‘Keep your eyes on the road, Dave, didn’t they teach you at police driving school?’
The detective switched back to stare out through the windscreen.
‘Nah, it’ll just be us two, Dave, keep it low-key.’
There was silence in the car for a few minutes. Finally, Dave Hardy leant forward to switch on the radio.
His hand was covered by Charlie’s giant mitt. ‘Not now, Dave. I need to think. It’s not often you have the pleasure of telling a man his son is dead. And even rarer when that man is a thug like Michael Connelly. I have to work out the correct form of words.’
‘I always hated giving bad news, me. I remember once having to tell a con’s mother that her son had been stabbed in prison. Went through all the guff they teach you. “Sorry to have to tell you. Our deepest commiserations”. All the usual rigmarole. She of course, broke down in tears, scriking like a banshee. I got a phone call five minutes later. I’d told the wrong mother. Her son was the one who did the stabbing. He ended up serving another fifteen years inside.’
‘You tell the nicest stories, Dave.’
Rain began to splatter on the windshield. A typical spring day in Manchester. Sunshine followed by showers. All they needed now was hailstones.
‘So have you worked out what to tell Michael Connelly to cause him the least pain?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Nah, but I’ve worked out how to tell him to cause him the most.’
Inside he was pleased he was the bearer of ill tidings. There were some perks to being a copper. And this was definitely one of them.
Day Four
Saturday, April 21, 2018
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The meeting was just about to begin when Ridpath arrived. Charlie Whitworth was standing at the door. ‘So you got my message?’
The WhatsApp had arrived that morning.
Be at MIT. 8:30. That’s an order not a request.
‘It was as succinct as ever Charlie.’
‘You know me, Ridpath, I hate to waste words when they are not needed. How’s Polly?’
‘Good.’
In truth, last night was better than good. Coco was a strange subject for a kid’s cartoon: the Mexican Day of the Dead. But it was all handled with such verve and style it could be enjoyed by both kids and adults. The story resonated with Ridpath as he understood his own brush with mortality last year. Eve enjoyed it for the music and the action, and the young kid following his dream. But Polly was more affected. Almost as the story of bringing up a family alone after the death of a husband touched her deeply.
Afterwards they had eaten ice cream together and enjoyed being a family once more. He had told them of Mrs Granger and her sad, lonely existence.
‘Why don’t you go and see her, Daddy?’ said Eve. ‘We do it at school, visiting the old people’s home to say hello and sing songs. They’re so nice. I always feel good after I’ve been.’
‘Why don’t you pop round with some food to tide her over the weekend, then you can contact social services on Monday. I’ll check if there are any church groups in the area who work with old people,’ suggested Polly. ‘With all the cuts, the police and teachers are bloody social workers these days. You may as well do your job.’
So that morning he had risen early, driving round to the local 24-hour Tesco to get some milk, bread, tea bags, butter, eggs, bacon, cabbage and potatoes. All the basics, adding three ready-made Irish stews and a couple of salmon dinners she could microwave if she didn’t feel like cooking. He had driven round to her place and knocked on the door. She had answered it almost immediately this time.
‘Who are you?’
‘DI Ridpath We met yesterday, remember?’
A flash of recognition in the rheumy eyes. ‘You asked me about Ronald. I need to bury him.’
‘Right, but we’ll sort it out next week. Here’s some groceries for the weekend. The neighbour asked me to give them you.’ She wouldn’t refuse if they were from the neighbour.
‘She remembered. I was a bit worried as I’m not as steady as I used to be. Can’t get to the shops any more.’
He placed the food in her cupboard and fridge, showing her where he had put them and making a cup of tea before he left.
‘You’re not having one?’
‘I have to get to work, Mrs Granger. A meeting. But I’ll see you on Monday about the funeral.’
He left, closing the door firmly behind him, making a mental note to ring the local plods and ask them to keep an eye on her. For once Ridpath felt good about himself. His daughter was right, it was good to give back to others.
A murmur amongst the assembled detectives brought him back down to earth. Detective Superintendent Claire Trent danced through the crowd accompanied by a tall, austere man wearing glasses, looking like they had been stolen from the Milky Bar Kid.
The meeting room was set up for a presentation with a computer hooked up to a projector. At the moment the screen was displaying the words ‘Operation Lollipop’.
‘Another bloody PowerPoint presentation,’ said DS Hardy as he walked in. He looked up at the screen and said, ‘Lollipop? You are shitting me.’
‘That’s what she’s decided to call it, Dave.’
‘Does she know what it’s slang for?’
Charlie shrugged his shoulders.
Claire Trent took her place at the front of the room and clapped her hands. ‘Right, everyone.’
Ridpath took a seat between Charlie and Dave.
‘I’ve called this urgent briefing because of events on Wednesday. If you remember our own DI Ridpath,’ she nodded in his direction, ‘called in an accident on Wednesday evening. The victim in the accident has been identified as Gerard Connelly.’
