Scarred for Life (33 page)

‘First one is a person – Freddy Bunce. He owns some building companies, so does his wife. There’s next to nothing about him in our system or in any news archives but I want you to try to find something that links him to Brooklands Golf Club in Northenden. Perhaps he’s a silent partner somewhere, or whoever owns the course used to be a neighbour. Something like that.’

‘Freddy Bunce and Brooklands Golf Club – no worries.’

He turned to leave.

‘Don’t you want to know why?’

Archie turned back, looking surprised. ‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m asking you to look into things for me?’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t matter, does it? If you’re asking then there’s a good reason. If you want me to do it quietly, then fair enough. I’m chuffed you’ve asked, to be honest.’

‘It’s because other people might be keeping a close eye on Dave and Izzy. It had to be you.’

Archie sniggered, knowing Jessica had said too much – she could’ve just let him think it was because he was the chosen one but that wasn’t the style of either of them. ‘You don’t have to explain. I’ll sort it. Shall I call you?’

‘No . . . I just . . . I’m probably overreacting but best not. Come and find me if you need to.’

‘Sound – but if you could not go around slapping me in public, it’d be appreciated.’ He rolled his shoulders forward. ‘Gotta reputation to uphold an’ all that.’

Jessica skimmed through her notes, trying not to feel as if this was a job someone else should be doing. ‘Right, Mr, er, Naismith, I’d just like to go back over what you’ve told me, if that’s okay?’

The man lying face down in the hospital twisted his head to face her and mumbled something that sounded a bit like ‘yeah’, although it could have been ‘ow’. Given what had happened to him Jessica didn’t know which, but she carried on anyway – more to double-check that she could read her own handwriting.

‘So you were at home last night with your girlfriend, er, Kylie.’

‘Right.’

‘And you own a house together?’

‘Yes.’

Jessica made an extra note, before continuing. ‘You were watching television and having tea together when, and I’m quoting here, “she went mental with the fork”.’

A grunt.

‘I know you’ve already told me once but I do think I should probably ask you to confirm for a second time exactly why she, ahem, “went mental”.’

Michael Naismith propped himself up slightly, until he was in a yoga-like position: on his front, legs and hips flat against the bed, chest thrusting upwards, neck arched. ‘We were watching this midweek singing show thing – it’s like a preview to the weekend, so you catch up with who’s singing what and how rehearsals are going; that kind of thing.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you watch them?’

‘Er, no . . .’

Liar.

‘Okay, well anyway, there’s this girl on there – Jenga or something like that—’

‘She’s called Jenga?’

‘Something like that. She was singing this Boyzone song and I was like, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not Boyzone.”’

‘Right.’

‘Anyway, like I said, we were eating spaghetti bolognaise and Kylie dropped her plate.’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno – probably because she was so surprised.’

‘At the fact you don’t like Boyzone?’

‘I suppose – she’s always been a fan but I thought they were shite first time around. Every time the key changes they’re up out of their stools like they’ve just shat themselves. Whenever she goes on about them, I keep it quiet but it just sort of popped out.’

Jessica peered back at her notes. Michael’s opinion about the Boyzone members’ arses was ironic considering what his girlfriend had done with the fork and the reason he was lying on his front.

‘Okay, so anyway – in essence, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you made a comment about Boyzone which she didn’t take too well and that’s when the incident with the fork and your, er, body happened.’

‘Right.’ Michael plopped himself back down onto the bed. ‘I know I called you and you had to come out but you’re not going to press charges, are you? It was only a misunderstanding – a bit of a tiff. All couples have them, don’t they?’

He was right that all couples had tiffs but Jessica wasn’t convinced this was a regular outcome.

‘We’ll have to come back to you,’ Jessica said. ‘The CPS will take into account likely cooperation of a witness, and seeing as you’re the only witness that might mean they don’t take things any further. It’s not for me to say.’

‘It was just a mix-up.’

‘She was aiming for somewhere else? Either way, like I said, someone will be in contact. If it’s any consolation, Kylie did say she was sorry.’

