by Rob Ashman
She nods and says nothing.
‘There’s a premium for next-day delivery.’
‘That’s fine.’
She checks the address. ‘You do know this is less than three miles away, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ She consults the courier schedule. ‘We can get it there for nine o’clock?’
‘Good, thank you.’
‘That will be twenty-seven pounds thirty, please.’ I hand over the cash and I watch as she slides the parcel along the counter. ‘Here is your tracking receipt.’ She gives me a slip of paper. ‘You can use the web address to…’
I don’t wait for her to complete her sentence. I nod another thank you and walk out.
That should put the cat amongst the pigeons.
Chapter 22
For the second time in the space of twenty-four hours Marshall found himself standing in front of Bernard Cross, the remnants of a half-eaten cooked breakfast on the table in front of him. Marshall was shitting his pants.
The restaurant was empty apart from the two muscle men flanking him on either side. They looked like twins with their tightly cropped hair and identical suits. Marshall was good with his fists, but he wasn’t that good. One word from their weasel-faced boss and they would have him hacked into pieces and wrapped in plastic, destined for the bottom of the Irish Sea.
‘I’ve been giving our unfortunate situation a great deal of thought,’ Cross hissed. ‘And I’ve reached the conclusion this has to be the work of the Berkleys. This is them upping the ante. We need to teach them a lesson. I told you someone needs a spanking.’
‘You did, Mr Cross, but I’m not sure.’
‘Have you gone muddled in the head? We kill one of their guys and they return the favour and kill one of ours. They raise the stakes by taking my money but that’s not enough, so they break into the club, sling petrol around and take the girl. They are beginning to fuck me off!’ Cross slapped his bony hands hard on the table, knocking his coffee cup out of its saucer. A dark stain spilled across the white tablecloth.
Any minute now that’s going to be my blood, thought Marshall.
‘Now I want you to tell me which one of the Berkleys you’re going to bundle into the back of a van and bring here so I can watch you toast his face under the grill.’
‘I’m not sure it is the Berkleys.’
‘You are not making sense, Marshall. Can you not put two and two together these days?’
‘I don’t think it’s them because we killed the wrong man.’ Marshall’s guttural voice tailed off to a whisper.
‘What?’
‘We killed the wrong man.’
‘Are you telling me it wasn’t Trevor Huxley?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Then who the fuck did we feed to the fish?’
‘His name was Michael Ellwood.’
‘Who the fuck is Michael Ellwood when he’s at home?’
‘His wife identified the body yesterday. He’s a guy from Manchester. He–’
‘Let me get this straight. We abduct a guy, torture and kill him to send a message to the firm we believe are about to muscle in on our shipment. And now you say it wasn’t him?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He looks the spitting image of Huxley and he was in the right place at the right time. So, we snatched him.’
‘Didn’t it register to you that it wasn’t the right guy?’
‘When we got him in the van things got a little rough and his face was pretty bashed up by the time we got him to the boat. He looked like him, I swear to God.’
‘In your debrief you said he denied all knowledge of any shipment or being a member of the Berkley crew. That’s not fucking surprising now, is it?’ Cross pushed the table away and jumped to his feet. ‘Well?’
Cross nodded and four strong hands seized Marshall by the shoulders and slammed his face into the table. They brought him up and banged him down again.
Cross returned to his seat and bent forward so he was eye level with Marshall. ‘I understand now why you don’t think it’s the Berkleys. But what I don’t understand is, if it is not them, then who the fuck is it?’ He grabbed a handful of hair on the side of Marshall’s head.
‘I don’t know,’ Marshall sputtered, his face full of bloody tablecloth.
‘No, and neither do I. But the good news is… that’s what I pay you for. So, I’m going to do you a favour. Instead of letting Johnson and Johnson do what they do best and tear your arms and legs from their sockets, I’m going to let you walk out of here to find out what the fuck is going on. I want to know who killed Tommy Weir and stole my money. I want to know who broke into my club and I want the girl taken care of. She’s a fucking loose end and I have a serious aversion to loose ends. Is that clear?’ Cross released his grip and blew clumps of hair from his fingers.
‘Yes,’ croaked Marshall.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, Mr Cross.’
‘Now say thank you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cross.’
Cross righted his coffee cup and topped it up. ‘I trust everything is in order for the next shipment?’
‘It is, Mr Cross. It’s due in tomorrow.’
‘That’s good.’ Cross leaned into Marshall. ‘Any more fuck-ups and it will be your face toasting under the grill. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Mr Cross.’
‘Get him out of my sight.’
Johnson and Johnson manhandled Marshall to his feet and dragged him across the room as Cross’s phone began to rattle on the table.
‘Yes, Hazel.’ Cross listened without saying a word, then waved his hand for the two heavies to bring Marshall back towards him. ‘There’s a Detective Constable Duncan Tavener wants to speak with me… you don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?’
Chapter 23
Kray was sitting next to Chapman staring at the laptop, nursing her fourth morning cup of coffee. The screen was divided in two, each section showing a different view of the back of the Paragon club.
