Marked Men, page 15
She batted a hand. ‘We’ll see. If he’s keeping secrets, I might have to …’
The first thing Sean noticed on returning to their desks was a missed call. Seeing it had come from Street Eats he immediately accessed his voicemail.
‘Hello, DC Blake, it’s Sheila Marshall here. Just now I had Manny drop in. He left a phone for you. This is slightly awkward. You see – it actually belongs to Lee Goodwin. There was some kind of mix-up. I don’t know – he was a bit vague. Frankie had taken it, apparently, because she thought Lee had stolen something from her. Anyway, it’s here if you’d like to collect it.’
Sean was on his feet. ‘Magda! We might be about to find out what Phil Nordern said in that last call he made.’
The black BMW came to a halt alongside the gate of a dilapidated play area. Beyond the waist-high fence was a set of swings, their chains twisted into knots. In the middle was a climbing frame with a metal slide built into one end. Next to that was a graffiti-covered Wendy house with a tiny table and four tiny stools arranged before it.
Two lads were straddling the roof of the house, smoking. Another was standing on the table, talking into his phone. All were keeping an eye on the two men climbing out of the car. Both were in their forties, craggy faces, shaved heads, bulky shoulders. They moved into the play area without saying a word.
One of the men came to a stop, hands clasped before him. The other continued closer to the wooden house. He surveyed the footwear of the lad leaning against the chimney of the Wendy house. ‘Air Max 95s? How much did you pay for them?’
‘You what?’
‘How much were they?’
‘Hundred and twenty.’
‘Where did you get them?’
‘Online. This outlet that does deals.’
‘My youngest was after a pair. Told him they were too expensive. Didn’t realize you could get them for that. Like trainers, do you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fair enough. You spend your money how you like, don’t you?’ He looked at all three for affirmation. The lads swopped nervous glances, unsure if this was leading somewhere horrible.
He smiled. One incisor was gold. He looked like a boxer. ‘There’s a hundred sheets per person if you can tell us where this guy’s at.’ From his back pocket, he removed a folded-up piece of paper, straightened it out and held it up. ‘Seen him?’
It was the image from the foyer of Cindy’s Casino, cropped close on Jordan Hughes’s face.
The lad on the right leaned forward for a closer look. He turned to his companion, perched beside him. ‘Callum, that’s the bloke, isn’t it?’
‘Who?’
‘The spazzy-eared prick!’
‘Spazzy-eared?’
‘The knob-end who ripped us off!’
Callum looked again. ‘Yeah. It is.’
His friend turned back to the man holding out the photo. ‘Why are you after him?’
The man removed a wedge of twenties from his front pocket. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Matt. Why?’
‘You asking me questions, Matt, isn’t part of this deal. All right?’ He waited for Matt to nod. ‘Good. Now, you reckon you’ve seen him?’
‘We’ve definitely seen him. Twice.’
‘Where?’
‘Once outside the shop. That one across the road.’
The man turned to check. ‘And the other time?’
‘Round the corner. Getting off a bus, wasn’t he, Callum?’
‘Yeah.’
Matt leaned forward. ‘And we saw him go inside a house. And we know which room in it is his.’
‘Show us this house,’ the man said, peeling off some twenties. ‘And this is yours.’
Matt slid off the Wendy house, eyes on the money. ‘Half now and half when we’ve shown you?’
The man grinned at his mate while shaking his head. ‘You heard this cheeky fucker?’
Matt was bobbing about. ‘Yeah? Half now?’
The man cocked an eyebrow. ‘Show us this house before my price goes down by twenty quid.’
Matt’s hands immediately lifted. ‘No problem.’
Callum jumped down, too, wiping his palms on his trousers. ‘It’s this way.’
The third lad stepped off the table and tried to align himself with his two mates. ‘Yeah – just round the corner. It’s not far.’
The man raised a palm. ‘Nice try, but fuck off. You weren’t even there.’ Matt and Callum cracked up laughing.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Give it a minute,’ the tech guy said. A cable led from the USB port on Lee Goodwin’s phone and into his computer.
