Marked men, p.22
Marked Men, page 22
Ransford nodded his agreement: the caller said he’d heard that’s where the shooters had come from; two men working for the Flannigan family, who had been vying with Brown for control of the lucrative drugs trade in the smattering of towns between the two cities.
No information had reached XCalibre concerning Jordan Hughes. A couple of people had heard of him and one had come across him while he’d been in prison, but he wasn’t aware Hughes had even been released.
The same questions had been put out in relation to Carl Parker. Again, no one thought he played any significant part in Brown’s organization. Lee Goodwin and Phil Nordern, however, did ring a few bells. The source who had served time in prison had avoided returning to Manchester on his release, so his knowledge of the current set-up was inevitably dated. But he did remember that, in the past, Brown had used the two men for a few jobs, including torching rivals’ assets: vehicles, business units and a couple of pubs.
On reaching his desk, the first thing Sean spotted was a message from Maggie James saying that Alan Eales was already in the main conference room, which she’d booked out for the entire day. From the coat covering the back of Magda’s chair, it appeared she was also somewhere in the building. After retrieving his images of the blonde-haired woman from Majorca he circled the desk to see what his partner had been up to. At the top of her pad was a single underlined word: toxicology. A few jotted notes below it. Had the Spanish police come back with something?
He continued to the conference room Eales had been allocated. The Super Recognizer was before the laptop, back straight, head still as he scrolled through row after row of mug shots. He didn’t move as Sean eased the door fully open.
‘What have you got there, Alan?’ Sean asked, pulling out the chair beside him.
‘XCalibre’s primary player list. Given what happened yesterday, I thought it was worth me refreshing my memory.’
Sean’s eyes skimmed the procession of faces moving up the screen. Exclusively male, the majority a few years either side of twenty. Most had cropped hair and looked like they spent time lifting weights. ‘These are all yet to be charged?’
‘Not all.’ Eales pointed to a yellow dot beside one face. ‘That denotes previously detained and questioned. The pink ones stand for currently in prison. And the black …?’
‘Dead?’ Sean asked. He counted five dots of that colour moving by.
‘That’s right.’
‘How long is that list?’
‘About one hundred and fifty. Of those, there’s about thirty who pose a significant risk. The rest are just foot soldiers.’
‘You’ve been involved with XCalibre before, then?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘And the two working for Brown?’
He moved up several rows. ‘There’s one. He’s yet to get his black dot, obviously.’
The name below the image read Gary Dace. Sean stared at the man he’d passed in Brown’s office. Weird, he thought.
‘And the other’s somewhere near the top. There you go.’ Eales then moved the cursor up to the corner, minimized the screen and turned slightly in his seat. ‘Yesterday, you mentioned a female who’d been close to a couple of murders.’
‘This is her.’ Sean placed the images on the table. ‘Another one to keep on your radar. I have the CCTV from Anthony Brown’s place and also the sailing club on the other side of the reservoir. I’ll put it all in the shared folder.’
‘Thanks. And I’ll continue with the Debdale Park footage?’
‘However you wish to play it. Everything needs looking over.’
On re-entering the main room, he spotted Magda at her desk. She brandished a sheet of paper at him. ‘Get this! Our man at the consulate must be a charmer; the Spanish police came through.’
He hurried over. ‘Toxicology?’
‘Not just that – they got a hit on some hotel CCTV, too. McGhee’s samples were still in the lab, so they re-tested as I asked. He was full of … guess what?’
‘The same type of sedative found in Goodwin’s and Nordern’s samples?’
‘Gold sticker for you. Ketamine.’
‘Enough so he would drown?’
‘Easily. If he was conscious when he went into the water, he wouldn’t have stayed that way for long.’ She pointed to her notepad. ‘This is from the Hotel Anfora. The camera behind reception gives us several sightings of a blonde woman.’
Sean sat on the edge of the desk. ‘What do you think?’
