Marked men, p.17
Marked Men, page 17
‘Right,’ Ransford looked cautiously from one side of the table to the other. ‘Is everything all right, here?’
Fuller was slumped in his seat, face like a grumpy child’s. Moor was next to him, studiously avoiding Sean and Magda.
‘Fine with us.’ Magda smiled sweetly.
‘DS Fuller? You seem a bit miffed.’
Miffed? Sean thought. A bulldog chewing on a bumble-bee would look happier.
‘As you know, DS Dragomir paid a visit to Carl Parker, the man whose fingerprints were at the murder scene for Kevin Rowe.’
Ransford glanced at Magda. ‘Did you not OK that with DS Fuller first?’
‘No, she bloody didn’t,’ Fuller muttered. ‘And what does she have to show for it? Nothing, unless you include warning Parker he’s in our sights.’
Ransford regarded Magda. ‘Is that right?’
‘He was defensive in the extreme; wasn’t prepared to speak without a lawyer present.’
‘Why didn’t you OK this with DS Fuller?’
‘We were conducting enquiries in Belle Vue High School when the prints were identified. So we drove straight to Parker’s house. With DS Fuller busy on another case, it seemed logical.’
‘Common courtesy, DS Dragomir,’ Ransford said. His eyes bounced between both of them. ‘Let’s not get into stupid tussles, here. Because it’s starting to piss me off. DS Dragomir, take us through the school visit.’
After recounting what had occurred, she placed a copy of the school photo on the table. ‘The faces are quite small, but we’ve marked each person with an arrow. You’ll see all three victims there, along with Anthony Brown, Carl Parker and Nick McGhee.’
Ransford had leaned forward for a closer look. ‘Jesus. Brown, even at that age, you can tell he’s a thug. This is who you believe made up the gang?’
Magda pointed out Jordan Hughes a couple of rows behind them while Sean kept watch on Fuller from the corner of his eye.
‘And this person,’ she announced, ‘who, we believe, is Army Coat Man.’
Fuller’s eyes were blazing as Ransford’s hand beckoned for the photo. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jordan Hughes. He moved to the area in his GCSE year. Seems he fell in with the M18 gang soon after.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Ransford took a good look and then showed it to Fuller, who examined it with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Ransford eased himself back from the table and crossed his legs. ‘What do we know about him?’
Magda turned slightly. ‘Sean?’
Aware Fuller was noting everything down, Sean opened his folder. Inside it was Jordan’s police record. He focused for a second on its final additions. ‘Jordan Hughes was convicted for the murder of Norman Hornby, a homeless man, in 2002. Initially, the entire gang were questioned, but it soon transpired the rest of them hadn’t participated. Forensic evidence all pointed to Hughes.’
‘How old was he?’ Ransford asked.
‘Fifteen when the offence was committed, sixteen at the time of sentencing.’
‘So he was detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure?’
‘That’s right: minimum twelve-year term for murder, in line with the Criminal Justice Act. He went to a young offenders institution until he turned eighteen. After that, he was with the big boys.’
There was silence as everyone digested the horrors that would have entailed for Jordan Hughes.
Fuller sighed. ‘And this was seventeen years ago?’
‘It was.’
Ransford began to nod. ‘So let me guess, he’s recently been released?’
‘Twelve days ago, from HMP Leeds. I’ve managed to get hold of his probation officer: Ron Taylor. He’s yet to return my call – even though I left him a message to say it appears Hughes is here in Manchester.’
‘Don’t hold your breath; he’ll have dozens of cases to be dealing with,’ Fuller said.
Ransford appeared deep in thought. ‘You say the rest hadn’t participated in the murder Hughes was put away for. Any details?’
‘Going from what’s in the court records, the homeless man who died had been sleeping rough in the grounds of the Brook Green cemetery on the night of April fifth, 2001. The M18 gang came across him and, according to their statements, Jordan Hughes thought it would be amusing to set fire to the man’s sleeping bag and blankets. The bedding, being cheap and nasty, wasn’t flame retardant. Norman Hornby burned to death.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Moor muttered.
