Ruthless (17 page)

‘What?’

‘The warehouse fire, Shuttling Way …’

‘Yes?’ She was expecting, if anything, him to say it was definitely the same accelerant or even that someone had seen the twins, but wouldn’t that wait till morning?

‘We found two bodies.’

Oh my God
. Her heart rate doubled. She was wide awake now, mind spinning, trying to grasp all the ramifications.

‘I’m on my way.’

She snapped on the light.

Two bodies. Two more bodies. What the fuck was going on?

The warehouse was a huge structure, five storeys high and extending for over a hundred yards alongside the canal. In its heyday it would’ve housed bales of cotton for transport by the waterway to the ports at Manchester and Liverpool. Lorries would’ve done the job latterly.

Surveying the scene in the first light of dawn reminded Gill of photographs from the Second World War, bombings in Coventry and Dresden, everything shattered, black.

Hyatt led her along a dedicated pathway to the building. He explained that it had last been occupied by a foam and furniture wholesaler who used part of the ground floor. Remnants of foam and pieces of furniture were left when the business moved out. These had fed the fire, making the blaze fierce enough to consume the floors above. The whole thing had collapsed in. She fancied she could smell the plastic chemical smell of the foam in the stink of burning that filled the space.

The bodies had, in effect, been excavated from the layer of ash and cinders. A few feet apart, opposite each other, they were crouched, curled, half reclining. Macabre in their positioning. Skulls bent forward, the skin stretched like scorched parchment tight over the skeleton. Here and there a glint of bone. Adults, Gill thought from the length of the leg bones, but beyond that it was impossible to tell anything.

‘Sitting in chairs, we think. See the springs.’ Hyatt pointed out the spiral of metal beside one of the bodies. As the seats burned, they’d collapsed back and the victims with them.

Shot?
she wondered.

‘I’d like the CSIs to take the bodies and all the debris around them,’ she glanced at him, ‘like we did at the chapel.’

He nodded.

‘You’re sure it’s arson?’ she said.

‘Looks like it. The seat of the fire is here.’ He pointed between the two figures where the floor itself had been eaten away. ‘Looks like an accelerant was used and the foam on the chairs would also act to speed up the fire.’

‘Petrol?’ Gill asked.

‘I don’t think so. I want to do some more investigation here but this looks like a smaller initial ignition area, whereas with the Old Chapel we had petrol splashed around and when that goes up it’s the vapour that ignites. This is more localized. And we’ve got melted glass.’

She looked as he indicated a shiny blob in the ash. ‘Could be innocuous, a drinking glass. But it could be a bottle.’

‘Molotov cocktail,’ she said.

‘That sort of thing. We’ll get an analysis done, we can do a headspace gas chromatograph, might be able to find out what it is.’

Gill knew the rudiments of the test, a way to identify and quantify volatile compounds. ‘If it’s not petrol then what is it?’

‘Could be paint thinner, acetone or a kerosene-based accelerant,’ he said.

‘Kerosene?’ Gill asked.

‘You’re looking at paraffin for heaters or lamps or lighter fuel, the sort of thing people use to light a barbecue.’

Neil Perry had made a comment about a barbecue when Rachel asked him to account for the petrol on his clothes. ‘We only found petrol on the Perrys’ clothing. No kerosene.’

‘True. Of course a device can be thrown from some distance so you don’t get that splashback effect you have when emptying a petrol can.’

‘Light the blue touch paper and stand well back,’ Gill said. ‘Have you been doing any house-to-house yet?’

‘We have, I’ll get everything sent through to you. You’ll merge the inquiries?’

‘If it’s murder,’ she said.

‘You think it is?’

‘Don’t you?’

He tipped his head in agreement.

‘Let’s see what pathologist finds.’ She opened her phone, ready to rouse all and sundry from their beds to get the investigation moving.

The post-mortems gave Gill a sense of déjà vu. The smell of charred flesh in the room, the blackened forms on the tables. The procedures were carried out on each body in turn. Gradually, methodically, Garvey built up a profile of the victims.

Victim number one was a woman, height five foot nine, evidence of historic injuries to the right arm and leg. Teeth showed poor dental care. African ethnicity. Age estimated between eighteen and twenty-five. Victim number two, male, height five foot ten, evidence of malnourishment with poor bone density. The same ethnicity and estimated age.

