Marked Men, page 9
One of the girl’s working there had laid him back on the bed, eased his trousers and pants down. There was nothing happening. Why would there be? Before being locked-up, he’d only managed a few teenage fumbles. How could he expect to do the actual thing straight away? He lay there for a while, but the only bit of him that didn’t feel numb was the inside of his mouth and they didn’t sell booze. She said she could have some brought in, but he knew it would be far cheaper to get it himself. So he’d pulled his keks back up and gone on his way.
A disconnected series of images followed. As if he’d been walking with his eyes shut, opening them long enough to let a single image press itself on his brain.
A big hotel by the station, on the corner of Dale Street. Yet another building that seemed alien in its newness. A suit standing out the front of it, nervously hurrying his cigarette as Jordan had got closer. His hands shaking the doors of a shop, banging on the window before he figured it was shut. The vertical banner on a building further along. Boo-hoo or something that sounded like a word for crying. A huge mural of a blue tit, five floors high, covering the side of a building by Stevenson Square.
He’d spotted a youngster, searching for cig-ends on the pavement opposite the Millstone. Got her up against the wall, but it all went wrong. Why did it go wrong? Something had happened.
His eyes opened.
The copper from by the arches. The pretty one with the curly mop of black hair. He’d popped up from nowhere. Did they fight? He let his head hang down, eyes almost shut. He had the faint impression of a confined area. Cold concrete surfaces. Yeah, they’d ended up in there, the two of them. Had the copper caught him with a punch?
Jordan ran his fingertips over a lump on his temple. He touched his nose and winced. He probed at his nostrils with his little finger. When he examined its tip, he saw flakes of dry blood sticking to it. So why wasn’t he in a cell? He got away somehow, fuck knows how. From now on, he said to himself, I must be more careful.
His forearm felt tight from where he’d cut himself and lines of black lurked beneath his nails. His or Kevin’s blood? He threw the empty can aside and stood. Veins pulsed either side of his eyes and his vision dimmed. Motionless, he waited for his surroundings to announce themselves once more. There he was. Back in the room. More cans of Lancaster – these unopened – on the side. A scatter of coins and a couple of crumpled notes.
He recalled going through Kevin’s house once the job was done. Wallet had been in the kitchen, next to the keys for his van. He remembered pausing before the fridge, draining the last of the rum and noticing the photos of the young lad playing football stuck to the fridge. Then it had been upstairs to get clean and have a root around. Two bedrooms, one belonging to the bairn. Posters of Aguero and people like that. Manchester City duvet. He’d returned to the ground floor empty handed.
He’d put a matchstick gallows together and left it on the side in the hallway. The wallet had some cards in it. He’d heard about the contactless thing. And in the first shop he tried, the man at the till didn’t even blink. Bizarre. Twelve cans of lager and not a coin changed hands or a button pressed.
Jordan sat down in the bedsit’s knackered armchair, scooped his coat off the floor and went through its pockets. There was the card he’d used. Mr K. Rowe. How long before it stopped working? Was there a limit? He’d find out later.
The can hissed in defiance as he forced the tab up, raised it to his lips and sucked at the contents. He heard a dripping noise on the carpet and, in his mind, he could see dots of blood landing on Kevin’s carpet and walls. Fuck off! He gulped harder. Once it was empty, he dropped it on the carpet, foraged through his other pockets and came across an envelope.
The label said: The Owner, Crazy Diamond Window Cleaning Services, 14 Bosley Street, Gorton.
Why, Jordan wondered, did I take that? Must have been for some reason. I need to work out whereabouts the shop I bought the cans from is, too. The one where I used the card to do the contactless thing. Free fucking money! He wanted to laugh. Don’t go back, though. Never go back to the same place. Had it been somewhere near Kevin’s? He thought it had. Later, he’d catch a bus to another shop somewhere else and get more booze from there. He examined the envelope again. Tried to focus on the words.
‘My head,’ he whispered, glancing at the empty can. Too much of you.
