Ruthless (5 page)

‘Go on, Bradley Wiggins,’ she said, ‘on your bike.’

He jumped on and cycled off. Rachel couldn’t be certain but when he turned off into the estate the hand gesture he made looked suspiciously like he was flipping her the finger.

5

At the end of the day the team reconvened and Gill led them systematically through the different strands of the inquiry. As senior investigating officer, everything had been fed through to her and now needed to be shared with her detectives.

‘First off, where are we on ID? Kevin?’

He tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Three possibilities for marriages with those initials on that date, one in Oldham, one in Bury and one in Manchester. John Smith and Ruth King, Judith Smith and Richard Kavanagh and Jennifer Simpson and Robert Keele.’

‘Any bells?’ Gill scanned the room to see if any of those names had come up in the course if the day. When no one responded she said, ‘Kevin, keep on with that, see if you can eliminate anyone.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘OK,’ she said, ‘updates on forensics at the crime scene. As expected, the accelerant has been identified as petrol.’

When Mitch groaned, Gill said, ‘I know – ubiquitous but we may be able to be more specific. Meanwhile talk to petrol stations in a ten-mile radius, any cans filled in the days before the murder.’

‘Could be siphoned off,’ Pete said.

‘Yes,’ said Gill, ‘we should look at that as well. Access to and from the building looks to have been gained from the rear where there is a hole cut in the chain-link fence.’

‘Spoke to the current owners,’ Mitch said. ‘The site was last checked eight months ago. They’ve had the fencing up for three years, after a spate of break-ins and vandalism. Fairly quiet since. They want to sell but they’re sitting on the property until there’s an upturn in land values.’

‘Round there?’ Rachel snorted. ‘They’ll have a long wait. Manchester prices have stayed steady, if I owned anything—’

‘Hey,’ Gill said, ‘save the
Homes under the Hammer
drivel for your own time. Focus. Now, at the other side of the building from the breach, steps lead down to a basement door. It’s a storage area under the anteroom with steps up into the main part of the building. That’s how our killer gained entry. Persons of interest, Noel and Neil Perry.’ Gill nodded to Rachel.

‘Twins,’ Rachel said. ‘They were in the alley on Wednesday night, watching the fire, I saw them. They wear these American baseball-style hoodies, Class of 88 and an eagle printed on the back, and an eyewitness saw them in the grounds of the chapel that night.’

‘Independent? Reliable?’ Gill said.

Rachel nodded. ‘Bit doddery though, not got twenty-twenty vision.’

‘Brilliant – you bring me Mr Magoo.’

‘The sweatshirts,’ Lee said, ‘it’s a fascist thing. Eighty-eight stands for Heil Hitler.’

‘Seriously?’ Kevin said.

Gill felt a kick of adrenaline, the case was growing legs, taking shape. ‘Anyone remember Terence Perry?’

‘Rapist,’ Pete said.

‘That’s right. A nasty shit-bag of a man by all accounts. And these are his kids. He died in prison – poisoning, been brewing his own hooch apparently, recipe went wrong. This was in 2004. Since then his sons have come to the attention of our colleagues on numerous occasions. Spent eighteen months in a young offenders’ institution for arson. Were they interviewed for the other recent fires, the mosque and the school?’

‘Interviewed and released, nothing to put them there. Alibied by a family member, the grandmother, Eileen Perry,’ said Mitch.

‘Terence’s mother,’ said Pete, ‘she’d swear black is white to cover for the family. Odds on she’ll alibi them this time.’

‘Liam Kelly, the newsagent, he banned them,’ Rachel said.

‘Do we know why?’ Gill asked.

‘Causing trouble, violent, nasty. And Mrs Lin at the Chinese didn’t want to talk about them, gave me the bum’s rush.’

‘Flagged up by the community team as well,’ Lee said. ‘Affray, disturbing the peace. Word is the mosque fire was down to the EBA, English Bulldog Army, a spin-off from the English Defence League. Where the worst of the nutters go, to use a technical term.’

‘Are the Perrys members?’ said Gill.

‘It’s a fluid organization,’ said Lee, ‘all the dregs, raving racist loonies who are too openly violent even for the EDL, end up there. The twins could well be, judging by their clothing and reputation. We’ll make some inquiries.’

‘So we can agree the Perrys have unsavoury political views,’ Gill said.