‘This is Weir’s car.’ Chapman pointed to the image of a blue Golf travelling past the back gates. ‘Timestamp is 7.32pm.’ She pressed fast forward. ‘Here, he’s arriving at the club a few minutes later. Notice what he’s wearing.’
‘The same clothes he had on when he was murdered,’ replied Kray, glued to the screen.
‘Then at seventeen minutes past nine, this happens…’ The black and white grainy images dissolved into a starburst of white noise.
‘Shit,’ said Kray.
‘I checked the whole footage and it stays like that to the end.’
‘That’s fucking convenient.’
‘Isn’t it just.’
‘Marshall’s last words when I left was that they’d been having problems with the CCTV.’
‘Either that or someone erased the recording.’
‘Can you go to the Paragon and ask Marshall for the last three weeks’ CCTV? Don’t call ahead first, turn up unannounced. Stick with him while he gets it for you. If he gives you any trouble tell him we’ll be back with a warrant.’
‘Shall I say we’ve viewed this and the file was corrupted?’ Chapman held up the flash drive.
‘Yes, and when he says, “I told your boss we were having trouble with it”, ask him which company he’s using to get it fixed – see what he says.’
‘Okay, Roz.’ Chapman retrieved her jacket from the back of her chair and collected her things.
Tavener burst into the office. ‘Roz, have you got a minute?’
‘Sure, let’s grab a coffee.’ She drained the last dregs of the one in her hand.
They stood by the machine waiting for the dark fluid masquerading as coffee to fill the cup. ‘What is it?’ Kray asked, lifting the drink from the dispenser and pressing the buttons again.
‘You know we were talking about coincidences?’
‘Yeah, what of it?’ Tavener hesitated. ‘Do I have to beat it
out of you?’ Kray said, staring up at the towering Scotsman.
‘I don’t want to compromise your thoughts. I’d rather we take a ride to see for ourselves.’
‘So, I do have to beat it out of you.’
‘I want you to go with this, Roz.’
‘Okay, what do you want me to do?’
‘Come with me to the hospital.’
They left the station and piled into Kray’s car, which was always a scary prospect for Tavener, having experienced it hurtling around corners on two wheels on more than one occasion. Thankfully, today, the blue lights were off.
They chatted about the case during the fifteen-minute ride to the Blackpool Victoria, but Tavener would not be drawn about what they were about to see.
They arrived at the reception for ICU and Tavener spoke to one of the nursing staff who directed them to a recovery ward. The smell of disinfectant and hand sanitiser made Kray want to gag.
In the corner bed lay a woman with a heavy bandage wound around her head. A clip was attached to the first finger of her right hand with a lead connected to a heart monitor. The graph on the screen showed a rhythmic heartbeat. The nurse drew a curtain around the bed.
‘She’s been unconscious since arriving at four thirty this morning. She has a fractured skull, a bleed on the brain and a compressed fracture to her left cheekbone. The rest of her injuries are mainly cuts and bruises. She’s heavily sedated to allow the swelling on her brain to subside. I’m afraid you won’t be able to talk to her.’
‘Where are her clothes and belongings?’ asked Tavener.
‘They are in a bag in her locker.’ The nurse indicated a cabinet at the side of the bed.
‘Thank you. Is it okay if we stay a while?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. If there’s anything you need, please come and find me.’ She parted the curtains and disappeared.
They looked at the woman, dressed in a white and black floral surgical gown, her arms outstretched on top of the sheets. The left side of her face was a riot of yellow, purple and blue; the normal contours of her eye socket, cheekbone and jawline were unrecognisable, buried beneath a ballooned swelling.
Kray tore her gaze away and stared at Tavener with a ‘what the hell are we doing here?’ look plastered over her face.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said.
‘I overheard a couple of uniform boys talking and made a few enquiries. This woman was admitted after being struck by a taxi. In his statement the driver said he was travelling at about thirty miles an hour when she ran out in front of him. He said it was as though she hadn’t seen him. Apparently, after the collision, he saved her life. She wasn’t breathing and her heart had stopped. He revived her by thumping her chest.’
‘She’s a lucky woman.’
‘The paramedic’s report says she’s probably of East Asian origin and was muttering something when she was admitted. No one has been able to ascertain her identity or nationality.’
Kray looked at the labyrinth of tracks running along the inside of her arms. ‘Looks like she didn’t care much about hiding her addiction. Her arms are a mess.’
‘She could be aged anywhere between sixteen and twenty-five. Possibly a streetwalker?’
‘Maybe.’
Tavener reached inside the locker and pulled out the white plastic bag containing her clothes. He opened it up and studied the contents. ‘That’s weird. She has no money and no phone, and yet every item in this bag has a designer label. The T-shirt is Ralph Lauren, the jeans are Versace, trainers are Louboutin.’
Kray’s curiosity was getting the better of her.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Take a look.’ Tavener handed her the bag. Kray pulled out items of clothing and laid them on the bed.
‘They don’t smell so good,’ she said. ‘These haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a while.’ Kray picked up the T-shirt and examined the label. ‘This is fake,’ she said, rifling through the other items. ‘They’re all fake.’
‘There’s no coat or jacket. Do you think she’s been trafficked and made a run for it?’
