by OMJ Ryan
Entwistle’s eyes widened. ‘Is she?’
‘Yeah. And in particular, mixed-race.’
‘So you gonna ask her out, then?’ said Jones.
Entwistle blushed, a half smile on his face. ‘Nar. Work relationships aren’t good, are they?’ His question sounded more hopeful than damning.
Jones sat forwards, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Ordinarily I’d agree with you, but she’s on secondment. So she’ll be out of here in a month. If you fancy her, you should go for it.’
‘But what about the Guv?’
‘What about her?’
‘Won’t she be pissed off?’
‘Well, she doesn’t fancy you,’ joked Bovalino.
‘Piss off! I mean, won’t she be angry if two of her squad started dating?’
‘Not a bit,’ said Jones, glancing at Bovalino. ‘She won’t mind, will she, Bov?’
‘Not at all. She’ll be totally fine with it.’
Entwistle looked over towards Phillips’s office, where she and Gibbo were deep in conversation. He smiled and nodded, then turned his attention back to his screen. He whistled cheerfully as he began typing.
Jones and Bovalino exchanged winks and wide grins. He’d played right into their hands.
After hours glued to her desk, Phillips noticed a number of the uniformed support team had begun switching off their PCs and started putting on their coats. She checked her watch. It was coming up to 6 p.m. She had been so engrossed in her work she’d lost track of time. She wandered back into the main office and nodded as each of the uniformed officers passed her with a ‘Night Ma’am.’
In the heart of the room, Jones, Bovalino, Gibson and Entwistle remained engrossed in their work.
‘How you getting on with that list, Entwistle?’
‘So far I have fifty vehicles spotted on the ANPR cameras in the red-light zones the nights they died.’
‘Well, let’s start with them, shall we. Can you print them off?’
Whilst the team waited for the list of names, Phillips walked back to her office to fetch her laptop, and returned a moment later. She perched on the end of the desk next to Entwistle. ‘Let’s take ten names each and see what we can find on them.’
Entwistle divided up the sheets and handed them out ten apiece.
‘I don’t need to tell you guys that, so far, all the evidence suggests nothing more than that the girls drowned. Even though these cases are a priority, Fox will only let the investigation continue for so long. When you check these names, the smallest detail on the driver history could be the difference between the cases being closed and catching a killer. So, look hard and highlight anything unusual. Anything at all.’
The team nodded and turned their attention back to their respective computer screens.
An hour of intense silence followed, punctuated by the sound of fingers tapping on keyboards and computer mice clicking back and forth.
‘Guv, take a look at this.’
Phillips got up, walked over to Jones’s desk and leaned in to get a look at his screen.
Jones pointed to the data. ‘This number plate appeared on the night Roberts was killed.’
‘And?’
‘Well, if you look at the cameras, you can see it’s attached to a Ford Mondeo, right?’
Phillips nodded.
‘If you click on the vehicle details, that plate is registered to a Volkswagen Jetta.’
‘Fake plates,’ said Phillips.
Bovalino, Entwistle and Gibson stopped what they were doing and looked over towards Phillips.
‘Not only that,’ Jones continued, ‘but the Jetta is officially registered as off the road. Look – it has a SORN against it.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Entwistle, can you cross-check all the cars on the list against the SORN database? Let’s see if this is the only one.’
Entwistle wasted no time accessing the Statutory Off Road Notification database, and within a few minutes had found two more. He turned his screen to face Phillips and Jones before clicking on the two registrations. ‘Both these plates belong to cars that are officially off the road.’ He clicked the screen again. ‘And yet they appeared on the nights Adams and Webster died. This one, M-J-64, was captured in Cheetham Hill when Adams went missing, whereas Y-T-12 was on the inner ring road in the early hours of the morning when Webster was found.’
Phillips leaned in closer to have a better look. ‘Can you pull up the images of the vehicles they were attached to. Let’s see what make of cars we have.’
A flurry of movement followed, and two grainy images appeared on Entwistle’s screen – both of a blue Ford Mondeo. ‘Bloody hell! It looks like the same car using different plates,’ said Jones.
