‘Do you think he was lying?’ she asked DC Andrews. ‘The general talked Rosie into covering for him. Maybe this guy’s doing the same thing. He isn’t or wasn’t in the army, I hope.’
Eileen shook her head. ‘He’s a freelance computer programmer. If he was lying, he convinced me. I asked for some background to their relationship and he gave me a lot. Too much, frankly.’
‘How long have they been together?’
‘Three months. They met in a pub in central Newcastle after checking each other out on an internet dating service.’
‘Is that how it works?’ Joni asked. ‘You check each other out?’
‘Don’t ask me. I’ve been married twenty years and I don’t need any more men.’ It was common knowledge in the MCU that Eileen Andrews wore the trousers in her marriage, her husband being a soft-spoken and very tall train driver. She gave a sly smile. ‘Maybe you should try it, ma’am.’
Joni managed not to bite her head off. She knew the others thought it strange that she was without a partner. She went back to her desk. There were various reports in from the SOCOs and the labs. Curiously, there was no paint anywhere on Nick Etherington’s bike or clothing from the car that had supposedly hit him. Neither were there any tyre marks on the road, suggesting that the killer slowed to a halt after driving the young man off the road and went back to deal with him, or that someone else smashed his head in. That got her thinking. How reliable was the anonymous phone call? Had Nick perhaps not been knocked from his bike at all? Had he stopped to talk to someone – maybe someone he knew – and been thrown down the slope and killed, and his bike smashed up afterwards? Only his fingerprints were on it, some of them smudged. His assailant had presumably been wearing gloves.
‘Where are we with the victim’s laptop?’ she asked.
‘There are three of us on it,’ DC Andrews said. ‘Plus a geek from Technical Services who’s looking for any hidden files. He says Nick Etherington doesn’t seem to have been much of a technical whiz – some games, a lot of schoolwork, and the usual email and social media sites on his browser, the latter not much used. I’ve been trawling his emails. Some of the teen stuff is hard to decipher, but I haven’t come across anything that’s set off alarm bells.’
‘Have we got the records from the phone company yet?’
‘Later today.’
‘I don’t suppose his or the anonymous caller’s handsets have turned up.’
Andrews shook her head.
Joni looked round as loud male voices came through the MCU’s swing door. Morrie Sutton was wearing a scowl the width of the River Derwyne, while Nathan Gray was ranting about football.
‘Get your behind spanked?’ Joni asked. Andrews had told her that Morrie had been called to the ACC to face the disgruntled parent of an Abbey boy he’d interviewed.
The inspector muttered something before looking at her. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle, Jack. Found your murdering Albanian whore yet?’
Joni stared back at him, but she couldn’t come up with a cutting response.
‘Thought not,’ Morrie continued. ‘Not to worry, we’ve been doing your dirty work for you.’
‘Aye,’ said DS Gray, holding a file to his chest. ‘Guess what’s in here.’
Joni said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Your transfer to Family Liaison?’
Gray’s reaction was striking. His cheeks reddened and he glared at her, then lowered his head and whispered to his boss. Morrie Sutton shook his head and extracted the file from his grip.
‘Nathan’s wife has walked out on him and taken the kids,’ the inspector said. ‘That’s no laughing matter.’
Joni shrugged. Nathan Gray’s marriage had been creaking since she’d arrived at Pofnee, when he’d been having an affair with one of the catering staff. That had stopped when the woman’s husband slashed Gray’s tyres. She wasn’t going to show any sympathy, especially since he seemed to care more about Newcastle United’s defensive frailties.
‘Am I supposed to get on my knees for the file?’
‘Go on then,’ Gray replied, trying to get it back from Sutton.
‘Enough, Nathan,’ Morrie said harshly. ‘You can be a right tosser.’ He handed the file to Joni. ‘We’ve been following up on the men who were in the brothel on Sunday night, the ones whose fingerprints were on record.’
Joni flicked through the pages, the photographs ranging from a wide-eyed, pimply young man to a puffy-faced, shaven-headed older man whom she vaguely recognised.
