by Bill Rogers
‘Would you mind if I had a quick look around?’
‘Be my guest.’ He smirked. ‘If you find anything valuable, let me know.’
It took her less than five minutes to establish that the son was not hiding in the house. Nor was there any sign he had ever lived there. She had found a shiny steel rod propped up on the landing that enabled her to pull down a loft ladder and look inside the roof space. It was empty but for a thick carpet of recently laid floor insulation.
‘Satisfied?’ Mr Beck said as she descended the stairs.
‘Your son is using the soubriquet Bomber,’ she said, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘Do you happen to know why?’
He scowled.
‘Cheeky bugger. That was my moniker when I was an amateur boxer. I wanted him to learn to box too. So he’d be able to stand up for himself. Little wimp couldn’t handle it. Now he’s pretending he’s a hard man. That’s typical of him. He’s a fantasist. A total loser.’
Unlike you then, she said to herself.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he continued, ‘if he wasn’t gay. When she died, he started wearing those wigs she had after her chemo. How weird is that? When I took them out the back and burned them, he went spare. That’s when he walked out. Left home for good.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t know where he may be staying?’
‘No. Mind you, about six months ago one of the blokes down at the Sun in September—’
‘The pub on Burnage Lane?’
‘That’s the one. This bloke mentioned he’d seen Bryan drinking in The Ship Inn, on Rochdale Road. You might want to ask up there.’
‘One last thing,’ she said. ‘Do you have a photograph of Bryan?’
Chapter 71
The search team arrived as Jo was leaving. She apologised to the inspector leading them and told him he could stand them down.
‘Don’t worry though,’ she told him. ‘I’ve a hunch we’re going to need you again very shortly.’
‘You know what they said about the little boy who cried wolf,’ he replied.
‘I do. But he was a boy. Big difference.’
She called Gordon, and told him where she was up to. When she reached The Ship Inn, she called him again.
‘I’m standing on the towpath by the Slattocks locks,’ she told him. ‘The suspect was seen drinking in the pub behind me. It’s only a mile from the Trows Lane crime scene, Gordon. This is it. This is what we’ve been missing.’
‘Slow down,’ he said. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The canal. He’s following the route of the Rochdale Canal. Look at the map on the wall in the incident room. West to east, then south to north and back again. Every one of those murders was within easy reach of a canal. The latest victim was found less than two hundred yards from the canal. He’s using the canal towpath to get to and from the red-light districts. That’s why the cameras never picked up a car, and why we’ve only had glimpses of him on foot or on his bike. I’m guessing he may even be living on the canal and using a boat to move along it. That’s why he uses his father’s house for his mail deliveries.’
‘What do you propose to do now?’
‘I’m going to show his photograph in The Ship and the other pubs that stand by the side of the canal. Could you ask Max and some of your team to start at your end and work out towards me?’
‘Ask him yourself,’ said Gordon. ‘He’s standing right next to me.’
‘At last,’ said Max when she told him. ‘Proper detective work.’
It took less than ten minutes to confirm that Bryan Beck had indeed been seen drinking in The Ship. On several different occasions over the past twelve months. Most recently less than a week ago. Shortly before the murder of Genna Crowden on Trows Lane.
‘Didn’t have a lot to say for himself,’ the landlord told her. ‘That’s one of the reasons I remember him. Standoffish. Mean too. Never said thank you. Never left a tip. That’s another reason. People like that don’t get served till I’m good and ready.’
‘Did you happen to ask him where he was staying?’
‘If I did, he never told me.’
‘Did you get the impression he might be on one of the boats?’
The landlord shrugged.
‘No way of knowing. But I can ask around. See if any of the other canal folk that come in here have seen him on a boat. You’ll have to let me have a copy of that photo though.’
‘How about you take a copy of it with your mobile phone?’ she suggested.
‘Hang on a mo.’
He disappeared, and returned holding his phone.