Phillips slammed her hand on the desk in front of her. ‘Guys, I think we’ve just found our killer.’ A wide grin spread across her face as she stared at the screen in front of her. ‘Entwistle, print out the different images of the cars, will you?’
Entwistle did as requested and handed them to Phillips. She examined them closely. Based on the quality of the images and the fact the pictures had been taken at night, it was difficult to make out too much detail. ‘I agree with Jonesy. Looks like the same car with different plates. What do you think?’ Phillips handed the printouts to Gibson, who inspected them in silence.
‘So, what happened to the original cars the plates came from?’ said Bovalino.
‘I can soon find out.’ Entwistle began tapping away on his laptop.
Gibson finished looking at the images and handed them to Jones. ‘It looks like the same car to me. Hard to tell for sure, though.’
‘Well, here’s a coincidence,’ said Entwistle. ‘The plates are all registered to cars that were bought by Adders Scrap Metal Merchants in Ancoats.’
‘And what do I always say about coincidence?’ asked Phillips.
‘No such thing, Guv,’ Jones, Bovalino and Entwistle answered in unison and with gusto.
‘No-such-fucking-thing,’ repeated Phillips.
‘I know the guy who owns that scrap yard,’ Gibson cut in. ‘Adwadil Bahmani. Everyone calls him Adders for short. SCT have been watching him for a long time. We suspect the business is a front for drugs and sex-trafficking, but so far we’ve not been able to prove a thing. Word on the street is Bahmani is a bad man.’
‘Maybe you and I should pay him a visit tomorrow. See what he has to say about the plates?’
Gibson shook her head. ‘No point, Guv. He’s a grade-A misogynist. He doesn’t speak to women. He’s far more inclined to talk to Jones and Bovalino, and in particular Bov. It’s a Pakistani cultural thing. They respect masculine men.’
‘Are you saying I’m not masculine enough, Gibbo?’ Jones faked appearing upset and affected a camp voice, drawing laughs from the room.
‘Not at all, Jonesy. I can see you’re all man.’
Jones grinned.
Phillips turned to Gibson. ‘Is this Adders guy under SCT surveillance at the minute?’
‘Nothing active, Guv, so it’s safe to go in.’
‘Ok. In that case, Jonesy and Bov, first thing tomorrow I want you up at that scrap yard. Shake his tree a little and let’s see if anything falls out.’
Jones and Bovalino nodded.
Phillips tapped Jonesy on the shoulder and locked eyes with Entwistle. ‘Good work, you two. I knew these cases had to be linked, and we’re getting closer to finding out how.’ She picked up her laptop and headed for her office.
Gibson stood up. ‘I need a cigarette.’
Entwistle’s eyes followed her as she walked across the room and stepped out into the corridor.
‘You gonna ask her out or what?’ said Jones.
Entwistle’s head shot round to face him. ‘You really think I should?’
‘Get it done, lad,’ said Bovalino.
Jones pointed to the doorway. ‘Carpe Diem, son. Seize the day.’
Entwistle said nothing for a moment, clearly deep in thought. Then a
wide grin spread across his face and he leapt from his chair. ‘You’re right, Jonesy. Carpe Diem. I’m gonna do it.’ A moment later, he left the room.
Phillips saw Entwistle shoot passed her door just before she heard loud cackles from Jones and Bovalino. Curious, she walked back into the squad room to find them huddling against the window that overlooked the car park. She stood behind them for a moment, watching.
‘He’s doing it, Bov, he’s bloody doing it.’
‘The gullible bastard,’ said Bovalino.
‘What are you two up to now?’
Both men turned to face Phillips. With their wide grins, they resembled naughty schoolboys.
Jones laughed. ‘We persuaded Entwistle to ask Gibbo on a date, Guv.’
‘As in DS Gibson?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bovalino.
‘DS Gibson who’s gay?’
Jones nodded and giggled before turning back to look out the window. ‘Shit. They’re coming back up.’