‘Is that all it takes?’ Sean asked.
‘It does with these older models. If it was an iPhone, different story.’
On his screen, columns of numbers flickered by as the program worked its way through the phone’s security. ‘Done,’ he said, sitting forward and lifting the handset. ‘OK, you’re after what first?’
‘Voicemail,’ Sean said. ‘We know a call was made to this phone just before midnight on Monday. Hopefully, there’s a message.’
The tech guy navigated his way to the call records. ‘You’re right – 11.54 and it wasn’t answered. Shall I put it on speakerphone so we can all hear?’
‘Please,’ Magda replied. ‘And can we make a recording also?’
‘Course.’ The man pressed a few keys then opened a new tab on his computer. ‘OK. All set?’
Sean and Magda nodded in unison.
The network provider stated there was one new message and no saved messages. After a double-beep, a voice began to speak. A nasal, Mancunian accent was combined with the throatiness of a heavy smoker. Or perhaps he only sounded that way because he was trying to whisper.
‘It’s Phil. Got some news for you, Lee. You are not going to fucking believe this.’
A low noise obscured his next words.
‘—Dan is back. I’m fucking serious. Get yourself ov—’
More rasping sounds.
‘—k? I fucking mean it, Lee.’
The call ended.
‘Was that the wind?’ Magda was frowning. ‘I couldn’t hear what he said.’
‘Sounded like something was brushing against the microphone,’ Sean stated, picturing the bulky coat Phil Nordern had been wearing when found in the lake.
‘I’d say he was making the call surreptitiously,’ the tech guy said. ‘Speaking while hunched over, perhaps.’
‘Like he was trying to keep the phone out of sight?’ Magda asked.
Sean nodded at the screen. ‘Let’s hear it again, please.’
The man went to his computer, brought up a sound file and pressed play. This time, Nordern’s voice came out of the machine’s speakers.
‘I was hoping to tidy that interference up, but it’s completely obscuring the words,’ the tech guy said, studying the layered lines forming the sonograph on his screen.
Sean glanced at Magda. ‘To me, he’s sounding scared.’
‘Impatient, yes. And perhaps scared,’ she replied.
Sean turned to the tech guy. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds drunk.’
‘Oh, he’d been drinking heavily. But that tone in his voice …’
‘I’d say it was more disbelief. Amazement.’
‘Who is Dan, I wonder?’ Sean murmured. ‘Dan is back, he said.’
‘No,’ Magda cut in. ‘That was just the ending of the word. The first part of it we couldn’t hear. It was something-Dan is back.’
Sean turned to the tech guy. ‘Can you isolate just that bit?’
He marked off that part of the recording on the graph and clicked play.
‘—Dan is back.’
He clicked again.
‘—Dan is back.’
Sean’s eyes were barely open. ‘Can’t bloody tell, the quality’s so poor.’ He looked at Magda. ‘What are you thinking? I know you’ve got something in mind.’
‘Think about the names from the juvenile records.’
Sean frowned. ‘OK. There was Anthony Brown, Nick McGhee, Jor …’ His eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell. Jordan Hughes. You think that’s what Phil Nordern was saying? Jordan’s back.’
She shrugged, then turned to the tech guy. ‘Is there really nothing you can do? To make it clearer?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll try.’
‘Thanks.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Sean, we need to go or we’ll be late for that appointment at Belle Vue High.’
After being given the album containing all school photos for 2000–2010, they were left in a room to the side of the main reception.
Sean’s gaze moved across row after row of teenage faces. Some scowling, some smiling, some looking shy, others bored. ‘Must be about a thousand kids here.’
As he scrutinized the image for 2000, he reflected on the fact he had no such memento for his final year at school: as he was clearing up his breakfast stuff, Janet had almost fainted while trying to get out of bed. After calling an ambulance, he’d accompanied her to Accident and Emergency. By the time he’d made it into school the photographer was long gone.
‘I would give you a hand,’ Magda said, sitting back, ‘but the faces are so small, they will give me a headache.’ After another minute, he pointed at the right-hand side of the photo. ‘That has to be Anthony Brown.’
