Ruthless (8 page)

‘A threesome, eh?’ the shrew girl said.

A bout of laughter.

‘Who’s got the handcuffs?’ More laughter as they spilled out on to the streets.

Liam Kelly raised his eyebrows, shook his head.

‘Your partner,’ Rachel said, ‘she mentioned someone yesterday, hadn’t been round for his food parcel?’

‘Rodeo Rick, yeah.’

‘Seen him today?’

‘No,’ Liam Kelly said.

‘Where’s he live?’

‘He’s homeless, dosses where he can.’

‘Can you describe him?’ Rachel said.

‘Tall, on the skinny side, long hair.’

‘White guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How old?’

‘Hard to say, fifties, sixties.’

‘You know his full name?’ Rachel said.

He shrugged. ‘No. Goes by Rodeo Rick, wears check shirts, an old cowboy hat.’

Rachel looked at Janet, who nodded her agreement.

Rachel picked out the best photo from Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Could this be him, when he was younger?’

Liam Kelly took the picture. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s not …’ He looked at Rachel, his shoulders sagging. ‘You think it’s him?’

Rachel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, yes. Was he dossing in the chapel?’

He frowned. ‘Could’ve been. God, I never thought …’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t say where he stayed, best to be cautious.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, some places, he could be done for trespassing. But he liked to be off the streets, out of sight, come dark. He’d get a bit of aggro, people having a go.’

‘How long had he been in the area?’

‘Few months. Found him going through the bins before Christmas, told him he’d no need, we’d give him out-of-date stuff.’

‘Ever hear of him mixing in bad company?’ Rachel said.

‘Never. Kept to himself. He was on the drink. That’s all he could be bothered with. He’d beg now and then if he had to,’ said Liam Kelly.

‘Any enemies?’

‘Not that I know of.’ He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Poor old sod.’

The confirmation of identity represented a significant breakthrough, dental records putting the seal on what already seemed to be the case. Gill called the syndicate together for an update.

She was about to speak, the room quiet, when Pete leaned over and muttered something to Mitch.

Gill caught the words,
better defence
and
injury time
.

‘Do I look like Sir Alex frigging Ferguson?’ she said.

Pete straightened up, a sick look on his face. ‘No, boss.’

‘José Mourinho? Arsène Wenger?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Then why are you talking football twaddle in my briefing? You in the wrong job, Pete? Want to go try out for the Latics?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Mitch?’

‘No, boss.’

‘OK, we have a lot to get through,’ she began, ‘and it doesn’t involve dribbling or fancy footwork. Our victim is Richard Kavanagh, aged sixty, separated from wife Judith in 1997, last seen by her two years later, when she told him not to visit again. Shopkeeper, artist, husband, father in his glory days. Alcoholic, rendered destitute. Known locally as Rodeo Rick on account of his liking for flannel shirts and a leather cowboy hat. He’d been sleeping rough for several months on Manorclough. No one reporting any criminal behaviour, he has a clean sheet and not known to be involved with any illegal activity on the estate. So why does he end up shot and set on fire in the Old Chapel?’

‘Mistaken identity?’ suggested Pete.

‘Possibly. If so, mistaken by who, for who?’ Gill said. ‘Talk to people, see if we can find out anything more about him, his movements, contacts, any possible enemies. This man so far has no reputation for violence. Test that out. Had he any drinking buddies who can tell us more? Was he known to homeless charities or hostels in the area?’ Nine times out of ten, building a profile of the victim led you to their killer. Usually someone close by. Who’d been close to Richard Kavanagh?

She turned to the notes on the whiteboard. ‘Two elements we are investigating, firearms and arson. Firearms first. The lab reports the bullets are both from the same gun. The gun was used in 2007 in a post office shooting in Stockport – not a million miles away. Perpetrators were arrested, charged and are currently enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality at Strangeways. We’ll have a chat with them, see if they’d like to earn some Brownie points by telling us what happened to the weapon. Did they sell it on, give it to someone for safekeeping?’

She saw Rachel roll her eyes. ‘You’d like to contribute, Rachel?’

