For Richer, For Poorer

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘I’ll ask. It does say they did all of that three months ago.’

  ‘Which district?’

  ‘Northern.’

  ‘Aye, so that’s not us, is it? Half of that lot couldn’t spell Adamek, let alone find him.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  Jessica thanked the constable for his help and then pulled into a bus stop, making a quick call to Esther to pass on Pavel’s name and ask if Katerina could do some digging among the local community. For one, she really wanted to find him in order to shut DCI Topper up; for another, she couldn’t help but feel that Ana was probably one of many. If he had a host of girls holed up in dingy flats around the city and he was leeching money from them, then she wanted to put a stop to it.

  Back at Bootle Street and the day wasn’t going much better.

  Interview nine – Janine Smith, forty-eight; theft from a shop x24, threatening behaviour x4. Dark top cut far too low for a woman of her age, skinny jeans that should only be worn by someone skinny, hint of a moustache, mullet. Quite the catch:

  ‘What is it wiv you lot, eh? Always picking on the little person.’

  Jessica really wasn’t in the mood any longer: ‘Aren’t you the one who nicked baby’s clothes from a local shop out in Hulme? Locally owned, no chain – just a poor woman trying to make a living.’

  ‘Aye, well, I needed them.’

  ‘You don’t have any kids!’

  ‘Yeah but our Tina, she’s got this mate, right, who was having a kiddy, yeah? The council came round and said the conditions weren’t good enough for a baby, right, so she were trying to sort ’erself out into this other flat, like, but then she dint ’av’ no money ’cos her DSS hadn’t come through. So I said—’

  ‘All right, all right. I clock off in three hours. What have you heard about those burglaries out in Gatley?’

  ‘Those big houses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nuffin’ – just that someone was giving the money away. We saw it on the news and our Tina, she was like, “I’ll have some of that if it’s going” and I nearly pissed myself through laughing. She’s got this mate, right, whose car’s on the blink. You turn the key and it just makes this sound like a fart. But her mate Pikey, right, reckons it costs two hundred quid to fix. I was like, “Two hundred quid? Is he ’aving a laugh?” So anyway, there’s this other guy named Warren and he reckons he can do it for a hundred-and-twenty . . .’

  By the end of the day, it was clear that the joint Franks-Topper idea of bringing in everyone who’d ever nicked anything in the Greater Manchester region was as stupid as anything anyone had ever come up with. Half of the people they’d dragged out of bed at two in the afternoon didn’t know anything – and not just in regards to the burglaries, they literally knew nothing about anything other than their silly little lives.

  To complete the day, Jessica’s phone went with news that two uniformed officers had been around to the house registered to Pavel and Rosemary Adamek. It wasn’t a surprise to find out that the address was empty and didn’t look as if it had been lived in any time recently.

  Jessica said her goodbyes, turned her phone off, and then headed off for another evening of sitting in traffic that didn’t move.

  Wednesdays really could sod right off.

  15

  Jane stirred her cup of tea twice clockwise and then once the other way, before peering up at the officer opposite her in the armchair and offering him the spoon. She was trying to watch Corrie but the television had to be on silent and it was hard to make out what one person was complaining to the other about. She could never work out why the sky was blue. Anyone who lived in Manchester knew immediately there must be some sort of digital trickery going on.

  The constable leant across and whispered. ‘So do I call you Jane then?’

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘Yes but everyone calls you . . .’

  ‘Don’t even bloody well think about it. Just because I found a few used condoms in an alley during a search once, suddenly I’m “Joy Bag Jane” for life. What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘Andy.’

  ‘Right, how would you feel if I started calling you “Andy the Fanny” or “Bum Rapist Andy” all the time?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Exactly – just call me Jane and let’s get this bloody thing over with.’

  ‘Right. Do you, er, take sugar?’

  ‘Are you calling me fat?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  After examining Andy’s face for any hint that he was making a jibe, Jane decided that the young constable probably wasn’t calling her fat after all; that was just her arsehole of a second husband. She changed the subject to let him off the hook, still whispering. ‘I hope whoever lives here doesn’t want us to keep this flat as clean as we found it – did you see the state of the cupboard doors in there? It looks like they were scrubbed this morning.’

  Andy shrugged. ‘It’s some student’s place, apparently. I dunno where they’ve put her for now – probably some five-star hotel while we’re left here with pot noodles and crumpets.’

  Jane felt her stomach grumble. ‘Do you remember how to control any of this stuff? That guy who was showing us had a right “look-at-me” attitude – all press this and poke that. He’s probably got a bunch of cameras in his next-door neighbour’s house and spends his evenings watching them get undressed. Dirty sod.’

  Andy picked up the remote control from the table and pointed it towards the two monitors sitting next to the television. ‘They’ve put six cameras in the flat above us.’ He indicated the buttons on the remote. ‘Just press either one or two on the top to select which monitor you want to control, then the up or down arrows to cycle through the cameras. Everything’s being recorded anyway but this lets us watch live.’

  ‘How long ago did they release that Ana girl?’

