Marked men, p.3
Marked Men, page 3
‘So what did Fuller say?’
Shit, he thought. She isn’t letting it pass.
‘Not a lot.’
‘Was he having a go? He was, wasn’t he?’
Before he could stop her, she was out of her chair and stomping away from their desks.
‘Magda!’ he hissed. ‘Magda!’ Bollocks, he thought, this isn’t needed.
She came to a stop by Fuller’s desk. The DS glanced up, one eyebrow raised. Sean planted both elbows on the table, formed a visor with his hands and watched from the corner of his eye. Talk about embarrassing.
‘You try to bully my partner?’ Magda announced. ‘Then you must try to bully me. Come on.’
A hush fell over that part of the room. Fuller crossed his arms as he sat back, knees spread apart. He didn’t reply.
Magda kept her eyes locked on his for a couple more seconds. Then she stepped back. ‘No. I thought not. You’ll only go for the youngest person in the room. So brave.’
Fuller’s face had started to redden. ‘Get fucked, Drago.’
She lifted a hand, tips of her thumb and forefinger touching. ‘It’s Dragomir. Drag-o-mir.’
‘Whatever.’
She turned away, nodding as she did so. ‘Big man. Such a big man.’
‘Yeah, nearly as big as you,’ he muttered, smirking at the detective sitting opposite him.
She looked back and nodded to where the flab of his chest rested across his forearms. ‘The only thing as big as me are your boobs.’
A few people couldn’t stop themselves from laughing as Fuller self-consciously uncrossed his arms and sat forward. By the time she got back to their desks, people had started to resume what they were doing.
‘So,’ she announced, like nothing had happened, ‘when could we expect that pathologist’s preliminary report?’
Sean was still reeling from her parting remark. Fuller, he could see, was keeping his head down.
‘Sean? The report?’
He refocused on her. ‘Er, by lunch,’ he stated, before adding quietly, ‘and, Magda, you doing that, how does it make me look?’
She raised a placatory hand. ‘Sorry. I know.’
‘I handle him, OK? Not you.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Where were we?’
‘First actions.’
‘Right.’ She examined the paperwork before her. ‘Statements have been taken from the council workers, but we’ll also need to obtain ones from the paramedic who certified death and the ambulance crew and the first police officer to attend the scene. That will just be chasing up, since they’ll know to supply them. For us, we need to know more about the victim.’
‘That’ll be fun; they’re not the most eager lot when it comes to talking with police.’
‘Who?’
‘The homeless community. I know from my time in uniform over in Salford. All we do is hassle them, normally.’
She considered this. ‘Maybe, with it being a murder, that will change?’
Sean wasn’t so sure. ‘Could get more results from house-to-house enquiries.’
‘Either way, we need to get back down there. Soon as we’ve informed next of kin.’
Sean sank down in his seat. This, he thought, is the bit I hate most.
Lee Goodwin was originally from Ryder Brow. From what Sean could recall, it was an area of dense housing that surrounded a large cemetery. He remembered playing a few school football matches over there: the opposition had lapsed into verbal abuse and vicious play as soon as they realized they were going to lose. Their coaches seemed perfectly happy with the approach – had probably encouraged it.
According to Goodwin’s record, he’d been of no fixed address for the last nine years. That meant he’d left the family home at eighteen, shortly after his first conviction for burglary, but before his initial custodial sentence for dealing. Sean wondered how the family would take the news.
Beside him, Magda was using the hands-free kit, busily arranging with Troughton for a competent Crime Scene Investigator or uniform to do an inventory of the meagre possessions salvaged from Lee Goodwin’s tent.
His own phone went and he examined the screen. The words Estate agent were displayed and he took the call. ‘Sean speaking.’
‘Sean, it’s Ed. Can you talk?’
‘Yeah, go ahead.’