Both men shot back to their desks and tried their best to look as if they had no idea what had just taken place in the car park. Their heaving shoulders and barely disguised grins said otherwise.
Phillips stood with her arms folded and watched as Gibson walked confidently into the squad room and sat down. She said nothing.
A moment later, Entwistle crept in looking a little embarrassed, and took a seat at his desk.
No one said a word. Phillips broke the ice. ‘Everything all right, Entwistle?’ she asked.
Jones and Bovalino couldn’t contain themselves any longer. They both cracked up, guffawing loudly. Gibson followed suit, and all three turned to look at Entwistle.
‘You total bastards!’ he said, sulking before finally beginning to laugh himself.
Phillips joined in too, before walking over and patting him on the shoulder. ‘Aww, Entwistle. I think you need to work on your skills as a detective, sunshine.’
Gibson laughed. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Guv. I mean, come on Entwistle. I’m flattered, but how could you not tell I’m gay?’
20
Bovalino pulled the unmarked squad car up to the open gates of Adders Scrap Metal Merchants. With Jones beside him in the passenger seat, they surveyed the site for a few moments, taking in the high fences with the heavy curls of razor wire looping along the top.
‘Do you get the feeling Mr Bahmani doesn’t like unexpected visitors, Bov?’
Bovalino leaned forwards over the steering wheel and looked up at the foreboding entrance, ‘Certainly looks that way, Jonesy. I just hope he hasn’t got a bloody big dog.’
Jones chuckled. ‘Or worse still; two bloody big dogs.’
Bovalino drove through the gate and the car pitched and bounced from side to side across the rough terrain, accompanied by the soundtrack of dirty rainwater splashing up from the puddles below. They stopped just in front of a grubby Portakabin, parking up next to a large white Range Rover with blackened windows and sparkling metal rims. As they stepped out onto the oil-stained, weather-beaten asphalt, two large German Shepherds ran out from the side of the makeshift building and began barking. Mercifully they were tethered on thick ropes that kept Jones and Bovalino just out of reach.
‘What is it with scrap merchants and big dogs?’ Bovalino complained, ‘I bloody hate big dogs!’
Both men stood motionless, watching the powerful barking beasts for some time before a heavily built man appeared at the open door. He shouted something in Urdu at the dogs and they circled back round to the rear of the building.
An unexpected full grin spread across the man’s thick-bearded face. ‘Gentlemen. What can I do for the Greater Manchester Police?’ His accent was a mixture of Pakistani and thick Mancunian.
‘How do you know we’re police?’
‘Cars are my business, sir, and I can spot a cop car a mile off. Plus, you don’t look like my usual customers. I mean, no one wears shoes like yours in a place as mucky as this, do they?’
In spite of himself, Jones glanced down at his feet and noted the man had a point; his black brogues were covered up the sides and across the toes in mud and salt. ‘Are you Mr Bahmani?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, but everyone calls me Adders.’
Jones stepped forwards and flashed his ID. ‘DS Jones and DC Bovalino. Can we ask you few questions?’
Bahmani eyed them with suspicion. ‘What about?’
‘Fake plates,’ said Bovalino.
Bahmani glanced at Bovalino. ‘I don’t sell fake plates. That’s illegal.’
Jones opted to lie. ‘We’re not investigating you, Mr Bahmani, but we believe someone has stolen plates from a couple of your decommissioned cars. We’d like to see those cars, if we can.’
Bahmani remained defiant, his large frame filling the door. ‘You got a warrant? I know my rights, like.’
Jones had to bite his tongue. If he had a pound for every wannabe gangster who’d watched an American cop show and now believed they knew the law, he’d have retired years ago.
It was cold in the wind and he was getting pissed off. He looked over at Bovalino and sensed he felt the same. ‘We’re not here to search your offices. We’re just seeking information on vehicles that are registered to this business. All we need is ten minutes of your time and then we’ll be on our way.’
Bahmani stared at Jones in silence for a moment, then nodded. ‘You’d better come in, lads.’
