Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (22 page)

‘What do you want? If it’s a helicopter to Switzerland and three million in used notes then I don’t

think our budget will cover it.’

‘I want it out of the papers. He only battered me this morning, so you can keep it quiet.’

‘How do you think we’re going to manage that when your secretary mate goes to court?’

‘It’ll only be a remand jobbie and no one will go unless you flag it up. You could easily keep it

quiet and by the time it gets to court properly in a few months –
if
it does – I’ll have had a chance to talk to my guys.’

Jessica got it perfectly. George O’Reilly had made his move but it was unlikely he’d done it by

himself. Thomas wanted to get back into the arms of his members and head off the prospect of an

internal war before it actually happened. If he was still in hospital and the media got hold of it, then it could already be too late.

She said nothing, clucking the back of her mouth as he watched her.

Thomas cracked first. ‘Well?’

‘Well what? I’ve got a bit of grape stuck between my teeth.’

‘Are you going to sort it?’

Jessica stepped closer so he could see her better, making sure he was looking into her eyes. ‘Of

course I’m not. I don’t owe you anything and I definitely don’t do deals.’

Thomas held her gaze for a few moments, wondering if there was anything else. When it was clear

there wasn’t, he rolled over and shouted for a nurse, adding: ‘Fuck you then. I want you out of here.’

Jessica picked up her bag and headed for the door. ‘Fine, I’ve got a busy afternoon anyway. First

I’ve got to get to the magistrates’ court, wake some of them up and get a warrant for your house.

We’ve heard some rumours that the reason your secretary attacked you was over unpaid drug debts.

Vicious things, rumours, aren’t they? Anyway, I’m sure you won’t mind us taking your hard drives,

digging up your floorboards, checking in your attic, going through your fridge and eating all the

cheese. A fine upstanding citizen like yourself obviously has nothing to hide.’

Jessica had one hand on the door when it swung inwards. A nurse entered but stopped on the spot,

sensing the atmosphere and glancing between the two of them. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ Jessica replied. ‘I was just leaving.’

Thomas shouted so loudly that he took both women by surprise: ‘No—’

The nurse looked at Jessica accusingly. ‘I told you that you could only talk to him for a short

while.’

Jessica shrugged, pulling the door open further. ‘I’m finished.’

Thomas had one leg out of the bed, sending the nurse scurrying across to tuck him in again. ‘I’ve

still got information for you,’ he said.

The nurse peered between them again, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘You’ve got five more

minutes and that’s it – the doctor won’t be happy about this.’

When it was just them, Jessica retook her seat, tidying her bag. ‘You must really have something

you want to keep hidden. What is it, a collection of Cliff Richard vinyls?’

‘You’re so fucking clever, aren’t you?’

‘Hopefully, now get on with it: Scott Dewhurst.’

Thomas shook his head, swallowing and turning away. His eyebrow was twitching with anger,

features lined with deep wrinkles; his pumpkin face now looked as if it had been left out for a week

after Halloween. She could see the person behind the fake tan and large jewellery. This was the

Thomas his group members got to see as he wound them up and set them loose to smash up a city

centre.

When he spoke it was almost too quickly for her to pick up properly. ‘I was at a house party four

years ago, this right dive out in Salford – music, booze, drugs, girls, the usual. Your mate was there,

built like a tank. I didn’t say a word to him all night, didn’t even know him. We were just there. For

whatever reason, your lot raided: bells, whistles, guns, “everyone on the ground”, the full works.

They let all the girls go and arrested all of the men. I got my sixty hours, some of the others got off. I suppose they had better lawyers but I’ve never seen your bloke before or since. Happy now?’

Jessica munched on another grape, nodding towards the clock. ‘That nurse reckons you’ve got four

more minutes, so you better start giving me the real version before I get my warrant.’

‘That’s the truth!’

‘Bollocks is it. I went to parties four years ago and there would have been people there I never

spoke to but I wouldn’t remember them now. If someone shoved a photo of them under my nose, I

wouldn’t hold my breath for a couple of seconds as my pupils dilate in recognition. Three and a half

minutes, now get on with it.’

Thomas glanced towards the clock, licking his lips. She could see his foot bobbing under the

covers, as he pondered what to do. When he spoke, his tone was softer, more distant and he was a

different person again – calmer and sadder: ‘Chris Carmichael.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘My best friend growing up – we used to play football, go into town, try to pick up girls. You know

what it’s like when you have a best mate. When we were out and about, we got into a couple of

things. Believe it or not, I’ve never done drugs – not once. Not coke, speed, dope, blow, whatever

you want to call it. Not my thing. But we’d get our hands on some and sell it on. Easy money, except

that Chris couldn’t leave it at that.’

‘He got a taste for the merchandise?’

Thomas tutted in annoyance at being interrupted. ‘Right. That night, he’d taken me to the party to

meet this guy he knew who he reckoned was going to make us rich. It really was a shithole, a total

dive – but there were girls everywhere and no one seemed to care. Some of them were high as kites,

others were snorting stuff off the floor. I’d only gone for Chris and he’d nicked off to talk to your man.

The girls didn’t have much on but the lads wore jeans, T-shirts, nothing special – except for him.

Shiny shoes, expensive suit, big watch, head like a fucking egg. Anyway, he wasn’t happy about

something Chris said but before anything happened, your Rambo lot stormed in, shouting and telling

everyone to get down. Like I said, out went the girls and we all got carted off to the station. I never

saw ’em again.’

‘Scott?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Neither of ’em.’

Jessica felt the atmosphere change as she was drawn into the story, not wanting the pay-off but

knowing she had to hear it. ‘What happened?’

Thomas’ voice cracked. ‘No idea what happened to your mate but Chris . . . it says on his death

certificate that he choked on his own vomit while in police custody.’

