‘Boss? Emma’s found something you need to see.’ Rob was talking to her. She gathered herself and nodded.
‘In private,’ she said.
They walked back to her office and Emma opened her Toughpad: a tablet protected with a very thick cover.
‘What is it?’ Kelly asked.
‘I’ve been doing what you asked, boss, and pursuing forensics. When I was searching for sales of the black rope, I came across a glut of them in B&Q in Penrith. I thought it was as good a place to start as any. They date from May to July this year. I requested the CCTV and it’s digital so it was really quick. I got through five hours, and then I saw this.’
Emma turned the Toughpad around and showed Kelly a still photo from a checkout.
‘Is that Jackson Akers?’ Kelly asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, does the time correlate with the sale of the rope?’
‘Yes. But that’s not what I wanted to show you. I fast-forwarded to the wrong time by accident, but I found this.’ She showed Kelly once more.
‘What the fuck?’
On Emma’s screen was a video clip of Jackson Akers talking to two men. One was Will Phillips and the other was Liam Brook.
Chapter 32
Kelly gripped the steering wheel. Rob talked as she drove towards the Beacon Estate. Emma had wanted to go with her but Rob had insisted and Kelly hadn’t fought it. From social media they’d put together a detailed profile of Jackson Akers. She would have interviewed him yesterday if Op Turkey hadn’t derailed her. Now was as good a time as any, and he was a big man.
‘Why not just ask Will outright, boss?’ Rob wanted to do everything properly, and Kelly commended his purity. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the same respect for the processes she’d sworn to protect. They were letting her down; everything she’d based her ethics on was unravelling, and she knew that somehow Will was involved.
‘We have to be discreet, Rob. Don’t discuss this with him. It’s my job to get to the bottom of it. If I go in heavy now, I could lose a chance to find out what’s going on.’
‘It’s clear, boss. Will uses informants without your knowledge, with his pal.’
‘But I need to find out who he gives the information to, because it’s clearly not me.’
‘Do you think he’s a plant?’
‘It’s possible.’
There were units in the police, usually under Counter-Corruption and Surveillance, that planted officers to investigate accusations. But Kelly couldn’t think why one would be embedded in her team.
‘I want to tail both of them, but I can’t go through Ormond.’ She was thinking aloud.
‘Boss?’
‘Something’s not right. I’m not sure if something is going on between the constabulary and the Beacon Estate gangs: namely the Cotton brothers. It makes absolute sense to me that only a close relationship between the two, and several informers – one of whom seems to be our pal Jackson – could keep a lid on tensions getting out of hand. I know from a colleague of mine in Barrow that certain areas there were too hot for police to go into. They had an operation that lasted sixteen months before they began to piece together who was who. How do we know all the players so effortlessly here in Penrith? Why is there no active investigation into the Cotton brothers? I certainly can’t find one. Liam Brook told me vaguely that they keep an eye on them. I just don’t know who to trust.’ It was out before she could take it back. Rob understood immediately.
‘You can count on me, boss. I’m not bent.’
‘I know I can count on you and Emma, and Kate. But it might not end well. If this goes as high as I suspect, I won’t be able to control what happens next. I’ve already been threatened by Ormond regarding my job.’
Ordinarily she wouldn’t dream of discussing her career with a junior officer, but this was different and Rob was like a friend. She’d thought the same about Will.
‘I might need to move you around to protect you. If I go down for any reason, I don’t want you guys with me.’
‘With your permission, ma’am. I refuse. I’m with you all the way.’
Kelly caught a glimpse of Rob’s expression and turned back to the road ahead. She knew he meant it.
When they arrived at the Beacon Estate, they were both stunned at how extensive the barricades had grown. They seemed almost semi-permanent. More journalists had turned up, flags had been made, and crowds of people were listening to speeches from individuals who might or might not be from the estate: they could have been drafted in. Kelly had to take a long detour around the protests and parked behind Wordsworth Towers.
She had done her homework on Jackson Akers. At twenty, he had his whole life ahead of him, but it had come at a price. Kelly never stopped experiencing the desperation of the youngsters at the centre of most of her cases. You were born into shit: you did shit. However, that wasn’t the case with Jackson Akers. He’d surprised her.
By the age of five, Jackson was fatherless, but by all accounts the boy was better off without him. By the age of ten, he was motherless. She’d disappeared as a hardened alcoholic and presumed prostitute somewhere on the streets of Glasgow. The missing person case was closed in 2012. Young Jackson lived in various children’s homes during the next five years; Kelly already knew that two of those homes were underwritten by a charity run by the men at the centre of Tombday: Colin Day and Barry Crawley. She also knew that the homes were at the centre of a child abuse scandal, though that was before Jackson would have been there.
The interesting note on Jackson, though, was that he had no criminal record. Despite his past, and a glaring anomaly, Jackson Akers was clean. But then so was Tyrone Fenton.
Was it in return for being informers?
It was odd.