The office inside was surprisingly warm and well presented. In contrast to the filthy yard outside, it was clean and well decorated with modern office furniture and artistic black and white photos of Bahmani surrounded by several children, with an attractive looking woman smiling beside him.
‘My wife and kids.’
‘Looks like a big brood,’ said Jones.
The grin returned. ‘Three boys and two girls, plus another due any day now.’
Jones exhaled theatrically. ‘Wow. You’re a glutton for punishment.’
‘Naw. The wife and her mother look after them. I just earn the money. Keeps me out of the house.’ Bahmani took a seat and signalled for Jones and Bovalino to take the chairs opposite him.
Bovalino took out his notepad.
‘Is the scrapyard your only source of income?’ Jones asked
‘Naw, mate. I have a few houses and a couple of phone shops too. I like to keep the money coming in from different businesses, just in case one of the others doesn’t work out. It’s the Pakistani way.’
‘How many people do you have working for you across each of the businesses?’
Bahmani thought for a moment. ‘I dunno. Maybe ten in total. Mainly family.’
‘And how many in the yard?’
‘Just me and my cousin Tahir. I buy the cars and he pulls them apart.’ He pointed through the window behind Jones. ‘That’s him driving the forklift’
Jones and Bovalino turned in unison and watched for a moment as an old Honda was raised from the ground on the arms of the forklift. Jones turned back to Bahmani. ‘Do you keep records of all the cars you buy and dispose of?’
‘Got to. It’s illegal not to, innit?’ He tapped the wafer-thin monitor attached to his state-of-the-art PC. ‘It’s all on here.’
‘Great. Would you mind checking a couple of registrations for us?’ said Jones.
Bahmani pulled the keyboard closer, and Jones noted the heavy gold rings on his fingers and the large-linked gold chain fastened loosely around his right wrist. ‘What’s the first one?’
As Jones read out the registration, Bahmani typed, the chain clinking against the desk as he did. They repeated the process until all three cars had been located in the files. ‘Sorry lads; those cars have all been scrapped,’ said Bahmani. He looked pleased with that fact.
Jones did he best to hide his frustration. ‘When was that?’
‘Looks like it was just last week.’
‘And did you know the plates were missing when you scrapped them?’
‘I don’t often see the cars once I’ve paid for
’em. Tahir does all that.’
‘Can we speak to Tahir, then?’ Bovalino asked.
‘He doesn’t speak English.’
Bovalino stared Bahmani straight in the eye. ‘Then you can translate, can’t you?’
Bahmani stared back for a moment before getting up and walking over to the open door. He whistled and shouted something in Urdu, and the forklift engine died. A moment later, Tahir appeared in front of the office but remained outside. Another blast of Urdu followed. Jones could see Tahir shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders before turning away and walking back to the forklift. The noisy engine burst into life once more. Bahmani returned to his chair. ‘He can’t remember.’
Jones found it hard to believe that was the sum total of the interaction they’d just witnessed, but again contained his frustration. ‘So he doesn’t remember scrapping the cars, or he doesn’t remember seeing the registration plates?’
Bahmani sat forwards and tapped his right temple with his index finger. ‘My cousin isn’t very bright, I’m afraid. I only gave him this job because my mother asked me to, as a favour to her sister. Don’t get me wrong; he’s good at it. He’s a strong boy. But he’s not blessed with brains. Plus, he’s come here straight from Islamabad and doesn’t speak a word of English. He couldn’t tell one British plate from another. It’s a big yard and customers are free to roam looking for parts as they wish. Obviously I can’t sell second-hand plates, so they just get chucked in the bins at the back of the site. The bins aren’t locked and are out of sight of the office. Any one of my customers could have picked them up. The plates could be anywhere by now.’
Jones suspected Bahmani knew far more than he was letting on, but without due cause, there was nothing they could do to compel him to share whatever information he was keeping to himself.
‘What about CCTV? I notice you have cameras on the main street.’
Bahmani placed his finger against his thick lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but they’re dummies.’
The man had an answer for everything.
‘So why are you so interested in these plates? What have they been used for?