‘Looks like everything’s set. The seller has agreed to replace the cracked grass panel on the balcony. Said they would, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’
‘I could tell they couldn’t afford any more delays. So, assuming nothing last minute crops up, the funds will transfer this afternoon – and you can collect the keys to your new apartment by close of play. How does that sound?’
‘Great, Ed. Thanks. Thing is, I’m caught up on a job at work. You might have to keep the keys for today. I’ll see how things go.’
‘Oh … OK. Well, that’s not a problem. How about your current arrangements?’
Sean considered the room he’d been renting since moving out of the home he’d grown up in. It was paid for until the end of the month, which was just under a fortnight away. ‘Yeah, they’re OK for now.’
‘Right. I’ll keep you informed.’
‘Cheers.’
As he replaced his phone, Magda said, ‘You’re welcome to the spare room at mine, Sean. Don’t forget.’
He glanced at her appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Magda. But your other half doesn’t need two coppers coming and going.’
‘George? He’s used to it. And we work the same hours, so it wouldn’t make much difference to him.’
Sean pointed to the right. The turning for Mrs Goodwin’s road had just come into view. ‘That’s it.’
Magda flicked the indicator down. ‘And how are you feeling about it?’
‘About what?’
‘Saying goodbye to the house? Where you grew up and moving into an apartment?’
‘Well, it’s happening.’
‘I know that. But, you know … with everything … it cannot be nice.’
He turned his head as if studying the houses parading past the window. Trapped in the glass was a ghost-like face. His face. But its features were faint enough for him to imagine it was his mother staring in. Watching as he tried to move his life on after losing her so suddenly.
Sometimes, he wished Magda would ease off. ‘It’s not a case of nice. It just needs to be done. This is it: number seventy-four.’
The woman who opened the door appeared to be somewhere in her late forties. She also looked ill. Pallid face and lank hair. The smell of cigarettes and stale air wafted round her bulk.
‘Yeah?’ she asked suspiciously.
He tried not to look down at her lower stomach straining against the waistband of her leggings. She wasn’t pregnant, surely?
‘Hello—’ Magda began.
‘I’m not interested, before you get started,’ she stated.
Hasn’t realized we’re police, Sean thought. Probably has us down as Bible bashers or something.
‘Mrs Shelley Goodwin?’ asked Magda, holding her warrant card up.
She blinked her assent, mouth slightly open.
‘May we come in?’
‘What’s it about?’
‘If we could talk inside.’
Her eyes shifted to Sean. ‘Might let him in. Is he scrummy, or what?’
A peal of mischievous laughter escaped her and, in that brief instant, Sean saw a different woman. The one before life took its toll.
Magda’s smile was brief and businesslike. ‘It’s about your son, he’s—’
Her face sagged once more. ‘Listen, I said to his teacher, I can’t make him go in. He won’t listen to me.’
‘Sorry, your son Lee?’
‘Him?’ She looked relieved. ‘He don’t live here. Not for years. What’s he done?’
‘Could we come in?’
A voice called out behind her. ‘Mum? Who is it?’
Sean could see a girl, somewhere in her early teens. She had hold of a toddler and was jiggling it up and down.
‘Back in the telly room, Sienna. It’s nowt to do with you.’ She turned back to Magda. ‘And he’s nothing to do with me. I said …’ She paused, registering their sombre expressions. ‘What is it? What’s he done?’
‘If we could step ins—’
‘He’s dead. He is, isn’t he?’
‘He is,’ Magda said softly, giving up with the sofa routine.
Her eyes lost focus as she stared at the street behind them. After a second, she bit down on her lower lip and nodded. ‘Said it would happen one day. Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘Fall off something while he was on drugs?’
‘No …’
‘Murdered? Someone kill him?’
‘It appears so.’
She nodded again. Matter-of-factly. ‘Right.’ Her hand went up and she brushed, once, at the corner of her eye. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘At some stage, there’ll be the matter of a formal identification,’ Magda said, rushing her words as the door began to close. ‘Mrs Goodwin?’ She had to place her hand against it to stop the door from closing completely. ‘I understand your son hasn’t lived here for some time, but when did you last see him?’