They saw a few curtains twitch as they made their way towards the stairwell. Kelly was only slightly apprehensive, given the events of yesterday and the injuries sustained by the two officers. The attack had been brazen and sent a clear message: the police weren’t welcome on the Beacon Estate. She’d managed to thaw Sharon Bradley and convince her that investigators were different to squad patrols and didn’t charge around like bullies with battering rams.
She pulled her collar up. The sky swirled grey and warned them they were on alien territory. They moved quickly. The stairwell was gloomy; Kelly wondered if concrete somehow actually sucked the life out of humans, damning them to a life of despair. Would it be any different if they were surrounded by fields and open sky, instead of these upright coffins, airtight, depressing and cold?
From the balcony they could view the barricades below. Kelly was impressed. They came to the door of the flat occupied – on paper – by Jackson Akers and knocked, looking around them as they waited. The wind took Kelly’s jacket and it flapped noisily. There was no answer. Kelly knocked again. They both became aware of another figure on the balcony and turned to see Jackson standing at the end. He’d just come up from below and they’d caught him unaware, which was what they wanted; however they now didn’t know if he would walk towards them or run. The two men sized each other up. Rob was a fair build: he worked out and took care of himself. But Jackson was massive.
Kelly looked at Jackson and extended her hand.
‘Jackson? I’m Kelly Porter, I’m in charge of the murder inquiries. We haven’t yet met.’ She was calm. Rob said nothing. Jackson continued to stare, and then he looked over the balcony. He seemed to be gazing towards the area where Keira had died, and beyond, to an open area between the flats. Was he looking to see if he was being watched? There was nothing Kelly could do should that be the case, only hope he’d talk to them. The people below were noisy, and songs were played over PA systems. Laughter and banter floated up to where they waited.
At last Jackson walked towards them and pulled a key out of his pocket. His hands were dirty with what Kelly suspected was bike oil. She wondered what he’d used the black rope for. His face was open, but she’d sat in front of plenty of killers who’d tr
ied to suck her in with their calm. Her mind remained open. All investigators knew that during a live case, it was highly probable that they’d come face to face with the killer before they knew it.
Jackson was now level with them, and he put his key in the lock, opening the door and inviting them in.
‘I already talked to your lot,’ he said.
‘Sorry, I haven’t seen a record of it. Sometimes during such large operations different departments investigate several elements of crime. I’m in charge of the murder inquiry, and I believe the officers you met yesterday were investigating general organised crime on the estate, under different orders.’
Jackson stopped and turned round. Kelly entered the hallway and Rob followed, closing the door behind him. They filled the little space. Jackson pointed to a small lounge.
‘Sit down if you want,’ he said. They went in and did so. Jackson followed them and did the same. He was relaxed.
‘Can you confirm if your interview with PC Brook and DS Phillips was recorded?’
‘I don’t know, they never said.’
Confirmation of identity at least.
‘We have evidence linking you strongly to the scene of the murder of Keira Bradley.’
‘What? Am I under arrest?’ Jackson sat opposite them. Kelly noted the tidiness of the flat.
‘No. I don’t want to get bodies in cells, Jackson, I want to know the truth.’ Kelly knew he was puzzled. She also knew he wasn’t stupid. To stay out of trouble on the Beacon Estate as a young male was no mean feat. She was interested to find out how he’d managed it.
‘You have a long history with DS Phillips and PC Brook.’
Jackson’s face didn’t change, but his hand position did, moving from his knees and clasping.
‘Am I under caution?’
‘No.’ Kelly waited.
Jackson looked from one to the other. ‘I can never work out who out of you lot is dirty and who’s clean.’
‘That’s an odd statement. I don’t work with any dirty officers.’
Jackson laughed. ‘You’re clean. That’s nice. I could talk to you but I might suffer a nasty accident.’
‘So you’re telling me that you’re in contact with what you call “dirty officers” and that if you talked to me and told me the truth, your life would be in danger? From whom?’ Kelly remained calm, but what she heard terrified her. She sensed that Rob was struggling to keep quiet next to her.
‘Both sides, man.’
Kelly let the Americanism go. All these young studs spoke the same. She found it sad, but expected. She just wished that the Caribbean twang wasn’t so wrapped up with bravado and status amongst young men.
‘Rival gangs?’ She knew that wasn’t what he meant. He shook his head.
‘They might as well be,’ he said.
‘DC Shawcross.’ Kelly turned to Rob, and he opened his Toughpad and showed the images to Jackson. The young man swallowed. Kelly admired his mettle: it was obvious that he was used to playing a dangerous game of poker with his knowledge and choices. Despite his age, he reminded her of seasoned criminal informants she’d worked with in London. ‘That’s you and the two officers who were here last night, isn’t it?’
Jackson nodded. ‘You wired?’
‘No, that’s for the movies. It wouldn’t be admissible in court and frankly we haven’t got the money. How long have you been meeting with the two officers?’
‘Years, man.’
‘Why?’
‘Whatever they want.’
‘Such as?’
He blew through his lips, sat back and spread his hands. ‘Names, places, deals, gear.’
‘Gear?’
‘You know, where stuff’s kept when it’s hot.’
‘Drugs? Money? People?’
‘Anything.’
‘And what do you get out of it?’
