‘
Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector.
’
The screen flicked back to the evening shot of Liz Jardine outside the supermarket.
‘
That was the situation this morning, just hours after Mr Singh was murdered. I can tell you that the police have now completed their interview with the eyewitness – who cannot be named for security purposes—
’
‘Which means they’re taking her seriously,’ said Ged.
‘Mmmm.’ Mal nodded sagely. ‘Pigs love wallowing in shit!’
‘
. . . And details of the statement are being thoroughly investigated
.’
Mal leaned forward in his seat suddenly, pointing at the screen. ‘The fucking shop’s open!’
Ged craned forward. ‘It bloody is, as well!’
‘Money-grabbing bastards!’ Lee shouted, jumping up excitedly.
‘Will you bloody well shut up!’ Wendy glared at him.
He sat back down, muttering, ‘But they are. Look. You can see the lights are on.’
‘That could just be the police clearing up,’ Suzie suggested.
‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Mal snapped indignantly. ‘You can see the cunts going in and out.’
‘
. . . Keep you updated as we receive information
,’ Liz Jardine said, concluding her report. ‘
Back to you in the studio, Declan
.’
Mal jumped up and turned the TV off.
‘Top banana!’ Lee cackled. ‘We’re well and truly off the hook!’
‘What do you mean?’ Elaine looked puzzled.
‘Shut your gob, Lee.’ Ged shot him a look. He pushed his chair back, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly half-six. Time we made a move.’
‘Yeah.’ Mal rubbed his hands together. ‘Back to mine for a party, then?’
‘Not you, Sam,’ Wendy said, getting to her feet. ‘You can stay here with me for a bit, then you can go home and see to your kids!’
They followed her back to her bed, delighted to find the baby fast asleep in her plastic cot. They all rushed over to her – except Wendy, who tutted loudly and climbed into bed.
Sam looked down at his little girl for the first time since the awful birth. ‘Oh, she’s beautiful,’ he whispered, smiling, with tears glistening in his eyes.
‘If you’re just going to go all soppy, you might as well go now!’ Wendy snapped.
‘Aaahhh!’ Elaine cooed, sticking a podgy finger into the baby’s curled fist. ‘She’s gorgeous. Can I have a hold?’
‘Right, that does it!’ Wendy’s face was livid. ‘Piss off, the lot of you!’
‘Ah . . . Wend,’ Lee moaned. ‘I want to have a look at the baby. Can’t I wake her up and have a hold?’
‘Piss . . . Off!’ Wendy growled, closing her eyes to show she meant it.
They left quickly after that, knowing it would do no good to hang around, the mood Wendy was in. Only Elaine tried to hang back, and found herself being hauled away by Lee before she had her head bitten off.
Outside the main doors they huddled around Mal, blocking the wind so he could light the huge five-skinner spliff he’d made for them in the toilets. Sam was on a downer about Wendy’s attitude towards the new baby, but he cheered up when Mal handed the spliff to him, and they headed back to Mal’s flat, deep in excited discussion about the news report – ignoring Elaine’s constant questions: ‘What do you mean? Why are you celebrating? Why is it good news? I don’t understand . . .!’
At the same time, Stevo was making his escape. Hiding in the shadows of the garages beneath his flat, he nervously scanned the car park and the small adjoining play area. The last thing he needed was to be spotted as he made his dash across the open grass to the line of pirate taxis parked alongside the pub at the end of the road. If he could just make it that far without being seen, he might stand a chance.
When he was sure there was no one about, he pulled the brim of his baseball cap down low over his shades and lunged out into the night. Switching the hastily packed bag from hand to hand, he fled across the grass, praying to God he wasn’t being watched. Every window in the flats behind him felt like a pair of eyes whose stare was burning into his back. But he couldn’t stop now. This was a matter of life or death.
It seemed to take for ever before he reached the taxis, but at last he made it. Wrenching the door of the first one open, he fell onto the back seat and gasped, ‘Piccadilly Station!’
‘Five,’ the driver, a wrinkled, yellow-eyed Jamaican, grunted over his shoulder.
‘Cool,’ said Stevo. ‘But put your foot down, yeah? I’m in a real hurry!’
Kissing his teeth, the driver crunched into first gear and edged away from the kerb as if he had all the time in the world. Stevo fought down a mad urge to batter him around the back of his head to make him get a move on. Instead, he slid further down in his seat and peered out into the darkness – hoping with all his heart that he wasn’t being followed.
Max had given him until seven to find out where the rest of the money was, but he didn’t know anything about it. He hadn’t even heard about Pasha getting shot until Max had told him. And it had really freaked him out when Max said The Man was blaming him for it! How the hell was he supposed to prove it wasn’t him when he’d been on his own watching videos when it happened? He knew what would happen if The Man got his hands on him now. He’d be very, very dead! And it wouldn’t matter what he said, The Man would never believe him, because, as Max had pointed out, he’d had that marked money.
Fucking Mal! This was all his doing. He’d given him the bloody money. Stevo had told Max this, but Max hadn’t wanted to bother tracking Mal down. He wanted Stevo to sort it out. But sack that! Stevo knew better than to hang around to get his head blown off for something that was nothing to do with him. He was off. Max had Mal’s address. Let him sort his own shit out.
‘Goin’ to Jamaica?’ the old driver chuckled, looking at Stevo’s shades in his rear-view. ‘Somewhere warm?’
‘Uh? What? Oh, aye . . . aye.’ Stevo nodded, pulling the cap down further.
‘Best time of year.’ The old guy wanted to chat. ‘Plenty a gal a-wigglin’ theirselves up dem beaches. Sheesh, y’ should see ’em!’ Slapping his hand down on the wheel, he launched into an account of his youthful exploits back home, growing more unintelligible with each word.
