Chapter Text
Is being late a diagnosable disorder? A chronic condition?
Because if it is, she should get herself seen.
She’d spent the morning flapping as usual. Rushing around like a blue-arsed fly, throwing together a dull-as-ditchwater outfit, and barely dragging a brush through her hair before legging it out the door.
Now, she’s stuck in an agonisingly long queue at some overpriced hipster coffee shop.
She should’ve just gone without seeing as she’s got, what, eleven minutes until she needs to be there? But after a seven-hour drive back to Manchester and arriving at her new flat when the sun was coming up, she’d cracked open a bottle of red, googled the local bars, and half-heartedly skimmed through reports instead of getting some much-needed shut-eye. Mainly to avoid unpacking.
Not that there was much to unpack. No bed yet, just bin bags full of crap, a half-empty suitcase and whatever was still shoved in her car boot. Which was why she’d ended up passing out on the floor like a squatter and waking up with a spine that felt like it was made of Quavers.
She had no food in, either. Stormed into the all-night garage when she’d got here in a mood, grabbed a cheap bottle of wine and a bag of Babybels, and left without sparing a thought for any essentials—no milk, no bread, not even a sad multipack of crisps.
She’s currently running on fumes, starving, and gasping for a brew.
At least the city had endless options for a quick caffeine fix. God, she’d missed that.
Her old country cottage had been the polar opposite, somewhere your nan would go for a long weekend. Quaint, but not in a charming way. When she’d first moved in, it looked like a nan had lived there and smelled like one had probably died there, too. Pink, threadbare carpets. A kitchen older than she was. A god-awful crochet toilet seat cover. She’d tried to modernise, but it was a grade-listed building, so there was only so much she could do. It was liveable, but barely. Most days, she’d dreamed of sleek city living, and now she had exactly that. Vaulted ceilings, open brickwork, and a mezzanine. It was the kind of place an artsy student would wet themselves over, but she liked it.
A last-minute chop and change, that’s what this whole move had been.
She’d finally binned off her alcoholic ex and done a bunk. He’d been twirling her like a twat for years, promising to pack it in, to be better, to grow up. But she’d had enough. Pushing her mid-forties and still looking alright, she figured she might as well seek pastures new. Helped that he’d been shagging the primary school teacher, who looked like a vicar’s wife but had the personality of a demon in a twinset.
As it turned out, she’d been aiding the drinking, too. Meeting Peter in her flat above a pub, playing the doting mistress by night while teaching his son by day. That part stung a bit. Not just the betrayal, but the fact that his lad hadn’t been all that gutted to see the back of her either. She’d practically helped raise him, but she supposed she was just another adult in his life who worked too much, shouted too much, and, in the end, didn’t stick around.
Peter hadn’t even put up a fight when she caught them at it. If anything, he looked like he was about to ask her to give him five minutes to finish rogering her on their bloody sofa.
Too far gone, completely besotted with his new young thing, who didn’t bring stress home, didn’t kick off when he rolled in late, didn’t expect him to be anything more than he already was.
She’d soon see his true colours. About six months gone, too.
Good luck, babe.
Probably a blessing in disguise. She’d had it up to here with village life anyway, where the most thrilling happening of the month was 84-year-old Mr Barnett ordering bootleg Viagra off the internet and giving himself a fatal heart attack.
Albeit a happy one, judging by the tent in his trousers when they found him a few days later.
She’d only moved there for Peter. To help him stay on the wagon and settle somewhere quiet, away from bad influences. Promises of a slow and easy life. A family. A fresh start. All sounded lovely at the time, but she should’ve seen through it. Rose-tinted glasses and all that.
Now she’s back, ready for some actual excitement and, ideally, a new fella to warm her bed at the weekends.
Nothing serious. Those days are long gone. Just a bit of fun.
Anyway, why isn’t this bloody queue moving?
She cranes her neck, sighing as she spots the culprit. Some woman is ordering, what is it, eight coffees?
Come on, love, it’s rush hour. There’s an app for that now.
Carla shifts her bag higher onto her shoulder, rummaging one-handed to double-check she’s got all her paperwork when—
Flamin’ hell!
A scalding wave of liquid slams into her chest.
She shrieks, jerking back as the heat seeps through her blouse, burning against her skin. Her bag slips off her shoulder, and the shock sends her stumbling, nearly barrelling into the bloke behind her.
