Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (12 page)

‘Ungrateful sods. Anything else?’

‘The super was on the line this morning—’

‘I suppose the golf course is closed because of the frost.’

Not even a hint of a smile this time. ‘He was pondering if these could be random attacks.’

It was Jessica’s turn to squirm. The thought had crossed her mind – she’d even written it on the pad

in her office before crossing it out, screwing the paper up and missing the bin. It was their worst fear: a person attacking random targets in public. The biggest reason she was desperate to link one victim

to the other was because the prospect of them not being connected meant that anyone could be

targeted. If that was to get into the news then there could be real panic.

‘It isn’t random,’ Jessica said, not even convincing herself.

‘Let’s hope not. Now if you don’t mind, I’d quite like my radiator back.’

Jessica sat in her office next to the main radiator wearing her jacket, hat and scarf. Although the

central heating was working on the ground level, it was still freezing – the eighth consecutive day

temperatures had gone below zero. Instead of snow, the heavens were treating them to a cocktail of

freezing rain and sleet. The blue sky from the morning of Luke Callaghan’s attack was a distant

memory, with spring apparently picking a scrap with winter and getting its arse kicked. The

weatherman that morning kept banging on about isobars, a pressure system and the jet stream but he

might as well have kept it simple: it’s bloody cold and it ain’t getting better any time soon.

Jessica stretched the desk phone cord across the room and called Esther, who surprisingly picked

up.

‘I thought you’d be hung, drawn and quartered by now,’ Jessica joked.

Esther sounded tired: ‘Just hung out to dry – these arseholes are desperate for me to stay because if

anyone ends up getting sacked for the Piccadilly incident then they can make sure it’s me. If I quit

before then, one of my bosses will get it in the neck.’

‘So you’re a human shield?’

‘Exactly.’

‘If it’s any consolation, we’re pretty sure the Home Secretary wasn’t the target. The blinded guy

had a long list of people who had it in for him.’

‘I left a message for his chief advisor saying that if he didn’t call the attack dogs off, then a certain email with the word “accessible” in capital letters would be winging its way to the newspapers. It

went quiet after that. Now I just have to deal with the fact my bosses are willing to stitch me up. Then we’re supposed to be policing some concert on the canal next week but it’s going to be frozen if this

keeps up.’

Jessica said they’d sort out going for a drink some time and then hung up, pleased that her friend

wasn’t getting sacked. Well, not yet.

She finally wheeled herself away from the radiator, parking herself by her desk and turning her

attention to her other job for the day. She began by searching for ‘Humphrey Caton’ on the Internet.

The search engine threw up a host of matches, mainly people in America, but no one who seemed to

match Georgia’s boyfriend. A couple of years ago, an officer in North Manchester had got himself in

trouble for running police checks on his girlfriend, her mum, dad, and everyone she had ever gone out

with. Everyone was a lot more careful about logging who they looked for and making sure the reasons

for using the system were legitimate. None of that meant there weren’t ways of finding things out if an

officer wanted to. The records were only ever checked if there was a complaint but Jessica logged

the reason as relating to known associates of Anarky and checked for Humphrey’s name in the police

system, finding no exact matches. There were far more Humphreys than she would have guessed but

none with a similar last name. Of the few dozen Catons, there was no one with the alias or middle

name ‘Humphrey’.

Whoever Georgia’s boyfriend was, their system had no record of him existing anywhere. That left

Jessica with one major problem – she couldn’t tell either Adam or Georgia what she’d found because

she’d broken the law to get the information.

Damn.

As she was wondering what she should do, there was a knock at the door and Izzy entered, wearing

a pink deerstalker.

‘Where’d you get that?’ Jessica asked.

‘Boot of my car. I put together a pack of stuff in case the car broke down and I got trapped

somewhere overnight. I’ve never been near it but radiators on the main floor are starting to creak, so I reckon the system’s on the blink. The rain was lashing down earlier and now it’s frozen – the car

park’s like an ice rink.’

