The Girl in the Green Dress Page 8

  Without any hesitation Donna read out her statement, remembering not to mask her face with the paper and to look up at those assembled as often as possible. ‘Imagine you’re talking to your family, asking them for help,’ she had once been advised. ‘Keep it warm, keep it real. The language may be formal but you need to be sympathetic and human.’

  ‘Last night at eleven twenty p.m. police were called to Swing Gate Fold, off New Mill Street near Deansgate in the city centre. On arrival they found the body of Allie Kennaway, aged eighteen, a transgender woman.’ She heard whispers at the word ‘transgender’, an extra dimension to the ‘story’.

  ‘Allie was attending her sixth-form prom at nearby Mansion’s House. She left the venue at around eleven fifteen and shortly after was attacked and beaten by a person or persons unknown. She died at the scene from a catastrophic brain injury. Her family have been informed and our thoughts are with them. We would appeal to the general public to assist us in apprehending and prosecuting whoever committed this savage and senseless attack. If you were in Manchester last night, if you saw anything, heard anything, or remember anything, no matter how small or apparently insignificant, or if you have any other information that might assist us, please contact the inquiry or call Crimestoppers in complete confidence. Thank you.’

  ‘Was it a hate crime?’ somebody called, even though they’d been briefed there’d be no Q and A.

  The chief constable nodded to Donna and they stood to leave.

  The press officer reminded everyone that an official press release was available and thanked them all for attending. People began to move, scraping back chairs or dismantling their equipment.

  ‘Bloody awful,’ the chief constable said, as they waited for the lift. ‘I know things are stretched to breaking point, but if you find yourself too short of resources on this one, you come to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Donna said, impressed by his offer. She didn’t know him well and he came across as conservative and straitlaced. So his interest, his commitment to this case, pleased and surprised her.

  ‘Eighteen,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Yes, sir. It is awful. Her whole life ahead of her.’ A cliché but, oh, so true.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Martin

  At the evening briefing, Martin showed them the significant sections from the CCTV he’d brought back from Mansion’s House.

  ‘Allie goes outside, with both friends here, at nine fifteen. They head right into New Mill Street out of sight and return at nine twenty-three.’

  ‘There’s a side door down there, recessed. That’s where they’d been smoking weed,’ Jade, the new DC, said.

  ‘Right,’ Martin said. ‘They come back at nine twenty-six.’ He watched with the rest of them as the three girls walked into shot and up the steps, talking and laughing. The one with short blonde hair, Bets, stopped and took a photograph of her friends, who blew kisses to the camera phone.

  You couldn’t tell by looking, Martin thought, that Allie wasn’t a girl. If you knew, maybe you’d see the hands were larger, the feet too, but you’d easily be fooled. He couldn’t imagine it, having a kid who wanted to swap sides. What a horror show. Not just playing on the other team but the whole medical shebang. The thought of it, of surgery, made his balls shrivel.

  ‘Then here at eleven oh seven, as reported, Betsy Millington appears, again heads left, away from the crowds on Deansgate, and returns at eleven twelve. Three minutes later, at eleven fifteen, Allie appears.’ The room watched as their victim walked down the steps. Martin paused the tape. ‘No sign of incapacity, the gait is steady enough, no apparent distress or anxiety. And that’s where we lose her.’ Martin had to keep reminding himself to call the victim ‘her’. He set the tape to resume playing and Allie disappeared to the right of the screen.

  ‘Five minutes later the nine-nine-nine call is made,’ Donna said. ‘Anything from CCTV on New Mill Street?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no cameras,’ Martin said. ‘We’ve recovered footage for Deansgate for the evening and we’ve a team will start scrutinizing that while the rest of us get some kip.’

  There were deliberate yawns from some of the staff and good-natured banter – ‘You’ve no staying power, you lot . . . You don’t know you’re born.’

