Greco had swapped Oldston station for the new headquarters of the Serious Crime Squad, on the outskirts of Manchester. The old police station that had served Openshaw had been given a makeover, and was now state of the art. The new office was streamlined, with huge windows that let in plenty of natural light. Greco had his own space behind a frosted glass partition. His office furniture was new, and his desk sported a brand new laptop.
Some of the old team had come with him at his request — DS Jed Quickenden, aka Speedy, and DC Grace Harper. Grace was both a colleague and a friend. During the worst of times, Greco had been able to lean on her, and he valued her support. Of all his old team, she was the one he’d been closest to. This was something Grace sometimes misinterpreted.
Until a week ago, he’d had no idea who else would be joining them. The new members of the team were a DI, Leah Wells, and a DC, Joel Hough. Apart from half an hour spent in the pub, where he learned that both had transferred from Manchester Central, he knew little about them.
Leah Wells was his age. She was a tall, lithe woman, who looked as if she was often at the gym. Long dark hair tumbled untidily across her shoulders, and her eyes were blue. Cornflower blue, he’d noticed, the same shade as his daughter’s. She had a wide smile and a slightly turned up nose. Leah Wells was pretty. The only drawback was that her clothes were too casual for Greco’s liking. Today she was in a pair of well-worn faded jeans.
Joel Hough was young, in his early twenties. He was tall, dark-haired, with heavy glasses which made him look geeky. His speciality was IT. He sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He didn’t even look up when Greco addressed the team.
“Unknown male, still in his teens I’d say. Stabbed, and his body laid out on the floor of the multistorey car park on Gorton Road,” he began. “There was nothing on him to help with identification. No mobile either. I doubt this was robbery. The kid didn’t look as if he had two halfpennies to rub together.”
“Perhaps the killer was disturbed,” Grace offered.
“I don’t think so. The killer laid him flat on his back, straightened him out, and folded his arms, which takes time. We don’t know if anything was taken from the scene. But he could have been running drugs. Bear that in mind. I’ve read the file on the individual called ‘the Knifeman.’ McCabe reckons this has all the same hallmarks, and I agree with him.”
“Current thinking is that he is a specialist hitman,” said Leah Wells.
“The two killings have been young men. We suspect the first was delivering drugs around the Lansdowne Estate. It is possible that the second one was too.”
“If that’s so, then they’ll be local, known. The multistorey is only a stone’s throw away from the Lansdowne,” Grace said.
Greco nodded. “That could be right. Our latest victim is young. Someone should miss him before long, and call it in.”
“If we are going with the killings being drug related, we have to consider why they are different from the norm,” Leah pointed out. “The usual way of disposing of a rival is with a bullet. Quick and simple. I’d like to know what’s changed.”
“Bullets get attention, media and the like,” Greco reminded them. “The headlines after that doorstep shooting in Beswick last year went on for weeks. The Knifeman is a shadow. No one sees, no one hears. That makes the incidents less newsworthy. The doorstep shooting got the media attention it did because there was a screaming match first, and a group of kids were playing in the front garden.”
“I haven’t heard anything on the streets about a bust-up in the drug gangs, or a new face on the block,” one of the PCs added. “If something was going on, there would be whispers all over. There’s plenty of dealing, but it is strictly controlled. Each firm has its own territory.”
“I’ve checked the HOLMES database, sir,” Joel Hough piped up, his face turning red as all eyes turned his way. “It fits no other method of killing in our area. Stabbing features widely, as you’d expect. But not the skill, or the way the body was left.”
Speedy nodded. “In that case, he’s a new operator. What we have to find out, is who he’s working for.”
Greco pointed to the photo of the victim on the incident board. “For now, we’ll concentrate on finding out more about him. We need a name. We need his life up there before we make any assumptions. He’ll have family. They need to know what’s happened, fast.” He looked at Grace. “Check missing persons. Go back a while. If he was living rough, the call will not have come in recently. Any males reported in the last few months, put them on the board.”
