Jem straightened Ferg’s bowtie and steered him in front of her bedroom mirror. “They’re not going to know what’s hit them,” she said, brushing a crumb from his kilt. “Damn, Ferg, you have better legs than me.”
“Hairier legs,” he corrected her. “And ginger hair at that.”
“Shush, it’s all part of your charm. You’ll have them queuing out of the marquee again.”
They walked downstairs together. She was ready for work and scheduled to drop him at the train station half an hour before the start of her shift.
“How ever are you going to manage without me?” he asked. He’d always been as much a big brother as a best friend, and there was genuine concern in his expression, despite his lightness of tone.
She handed him his laptop case. “It’s only five days, Ferg. I just need to drag my poor aching bones to the end of this shift, and then I’m planning a long weekend of lounging about with my feet up. I might walk the dogs if I’m feeling energetic, which, I have to admit, is unlikely.”
“You could always ask Officer Rosie to lend a hand,” he said, and reacted with exaggerated innocence when she walloped him. “What? You speak very highly of her, and you’ve already been on a couple of dates.”
“We have never—those weren’t dates!” Jem folded her arms, the poster child for indignation and denial, though she knew she was playing right into his hands. As predicted, he paid no heed to her protest.
“There are few things more romantic than sharing a McFlurry at B&Q, Jemima.”
“I can think of plenty of things.” She wrapped his scarf around his neck, pulling it tighter than was strictly necessary. “Stop being an arse and grab your suitcase, or you’ll be catching the bus to Piccadilly.”
The station’s drop-off was half empty, and Jem risked the ire of the taxi drivers by getting out to hug Ferg.
“There’s a chicken and mushroom pie in the fridge for your tea tonight,” he said. “And I made a lasagne as well.” He winked at her. “It’s big enough to share.”
Unable to be cross with him when he’d gone to so much trouble, she kissed his cheek and gave him a bottle of Lucozade, a box of paracetamol, and a hip flask full of whiskey. “Hangover cures,” she said. “The choice is yours. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
He laughed, tucking the hip flask beneath his kilt. “See you Tuesday, hen.”
She waited until he reached the main entrance, where a growing throng of impatient commuters assimilated him. The traffic heading away from Manchester was starting to pick up, most of the cars heading to the flyover that would take them out of the city and into Trafford Park. After almost being sideswiped by a speeding VW at the Apollo roundabout, Jem drove up Hyde Road as if everything was out to get her, a tactic that had kept her collision-free for the years she’d lived within the city limits. The main strip of shops in Gorton was stirring to life, with shutters clattering open on its newsagents and cafes, while white van men made a beeline for the twenty-four-hour supermarket. She overtook a street sweeper, and, forgetting she was in her own car, waved at an ambulance, whose driver waved back regardless. She laughed and cranked the radio up a notch. She loved the city, loved its eclectic neighbourhoods and its fierce sense of pride. Like any sprawling multicultural metropolis, it had its problems, but it usually faced them cheerfully and head on, with a pint in its hand.
Through Gorton and out the other side, she hopped on the ring road for a junction, arriving at Darnton with ten minutes to spare. She made a quick brew and breakfast and had only eaten half her cereal when Caitlin came into the crew room.
“Hey. How did you get on?” Jem asked. The previous night had been Caitlin’s first shift on the RRV, and she’d looked scared to death when Jem gave her the keys at handover. Jem might not have liked her, but she knew how nerve-wracking it was to work solo, and Caitlin barely had a year’s experience as a paramedic.
“It was fine.” The flatness of Caitlin’s answer made it clear that was all she had to say on the subject. “Darren wants to see you in the office.”
Jem pushed her cornflakes away. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Rather than leave her pots for someone else, Jem washed and dried her dish and mug first. Then she knocked on the office door at dead on six, ensuring any possible bollocking would at least be on the clock. She entered the room to find Baxter and Caitlin both seated and waiting for her.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. She’d assumed the summons would pertain to Kyle Parker, but Caitlin was an unexpected spanner in the works.
