Richard came in then. She nodded at him, keeping it cool.
‘Two days,’ she told them all. ‘I’ve just come from The Lemon and we’ve got two days and then he’s bringing O’Halloran in and your lives won’t be worth living.’
They didn’t like that. Shap cursed, Butchers flung his marker down, Richard groaned.
Jade was halfway dressed before the funny feeling came back. She could hear Mam moving around down stairs so she went into Mam’s room and looked out of the windows. No police cars anywhere. She went back to her own room and peered out the back. The stupid tent thing was still there and there was a policeman near it. Her heart began to jump about. But he was just standing there. Guarding it, she realised. He had to stay there and stop people going in the tent. He wouldn’t be allowed to come to the house and ask Mam and Jade lots of questions because then anyone might go in the tent. Jade wondered if the dead man was in the tent still, and if he looked like a skeleton.
She could set off for school really early and get there before the doors were open. Lots of people did that and you could play in the playground for ages. Jade was usually late and had to go and get her mark from reception. Miss Cornish always sounded tired when she saw her, ‘Yes, Jade,’ she said, with a big sigh, ‘late again, off you go.’
She put her old shorts and t-shirt in her lion bag and clattered downstairs. Mam had made toast.
‘I don’t want jam,’ said Jade.
‘Now you tell me. It’s jam or nowt. That’s the last of the bread.’
Jade tried to decide. She picked up a piece of toast and closed her eyes. She was so hungry. She nibbled the edge, then pushed the piece in all in one go, chewed it quickly and swallowed it as soon as she could.
‘Can we go early? Miss said we had to be early.’
‘I haven’t finished my tea yet.’
‘We can’t be late,’ said Jade, ‘I’ll get in trouble if we’re late.’
‘Jade, we’re not going to be late. Yer stressing me out! You’re like an old woman. Mithering all the time.’
Jade went and sat on the sofa clutching her lion bag.
Not all murders made headline news but Matthew Tulley’s did. A stack of newspapers, broadsheets and tabloids bore witness. Some had covered the murder in their Sunday editions but ran it again in more depth. To do with him being a deputy head teacher, Janine reckoned; doctors, lawyers, headmasters – always more interest when the victim was a professional. An added fascination with the stories of middle-class life gone horribly awry. The mighty fallen. Gloat factor in there for some but also the shock that violence could rip apart those with a well-paid job, private medical insurance, school fees and a two car garage in much the same way as it did anyone else.
The circumstances of Tulley’s murder attracted interest too – the homely setting of the allotments, the fact that there was no clear motive or suspect as yet. She skimmed the headlines; Allotment Slaying Mystery, Manchester Teacher Murdered – Police Hunt Killer, Tulley Killing Latest. Most gave versions of the press release rehashed in their own house style. Photographs of the allotments, of Ashgrove, and a poor shot of Lesley Tulley and Janine hurrying into the house, were accompanied by the official photograph of Matthew Tulley.
Jenny Chen came in, clutching a pile of reports. ‘Boss, forensics are back.’
Everyone stopped, all eyes on Janine as she took the reports. Her pulse raced and she was all thumbs as she leafed through to the appropriate sheet. Fingerprints:
the one on the allotment tap. She read it swiftly. Yes! Then read it again in case she’d made a mistake.
‘We’ve got a match on the fingerprint.’
She regarded the expectant faces around her.
‘One of them?’ Richard nodded at the wall.
‘Oh, yes!’ She moved closer, looked at the three mugshots: Ferdie Gibson, shaved head, his narrow face set with a cold, cocky stare; Dean Hendrix, looking lost; Lesley Tulley, her beauty impaired by the glazed disorientation that the Press shot had captured.
Janine saw Shap smirk, thinking he knew who it was. Butchers frowned, uncertain, probably worrying about losing his tenner. Chen’s eyes widened with the intrigue.
Janine tilted her head. ‘What d’you reckon?’
‘Hendrix,’ yelled Shap.
‘Ferdie Gibson,’ shouted Butchers.
‘Lesley Tulley,’ called Chen.
‘Inspector?’ Janine invited Richard to cast his vote.
He spread his arms wide – no idea.
‘Dean Hendrix, ladies and gentleman.’
The room erupted in uproar. She held up her hands to quieten them. ‘Now our most wanted. Suspect number one.’ They were nodding, shifting in their seats, ready to get on and catch the guy. She had to instil caution in them. ‘But that doesn’t mean we drop Lesley Tulley or Ferdie Gibson,’ she said emphatically.