“That road is covered by CCTV,” Speedy offered. “Although not the entrance to the multistorey. Inside, the coverage is patchy. On the floor we’re interested in — nothing.”
“You get on it. We’ve no idea what we’re looking for, but at least we have his photo. Someone might recognise him. DI Wells and I will attend the post mortem.”
She smiled. “Bit formal that, sir. Call me Leah.”
“Want me to put these files in your office, sir?” Grace interrupted.
“I’ll take them, Grace.” Greco had noticed the wary look Grace Harper gave Leah. He was well aware that Grace had a soft spot for him, but the problem was, all he wanted was to be left alone. He liked Grace. She was young, attractive, and, like him, she loved her job. But for now that was as far as it went.
PC Gareth Dobbs was putting down the office phone. “We’ve had a report of an altercation last night, outside the multistorey. A heated argument between two blokes. The man who rang it in heard about the killing on the local news and wondered if it was relevant.”
“It might be. There again, how many arguments are there along that stretch of road? It leads straight onto the Lansdowne,” said Leah.
Greco shrugged. “We have nothing else. We can’t ignore this.”
“He lives at 5 Sutton Close,” the young PC told them.
“Leah, you and I will check out what the man has to say, then go to the Duggan.” Speedy looked put out. Usually it would be him at the DCI’s side. But Greco needed to get to know Leah Wells quickly, and he couldn’t do that if he left her in the office staring at a computer all day. He looked around the room. “Anything else comes in, let me know immediately.”
It looked as if McCabe was right. They were in for a bumpy ride, and not just with the case. He’d seen the looks. Speedy and Grace were finding the transition difficult.
“Want me to drive, sir? I know the area,” Leah offered.
Greco nodded, and they made their way down to the car park. “Tell me about the gang setup around here.”
“Vincent Costello is the top dog. Has been for decades. The problem we have is making anything stick. All the gangs pay him to leave them alone, and they wouldn’t dare cross him. From time to time we’ll nail one of them. When that happens, Costello’s mob drops the poor unfortunate like a hot brick. There are a couple of prime movers. There’s one in particular who takes care of things in East Manchester.”
“Ray Shaw.”
“Yes, or Slicer Shaw as he’s known on the streets. He’s tough. He earned his nickname because of what he’s done to the poor sods who’ve crossed him or Costello. Not that we can prove anything,” she added. “On the surface Shaw comes across as a successful businessman. He owns a club in the city. It’s very popular, attracts a lot of wealthy people. But don’t be taken in, he’s as dodgy as they come.”
“McCabe gave me a file on him.”
“No need to tell you the gory details then.”
“You’re local. Is that how you know so much about Costello?”
“I’ve done my homework. Costello’s main home is in Yorkshire. Last year I worked with the team over there who were trying to get him on a murder charge.”
“You didn’t make it stick?”
“No, his legal team ran a horse and cart through every piece of evidence we had. In the end one of Costello’s people took the rap. Poor bastard must have been in fear of his life to be willing to
go down for murder.”
“Are there any contenders in the frame for the post of rival?”
“It’s difficult to know. I’ve heard nothing on the streets. I have a couple of snouts who give me good info. Word is, all’s quiet.”
Not that quiet. They had two bodies.
* * *
They pulled up on Sutton Close, a row of townhouses just off the main road. “We’re only a couple of hundred yards away from the site of the latest killing, sir,” Leah told Greco.
The area was heavily built up and overshadowed by the Lansdowne.
“You police?” The man who answered the door spoke in a gruff voice. “Proper police?”
“DCI Greco, and this is DI Wells.”
“In that case, come in.”
They followed him inside. “Like I told the bloke on the phone, it might be nothing, but you never know. I don’t sleep much so I went for a walk last night. Can’t say what the time was exactly, but it were late on. There were two of them outside the multistorey. Felt sorry for one of them, skinny lad he were, stood no chance against that bully.”
Leah smiled at him. “Tell us what happened, Mr Barton.”