Jackson raised his eyebrows. ‘You think I benefit from this? They just leave me alone.’
‘But you’ve got no record; what could they possibly have on you?’
‘They can plant whatever they like. I wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘That doesn’t happen in the force. It might—’
‘Are you for real? What fuckin’ planet you on?’
‘I wouldn’t go down that path, fella.’ Rob sat up taller.
Jackson looked at him. ‘I ain’t being rude, but you bare stupid to think anyone has choices here. I survive.’
‘Maybe it’s time you changed sides.’
‘Maybe, innit.’
‘Did you have anything to do with the murders of Ella Watson or Keira Bradley?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who did?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter 33
Jordan Watson pulled up his hood. The family home was suffocating. There were too many people visiting with their sympathy faces. Dad was holed up in a chair, receiving grieving relatives and friends. It was depressing and utterly pointless. The only thing that would help was getting out and doing something. He couldn’t bear Millie’s tears any more either. It wasn’t that she annoyed him, just that he knew he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t do the one thing that would make all the pain go away: bring Mum back.
When he thought of Mum, his head went fuzzy and his chest tightened. The anger in his heart burned fiercely and was growing bigger by the hour. It was all-consuming and threatened to explode into a physical manifestation against somebody he loved if it wasn’t dealt with. To exorcise it he had to move. Sitting in the house helped no one. Reminiscing, like Millie, giving up like his father, or constant swooning, like Grandma, didn’t meet his own individual need: the desire for revenge.
He’d asked around and found out where most of his friends got their recreational drugs. Parties were stuffed with illegal substances at their age, and if their parents knew the extent of the use and availability, they’d no doubt keel over, shocked and horrified. They thought kids did what kids had always done: fool around, make jokes, act like idiots and cause a little trouble. None of the parents he or his friends knew would believe the amount of drugs and alcohol consumed by his generation. The press said that his age group was turning its back on mind-altering substances. But that wasn’t what he saw. Every party was super charged with an ‘olders’ network, oiled to perfection with practice and experience, ready and stocked for exchanges between various dealers in drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. Sixth-formers dealt the alcohol, most teenagers could get the cigarettes, and anyone could get drugs: from ket tablets to simple zoots of weed. He knew plenty of Year 7 students – barely eleven years old – hooked on it all. Teachers knew nothing. Parents knew nothing.
But that wasn’t why he was here. He was here to score, though only ostensibly; what he really wanted was to become involved. He cared nothing for how long it took him. He’d use his wit and his charm to find his way in, and when he did, he’d get his revenge.
The Beacon Estate was a shithole. However, Jordan thought it might be a safer place to exist than in his current world, where the pressure to act in a certain way was as stifling as the misery shrouding his home right now. Here, he figured, he could become anonymous. He could fall below the standards of his father and disappear. The thought was arousing. The experience of walking free through the estate, answerable to no one, unsure of what might happen next, gave him the stimulant he’d been looking for for years. The constraints of exams, job profiles, the Duke of Edinburgh award, jumping through hoops and living a life that amounted to nothing at all when it was broken down into pieces, as it had been this week, were tearing him apart.
He had nothing to lose.
And everything to gain.
He spotted a group of kids in a park and went over to them. He spoke his best gangster language. Everybody spoke like that when they were with their mates, so it wasn’t difficult to appear natural. It didn’t matter how respectable the family: all kids learned from the same rap and drill. His mother had never heard him speak i
n such a way, except when she caught him singing along to rap on YouTube in his room. She’d said he was good at it, but she wouldn’t tell Dad.
Cutting a deal was the easiest thing he’d done all year. One kid on a bike offered to cycle to get some gear and he had to wait with the others. While he waited, he asked questions he’d prepared earlier, doing it in such a way that he was actually gleaning information from the small group of youngsters without them even realising it. He picked up names, flats, gathering places and recent reviews of certain inflammatory events on the estate.
‘Where yuz from, bruv?’
‘Manchester. Seeing cousins, innit. Fucking boring.’
The boys laughed and shared a smoke with the stranger.
‘Yuz around for long?’
‘Dunno.’
Jordan asked for a go on one of the younger boys’ BMX. He knew some tricks. He jumped on the bike and sped down the street; from the end, he could see the barricades and the demonstrators holding banners and chanting. He raced back to the boys and pulled a spinning wheelie in front of them. He’d perfected it as part of learning a new skill for his Duke of Edinburgh silver award. He set off again and flipped the bike into the air, landing on the road with the bike perched on a wall. The boys whistled.
‘That’s sick,’ one said. Jordan genuinely warmed to them. The boy came back with his gear and they traded happily.
‘Thanks, man.’
‘Come with us, man, we’re going to get high tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘Ah, just at my mate’s, he deals the ket round here.’
‘Where’s he get it from? Manchester?’
‘Nah, man, we have our own suppliers. Don’t need no Mancs, bruv!’
‘County lines, innit. Should’ve known.’
‘Yeah, you’re the enemy, bruv, we doin’ yuz a favour.’
‘I know, man. Thanks. I’ll come if that’s OK?’
Little Doubt Page 17