In lieu of an answer, Baxter tossed the controlled drugs book for the RRV onto the desk. Every ambulance carried an identical book, locked away in a safe with the boxes of morphine and diazepam. It was the paramedic’s responsibility to complete a check each shift to confirm that the numbers recorded tallied with the physical stock. Jem picked the book up, still unsure what the issue was. The count had been correct at the start and end of her shift, and she had handed the safe key directly to Caitlin.
“Caitlin contacted me to report a discrepancy with the morphine at the start of her shift last night,” Baxter said. “There are three missing, and no one witnessed either of your entries.”
“The car hadn’t been manned when I took it over yesterday morning, and there was no one else on station,” Jem said, staring at the damning red ink, all-caps scrawl occupying the three lines below her signature. She had logged eighteen vials, Caitlin only fifteen, and Baxter had confirmed Caitlin’s count. She shook her head. “This can’t be right. I remember putting them all away.” She faltered, her protest losing conviction almost immediately as she began to doubt herself. She had finished late and checked the drugs whilst waiting on scene for a doctor to return her call. By the time she got back to station, she’d been fuming and exhausted, and she hadn’t thought to ask Caitlin to countersign the book.
“We searched the RRV thoroughly,” Baxter said. In contrast to Jem, his voice was gaining confidence as he sensed her uncertainty and warmed to his theme. “My best guess is you left the vials on the roof of the car when you counted them, and they’re smashed on a roadside somewhere.”
“I don’t do that,” she said. Several other paramedics had made that mistake, but she had never been one of them. “There was a memo.”
He took the book back, setting it in front of Caitlin, who placed her hand on its cover. “In which case, the police may have to be informed. They might want to search your house and your car, and I need to speak to Kevin regarding disciplinary proceedings.”
“Fine, that’s fine. I’ll contact my union rep,” Jem said, too bewildered to offer any kind of defence. She knew for sure she hadn’t stolen them. “Am I okay to sign on now?”
“Yes. Someone will be in touch in due course.” He unlocked his computer screen and began to type an email, effectively dismissing her.
Caitlin unclipped the radio from her belt and looped the RRV’s keys over its antenna. “I haven’t used anything, and you’ve got half a tank of fuel,” she said, passing everything to Jem and showing all her teeth when she smiled.
“Thanks.” Jem closed the office door behind her and leaned against the corridor wall, fumbling for her inhaler. The spray worked quickly to alleviate her wheezing but ramped up her sense of panic. “Bloody hell,” she whispered. Ordinarily, a slip like this would result in an appendix being placed in her file, a time-limited warning that would progress to a disciplinary should she transgress again before it expired. With Baxter involved, however, she had no idea what might happen to her, or in which direction he might try to push Kev.
She walked slowly to the RRV and sat in the driver’s seat. She needed to sort her kit out and speak to a rep and try to pinpoint every potential place she could have mislaid three glass vials of a Class A, Schedule 2 drug. The lad on dispatch sounded knackered, running through the usual short list of questions and acknowledging her request to complete a vehicle check with a distracted “yeah, that’s fine. G’night, then.”
She managed to put a brave face on things as she changed a defib battery and looked through the response bag, but it crumpled as she switched on the suction. Common sense told her to leave a message for her union rep, and that nothing could be done to help her until she’d informed him of the accusation. She didn’t want to be sensible, though. She wanted an unaffiliated-with-the-ambulance-service shoulder to cry on, and then she might be able to buckle down and get on with things.
She toyed with her mobile, scrolling through the directory, past Ferg, who would be well on his way to London by now, and past her dad, who had enough on his plate and would likely still be in bed. Those were her top two choices, she told herself as she hunted in vain for a tissue. Those were the people she would have called first, had they not been unavailable or hurtling below the Watford Gap. Her third option was merely a fallback in their stead, someone she knew would be awake, because they too started work at stupid o’clock. The triangular bandage she shook out billowed like a white flag as the draught from the heater caught it. Ignoring its gratuitous symbolism, she used it to blow her nose and then called Rosie.
* * *
Preferring to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and then hare around getting everything sorted at the last minute, Rosie was still in her pyjamas and sharing an apple with Fluffy when her mobile rang. Taking advantage of the distraction, Fluffy pinched the last chunk and scurried under the sofa with it.