Magda sat forward. ‘Well done.’
‘And either side of him: is that not Kevin Rowe and Phil Nordern?’
‘There!’ Magda touched a fingertip on the row directly in front of them. ‘Lee Goodwin.’
‘So I wonder who Carl Parker, Nick McGhee and Jordan Hughes are.’
He scanned the faces in the immediate vicinity. None looked like Army Coat man.
Magda glanced over to the door. ‘How long did the secretary say she was going to be?’
‘She didn’t give us a time.’ He began to examine the posters on the walls.
I see and I forget, I hear and I remember, I do and I understand. Confucius.
Success consists of failure to fail without loss of enthusiasm. Winston Churchill.
The expert in anything was once a beginner. Helen Hayes.
Take risks. If you win you will be happy. If you lose you will be wise. Author Unknown.
He found himself considering the last one. Take risks. It was something Janet never advocated. Hers was a methodical, systematic approach. Slow, steady, persistent.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Magda rocking slightly. Her shoes were off and one foot was lifted slightly from the floor. Slowly, she raised and lowered the big toe of her weight-bearing foot. Then her four other toes came up and went back down before her big toe lifted once more.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
She looked over at him for a moment before returning her focus to the opposite wall. ‘This is good exercise. We did it in gymnastics when I was younger.’
Gymnastics, Sean thought. He couldn’t imagine the stoutly built woman leaping about in a sports hall. ‘You’re full of surprises, Magda.’
‘I was raised in the era of Daniela Silivaş. You remember her? Six golds in the 1988 Olympics?’
‘1988? Magda, I wasn’t even born in 1988.’
‘Mm.’ She transferred her weight to her other foot. ‘When I was at school, gymnastics to us was like football is to Manchester.’
‘This was when that man was in charge? Chow-something.’
Her voice dropped. ‘Ceauşescu, yes.’
She’d mentioned him before; he was president of the country and the reason why Magda’s family had to get out. She said, one day, that she’d tell him exactly what had happened. Maybe this was a good time to ask?
The door opened and a very large lady holding a single sheet of paper stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to keep you. I’m afraid the archived reports don’t reveal much. It’s rather a long time ago, you see.’
Sean had been hoping for dusty files bulging with meticulously recorded notes. ‘No copies of their old school reports?’
‘Yes, but they aren’t like today’s. Now we have detailed attendance records, along with weekly summaries of merits and sanctions. Then it was a truancy sheet and a clip round the ear if you were naughty.’
Magda was slipping her shoes back on. ‘A clip?’
‘Not an actual clip,’ Sean replied, swiping the air with a cupped hand. ‘That’s a clip. But it’s more of a saying.’
‘Ah,’ Magda looked disappointed. ‘Nothing wrong with the old ways.’
The staff member looked embarrassed as she held out a piece of paper. ‘This is the home number for Jason Davis. He was Head Teacher here while those boys were passing through the school. He’s expecting a call; perhaps he could give you a better idea than impersonal school records.’
Magda took the sheet of paper. ‘He is no longer here?’
‘No, retired about eight years ago. He lives up in the Lake District, now.’
‘Lucky man,’ Sean said.
‘You’re welcome to call him from this room. Then, if you’d still like copies of what we have, I can make those arrangements.’
‘Thanks,’ Magda replied. ‘We’ll do that.’
Sean pointed to the photo album. ‘I couldn’t find Carl Parker, Nick McGhee and Jordan Hughes.’
She gave a small groan. ‘Never far from each other that lot. Let me see.’ After lowering herself into an adjacent chair, she leaned forward, breasts pushing up to almost beneath her chin. ‘That’s Parker and McGhee.’
Both boys were next to Kevin Rowe. Parker was looking off to the side, as if he didn’t want to make eye contact with the camera. McGhee was attempting a moody and enigmatic half-smile.
‘And Jordan Hughes?’
The lady swallowed awkwardly. ‘He was in the year above.’ She traced a heavily glossed nail along a row further back. ‘There.’
Her finger had stopped at a youth who looked about five years older than all his peers; a grown man in a school blazer. The stare was surly, mouth set straight.