‘What did we do before we had technology?’ he said.
Jo didn’t care; she was too busy counting her blessings.
By eight o’clock Jo had visited The Ship Inn, in Middleton, the Anglers Arms in Failsworth, and the Boat and Horses, and the Rose of Lancaster, both in Chadderton. Beck had been seen in the latter on two occasions within the past week. Again he had been a solitary drinker, and nobody could throw any light on who he was or where he lived. Jo was in the car park when Max called her.
‘I’m in the New Crown Inn, Newton Heath, Bridge No. 82,’ he said. ‘He’s been in here, and the barmaid is pretty sure he’s living on a boat.’
‘How come?’
‘Because the last time he came in he ordered a pint and then had to apologise. Said he’d left his wallet behind. He’d have to pop back to the boat.’
‘He actually said the boat?’
‘Barmaid is certain. It isn’t often someone forgets their wallet. She said Beck was back within five minutes.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last Thursday. The eighteenth.’
‘Two days before Allochka Burgos was strangled. And the New Crown is, what, a couple of hundred yards from where she was found?’
‘Nearer three hundred. And there’s something else, Jo.’
He paused dramatically.
‘For God’s sake tell me,’ Jo said.
‘Another reason the barmaid remembers him is he complimented her on her hair. “Lovely texture,” he told her. “Silky.” ’
‘It is him, Max,’ she said. ‘It has to be.’
‘I agree. All we have to do is find him.’
‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
Chapter 72
They sat in Jo’s car behind the pub, overlooking the canal and the lock gates. The dying rays of the sun cast a blood-red hue over the water. The excitement in Gordon’s voice seemed magnified by the speakerphone.
‘Now that we know who he is, it’s just a matter of time.’
‘I’ve checked on the Internet,’ Jo told him. ‘All boats on the two thousand miles of canals and rivers in England and Wales have to be registered with the Canal & River Trust. Can you get Ram or Duggie to check if there’s a boat registered in Beck’s name?’
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘What are you proposing to do in the meantime?’
‘If he is on a boat, there’s a limit to how far he can have got since he fled Barnaby’s. All of the canal-side pubs east of the city centre as far as Slattocks have had a visit from members of our team. But there’s one place we haven’t checked where there’s a good chance they’ll be able to match him to the boat.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Islington Moorings. The marina. If he’s been there, they may well have a record of it. Max and I can be there in ten minutes.’
Jo parked the car, and cut the engine.
‘You know where we are?’ she said.
Max shook his head. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
‘This is the site of the former Cardroom Estate. Where Mandy Madden and Tricia Garbett grew up. Pin Mill Brow, where Mandy’s body was found? It’s a quarter of a mile away, across the canal.’
‘So we’ve come full circle,’ he said. ‘This is where it started, our involvement.’
‘Exactly.’
Her radio squawked. It
was Ram.
‘It’s bad news I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on to the Canal & River Trust. There are two thousand miles of rivers and canals under their jurisdiction, and thirty-two thousand registered owners. They did a quick check, and there is no vessel registered or licensed to a Bryan Beck.’
‘What about other Becks?’
‘Negative.’
‘So he’s using a false name and he’s borrowed or stolen a boat.’
‘Or we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ said Max. ‘And he isn’t using a boat at all.’
‘Please don’t say that,’ she said. ‘This is our best lead yet.’
‘Our only lead.’
‘But he told that barmaid he was popping back to the boat.’
‘It could just as easily have been a deliberate red herring as a slip of the tongue.’
‘If you’re going to continue to pour salt on the wound,’ she said, ‘I’d rather you did it with someone else.’
‘Come on,’ he replied. ‘You can’t break up Mulder and Scully.’
‘The way you’re going I was thinking Cagney and Lacey,’ she replied.
‘When you two have quite finished,’ said Ram, ‘is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Sorry,’ said Jo. ‘Can you let Harry know where we’re up to, and ask DCI Holmes to contact the Police National Air Service? If we do come up with anything, the North West Air Operations Group is going to be our best chance of finding this boat.’
