Marked Men, page 26
‘I wonder when she changed her name to Katie May? Before or after seeing the vicar at Saint Hilda’s church in Gorton? I reckon it was after. Once she heard about Benjamin Dear. With her name changed, she then applied for a support role with the police.’
‘Maggie’s dealing with Human Resources, Sean. They’ll work all that stuff out.’
‘Even the placing of Lee Goodwin’s body, if you think about it.’ He turned from the window. ‘Putting him in the water at Deansgate Locks. That ensured it was on our patch, so we got the case.’
Magda stared at him. ‘You really think she planned that, too?’
‘I do. If the body went into the Manchester Ship Canal – something that would have been easier to do from that archway where he slept – it might not have been discovered for weeks. And it could have carried half way to Liverpool.’
Noise came to them from the main part of the flat. DS Fuller’s voice. Next thing, he appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘Tell me this isn’t for real. Katie fucking May?’
Magda switched her gaze from Sean. ‘It’s looking that way.’
‘You know what?’ He began to nod. ‘I thought there was something odd – one time, I was running over a few bits and pieces with her and suddenly she ducked under her desk. I was mid-sentence. Didn’t know what was going on.’
‘Right.’ Magda grinned. ‘And that made you suspicious she might have carried out the series of murders she was helping us to investigate?’
Fuller scowled. ‘If you want to be clever, Dragomir, you carry on.’ He turned for the doorway.
‘Hang on,’ Sean called. ‘What was she doing?’
He paused. ‘She said it was cramp in her calf muscle. But it makes sense now. I think she was hiding. When she got down on the floor, I looked round in confusion. Two people had just come through the doors: you and that Super Recognizer freak. You were taking him to the meeting room.’
Sean sat back against the windowsill. She’d known. One good look at her and, sooner or later, Eales would have made the connection. That’s why, when he’d offered to introduce her to Alan, she’d cut him dead.
‘One thing this doesn’t explain,’ Magda said. ‘Jordan Hughes. Were they working together?’
Sean shook his head. ‘She used him, too. He was helped, on his release, by a charity. His probation worker was having trouble finding out which one it was. My bet is, when we look into it, there won’t be any charity. Not a registered one, anyway. It was her.’
‘You mean he was her cover?’ Fuller asked. ‘The person we’d go after first.’
‘His threats to kill the rest of the gang were well known,’ Sean said. ‘I reckon she waited for his release, then put her plan in action. Maybe he started delivering on his promise sooner than she thought he would.’
‘Kevin Rowe,’ Fuller whispered. ‘Stabbed to death, not drowned. And no plastic tie, either.’
Sean nodded. ‘Maybe that was when she realized he had to be eliminated.’
Fuller shook his head. ‘I can’t believe she did him as well.’
‘Maybe she didn’t,’ Magda said. ‘His head was wrapped in cling film: perhaps Brown’s people got to him first.’
‘One thing I’m willing to put money on,’ Sean said. ‘This whole investigation, she’ll have known the exact whereabouts of Hughes.’
Fuller gave him a look. ‘Now you’re giving her super powers?’
‘The charity that helped him – it’s where he got that army coat and other clothes. If they’re ever recovered, I bet there’ll be a tracking device in them. The sole of his shoe. Somewhere like that.’
He got back to his feet, turned to the window and stared across the rooftops. She was gone. A new identity would already be in place. They’d never see her again. Below him, a CSI was opening the rear doors of a van. It was the person they’d passed on the stairs; he could see the evidence bag that contained a hold-all being hurriedly placed in the vehicle. No evidence tag on it. Odd.
Magda was behind him, reflected in the glass. He gave her a glum look and made sure none of the admiration he was feeling showed in his voice. ‘That woman had thought of everything. Every single little thing.’
Down on the street, the CSI had closed the van’s doors. From the way the figure moved, he could tell it was a female. She still hadn’t removed her hood. Probably coming straight back into the building. But she made her way round to the front of the vehicle and opened the driver’s door. As she climbed in, the legs of her crime scene suit rode up. The overshoe on her right foot wasn’t on properly. Showing above it, he could see a bright purple trainer.
He remembered it from his old house. The evening Katie May had turned up in her running gear to help him with the boxes. He started to scrabble with the window’s handle.
‘Sean?’ Magda asked. ‘What are you doing?’
Finally, he got the lock to click, yanked the window fully open and leaned out. ‘Stop her! Stop that woman in the CSI van!’
EPILOGUE
Sean gazed with pleasure at the email from the Snowdonia Wolf Sanctuary. Was it really three years ago he’d decided to sponsor a tiny female pup from a new litter? The message was actually an invitation to come and meet Kaska. He pictured the stunning animal she’d become. Lean and graceful and restlessly intelligent. The thought of meeting her face to face caused the hairs on the back of his neck to lift.
After replying to the message, he turned to survey the apartment. It had now been a month since he’d got the keys. There was a fat old brown leather sofa on the far side, saggy green cushions strewn across it. Next to that, a cream wicker table stood in the middle of a huge mustard rug. A tall brass spotlight splashed shadows across the arched brick ceiling. He’d bought everything second-hand from a place situated in a massive old mill near Stockport.
Second-hand. The same applied to Jordan Hughes’ clothes – and Sean’s suspicions had been proved right. Sown into the hem of his army coat had been a tiny tracking device. The man hadn’t taken a step without Danielle Winter’s knowledge.
As uniformed officers had dragged her out of the CSI van, she’d looked up at him and smiled. He still didn’t know why she’d done that. She’d been held in Manchester for under a week then transferred to Rampton Secure Hospital for psychiatric assessment.
When Social Services finally released the woman’s file, Sean had found it hard to accept her age. Thirty-one. Magda said it was because the woman was such a fitness freak. That’s what exercise did – kept you looking young.
Everyone said Rampton was where she belonged, but Sean wasn’t so sure. How could someone capable of devising such a detailed plan possibly be crazy? She’d applied, under the name of Katie May, to work as a Civilian Support Worker back in 2014. The usual vetting procedure had been followed, but with no criminal convictions to that name, there had been no reason not to employ her.
After three years diligently working for various departments, she’d applied for a vacancy in Maggie James’ team within the SCU. So, at least five years to form a plan that was based entirely on Jordan’s release from prison.
So far, she’d only denied one thing. And that was killing Jordan Hughes. She’d been to his bedsit and planted a bag of plastic ties there knowing that, when Anthony Brown’s men eventually tracked him down, they’d find the evidence and take care of him for her. Her story certainly explained why Hughes had been suffocated with cling film.
Sean gave a little shiver. Eager to push all thoughts of her from his head, he checked his watch. Almost noon. In half an hour he was collecting Polly, daughter of the couple who’d brought his old house. She’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in her mid-teens. What had started with a light numbness and tingling in her fingertips was leading to … no one could say. Pressing on with her life, she’d enrolled on the Architectural Design course at the University of Salford. Moving to Manchester from a small village near Chester was, she’d told him, especially exciting. She adored Neo-Gothic architecture and the city had some amazing examples.
He’d offered to show her the inner courtyard of the town hall: unaltered since the 1870s, it had been used as a location in loads of films and TV shows. Any time, in fact, an imposing or claustrophobic Victorian setting was needed, complete with moss-covered cobbles, lichen-stained stonework and dripping iron drainpipes.
‘Really,’ she’d said. ‘You could arrange that?’
He’d just smiled. Delight filling her eyes, she’d told him that being a detective with Manchester’s police must open all sorts of doors.
Chris Simms, Marked Men
