Free Ruthless by Cath Staincliffe Page A

inquiry? Take our bat home?’
    ‘I’m not saying that,’ Rachel argued.
    ‘Good,’ Gill said. ‘It is our job to be thorough, to be meticulous, and to go where the evidence takes us, even if that turns out to be a complete waste of time. Yes?’
    ‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said, fingers twirling her pen like it was a marching baton.
    ‘Kevin, see about making a prison visit,’ Gill said.
    ‘Yes, boss.’
    ‘Arson – the same accelerant, petrol, was used in the previous arson attacks at the mosque and the school.’ Gill summarized what they had from the fire investigation officer. ‘What more do we know?’
    ‘No joy so far on the garages,’ Kevin said. ‘Also following up on two incidents of theft from vehicles. Siphoning.’
    ‘Whereabouts?’ Gill said.
    ‘One Royton, one Middleton.’
    ‘Bit risky,’ Janet said, ‘you could be caught by the owner, seen by neighbours.’
    ‘Yes, but you won’t be on CCTV like you would if it was station forecourt,’ said Kevin.
    ‘Good point,’ Gill told him and almost wished she hadn’t when he started to preen. She indicated the boards. ‘And the Perry twins?’
    ‘They attended an EBA, Bulldog Army, meeting earlier in the month,’ Lee checked his notebook, ‘at the George Inn on Sunday.’
    ‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘where talk was heard about “sending a message”.’ She wiggled quote marks with her fingers.
    ‘We know this how?’ Janet said.
    Gill smiled, raised an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Intelligence from infiltrators was a double-edged sword. You couldn’t reveal a source without jeopardizing an ongoing investigation and risking an informant’s safety. Sometimes that informant would be a CI, a community informant, someone willing to risk spying on friends and neighbours for a regular few quid to help get by. The other informants were officers in deep cover. Gill couldn’t think of anything worse than pretending to be a lowlife or a fascist or a fanatic. And sometimes infiltration went horribly wrong, with officers going rogue or crossing the murky lines into deeply unethical territory, as had happened with those policemen who’d infiltrated various protest movements, sleeping with the activists, fathering children. Disastrous.
    Janet caught on soon enough. ‘Classified?’ she said. ‘We’re treading on someone’s toes?’
    ‘We might be,’ Gill said, ‘except we are going to focus our attention on the machinations of the far right, neo-Nazis, only in so far as it relates to the murder of Richard Kavanagh.’
    ‘This could be a hate crime,’ Lee said. ‘Homeless people are at increased risk of violence, seen as other, dirty parasites.’
    ‘Possible,’ Gill said. ‘The Perry boys are still our only leads. We’ve not found any more evidence on them so I think rather than hang on we arrest them on suspicion, tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Do we need an armed response unit?’ said Mitch. ‘They may still have the firearm.’
    ‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘wear your protective vests. Good work,’ she addressed them all. ‘A reminder, we use our victim’s given name, we accord him the same dignity and respect as we would any other person. I don’t want to hear talk of tramps or dossers or winos or hobos, or Rodeo Rick. He is Richard Kavanagh. Clear?’
    They nodded.
    ‘I am happy. You should be too. Goodnight.’
     
    Rachel nearly walked straight back out again. Her mother there, at her flat, on her sofa, making jolly with Sean and Haydn. Nachos and dips and a bottle of tequila open.
    ‘Rachel,’ Sean beamed, ‘get a glass, there’s lemon on the side.’
    ‘Mexican night. Olé,’ Sharon raised her glass, smeared with pink lipstick, and winked.
    Rachel felt her palms tingle, her throat tighten. This was her place, private, separate from work, from family. No one came here without an invitation and hardly anyone got an invitation. Sharon sure as hell hadn’t. She couldn’t fuck off for twenty