“You better run, you little sod,” she said, flipping the cover back on her phone just in time to see Jem’s name but not fast enough to answer the call. “Huh.”
Jem had disconnected after only three rings, suggesting she’d either bum-dialled or had second thoughts. Rosie peeled a banana, keeping one eye on the phone to see whether an explanatory text or another call might be forthcoming. It was ten past six, so Jem would have started her shift. Given their dual tendency to attract shit luck, if Rosie disturbed her as she drove to a job it would probably result in a multi-vehicle pile-up. The phone rang again as Rosie took her first bite of banana. She swallowed and answered simultaneously, producing a sound reminiscent of a choking frog.
“Hello?” Jem said. “Rosie, is that you?”
Rosie hacked a cough and started again. “How do. It’s me. Sorry, I had a gobful of banana.”
Jem chuckled and then took a long breath, as if the air around her had suddenly cleared. “Am I okay calling this early? Only, I thought you’d be up, and I didn’t know who else—”
“You’re fine,” Rosie said, cutting across her rambling. “I’m up, dressed, raring to go—one of those is a fib—so what’s wrong? And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because you’d be crap at lying even over the phone.”
“It’s not nothing,” Jem said. “That Advanced Paramedic from the Kyle Parker job? Baxter? He’s accused me of losing some morphine, and I don’t think I did but I can’t prove I didn’t.” She relayed the facts without inflection, as if she’d already admitted defeat. “And I’m not sure how far he’ll take it. He’s threatened to have the police search my house.”
Rosie used a knife to chop the end off the banana, the blade hitting the table with a cathartic thump. She fed the piece to Fluffy as he slinked over the laminate. “Are you running an illegal drug den, Jemima? Fuelled with the spoils of your day job?”
“Definitely not. Christ, I feel guilty if I’ve got a headache and I take a couple of Brufen from the bag.”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep about the search, then. Knowing how overstretched our lot are, I can see them getting around to it about a week on Wednesday. Have you spoken to a union rep?”
“Not yet. But I’m going to,” Jem added hurriedly, as if afraid Rosie might scold her for neglecting the priorities. The thin rasp of her irregular wheezing was transmitted clearly, despite the patchy mobile reception.
Rosie left her chair and paced across the kitchen, battening down the urge to go to Darnton and have this conversation in person, perhaps calling in on Baxter if she had a minute or two to spare. “It’ll be okay,” she said once she could keep the agitation from her voice. The last thing Jem needed was Rosie feeding her anxiety. “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time that drugs have gone missing.”
“Hardly. There was a spate of paramedics leaving them on the roofs of the RRV when they checked the safe and then forgetting they were up there.”
Rosie gave a disbelieving laugh. “What happened to those dozy buggers?”
“Slapped wrist, warning on file,” Jem said, sounding a little brighter. “The powers that be issued an angry memo.”
Rosie whacked her palm on the countertop. “Right then, that’s your precedent set. Any union rep worth their salt will make mincemeat of that little tosser if he tries to go down a different path with you, so don’t be fretting.”
“Okay, okay, no fretting, I promise. I’m sorry to bug you with all this, it’s just that my dad’s chasing around after a traumatised eight-month-old, and Ferg’s gone to Lollapielooza for a long weekend, and—”
“Excuse me?” Rosie said. “Lollapie what now?”
Jem stifled a giggle. “Lollapielooza. Seriously, that’s what it’s called. It’s the UK’s only pie expo. ‘Showcasing the best in British pies,’” she added, as if reading from the brochure. “He’ll be back and very hung-over on Tuesday.”
“Hmm.” Rosie scratched Fluffy, who raised a foot in appreciation. “Does this mean you’ll be home alone and dwelling on all this morphine business?”
“Yeah, it might,” Jem conceded. She coughed, but it didn’t sound like an asthma-type cough, more a placeholder as she debated what to say next. “Are you working this weekend?” she finally asked.
“Nope. As of seven o’clock tonight, I am off till Monday morning.” Rosie watched Fluffy knead the countertop, which seemed appropriate given the amount of dancing around that she and Jem were doing. “Do you fancy going out somewhere?” she asked, just as Jem said, “Maybe we could meet up?”