He reached for another. Hiss and gulp. He placed it aside and turned the envelope over. There was some writing on the back and he recognized the simple, looped letters. I wrote that. Squinting at the words, he eventually heard Kevin mumbling them. He’d had to take the blade to Kevin’s face but he gave it up eventually. He smiled. Clever boy, Jordy, you did good. Not such a fuck-up after all, are you? Hey?
He lifted the envelope and kissed the words: Shoreside Farm, Higher Openshaw.
Anthony Brown’s home address.
SIXTEEN
‘You’ve made the news!’ Magda laid a copy of that morning’s Chronicle before Sean.
He bent forwards to examine the picture then looked at his partner. ‘Who …?’
Her smile had been replaced by a frown. ‘What happened to your face?’
Sean touched the graze on his forehead. ‘Headbutted a ticket machine.’
‘Why? Did it eat your money?’
By the time he’d finished recounting events from the previous night, Magda had sat down.
‘And it was him?’ she asked. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘You big clot. Why approach him on your own?’
‘Well, for one, he was halfway to strangling some poor lass. Two, it wasn’t a problem to subdue him. Not until that same lass flew in, trying to protect him.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t nick her.’
Sean shook his head. ‘She was only doing what she thought was right. Obviously figured she had more to gain by staying on the right side of Army Coat than me.’
‘Doesn’t excuse her trying to pull your peanuts off.’
Sean laughed. ‘You call them nuts, not peanuts. And you can drop the pea bit, thanks.’
She flapped a hand. ‘Nuts, then. So, it seems he’s searching for our first murder victim?’
‘Looks like it.’ Sean turned his attention back to the newspaper. The photo of him in a hard hat. ‘Bloody camera phones. Can’t escape the things.’
She shrugged. ‘At least whoever took it got your good side.’
Sean scanned the first few lines of the report and shoved the paper away. ‘It’s implying the murders are connected. We haven’t confirmed that.’
‘No,’ Magda responded. ‘The only statement issued by us would have said enquiries are on-going.’ She pointed a finger to the ceiling, indicating where that standardized response would have come from. Tina Small was the SCU’s press liaison officer. A blustery woman who often treated detectives with a dismissive air, as if none were capable of appreciating how the business of reporting news worked.
Sean dragged the paper back and searched out the name beneath the headline. As he suspected: Chris Waite. The reporter who’d collared them by the entrance to Debdale Park. ‘Not helpful.’
Magda took her seat. ‘Journalists rarely are. So, what are you up to over there?’
He pulled some sheets out from beneath the copy of the Chronicle. ‘Made a bit of a start on the victims’ finances. Well, Phil Nordern’s anyway. Lee Goodwin, as far as I can see, didn’t even have a bank account.’
‘Nordern had a salary coming in from the council?’
‘Of sorts, yes. Part-time work. He also had money coming in every now and again from another source. Thirty-five quid, each and every time.’
‘Cash?’
‘Not always. A few were electronic transfers. Turns out they originated from a business account: Crazy Diamond Window Cleaning Services.’
‘You think there might be something iffy with it? Those kind of amounts hardly suggest proceeds from organized crime …’
Sean sat back. ‘You’re right. But if the company is making multiple payments like that to loads of little accounts like Nordern’s …’
‘What are this company’s details?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to go into them. Internet search shows up a pretty basic website. One man and a van, by the looks of it. Kevin Rowe listed as the owner. It’s not registered for VAT, so the declared turnover can’t be spectacular. I googled him and he also pings up as a coach for a local junior football team.’
Magda’s eyes had started to wander over her own desk. ‘I think we need to focus on the people who were under that arch the night Lee Goodwin died. Get them all TIEed.’
Traced, interviewed and eliminated, Sean thought. ‘Starting with Army Coat guy?’
‘Definitely him, yes. But I’ll take anyone. There’s a witness out there. Several, probably.’
Sean nodded. ‘Katie came up with a suggestion: charities that work with the homeless. There’s one that’s active in the city centre. They drive round delivering food.’ He spotted Magda’s smirk. ‘What?’