‘Is the EBA a banned organization?’ Janet asked.

‘Not yet, there hasn’t been time, but I believe it’s under consideration,’ Gill said. ‘Have the Perrys any history of firearm offences?’

‘No,’ Mitch said.

‘Connected?’ she asked, thinking about the criminal fraternity.

Mitch shook his head.

‘Right,’ Gill said, ‘once we’ve more hard evidence we’ll have a word with the Chuckle Brothers. Who are the main players on the estate? Who’s causing us grief on Manorclough these days?’

‘Most of the drug traffic is believed to be controlled by Marcus Williams,’ Mitch said. He’d been talking to the neighbourhood policing team and to the drug squad. ‘Williams stepped up when Keith Grant was busted. Been in charge ever since. A cannabis farm closed down in January was believed to be his. Steady business, handles the lot, Class Bs, some Class As.’

‘Except he doesn’t handle anything,’ Gill said.

‘That’s right, hands free.’ Mitch showed his palms. ‘There’s even talk of him standing for the local council.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Janet.

‘The lure of respectability,’ Gill said.

Mitch smiled.

‘Anyone picked up for the cannabis farm?’ Gill said.

‘Suspects are awaiting trial, no one’s talking,’ Mitch said.

‘So who is our victim? Has he started a turf war? Is Williams the trigger-happy type?’

‘No. Things been very quiet on that front,’ Mitch said.

‘Is Williams into any other business, prostitution, loan sharks?’

‘Concentrates on the drugs,’ said Mitch. ‘Known associate, Stanley Keane, a bruiser, he’s probably Williams’s enforcer.’

‘We park that information,’ said Gill. ‘If we find any link between Williams and company and our victim then we’ll come back to it.’

‘Maybe it’s been set up to look like a hit when it’s actually a domestic,’ Kevin said. ‘The wife or whoever has had enough. Hires a hitman.’

‘Thinking on an empty stomach, Kevin, never a good idea,’ said Gill.

‘It happens,’ Kevin said.

‘Thinking?’ This from Rachel.

‘Hired hitmen,’ Kevin said.

‘Rarely,’ Gill said. ‘If you’re right I’ll buy you a pint. And a pot to put it in. OK, what else … nothing as yet to indicate the body was moved to the site post-mortem. Good start,’ she wound things up, ‘get some kip. See you tomorrow.’

Gill was surprised to find Sammy at home when she finally got back after ten. ‘Thought you were going to your dad’s,’ she said, surveying the empty pizza box, the baking tray in the sink, and half a dozen dirty mugs and glasses on the counter.

‘We rearranged,’ he said.

‘How come?’

‘Just did.’ He opened the fridge.

‘Hey, this lot first, dishwasher and paper bin,’ she said, nodding at the mess.

‘I was,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Hardly.’ She wondered who’d rearranged. Had Sammy put his dad off? She could see why he might. Dave wasn’t great company these days. His love nest with the whore of Pendlebury and their spawn had disintegrated and Dave was now back living with his mother. Not a good look for a man in his fifties. Sammy liked his grandma but was of an age where a handful of visits a year would suffice. But for all Dave’s failings, and they were legion, Gill still thought it best that Sammy maintain regular contact with his dad. It’d help Dave too, she reckoned, to know there was still somebody who loved him. A solid relationship that wasn’t going to go tits up when a younger model rolled along. Did Dave still see his second child? She’d never asked. It wasn’t her business, anyway. Dave was an adult, fact. Despite his sometimes childish behaviour. He could handle the fallout from his midlife crisis by himself. Why the hell should Gill concern herself with it?

Sammy put the crockery in the dishwasher and took the carton outside to the recycling bin while Gill fixed herself an omelette.

‘I need a suit,’ he said as he came in, ‘for the prom.’

‘What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?’

‘Too short.’ He went back to the fridge, opened it. The light shining out on him. Like a shrine, Gill thought, where he worships. He can’t eat enough. Eighteen and still growing.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, it’s halfway up my legs. I look like a knob.’

‘Well, I think your dad’ll have to take you,’ she said, forking up the last of her food.

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because I’ve just started an investigation. I’m not going to have time to draw breath.’

He sighed heavily, brought ham and cheese out of the fridge.

‘Or take Orla,’ Gill said.

‘Cool.’ Shopping with his girlfriend obviously appealed more.