  ‘Two hours.’

  ‘So why isn’t she back yet?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘Perhaps she didn’t come straight home.’

  Jane eyed him. ‘All right, smart-arse – why don’t you make yourself useful and get some of those crumpets on the go. See if there’s any real butter in the fridge – none of this low-fat shite. And if there’s some Marmite then all the better. While you’re in there, have a hunt around for some proper tea bags. In my day, a student flat would be full of beer cans, bongs and sex toys. Now it’s all herbal teas, textbooks and Disney movies. It’s a disgrace.’

  As he scuttled into the kitchen, Jane picked up the remote and began flicking through the cameras showing the room upstairs. Whoever this Ana girl was, her life had better be more interesting than a silent Coronation Street episode.

  16

  As Jessica turned onto the street towards Longsight Police Station, she was surprised to see the phalanx of satellite vans parked half on the pavement, half on the road. Usually the news crews only turned up if someone interesting had died or they’d nicked a footballer for peeing or shagging in the street. Again.

  She edged her way slowly into the car park, managing not to run anyone over, and only having to exchange a cross word once – a new record for dealing with journalists.

  Considering the melee outside, reception was surprisingly quiet, although Pat was clearly on his best behaviour, with no sign of cake bags or crisp packets anywhere near the counter.

  Jessica was on the way to her office when he called after her: ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Upstairs first.’

  Jessica mumbled something uncomplimentary under her breath. ‘What does His Highness want now?’

  ‘A word.’

  Jessica slunk back to the counter, peering over the top to see if there were any errant food wrappers that Pat had hidden. ‘I could’ve figured that out for myself. What’s going on with the satellite vans?’

  ‘Don’t you watch the news?’

  ‘I was running late.’

  ‘The wires finally caught up with the rob-from-the-rich-s
tuff and it’s gone global. I think Good Morning America are doing a piece with one of the assistant chief constables. They reckon it’s like a modern-day Robin Hood story. Sky News have been running it on a loop.’

  ‘But it was news two days ago.’

  Pat shrugged. ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Isn’t the important part of the word “news” the fact that it has “new” in it?’

  ‘I said don’t tell me.’

  Jessica headed for the stairs, still confused. At the top, she could see DCI Topper through the glass window of his office hammering away on his keyboard. Without looking up, he waved her inside and yet again began speaking before she’d sat down. ‘Did you say something to a member of CBS News outside?’

  ‘Sir?’

  He glanced up from his desk disapprovingly. ‘We’ve had a complaint that you told a member of CBS News you were going to take his microphone and shove it somewhere not very nice. Is that true?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a distortion.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘For one, it depends on what you define as “nice”. He might’ve been up for it. Secondly, I told him that if he didn’t stop waving the microphone in my face then I’d shove it somewhere. There’s a subtle difference – except that being a Yank means he wouldn’t understand the word “subtle” if you took a dictionary and bashed him over the head with it. Subtly.’

  Topper’s expression didn’t change. ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your run-in with professional standards not teach you anything?’

  ‘It taught me that they know how to ask the same question in a multitude of different ways.’

  Topper raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ve had this conversation – you can’t live on past glories. I know you’ve been through a lot. If you need more time, we can talk about—’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘Then start acting like it. Yesterday it was bringing in street girls and then releasing them. You stumbled across someone wanted for murder with an arrest warrant out but where is he? And where’s his criminal record from Serbia?’

  ‘We’re trying – the Northern lot couldn’t get it and they’ve been asking for three months. There are translation problems – it’s coming.’

  ‘It’s not good enough.’

  ‘I know, I was saying that yesterday. Europol’s a waste of time—’

  ‘I mean it’s not good enough from you.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, nobody would even know Pavel was still in Manchester!’

  Topper pursed his lips, like a teacher about to rip into a student for talking back at him. When he continued, his voice was lower and calmer, which only made Jessica angrier. ‘We still have three outstanding burglaries unsolved, money being given away on the streets of Manchester and the world’s media thinking it’s one big joke.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? We wasted a day yesterday dragging in all sorts and that got us nowhere. Forensics aren’t getting anywhere – the envelopes full of money that were delivered had nothing useable on, or at least nothing yet.’

  ‘So what have you done? Except for gallivant off to other people’s flats and let suspected murderers escape.’

  ‘He was twice the size of me, he—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. What else have you done?’

  The reason they’d got nothing done was because of Topper and Franks’ stupid idea of bringing in a host of local ne’er-do-wells.

  She glanced at the Post-it note Pat had given her downstairs. ‘One of the lads has found a similar case from five years ago – houses and businesses were robbed in London and then money was given to homeless people and others on the street by a man in a mask. The gang was caught and sent down but the ringleader wrote a book about it from prison and released it when he got out around a year ago.’

  ‘So you think this could be similar?’

  Jessica had no idea considering the first she’d heard of it was when she read it off the note. ‘Quite possibly – I was looking into visiting him tomorrow. He still lives in London.’

  Ever the bluffer.