‘She looks extremely similar to the one McGhee photographed. I think it’s her, but have a look yourself.’ She went into her emails, selected the most recent message and opened its attachment. Three shots of a female in what was clearly a hotel foyer. In one, a large sun-hat obscured her face. In the other two, she wore fifties-style sunglasses, the tortoiseshell frames of which were enormous. Her hair was tied up in one image, hanging loose in the others. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Late twenties or early thirties, athletic build, blonde hair. Similarities are certainly strong.’ He leaned forward. ‘I wish we could see what colour her eyes are behind those shades.’
‘Why?’
‘Nick McGhee had a thing for photographing women with green eyes. Did the hotel give her name?’
‘Jemma Wells. I doubt it’s genuine, but you never know.’
‘Can you forward the images to me? I’ll include them in the stuff for Alan Eales.’
‘I saw him earlier,’ Magda said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘He came through the doors and just stood there. I think if Maggie James hadn’t caught sight of him, he’d still be there studying the carpet.’
‘You didn’t go over?’
‘I was on the phone to James at the FCO. Anyway, I doubt he’d have recognized me.’
‘You what? He’s a …’ Sean saw her shoulders shaking. ‘Oh, very good. You got me.’
She looked up, laughter in her eyes. ‘Ha! Now, I need to get all this ready. We’re in with Ransford at eight, remember?’
He spent the next quarter of an hour working through the old court records, looking for any mention of a female name. No joy. The gang, it appeared, was boys only. At least, in terms of what the police had recorded.
Maggie James appeared by his desk. ‘Call came in for you just now. You were in with the Super Recognizer person.’
‘That wasn’t just now,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Jesus.’
She extended a slip of paper. ‘We are – to put it mildly – rushed off our feet. It must have been overlooked.’
He realized how petulant he must have sounded. ‘Sorry. Who’s it from?’
‘I’m not sure. Here.’
The name jotted into the upper field read Ron Taylor. The box below that read Leeds Probation Services. The person Jordan Hughes had been assigned to once he came out of prison. Sean toyed with whether to ring him back now or later. Another of his mum’s nuggets came to mind: don’t let your to-do list grow too long.
His call was answered by a rumble-voiced man with a Yorkshire accent.
‘Ah, yes. DC Blake. You called me about Hughes. Any other sightings of him your side of the Pennines?’
My side of the Pennines, Sean thought, amused at how the other man’s tone made it implicit Lancashire was on the wrong side of the hills that divided the two counties. ‘Not as yet.’
‘OK.’
He heard the clatter of a keyboard and guessed the man was updating Hughes’s file as they spoke.
‘Right. You wanted to know what arrangements were in place for him.’
‘Yes. He has no family, so I wondered—’
‘He didn’t have much of anything, if I’m honest. Family, friends, possessions. It was a challenge trying to make provisions.’
‘He got a place in a probation hostel, is that right?’
‘An approved premises, as we must now call them. He did. And we arranged some basic things, too. Like a bit of cash, some food coupons. Help with the benefits system. He didn’t even have clothes, though a lady from a charity had already stepped in for that, which was one less thing on my list.’
Sean remembered Jordan’s appearance. The bulky army coat and shapeless grey tracksuit bottoms. Second-hand trainers. He wondered how it worked. Did the charity choose the items for him? Or had Hughes been shown a selection and picked out the ones that would make him look like someone you’d cross the road to avoid. ‘Have you the name of that charity? Probably best I give them a call.’
‘You know, I haven’t. As I said, they’d already made contact with Jordan prior to his release.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Yes. If the person coming out will be, to all intents and purposes, destitute. Like Hughes was.’
‘Will the prison in Leeds know?’
‘I’m certain. After all, the clothing would have been dropped off for him at some point.’
‘Did he ever mention knowing anyone in the Manchester area? He’s here, so he must be staying somewhere.’
‘Probably kipping on a park bench.’
‘No one in the homeless community is aware of him. We’ve made plenty of enquiries. I suspect he’s got a place. No one in the bail hostel at Leeds with links to Manchester?’