‘Revision?’ she said.

‘Done some.’ He’d three more exams to sit, then his schooldays would be over.

‘Orla’s being nominated for prom queen,’ he said.

‘Is she now?’

‘Yeah. I think Daisy Tuttle will get it, she’s more popular.’

‘We never had any of that sort of thing,’ she said, ‘proms.’

‘You had a party, though, didn’t you?’

‘Of sorts. Smuggled in vodka to mix with fruit juice, crammed into the school hall. Smelled of sweaty trainers. Disco – that was our lot. No limos, or kings and queens. If anyone had worn a suit they’d have been laughed out of court. The only people who wore suits were teachers and squares.’ She laughed.

‘Sounds rubbish,’ he said.

‘It was brilliant,’ she said. ‘We were free, school’s out, all that business, we burned our ties. None of this American tosh.’

‘And you knew then you wanted to join the police?’

She studied him for a moment. ‘I did. Never thought about doing anything else. With Grandma and Grandpa in the job, although Grandma left when she married.’

‘Why?’ he said. He took a huge bite of the sub sandwich he’d made.

‘That’s how people did it back then. Married women weren’t supposed to work, a man was expected to support the whole family. Guess it was in my DNA, the police.’

‘And mine,’ he said with his mouth full.

‘Lot easier to join then.’

‘You keep saying that, like you want to put me off,’ he said.

‘No, I don’t. But it is important you know how tough it will be.’

‘I do know. I’ve got to get more experience. I’ve applied to join the special constabulary, so I can start that as soon as the exams are done, and I’ve got my driving licence. Once I’ve done some time volunteering with them I can try for the police community support officers and the police proper after that.’

‘Yes, but who knows how long there’ll be a freeze on police recruitment,’ she said.

‘You still think I should have gone to university.’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I think it might have given you more options. You’d have a degree, which is a valuable qualification, in the police as much as anywhere else. If there aren’t any openings in the police, if you don’t get in, then what?’

‘Go abroad, Australia or somewhere.’

‘Seriously!’ She had never imagined him emigrating. Felt a squirt of panic but then thought about his future, his life. ‘That would be amazing,’ she said. ‘I could come and visit.’

‘How? You’re always at work.’

‘When I retire. Not all that long now.’ She could barely imagine it. Work, the job, had shaped her life over twenty-eight years. What on earth would she do without it? Maybe there’d be space as an adviser, a specialist. Retired officers did sometimes keep their hand in, working as consultants.

The force had changed almost beyond recognition in Gill’s time. Advances in science and technology had perhaps made the biggest impact. Everything from DNA profiling and CCTV coverage to mobile phones, the internet and a plethora of software systems provided tools for the detection of crime. There had been improvements in prevention as well: the police advised on secure building design, for example, features that reduced the opportunities for crime, neighbourhood watch schemes. Crime was falling as a result. How much more would change in Sammy’s lifetime?

But beyond all those tools, the most important resource was the staff themselves. Trained, monitored, mentored, assessed. There was no space for slackers or the mediocre in the service. God knows how Kevin Lumb had got through selection. Officers had to be highly motivated, intelligent and personable, able to work with others and show initiative. Sammy was all those and then some, but she was biased, she was his mother and there’d be another hundred kids like him all vying for the same sweet spot.

Gill caught the local television news, saw a picture of the blackened chapel with the briefest of reports. She cleared up and emptied the kitchen bin. Outside it was a clear night, cool, with pinprick stars over the moors.

She wondered about their victim. Was someone missing him tonight? Would DNA lead them to find him or his killer on the police database?

Gill noticed the top of the blue wheelie bin was open. Drawing closer, she could see Sammy had just stuffed the pizza box in without squashing it down, so the lid wouldn’t shut.

As she went to remedy the situation, a dark shape slithered from the bin and shot off into the dark. ‘Jesus!’ Gill started, felt the hairs on her forearms prickle.

She went back to the door and called out, ‘Sammy?’

‘What?’

‘Here. Now.’ He could bloody well sort out the bin himself. She should have called him in the first place. Perhaps an encounter with a rat would be more effective than any amount of nagging from his mother.

‘Test me, Mum.’ Taisie burst into the sitting room, script in hand. She’d obviously heard Janet arriving home. Janet stifled the impulse to groan and said, ‘Two minutes, let me get my breath back.’