The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  Joe almost laughed. ‘Both. Your brother is my client, but I need to know more about him, good or bad.’

  ‘Not much good, plenty of bad,’ Melissa snapped.

  ‘Explain?’

  Melissa went silent again. The converted mills and apartment buildings were getting closer, the short journey to Ancoats nearly over.

  ‘Melissa?’

  ‘You don’t know much about him, I can tell,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Are you single?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Take me for a drink tonight and I’ll tell you all about dear sweet Mark.’

  ‘A drink?’ Joe said, confused.

  ‘Yes. Not too tricky to understand, is it?’

  The taxi made a right turn and the driver said, ‘Here okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Melissa said, and then to Joe, ‘Collect me here at seven. I’ll tell you all you need to know.’

  ‘But how do you know I haven’t got plans?’

  ‘If you’ll loiter down alleyways for me, you’ll break plans.’ Her look softened and a smile crept across her face. ‘Perhaps I’m just after some intelligent company.’

  With that, Melissa climbed out of the cab and walked towards an apartment building, seven storeys of a converted mill looking towards the murky brown water of the Rochdale Canal.

  ‘Where to now?’ the driver said.

  ‘Castlefield,’ Joe said, and then sat back in his seat. He’d just been asked on a date by Mark Proctor’s sister. How the hell had he been dragged into that?

  A thin blue carpet lined the corridor to the Incident Room and most of the doors from it opened into empty rooms, where old notices fluttered against walls that bore the scars of yellowing sticky tape.

  The station had once been the heart of the small town on the edge of the city, until Manchester swallowed it up and someone decided that the community no longer needed a heart. It housed one of the Major Incident Teams because it meant the team could grow or shrink, depending on the case. Sam liked the sense of history, although it did feel as though the building was slowly crumbling around them, from the clanking radiators to the flickering strip lights. It was too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but Sam had grown to see it as his home as far as his job was concerned.

  As Sam and Charlotte walked into the Incident Room, everyone looked round. There were more people than usual; it looked like a second murder had helped Brabham pull in some new recruits. It was warm, though, too many people squeezed into a room that had been heated up by the sun for most of the day. It smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat and dried-out coffee cups.

  Brabham was at a desk in the corner, so he could see everything that was going on. As they walked over, he said, ‘Glad you could join us.’ He looked at Charlotte when he said it, and she blushed. ‘What have you got?’

  Sam spoke up. ‘Henry Mason seemed like an ordinary guy but he had a few secrets. All the trappings of a good life – nice house, nice family – but I’m guessing it wasn’t exciting enough for him. He tried it on with the fourteen-year-old babysitter and his wife left him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘It happened a couple of months ago, but his wife only found out two week’s ago.’

  ‘That’s two areas for suspicion,’ Brabham said. ‘His wife and the babysitter’s family.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much in either.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Claire Mason was angry that we were in the house and didn’t know who we were,’ Sam said. ‘If she’d been involved, I reckon she would have been there playing happy families. And she was protective towards her sons, keeping her husband’s behaviour quiet to protect them. I can see how she might have left Henry, but kill him? No, I’m not convinced.’

  ‘What about the babysitter? Who are her parents?’

  Charlotte spoke up. ‘Hazel and Paul Benson from Oldham. We didn’t see Paul, he was at work, just started his shift at Dewhursts. Hazel works for Mason’s wife.’

  The detective closest to them tapped on his keyboard. ‘Auburn Terrace in Werneth?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  More taps on the keyboard. ‘He’s got some form for violence. No domestic warning markers, and they go back a few years, but he’s been handy with his fists.’

  ‘Working-class guy from Oldham who got in a few scraps when he was younger, most likely,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘But still worth a look,’ Brabham said. ‘Call Dewhursts, check when he was there. Did you ask about Keith Welsby?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sam said. ‘Claire Mason hadn’t heard of him, but we’ve dropped off Mason’s computers at headquarters. They might reveal something.’

  ‘We need to link Mason and Welsby,’ Brabham said. ‘That’s our focus. Have you got any ideas?’

  ‘Their ordinariness,’ Sam said. ‘Welsby was a teacher. Unassuming. Quiet. Unremarkable, even. Yet both he and Mason died loitering in quiet places at night.’

  ‘Perhaps their ordinariness is their cover?’ Brabham said. ‘They might have dodgy connections we don’t know about.’

  ‘Mason’s house didn’t seem like something from the criminal underworld, though,’ Sam said. ‘There were some debts, house clean and ordered, but nothing too extravagant. You know what the high-flying criminals’ houses are like: they can’t put the money in the bank so they spend it. Jacuzzi bathrooms, cars that are too good for the neighbourhood, grand ornaments. Mason’s house was just – what’s the word? – aspirational.’

