Jack understood that the Blackley Telegraph was a business, but he was a freelance journalist, not a businessman, the court stories his thing, with the occasional crime angle as a feature. But the paper bought his stories, shedding staff writers and using freelancers to take up the slack, some of them just kids fresh out of college or unpublished writers looking to build a CV. So Jack had agreed to write the story of the estate, bashed out on an old laptop in his cottage in Turners Fold, a small forgotten place nestled in the Lancashire hills, a few miles from Blackley.
The Whitcroft estate was on the edge of Blackley, the first blight on the drive in. Built on seven hills that were once green and rolling, Blackley seemed like the ugly big brother to Turners Fold. Traces of former wealth could still be seen in the Victorian town centre though, where three-storey fume-blackened shop buildings were filled by small town jewellers and century-old outfitters that competed with the glass and steel frames of the high street. The wide stone steps and Roman portico of the town hall overlooked the main shopping street and boasted of grander times, when men in long waistcoats and extravagant sideburns twirled gold watches from their pockets.
The Whitcroft estate had been built in the good times, an escape from the grid-like strips of terraced housing that existed elsewhere in the town. Here, it was all cul-de-sacs and crescents, sweeps of privet, indoor toilets, but it had divided the town, had become the escape route for the whites after the Asian influx in the sixties. Mosques and minarets were sprinkled amongst the warehouses and wharf buildings now, the call to prayer the new church bells, and so the Whitcroft estate had become white-flight for those who couldnt afford the countryside.
Jack pondered all of this as he sat in his car, a 1973 Triumph Stag in Calypso Red. Young mothers walked their prams on a road that circled the estate. The morning sun gave the place a glow and highlighted the deep green of the hedges, the gleam of the brickwork, and brought out the vivid violets and pinks and reds of the flower baskets. He could hear laughs and screams from the local school, which he could see through some blue railings on the curve of the road.
But that was just gloss.
The entrance to the estate was marked by two rows of shops that faced each other across gum-peppered paving stones, making a funnel for the cold winds that blew in from the moors that the estate overlooked. A Chinese takeaway and a grocer occupied three units, along with a bookmakers and a post office. On the otherside, a launderette and a chemist. There were grilles on the windows and the doors looked old and dirty.
Behind the shops were blocks of housing, four houses to each small row, with pebble-dashed first floors and England stickers in the windows. Some had paint on the walls or wooden boards over the windows. They formed cul-de-sacs that were connected by privet-lined ginnels, so that the quick routes were the most dangerous. Crisp packets and old beer cans lodged themselves in the hedges.
There were small signs of affluence though. The streets were busy with workmen in overalls and young office girls heading out to work, calling in for newspapers or cigarettes at the grocers. There were porch extensions, gleaming double-glazing, new garden walls. The estate wasnt just for lost causes. A private security van patrolled every thirty minutes, with bald men in black jackets who stared at Jack as they went past. Maybe Dolby wasnt going to get the article he wanted.
Jack climbed out of his car and wandered towards the shop, looking for some local views. Outside the shop, a young mother stood over her pram with a cigarette in her hand, cheap gold flashing on each finger, her hair pulled back tightly.
Jack gave the door of the shop a push. It let out a tinkle as he went in, and he pretended to browse through the magazines until the shop became empty. He went to the counter.
The man behind it barely looked up. Middle-aged and with a cigarette-stained moustache, he was flicking through a newspaper and only stopped reading when Jack coughed.
Jack Garrett, he said, and tried a smile. Im a reporter, writing about the estate. He pointed towards the windows. Whats it like for you, with the grilles and the bars?
He stared at Jack, weighing up whether to answer or not. The council ruined this place, he said, eventually.
How so?
Because they turned it into a dumping ground, he said. Have everyone in one place, so they said.
Have you been here long?
More than twenty years, he said. I inherited it from my father, back when this was a decent place to live.
What went wrong?
He shrugged. I dont know, but it doesnt seem like people want to work anymore. The young girls get a house when they get pregnant, but the father never moves in. Or, at least, thats what they tell everyone, but I see them leaving in the morning.
I see people heading out to work, Jack said. It doesnt seem that destitute.