Shelley Goodwin leaned against the door frame. ‘Years back. Four or five. It’s been that long.’
‘We’re trying to work out what happened. Does he have a partner or any friends you know about? People he spent time with?’
‘People he spent time with? You’ll find them all over Manchester. Hanging about in doorways and that.’
‘She means,’ Sean said, making eye contact, ‘someone who might know him. Like on a more personal level?’
‘I know what she meant, love.’ She shrugged. ‘He sees a bit of this bloke from schooldays. Maybe him.’
Sean had his pen and notebook ready.
‘Phil Nordern, he’s called. Still lives round these parts.’
‘No address?’ Magda asked.
She shook her head. ‘Keeps the parks clean.’ She gestured with her chin. ‘Saw him working in Debdale not long ago when I was walking the dog.’
As they returned to the car, Sean let out a sigh. ‘Didn’t even ask how he’d been killed. If he’d suffered. How could she not even ask that?’
FIVE
Jordan Hughes came to with a start. Someone was smacking metal against metal, again and again. He thought he was in his cell. Was it kicking off somewhere on the wing? He sat up, head ducked to avoid the bunk above, but found himself in a cramped and airless room. The table beside the bed was littered with empty cans. So was the floor. The vodka bottle – also empty – lay among them. A crushed burger carton and the remains of a pizza, still in its box. He thought the topping looked a bit mushy, until he realized it was vomit.
So, I’m in that bedsit, he thought. In my clothes. He rubbed the sides of his face, trying to get his brain working. He knew he had fallen behind on his prescription, but he could hardly wander into the nearest doctor’s and ask for more. The things only made him feel like shit, anyway. He’d do without. The sound outside continued. There was a window to his left and he pulled the flimsy curtain back. Some sand monkey was in the alley working at the inside of huge cooking pot with what must have been a metal spoon. Sticky chunks of stuff were dropping into an open bin. Balanced precariously beside him were several drums of cooking oil. The rear of the building had a large silver pipe running up its wall. Curry house, he thought.
As he let the curtain fall back, he realized his knuckles were grazed, and the wrist felt tender. He wondered if he’d punched a face or a wall. Or both. What the fuck happened? His trainers were on the floor beside the bed, and they were covered in mud.
Mud?
Where did I go? The only places he could think of in the city centre where you could end up muddy were the little bits of park, like the area of grass beside Canal Street. Or the canal tow paths.
He got to his feet and picked his way through the debris on the floor to the mirror above the little sink. Looking down, he saw the thing was full to the overflow with orange-tinged liquid. He hoped it was Irn-Bru or Lucozade, but knew it was piss. He could smell its faint tang. There was a cut above his right eyebrow and, now he’d seen the wound, he realized the skin around it felt tight.
He looked about the room once more. What happened? He started counting the cans, but stopped at the eighteenth. How did I get hold of this stuff? Did I rob it? Hard to imagine sneaking that number of cans out under a coat. Coat. Maybe that would hold some clues.
He found it on the floor behind the threadbare armchair, cowering like a miserable dog. Picking it up by the collar, he held it at arm’s length and started checking the pockets. The first thing he found was a woman’s purse. He opened the flap and there, mounted behind a Perspex panel, was an NHS identity card. Andrea Wheeler. Probably in her fifties, long dark hair and a kindly face. Memory flash: him crashing a fist into it.
So that’s where the money came from. One part of the jigsaw was in place.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what he’d got up to. He’d started the evening off by downing a good chunk of the vodka. Later, he’d realized he needed food. He remembered heading out the flat, light-headed with hunger. The nurse: did he come across her soon after? Yeah, that was it. He’d been going through the bins at the back of the Smithfield Market. She’d tottered round the corner, probably looking for a place to piss. Hadn’t expected him to step out of the shadows.