‘Could be. You mentioned that the driver said she didn’t see him. She could have been looking the wrong way when she ran out into the road. Many Asian countries drive on the right. How did you know about this?’ Kray waved her hand across the clothes on the bed.
‘I didn’t. All I knew was a young Asian woman had been hit by a taxi.’
‘So why are we here? At the station you said something about–’
‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence, right?’
‘Right.’
‘The taxi driver said she ran out of Francis Street… no more than 100 yards from the Paragon club.’
Chapter 24
The incident room was a hubbub of activity. Kray was on the phone, deep in a conversation that was not going well.
‘Bloody hell, where’ve you been?’ Tavener asked Chapman, as she bustled into the room, tossing her bag onto her chair. ‘We were just about to send out a search party.’
‘That was a ball-ache. Marshall had a right wobble when I showed up and wouldn’t hand over the CCTV. He gave me some story about having to keep it because they were trying to identify some troublemakers. So, I did the next best thing, I watched it myself. Bloody tedious or what?’
Kray had one ear on the conversation in the office and the other listening to the protestations on the other end of the line.
‘And what–?’ asked Tavener.
Kray banged the receiver down. ‘Welcome back, Louise. Let’s take the opportunity for a quick update.’ She stood in front of the board which was covered with photographs. ‘Starting with Tommy Weir. I heard most of what you had to say, Louise – what did you find when you watched the footage?’
‘Nothing. The CCTV at the club was fine, both cameras have been recording without a hitch. The only point in time when the footage was corrupted is the night Tommy Weir was killed.’
‘So, Marshall was lying?’ asked Kray.
‘Yeah, I think so. He was not happy that I’d shown up unannounced, that’s for sure. He started talking about us needing a warrant, so I told him we could do that if he preferred and we’d be back on Saturday night with a team of coppers to assist. He soon shut up after that.’
‘Did he offer any explanation as to why the CCTV was working fine, when he told me there was a problem?’ asked Kray.
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘I said I didn’t trust him,’ Kray added.
‘One piece of good news,’ Chapman continued. ‘The CCTV in town clocked Weir while he was driving to Spencer Street. I need to go through it to see if he picks anyone up or is followed by another vehicle.’
‘And how are we doing with house-to-house?’
‘So far, nothing. No one recognises Weir.’ Chapman concluded her brief with a wave of her hand.
‘Okay. Duncan, how did you get on?’
‘I tried to get hold of Bernard Cross. His PA gave me the runaround, saying she couldn’t locate him. She said he would call me back. But then, I get a call from his lawyer telling me Cross is keen to help with our enquiries, but any questions must be directed through him.’
‘That’s a bit heavy-handed,’ Kray said.
‘That’s what I thought. I asked why and he said that Cross is a very busy man and feels our intervention will distract him.’
‘I’ll bloody distract him… What else do we have?’
‘Tommy Weir’s girlfriend has identified the body,’ pitched in DS Gill. ‘She’s helping us piece together a profile of her boyfriend along with his possible movements in the hours leading up to his death. We’re working our way through his social media history. I contacted every taxi company and no one had a fare in the vicinity of Spencer Street that evening. Not a pick up or drop off. There is one thing that jumps out though. When I went through his phone records there were four calls made to Weir’s mobile between ten past eleven and half past eleven on the night he
died. We ran the number and guess what? It was Eddie Marshall.’
‘We need to talk to Marshall again – this time at the station. Let’s see if a change of venue knocks that smug look off his face. Keep working with the girlfriend, there has to be something about Tommy Weir that would make someone want to kill him. We need to find it. Let’s move on and talk about our other case – the mysterious Michael Ellwood. Duncan, you spoke to the Drug Squad.’
‘I did and drew a total blank, I’m afraid. He doesn’t show up on their radar either here or in Manchester.’
‘So why flush chilli sauce up his nose?’
‘I don’t know, Roz. Maybe Ellwood wasn’t into drugs, but whoever killed him was. We found nothing at his garage. I checked through his phone records and there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, and Miriam Ellwood continues to be unhelpful.’
Kray stabbed her finger at the photo of Miriam on the board. ‘I think she’s holding out on us. She knows more than she’s letting on. Let’s have another chat with her.’
‘I’ve compiled a list of Michael Ellwood’s business associates and friends,’ Tavener continued, ‘but so far everyone looks squeaky clean.’
‘Okay, does anyone have anything else to add?’ Three shaking heads stared back at her. The team went back to work. Kray stayed at the board, looking at the mugshots.
‘What is it, Roz?’ Tavener said.
‘We have a murder victim washed up on the beach and a man knifed to death in an alleyway. On the face of it, two entirely separate cases. Why do I have this nagging feeling they’re connected?’
‘We have the link to Bernard Cross and the Paragon club.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a tenuous one at best. I spoke to a friend of mine who works in the magistrates’ court. He said there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of obtaining a warrant to search Delores Cross’s boat. We don’t have sufficient grounds and, while that pissed me off, he had a good point – the only thing I could give him as factual evidence was, “Cross owns a boat”. Which didn’t carry the day.’