There are still some people left that make me proud to live here, but its getting harder every day.
Why is that?
The kids, he said. They hang around here all evening, circling customers on their bikes, asking people to buy their booze and fags for them, because I know most are too young. If I try and get rid of them, I get abuse. All my customers want is to come in and buy some milk or something, maybe some cans for later, but the kids put them off.
Have you spoken to their parents? Jack said.
The shopkeeper gave a wry smile. Drunk most of the time.
Jack returned the smile and guessed his predicament. You sell them the booze, he said.
Theyd only go somewhere else for it. And they do mostly, stocking up on the three-for-two offers. They come here when they run out, or when they want to start early and dont want to drive to the supermarket.
Do the police come round much? Jack said.
The shopkeeper scoffed. Hardly ever, and when they do, the kids treat it like a game, looking for a chase. They shout abuse and then starburst whenever the van doors open. Sometimes one of them trips and the police catch them, but nothing ever happens.
Is that why the estate has private security? Jack said.
It makes people feel safer.
Who pays for it?
Whoever wants it.
What about drugs? Jack said. Could the police be doing more about that around here?
No, not drugs around here, he said. Maybe some weed, but its booze mainly. Always has been. Im not saying that no one round here does drugs, but the kids that cycle around causing trouble arent on drugs. Theyre pissed.
You dont paint a glowing picture, Jack said.
He nodded to the voice recorder in Jacks hand. And I bet you wont either, by the time it makes the paper.
When Jack started to protest, the shopkeeper jabbed his finger at the paper. I read them as well as sell them, and Ive seen the way the Telegraph has gone. Then he returned to whatever had occupied his attention before.
Jack turned away, frustrated, and left the shop. He watched the cars heading in and out of the estate. They were mainly old Vauxhalls and Fords, most driven by young men who didnt look like they could afford the insurance. His phone buzzed in his pocket. When he checked the screen and saw that it was Dolby, he thought about not answering, but he knew he needed to keep on Dolbys good side.
You dont paint a glowing picture, Jack said.
He nodded to the voice recorder in Jacks hand. And I bet you wont either, by the time it makes the paper.
When Jack started to protest, the shopkeeper jabbed his finger at the paper. I read them as well as sell them, and Ive seen the way the Telegraph has gone. Then he returned to whatever had occupied his attention before.
Jack turned away, frustrated, and left the shop. He watched the cars heading in and out of the estate. They were mainly old Vauxhalls and Fords, most driven by young men who didnt look like they could afford the insurance. His phone buzzed in his pocket. When he checked the screen and saw that it was Dolby, he thought about not answering, but he knew he needed to keep on Dolbys good side.
He pressed the button. Dolby, what can I do for you?
Theres been another murder, he said, his voice a little breathless. A young woman.
Jack paused as he tried to work out what he meant, but then his mind flashed back to the young woman found in a pipe by the reservoir on the edge of town a few weeks earlier, a gruesome find for a father and son on an angling trip.
Whereabouts?
Dolby told him, and Jack realised that he was only half a mile away.
Do you want me to cover it? Jack said.
Im not calling to spread the gossip, Dolby said, some irritation in his voice.
On my way, Jack said, and jabbed at the off button.
He gave the shopkeeper a smile, but there was no response.
Chapter Three
It was just after nine-thirty as Laura McGanity looked around at the scene in front of her and tried to shake away the nerves. Someone had died, and now it was for her to show that she deserved her sergeant stripes. Nine months in uniform, working in the community, but now she was back where she wanted to be, on the murder squad. And even though this was a tragedy, she felt a familiar excitement as she took in the blue-and-white police tape stretched tight around the trees and the huddle of police in boiler suits holding sticks, ready for the slow crawl through the undergrowth, looking for scraps of evidence a footprint, a dropped piece of paper, maybe a snag of cloth on the thorns and branches. This was it, the start of the investigation, the human drama yet to unfold.
She had pulled on her paper coveralls, put paper bootees over her shoes, and now her breaths were hot against her cheeks behind the face mask. But Laura knew the excitement wouldnt last long, because in a moment she would face the lifeless body lying in a small copse of trees behind the new brick of a housing development, just visible as a flash of pink in the green. Then the tragedy would hit her, but for now it was all about concentration, so that she didnt miss something crucial.