‘Assuming there is one,’ said Max.
She gave Max a withering look. ‘Thanks, Ram,’ she said into the radio. ‘Tell Harry we’ll be in touch.’
There were close to forty narrowboats moored within the marina. Some had lights on in the cabins.
‘Where do they all come from?’ Max said as they walked down on to the promenade.
‘My guess is most of them are baby boomers spending their kids’ inheritance.’
‘You and me,’ he said. ‘We’ll never get the chance to S-K-I.’
Not now that I’ve broken up with Abbie, Jo reflected.
‘This is a needle in a haystack,’ she said out loud. ‘Where do we start?’
Max pointed. ‘With him?’
Twenty metres away a man was locking a metal gate that surrounded a park-like area beside the towpath. Jo called out.
‘Excuse me!’
The man waited for them to come to him. In his forties, well built, he regarded them with amused curiosity. Jo held up her warrant card.
‘You’re too late,’ he said. ‘I sorted it.’
‘Sorted it?’ said Jo.
‘Storm in a teacup. A couple of lads on mountain bikes thought they could use it like a race track. I gave them a flea in the ear, and sent them on their way. It wasn’t me that called you. Must have been the same person who rang me.’
‘Nobody rang us,’ said Max. ‘We’re here on a different matter. And you are?’
‘Selwyn, warden and park keeper. I only work days, but if there’s a problem I come down here if I can. We used to get a lot of this in the early days, but it’s settled down now that the old estate’s gone and new residents have moved in.’
Jo found herself drawn to the balcony high on the impressive Islington Wharf development, where Tom Caton and his wife, Kate, had their apartment. Five vertical blades of glass and steel lit up like a beacon. Perfectly mirrored in the still waters of the basin.
‘We need to know if you’ve seen this man before,’ said Max, holding up his tablet. ‘We believe he may be staying on a boat.’
The warden moved closer, and took his time. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Have you got any more photos of him?’
Max flipped to the next one. The photo his father had provided.
The warden’s eyes gleamed in the light reflected from the screen.
‘Him I know,’ he said. ‘That’s Barry Jones. He’s house-sitting Tit Willow.’
‘Tit Willow?’ said Max.
‘A lovely sixty-two-foot narrowboat. Registered in Middlewich. He’s been house-sitting it for a couple of years. The owners are in Spain seven months of the year. They pay for their mooring in advance.’
‘When did you last see him?’ said Jo.
‘Earlier this afternoon. Must have been about a quarter to one. He left his moorings, heading east. On to the Ashton Canal link.’
‘Ashton Canal?’ said Max. ‘I thought this was the Rochdale Canal?’
‘The two meet right here in the Islington Basin,’ Jo told him. ‘They both cross the Pennines. The Rochdale Canal heads north from here, the Ashton Canal heads east.’
She turned to the warden. ‘How far might he have got?’
He puckered his lips. ‘That depends on whether he sticks to the four-miles-an-hour limit, and how much traffic he meets in the locks. And if he decides to travel at night, which is strongly discouraged.’
‘If you were us, where would you start looking?’ said Max.
The warden thought about it. ‘Three hours’ cruising, plus around five hours’ passing through the locks. That’d take him anywhere between Stalybridge and Mossley. I’d probably start at Stalybridge and work out from there.’
Chapter 73
It was so peaceful out here. Even the sounds were calming. The rhythmic putter of the engine. The soft slap of the wake against the banks. An occasional hoot from an owl. A momentary break in the clouds allowed a sliver of silver across the shimmering surface of the water, before the darkness closed in again.
He knew he ought to use the lights on the bows and stern, but he was confident enough to manage without, except in the locks, where not to do so was little short of suicidal. The only boats he was likely to encounter would be moored up. So long as he stuck to the centre of the canal it would be fine. The bridges were the worst. Then he had to keep his wits about him. If he failed to duck in time, it would be curtains. Even at four miles an hour a wallop from a slab of millstone grit was going to fracture his skull and propel him backwards into the water. There would be no coming back from that.
