Marked men, p.23
Marked Men, page 23
‘Two seconds,’ Ransford shot back, attention still on Magda. ‘Go on.’
‘Yes. She went in and out of Birmingham International.’
‘Birmingham? So the person came back to the UK.’
‘Yes. Her flight back was on Thursday the ninth, shortly before noon.’
He turned to Sean. ‘Which means the female you mentioned as being with Lee Goodwin … it could be her.’
‘It’s possible,’ Sean replied.
‘Sir,’ Troughton said again, stepping fully into the room. ‘Sorry, but you need to know this. It’s Jordan Hughes. His body’s just been found.’
Sean wasn’t sure if he’d heard the office manager correctly. Magda and Ransford had similar looks of astonishment as they turned to the sergeant.
‘His body?’ Ransford asked. ‘Where?’
‘Audenshaw. End of a country lane beside a sewage works.’
‘Was he in water?’ asked Sean.
‘No.’
‘And it’s him?’ Ransford demanded. ‘How do we know?’
‘The officers have the mug shot circulated by DS Fuller. It’s him.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Cling film wrapped round his head.’
‘Were his hands tied?’ Magda asked.
‘That wasn’t mentioned.’
‘You’re thinking a plastic tie,’ Ransford said. ‘Get over, Magda, will you? We need to know what the hell went on.’
She got up and strode swiftly from the room, Troughton in pursuit.
Ransford picked a biro off his desk and hurled it at the wall. ‘Christ! What the fuck is going on here? Did he die before or after Anthony Brown? Because if it was before, that means someone else carried out that murder!’
The sound of Fuller’s voice started coming from Ransford’s speakers and Sean turned his attention to the screen.
‘This is DS Partington. He’ll be sitting in on our meeting.’
The two detectives were standing before the interview room table. Partington was leaning across, a hand outstretched.
Reluctantly, Parker shook. ‘Who are you with?’
‘Greater Manchester Police.’
Parker dropped the man’s hand, sat back and crossed his arms. ‘Yes, but which bit?’
‘XCalibre. I work in intelligence.’
‘The gang unit?’ Parker asked, looking surprised.
‘Given what happened outside the casino yesterday,’ Fuller said, ‘we thought it best to get XCalibre’s input.’
Parker’s head shook from side to side. ‘Lee, Phil and Nick? You’re bloody puddled if you think that’s got anything to do with the casino thing. I’ve said: it’s Hughes. It’s all Hughes!’
‘Mr Parker, please calm down,’ Fuller said. ‘There are several other developments—’
‘Have you not found the bastard?’
‘Not as yet.’
Sean turned to his senior officer. ‘Hughes being dead. One bit of news we keep back?’
Ransford nodded. ‘You’re learning, DC Blake, you’re learning.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Parker cursed. ‘My life’s at risk here, and you lot—’
‘We’re prepared to put you in a safe house,’ Fuller interrupted. ‘As a temporary measure.’
‘About fucking time.’
‘Depending on what we are able to resolve today.’
Parker blinked. ‘You piece of shit.’
Fuller raised a finger. ‘It’s time to stop messing us about. What is your connection to Anthony Brown?’
‘I’ve bloody told you. We got up to no good back at school. His son plays in the same—’
Fuller extracted a sheet of paper from his folder. ‘I told you Brown’s death has allowed us a look into his financial affairs. You’ve been very generous over the years to one of Manchester’s major criminals, haven’t you?’
Parker didn’t look at the document.
‘Would you class Anthony Brown as your business partner? Or your boss?’ Fuller’s voice was soft. ‘Stop with the bullshit, Carl. Or that safe house I mentioned? Forget about it.’
Parker’s head dipped for a second. ‘What do you want me to say? The bloke had me by the bollocks. He had dozens of people by the bollocks. That was his power. But it didn’t make me part of his set-up. He just took money off me.’
‘For debts you’d accumulated through gambling?’
‘Yes.’
‘What else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What other arrangements did he have with you?’