“Okay, then, that’s sorted,” Rosie said, overriding any potential second-guessing on Jem’s part. “I need to scoot or I’ll be late for work. Text me a time and a location of your choosing.”
“I will. I have lasagne.” Jem hesitated, as if despairing of her non sequitur, and seconds later Rosie heard a soft thud.
“Was that your head?” Rosie asked.
“Yes.”
“On the steering wheel?”
“Yes. I didn’t have a desk, so I made do.”
Rosie laughed. “Is this what happens when an introvert and an idiot try to arrange a date?”
“Quite possibly,” Jem said. Then, quieter, “Is that what we’re doing?”
“I’m not sure.” Rosie wondered whether she’d overstepped a mark, but she’d always been an in-for-a-penny type. “Just out of curiosity, would you swipe left or right on me?”
“Which one’s no?” Jem asked.
Rosie winced. “Uh, left, I think.”
She heard Jem swear softly as a now-familiar beeping set off in the background. “Damn, I’ve got a job. I have to go.”
“Oh, okay, no worries,” Rosie said, chewing on her lip.
“Rosie?” Jem raised her voice above the rattle and creak of the garage doors.
“Yeah?”
“I’d swipe right, you pillock,” she said, and ended the call.
* * *
Gregory Evans clattered his fist against the wall he’d stalked toward. A mounted light fitting sent up a cloud of dust and dead moths, and he left a thin smear of blood on the nicotine-stained Anaglypta. Well acquainted with his behaviour, Jem kept her distance, ensuring there were plenty of obstacles for him to fall over if he decided to go for her throat. Not that she was overly concerned about his temper tantrum; she’d been coming to Greg for years, and the worst he’d ever done was throw up on her response bag.
He snarled at her, baring wet gums. “I wanna die, you stupid bitch. That’s why I took ’em.”
“And you took six of these?” She displayed the box of ibuprofen. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, and I cut meself. See?” He held out wrists covered in superficial scratches, none of which would prove fatal. Upon Jem’s arrival, he had immediately surrendered the razor blade he’d used to inflict the damage. It might have cut through butter if he’d pressed hard enough, and the amount of rust and muck on it suggested the greatest risk to his well-being was infection.
“How much have you had to drink?” she asked.
“Nothin’,” he snapped, and then seemed to remember who he was talking to. “Two cans.”
It was always “two cans.” No matter how drunk the patient or how chronic their alcoholism, they’d never had more than two cans. He smelled so strongly of booze that he was making Jem’s eyes water, and every now and again he would sway as if the carpet was attempting to pitch him off it.
She wrote “patient appears to be intoxicated” on her paperwork and moved on. “When were you last in A&E?”
“Dunno. What’s today?”
“Thursday.”
“Tuesday?” he said.
She scribbled a note. “Same again?”
“No.” He glared at her. “I took paracetamol that time.”
“Right. Are you going to let me take your obs? Blood pressure, pulse, the usual?”
There were a number of typical Greg scenarios. His favourite was telling the crew to fuck off. That was a crew favourite as well, because it got them out of the address within minutes. Less common was compliance, and on odd occasions he would fake a seizure. He had apparently exhausted his cooperation quotient for the week, because he looked Jem right in the eye and fell back on option one.
She held up her hands. “Fine. I’ll wait outside for the crew. If you need me in the meantime, you know where to find me.”
He popped the top off a fresh can. “They can fuck off ’n’ all. I’m not going nowhere.”
Relieved that she wouldn’t be stuck on scene playing Greg’s refusal game for the next few hours, Jem returned her response bag to its slot and sat on the back ledge of the RRV. A new message from her union rep confirmed a preliminary fact-finding meeting first thing Monday morning and asked her to forward any pertinent details. Taking advantage of the lull, she typed an email on her phone, managing to wrestle with the autocorrect and get the thing finished before she heard sirens. The din ceased a good distance from the address, the crew clearly in no rush, and she’d pocketed her phone and plastered on a welcoming smile by the time they parked behind her.