“Watch where you’re going, you dozy cow!”
She manages to peel the cotton away from her skin, wincing. It’s scorching, like someone’s just taken a bloody iron to her chest. She wonders if she’s about to start bubbling and spend her first day in A&E.
Great start.
Her white blouse clings to her like shrink wrap, completely see-through. At this rate, she might have to throw a sicky before she’s even met her boss.
“Oh, god! I’m so sorry! I lost my footing there. Are you alright?”
Carla is ready to tear into whoever’s just doused her in what feels like molten vanilla lava, but then she looks up.
Bloody hell.
The woman in front of her is striking. Petite, bright blonde hair that looks naturally sun-kissed swept into a neat little bun with two perfectly placed strands framing her face. Sharp jaw, delicate features. Like an uptight lawyer Barbie in a perfectly pressed dark suit. Late thirties, early forties at a push.
Carla realises she’s been standing there, gawping, while the woman looks at her like she’s the one who’s just committed third-degree murder rather than being on the receiving end of third-degree burns.
“My shirt’s had it,” she grumbles, rubbing at the soaked fabric. It’s cooled quickly, at least, but her chest is still radiating heat. She pops a few buttons, peering down to check the damage. No peeling or blistering, small mercies, but she’s definitely going to have to detour home to change. “I think I’ll live. Shit, I’m gonna be so late.”
“What can I do?”
Carla gives her a once-over and waves a hand at the woman’s nearly identical button-up. “Give us your shirt?”
She’s joking. Obviously.
The woman laughs, but looks like she’s actually considering it. “I’ve got a spare in my boot if you want it?”
Should she take a stranger’s shirt? What if this woman’s some strangely gorgeous, well-put-together tramp who lives out of her car?
“Always have one knocking about. I never know what’s gonna happen in my line of work. Up to you? Or you can send me your dry-cleaning bill.”
Not a tramp then.
Carla glances down at her £25 Marks and Sparks special. It’s ruined, but she’s hardly taking it to be dry-cleaned. She’s got a bag full of identical ones somewhere. Christ, she really did need to unpack. She doesn’t say anything, gawks at herself, considering her options.
The woman tilts her head, waiting.
“Yeah, go on then,” Carla sighs, shifting her bag to the floor and grabbing some napkins to dab at the worst of it. “New job today, and I’m already...oh.” She looks at her watch. “Three minutes late. Smashing.”
“Alright, give me a sec.”
The woman tosses the dripping tray into the bin and swans off toward her car, leaving Carla soaked and vaguely baffled. She swears those big green eyes lingered on her chest a second too long, but she let it slide.
She’s practically flashing her golden globes at half of Manchester, and of course, she’s wearing black lace. Because why wouldn’t she be?
Moments later, the woman returns, handing her a crisp, neatly folded button-up.
Carla unfolds it and holds it out in front of her. Oversized, but it’ll do.
“Lifesaver,” she says, trying to sound grateful as she scans for the loos.
“You were already cutting it fine if you’re here and now... three, probably six minutes late at this point?”
Carla rolls her eyes. Bit rich, considering she’s just nearly had her nipples dissolved. “Yeah, well, had a late one.”
The woman smirks. “Glad you don’t work for me.”
Carla snorts. “Ditto. I might need a skin graft.”
The queue shuffles forward, and the woman nods toward the counter. “You’re up.”
Carla pulls it together, flashing a smile at the lad behind the till, only to realise too late that she’s also flashing him. He’s definitely lingering a little too long on her chest. She hurriedly folds her arms, cocking a brow, and suddenly, he’s very interested in reorganising the syrup pumps.
“Large cappuccino, love. Extra shot, please.”
The woman laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “Not leaving the coffee behind, then?”
“No chance. I’m gasping and can’t function without it. To be fair, I’ve probably already absorbed a good few milligrams.” Carla smirked, wondering why this woman was still making small talk with her. She’d have made herself scarce by now.
“Thanks for the shirt, Blondie. Want to take my number so I can return it?”
The woman bites her lip, then lets out a light chuckle. “Is that a ploy or...?”
Carla frowns.
“What would I want your number for otherwise?”
Silence.
The woman’s eyebrows lift.
“Never mind,” the woman says eventually, her smile sliding back into place. “Keep the shirt. It’s the least I can do. Sorry again, I hope your first day looks up from here.”
And then she’s gone.