“He were a young lad, foreign-looking. He looked as if he were waiting for someone. Then this big bloke pulled up in a car and started shouting at him. A few seconds later he got out, and pushed the lad around. I was only a few yards away. The lad told him to get lost but the bloke was shouting his head off. I shouted back at him. Told him to stop.” Stanley Barton paused. “It were dark, but there’s a streetlight there. He looked me full in the face. I recognised him. Told him so, an all. It were then he hopped back in his car sharpish, and drove off.”
“Who was it?” asked Greco.
“Him from the paper — the Chronicle. That Tony Rouse. Pokes his big nose in everywhere, that one. I heard about stabbing on the news this morning. Might have nowt to do with it, but you can’t afford to miss anything, can you?”
“Thank you, Mr Barton. I’ll get one of the uniformed officers to take a full statement.” Greco thought for a moment. “Did you hear any of their conversation?”
“No. Lad had an accent. Couldn’t understand him. Rouse was talking about money though. At one point he grabbed the lad’s arm and tried to pull him into his car.”
“But he got away?”
“He pulled free and disappeared into the car park. He were slow, mind you. Lad were limping, as if he’d hurt his leg.”
“Thanks, Mr Barton.” Leah smiled at him again.
Outside, Leah said, “We should speak to this Tony Rouse straight away.”
Chapter 3
Mickey had tried to be good. He’d got himself a decent job, even promotion. Worn a smart suit to work. Played the game. But underneath, the real Mickey still lurked. A person could not deny who they were at ground level. The real Mickey was bad, and he hated it. But Mickey also had skill. That skill was dirty, but it would help him achieve a long-held ambition. And involvement with Slicer was key.
“You’ve done well. Here.” Slicer Shaw held out a bundle of notes. “Take the cash. You’ve earned it.”
Snatching the money from the villain’s hands, Mickey spat out the words. “Don’t go thinking I enjoy any of this. I do it ’cause I have to.”
Slicer sneered. “Don’t give me that twaddle. No one who kills like that doesn’t enjoy it. You’re good. I don’t want to lose you. I’m willing to pay big money to keep you close.”
“You can get hitmen off any street corner.”
“Not like you I can’t.”
“I’m not reliable. I disappear for months on end. I get black moods. I don’t like who I am.” Mickey was almost pleading.
Slicer Shaw roared with laughter. “Too deep for me, that. Never did understand you educated types.”
“You got that wrong,” Mickey hissed.
Slicer pushed the hood back off Mickey’s face, and looked taken aback. “Not what I expected. And you’re young.”
Mickey jumped back. “Get your hands off me!”
Slicer whistled. “Nervous type. I’ll remember that in future.”
Slicer was tall and stout, with a florid complexion. Too fond of booze and blow, Mickey had heard. He had a long nose and was losing his hair. It was tricky to pin an age on him. Somewhere round fifty seemed likely.
“You’re handy with a blade yourself. You didn’t get the nickname Slicer for no reason. So why use me?”
Slicer laughed again, and called out to his driver. “The kid’s got balls!” He turned back to Mickey. “I don’t do a clean job. I’m too fond of seeing folk suffer. I slit the buggers open.” He swept a finger down from his neck to his navel. “I leave them hanging. Not what’s needed for the work I’m in. I need someone who can get to the target, finish him and get out. Do the job in minutes. Not the long drawn-out stuff I favour.” His mouth curled into an evil smile. “Ever watched a man’s guts drop onto the floor? Seen the mess a person’s insides make when they’re ripped free? I once made some dickhead lick his own kidneys.” He laughed again.
The man was insane. Mickey felt sick.
“Are you in or out, kid?”
Mickey wanted to punch his lights out and run. But this was Slicer Shaw. There was no place he could hide, and Mickey didn’t have a death wish.
“Okay. But I don’t need a minder in future.” Mickey nodded at the driver.
“He stays. I like confirmation. I need to be certain that the job’s been done right. I don’t like complications. Take this.” Slicer handed over a mobile phone. “It can’t be traced, and I’ll do the topping up. Be ready. I ring and I expect an instant response. I don’t do waiting. And I don’t do excuses. I give you a target, and the job gets done. No questions.”