  ‘We’re looking for any sighting of our victim, and for sightings of groups of two or more people who leave Deansgate and go down New Mill Street or who appear on Deansgate and whose behaviour or appearance gives us cause for concern,’ Martin said. ‘Concentrate on footage between eleven p.m. and midnight. Depending on the results, we’ll widen the search area.’ He indicated the map. ‘There are other ways to get to and from Deansgate.’ He traced the web of interconnecting roads.

  ‘Thanks, Martin.’ Donna picked it up. ‘I know you’re all shattered and I won’t keep you much longer. Other information before we conclude. Our unknown nine-nine-nine caller is believed to be East African in origin, Sudanese or Somali. Forensics should be coming in thick and fast in the morning but a promising heads-up is the identification of blood at the scene that does not belong to our victim.’

  A subdued cheer rippled round the room. Martin saw Jade give a little victorious fist pump. ‘Maybe she hurt one of them,’ Jade said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Donna said.

  Martin thought of the lost shoe. Had their victim kicked out and broken skin, or bloodied someone’s nose? Had he tried to run? He’d not have got far in stupid heels like that.

  Donna interrupted his thoughts and wound up the meeting: ‘Thank you, everyone, and good night.’

  Martin stood and rolled back his shoulders, shagged out and glad the long day was finally done.

  At home, his wife Fran had lasagne ready to heat up for him. He took off his jacket and tie and sank onto the sofa.

  ‘Is it that teenager?’ she said. ‘Allie Kennaway?’ She passed him a lap tray.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Is Dale out?’ Martin said.

  ‘Gone for a run.’

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘You know how keen he is,’ Fran said.

  ‘He doesn’t want to overdo it,’ Martin said.

  ‘I know, but you try telling him that.’

  Martin scooped up some food, scalding the roof of his mouth with the first bite.

  ‘I just worry . . .’ Fran said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t get selected he’ll be devastated.’

  ‘That’s the way it goes,’ Martin said. ‘But he’s fitter than he ever was. He’s got a good shot at it.’ He ate another forkful – he was famished. ‘Did he have a good night?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled.

  The news came on and Martin turned up the volume. Their murder was top story, probably a combination of the youth of the victim and the novelty of him being transgender.

  ‘Have you met the family?’ Fran said.

  Martin shook his head. They never talked much about his work. Fran always knew what case he was on and the information that was in the public domain but that was it. After the fact, when cases had been put to bed, and if they were socializing, Martin might trot out some tales about the weird and wonderful world of Major Crimes but never when a case was unsolved.

  Fran said, ‘Five or ten years ago you couldn’t imagine anyone that young being . . . you know . . . changing sex but now it’s everywhere. It was just drag queens, back then, wasn’t it? Lily Savage and Dame Edna Everage. Or there’s thingummy.’

  He looked at her.

  She made circular motions with her hand by way of encouragement. ‘The comedian, the marathons.’

  ‘Eddie Izzard.’

  ‘That’s him,’ she said.

  ‘Not sure he’s a drag queen,’ Martin said.

  ‘I don’t know. But things have gone too far the other way,’ Fran said. ‘I mean, you must be off yer head to start getting bits chopped off. Like mutilation.’

  The thought made h
im want to heave. ‘Fran.’ He pulled a face.

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  He gave her his plate and watched some spokesperson from a local LGBT charity quote statistics about violence towards sexual minorities and the need for education and understanding.

  He sipped at his whisky as the news continued, mind returning to the case. If it was an attack by people not known to the victim, like it was shaping up to be, then any forensic evidence was crucial because there was no pre-existing relationship to make connections, to point to motive. He hoped the lab would have something for them in the morning, like Donna promised.

  Next thing he knew Fran was shaking him awake, telling him he should go to bed and that he really could do with a shower as well, unless he wanted to sleep on the sofa.

  Steve

  One of the detectives, the young one, had been round, asked Steve to check and sign his witness statement. He’d steeled himself to go through the document. It had been bizarre reading it, like a film script, his story written by someone else. He agreed it was accurate and signed his name.