Stevo switched off, hearing nothing but his own heavy breathing and the unsteady pounding of his heart. He began to relax a little as they crossed over the Mancunian Way. Halfway there. He sighed heavily. Once he was on that train back to Glasgow, he was never coming back to Manchester. Never!
Half an hour later, Max rounded the corner to Stevo’s flat. Finding the door ajar, he knew immediately that Stevo had done a runner. Cursing angrily, he kicked the door open and stormed inside to confirm his suspicions.
For a second he was confused. He’d expected the place to be cleaned out, but everything still seemed to be there. Furniture, TV, hi-fi – even the lamp was on. He wondered if he was wrong and Stevo was still out trying to track down the money, but on closer inspection he knew this wasn’t the case. All the tell-tale signs were there. The yucca, which always stood in the corner beneath the window, was on its side halfway across the floor, its leaves twisted and mangled, its soil spilled out in an untidy heap. And the carpet was pulled back from the corner, revealing the gap where the floorboard should have been.
Max raced through to the bedroom, and found it in the same state. The bed was still there, as was the wardrobe, and the bedside cabinet with Stevo’s things still littering its top: ashtray, skins, lighter, dirty mags, pile of half-full cups and glasses. The only sign of disturbance was the chest of drawers, which had the few clothes Stevo had left behind spilling from its dragged-out drawers. The shit-head had definitely done one!
‘NO!’ Max shouted in despair. ‘No . . . No!’
He kicked the chest savagely, grabbing at the few remaining rags and tearing them to shreds in a frenzy. Then, in a blind rage, he made his way through the flat, wreaking destruction, only stopping when it was a chaos of broken glass, splintered wood and torn material.
Taking a breather, he considered his position. He had a real problem now. Not only had he lost the ounce of coke he’d laid on Stevo that morning, he now had to tell The Man that he’d let Stevo get away with all his money. This was not going to be easy.
12
At seven-fifteen, Jackson and Mac trailed wearily into Jackson’s messy office. They looked and felt like a couple of whipped dogs, having spent a good part of the day at the murder scene and the rest trooping around the immediate area, taking statements. Things were pretty much back to normal now for the residents of Hulme, although Jackson suspected that the calm wouldn’t last too long. Areas like that tended to have little time between major incidents.
Dropping the huge bundle of statements and notes onto his desk, Jackson flopped into his chair and took out the bottle of Scotch he kept in his drawer. Pouring two healthy slugs into a couple of already used plastic cups, he handed one across to Mac.
‘You beaut!’ Mac said, taking a drink and leaning back heavily in his chair. ‘So what have we got?’ he asked with a yawn. ‘Apart from a bad case of being absolutely shagged out!’
Jackson rolled his head on his shoulders. ‘Tell me about it! I’ve been on since six.’ Grimacing at his warm drink, he slammed his cup down and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. ‘I could do with a freezing cold beer – and a bloody shower,’ he added, sniffing himself with disgust.
Mac yawned again. ‘Fancy popping down to The George? Nothing like a noisy watering hole to wake you up and get the grey stuff grinding.’
‘Sounds good, said Jackson. ‘But I’d better give this a once-over first.’
Reluctantly, he pulled the paperwork towards him and read through the first sheet, snorting cynically every couple of seconds. When he’d finished he flipped it across to Mac. ‘Biggest load of tosh I ever saw in my life! Eyewitness, my arse! She made every word of it up.’
Mac nodded. ‘She didn’t even know he’d been shot, silly bint. Baseball bats, I ask you! There was no evidence of a beating, was there?’
‘None whatsoever. Only bruise on that body came from falling heavily on the concrete.’
‘And that was definitely out back, where he was found?’
‘Definitely. Not even the remotest sign of any sort of anything inside. Nah! She’s talking bollocks, me old son. File it under miscellaneous!’ Jackson nodded towards the bin.
Mac grinned, slapping the paper back on the pile. ‘Best place for it, but I don’t think the Super would be too pleased. So what have we got?’ he asked then. ‘Real stuff, that is?’
Jackson pulled another sheet from the pile. ‘According to the lab prelim on those blood samples you got – thanks for that, by the way – there were definitely two different sources. The stiff was O-neg. And the other wasn’t!’
Mac grinned. ‘Human or animal?’
‘Oh, definitely human,’ Jackson said, adding with a scowl: ‘If that’s what you call the type of scum who pull off shit like this. Yep. Human – with a pretty bad wound, I’d say.’
‘So where did they get to?’
Jackson shrugged. ‘Lot of blood lost. You’d have thought they’d have been in a pretty bad way. But if they crawled off, they didn’t leave any trace. No drag trail.’
‘Maybe someone helped them?’
‘Probably,’ Jackson agreed. ‘Remember all those prints in the bushes.’
‘Mmm. So we’ve got at least one injured, and a helper. Have we checked the hospitals?’
‘Someone should have done by now,’ Jackson said. ‘Remind me to check in the morning.’
‘You know Graves gave heart failure as cause of death?’ said Mac, smirking.
‘Dickhead!’ Jackson shook his head.
‘Mind you . . .’ Mac went on. ‘I think
my
ticker would fail if I got blasted in the mug!’
‘What heart?’ Jackson jeered. Pushing his chair back, he stood up. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here before I fall asleep.’
Just down the corridor, PC Paul Dalton was hanging up his uniform. He was dog-tired. All that standing around had wiped him out – and he’d had a bellyful of listening to the local women gossiping. Load of know-it-all bitches – and all of them claiming to know something scandalous about the shopkeeper. Poor sod! Dead less than twenty-four hours and villainized for ever. And as for the so-called grieving family – he’d never known the like. Opening the bloody shop just hours after the head of their family got murdered!