Parker’s eyes shifted to the closed folder. ‘He called on me to do work on the occasional vehicle. Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘What kinds of vehicle?’
‘I don’t know. Cars. I just let his people bring them to the workshop. I wasn’t even there.’
‘So you had no idea what your premises were being used for? Didn’t any of your employees mention the nature of the work?’
‘OK, the vehicles were probably iffy. Most of Brown’s activities were, as you well know.’ He shrugged. ‘What could I do? The less I knew the better. That’s how I dealt with it.’
‘How about your relationship with Kevin Rowe?’ Partington asked. ‘How did that work?’
Parker’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did it work? Well, let me think, we’d talk on the phone. Sometimes face to face. But normally with our kids running about close by while they kicked a football. He coached my lad’s fucking football team! Fuck’s sake.’ He turned away from the detectives.
‘What does the name Flannigan mean to you?’ Partington asked.
Parker kept his eyes averted. ‘Nothing.’
‘The Flannigan family of Liverpool?’
He glanced briefly at the intelligence officer. ‘I’ve heard of them, of course. They run most of that city.’ He now looked at Fuller. ‘The shooting at the casino. You’re saying that was them?’
Fuller stared back impassively.
Parker tapped a finger on the table. ‘Are you talking about this safe house because of Hughes or the Flannigans?’
‘You tell us,’ Fuller replied.
‘Why would the Flannigans come after me? I keep telling you, I’m not part of Brown’s set-up.’
‘And the more we look at you, Brown, Goodwin, Nordern and Rowe the more we find that ties you all together,’ Fuller responded.
‘Jesus.’ Parker clutched his head with both hands. ‘It’s like dealing with fucking robots. Believe what you want. As long as me and my family are safe, what do I care?’
FORTY-TWO
Sean looked up from his monitor to see Fuller walking across the Operations Room with Partington. Both their faces were glum.
‘I don’t trust a thing he says,’ Fuller growled. ‘Fucking weasel.’
Sean lowered his head; soon, they’d learn Hughes was now out of the equation. How long, he wondered, would the news be kept from Parker? He regarded Magda’s empty chair. With her en route to where the body of Hughes had been found, he wasn’t totally sure what to do. Carry on with trying to trace the mystery female?
‘Katie!’
Fuller’s bark made several people flinch. Sean looked over to see him leaning out of Ransford’s doorway.
‘In here! I need you to liaise with DS Partington about arranging a stone for Carl Parker to crawl under.’
Katie got to her feet and, breathing deeply, smoothed her skirt. Sean lifted his chin and, when she caught his eye, he gave her an encouraging smile. The corners of her mouth lifted briefly in return, then she hurried towards the DCI’s office.
Sean remembered that Alan Eales was still in the main conference room, trawling through footage. Ransford had said one more day after this one. Better tell him his time is running short, Sean thought, getting to his feet. The phone on his desk rang and he sank back into his chair. ‘DC Blake.’
‘Finally, I’ve tracked you down.’
The voice was fairly elderly, the words over-articulated. Like someone who was performing to a crowd. Or a classroom of kids. ‘Mr Davis, is it?’
‘Indeed it is,’ the ex-head teacher replied. ‘I gave up waiting for you to return my call.’
‘You rang me?’ Sean started to re-arrange the spread of documents on his desk, searching for the message slip. ‘When was that?’
‘First thing this morning. I was put through to a very polite young lady who assured me my message would be passed on to you.’
‘Really?’ He turned to the CSW section; calls were normally routed through to them if a detective’s line was busy.
‘Her name was Katie May. I always take a name when dealing with organizations. Makes the person that bit more efficient.’
Which Katie normally is, Sean thought. She’s definitely struggling. ‘Ah – there are some messages here. A file’s been placed on top of them. My fault, Mr Davis. How can I help you?’
‘I was thinking about what that group of lads got up to, and I remembered this particular incident from very early on. Before they started really causing—’
The murder conviction, Sean thought. He’s ringing to tell me about that. ‘You mean an incident involving Jordan Hughes?’