X-rays showed that both victims had been shot.

The woman had two bullets in her chest cavity.

The man had one in his chest and one in his head.

It was murder.

Nobody was grumbling about being pulled into work so early, certainly not Rachel. This was what she lived for. The court had granted them a further thirty-six hours to question the Perry brothers for the Kavanagh murder and Rachel reckoned that they nearly had enough to discuss going to charge with the CPS. Sometimes the Crown Prosecution Service were too cautious, bleating about insufficient evidence and letting people walk – that was the pits. When after all the work, all the hours they put in, gathering evidence, interviewing, carefully putting it together, the scumbags waltzed off, scot-free, a smirk on their face and a hard-on, no doubt: fucked the system.

Now this had blown up. Two more bodies, same neck of the woods, same MO. It was possible the twins would be looking at charges on three counts of murder, not just one. The boss had barely got her coat off and she was bringing them up to speed. They had drafted in extra officers to cope with the challenge of working three murder investigations.

‘Fire investigation officers had already been speaking to the community when this was believed to be simply a case of arson,’ the boss said. ‘Summaries of those interviews, along with any significant intelligence, will be available within the hour. I understand that the Perry brothers are persons of interest but as yet we have not had any information putting them at the warehouse on Friday. What we have been hearing is that the premises were being used for drug-dealing in the last few months.’

No surprise there, Rachel thought. An abandoned building was a magnet for junkies and other lowlifes. Off the radar, no water or electric but walls and a roof, somewhere to shelter. Attractive to dealers too, off the streets and out of sight, away from prying eyes. Though these days some of them were bold as brass, hanging about on street corners, and taking orders with kids on bikes to run the drugs. Students of
The Wire
.

‘This could be a drug dispute?’ Rachel said.

‘Possible,’ said the boss.

‘Intel are still saying no known hostile takeovers,’ Mitch said.

‘Maybe this is it, just kicking off.’ Rachel again.

‘Could be our two victims were dealers then someone robbed them,’ said Lee.

‘If they’ve been dealing for some months they’re going to be getting the supply from Marcus Williams,’ Mitch said. ‘Anyone mad enough to go after them must have a death wish themselves. Williams is still in pole position and he’s vicious as a pitbull when he’s crossed.’

‘Allegedly,’ the boss said, reminding them Williams had never been charged with any crime. ‘And his lieutenant, Stanley Keane, allegedly, does the nasty when needs must. As I said, we have no ID for our two victims so that is top of the list.’ Godzilla went on, ‘The crimes look very similar except for one significant difference: the accelerant used was not the same in both cases.’

‘Ballistics?’ Rachel was wondering if the same gun had been used.

‘They’re busy with it now,’ the boss said.

Kevin spoke up. ‘The men in prison for the post office robbery—’

‘In which the same weapon was used,’ the boss said.

‘Refused to comment,’ Kevin said.

Fancy that
, thought Rachel. ‘Pretty safe bet they got it from Tandy.’

‘You want a flutter, Rachel, get yourself down Paddy Power’s. We need facts, not bets,’ Her Maj said, ‘and we need Tandy.’

‘Not answering his phone,’ Mitch said.

‘Maybe he’s left the area,’ said Kevin.

‘Why?’ asked the boss.

‘Because of the murder, he doesn’t want to be taken down with the Perry twins,’ Kevin said.

‘Where would he go? Has he any associates elsewhere, family?’

‘No,’ Pete said, ‘stays close to home when he’s not banged up.’

The boss shook her head, irritated at their failure to find the man.

Without Janet available as acting sergeant, Her Maj asked for a volunteer to allocate actions and Lee volunteered. Rachel didn’t. She didn’t want to be coordinating other people, she wanted to be back out there, finding the dirt on Neil and Noel Perry that would see them looking at life in prison.

‘As we did with Kavanagh,’ the boss said, ‘talk to local organizations and residents, churches, charities, whatever. Do any of them recall a young, black couple? Of course this will be bad for public confidence and for our crime stats. The Chief Con and the reducing crime bods can worry about the statistics, we can’t do anything about that. But what we can do, in terms of community morale and public relations, is put every ounce of energy into finding out who killed these people and bringing them to trial. Any questions?’