Joe Kinsella came up behind her, poised and still, his face hidden, the hood pulled over his hair. His eyes, soft brown, showed a smile, and then he said in a muffled voice, Cmon, detective sergeant. Lets see what there is.
Laura smiled back, invisible behind the mask. The title still felt new, but as Joe set off she realised that the back-patting would have to be put on hold for the moment.
The ground sloped down to a small ribbon of dirty brown water that ran into underground pipes that carried it under the houses. Sycamore and horse chestnut trees filled the scene with shadows. Ivy trailed across the floor like tripwire, but Joe strode quickly through it, crunching it underfoot, in contrast to the soft rustles of Lauras suit as she trotted to catch up. Laura was grateful that it was dry, or else she imagined she would have found herself skidding towards the small patch of pink by the edge of the stream.
The body had been found by teenagers, looking for somewhere to do whatever they did in the woods, and since then the area had swarmed with police and crime scene investigators, the ghoulish and idly curious hovering on the street. There was a detective posing as a journalist, mingling with those craning their necks to get a view, snapping pictures of the onlookers, in the hope that the killer might be among them, having come back to marvel at his work. That had been Joes idea.
As Laura reached the body, she saw that her inspector, Karl Carson, was there. Karl was large and bombastic, shiny bald, no eyebrows, his blue eyes glaring from the forensic hood.
Looks like weve got another one, McGanity, he said, his eyes watching her, waiting for her response.
Laura sighed. That word, another. It made everything harder, because it meant that the murder wasnt just a family falling out, or maybe a violent boyfriend faking it as a stranger attack.
Laura watched as Joe got closer to the body and kneeled down. She knew that he wasnt looking for forensic evidence, but for those little signs, hidden clues that reveal motivation. That was Joes expertise: not the what, but the why. Laura was still new to the team, but she had worked with him before, and so he had eased her into the murder squad. It was good to be back doing the serious stuff. She had moved north a few years earlier, away from her detective role in the London Met, and had done the rounds of routine case mop-ups and a short spell in uniform to help grease the push for promotion, but this was where she felt most at home.
Laura kneeled down alongside Joe, and as she looked at the body, she saw that Karl Carson was right, that it confirmed everyones worst fear, that the murder three weeks earlier wasnt a one-off. There were two now.
The victim was a young woman, Laura guessed, in her early twenties, more there than the skinny hips and ribs of a teenager but with none of the sag of the later years. There was a tattoo on her left wrist. A pink butterfly. The body had been hidden under bark ripped from a nearby tree, and when it had been disturbed, the kids who found her had been swamped by bluebottles. Laura gritted her teeth at the smell a mix of vomit and off-meat, and even outdoors, with her nose shielded by a mask, the stench still made it through. As she looked at the floor, she could see the shifting blanket of woodlice and maggots spilling onto the ivy leaves, their work of turning the corpse into just mush and bones interrupted. The bodys stomach was distended by the gases brewing inside, and Laura knew that she didnt want to be around when it was rolled onto plastic sheeting to be taken from the scene, because whatever was inside the stomach was going to come tumbling out of the mouth.
Laura peered closer to try and see the face, so that she could see more of the person and less of the corpse, but it was dirty and disfigured, and so they wouldnt get a better idea until the post-mortem clean-up later. Laura tried to be scientific and dispassionate, but she knew that the sight of a healthy young woman who had been mutilated was something that would come back to her in quieter moments.
Laura took a deep breath, more heat through the mask, and tried to take in what she could.
The woman was naked, the clothes taken away, no sign of them torn up and thrown to one side. Just like with the other one. There were bruises on her body, grazes and scrapes that might have come from a struggle, along with small cuts on her stomach and legs, but it wasnt those that drew her eye. It was her mouth. It was stretched, with soil and leaves jammed in so that it looked like the dead woman had choked on the ground, her cheeks puffed out. There were bruises around the neck, so Laura guessed that it was another strangulation case. Laura looked down at the womans hips, and she didnt need to look too closely in order to see the dirt trails and scratches where soil and leaves had been jammed between her thighs.