‘No. I already checked for that.’
Sean sighed. ‘I was afraid you had.’
‘Another thing you should be aware of. Hughes is on some quite powerful prescription drugs. For anger and mood swings. With him being AWOL, he won’t be able to get more supplies.’
Great, thought Sean. The guy’s a time-bomb, too.
‘I’ve got someone waiting, here. Good luck, DC Blake. And let me know, please, if he does show his face.’
As soon as Sean cut the call, Magda spoke. ‘We need to go.’
He checked the clock on his screen. Eight o’clock. The meeting with Ransford.
FORTY
Two men Sean had never seen before were already seated in the DCI’s office.
‘This is DS Tom Partington, who works on the intelligence side of things for XCalibre,’ Ransford announced. ‘This is DS Magda Dragomir and DC Sean Blake. They’ve been on the investigation since the first victim was discovered.’
Partington was about forty, pale, with a broad face and hooded eyes. He nodded without any flicker of friendliness.
‘Next to him,’ Ransford continued, ‘is DI Phil Sawyer, who’s a firearms specialist with the Armed Crime Unit.’
An overweight man with a dry clump of greying hair lifted a finger. ‘Morning.’
Fuller and Moor were already seated on the far side of the table, with Katie May on her own at the end. Magda and Sean made their way to the last two seats as Ransford consulted his notes.
‘DI Sawyer, can we start with you?’
The firearms specialist leafed through a folder as he spoke. ‘Ballistics have come back on the weapon used outside Cindy’s Casino yesterday afternoon. It’s the same gun used in three other incidents: two in Liverpool, one in Warrington. The oldest incident dates back five years, the most recent one, seventeen months. All were linked to the Flannigan family.’ He laid some photos out. ‘The weapon itself is a gas gun, probably from Eastern Europe, that’s been converted to fire live ammunition. Common practice.’
The XCalibre intelligence officer placed his forearms on the table. ‘This fits with information coming to us. Michael Flannigan – eldest son – arranged it. He’s after Brown’s territory to the west of Manchester. If he gets it, he’ll probably push for the Manchester ones, too.’
Ransford closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘Christ. So can we expect a tit-for-tat response?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Partington replied. ‘With Gary Dace dead, I’m not sure who’ll head up Brown’s lot. It could well be that their time’s passed. Obviously, there are the city’s other organized crime element to factor in.’
‘Who are most likely to resist the Flannigans?’
‘Normally, I’d say the Moss Side Crew. But we put Tyrone Taylor away at the start of this year. Not sure exactly who their new number one is. Don’t think they do either, yet. What we can do is get in all the major players’ faces. As we’ve learned, oppressive surveillance is extremely effective.’
Ransford nodded. ‘DS Fuller? Any progress with getting Carl Parker to open up?’
Fuller’s bullet head shook. ‘Problem is, we have nothing to realistically use that’ll make him talk. Another thing Brown had him doing – apart from handing over most of his profits – was fixing stolen cars. High-performance models, taken to order. We probably have enough to prosecute, but whether Parker would prefer to take his chances with that than work with us, I don’t know.’
‘And Carl Parker doesn’t feature at all in XCalibre’s files?’ Ransford asked Partington.
‘No. We’ve never been able to pinpoint who was handling Brown’s books: all I could suggest is that’s what Parker might have been doing. The bloke runs a business, doesn’t he?’ He lifted a speculative eyebrow at Fuller.
‘Actually,’ Sean announced, ‘it’s not Mr Parker who does the company books – it’s his wife, Julia. She told us when we turned up at their house.’
Fuller sent Sean a scathing look. ‘That doesn’t explain why the others in the group were killed. I mean, Goodwin and Nordern set fire to a few properties and the like on Brown’s orders. But that was years ago. Apart from Kevin Rowe buying his work vehicle from Carl Parker, the only other link we’ve found is them being connected to a junior football team.’
‘And Rowe was paying small amounts to Goodwin and Nordern on a fairly regular basis,’ Ransford interjected.
