Ruthless by Cath Staincliffe

He felt comfortable, cocky about the weapon. Why?
    ‘Tell me what you did earlier on Wednesday.’
    ‘Just in the flat,’ he said.
    ‘Doing what?’
    ‘Gaming, with Neil.’
    ‘And the day before, Tuesday?’
    ‘Same,’ he said.
    ‘You’re unemployed,’ Janet said, ‘signing on?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he nodded.
    ‘When did you last sign on?’
    He took a slow breath, pulled a face, screwed up his eyes. ‘Monday,’ he said, eventually. ‘Last Monday.’
    He was slow-witted, Janet saw, maybe a side effect of his lifestyle: drugs, steroids messing with his concentration. Or by nature. He was definitely on the slow side.
     
    ‘Thick as pigshit,’ Rachel said to Janet in the custody suite, ‘mine was. Starved of oxygen or inbred or something.’
    ‘Keep your voice down,’ Janet hissed, flaring her eyes at Rachel, aware of a solicitor passing by on the way to the next call of duty.
    He’d sat there, his big head reminding Rachel of a teddy bear, those old-fashioned ones, stuffed with straw or whatever, and he’d answered her in monosyllables. Saying the minimum. Less you said, less you could make a mistake. His longest reply in response to a question about his tattoos. He’d read out quotes on his forearms, ‘It is not truth that matters but victory,’ and ‘If you want to shine like the sun then first burn like it.’ Nodded and added, ‘Mein Kampf.’ Then pointed to his neck. ‘That’s a lion and that’s a unicorn.’ Rachel thought they looked like meerkats. Said nothing.
    ‘Not thick enough to admit being there, being involved,’ Janet said when they were alone. ‘But they’re both giving their nan as their alibi. Meanwhile Mam’s saying they were with her. Story’s all over the place. If they are our killers they’ve really not thought it through. Same old, same old,’ Janet said, gesturing to the stairs to indicate that they should go out for a bit.
    ‘I know,’ Rachel agreed. Most of the crimes they dealt with were sad, savage and often pointless. The culprits similar. Grubby little arguments leading to loss of life. Families riven by violence and raised on crime. She thought fleetingly of Dom, twenty-eight years. Pushed it away.
    Rachel only had chance for half a fag, Janet keeping her company, before Kevin came down to find them. ‘Boss wants us all.’
    ‘Now?’ Rachel said.
    ‘If not sooner.’

10
     
    Upstairs in the briefing room, Godzilla was looking perky, eyes sparkling, back ramrod straight, zinging with energy. We’ve got something, Rachel thought, must be. Something’s turned up. The weapon?
    ‘Neil Perry’s mobile phone,’ the boss said, straight in, no messing. One good thing about Godzilla, she never bothered with chit-chat or anything, it was all about the job, the case. Rachel got that, wanted to do it like that if she ever made it as far as SIO.
    ‘Chock-a-block with text messages. Many run-of-the-mill, to his very limited number of contacts. One of particular interest to an unregistered number last Monday evening, Tomorrow 830 Bobbins and to the same number the next evening, Here now .’
    Bobbins was a pub in Coldhurst, known to the police who regularly attended when customers fell off their perches and started knocking lumps out of each other, or the fixtures and fittings. A series of managers had tried all sorts: home-cooked meals, family room, quiz night, disco, sounds of the 80s, pool table, large screen, but nothing seemed to change the quality of the clientele.
    ‘We want CCTV from the pub that Tuesday evening. Who was Neil Perry making arrangements with? Rachel, Janet,’ Godzilla turned to them, looking expectant, ‘initial impressions?’
    ‘Cautious,’ Rachel said, ‘but not that bright.’
    The boss nodded. ‘I’d say leaving all your messages on your phone backs up that observation. Sandwich short of a picnic.’
    ‘We should check out the alibi, the gran,’ said Lee.
    ‘Where are we on the search, the forensics?’ Janet