“Is he for coming or not?” the paramedic asked.
“Or not,” Jem said, and continued over his groan, “Six Brufen with a shitload of lager, no vomiting, no apparent plan, minor scratches to both wrists from a manky razor blade.” She displayed the blade as Exhibit A.
“I hope he gets fucking tetanus,” the EMT said.
Jem dropped the blade into her sharps bin. “Looking at his house, I think he’d be immune.” She handed the tech her paperwork. “Do you want me to stick around?”
“No,” the paramedic said. “No point in all of us being bloody trapped here.”
“Cheers.” She took her keys from the carabiner on her fleece. “He’s gone for Arsehole setting today, so you might need the police.”
“With a bit of luck it’ll do us for a finish,” the tech said.
“What time are you off?”
“Three,” he said, absolutely deadpan.
She checked her fob watch and laughed. It was only ten o’clock.
* * *
“PC Jones!”
Rosie stopped so abruptly that her boots skidded on the loose gravel of the car park, her hand still outstretched with the key fob pointed and ready to zap. Kash had brought coffee and chocolate muffins, and they’d been looking forward to a good day of responding to whatever emergencies the folk of east Manchester might throw their way.
“So close,” she muttered. “We were so damn close, Kash.”
They waited for Steph to catch them up, her heels a terse drumbeat accompanying the start of another downpour. She was trying to shield her hair from the elements, but the wind was having none of it, and she swore at the mess it was making of her French twist. Rosie squinted at the storm clouds massing overhead, vast swirls of grey with white foaming at the edges like furious breakers. If someone had asked her to paint her mood, she’d have pointed upward.
“Did you not get my message?” Steph yelled, still a few feet away. “I told your sarge to hold you at the briefing.”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” Rosie said. Steph was close enough now that Rosie didn’t have to shout. “A batch of new flood warnings came in at the last minute, and he had to reorganise everyone.”
“Well, I need you.” Steph gave her a printout. “That’s Tahlia Mansoor’s home address. Check if she’s there, and if she’s not, get as much information about her possible whereabouts as you can.”
“Are we both going?” Kash asked.
“No. Your sarge said he couldn’t spare you.” Steph held up a hand, pre-empting any dissent. “You’re to run solo for the shift.”
The colour rose in his face, but he said nothing. He balanced a muffin on top of Rosie’s coffee and passed them to her before striding back toward the station for a fresh set of keys.
“It’s your lead,” Steph said to Rosie. “I thought you’d be happy to follow up on it.”
“I’m ecstatic.” Rosie clicked the fob. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Steph caught her arm. “We could meet for lunch if you like. Your sarge doesn’t need to know. I can log it as a debrief.”
Rosie didn’t shake her off, but it was an effort not to. “Are you suggesting we bend the rules to suit ourselves, Detective?”
Steph’s tinkling laugh bore no humour in it. “Touché.”
Rosie folded the printout and slipped it into her stab vest. “I’ll phone you later.”
She was trembling when she got into the car, an insidious jittery sensation that made her drop her key and then over-rev the engine. She gripped the wheel, letting spots of rain blur the windscreen until Steph disappeared from view. Kash messaged her within minutes. You okay?
Yes, she replied. Sorry.
Not your fault. I’ll see you later. Be careful out there.
She took heart from the traditional sign-off, replying in kind and then allowing herself a moment to sip her coffee and share half her muffin with the fat pigeon waiting hopefully at the side of the car. She opened the window fully, bringing in clean, rain-scented air that cleared the steam and made her think of Jem. It always seemed to be raining whenever they met up. She wasn’t sure she’d even recognise her in the sunshine. She flicked another chunk of cake at the pigeon.
“Good thing it’s always pissing down here, eh?” she said, and set off toward the exit.
Twenty-four Tarrick Street, North Curzon, sat at the far end of a neat terraced row. Its garden was well tended, with a raised bed recently dug over ready for planting, and a basket of winter pansies adding a welcome splash of colour to the doorstep. A Toyota Yaris occupied most of the small driveway, and the flickering of a television in the front room confirmed someone was home. Rosie used the knocker to rap on the door and readied her ID as a figure appeared in the hallway. The door opened on the security chain. The street might have been spick and span, but South Curzon was less than a hundred yards away.