‘That’s the one,’ Gray said, putting a finger on the page. ‘Alfred Peter Shackleton, also known as “Goat Skin”.’
‘What?’ Joni asked.
‘Don’t ask me. He certainly doesn’t smell too good.’
‘I know why,’ Morrie Sutton said. ‘He used to go around in this manky coat he bought from a towel-head when he drove a VW van to Afghanistan with some pals in the seventies. The story is they brought back enough heroin to supply Newcastle for a month. Being a world-class waster, he pissed all the money away. Oh, and he got arrested for taking a dump in the Bigg Market on a Saturday night.’
‘I saw him,’ Joni said, recalling the man she’d seen first in Corham centre and then in Burwell Street on Sunday night.
‘What, taking a dump?’ Nathan Gray asked.
‘Outside the brothel. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and he’s got…’
‘The Toon colours tattooed on his belly.’ Morrie nodded. ‘That’s him.’
‘All right, so you interviewed him,’ Joni said.
DI Sutton nodded. ‘He didn’t see any of the woman’s knife work, though when we showed him her photo he said he’d screwed her a couple of times. Didn’t like her, said she made him feel like he was raping her.’
Joni glanced at Eileen Andrews. ‘Which he was.’
Morrie stared at her. ‘He’s got needs like all of us. Besides, you saw the size of him. His wife’s a stick insect. It’s not a happy home.’
The conversation was making Joni feel very soiled. ‘Is there a point to this?’
DI Sutton gave her a thin smile. ‘Oh, yes, DI Pax. You see, Goat Skin Shackleton might have been a regular at the knocking shop, but he wasn’t just satisfying himself on Sunday night. He was checking the place out for one of the local gangs. They’re pissed off with the Albanians and they want them out. He was quite happy to talk about them. Your scrubber … I mean, stabber, did the Steel Toe Caps a good turn.’
‘I want to talk to him,’ Joni said. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Ah, there’s the rub.’ Morrie, a classic rock addict, had an old Wishbone Ash album of that name. ‘His residence is in Ironflatts which, as you know, is within the boundaries of Corham.’
Joni sighed. ‘All right, will you take me to him, please, DI Sutton?’
‘In the spirit of inter-MCU cooperation, it would be my pleasure, Jack.’ He raised a hand. ‘Not you, Nathan. I’m sure DC Andrews has got something you can help her with.’
Joni followed him out, trying to get her mind back on the case. She felt disoriented, even out of her depth, remembering the sweaty fat man. Goat Skin Shackleton – what sort of a name was that? And the Steel Toe Caps? Worst of all, she was about to go south of the river, to the levelled industrial zone with its dilapidated tower blocks and cramped streets lined with thin-walled, two-up two-down houses. One of the few times she’d ventured there, the Land Rover had been pelted with rubbish.
Still, anything that might help save Suzana Noli from the retribution of her countrymen.
105
Ruth Dickie finished looking at her notes and called DCI Lee Young at Newcastle MCU.
‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’
‘What’s the status of the four men you arrested for attacking the Albanian Fatlum Temo outside the Stars and Bars nightclub?’
There was a pause. As she’d expected, Young hadn’t been expecting the question.
‘They’ve been remanded to Durham Prison.’
‘
Having been charged with?’
‘Assault occasioning actual bodily harm.’
‘I see. You’re aware they were trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the man now identified as Gary Frizzell, found without his head and hands in the River Coquet?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve been liaising with DCI Rutherford.’
‘Have you interviewed Mr Temo about the alleged sighting of him with the dead man?’
‘Yes, ma’am. He denied it and the witness, John Joseph, motor mechanic, also denied that he saw Mr Temo with the dead man.’
‘Did you ask him why he lied to Frizzell’s friends?’
‘Yes. He said he was drunk and didn’t know what he was saying.’
‘Who’s the Albanian’s brief?’
‘One of Richard Lennox’s people.’
‘What a surprise. Tell me, DCI Young, have you considered getting a warrant to search the Stars and Bars?’