‘When did Katie come up with this?’
‘Yester—’ His shoulders sank. ‘Don’t start on that again.’
Magda widened her eyes. ‘Start on what? I’m not saying anything.’
‘You don’t need to. It’s plastered all over your face.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Seriously, Magda. If every time I mention Katie’s name you start giggling, it’s not going to work. We might as well ask for her to be replaced.’
He watched as she tried to remove her smile. ‘Touchy.’
‘I’m being serious.’
Finally, her face straightened. ‘OK. I understand. What’s the charity called?’
‘Street Eats.’
‘Sounds like it will …’
Sean noticed her head tilt. He twisted in his seat to see Katie glancing from him to Magda and back again. ‘What did you do?’ she asked, scrutinizing his forehead.
‘Got in a bit of a tussle. It’s nothing.’
He could see she was about to ask more, but Magda interjected.
‘Sean was telling me about the homeless charity—’
‘Oh, Street Eats? Well, it’s only a suggestion. But they’re always doing the rounds. I think they have links to quite a few churches.’
‘Great. We’ll follow up on it.’
Katie looked delighted. ‘And some of the CCTV footage you requested has come in.’
Sean lifted his chin. ‘From?’
‘The cameras close to Deansgate Locks, where the lighting is good. The analyst in the control room said once you’re away from the main drag, coverage becomes much more patchy. I put the files in the shared folder.’
Sean reached for his mouse. ‘Lovely, thanks.’
‘Anything else for me to do?’
He looked questioningly over at Magda.
‘Phil Nordern’s finances?’ she suggested.
Sean clicked his fingers in agreement. ‘We need to know a bit more about a company making payments to Nordern on a fairly regular basis. I’ll email you the stuff.’
‘No problem.’ She made her way back to the CSW’s section.
Sean had almost finished typing out the message when Magda spoke up.
‘We definitely need to contact that Street Eats charity: take a look at this.’
He scooted round so he could see Magda’s monitor. She’d opened up one of the CCTV files sent over from the control centre. The view was from just outside Deansgate train station. Frozen on the screen was a white van, caught as it turned down a side street. Clearly visible on the vehicle’s side were two words: Street Eats. ‘Give it a few more years,’ Magda said, ‘and we’ll be addressing Katie May as Marm.’
Sean laughed as he dragged a seat closer.
‘That’s the road leading down to the arches.’ Magda pointed to the corner of the screen. ‘See the time stamp?’ Ten thirty-eight p.m.
‘Excellent,’ Sean said. ‘Wonder how long they were down there?’
‘Let’s see.’
She resumed the footage at eight times normal speed. Figures flitted back and forth. A lot of couples. The occasional larger group: drinkers heading for the string of bars beside Deansgate Locks. A lone figure’s erratic movement contrasted to the purposeful intent of the other people passing the camera.
‘He’d have been lucky getting served,’ Magda commented as the person veered across the road. Seconds later, he reappeared, before making towards the same side street as the van.
‘Hang on,’ Sean said, both elbows on the table. ‘Let’s get a closer look at him.’
Magda reversed the footage at half-speed. The man walked backwards from the shadows. She waited until he was on a better lit section of pavement before pressing pause. ‘Bloody hell.’ She glanced at Sean. ‘Well spotted, Mr Blake!’
Sean crossed his arms. ‘It’s certainly very similar.’
Magda pointed. ‘That’s a military type jacket. Hair’s cropped short and receding a bit on top. Ears are quite noticeable. Surely—’
‘It’s a shame the camera is angled downwards so sharply.’ Sean sighed. ‘Lovely view of the top of his head, but not his face.’
Magda played the footage back and forth, unsuccessfully searching for a clearer image. ‘Let’s carry on.’
The van drove back out at 10.52. ‘So they were there for almost quarter of an hour,’ Magda said. ‘And at the same time he was.’
She let the recording continue, first in real time, then speeded up. But the lone figure didn’t reappear.