Shite.

Jessica could remember the name now he’d put it in context. Four years ago she had been a DS.

One of their sister teams from Greater Manchester had handled that raid but it was on a busy Friday

night and those arrested had ended up in cells in the north of the city. The investigation had cleared

anyone of any wrongdoing – but it still stank. People arrested shouldn’t die in custody and when they

did, the entire city, fuelled by the media, became anxious about what was really going on behind

closed doors. Their bosses got nervous and everyone had been sent on a three-hour refresher course

for prisoner care. Some dickwit had come up from the Met, peering over his glasses, talking down to

them as if they were untrained baboons while he was from the cultured south. She’d spent the entire

session doodling and trying to make a rubber band ball. It seemed so silly now – someone had died,

not just a nameless face but Thomas McKinney’s best friend.

Now it made sense. Thomas used to be an estate agent and wasn’t a stupid person. He spoke

clearly and eloquently. Anarky wasn’t just about the money he could get out of people, it was his way

of taking his anger out on society, on them. Wind people up and let them loose. Light that flame and let it burn. He liked his material possessions too much to be a real anarchist but that didn’t mean he

couldn’t play people who were.

Thomas’ voice was low and determined. ‘How did it happen?’

‘What?’

‘Chris.’

‘I don’t know – it wasn’t me and I wasn’t there.’

‘Did you throw him down the stairs to get some sort of confession? That’s how it works, isn’t it?

One of your hardmen handcuffs his hands behind his back and then beats him to death? Dress it up as

a nice little choke to death, rather than murder by cop?’

‘He would have had a post mortem, no one could cover up something like that.’

‘Bullshit, you’re all in it together – and I’ll tell you one other thing. I don’t know why you’re

interested in your Scott guy, whether bald guys are your thing, but he ain’t scared of you boys in blue.

When your guys came in, guns in the air giving it the big I am, we all hit the floor scared shitless but your mate, he was standing there in the middle of the room, arms out wide, laughing his cock off. If

they didn’t have the guns, he’d have taken the lot of them on and walked out of there without a scratch

on him. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

He burst out laughing, swearing under his breath at the memory. Before he could add anything else,

the nurse walked back in, fresh pillow in hand, pointing at the clock.

Double shite.

24

Jessica sat in the station’s canteen opposite Rowlands, playing Russian roulette by sipping a tea from

the machine. It tasted like week-old puréed sprouts with the consistency of soggy toilet roll. Dave

was tucking into a meal that was twenty per cent fish, twenty per cent chips, ten per cent baked beans

and fifty per cent ketchup.

As she swallowed her tea, Jessica winced – a worthy punishment for four days of inaction. There

had been no other linked attacks and their clean-up jobs on the CCTV images of the hoody with the

anarchy mask had come to nothing. Luke Callaghan had said nothing since being released from

hospital and with the Home Secretary now silent, there was little pressure to solve things. Alan Hume

and Victor Todd were all but forgotten, except for having their names on a whiteboard among a lot of

misspelled words.

Thomas McKinney was out of hospital and had been correct that no journalists had bothered to

visit his secretary’s committal at court. The police press office hadn’t sent out the details, not because Jessica had stepped in but because they didn’t want the possibility of this assault being linked to the

other random attacks. Either that or incompetence.

Lucky Thomas.

The only reason she wasn’t under greater pressure was because everything else was going

surprisingly well. Someone passing dodgy money around pubs in the centre: solved. Cashpoint

smashed open next to the arena: man in custody. Series of knife muggings around the university: got

him. Jessica’s team were consistently getting results – it was only on her main case that they couldn’t

get a breakthrough.

‘What’s up with him?’ Rowlands was chewing on a chip with his mouth open, nodding towards

Niall. The former DSI was standing at the counter with a tray, leaning forwards to look at the menu

board.

‘No idea – he was in almost every day last week, barely saying a word to anyone.’

‘Is it something to do with his Slasher guy dying?’

Jessica took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t get used to using them for close-up

things and taking them off for anything in the distance. Her eyes hurt, which at least gave her an easy

excuse for why she couldn’t sleep. ‘I suppose so but he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s either in

that room upstairs reading through files, or shambling around the corridors down here.’

‘It must be tough when your career is defined by that one catch.’

Another sip of tea. Yuk.

‘He’s not interested in any of that. When they were after interviews for the twenty-five-year

anniversary, he didn’t want to be a part of it.’

Dave shrugged. ‘I don’t know the guy but every time you hear anything about him, it’s always that

he’s the one who caught the Stretford Slasher. I don’t reckon it matters whether you want to remember

it, or if you want to do interviews – if that’s how everyone thinks of you then your legacy is already

set. Once the Slasher died, there was always going to be a part of his life that was over too. We all

know what it’s like when there are big things going on – you’re in the middle of it and can’t think of

anything else. Day after day you’re hunting down those leads, talking to people and then you get home

and watch it on the news. The next day you wake up, listen to it on the radio, and do it all again. You

hate it but you love it. When it’s over and you’ve got the guy, you wake up in the morning and have

that thought, “Oh shite, it’s finished”. You hate yourself because the bad guy’s off the street and you

shouldn’t be sad about it but you are.’

He paused to have a swig from his drink. ‘You wonder what you’re going to do. Some thugs getting

pissed and having a fight on a Friday night isn’t quite the same. We get that buzz – and we never

caught anyone like he did when he had the whole country watching him. Now imagine you wake up

some day and not only is it over – but that guy you’ve been tied to for a quarter of a century has died.

It’s no wonder he doesn’t know what to do with himself.’

Jessica let Rowlands’ words sink in. He was spot-on about those feelings and probably right about

Niall. It was just a shame that one of the most profound statements he’d ever made had come at a time