Not that he was worried about them finding him. After all, nobody knew about the boat. Not even his father. Least of all him. They would be looking for a cyclist. Or a jogger. Well, good luck with that.
He cursed his bad luck. If that bitch hadn’t taken fright, that Stuart woman would still be chasing shadows. As it was, he’d have to start again. Get as far as Huddersfield – that was the plan. Then he’d have a choice of waterways. The Aire and Calder Navigation, the Aire and Hebble Navigation. At some point – and he’d know when it was time – he’d ditch the boat, pack his rucksack, find a cycle way, and see where it took him. The world was his oyster. Full of pearls to pluck.
‘Don’t mix your metaphors, darling.’ That’s what his mother would have said.
He smiled, and his hand moved to stroke the locket on the chain around his neck.
Jo and Max had parked their cars side by side, kitted themselves with their stab vests, belts holding holsters for their Taser, handcuffs, and loops for Maglite torches and an expandable baton. They had slipped on their black NCA cagoules, and were now sitting in Jo’s car.
‘I’m waiting for the Fourth Floor to tell me who’s going to assume Gold Command,’ Gordon told them. ‘They can’t decide if this is a spontaneous incident, or a planned operation. They’re also in two minds about whether to tell the media we’ve started a manhunt, or keep quiet for now so the press doesn’t get in the way.’
‘Hopefully the latter,’ said Jo. ‘The last thing we want to do is let him know we’re on to him.’
‘I agree,’ said Gordon. ‘While they’re making their minds up, I’m assuming Silver Command, and you’re Bronze Command. I’ve put out an all-ports warning for Bryan Beck, and the alias he’s using. With any luck we’ll have it wrapped up before they get their heads out from between their backsides.’
‘Luck doesn’t come into it,’ she said. ‘How did you get on with North West Air Operations Group?’<
br />
‘Good. There’s an Explorer helicopter on its way. Our old pal call sign India 99. We’re patching them into your channel. I also have two support cars, and a Tactical Aid Unit on standby. You let me know where and when you need them. They can be with you in under ten minutes.’
‘Best we go operational speak then,’ she said. ‘You never know who’s going to be listening.’
‘Roger that, Bronze Command,’ Gordon said. ‘Where are you now?’
‘In my car. Half a mile east of Ashton town centre on the A635. SI Nailor is riding shotgun. There’s a wharf down beside a bridge that runs over both the River Thame and the Huddersfield Narrow Canal. We’re aiming to park up there and await feedback from India 99.’
‘Speaking of shotguns, Bronze Command, do I need to arrange for an Armed Response Vehicle and a strategic arms commander?’
‘Negative to that, Silver Command. There is no evidence the suspect is armed. Besides, I have a Taser on board, and both SI Nailor and I are authorised users.’
‘The suspect may be armed with a knife. He has been known to carry scissors on his person. You do both have stab vests?’
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘When the Tactical Aid Unit get here, we won’t even need them.’
‘Be careful, Jo,’ he said.
‘Roger that, Silver Command,’ she said tersely, reminding him that all of this was now being recorded. It was enough that her reputation went ahead of her without him rubbing it in.
The Airwave radio crackled. ‘Bronze Command, this is India 99. Are you receiving?’
‘Loud and clear, India 99. Where are you?’ said Jo.
‘Six miles north of Stalybridge. Where do you need us to be, Bronze Command?’
‘India 99, we are heading for the Huddersfield Canal Wharf on Mottram Road. Coordinates . . .’
She waited as Max read them out from the Google Map he had up on his tablet.
‘Our ETA is three minutes . . . Can you rendezvous here please?’
‘We’ll be there before you, Bronze Command,’ came the reply.