  ‘Were his debts greater than he would let on?’ Brabham said. ‘Loan sharks?’

  ‘Loan sharks don’t kill,’ Charlotte said. ‘They threaten and frighten, and perhaps maim, but murder? No.’

  ‘That depends on the level of debt. They could also go after Mrs Mason for it.’

  ‘But what about Keith Welsby?’ Sam said. ‘Mason’s bloody fingerprint was on the knife. And it fits with it being Mason.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The knife used to kill Keith Welsby was left at the scene, a fingerprint on it. Our theory was always that the killer panicked and threw it away, aiming for the canal, because it was caught in a bush overhanging the towpath. Who’d panic more than someone unused to crime? We just need to work out why Mason would murder a private, unassuming teacher.’

  ‘Private can mean secretive too,’ Brabham said. ‘Just because he stayed quiet at work doesn’t mean that he wasn’t hiding a nastier side. Was Welsby after Mason and Mason got the better of him, and last night was about payback?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Everything we found out about Keith Welsby suggested that he was a likeable teacher who led an ordinary life. We found nothing at his house. This is something different.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I don’t know, just a gut feeling. For reasons we can’t yet fathom, a car salesman is implicated in the murder of a teacher he didn’t know. At least that’s the theory. Because of that, the car salesman himself was murdered. There is some kind of circle here but I don’t think it’s complete yet.’

  ‘Not a circle,’ Brabham said. ‘They topple into each other, like a chain.’ His eyes brightened. ‘No, like dominoes.’

  ‘But there are only two deaths. Hardly dominoes, sir.’

  ‘But that’s how they run, isn’t it? For now, you keep on the family. Go through Mason’s Facebook page, and Welsby’s. Look for a connected friend. Speak to every friend and see if they know the other. You’ve got an evening of breaking bad news so share it out amongst you. If someone doesn’t seem keen on talking to you, chase it.’

  ‘Perhaps Mason found Welsby already dead and panicked,’ Sam said. ‘That’s the other scenario that could fit. He’s where he shouldn’t be, because he’s seeing someone else, so he doesn’t ring it in. He might have been the witness to that murder, and his murder is just to eliminate witnesses.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ Brabham said. ‘It doesn�
��t really matter whether he committed that murder. We just know there’s a connection. If we can find that, everything else should follow.’

  Sam went to his usual desk, Charlotte with him.

  He pulled out the bank statements taken from Henry Mason’s house. Claire had agreed to him taking them, but he could have got them anyway. Claire’s permission just saved him some time. ‘I’ll go through these, to look out for a pattern, like regular large cash withdrawals or debits to debt companies.’

  ‘I’ll do the Facebook stuff,’ Charlotte said, and then, ‘What do you think about Brabham’s notion, this domino thing?’

  ‘It’s meaningless,’ Sam said. ‘There are two murders. That’s not a domino effect.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.

  As they both set about their duties, Sam smiled to himself. This was his favourite part of any investigation: the trawl. The information was here somewhere. It was just a case of finding it.

  Eighteen

  Joe checked his watch as he arrived in Ancoats. Ten minutes to seven, right on time. He’d left his suit behind and was in jeans and a shirt, a linen jacket over the top.

  He was tense, pacing as he waited, his fingers tapping his thumb. Melissa had made it sound like a date, but Joe wasn’t interested in that. She was Proctor’s sister and he wanted information about him. He had no interest beyond that.

  Ancoats was a curious mix. Once the industrial powerhouse of Manchester, when the Rochdale Canal brought cotton to the huge mills and warehouses along its banks, the area had been densely packed with cramped housing and foundries. The residents were either killed by cholera or developed bad lungs from the constant smoke in the air, which made it impossible to see from one side of the district to the other, the high mill chimneys and rows of terraced housing just vague shadows in the dirty distance. It bred poverty and gangs – the world’s first street gang came from Ancoats, the Scuttlers, hoards of young Victorian teenagers identified by their neckerchiefs and haircuts, the fringe slightly longer on the left.

  Most of the area was flattened in the sixties, the slums bulldozed into history, but it was only in recent years that something properly habitable was put up in its place, as the mills were either converted into plush flats or razed to allow new apartment buildings to pop up in their stead.

  But it seemed like someone had lost interest. The apartment blocks and converted mills overlooked fenced-off wastelands and a small narrowboat marina, the cobbled streets leading to some of the older Ancoats houses. Young men carrying open cans of beer passed professionals in snug suits and sharp shoes, each resenting the other, the area never quite reinventing itself enough. It was history and industry and inner-city blight fused with upward mobility and hipster living.

  He checked his watch, debated whether he should leave, that there must be a different way, but then he saw her.