The room was quiet.

‘Before you go, I need to make you aware that Janet Scott is taking some personal time. As most of you will know by now, the teenager Olivia Canning was a close friend of Janet’s daughter. For the purposes of that investigation, Janet is a civilian. Should you acquire any information on that inquiry from our colleagues on division, those details shall remain confidential from Janet.’ The boss swivelled her head this way and that, checking they’d taken in what she was saying. ‘Regarding our friends in the fourth estate …’

Godzilla’s phone rang, she broke off and held up a hand for quiet.

‘You’re sure,’ she said, ‘both of them?’

Rachel could see light gleam in her eyes. Godzilla palmed her phone. ‘Analysis on the bullets shows the same weapon used in all three murders. We’ve got a series. Now let’s see what you can bring me. Quick as you like.’

The warehouse stood between the main road, Shuttling Way, and the canal. Derby Fold Lane bordered the plot to the west, leading from the dual carriageway and over the canal bridge. Where the lane descended from the bridge was the spot that the fire investigation officers had identified as the point of entry. The boards there had rotted away at the base and someone had smashed a hole big as a doorway to gain access to the site. So anyone going to the building would have to go along Derby Fold Lane. To the east was a small terraced row, Pocklington Street. Any view those houses might once have had across the yard to the building had since been blocked by high sheet fencing, so only the upper floors were visible. Rachel turned the map around and checked. The land at the far side of Derby Fold Lane was unoccupied scrubland. Which left Manton Street over the canal as the nearest houses likely to have seen any comings and goings. Manton Street, where Greg Tandy lived with his wife and son.

Rachel began there.

Connor answered the door, rolling his eyes when he saw who it was.

‘Your dad back?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’

‘You seen him since yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘What about your mum, she in?’

‘Work,’ he sniffed.

‘The bodies of two people were recovered from the fire at the warehouse,’ Rachel said, ‘a man and woman, we’re trying to identify them. Early twenties, both black.’

‘Dunno,’ he shrugged.

‘Not seen anyone like that about?’ Rachel said.

‘They all look the same to me, niggers,’ he said. Trying to wind her up?

‘What about the warehouse, people coming and going there, you notice that?’

He pulled a face, shook his head. She didn’t believe him.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

‘Where?’ Rachel said.

‘School.’

‘You’re late, aren’t you?’

He didn’t answer, rubbed his nose.

‘Word has it the warehouse was used for drug-dealing. You know anything about that?’ Rachel said.

‘No.’ Something altered in his eyes.

‘You’ve not been there, buying stuff?’

‘No,’ he scowled.

‘So, if we were to arrange a drugs test, you’d be clear?’

‘You can’t do that without permission, I’m only fourteen,’ he said. ‘Need an appropriate adult with me, too.’

‘Been reading up on your rights, have you?’ she said. ‘Look, I just don’t think you’ve been very honest with me, and that makes me think you might have something to hide. Maybe you do know where your dad is but you’re not saying, maybe you know something about the drug deals but you’re too scared to say.’

‘I’m not scared,’ he sneered.

‘But you are concealing something and that would warrant us cautioning you and holding you for formal questioning. Your mum could be the appropriate adult if you wish.’

He set his jaw, the edges of his lips whitened with tension. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ he said, ‘I swear.’

Rachel didn’t respond, she wanted more.

He cleared his throat. ‘But I seen them about, the blacks.’

‘You know their names?’

He shook his head.

‘Come on, Connor.’

‘It’s the fucking truth!’ His face flushed red. ‘Look, there’s this girl, Shirelle, she used to hang with the bloke. Talk to her.’

‘Shirelle who?’

He shook his head.

‘Where will I find her?’

‘She lives in Hawkins,’ he said.

The high-rise, Hawkins Tower. Over a hundred flats. ‘That really narrows it down,’ Rachel said.

‘That’s all I can tell you.’

‘What’s she look like, this Shirelle?’

‘Half-caste,’ he said.

‘How old?’

‘Twenty?’ he said uncertainly. ‘I didn’t tell you, and I’m no grass.’ For a moment he sounded very young, scared. He bit his lip. How many times had he answered the door to the police already? His father not out five minutes and already looking at a recall.
Return to jail, do not pass go
.