‘I have to say,’ Partington said. ‘This is all looking very piecemeal.’
Sean wasn’t sure how much of a criticism the man was making of the investigation. He turned to Ransford. Their senior officer was staring straight ahead. ‘So what would your thoughts be?’
‘They haven’t changed since my initial take. We’re looking at two events that aren’t connected. The casino shooting is gang-related, pure and simple. And your string of murders are … who knows what they are. As I’m sure you’re aware, the three previous killings that connect back to Brown all involved wrapping the victim’s head in cling film. What you’ve got sounds more like some psycho on the rampage.’
Not that you care, Sean thought. Because the casino shooting is what XCalibre want control of.
‘There’s really nothing else you’ve found on Parker?’ Ransford asked Fuller, frustration infecting his words.
The DS half lifted a sheet before letting it fall back. ‘Seven years ago, he re-mortgaged the family home. Gambling debt payment to Brown. The property was in his wife’s name: purchased with what she inherited from her folks. So I don’t know whether Mrs Parker might have something to tell us about her husband’s business arrangements …’
‘Let’s go at Carl Parker first,’ Ransford said, glancing at his watch. ‘When’s he due to arrive?’
Moor perked up. ‘Twenty minutes, sir.’
‘Good. Magda? Sean? I’d like you both to observe the interview with me.’ He ran a finger down the checklist on his pad. ‘Magda, you were looking at the circumstances around McGhee’s death?’
‘Yes. The person at the FCO has really worked wonders. It now appears Nick McGhee was heavily drugged when he entered the sea. Same type of sedative found in Lee Goodwin and Phil Nordern’s blood. We have images of a female who it appears was with him shortly before he died; a nearby hotel has provided a name. Jemma Wells. Tracing her is our next step.’
‘And this Super Recognizer character,’ Ransford said, turning to Sean. ‘Anything that will help us locate Jordan Hughes?’
‘Not yet.’ From across the table, he heard a theatrical sigh come from Fuller. ‘I’ve given him access to all the CCTV. Now it’s a case of just letting him do his thing.’
‘What’s this person’s day rate again?’ Fuller whispered to Moor, loud enough for everyone to hear.
His partner smirked.
‘DS Fuller has a point,’ Ransford said. ‘I can only budget him for today and tomorrow, OK?’
‘Sir.’
Partington coughed. ‘I would recommend that – after you’ve interviewed him – Parker goes into a safe house. If he is holding back on a closer involvement with Brown, it seems a sensible precaution to take at this point.’
‘There’s a significant cost implication in doing that,’ Ransford murmured, gathering his sheets in.
‘We’ve got properties,’ Partington casually replied. ‘Completely off-radar. All you’d need do is provide an officer to sit outside.’
Ransford got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the offer – I might well take you up on that. DS Fuller? If Parker is still whining about his safety, feel free to dangle that possibility.’
FORTY-ONE
‘Sean,’ Magda impatiently said, ‘the interview with Parker is starting.’ She glanced across to the DCI’s inner office. Chairs had been arranged at the end of the man’s desk.
‘About time,’ Ransford tutted as they appeared in his doorway. ‘Fuller’s been letting him stew.’
Sean peered at the view of Parker on the desk monitor. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, shoulders hunched, hand pressed between his knees, which were rapidly bouncing up and down.
‘Looks like he needs the toilet,’ Magda stated. ‘Sir, I’ve checked the name of the female who was sighted in Majorca.’
Ransford’s head immediately turned. ‘Yes?’
‘False identity, it seems.’
‘Wasn’t a credit card used?’
‘It was. We’re talking a complete alias: credit card, National Insurance number, passport. It’s all hollow.’
Ransford scowled. ‘A professional then. Someone who manoeuvred McGhee into a situation, drugged him and got him into the sea. Is that what you think?’
‘I do. And then she was off the island within hours.’
‘You found the flight she was on?’
‘Sir?’ Sergeant Troughton had ducked his head round the open door.