Jessica thought about asking Izzy to look into Humphrey Caton because she was so good on the

system but didn’t want to get her in trouble.

‘Have you got your glasses?’ Izzy asked.

Jessica checked the pockets of her jacket, then the top drawer. ‘Sodding things – I had them this

morning. Why?’

‘Well, the headline’s going to be big enough for you to read but I think you’re going to be more

interested in the rest of the words.’

Izzy pulled a copy of the
Manchester Morning Herald
out from in between two cardboard folders

and held it up for Jessica to see. Her eyes might be dodgy but the headline was clear: ‘GANG WAR’

– alongside a photograph of the second victim, Alan Hume, making a Nazi salute.

12

Jessica snatched the paper from Izzy and squinted, trying to read the top line. ‘How did they get this

before us?’ Izzy waited with her hand out as Jessica returned it sheepishly. ‘Sorry, you’re going to

have to read it to me.’

‘Basically it says that last night’s victim is a member of a right-wing group. They say the fact he

was attacked by someone in an anarchist mask shows that there’s a war between the two factions.’

‘Who wrote it?’

‘It was—’

‘Actually, don’t bother, I already know. It’s always him – Garry bloody Ashford. Right, I’ll deal

with him later – let’s cover our arses first.’

‘Already done – there’s nothing in Hume’s file and he’s not on any watch lists. Even the material

stuff is clear – his head isn’t shaven, no tattoos. For all intents and purposes he’s just a builder.’

‘Good – can you get that upstairs to the Guv and then brief the press office? I’ve got a journalist to

lynch.’

‘Are you going now?’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you are, I’m going to stay and watch you try to cross the car park.’

Jessica could feel her colleagues peering from the windows and made sure she spoiled their fun by

heading around the edge of the car park where the ice was thinner. It was still slippery but she

reached her car without falling on her arse and then turned and proffered a middle finger to whoever

was watching.

The journey across Manchester could have been described as stop-start but there wasn’t much

starting. The radio said there had been accidents at three separate places on the ring road and that

Mancunian Way was closed because of an oil spill. Even by Manchester’s standards the traffic was

abysmal. As soon as Jessica left the station and turned onto Stockport Road, she was stuck in a long

row of red tail lights stretching into the murky grey haze.

After an hour of solid clutch-work that would go unappreciated by her colleagues who claimed she

was a bad driver, Jessica eventually reached Chorlton, hoping the
Herald
receptionist had her facts correct. Garry Ashford lived in one of the new-builds, meaning he must be on a better salary than she

would have guessed. The red-brick Lego boxes were lined up in parallel rows at the end of an

incomprehensible maze of roads leading onto the estate. It would have been bad enough to negotiate

at the best of times but with the climate building up for the arrival of penguins and the roads frozen

solid, Jessica skidded her way into three incorrect cul de sacs before eventually finding the correct

address.

Garry answered after the first ring of the doorbell, standing in his socks and tracksuit bottoms,

wearing a Dangermouse T-shirt. He’d not shaved in a few days, rough stubble peppering his chin and

cheeks. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell, it’s nice to see you too. I come all the way out in the middle of the next ice age just to say hello and have a friendly brew – and that’s how you greet me.’

He half-blocked a yawn with his hand. ‘It’s my week off, Jess.’

‘I know, that’s why I thought I’d drop around – y’know, like the old days but without the curry and

beer. Can I come in then? It’s freezing out here.’ Garry sighed before stepping to the side and letting

her pass. She took off her coat, gloves, hat and scarf, passing them to him, and heading through the

closest door which she correctly guessed was the living room. ‘Blimey, it’s all right in here, isn’t it?

Who’s the DIY fan? It’s can’t be you – how is Mrs Ashford?’

Jessica made herself comfortable in the recliner, putting her feet up as Garry sat on the sofa,

moving a copy of that morning’s
Herald
out of his way. ‘I know why you’re here.’

‘What? We’re mates, aren’t we? What’s the world come to when a friend can’t drop in on another

friend to say hello when he’s on a week off?’

