Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (11 page)

aching, back sore, wanting to go to bed herself. At least she didn’t have to go to work tomorrow – a

rare weekday off. No boss gawping at her tits, no stupid Nicole banging on about how her kids had

just got straight As in their exams. They might have got good marks but they were still spoiled little

shits. Sure,
she
might take her lads to the cinema once in a while but they knew the value of money and that their mum couldn’t afford to buy them everything they wanted. They understood the difference

between want and need. Unlike that bitch Nicole’s little shitbags, mooching around the estate in their

brand-new trainers, expensive mobile phones they were too young for welded to their pierced ears.

Lisa took consolation from the fact they’d have some young girl up the duff soon enough and then what

would happen to their straight As? Just because Nicole’s husband had some job off drilling oilfields

or something and they had a bit of money about them. If he had any sense, he’d be off drilling

something else – anything had to be better than looking at Nicole’s walnut face.

Lisa emerged onto the correct floor of the multi-storey car park relieved that at least her kids could

count. She expected them to be haring across the tarmac, hopefully not into the path of a car. Why

wouldn’t they slow down? She was tired; it had been a long day.

As she rounded the thick concrete pillar, Lisa’s two sons were standing still, staring towards the

corner where someone in a dark blue hooded top was standing close to a dirty white van. It took a

few moments for her to see what they were looking at but when she did, she gasped, stepping

forwards and putting her hands over the boys’ eyes.

Next to the van’s front wheel, a second man was on the floor. The hooded figure lunged ahead,

cracking a bat over the unconscious man’s back with a grunt of effort and a deep cough. Lisa couldn’t

stop herself from squealing, the sound popping out before she knew it was there, echoing around the

concrete space like the squeak from a trapped mouse.

When the hooded figure turned to face her, she expected to see a face but there was a white mask

with a red letter ‘A’ painted across the front and a diagonal line through it. She could see the whites of his eyes glaring across the car park, illuminated in the blue haze of the strip lights. The person

straightened up to full height – which wasn’t much – chest rising and falling quickly as he tried to

catch his breath.

‘Please don’t hurt us,’ Lisa said, her voice cracking. She still had her sons’ eyes covered, somehow

balancing her bags at the same time, but the children were beginning to squirm.

The figure said nothing, glancing slowly in both directions before nodding his head ever so slightly

towards her. Somewhere below, a car’s wheels screeched around the corner but the person remained

calm, wiping the bat on the ground and then walking quickly towards the far end of the car park.

11

Jessica stared up at the enlarged photo of the victim pinned to the incident room’s whiteboard and

turned back to the assembled officers. ‘I think we can safely say someone didn’t like this guy.’

A dozen officers were squeezed into the makeshift room, a mix of CID and uniform. As she faced

them, Jessica couldn’t stop looking at the speckled patch of black and green mould above the door.

The incident room in the basement was hardly state-of-the-art but at least there was a heater and she

didn’t feel at risk of Legionnaires’ disease just by showing up to work.

Jessica still had her jacket on, as did almost everyone else. She waited for one of the constables to

stop picking his nose, giving him the raised eyebrow treatment, before continuing. ‘This is Alan Hume

– he’s in his fifties, unmarried and a self-employed builder who owns a dozen or so houses around

Manchester. He was working on a shop refitting yesterday afternoon at the Trafford Centre and,

miraculously seeing as he’s a builder, he didn’t knock off at half two. Some time a little after seven,

Lisa Dawes and her two sons were heading back to their car after a trip to the cinema when they saw

a man in a dark blue hoody introducing Mr Hume to Mr Sawn-Off Baseball Bat.’

A voice at the back piped up: ‘Sawn-off?’

Jessica nodded to Izzy, who pressed a button on the laptop, changing the image on the screen. It

was a good thing somebody knew how to set the damned thing up – Jessica had spent a day on a

training course and was none the wiser.

‘We’ve not recovered the weapon but the CCTV system around the shopping centre picked this up.