Rachel seemed skittish. Gill knew the young officer had been through the mill in the last few months, but dared to hope that settling down with her bloke would help stabilize her, ground her. When Rachel had turned her brother in, revealing his involvement in the death of sleazeball barrister Nick Savage, Gill had stood up for her. She had sung her praises at the subsequent hearing with the top brass. And she meant every word she said: Rachel was a great asset to the police service, had huge potential and had already done excellent work on a number of major investigations. Gill believed Rachel had nothing to do with any revenge attack on the barrister. She’d shown great self-control in not going after him when he escaped prosecution for trying to have Rachel herself killed to save his own skin. Corrupt and venal was Nick Savage, and with the connections he had he’d been able to evade the law, while Dominic Bailey felt its long cold grip all too swiftly. But marriage hadn’t mellowed Rachel, she still seemed impatient, volatile. Perhaps she just needed more time to process what had happened.

‘Well, it’s not likely, is it?’ Rachel was saying. ‘They’ve taken the fall, banged up, they’re not gonna cough now.’

‘So we don’t bother?’ Gill said. ‘We close down that line of inquiry? Take our bat home?’

‘I’m not saying that,’ Rachel argued.

‘Good,’ Gill said. ‘It is our job to be thorough, to be meticulous, and to go where the evidence takes us, even if that turns out to be a complete waste of time. Yes?’

‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said, fingers twirling her pen like it was a marching baton.

‘Kevin, see about making a prison visit,’ Gill said.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Arson – the same accelerant, petrol, was used in the previous arson attacks at the mosque and the school.’ Gill summarized what they had from the fire investigation officer. ‘What more do we know?’

‘No joy so far on the garages,’ Kevin said. ‘Also following up on two incidents of theft from vehicles. Siphoning.’

‘Whereabouts?’ Gill said.

‘One Royton, one Middleton.’

‘Bit risky,’ Janet said, ‘you could be caught by the owner, seen by neighbours.’

‘Yes, but you won’t be on CCTV like you would if it was station forecourt,’ said Kevin.

‘Good point,’ Gill told him and almost wished she hadn’t when he started to preen. She indicated the boards. ‘And the Perry twins?’

‘They attended an EBA, Bulldog Army, meeting earlier in the month,’ Lee checked his notebook, ‘at the George Inn on Sunday.’

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘where talk was heard about “sending a message”.’ She wiggled quote marks with her fingers.

‘We know this how?’ Janet said.

Gill smiled, raised an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Intelligence from infiltrators was a double-edged sword. You couldn’t reveal a source without jeopardizing an ongoing investigation and risking an informant’s safety. Sometimes that informant would be a CI, a community informant, someone willing to risk spying on friends and neighbours for a regular few quid to help get by. The other informants were officers in deep cover. Gill couldn’t think of anything worse than pretending to be a lowlife or a fascist or a fanatic. And sometimes infiltration went horribly wrong, with officers going rogue or crossing the murky lines into deeply unethical territory, as had happened with those policemen who’d infiltrated various protest movements, sleeping with the activists, fathering children. Disastrous.

Janet caught on soon enough. ‘Classified?’ she said. ‘We’re treading on someone’s toes?’

‘We might be,’ Gill said, ‘except we are going to focus our attention on the machinations of the far right, neo-Nazis, only in so far as it relates to the murder of Richard Kavanagh.’

‘This could be a hate crime,’ Lee said. ‘Homeless people are at increased risk of violence, seen as other, dirty parasites.’

‘Possible,’ Gill said. ‘The Perry boys are still our only leads. We’ve not found any more evidence on them so I think rather than hang on we arrest them on suspicion, tomorrow morning.’

‘Do we need an armed response unit?’ said Mitch. ‘They may still have the firearm.’

‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘wear your protective vests. Good work,’ she addressed them all. ‘A reminder, we use our victim’s given name, we accord him the same dignity and respect as we would any other person. I don’t want to hear talk of tramps or dossers or winos or hobos, or Rodeo Rick. He is Richard Kavanagh. Clear?’

They nodded.

‘I am happy. You should be too. Goodnight.’

Rachel nearly walked straight back out again. Her mother there, at her flat, on her sofa, making jolly with Sean and Haydn. Nachos and dips and a bottle of tequila open.

‘Rachel,’ Sean beamed, ‘get a glass, there’s lemon on the side.’

‘Mexican night. Olé,’ Sharon raised her glass, smeared with pink lipstick, and winked.

Rachel felt her palms tingle, her throat tighten. This was her place, private, separate from work, from family. No one came here without an invitation and hardly anyone got an invitation. Sharon sure as hell hadn’t. She couldn’t fuck off for twenty years and then expect to be welcomed with hugs and kisses and Sunday bloody lunch.