Sean smiled at the staff member. ‘That’s great, thanks for your help.’
She struggled to her feet. ‘My pleasure.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Sean asked, once she was out of the room. ‘Is that Army Coat man?’
‘Well,’ Magda replied, ‘it’s certainly not Parker or McGhee.’
‘But is it Hughes?’
‘Possible, if he’s lost – not gained – weight as he got older.’
‘Which happens sometimes. As a percentage of probability, what do you reckon?’
Magda tipped her head from side to side. ‘About 80 per cent sure?’
‘Nearer 60 per cent for me.’
‘Not ideal.’
‘No. So let’s see what this old head teacher has to say.’
‘How should we play it with names?’ Sean asked.
‘You mean Lee Goodwin and Phil Nordern?’
‘And Kevin Rowe. Do we let him know they’ve all been murdered?’
‘I think not. Let’s keep things as general as possible. Depending on his responses, we can go into more detail.’ She keyed the number in and put her phone on speaker.
It was answered on the second ring. ‘Jason Davis speaking.’
The voice was sprightly, with a faint southern accent. Sean pictured a trim gentleman. The type who donned layers of Gore-Tex before striding purposefully over the hills.
‘Hello, this is DS Dragomir. I’m at Belle Vue High School with my colleague, DC Blake. I’m hoping you can tell us about some pupils who were here during the early 2000s.’
‘My guess is you’re going to ask me about Phil Nordern. And Lee Goodwin.’
Magda shot a look of surprise in Sean’s direction. ‘Yes.’
‘I like to keep abreast of events back in Manchester; that includes having a copy of the Evening Chronicle delivered to me here. Gives me something to read through in the pub.’
A short laugh ended in a throaty cough. Sean heard the clink of glasses. It wasn’t even noon. Now he was picturing an overweight bloke on a corner stool with his newspaper spread across the bar. Probably a biro behind his ear for doing the crossword.
‘Is that where you are now?’ Magda asked. ‘In the pub?’
Sean winced: as usual, Magda had been so abrupt her question was closer to an accusation.
‘It is,’ Davis replied a little testily.
‘DC Blake speaking,’ Sean said, cutting in. ‘Sounds like you’re enjoying your well-earned retirement up there.’
‘Certainly bloody am,’ he replied. ‘Got out the moment I could access my pension. Didn’t want to die in harness, like many do.’
‘I hear it’s a demanding job.’
‘It is if you stay in too long. They take it out of you, youngsters. Some, anyway.’
Magda nodded. ‘And the ones we’re calling about?’
‘Yes – they were the types who made the job hard. Not that they deserved to go the way they did, obviously, but they were given plenty of chances.’
‘We’re aware of numerous interactions with social services and the police, plus some later juvenile court appearances,’ Magda said. ‘Would you describe them as a gang, in school?’
‘Gang?’
‘Sifting through, it appears there was a group of seven.’
‘Seven? Interesting number, seven. Very significant.’
‘You taught maths?’ Sean asked.
‘No. English. The number crops up throughout literature, though: in myths, legends and religions of the world. But I digress … you say seven? You’ve got Goodwin and Nordern. I’m assuming Anthony Brown, Carl Parker and Kevin Rowe are also on your list?’
‘Correct,’ Magda responded.
‘So … let me think. Perhaps Nick McGhee?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who’s the seventh one?’
‘Jordan Hughes.’
‘Oh – Hughes. Christ, yes. The latecomer. I believe he was brought up in Leeds. When he joined the school he had that Yorkshire thing going on.’
Magda looked questioningly at Sean, mouthing a question: Yorkshire?
Sean smiled knowingly as he leaned closer to the phone. ‘A certain attitude, you mean?’
‘Yes. Mancunians? They have a cocky swagger, but it’s usually underpinned by a sense of humour. Folk from Yorkshire? A belligerent sort of pride. Some might read it as arrogance. Anyway, Hughes had the misfortune to fall in with that crowd. But now Goodwin and Nordern are dead, I imagine you’re looking at Anthony Brown’s involvement in this?’