Mickey nodded. There was no choice. But every part of him screamed that this was a big mistake.
* * *
Greco was no stranger to the morgue at the Duggan. It was where he’d suffered the worst moment of his life. The last time he’d been here, it had been Suzy that the pathologist was working on. Just walking through the glass front doors brought it all back. His stomach churned. He took a deep breath. Attendance at post mortems was not optional.
Greco and Leah Wells stood on an elevated parapet overlooking the work area. They had a clear view of the trolley below them, with the body laid out on it. The internal organs had already been removed, and were sitting in various stainless steel bowls.
Bob Bowers began. “I’d put him at between sixteen and twenty. He’s not Caucasian, could be Asian, then again he could be Syrian or Turkish. He’s also thin, and very undernourished. However, his teeth are well cared for.” They watched as the pathologist turned him over. “He has a number of cuts and bruises. I’d say they are several days old. There is a particularly large bruise on his right flank. Plus a deep cut to his right thigh which has still not healed. It should have been stitched. There would have been heavy blood loss.” Bob Bowers looked up at them. “He may have been living rough.”
It was worth considering. But if that was the case, what had made him a target for the killer?
“Something rather odd. He’d eaten less than an hour before death. Olives, cheese, and smoked salmon mostly, washed down with orange juice. Not what I expected to find.”
“A bit posh for someone living rough.” Leah turned to Greco and raised her eyebrows.
“Dr Bowers won’t have made a mistake,” he assured her.
“In that case, it sounds like he’d been to a buffet,” Leah whispered.
“He’s had his appendix removed. The scar is old. The op was several years ago. Plus he has odd feet.”
“What do you mean, odd feet?” asked Greco.
“Just that. There is a difference in the size,” Bowers replied.
“A whole shoe size, to be precise.” Doctor Roxy Atkins entered the room. “Expensive shoes, and handmade. They definitely don’t go with the clothes he was wearing. Can I make a suggestion?” She smiled up at them. “N
othing he had on was a particularly good fit. His jeans were too long, and the arms on that pullover are too short. They may have come from a charity shop. A desperate lad, in desperate times.”
“Not the shoes though?”
“No, I’d say the shoes were made for him.”
Expensive handmade shoes and good teeth. The lad may have lived rough, and died without a bean, but it looked as if his family had money.
Bob Bowers concluded his examination. “I’ll let you have the toxicology results as soon as they’re ready.”
“Anything else on him?” Greco asked Roxy.
“Not that I’ve found yet. I’m looking at what his clothes might tell us. Fibres, pollens, you know the stuff. Might give a clue about where he’d been, what he’d been doing.”
“How’s Professor Batho?” Greco asked, his eyes on the floor, knees shaking. Julian Batho had recently lost his partner. Imogen Goode had been slaughtered by a madman. Greco and the solemn professor had a lot in common.
Roxy shook her head. “Julian is on leave. It’s hit him very hard. He’s not coping well.”
“I know exactly how he feels.” The memories threatened to overwhelm him, and Greco turned and walked out of the room. He had to get out. He needed air.
* * *
“Charity shops it is, then,” Leah said when she joined him outside.
“It’s a bit of a long shot. It’s unlikely anyone will recall selling those exact items of clothing.”
“If we have nothing else, I’ll give it a go,” she said.
“Sorry I left like that,” he said, not hearing her words. Leah was putting her jacket on. It was leather, and she was wearing jeans. He knew it wasn’t mandatory to dress smartly for work, but her style irritated him. Her shirt was a different shade from the denims. The clash of colours bothered him. His OCD was raising its ugly head.
Leah was watching him. “I know what happened. It’s okay to talk about it. If you want to, that is.”
“It’s that place. It no longer feels impersonal, strictly to do with the job. What goes on in that room, on that table, it’s far too real. And we drag people in there to identify their loved ones. I didn’t have a clue . . . Well, I have now.”
Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set Page 39