Page 48 of The Unforgiven

“We’re pursuing several lines of enquiry. You know better, Grant, than to expect me to give away any details that might jeopardise the investigation. You’ve been doing this long enough.” It was one of his tactics; know the journalist personally and knock them down a peg or two.

“Are you expecting any more murders to happen?”

“Thank you, Steve. If you know anything about any murders, can I ask you to give a statement to one of my team before you leave.”

“Is Manchester a safe place for women to be?”

That one caught Wrigley’s attention. “Is anywhere a safe place for women to be? Look at the statistics for rape – there arearound seventy thousand recorded rapes of women a year, and that’s just what’s reported. Violence against women and girls make-up twenty percent of all recorded crimes and on average, a woman is killed by a man every three days. So, in answer to your question, no, neither Manchester nor anywhere else is a safe place for a woman to be, and given that one point six million women a year experience domestic abuse, for a lot of women, even their home isn’t a safe place to be. Next question.”

“Could it just be coincidence that the first three victims are female? Are the police becoming tainted by all the feminist ideology in the media?” This was a red-haired bloke with skin almost translucently pale, his body still displaying puppy-fat.

“Did you really just ask that?” was Wrigley’s response. “Does anyone have a sensible question to ask?”

“We believe one of your leads is that the murders are being committed by a transwoman. Can you tell us if this is true?” The red-haired journalist tried to push himself closer.

“I can tell you that is not a line of enquiry at this time and remind you that the words you print have consequences. I need my team and the support crews to be able to focus on catching the killer without having to deal with any other hate crimes.” Wrigley sent him a glare that turned most constables to stone.

“So you are saying that this is a hate crime?” This time it was a woman, the first to have spoken. Maybe it wasn’t just the police that were male dominated.

Wrigley frowned. “Any murder is a hate crime. If that’s all we’ve got for now, I’ll get on with the important stuff.” He wandered off the platform, mumbling something to Vinny, which I suspected was around getting hold of the red-haired journalist and to ask him a few questions.

“Excuse me, are you working this case?” There was a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around, a slim woman with light brown hair styled in a pixie cut looked at me with worried eyes. She looked familiar, as if I’d seen her before, the familiarity unnerving.

“I am. I’m Detective Sergeant Mia McAllister. How can I help?” I spotted Darcy Harrop waving at me as she followed the throng out of the building. I made a note to contact her when all this was over, to check she was okay more than anything.

“I’m Leah Skelton. I think the body you found yesterday was my sister.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Leah Skelton was two years older than her sister, Morgan. They shared a flat in Cheadle and both were teachers at the same primary school. Leah was petite, slim and nervous, probably more at home around primary aged children than adults, and she was also very, very upset.

I took her into one of the few rooms that were ready for use at Two Angel Square, one designed for speaking to family members so it lacked the oppressive factors an interview room would have. There were no comfy chairs yet, so we had to make use of a couple of plastic garden chairs the builders had conveniently left in there.

Leah asked for water, because she didn’t drink caffeine, and I asked for Verity to sit in while I took a statement because Nick or Vinny or Lachy or any one of the other blokes I felt would be a bit too much.

“Leah, when was the last time you saw your sister?” I started gently, no need for firmness or to take the reins yet.

She wiped at her eyes with a tissue Verity had managed to find. “Thursday evening. She was going out to meet a friend, butshe didn’t say which one and then staying over at a friend’s in Liverpool for a night out – someone she went to university with.”

“An obvious question, but have you checked with the friend?”

Leah nodded. “She never turned up in Liverpool. I tried to report her as missing yesterday evening when she didn’t come home, but the police said it had to be forty-eight hours because she wasn’t a vulnerable adult.”

Which was why we hadn’t come been able to match the description of our third victim to a missing person. It was a scenario we’d considered already, and correct, because there was no doubt in my mind that Morgan Skelton was our third victim.

“Can you describe your sister to me?”

Leah pulled her purse out of her handbag and tugged out a photograph, one taken in a photobooth. “This is from our work’s Christmas do. We had some silly ones taken and then did a serious one for our mum, because she’s always saying she doesn’t have any good photos of us together.”

There was no doubt about it. Leah’s sister had been murdered.

“Thank you, Leah.” I lifted my eyes from the photo to her and studied her face. She knew the victim was her sister. A light in her had gone out and I knew from experience that it wouldn’t be switched back on.

Murder didn’t just kill the victim. It killed the lives of those left grieving. Fear and guilt and a plague of what-ifs would hide in moments of darkness, waiting to jump out, present memories that weren’t ones to treasure.

“It’s her, isn’t it? Morgan’s dead.”