There was silence on the line. ‘Em, no, ma’am.’
‘You’re aware that an Albanian brothel was operating in Corham and that an Albanian working there was murdered?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Very well. Let me be absolutely clear. From now on we’ll be operating a zero tolerance policy with Albanian-run businesses where there is the slightest suspicion of illegality. These gangs, or rather clans, are gaining a foothold in the north-east and I want them stopped. So, I might add, does the chief constable.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘One more thing. I took the opportunity to speak to Kyle Laggan, the man who identified Gary Frizzell, when he was here. He struck me as a run-of-the-mill loud mouth, but not a professional criminal. Your background searches back that up, do they not?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘So, although I in no way condone the serious charges that he and his friends face, I think your energies should be directed at the real criminals in this matter. That instruction has been sent to your commanding officer. Good afternoon.’
Ruth Dickie sat back in her leather chair. That would shake the Newcastle MCU up. She’d never liked DCI Young. He knew that and now he’d be wondering why she’d called him instead of his boss. It wouldn’t take him long to work out the reason.
She had him in her sights as well as the Albanians.
106
‘Why do you drive this old wreck of a Landie?’ Morrie Sutton asked, as they left the Force HQ car park.
‘Old wreck? Listen to the engine. I tuned it myself.’ Joni swung the wheel hard left. ‘See how she rolls? I replaced most of the suspension too.’
Morrie tried to disguise his admiration. He drove a beaten-up Mondeo and had no idea what went on under the bonnet and shell.
‘Take the new bridge,’ he said.
As soon as they were over the Derwyne, the urban environment changed. There were run-down parts in the north – Burwell Street and the area around the old sugar mill being prime examples – but they were nothing compared with Ironflatts. There was a narrow line of decent houses along the river, but beyond them was the industrial wasteland, only a small part of which had been revamped by the development zone commission. Over to the east stood the sixties blocks of flats, one of them empty. Nearer, two-storey office buildings of pale red brick and small business units in pastel shades of corrugated plastic stood behind a high fence.
‘They’re talking about electrifying that,’ Morrie said, pointing. ‘Thieves can get over it in seconds with expanding ladders and ropes. I reckon they go on training weekends with the SAS.’
Ahead of them was the large flat quarter where the steelworks had been. Grass had sprung up along the concrete tracks and, although it too was fenced off, there were piles of rubbish and rubble everywhere.
‘Fly-tipper’s paradise,’ Morrie said. ‘They get together, decide where they’re going to cut the wire and go for it. They’re in and out in minutes and there’s bugger all we or the council can do about it. Puts companies off, even though the rents are rock bottom. Who’s going to move to Corham when Newcastle and Sunderland have got secure facilities?’
‘Pofnee did,’ Joni said, glancing at the rows of houses that ran up the slope to the west.
Morrie Sutton laughed. ‘Good one, Jack.’ He looked at her. ‘Does it piss you off when I call you that?’
‘If I said it did, would you stop?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Directions,’ she said, as they approached an incongruously large roundabout.
‘Turn right. Ahead is Ironflatts West. Nice, isn’t it?’
Joni had grown up in the urban squalor of eighties Hackney and seen much of the worst of London, but this was something else. The few shops had steel gratings over their windows and there were potholes in the road. Young women were pushing buggies along uneven pavements and dogs with their ribs poking through their coats tugged at the contents of toppled bins.
‘Has Corham Council forgotten this place exists?’
Morrie shrugged. ‘They did a bit here before the spending cuts, but they’ve got other priorities now. They’re Tories, remember? They think the poor should get off their arses.’ He looked at a couple screaming at each other, cigarettes attached to their lips. ‘I voted Tory myself the last time. Look at those fuckers. They always have money for fags, don’t they?’
Joni wasn’t going to get into a political argument. She’d voted Labour when she was young and innocent, but she’d soon become disillusioned. Voting Lib Dem at the last general election had been another kick in the teeth. The lust for power had turned supposed radicals into well-remunerated lapdogs.