‘No, not Hughes. He hadn’t joined Belle Vue High. This was before his time.’
‘What happened?’ Sean asked, only half listening as he reached for his mouse. He should really contact Birmingham airport, see what passport control …
‘The reservoir.’
‘Reservoir?’
‘Yes. A boy drowned. It was treated as an accident. Though – given their subsequent offences – it maybe shouldn’t have been.’
A drowning. Sean took his hand off the mouse and reached for a pen. ‘What happened?’
‘The lad – son of a vicar, he was – lost his life. He was with that group. They were larking about in the reservoir in Debdale Park. As kids do. This youngster got into trouble, as they do. His body was eventually recovered by the emergency services. I’m sure it was recorded as an accidental death. Have a look online. The family name … what was it? I should remember but my memory’s not what it was. Sorry. But, as I said, he was a vicar’s son. The father was a wonderful person. As was his wife. They did so much for their local community. Gosh, I really should be able to remember their name.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll dig around.’
‘Yes, do that. An Internet search of Debdale Lake Drowning or similar. I’m sure you’ll soon find it.’
‘Actually, while I’ve got you, Mr Davis, do you remember if there was any female connected to the gang?’ He knew it was a long shot, but pressed on anyway. ‘Perhaps someone with blonde hair … maybe green eyes. Anything like that?’ Davis was silent for several seconds.
‘No … no, I can’t recall any such person. Not off the bat, so to speak.’ Sean grimaced with disappointment. ‘Not to worry.’
‘They weren’t exactly the types who mixed with girls. Apart from Brown; he always had a couple hanging round him. Trainee molls. You know, the type which finds thuggish males attractive.’
‘Well, thanks anyway. And I’ll search for more details of that drowning.’
‘Yes. Do that. It could turn out to be one of those cold case murders, who knows?’
I’d have said you’ve been watching too much telly, thought Sean, except you’re always in the pub. Rising from his chair to go and see Eales, Sean was surprised to see the man hovering just outside the meeting room door. Their eyes met and Alan made a beckoning gesture before retreating back through the door.
‘What’s up, Alan?’ Sean asked, stepping into the room.
‘I’ve just had a snap.’
For when he pairs two faces, Sean thought, sitting down. ‘Not Jordan Hughes; we just got word that—’
‘Not him. Her.’ Alan touched a finger on the photo printed from Nick McGhee’s Dropbox account.
Sean felt his eyes widen. The mystery blonde from the beach. ‘And she matches …?’
Alan pointed to an image on his screen. ‘Her. Same woman.’
Sean narrowed his eyes. A background of trees, a path, a solitary figure just visible in the half-light. She looked like a jogger – dark purple running top and black baseball cap, with a blonde ponytail jutting out from its rear. ‘Where is this recording from?’
‘Debdale Park. It’s the camera outside the visitor centre.’
‘The night Phil Nordern died?’
‘Yes. The image is from 8.44 p.m.’
Excitement sent Sean’s mind fizzing. They now had her at the deaths of Lee Goodwin, Nick McGhee and now Phil Nordern. The person was side on, only the lower half of her face visible. To Sean, the similarities were basic, nothing more. ‘How certain it’s the same person?’
‘The set of her chin gives it away. It juts forward ever so slightly.’ He continued to stare at the screen. ‘Thing is, I’m certain I’ve seen her somewhere else. Just need to go back through all the footage I’ve viewed so far. She’s in there, somewhere. I know she is.’
‘And how much footage have you looked over so far?’
Alan consulted a notepad beside the laptop. ‘Deansgate exterior cameras, for last Sunday evening. Traffic camera slightly along from there on Chester Road. Four cameras from the vicinity of Kevin Rowe’s house. Wright Robinson Sports College, multiple locations. Sentinel footage from Anthony Brown’s residence and also the camera at the sailing club at Debdale Lake.’
‘Lots, then,’ Sean stated. ‘Thing is, could you do it by the end of play tomorrow?’
Alan blinked with disbelief. ‘I can try.’