‘Indeed,’ Ransford said. ‘Did Jordan Hughes, by any chance, contest this version of events?’
‘Absolutely. His version was very different: it was Brown who actually did it, on the suggestion of Parker. The rest either stood by and watched or fled the moment the flames took hold. Hughes claimed he tried to put the flames out and that’s how he ended up with traces of the victim’s bedding all over him.’
Ransford slowly shook his head. ‘And now he’s out of prison and back to settle scores.’
‘There’s a note in the file to say he promised to do exactly that. It contributed to the length of his sentence.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Ransford breathed, turning to the photo once again. ‘And we’re sure this is actually him?’
Sean removed another piece of paper. ‘This is the shot from his prison release file. It certainly appears to be the man caught multiple times on CCTV round the city centre – including the off-licence DS Fuller paid a visit to.’
Ransford’s eyes lingered on the craggy face, prominent ears and shaved head. ‘Agreed. DS Fuller, you were having that CCTV image circulated to—’
‘It’s gone to every single division. Though, if I’d known all this, I’d have included his fucking name, too.’
‘It’s literally just off the printer,’ Magda said.
Fuller gave her a mirthless smile. ‘Right.’
‘Another thing, sir,’ Magda said, ignoring Fuller’s comment. ‘The voicemail Phil Nordern left on Lee Goodwin’s phone. In it, he refers to someone being back. The name he mentions could well be Jordan, though the sound quality makes if different to tell.’
‘Is this audio file on the system?’
‘Yes.’
He looked around. ‘Let’s get him lifted before he does anything else. Who are the remaining gang members, aside from Anthony Brown?’
‘Carl Parker,’ Magda replied. ‘And Nick McGhee, who we’re still trying to locate.’
‘Both of them need to be brought in immediately,’ Ransford said. ‘With this being a clear threat-to-life situation, we need to issue all three with Osman warnings.’
‘Not that Brown will listen,’ Fuller said.
‘No, but it’s our duty of care. I will not have that bastard sue the GMP yet again: he’s made enough out of us already. DS Dragomir and DC Blake, you deal with Brown since you’ve seen him already. DS Fuller and DC Moor, you take Parker.’
‘What about Nick McGhee?’ Sean asked.
‘I’ll leave him with you.’
‘There’s also the question of CCTV,’ Fuller said. ‘We’re harvesting hour after hour of footage from places in the vicinity of Kevin Rowe’s house. It needs going through so we can link Hughes more strongly to the actual murder. I’m thinking ahead to when we actually charge him.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Ransford turned to Magda and Sean. ‘Does that also apply to you?’
Sean nodded. ‘There are files from the camera outside Debdale Park’s visitor centre I haven’t even had time to open yet. Katie May’s doing her best to help, but …’
Ransford made a clicking noise at the back of his throat as he considered this. ‘Damn it. I know the CCTV analysts in Maggie’s section are already stacked out—’
‘Sir.’ Sean sat forward. ‘May I suggest something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘How about bringing in the Super Recognizer we used for the Party in the Park stabbing?’
Fuller glanced at Moor and rolled his eyes. ‘Super Recognizer.’
‘Not so dismissive,’ Ransford said. ‘This person picked out the killer from a huge number of faces. DC Blake, what were the numbers again on that job?’
‘Well, over twelve-thousand tickets were bought for the festival. And the CCTV footage came from multiple cameras, many positioned high up on gantries being used for flood lighting and loud speakers.’
‘That being significant because?’ asked Fuller, hardly attempting to mask his scepticism.
‘It reduces the view of the actual face,’ Sean said. He glanced about. They were in the main conference room and its end wall was dominated by a large frame. Mounted within it was a passport-size photo of each and every person who worked in the SCU. Bit like a school photo, Sean thought, eyeing the rows of faces as he got to his feet. ‘This Super Recognizer sees people differently to us. When we look at a face, we tend to focus on the eyes and mouth. He somehow registers the face in its entirety.’ He pointed to a photo. ‘DI Heyes: he’s got blue eyes and short hair, yes?’
Moor began to nod, saw Fuller wasn’t reacting and quickly raised a hand to scratch at his ear.