As far as we can tell, it’s a baseball bat that has had the top third cut off. Our colleagues in North

Manchester—’

A low grumbling began at the back – the usual soundtrack whenever a division other than their

Manchester Metropolitan one was mentioned.

‘All right, it’s not like we’re dealing with the Met or anything.’

Actual boos.

Jessica grinned. ‘Anyway, one of the lads up north says it’s something that’s been breaking out

among the gangs – apparently it makes the weapon quicker through the air. In my day it was Rubik’s

Cubes and Hungry Hungry Hippos, now it’s crack cocaine and ten-year-olds getting each other

pregnant. Apparently this makes it easier for kids with weaker arms to smack each other over the

head, plus they can hide it better in their clothes. There’s no specific gang we can tie it to but it’s

something to bear in mind. Lisa Dawes gave us a description of the attacker but it’s not much use,

neither is the CCTV.’

Izzy changed the screen to another still from the camera, showing the hooded figure wearing the

mask. The A with the diagonal line through it was framed perfectly in the centre.

‘This is the logo for Anarchy. You might think that gives us a lead by linking it to various protest

groups but unfortunately these things are widely available on the Internet.’

The next slide was of the mask itself, taken from a website.

‘The night crew started to put together a list of places where these masks can be bought but stopped

when they reached a hundred – and that’s just online. We don’t have the staff to begin getting together

a list of locals who could have bought these so we’re going to have to give it to the media and rely on

people to call in if they’re suspicious of anyone who owns one.’

Izzy clicked through a selection of stills from the shopping centre’s CCTV cameras as Jessica

talked everyone through them. ‘The Bradford Park geeks have been comparing the full-length camera

shots of the person who attacked Luke Callaghan to the full-length ones we have here. Ask them some

random fact about Doctor Who in the 1970s and they’ll give you an answer straight away. Ask them to

match two photographs and they give you a bunch of bollocks about a bunch of procedures. Off the

record, they say it’s almost certainly the same person. On the record, they’re too busy watching Star

Trek marathons to give us a direct answer any time soon. Anyway, we’ve got this hooded guy walking

into the centre via the ground-level car park entrance, heading up two floors and then waiting for

almost an hour and a half. There are no cameras pointing towards where the attack took place. He

was likely waiting next to the victim’s van but we don’t know for sure. Shortly after the attack, we

have him walking out the exact way he came in, still wearing the mask, and then he disappears.’

With another nod, Izzy picked up the account. Because they were still a DS short and DCI Cole was

busy getting his daily bollocking from the superintendent and other higher-ups, Jessica was leaning on

her friend. ‘I’ve been talking to the camera operators around Trafford Park, Eccles and Davyhulme

but there are no spots of our guy,’ Izzy said. ‘We’ve cross-reffed the ANPR of cars leaving the city

centre on the morning of the Callaghan attack to anything leaving the Trafford Centre but it’s clear.

I’ve not been able to find out whether the attacker left the area on foot or in a car.’

Jessica finished drinking her second mug of tea of the morning. ‘Right, whichever one of you lot

makes the best teas can stay here – fight it out among yourselves. I’m milk, no sugar. Iz is milk with

one and the Guv has it black. Don’t ask me why, I’ve got it on good authority that nine out of ten serial killers also have their tea black. Anyway, the rest of you: we’ve nicked some uniforms for a search

team to check the bins around—’

‘Not the bloody bins again?’ Everyone turned to see one of the female constables looking

particularly pissed off. Jessica didn’t blame her. ‘Sorry,’ the woman added. ‘It’s just those bastards

downstairs have been calling me Joy Bag Jane ever since I found those johnnies in the flower pot the

other day.’

Jessica tried not to laugh but as the rest of the room burst into giggles, she couldn’t stop herself.

‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘I’m not laughing at you, more with you.’

‘It’s not funny.’

More giggles. ‘No, it’s not.’ Jessica just about composed herself to get the rest of the sentence out.