‘Thought you were going away?’ Rachel said to Sean.

‘Early start tomorrow,’ he said, ‘slot’s at half nine. We’re going to nail it, aren’t we, Haydn?’ Sean held up his hand and the kid high-fived him.

‘Bottoms up,’ said Sharon, having another swig.

Rachel felt irritation trembling under her skin. It was a matter of weeks since she’d met Sharon again and the only way she could cope with it was by taking it very slowly, by having some sense of control so she didn’t feel overwhelmed, railroaded by the woman who’d fucked off and left them to it.

Sharon had changed, she said, she wanted to make amends. At their first meeting she’d explained how hard she’d found it to be a parent looking after three kids as well as a wastrel of a man. How she couldn’t cope.
And us?
Rachel kept coming back to that.
Alison, Dom, me? We had to cope. We had to fend for ourselves, one eye on Dad in case he kicked off.

Even so, Rachel had determined to give Sharon a second chance, but that did not mean Sharon could muscle in on Rachel’s life. ‘She’s a user,’ Alison had said, but then it was Alison who’d had to pick up the reins, back then, drop her plans for college, find work to support the family and take over the parenting role.

‘Aren’t you staying? Come on,’ Sharon said, patting the sofa.

‘Sean, here a minute,’ Rachel said. His face fell, he must have noticed the edge in her voice. She went into the hall and he followed. ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Sharon?’

‘Yes, Sharon. Why, have you any other women stashed away? Of course, Sharon.’

‘She just popped in,’ he said.

Popped in.
‘Popped in? Did you invite her?’

‘No!’ He was affronted.

‘Why did she pop in? I was at work,’ Rachel said.

‘Well, I told her you’d probably be back before long.’

‘You told her to wait?’ she said.

‘Sort of.’

‘What the fuck for?’

He looked uneasy. ‘It’s what families do, Rachel.’

‘Not mine, not me. I don’t want her coming here. Not unless she’s expressly asked,’ she said.

‘You’re meant to be getting to know each other,’ he said.

‘Maybe. But I’m not having this. It’s too much, too soon. She pops round again, you don’t invite her in. Got it?’

‘OK.’ He didn’t try to argue though he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

Rachel went back to the living room. ‘I’ve got a really early start, Sean too, so …’

Sharon looked, nodded. ‘Course. I’ll get out from under your feet. Adios!’ She laughed. ‘I just wanted a quick word.’ She pulled on a cream leather jacket, tugged a cigarette out of her pack. She’d been at the fake tan, dark stains in the creases on her neck made her look like she hadn’t washed for weeks. She’d silver eye shadow on and thick black eyeliner and what looked like false lashes. Her hands were decked with rings and chains, mainly gold coloured. Rachel doubted there was any real gold in any of it. Her lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her lips. She wasn’t that old but she looked well worn and dressing like a teenager didn’t help. Rachel felt like a bitch. Wished she could switch off the critical commentary in her head. Accept that Sharon was doing her best, that it couldn’t be easy for her, the clumsiness of trying to rub along after all that had happened. But going at it like a bull at a gate, rushing it, was not helping.

Sean called Haydn and they disappeared.

‘Your hair’s nice,’ said Sharon, ‘you done something different?’

Oh, for fuck’s sake.
‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘Look, I’ll be working late a lot the next few weeks so I’ll get in touch, you know, when I’ve more time. Yeah? No point in you coming round and we’re all out. Wait to hear from us, yeah?’

‘Right.’ Sharon laughed again, fiddled with her lighter. ‘I’ll get off then. Just wondered if you could see your way to lending me a few bob, I wouldn’t ask but …’

Rachel’s heart sank.

‘… I don’t want to get into arrears and I can pay you back soon.’

Rachel just wanted to stop her talking, hated the bright anxiety in her voice, hated that she didn’t believe her. ‘Here.’ She took sixty quid from her purse.

‘You’re a star.’

Rachel smiled, edged Sharon towards the hall, the door, the outside. Willing her to go. Just go.

‘You really are, you’re a star.’ Sharon paused on the threshold. Outside it was dark, murky and damp.

And you
, Rachel thought,
are a fucking nightmare
. She shut the door after her mother and leaned back, her eyes sore, too long a day, heaviness in her chest making her throat ache, sad, as though she’d lost something but she didn’t know what it was.