  Her hair was down. The streetlight behind her made it glow and silhouetted her elegant stroll. She was in three-quarter-length pants and simple flat shoes, her handbag soft brown leather. When she got close, Joe saw she was wearing glossy lipstick and the fatigue from earlier in the day had been powdered away.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

  ‘Is there a pub nearby? I just want to talk.’

  ‘I was hoping for something nicer.’ Before Joe could respond, she added, ‘I don’t get taken out much. If you want the family history, at least pretend there’s a nice evening ahead.’

  ‘I know a tapas place in town. Will that do?’

  ‘Sounds lovely. How do I look?’

  He softened. ‘You look nice,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and she smiled, much warmer than it had been earlier.

  They hung around the main road, looking for a black cab. Joe kept his hands in his pockets and his concentration on the road, not ready for the small talk. He wanted information but he was unprepared for how to deal with someone so close to Ellie’s killer.

  The silence was awkward in the taxi and the restaurant was quiet, not much of a Tuesday-night crowd, even though it was close to Castlefield. Joe had been there one weekend and had queued for a table. Now, they got a table in the window, the waiter trying to make the place look popular. Joe ordered a bottle of Chenin Blanc but Melissa took control of the food ordering.

  Joe was about to ask about Mark Proctor when Melissa said, ‘So how long have you been single?’

  ‘A couple of years now.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘A catch like you?’

  That took Joe by surprise.

  She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come on to you like that. It’s just, well, I’ve had my fair share of men who lie about their relationships. I hope you’re not one of them.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said.

  ‘So what happened?’

  He wondered what he could say. The truth was simple: he’d thrown himself into his work so much that his fiancée looked for affection elsewhere, except she hadn’t looked far. They both worked at the same law firm, Mahones, and when he caught her with one of the partners he walked out and ended up at Honeywells. The break-up was about hurt and self-loathing. The one thing he did remember was the white heat of infidelity, so he promised himself he’d never be with anyone attached, he would never inflict that pain on someone else.

  He opted for something simpler. ‘It just didn’t work out.’

  The food arrived, nine hot clay bowls containing meatballs and potatoes and seafood and vegetables. It meant he had her as a captive audience for a bit longer but he couldn’t turn the conversation straight to Mark. As Melissa spooned some onto her plate, she asked, ‘So don’t you want to know about me?’

  ‘It sounds like you’re going to tell me.’

  Melissa put down the clay bowl and scowled. ‘You came to me,’ she said. ‘You want to know about my brother but all I’m getting is attitude.’

  ‘But that’s all I want, information about your brother.’

  ‘And all I want is an evening out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said, feeling guilty. She was right: he was treating her badly. Whatever her brother had done, it wasn’t her fault. ‘Tell me about you.’

  She frowned as she reached out for a squid in tomato sauce. ‘I’m an Ancoats girl who went south for a while. My ex-husband Peter, well, he was different to me. We met at university in London. I was doing an Art History degree but I was self-conscious of my background, a working-class girl, because I was eighteen and trying to broaden my horizons, shake off my past. I didn’t want to be the northern lass.’ And she exaggerated her northern accent when she said it. ‘Then I met Peter at an art gallery. A nice guy, good-looking, funny, and for me, an Ancoats girl, he was a guy I’d never find at home.’

  ‘But you came back to your family,’ Joe said, trying to turn the conversation back to her brother.

  ‘It wasn’t for them. I was lonely. I couldn’t get a proper job down there, a graduate job, and all my university friends had gone their own way. I was just living Peter’s life, turning into the wife who waited for him to come home. If we went out, it was with his friends, his circle. I became pregnant for something to do, to make my life mean more.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Just made me more lonely. So I gave him an ultimatum when Carrie, that’s my daughter, was three: move north with me, or stay in London alone.’

  ‘Which did he choose?’

  ‘North, at the start.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out?’

  ‘He got a job easily enough – he works for a bank – but settling in the north wasn’t for him. He’s a nice guy but he hadn’t lived anywhere like Manchester, so it was alien to him. Too gritty, too earthy. Too frightening. We bought an apartment in Ancoats. For me, it was coming home. I thought Peter would like it because it was up and coming, everything made new again, but it wasn’t enough. My loneliness was swapped for his. Two years ago, he went home.’

  ‘And your daughter?
’

  ‘Carrie’s with me. She goes to London once a month, for a weekend. She’s at a friend’s house tonight, staying over. Fourteen now.’ She shook her head. ‘It flies.’

  ‘But still you didn’t get the graduate job,’ Joe said. ‘Mother Mac’s doesn’t seem the kind of place for an Art History graduate.’

  She laughed, spearing a meatball onto her plate. ‘The people in there are honest, they look after each other, and you never get any fights, not like the fancier places in town. Unless City are playing, it’s just somewhere for men to stare into a glass and reflect on their lives. I like it.’