“Mrs. Mansoor?” Rosie said.
“Yes, I’m Melissa Mansoor. Can I help you?” On recognising Rosie’s uniform, the woman opened the door wider. She was in her early forties and dressed in a traditional salwar kameez, with her blond hair tucked beneath a colour-coordinated hijab. She dried her hands on a tea towel, but soap suds still clung to her forearms.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Rosie said. “I’m PC Jones, and I’m based at Clayton. We’re investigating the Kyle Parker case. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it on the news?”
Melissa nodded, her eyes flitting to the street, where curtains were beginning to twitch. “We saw it. Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, thank you.” Rosie followed her into a rear living room that was evidently used for guests. Small dishes of sweets and mints were laid out on a polished black glass coffee table, and the two long sofas were in pristine condition, as if bought for show, not actual sitting. She balanced on the edge of one, trying not to leave an indentation, and took out her notepad and pen.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Melissa asked.
“No, thank you.”
Melissa remained standing, forcing Rosie to look up at her. “So, this boy’s death. What does it have to do with my family?”
“I’m looking for Tahlia,” Rosie said, keeping things simple. The last time she’d inadvertently interviewed a witness, Steph hadn’t taken kindly to it. “According to Kyle’s friends, she dated him for a short while, but then she and her father had an altercation about a relationship with a girl. Is that right?”
Melissa had wrung the tea towel into a tight line, her knuckles blanching around the cloth. She glanced at the mantelpiece, where a matched set of family photographs took up most of its length. Without waiting for permission, Rosie stood and went over to pick up a photo of a young girl in a smart school uniform. She was holding a One Hundred Percent Attendance certificate and grinning ear to ear.
“Is this Tahlia?” Rosie asked.
Melissa nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “She’s just a baby,” she whispered. “And we can’t find her anywhere.”
Rosie took the photo back to the sofa, propping it on the coffee table where Melissa couldn’t avoid it. She’d assumed this would be a five-minute “Tahlia’s not here and good riddance to her” type of house call, but Melissa’s statement had set alarm bells ringing.
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?” she asked. “Have you been looking for her?”
Melissa pulled a tissue from an ornate metal box. “Day and night. My husband is a taxi driver, and he’s been searching for her between fares. He was so angry with her over that girl, but he didn’t mean for this. He would never—” She began to sob, hiding her face in her hands.
“How long has she been missing?”
“Today is the seventeenth day.” A terrible hollowness to Melissa’s voice gave Rosie an idea of the toll those days had taken. “We know she stayed with Demi-Lee for a while. We spoke to Demi-Lee’s mum, and we thought she’d come home of her own accord, but she never did.”
“Why haven’t you reported her missing, Mrs. Mansoor? She’s only fourteen.”
The question prompted a fresh bout of tears. “I know! I know that!” Melissa grabbed the photo and held it to her chest. “Faisal said he would find her, that you would blame him if we told you, and our other children would be taken away as well. We kept hoping she would walk through the front door and we could pretend this had never happened.”
Rosie bullet-pointed the answer, careful now with her record of the visit. If Tahlia’s disappearance ended as badly as Kyle’s, she didn’t want to be the weak link in the evidence chain.
“What did you tell her school?” she asked. Any prolonged, unexplained absence would have been investigated, had some kind of reason not been given.
“That she was visiting family in Pakistan.” Melissa looked sickened, as if she was only now envisioning the pit she and her husband had dug for themselves. In addition to the potentially permanent loss of their daughter, the family would be assessed by social workers and safeguarding teams, who would decide whether Tahlia’s siblings were also at risk. “What will happen now?” she asked. “Will you help us look for her?”
“Yes.” Rosie was certain of that at least. “She’ll be formally reported as a missing child, and the teams working the case will continue to search for her. You and your husband will probably be interviewed by the lead detective, and you have to be prepared for the involvement of Social Services.”
“Just find Tahlia,” Melissa said. “Whatever else happens, happens. Please, just find our daughter.”