‘Left here,’ Morrie said. ‘Goat Skin’s dump is halfway up.’
She turned the Land Rover into a street that was scarcely wide enough for it. One side was full of clapped-out cars, but she found a space near the top.
‘Am I going to have my wheels nicked?’ she asked, looking around the deserted area. Some houses had their windows and doors boarded up, the roofs having collapsed.
‘You could put your police sign under the windscreen.’
‘Ha-ha.’ Joni watched as a skinny youth wearing a baseball cap backwards emerged from a nearby house. She waved him over.
‘Whatcha want?’ he said sullenly.
‘Make sure nothing happens to the Land Rover?’ She smiled. ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Plus, I saw where you live.’
He scowled. ‘How much?’
‘I’ll decide when I come back.’
‘Why sh’d I believe you?’
‘You’ve got nothing to lose. On the other hand, if my colleague here decides to get nasty…’
She followed Morrie down the road.
‘You might get away with that,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘I don’t suppose you mind being cast as bad cop.’
‘You don’t suppose correct.’ He stopped at a house. The small space between the front window and the wall by the pavement was piled with rubbish bags, which had been torn open by animals and birds.
‘You sure he isn’t called Pig Skin?’ Joni asked.
‘Jackie Brown!’ Morrie grinned. ‘That’s racist.’
Joni rolled her eyes.
The door opened before either of them knocked.
‘DI Sutton,’ said the obese man in a Newcastle United shirt who filled the space. ‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’ He peered at Joni. ‘Who’s this?’
‘DI Pax,’ Joni said. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Shackleton.’
‘Nice manners,’ he said to Morrie, with a wink. ‘Obviously not from round here.’
‘Actually, we’ve encountered each other before,’ Joni said. ‘If you let us in, I’ll tell you when.’
The big man went into reverse and beckoned them into the front room. It was surprisingly tidy, the furniture newish and a display cabinet full of thimbles and small ornaments in one corner.
‘I remember,’ Shackleton said, rubbing his shaved head. ‘Sunday night.’
‘Too col
d to show off your tattoo today?’
‘Aye. The wife doesn’t like me putting the heating on during the day. Says I should be out looking for a job.’
Morrie Sutton laughed. ‘You’ve got a job, Goat Skin. Mind, I can understand why you don’t tell Muriel about it.’
Shackleton looked between Morrie and Joni. ‘DI Sutton’s always been a joker, DI Pax. Interesting name, that, for an officer of the peace.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Joni said. ‘You’re Catholic?’
‘Very lapsed,’ Morrie put in. ‘Tell the lady what it is you do, Goat Skin.’ He waited. ‘No? All right, allow me. Mr Shackleton here is a leading light in the Steel Toe Caps…’ He held up a hand as the fat man began to protest. ‘Without him they’d have been given a good kicking by the other gangs this side of the river.’ He smiled. ‘Goat Skin gives quality kicking and he gets his retaliation in first.’
‘I hear you were a regular at the Burwell Street brothel,’ Joni said. Suddenly she had a flash of another man in costume who had been outside the brothel. She made sure her expression didn’t change. ‘And the Steel Toe Caps were planning on taking on the Albanians.’
Goat Skin looked at Morrie Sutton. ‘Where’s this little chat going?’
Joni shrugged. ‘Nowhere unpleasant. You scratch our back…’
The big man grinned. ‘Oh, it’s like that. Well, you tell me what you want to know and I’ll think about providing it.’
‘OK,’ Joni said lightly. ‘Do you know Michael Etherington?’
Shackleton wasn’t quick enough to disguise his surprise. ‘Etherington? Yeah, he’s that general who used to be on the telly from some Balkan shithole, isn’t he?’
She nodded and waited for him to continue.
‘He’s from around Corham, isn’t he?’
Another nod.
‘His grandson got himself killed a couple of days ago, I saw in the Bugle.’
‘You keep up with the news, Mr Shackleton.’ Joni leaned forward. ‘When were you last in touch with the general?’
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