Jessica made her way back through the hospital corridors trying to figure out if Michael and Kylie’s story would make the top five strangest things she’d investigated. When she’d interviewed Kylie, she had given more or less the same story, except that in her version she really did sound like the aggrieved party:

Kylie: ‘It’s just I really love ’em.’

Jessica (mishearing ‘’em’ as ‘’im’): ‘Michael?’

Kylie: ‘Oh yeah, I love ’im too – but I meant Ronan and the boys.’

Jessica had gone from investigating murders and serial thieves to interviewing a couple who’d fallen out over a boy band while eating spaghetti.

As she crossed reception, Jessica spotted the payphone on the wall. She slotted in 50p and called Archie. ‘Who is it?’ asked his gruff Mancunian voice.

‘It’s Jess. I’m on a payphone, so be quick. If you’ve got something for me then I’ve got a funny story about a man’s arse for you.’

‘Why would I want to hear about another man’s arse?’

‘Trust me; you’ll want to hear this. Have you got anything?’

‘Aye.’

‘If there’s no one around, you can tell me now. Better than keep sneaking off to my office.’

‘Two ticks.’ Jessica heard Archie shuffling and then he was back: ‘I didn’t find much. Brooklands Golf Club is owned by a fella named Logan Walkden. I couldn’t find much about your mate Bunce, except for the obvious.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It seemed so simple that I didn’t think to write it down at first, then I thought you might want to know anyway. Walkden and Bunce are both local lads, both born in the same hospital a couple of months apart. I’ve got their birthdays if you want them – they both turned fifty this year.’

The phone began to beep, telling Jessica her time was up. ‘Thanks – I owe you an arse story.’

Archie had time for one word before the line cut out – well, four if he came from pretty much anywhere else: ‘Yalright’.

40

Jessica drove back to the station trying to think of what it all meant. She was pretty sure that Freddy Bunce had complained about her, while a car probably owned by Logan Walkden had followed her home that very evening. They were both the same age – but so what? It was still a long string of unconnected things: the symbol on the letter through her door, the tattoo that Damon Potter wanted to get, Bunce, Pomeroy and now Walkden; no one thing connected to another.

The traffic was light and Jessica completed the journey all too quickly, with no particular plan of what to do next. She coasted through the station and returned to her office to begin typing everything up. It really was like the old days.

And then she had a thought.

Jessica loaded the Greater Manchester Police website, which was full of the same old nonsense – a top five most-wanted that no one would look at, reported crime statistics that no one – including those who worked for GMP – believed, a map of the city, an open letter from the chief constable banging on about the community, a timetable of events people wouldn’t attend, and a list of the senior staff. Jessica clicked through to the Longsight officers’ page and stared at her own face. The picture had been taken years ago and barely seemed like her any longer. She had slightly spottier skin, shorter, darker hair and a bizarre glimmer of optimism. She thought that it had probably been taken not long after she met Adam, before what happened with her colleague, Carrie – before everything else. She wasn’t that person any longer.

With a click, Jessica got rid of the photograph and moved on to the command team – the chief constable, his deputy and the assistant chief constables. Graham Pomeroy’s photo had definitely been taken a few years – and about five stone – ago. In the picture, his cheeks only slightly overhung his jawline and Jessica could only count three chins instead of the five he had now. She clicked on his face and skipped the top part, concentrating on his biography instead:

Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy

Graham joined GMP twenty-one years ago after a spell with the Royal Air Force and training as an engineer. He has worked in many roles through constable, sergeant, inspector in Bury, Salford and Manchester (Metropolitan). After deployments with strategic command and tactical firearms, Graham was asked to oversee the implementation of a new community policing policy in Salford.

A successful spell there saw him promoted to chief inspector, where he worked in Bolton and Wigan before being promoted to superintendent.

After another fruitful deployment to corporate assistance, Graham was promoted to assistant chief constable, where he currently oversees territorial outsourcing.