Carla storms into the office, absolutely swallowed by this bloody duvet of a shirt, looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Her pants are still damp despite blasting the car heaters on full whack the whole drive over in bloody June, and she prays to God she’s not got sweat patches under her arms. She didn’t really think that one through. At least she doesn’t have to give the shirt back.
She’d abandoned the rest of her coffee in the car. She wasn’t that audacious.
At least fifteen pairs of eyes land on her the second she steps inside… some curious, most mildly judgmental.
Shit.
Thirty-six minutes late.
Traffic had been murder. She’d forgotten about that after living somewhere with a population of 421. Well, 420 now if she counts herself. Oh, 419... poor Boner Barnett. The place was so insignificant that it didn’t even exist on Google Maps yet. Even the sat-nav used to give up halfway and tell her to navigate by the stars.
She opens her mouth, some excuse about having to deal with a roadside argument already half-formed—
Then she sees her.
Blondie.
The woman who nearly boiled her alive not half an hour ago. Standing by a desk, halfway through pulling off her blazer, one arm still in the sleeve.
Jaw dropped.
Staring right at her.
Double shit.
“Nice of you to finally grace us with your fragrant presence.”
Carla plastered on a smile as she strode over. “Glass houses. And, well, I’m fragrant with the finest Northern Quarter espresso after being assaulted this morning by a clumsy lady fuzz in a nice suit. Had to stop off at the pharmacist for a once-over and some ointment, but they reckon it’ll only scar lightly.”
A horrified pause.
“Scar? What?!”
Carla snorts. “I’m pulling your leg.”
“Right.”
A cough. A shift in weight. Then—
“Detective Constable Connor, I take it?”
Carla nods and winks. “Ma’am.”
“Detective Sergeant Swain.”
This was turning into a proper arse-about-face day.
Carla forced a smile, pulling awkwardly at the collar of her, no, Swain’s shirt. “Well, I would make my excuses, but seeing as I’m standing here wearing your clothes—”
A lanky-looking bloke behind her chokes, half a mouthful of chewed croissant flying onto his desk.
Blondie's face is thunderous. Carla is convinced the poor sod is about to be dragged outside and strung up, but—
That glare is for her.
Oh.
Triple shit.
“I mean—”
“Stop talking, DC Connor.” Swain’s voice is cutting. “My office. Now.”
Carla’s pretty sure she’s about to set a record for the swiftest firing in history.
The door slams shut, blinds rattling. Carla’s a little bit scared, so she jumps straight on the defence.
“Look, I didn't know who you were... and to be fair, you were late too, so—”
The DS folds her arms, expression flat. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Carla opens her mouth, but Swain steamrolls on. “I haven’t been home in forty-two hours, Connor. That was a coffee run to keep everyone functioning while we solve this case.”
Carla mentally considers other career options.
“ I-er... oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” Swain snaps. “I know you’re used to gathering up lost chickens and helping old dears bag their shopping, but this is MIT.”
Carla’s hackles rise. “Excuse me—”
“Frankly,” Swain continues, severely unimpressed, “I don’t even know how you managed to get transferred here.”
Sure, her last posting was quieter—a sleepy village where the most significant crime most weeks was someone nicking their neighbour’s wheelie bin or getting done for fishing without a licence, but there was also the cold case.
Eleven girls had gone missing in the early ’90s. Gruesome didn’t even cover it. A botched investigation from the start, full of dead ends, dismissed leads, and lazy ancient detectives holding out for retirement who couldn’t be arsed. Some probably knew more than they let on. Some might’ve even been paid to look the other way.
The village held an annual memorial, with candles lit and families gathering to remember those they had lost.
Carla had started digging into it during her first year there, picking apart decades-old reports and spotting all the places where things didn’t quite add up. Less than six weeks later, she’d cracked it on her own, and they’d dubbed her Manc Marple. She’d take it. It could’ve been worse.
The bastard responsible made Ian Huntley look like Mr Tumble. Fortunately, he was still breathing when she got to him, long enough to be dragged through the courts and dumped in a cell, where he’s now rotting. He probably wouldn’t see many more Christmases, but at least the families finally had justice.
That was what got her into MIT.
She squares her shoulders. “I got transferred here because I earned it.”
“Do you want a chufty badge? I heard it was a dusty old case that—”
Carla’s spine stiffens. “No.” She shakes her head, jaw clenching. “Stop right there.”