‘As I was saying, we’ve got to search the external bins around Trafford Park in case our guy ditched

the clothes and the bat on the way out. We’ve got some uniforms helping, plus DS Cornish—’

More groans. ‘DS Grumpy Bitch,’ an unidentified voice piped up at the back.

‘Christ, what is it with you miserable bastards today? You don’t want to sort through other people’s

rubbish, you don’t like finding piles of used condoms. What do you want to do? Look, someone needs

to make sure you lot know how to pick through a bin properly and then fill in the forms at the end of it and it’s not going to be me, so Louise has been drafted over. Half of you are going over there, so make

sure you take a bloody coat – if someone gets frostbite and loses a finger, you can fill in your own

health and safety forms.’

Jessica picked up her mug and looked at the dregs in the bottom as if to prove the point that

someone had a job to be doing.

‘Right, the other half of you are what we call “lucky” – you’re here trying to find a connection from

Luke Callaghan to Alan Hume. Assuming our hoody friend is the same person, why has he gone after

these two? We all know Callaghan’s a piece of work, so let’s get digging on Hume. He’s a builder so

he’s obviously got a long stream of annoyed customers behind him wondering why he rolls up at ten

and sods off at two after having an hour for lunch and drinking cups of tea all morning. There’s got to

be more to it than that though. Go back and look at Callaghan’s wife, the councillor and Michael

Cowell too – are they connected to Hume in any way? I want a motive and a link by this afternoon. I

also want a packet of chocolate biscuits in here within the hour but whatever you do, don’t let Pat

catch you bringing them up – he’s borderline diabetic as it is.’ Jessica paused for breath. ‘Right, any

questions?’

The only noise was people blowing into their hands as the department collectively tried not to turn

into human icicles.

‘Right, Louise is on her way up – she’ll sort out the lucky ones on bin duty. Iz, you’re with me.’

DCI Cole’s office was barely warmer than the incident room and he was wearing a hat and scarf

when he waved Jessica and Izzy in. ‘I’ve got some good news for you,’ he said, wearing a look that

didn’t have the word ‘good’ in it. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, dark bags offset against his

pale skin.

Jessica wondered why he had his hands under the desk and then it dawned on her: ‘Have you got a

heater back there?’ His eyes shot downwards and then up again, giving her the answer. ‘All right, shift

up, I’m coming round,’ she added.

Without giving him an option Jessica walked around to the other side of the desk and sat on the

floor, holding her hands out for the small oil radiator to offer its heavenly glow. Cole shuffled his

chair backwards, poking his sock-covered feet out towards the heater, his shoes tucked neatly under

the cabinet behind him.

‘No wonder you’ve been holed up in here all week,’ Jessica added. ‘You’ve got your own little

snug on the go.’

‘It was cluttering up the garage – we never used it because it eats too much power but I sneaked it

in the other morning.’

‘I’m surprised Pat didn’t confiscate it for health and safety.’

‘Aah, I had a simultaneous steak and kidney pie discovery which may have distracted him.’

It was the first time Jessica could remember Cole smiling properly in weeks and it felt good to see

again. If it wasn’t for him, she’d probably still be in her house moping. She owed him a lot and yet

there was little she could do to help either his personal situation or the professional one.

Jessica waved Izzy around and they sat next to each other on the floor, hidden by the desk, warming

their hands. ‘Everything I told you about is under way,’ she added. ‘What’s your news?’

‘I spoke to Serious Crime today and they’re convinced the anarchist mask is a coincidence. They

say there’s a difference between the
concept
of anarchy and Thomas McKinney’s Anarky
group
– but they are looking into the fact that our hoody suspect could have placed that post on the website to

incriminate the group and then wore the mask for the same reason. It’s out of our hands though. They

said to thank you for your work with McKinney.’

‘Did they really?’

Cole shuffled uneasily in his chair. ‘What do you think? They didn’t say a word.’