‘The resident of the flat who drew the sketch,’ Magda said. ‘What time did he say the commotion occurred?’
Sean fetched his notebook. ‘About one in the morning.’
‘What was he up to in the meantime? The arch is only a minute’s walk from there.’
‘From the way he was staggering, he might have keeled over and passed out,’ Sean quipped.
Magda tapped a finger. ‘Let’s speak to whoever was driving that van.’
SEVENTEEN
The front doors of the industrial unit were raised up, giving a view of the stacked shelf units inside. Sean could make out ranks of baked beans, sweet corn, kidney beans, ravioli and peaches. There were packets of dry pasta and spaghetti. Boxes of biscuits and crisps. Bottles of squash. Other shelves contained blankets, jumpers and dozens of pairs of shoes. Sean thought how, when this kind of scene appeared on the telly, it was usually part of a disaster appeal. A foreign city struck by an earthquake, or a war-torn country on the far side of the world. No longer.
The man standing at the rear of a little van spotted them approaching.
‘Morning,’ Magda announced. ‘We’re police officers.’
He was somewhere in his sixties. The top of his head was bald, the sides covered by little more than a hint of grey hair. He had kind eyes. ‘How may I help?’
Magda nodded at the vehicle. ‘If possible, we’d like to speak with whoever was driving one of your vans late on Saturday evening.’
‘That shouldn’t be too taxing,’ he said, continuing into the unit with a crate of water bottles. ‘We only have the one van. And it’s usually my wife and I who make the runs on Saturday nights.’
Sean noticed the rear of the vehicle was stacked with identical crates. He picked two off from the top and carried them in. ‘Where would you like these?’
The man’s head turned. ‘That’s very kind of you. Just here, thanks.’
Sean placed them next to the crate the man had put down and returned to the vehicle. ‘You go ahead, Magda.’
Her voice sounded behind him. ‘So, were you driving the vehicle, sir?’
‘No. My wife does that. Sheila!’
Sean turned round with another two crates in his arms. A wide-hipped lady had appeared from a side room. She wore a dark green skirt and a purple fleece. Her shoulder-length hair was whiter than what remained of her husband’s.
‘Hello,’ Magda said with a tight smile. ‘We’re detectives. I’m DS Dragomir and this is DC Blake.’
‘Sheila Marshall,’ she replied, watching Sean as he transferred the crates and made his way back to the van. ‘And my husband is Colin, since he probably forgot to say.’
‘We’re interested in locating someone who was near Deansgate Locks at the same time as you on the eleventh,’ Sean said.
‘Do you recall your movements on that evening?’ Magda asked.
Colin’s hands were now clasped before him. ‘It would have been our usual route, wouldn’t it?’
His wife nodded her agreement. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary as I remember. We follow the same itinerary, so everyone knows where and when we’ll be. Which point of the evening?’
Sean placed two more crates down on the shelf and reached for his notebook. ‘At ten thirty-eight, CCTV outside Deansgate train station picked up your van as it turned down the side road that leads to the railway arches.’
‘The Castle Quay stop, we call it, yes,’ Sheila replied. ‘After that, we cross the Irwell and make a few stops in Salford.’
‘When you make a stop, what happens?’ Magda asked.
‘We try to check in with whoever’s there,’ Colin replied. ‘See if people are OK and have some food. If not, we hand out meals and hot drinks.’
‘That night, at the arches, how many people were there?’ Magda asked.
Sean registered the silence and glanced across. They were looking at each other a little uncertainly.
‘About six?’ Colin suggested.
Sheila nodded. ‘Five or six, yes.’ She turned to Magda. ‘We don’t always engage with everyone. Not if there could be a degree of risk to us.’
‘You felt at risk?’ Magda asked. ‘Why?’
Sean sent her a quick look. The way she phrased questions – along with her accent – could make her sound abrupt.
Colin spoke up. ‘That particular spot, it’s poorly lit and the, er, dimensions …’ He cupped his palms.