FORTY-THREE
Sean went straight to his computer and began a search for Debdale Lake Drowning. Two results showed in the Manchester Evening Chronicle’s digital archive.
The first one had a headline reading
LAKE CLAIMS YOUNGSTER’S LIFE
A story from almost twenty years ago. The victim was a thirteen-year-old called Benjamin Dear. The only son of the Reverend Geoffrey Dear and his wife, Valerie. The youth had got into difficulties while swimming in Debdale Park’s lake. Several people of a similar age had been present on the shore, but none were able to do anything but watch the tragedy unfold.
He went back to the results of his archive search. The second report was three months after the first. This one covered the inquest, which had recorded a verdict of accidental death. A police spokesman had provided a quote about the grave dangers of swimming in reservoirs and other bodies of water. The tragedy, he pointed out, could have been worse if any of the other young people in the vicinity had entered the water, too. Sean thought that was odd. Why was Benjamin Dear the only one actually swimming?
Pondering that, Sean went through the rest of the article looking for the name of the boy’s school – and spotted it towards the end. Audenshaw Grammar. He frowned. It was one of a handful of state-run grammar schools in the Greater Manchester area. He remembered having to play them at football: his side generally lost by a double-figure score. The school had a generous spread of pitches before its impressive Victorian buildings. What was the son of a vicar who went to a grammar school in Audenshaw doing with a bunch of troublemakers from Belle Vue High?
He continued to the final few lines where the church Benjamin’s father worked as a vicar was mentioned. Saint Hilda’s, Gorton. Sean opened another tab and typed its name in.
A simple website with an image of the building itself dominating the top third of the screen. Sean immediately realized he’d driven past it countless times. Situated beside the A57, it was sandwiched between a place that sold garden furniture and disused industrial building the side of which acted as a gallery for posters detailing city centre gigs.
His eyes went back to the church photo. The building was almost black – the result of being next to one of the busiest roads in and out of the city. Sean could see its windows were protected by thick metal grills. Did the vicar live in the deprived neighbourhood? That could explain why his son knew Brown and his gang.
The church web site listed the current vicar as a Martyn Liverage. Sean tried the number, but got an answerphone message. He was softly spoken with a pleasant burr to his accent. Possibly Cumbrian.
Sean was about to leave a message when he changed his mind. According to the website, there was a church service at ten fifteen that morning. Liverage would be around for that.
As Sean put his jacket on, he checked the room. Ransford’s door was shut. Troughton was away from his desk. He left a message on Magda’s phone and set off.
The stunted tower of St Hilda’s church was overshadowed by several beech trees. Attempting to pull in, Sean saw the gates to the church were shut, and so he was forced to park on a nearby road of terraced housing. Climbing out of his car he noticed a group of lads sitting out the front of a nearby house. Two were watching him while the third one’s head was down as he puffed urgently on something. Clouds of smoke began wreathing the three of them and, moments later, the sickly smell of cherries underlaid by the heavier aroma of skunk wafted over. You keep at that, Sean thought, and leave my car alone.
Back on the main road, he found a small gate into a graveyard crammed with headstones, most of which had taken on the grimy sheen of the church itself. Behind the wire mesh covering the building’s windows, he could see lights glowing, but the main door was shut. He tried the handle. Locked. No surprise there. He made a fist and rapped his knuckles against the thick wood.
Behind him came the steady whoosh of cars shooting along the A57. A good thirty seconds passed before he heard a bolt slide back. The door half opened to reveal a short, bald-headed man who was managing to smile while looking wary. ‘Hello?’
Sean had got his ID ready as soon as he’d heard movement. ‘Hello. DC Blake, Greater Manchester Police. Are you Martyn Liverage?’
‘Yes.’ He opened the door fully and peered down the path. ‘Thought you were an early comer. There’s a service in fifty minutes.’
Sean wondered if he got many turning up. Found it hard to imagine. ‘Apologies about the locked door,’ Liverage continued. ‘But I was in a room at the rear and it’s not a good idea to leave the church unattended.’