  Now he was looking at photographs, him, his parents and Teagan. Old prints, crammed into a shoebox, of Allie when she was young. He and Sarah had always been going to get an album, put everything in order, labelled and dated, but it had never happened. And more recent photos, the last seven or eight years, were all digital. Teagan had helped set up the laptop for those so they could have a slideshow.

  Seeing all the images, the hundred or more pictures of Allie, helped counteract the dreadful sight of her at the mortuary that was burnt on the back of his eyeballs.

  Was it normal, this steeping themselves in memories? He couldn’t recall the days after Sarah died with any clarity, though he knew there had been some looking back to pull together material for her memorial service. Anyway, he chided himself, when did normal ever matter? If he’d learnt anything from Allie it was that ‘normal’ was a dangerous word.

  ‘Look at that,’ his mum said. ‘Pause it, Teagan. When was that?’

  Steve looked at the screen. Allie in a bad fairy outfit, black net skirt and shiny black wings, red tights, purple lipstick, talons instead of nails.

  ‘Halloween?’ Teagan said.

  ‘That’s right. She’d be twelve then,’ Steve said. ‘Still got her braces on.’ A mouthful of metal.

  Not long before that, Sarah had come to Steve and said, ‘I think Aled’s a cross-dresser.’

  He’d laughed, taken aback. His son liked dressing up, fancy dress, but that wasn’t the same as . . . it didn’t mean . . .

  ‘He’s seen some dress online that he wants me to buy for him. I asked him if he liked dressing as a girl and he said, yes, he feels good like that.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Steve had said. Not sure what it meant, or how to respond.

  It was Sarah who had guided him. ‘So I’ve ordered the dress and I said we’d like to talk to him about it, so we can understand what he wants and how we can help.’

  Steve must still have been looking worried because she’d gone on, ‘It’s OK, Steve. He’s not hurting anyone, just finding his way.’

  And they’d had the conversation with him one afternoon when Teagan was out playing at a friend’s. Aled had flushed a little as he’d begun to talk. He hadn’t said much, only that he felt better when he dressed as a girl and he wanted to do it more often.

  So he had. At home initially and then with those friends he trusted.

  The first few times Steve had seen him in a pleated skirt and stretchy T-shirt top or a dress and tights and black pumps, wearing make-up and earrings, he’d experienced a rush of love for this astonishing child and a swirl of unease. The unease wasn’t distaste but anxiety, a fear that Aled was putting himself at risk.

  He thought of Emma’s words earlier, It’s not very safe, is it? In public. Steve had been taught by Allie’s example to learn to control those fears and put them into perspective. Had he been so wrong? Had he put Allie in harm’s way? Jesus. Her big night: should he have told her not to go? Not to wear what she wanted? But she was with friends – she was at the prom. How could anyone have known?

  The bloody statistics were in the A–Z project: 84 per cent of transgender people have considered taking their own lives and 35 per cent have attempted suicide. For young people under 26 the figure rises to 48 per cent attempting suicide. Steve had come across similar figures when he’d needed to know more, to understand Allie’s situation, and he had browsed transgender issues online. He recalled that painful quickening of his heart, the churn in his stomach at the stark numbers: 19 per cent have been physically attacked for being trans and 62 per cent have experienced transphobic abuse in public. The irrational thought: if this was what being transgender meant, he didn’t want his child to have that identity.

  ‘It’s not a choice,’ Allie had said to him once, after Sarah died, when they were discussing her transition: when she started sixth-form college, she’d be attending as a girl. ‘The only choice is whether I’m true to myself or not. If I hide or not. I don’t want to hide any more.’

  ‘Dad?’ Teagan said.

  He was wrenched back to the present. He must have made some sound: Teagan was staring at him with concern.

  He couldn’t speak. Instead he shook his head, eyes hot and aching. The savage pain, the crushing bitter misery of Sarah’s loss had been tempered by time. But it was still there, deep and strong. This called it all back.