Swain clamps her mouth shut, shoving her hands into her pockets.
“These were teenage girls.” Carla presses her hands against the back of the chair in front of her, staring this insufferable, pretty blonde dead in the eye. “Some of them barely out of vests. It wasn’t—”
Swain drags a hand down her face, shoulders dropping. “I’m sorry. That was too far.” She exhales, glancing at Carla again. “I just meant—”
Carla waves a hand, cutting her off, then drags a thumb across her brow, pressing her lips together before meeting her eyes again. “Look, I know I’ve not made the best first impression, but I am good at this.” She leans against the desk, crossing her arms loosely. “I’m committed to the job. It’s just been a rough few days, and I only got back to Manchester in the early hours.” She observes Swain carefully. “It won’t happen again. Can we start afresh?”
The sergeant studies her, fingers tapping once against her desk.
“... I mean, you did scald me and then scold me. And I’ve already forgiven you, so...” Carla shrugs, chancing a smirk.
Swain rolls her eyes, and for a second, it looks like she might crack a smile. But then she stiffens, lips pressing back into a thin line.
“Okay.” She nods toward the chair. “I’ll brief you on the latest. Sit down.”
Carla’s seated.
She’d read the case notes before her arrival, and it was a mess.
Over the past six months, six bodies had been dragged from the Rochdale Canal.
The first three were young men, all linked to organised crime and were the kind of gangland killings that barely raised an eyebrow. Known faces in the criminal underworld, drug runners, enforcers, and disposable foot soldiers in Manchester’s long-standing turf war.
No real mystery there. Hands bound, throats slit, dumped like rubbish. Two had ties to the Whitworth Crew, and the third was affiliated with their rivals, the Lodge Lane Firm. Both sides denied responsibility, obviously. The only thing the gangs hated more than each other was talking to the filth.
Those names, honestly. They sounded more like a forgotten early-2000s boy band or a dodgy family-run solicitor offering no-win, no-fee claims. Hardly the kind of thing to strike terror into the heart, but somehow, they did.
Statements, as expected, were about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. Nobody had seen a thing, nobody knew a thing, and even if they did, they weren’t about to start singing. The only thing worse than a copper knocking on your door was one of the scumbags knowing you’d opened it.
Anyway, moving on.
Three months later, another body turned up in the canal.
Not a gang member this time. A woman.
Then another. And another.
Three women, all between 25 and 30. No criminal ties, no known connections to the gangs, and no obvious links to each other. But the method was the same, wrists bound, throats slit, dumped in the canal.
Unlike the gang lads, these weren’t casualties of a turf war. They were targeted. Stalked. Someone had taken their time. Signs of restraint before death. Defensive wounds indicating a struggle.
Both organisations swore blind it wasn’t them. The Lodge Lane Firm even reached out through an unofficial channel to say, We don’t touch women. For once, the Whitworth Crew agreed.
Which left one question hanging over the whole investigation.
If this wasn’t gang-related, then why were these women being killed the same way?
And more importantly, who was next?
They finally had a lead after weeks of sweet sod-all. Some nameless source had tipped them off about a scrap in a scruffy pub on an estate up in North Manchester, where a few choice words had been thrown around, including mention of the dead women.
Swain yanked a box from under her desk and nodded toward the door. “Come on. We’re paying them a visit.”
“Can I ring my next of kin first?” she tried, but Swain didn’t so much as acknowledge it.
Bore.
She practically had to jog to keep up as her Sergeant strode out of the office.
“What are you carrying, boss?” the lanky one piped up on their way past.
“You, usually,” the DS shot back. Then, over her shoulder, “Get on the local CCTV Green.”
Carla dug out her car keys, but before she could even unlock the thing, Swain cut in. “I’m driving.”
Carla dropped them straight back into her pocket. After the morning she’d had, she’d pick her battles.
She climbed into Swain’s squad car, inhaling the acrid scent of old takeaways. A few squashed cans of Irn-Bru rattled in the footwell.
Very different from the uptight, pretty policewoman in front of her.
“Smells like regret in here.”
Swain barely glanced at her. “You’d rather walk?”
Touchy.
Carla smirked, leaning back against the headrest. “You got a first name, then? Or do I have to earn that privilege?”
A scoff.
“Lisa.”
Carla turned it over in her head. Lisa. It suited her.