Pocketful of cash, he’d caught a bus to the city centre. Jumped off outside a chippy next to the Circus Tavern. Now that was a pub you could depend on. Probably still be serving pints centuries from now. And the Grey Horse Inn next to it. Couple of drinks in them and another in the Joseph Holt’s place on the corner, The Old Monkey. Dead cheap in there. Chatted to an old boy wearing a fat gold chain. United supporter. They’d had a whisky or two.
Then what?
He stood perfectly still. Come on, he demanded of his previous self. The one who’d been in charge at that point. But the memories were keeping themselves out of sight. All he had was a big expanse of nothing.
In the other pocket was a mobile phone. Girly case to it. Sequins and glitter. He pressed the side button and it came on, inner box asking for a password. Top of the screen was the O2 logo. Beside that was a battery indicator. Almost empty. He noticed the time: eight minutes to twelve. Then he saw the date: the sixteenth.
No.
Two days had gone by. Two entire fucking days.
Could that be right? He sensed it was. He’d lost similar segments of his life before once he started boozing.
In the little pocket on the upper sleeve, he found some balled-up foil. Really? He straightened it out, found a few specks of powder. Dabbed at a couple and touched his tongue. Speed. No wonder two days had gone down the pan. Where the fuck did I get that?
His stomach announced itself with an enormous rumble. More like a peal of thunder. It tailed off, to be replaced by an intense feeling of emptiness. Wondering how long he’d gone without food, he sat in the armchair and cupped his head in his palms. What a total wanker to have gone into the city centre in that state. What if the Old Bill had taken an interest?
He let out a groan and leaned his head back. The base of his brain throbbed. Something else was in his coat, digging into his back. He reached round. The inside pocket was stuffed full with bits of paper and card. He slid one out: a flyer for Cindy’s Casino, Whitworth Street. He knew it was owned by Anthony Brown. He had others. One for Idaho Jack’s Late Club on Peter Street. M’s Place on Princess Street. Then one for a place called Brouhaha on the Rochdale Road. Had he been to these places? Why had he collected flyers for them? There was only one explanation he could think of: they were other businesses owned by Anthony Brown.
Sometimes it frightened him how much he wanted to find that man. And kill him.
SIX
‘I have a bad feeling. This will not be an easy job,’ Magda announced.
The entire area beneath the arch where Lee’s tent had been pitched was cordoned off. Crime Scenes Investigation were in there, one taking photographs, the other two picking over the bare earth on hands and knees.
Three bedraggled tents remained, as did a makeshift shelter of packing crates and plastic sheeting. The detritus of living rough was all around: empty food wrappers, bottles, cartons and trays. A badly soiled duvet was stretched out along the base of the rear wall. Closer to them, a cluster of sooty bricks formed a cooking area. A jumble of blackened cans lay among the ashes.
Sean let out a sigh. Still no sign of the previous inhabitants, which wasn’t a surprise. They’d be keeping well away while all this was going on. He turned round and surveyed the nearby buildings. The two closest ones were offices, which meant potential witnesses would have only been present during the day, apart from – perhaps – the cleaners. The taller building to their right appeared to be residential as most of its miniscule balconies had homely touches. Potted plants. Folding chairs. The odd mountain bike. Something that was possibly a beanbag.
He strode across a thin strip of waste ground to the edge of a parking area. Looking back, he judged that any flat higher than the third or fourth storey wouldn’t have had much of a view under the arch itself.
A train nosed into view from the direction of nearby Deansgate station. A few faces looked down at him from its windows as it clattered its way off towards Trafford Park. A seagull carved its lonely way across the slate sky.
Sean was about to head back to his partner when a figure appeared from round the corner of the far offices. Army jacket, grey tracksuit bottoms, dirty trainers. Street person, Sean thought. He certainly had that air: stooped posture and roving eyes. The man soon spotted the police vehicles and was about to turn on his heel when he realized he was being observed.