  ‘You should get some sleep,’ his mum said. ‘Both of you.’

  Steve stared at her.

  ‘Rest, then, even if you can’t sleep. Lie down and rest. We’ll come back in the morning.’ She glanced at Steve’s dad, who nodded his agreement, his eyes red and watery, face grey and dotted with liver spots. His dad had barely spoken the whole time he’d been here. And Steve realized he was only just holding it together. That his silence and absent behaviour were a bulwark against the enormity of his loss.

  ‘OK,’ Steve said. ‘We’ll rest.’

  ‘Dad, remember when I used to have a nest on the floor?’ Teagan said, as they went upstairs. For years, she’d slept at the foot of their bed as often as not, woken by bad dreams or lonely in her own room.

  ‘You want to do that now?’ he said. Oh, Teagan. How could she bear this? How could she bear any of it?

  ‘No, it’s OK.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He couldn’t tell if he was glad, or if he’d have liked her company. Everything was unstable, shifting, hard to fathom.

  ‘Give us a hug,’ he said, on the landing. And she put her arms around his chest, her ear to his breastbone.

  He breathed in the smell of her, chocolate and salt and a trace of rose shampoo. ‘Love you,’ he said. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Love you too. Night, Dad.’

  He was still awake when she came in an hour later, dragging a sleeping bag and a pillow.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said.

  ‘Night night.’

  And he lay on his back with his eyes closed and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

  Donna

  Donna loved the contrast. Coming home after a long, demanding day of steering the juggernaut of a murder inquiry, with a thousand things to think of – coming from that to the hum of domesticity, the smaller and simpler concerns of home.

  Of the kids, only Bryony was still up when Donna got in, doing something creative to her nails with glitter and stickers, while watching Damages, a legal thriller, on Netflix. Bryony was three years younger than Allie, three years older than Teagan. There was something adult, mature, about Teagan. Perhaps she’d had to grow up more quickly, losing her mum as an nine-year-old.

  Jim filled Donna in on their day. The cinema trip had been a partial success but Matt had freaked out at some sound effects, which he was sure was thunder. Jim had had to take him into the foyer and walk round the complex for the rest of the film.

  ‘I thoug
ht we were getting over the thunder,’ Donna said. ‘Did he clean the hamster out?’

  ‘After a fashion. It’d probably be more accurate to say he played with Morris while I did the job.’

  ‘Maybe next time you should play with Morris.’

  ‘No fear,’ Jim said. ‘That animal’s feral. I’ve still got scars – look.’ He pointed to the silvery line on his thumb. ‘Oh, and Lewis wants a snake.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. Though maybe a snake would solve the Morris problem.’

  ‘Harsh,’ he said. ‘You’re obviously mixing with the wrong type of people.’ He yawned.

  ‘Am I keeping you up?’ she said.

  ‘Definitely.’

  It was only as she got into bed beside him and heard the clatter of Morris at play that she realized she’d forgotten again to get Matt to move the cage. She was so tired, too tired to get up and do it now. But tomorrow she’d ask Jim to do it. She’d remember to do that, she promised herself. She definitely would.

  In the hour since reaching her desk, Donna had sifted through the emails, messages and reports from the various parts of the inquiry, bringing herself up to speed, identifying what needed sharing with the team and what required further action.

  At a little after eight thirty, she took her seat in the briefing room, her notes in order. Martin sat at her left, Jade at her right. She noticed Jade was left-handed: the hand holding the pen was twisted at an angle over the top of her daybook. Donna could smell Martin’s aftershave and fabric conditioner from his clothes. Refreshed, like the rest of them, bright-eyed and raring to go. Energized, like herself, not least because she had received significant new evidence.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said. ‘Our appeal generated a substantial number of calls from the public. One flagged up as urgent is a potential eyewitness. Jade, you and I will follow up on that. As I hoped, it’s a bumper day for forensics. There’s a summary of results, which you can download, but I’ll take you through the most salient facts.