“But I’d prefer you call me Swain or boss,” she added, eyes fixed on the road. “Not Ma’am. Makes me feel old.”
Won’t be going out for after-work pints with her then.
Carla eyed the box. “Alright, what’s in there?”
“Peace offering,” Swain said, still not making eye contact. “Seized a load of snide fags from there a few weeks back. Thought it might help persuade the landlady to open her gob.”
Made sense.
“You reckon she’ll actually talk?”
Swain shrugged. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
They pulled up outside the pub, and Christ, what a shithole. Half the windows were boarded up, the signage was missing at least four letters and a skinhead was already parked on the bench outside, pint in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a joint in the other.
“Put it out, Paddy, before you spend another night with a metal toilet for company.” Lisa barked as she pushed open the doors.
The man grumbled but stubbed his joint out on the bench, muttering something about pigs under his breath. Lisa ignored him. Carla followed her inside, already on high alert, half-expecting a pool cue to the back of the nut the second they stepped through the door.
The woman behind the bar looked like she could benchpress a Ford Fiesta. If she said it was Wednesday, it was Wednesday.
“What do you want, PC Princess?” she drawled, arms folded across a chest that looked capable of stopping traffic. She looked Carla up and down. “Oh, and look… you’ve bagged yourself another tall, dark, and handsome one. Though this one’s a bit more age-appropriate.”
“Shut it, Mandy, before I shut you down.”
Mandy smacked her lips. “What do you want, then?”
“A little birdie told me the LLF were in here the other night, scrapping with a lad from the Whitworth Crew,” Lisa said, shoving the box onto the bar. “What was it about?”
Mandy shrugged but eyed it with interest. “Didn’t hear nowt, me.”
Lisa tipped the box upside down. “This jog your memory?”
Mandy looked at the sleeves of snide fags before she sucked her teeth. “Come off it. If they find out I’ve been talking to you, I’ll end up in the canal an’ all.”
Lisa cocked her head. “Oh, so you do know all about that then?”
The brick shithouse’s face fell like she’d just been caught with her knickers down.
“Alright, alright,” she muttered, scratching at the side of her nose. “Alls I know is one of the dead girls was one of the LLF’s cousins’ birds. They think it was Whitworth’s doing, don’t they? So they gave him a pasting, looking to find out what’s what.”
One of the victims had a link to the LLF? And nobody had thought to mention it?
Lisa, meanwhile, barely reacted, just nodded like she’d already figured as much.
“Bird to who?” she asked, casual as you like.
Mandy shrugged. “Dunno. One of yours.”
Carla frowned. “A copper? I don’t think so—”
“Nah.” Mandy rolled her eyes. “A raging dyke.”
“Oi. Watch your mouth.”
Lisa, to her credit, just lifted a hand, stopping Carla from going off on one.
“Right,” she said, cool as ever. “And the girlfriend is?”
Mandy shook her head. “Told you, I dunno. Apparently, she’s in bits though, so they’re out for blood.”
One of the victims was gay. And her girlfriend was so devastated that she’d somehow got herself tangled up in all this?
That wasn’t in the case files. No mention of a partner. No statement. No public appeals.
Carla still had about ten more questions, but Lisa had already turned, nodding towards the door.
“Anything else?” Carla asked, one last shot at getting more out of Mandy.
Mandy shakes her head. “Nah. Now fuck off before they come in. Football’s on in an hour.”
Typical.
As they step outside, their luck takes another nosedive. A pack of gormless prostates in matching red shirts and black trackies is piling into the pub, man bags strapped across their chests like a uniform.
“Oi, oi! Wouldn’t mind being sandwiched between you two peng tings.”
Carla’s already gearing up to fire back, but Lisa doesn’t even break stride. She walks straight through the middle of them and throws out, “Give it a rest. You couldn’t find a clit with a search engine.”
Carla damn near chokes.
The lad’s mates erupt, howling, one of them whistling as they walk off.
Carla barely makes it into the passenger seat before she's giggling. She turns to Lisa, shaking her head. “You definitely are something.”
Lisa shrugs, slotting the key into the ignition. “My mam always said it like that when she was struggling for adjectives.”
“Formidable. Elusive. Clumsy. How about that?”
Lisa smirks, flicking the indicator. “You haven’t seen nowt yet.”
Cocky too, Carla thinks. But she daredn't say that out loud.