Prat, Sean thought, before continuing. ‘Nothing much in that. The Super Recognizer, he notices, I don’t know, the way his temples curve out. Or the line of his jaw. Something tiny like that is all he needs. He just scans thousands of faces and says, “There, top left, seven people in.” It’s uncanny.’
‘I have to say, uncanny is the word,’ Ransford said. ‘By the time the killer left that festival, he even put on – what was it – a hat of some kind?’
‘Baseball cap,’ Sean replied.
‘And still he picked him out.’ Ransford slid the photo of Hughes across the table. ‘Bring him in. I’ll worry about the budget later.’
As Sean retook his seat, Magda leaned to the side and murmured into his ear, ‘Slam dunk, partner.’
THIRTY-ONE
The rush of bubbles buffeted the undersides of Anthony Brown’s legs. Jets of water pummelled his back and shoulders. When the commotion started to die down, he was tempted to reach out a foot and press a heel on the hot tub’s button yet again. Why not another five minutes? No, he decided. That was enough. He lifted the back of his head from the fluffy white towel draped over the hot tub’s rim.
Eyes now open, he surveyed the gently sloping lawn that led to the edge of the reservoir. Far away across the dark expanse, lights in the bar of the Fairfield Sailing Club were still on. A glittering procession of shards danced their way towards him across the water. The farm had been ramshackle when he acquired it ten years ago. Since then, the property had been transformed. First of all, security went in: fencing, automatic gates, motion sensors connected to powerful exterior lights. Then the farmhouse itself. Home cinema system, home gym, snooker room, en-suite bathrooms and toilets everywhere. Most recent additions were the outdoor pool and hot tub.
He closed his fingers round the tumbler of whisky with ginger and took a long sip. As he placed it back on the wooden decking he noticed the blinking light on his phone. When he checked the screen, he cursed himself for missing the call; they’d rung him almost half an hour ago. ‘Talk to me.’
‘We’re still sat outside the place with the vermin problem.’
Brown nodded. They’d been watching the property in Gorton for over ten hours, patiently waiting for any sign of life in Hughes’s bedsit. ‘And?’
‘Definitely infested. A big rat came out earlier.’
‘Sleep all day, those fuckers. See where it went?’
‘One of the boys followed it.’
‘OK. So you go in, locate its nest and have a good sift through. See what’s what and call me back.’
‘On it.’
He drained his drink, adjusted the phone to vibrate and stretched his arms out once more, this time keeping the phone in his hand. More bubbles? Rude not to. He pressed the button and leaned back as the water round him transformed into a cauldron. The alcohol had loosened his mind and – for the first time in over a dozen years – he let his mind drift back to the night in the cemetery.
He could never understand why the rest of them had got so freaked out. Yes, the smell of burning and the way the old fellow had thrashed about wasn’t pleasant. But it wasn’t so bad, either. And it was only a hobo. One of life’s losers. Killing him was like … he thought about how Lee Goodwin and Phil Nordern were so into their fishing. Back in the day, he’d often sat with them beside the canal.
He opened his eyes and looked off into the darkness to his left. Not far in that direction was Debdale Park’s lower reservoir. Where Phil had been found floating. Something had triggered one of the security floodlights. Next came a series of gentle splashes. A coot, probably. Half running, half flapping across the water, escaping from some predator that had found its roosting place at the reservoir’s edge. The light went off and he closed his eyes again.
The memories floated back. Lazy days by the lake spent fishing. If Lee or Phil caught one that was too poxy to bother putting in the keepnet, he’d ask if he could have a bit of fun with it. What he liked best was to cut its tail off and drop it back into the shallows. Watch it sink. He remembered the pleasure it gave him. How it was quite … interesting. The others would soon grow bored and move back to their fishing rods, but he’d sit a bit longer looking down at the submerged creature, lying on its side in the mud. Its one stupid eye, staring back. The flappy bits at the sides of its head opening and closing, but getting slower and slower until, eventually, nothing moved. That moment – the one when a living thing became dead. It was something he liked to make happen. It was a fascinating thing to watch.