  Topper finally stopped staring at her, peering back at his monitor. ‘That’s one thing at least.’ Jessica stepped towards the door but was cut off by the DCI. ‘One other thing – go and apologise to the CBS journalist.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Why would I be?’

  ‘He stuck his microphone through my car window – why would I say sorry?’

  ‘Because he called our switchboard to complain and the last thing any of us wants is for you to be heading back to Moston Vale again. Either do it now, or I’ll get one of the assistant chiefs on the phone and they’ll tell you to do it.’

  ‘Can’t we call him inside?’

  ‘No – go and do it in front of the other journalists. Take him a cup of tea out – and not one from the machine.’

  Jessica bit her tongue, heading towards the stairs and wondering what toilet-water tea would taste like.

  17

  For once, Jessica kept a lid on her vindictive instincts, making the journalist a proper drink – Lancashire tea bag, semi-skimmed that wasn’t out of date, two squeezes with the teaspoon – and then she ‘borrowed’ a Hobnob from Pat before heading out into the cold to embarrass herself in front of the media. Her only point of relief was that Garry sodding Ashford wasn’t there to witness her walk of shame. The photographer from the Manchester Morning Herald did take a photo, however, which would no doubt find its way back to Garry at some point.

  While the majority of the journalists looked on, wondering what on earth was happening, the CBS man explained how hurt his feelings were as Jessica could think of nothing other than taking that microphone of his and sticking it exactly where she’d promised. She felt slightly better as she turned to head back, empty mug in hand, when one of the Americans leant in and drawled in a beautiful southern accent: ‘Don’t worry about him. Everyone from New Jersey’s a complete asshole.’

  Back inside, Jessica didn’t want to leave her office after the latest embarrassment, so she called Archie’s desk phone and told him she had a packet of chocolate digestives if he had the tea. Five minutes later, he hurried into her office as if he’d just woken up on Christmas morning, plopping a steaming mug down on Jessica’s desk.

  ‘Where are the biccies?’

  ‘Sorry, I lied. I just didn’t want to leave my office.’

  ‘Because you had to apologise to that journo?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  Archie grinned. ‘We were all watching out of the window. Izzy had a fiver on you hitting someone.’

  ‘What do you have to do to get some respect around here?’

  ‘Not fib about biscuits. Honestly, lie about whatever you want – but not chocolate biscuits. I’ll let it go, but if you’d promised something like that out on the main floor, you’d have had a riot on your hands.’

  Jessica nodded towards the empty chair. ‘Have you got far with Pavel Adamek’s wife?’

  ‘I have no idea where she is if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  Archie ruffled his hair and pumped his chest up. He really was a curious little man sometimes. ‘Pavel and Rosemary Dean got married five months ago – only a few weeks before he apparently killed that drug dealer. Well, either that, or he stumbled across the body in the alleyway and scraped the dead man’s fingernails across his skin.’

  ‘He’d have to have a good lawyer to get him off that one.’

  ‘You know what those slimy bastards are like – they’d probably claim Pavel was innocently walking along the alley when someone threw the body at him. He put his hands up to protect himself and ended up getting his skin under the dead body’s nails.’

  Jessica aimed a playful kick at him. ‘Don’t say stuff like that out loud, you’ll give them ideas. What about Rosemary?’

  ‘She’s got quite the history herself. She lived a few streets away fr
om me, so I’m surprised I don’t know her. She was excluded from school twice and ended up in this special council-run place. No GCSEs and the last we know, she was working in one of those mini-supermarkets. I put a call in earlier but the manager said she left unexpectedly about five months ago.’

  ‘When she got married?’

  ‘Yes, except he didn’t know anything about that. She simply didn’t turn up for work one day. He says it’s not entirely uncommon and that they turn staff over at a reasonable rate.’

  ‘Anyone she was mates with?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of names but he says she kept herself to herself.’

  ‘Convictions?’

  ‘Not really, especially considering the trouble she was in as a kid. There was a D and D but she was only cautioned for that. She’s clean otherwise.’

  ‘Someone emailed me an address in Abbey Hey.’

  Archie shrugged. ‘That’s the only one I’ve seen, though I have no idea why you’d move there if you were born in God’s own town of Stretford.’

  ‘You’re not one of these people who lives in one place their entire life, are you?’

  Archie puffed his chest out again, like a strutting turkey looking for a fight. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing – it’s just there’s a big world out there. On that note, are you busy tomorrow?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a yes or no question.’

  Archie narrowed his eyes, watching her suspiciously. ‘Not when you’re asking. I could say “yes, I’m free” and then you’re like, “oh good, you can go and help drag the canal because someone’s dumped a dead cow in it”.’

  Jessica laughed. ‘When have I ever made anyone do that?’

  ‘Franks had someone staking out those bogs in Platt Fields Park the other month. They spent twelve hours hiding in a cubicle in case a flasher came in.’

  ‘What is it with him and public toilets?’

  ‘No idea. Anyway, if I was to say that I was free tomorrow, why would you be asking?’