‘How did you know I was on holiday?’

‘Called your office, told them I was working on a TV documentary about the Stretford Slasher and

that I wanted you on as a star guest after your feature. I thought they’d give me a bunch of bollocks

about data protection but whoever answers your phones caved straight away. She’d have given me

your inside leg measurement if I’d asked. Not that I want to know. So, anyway, how is Mrs Ashford?

What’s her name?’

Garry glanced towards the television where a photograph of him and his girlfriend grinning was

proudly displayed. ‘It’s not
Mrs
Ashford but she’s fine – she couldn’t get the whole week off work.

We’re supposed to be going away tomorrow but I can barely get the car off the drive.’

‘How’s her cataracts? Didn’t she have some sort of personality disorder too?’

Garry rolled his eyes. ‘Haven’t you got any new jokes?’

‘The old ones are the best – now aren’t you going to brew up? I’m a guest and you’re being rude.’

‘Fine. How do you have it?’

‘White, no sugar – but not too much milk. You should see this new constable we’ve got, he’s all

over the bloody place. He gets the shakes whenever he gets a milk bottle in his hand. It’s like drinking a tea latte. If it was down to me, we’d sack ’em – if you can’t make a half-decent cuppa then you can’t

be trusted to go hunting for murderers, can you?’

Garry finally cracked, a hint of a smile creeping across his face. ‘All right, I’ll get your tea – but if you’re going to have a poke around in here, can you at least not move anything? Beth knows where

everything goes and it’s me who’ll get it in the neck.’

‘Aah, the basis for all solid relationships – complete fear of moving anything in your own house.

Fine, I won’t move anything, just toss over that paper and I’ll have a good look at what’s going on.’

Garry smacked Jessica across the head with the paper on his way into the kitchen, knowing what he

was going to walk back into but unaware that Jessica had lost her glasses and couldn’t read any of the

stories.

A few minutes later, the journalist returned from the kitchen, passing Jessica a Muppets mug with

Walter on the front. The tea was a perfect caramel colour. ‘Do you want to come and work for us?’

Jessica asked. ‘Minimum wage, four weeks’ holiday, no bank holidays, my personal tea-maker.’

‘You’re all right.’

‘Fine – be like that but don’t come running to me when they come to their senses and boot you out

over made-up stories.’

Another roll of the eyes. ‘Here we go . . .’

‘What? Don’t take it out on me just because you’re making up stories for your front page.’ Jessica

held up the
Herald
to prove her point. Even though she couldn’t read it, Izzy had given her enough of a rundown so she could bluff her way through. ‘It says here that Alan Hume is a member of some

right-wing nutcase group and yet there’s nothing in any of our files that says that. I’ve been onto the

Serious Crime Division this morning who monitor gang behaviour and they’ve never heard of him.

Very serious thing, making up stories like that.’

There was a definite smirk on his face as Garry took the paper back. ‘It’s not made up.’

‘Come off it – how would you know something like that when our gang experts don’t? Admittedly

they can’t tie their own shoelaces and half of them aren’t potty-trained but they are experts.’

‘I’m not telling you how I know, I just know.’

‘Where’d you get the picture of him heiling Hitler?’

‘Never you mind.’

Jessica took a sip of the tea, which was good. ‘Come on, Garry, how long have we known each

other? We’ve got all these mutual friends, you tried it on with me at a wake – I mean how would that

go down with Mrs Ashford? She’s got over a personality disorder and then she finds out her

boyfriend’s the type to chat up girls after a funeral.’

Garry’s smile became a full-on grin. ‘How come when I called you to ask for details of DSI Niall

Hambleton, you told me to, and I quote, “sod the sod off” – and yet when you want to know

something, it’s all smiles and cups of tea?’

He had her there.

‘All right, fine. I didn’t give you Niall’s details because he didn’t want them giving out. You found

them out anyway but he wouldn’t talk to you, would he? I did you a favour. But fair’s fair, what do