Why had doing the tramp caused such a fucking problem? Lee? It properly changed him. He went on the skag massively after that. Phil shrank into his shell. Kevin tried to pretend it had never happened. In fact, looking back, it was when their gang fell apart. McGhee: his mum and dad started to whisk him away in their big car soon as he stepped out the school gates. Then they moved him somewhere else.
At least Carl had enough brains to work out they should pin it on Jordan. Poor dumb Jordan. He just didn’t see it coming. Seventeen years in prison. What had he done with all that time? Spent it on planning to get even. Anthony shook his head. That was never going to work. Did the fool have no idea who Anthony Brown was? What he could make happen? Obviously not. So Jordan Hughes was going to be taken somewhere quiet and put to sleep. Prick.
The phone started to shiver in his hand. He stilled the hot tub’s water before answering. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Yeah, boss, I’m looking at the nest now. There’s a lot of stuff here. A proper hoard.’
‘Like what?’
‘Paper. Lots of paper: newspapers, photos, flyers from certain places in town. Venues.’
‘I see.’
‘And there are these photos and old newspaper stories. Some go a long way back. School days, if that makes sense?’
A rat going to school, Anthony thought. Not really. ‘We’re talking about Belle Vue High?’
‘Yes.’
Jesus, thought Brown. The man really did get obsessed. ‘Forget the rat stuff. It’s annoying me now. Just tell me where this fucker has been going.’
‘All over the place. There’s stuff here that – he’s been busy.’
Brown snatched at his drink. Realized he’d finished it. Pisser. ‘What stuff?’
‘Plastic ties. Big packet of heavy-duty ones. You know the type I mean?’
Brown was thinking about Fuller, the bullet-headed sergeant in the SCU who fed him information. The officer had said Lee and Phil were both found with their hands tied behind their backs. Heavy duty plastic ties had been used. ‘Right, the fucker needs to be taken care of. Understand?’
‘Now?’
‘Right now. I don’t want him causing any more—’
‘Hang on, boss. One of the boys has found something else.’
Brown scowled. He hated being interrupted.
‘Boss? There’s an envelope, here. It’s got your address on.’
‘Which address?’
‘Your one. Your proper one.’
‘The farm?’
‘Yeah.’
Brown sat up. That prick was planning to come here, to my home? He was now tempted to get involved himself: do a bit of damage to Hughes. Hear him beg as the cling film went round his face. ‘Soon as the job’s done, let me know.’
‘Will do.’
He ended the call. Hughes. The bloke never was short of bollocks. But for him to think that, working on his own, he could get to all of them.
As he started to stand, something thin and tight snapped round his throat. His phone dropped into the water as he scrabbled at the soft flesh of his throat. Whatever it was, it had sunk in deep and he couldn’t get his fingers beneath it. Frantically, he reached to the sides, felt a length of plastic. He sped his fingers along it, came to a pair of bony points. Elbows? He tried to hook his fingers in, but his nails only sank into a layer of something soft and rubbery.
Now his vision was starting to cloud red. His eyes felt like they were swelling outwards, forcing back his eyelids. He needed to get out of this sitting position. Fast. But whoever was behind him had hunkered down on the outer side of the hot tub, using all their weight to keep the cord tight.
Growling like an animal, Brown clenched his teeth and tried to rise to his feet. The pain across his windpipe grew intense. Was it slicing through his flesh? He didn’t know, didn’t care: he had to stand up. Once on his feet, he could reach back, get hold of the person. But the strength was draining rapidly from his legs. Everything was fading. He had to have air. He had to remove this pressure from his throat. He clawed desperately at the flesh of his own neck, then tried once more to reach back and grab his attacker. But his arms felt heavy and his fingers were too numb to feel anything. He could just make out his hands as they fluttered before his face. Fingertips slick and red. There was blood at the back of his throat. He could taste it bubbling up. Could taste, but now couldn’t see. This wasn’t fair. He couldn’t even say anything. Couldn’t see the person’s face. Couldn’t tell them … couldn’t tell them they would … tell them no one does this, not to Anthony … no one … no one touches Anthony … tell them no they couldn’t … no one … no …