No wonder the public thought they were all wankers – anyone who sounded that boring in a profile they’d approved deserved everything coming to them. Jessica had no idea what ‘territorial outsourcing’ involved – presumably something to do with having police officers in various territories. How hard could that be? And what was ‘corporate assistance’? Nowhere in his profile did it mention that he’d seemingly spent a large number of those twenty-one years eating.

Jessica scanned to the bottom where it listed the awards, commendations and qualifications he had. There was no date of birth but it was easy enough to work out the year because of the date he got his O-levels. She had to use her fingers to count and then wrote it down on a pad just to be sure. After checking it four times, Jessica was certain: Pomeroy had been born in the same year as Bunce and Walkden.

She tried to remember what Garry Ashford had told her about Freddy Bunce.

Nine months ago he was given a contract by the council to build a new housing estate for them.

He’d printed off an article about it and Dave had packed the information they had into a cardboard wallet. Where had it gone?

Jessica didn’t want to be seen around the station potentially conspiring with anyone, let alone Dave, but she didn’t have much choice. She headed through the corridors to the main area in which the constables worked. In the front corner was DI Franks’ office, which he shared with one of the detective sergeants, whom they hadn’t managed to cram into the sergeants’ station a few doors down. Jessica had been concerned for a while that they were going to force her to share offices with Wanky Frankie but had so far been lucky.

Keeping her head down, Jessica hurried past his office door and glided swiftly towards Dave’s desk. The stack of binders and folders had shrunk somewhat, but he was still slumped in his seat, typing. It looked like he had barely moved since she last saw him.

As she approached his head shot up, peering over the folders towards Franks’ office. ‘Jess, I, er . . .’

Jessica didn’t waste any time, but she did lower her voice: ‘What happened to the printouts about Bunce?’

Dave frowned and then started sorting through the folders on his desk. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember when I last had them.’

‘You had them when we went to Bunce’s house and office yesterday.’

His face fell: ‘They’re probably still in the car. Sorry – we were rushing around and then I was busy answering your phone.’

Jessica gave him a wink. ‘Missing me yet?’

Before he could answer, she snatched a pad of Post-it notes from his desk, turned and headed back off the floor as quickly as she had arrived, thrusting the pad in the air and hoping that ‘borrowing’ stationery was enough of a reason for her to be walking past her friend’s desk if anyone wondered.

Claiming she’d left a jacket in the car, Jessica was relieved to discover the vehicle she’d taken the previous day was still on the premises. She signed the keys out and hurried to the car park, dreading the thought of hunting around the back of the patrol car.

The first thing she noticed as she climbed in was the stench. When she’d been in it yesterday with Dave it had seemed fine – but now it smelled like someone had emptied a takeaway Chinese over the steering wheel. The front and back seats were clear, leaving Jessica to crouch on all fours and go digging underneath. As her fingers slipped into something sloppy, Jessica realised that someone had indeed been eating Chinese food. A foil tub of what had once been noodles had congealed into a cold, mushy, stinking tray of goo. Jessica tried not to gag but took the tub out and dumped it in a nearby drain, wiping her fingers on the material of the back seat and hoping she was able to check out a different car the next time she needed one.

Some of her colleagues really were disgusting.

Deeper under the seat was a small pizza box, folded over and over, then wedged in place. The grease stains may have been dry, but they were still foul.

The first offering from underneath the passenger seat was a well-worn, partially torn beacon of respectability:
Asian Jugs
. Jessica flicked through the first few pages of the magazine and had to admit that the material did at least live up to what the title promised.

Dirty bastards.

Just as she was beginning to think she had covered her hand in day-old Chinese slime for no reason, Jessica’s fingers finally closed around the cardboard folder.

Wash hands, sign the keys back in, wash hands again, leave the porn mag in Archie’s cubby hole, back to the office.

Jessica locked her door and spread the printouts across the spare desk that had once belonged to DS Louise Cornish. She felt that familiar prickle of anticipation at the back of her neck after reading the first five paragraphs about Freddy Bunce’s contract to build social housing for the council – the deal that had cost an eight-figure sum.