A buzz went round the room.
‘It seems most of you have heard about him. He’s the son of the leader of the Eccles gang, Michael Connelly. At the moment, the jury is out whether this really was an accident or the beginning of a gangland war. If it’s the latter we are going to be ready and prepared to take action at any time of the day or night. I have already cancelled all leave for MIT for the foreseeable future. I’ve asked Detective Chief Inspector Robinson from the North West Serious and Organised Crime Squad to brief us this morning.’
‘Good man, Robbo,’ said Charlie under his breath.
‘One of DCI Robinson’s teams will be based in MIT for the duration.’
Dave Hardy put up his hand. ‘I thought this accident was just another druggie taking a walk along the M60, playing chicken with the traffic.’
Claire Trent reddened slightly. ‘Toxicology suggests there were only traces of drugs in his system. We—’
She was about to continue speaking when Dave Hardy asked another question. ‘Does Michael Connelly know about his son yet?’
She nodded at Charlie Whitworth, who stood up to answer.
‘I told him last night. He wasn’t best pleased. His actual words were, “I’m going to get that effing driver if it’s the last thing I do”.’
‘So he doesn’t know I saw a gunman chasing him?’ asked Ridpath.
He saw Charlie glance across at Claire Trent before he answered. ‘No, I didn’t tell him.’
‘So you see now why all leave has been cancelled. I’d like to…’
Dave Hardy put his hand up. ‘What about DI Ridpath’s report of an armed man chasing the victim?’
A slow smile spread across Charlie’s face. Ridpath realised they were winding her up, toying with her like a cat plays with a mouse.
‘We haven’t discounted this and will continue to investigate. No CCTV images have confirmed DI Ridpath’s report.’
‘But surely with the identity of the victim now confirmed, this could have been a gangland hit gone wrong.’
‘We’re still looking into it. Enough with the questions or we’ll never be finished. I’m going to hand it over to DCI Robinson from the Serious and Organised Crime Squad for his briefing.’
Another glance from Dave acr
oss to Charlie Whitworth.
‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and pressing the key on the computer. A slide appeared bearing the logo of his department, as if the coppers in the room didn’t know where he was from. ‘Organised crime is on the rise. Illicit national and transnational groups have flourished in recent years, expanding across borders and continents. Russian Mafia. North Korean cyber-attacks. Eastern European slave traffickers. Albanian cocaine smugglers. Chinese drug manufacturers. Whilst in the UK we’re facing a whole host of new threats. Hundreds of billions of pounds laundered through London every year. A dramatic rise in the murder rate in the capital in four years. Historic child abuse in Rotherham. Fentanyl manufacturers in Merseyside and Manchester. Drug dealers working out of the main cities moving into the county towns. As well as a host of terrorist, IT, credit card, identity thefts and child abuse online.’
‘Shit, it scares me and I’m a copper.’
‘It should do, Dave. Organised crime, illicit national and transnational networks have multiplied since the 1980s and now make an annual £1.5 trillion around the world and £37 billion, or 1.8 per cent of GDP in Britain. It’s a big money, national business. And, as police, we’re still running forty-three separate forces, each looking after their own little patch.’
‘Bobbies on the beat, mate, that’s what Joe Public wants.’
‘But bobbies on the beat are never going to stop these sorts of crimes.’
‘But what about the gangs in Manchester, Robbo?’ Claire Trent brought him back to the job at hand.
‘Manchester has been relatively quiet since the late 1990s. The days of the Gooch Close Gang, Pepperhill Mob, the Doddington Gang and the Longsight Crew running wild with guns have thankfully long passed. That’s not to say they still don’t exist. We all know they do.’ He pressed a key and a table appeared on the screen. ‘Here is a stat for the number of gang-related incidents for the north-west since 2000. As you see, Liverpool has dominated the scene for a long while…’
‘The Scousers finally on top of something, maybe Liverpool might manage to win the league this year,’ Dave Hardy shouted out, followed by laughter from the other detectives.
DCI Robinson carried on without smiling. ‘There was a spike in Manchester-related incidents with the murder of reputed gangland leader Con Morgan in Salford.’
‘Aye, haven’t we charged somebody for that?’
‘The case is up before the courts as we speak. As you can imagine, it is sub judice at the moment.’
‘Is the decline in the Manchester gang incidents because we put O’Shea away?’
‘That and the death of two of the brothers; one from a heart attack and the other stabbed to death by his girlfriend. But intelligence tells us the reason for the lack of incidents is simple. The four main Manchester gangs reached an informal agreement to divide up the city into areas of influence.’
‘What’re their major activities?’
‘The same as ever. Drugs; the ecstasy market has declined but new drugs have replaced it, crack, spice, cocaine and metamphetamine. The latest drug on the rise is fentanyl, a hundred times stronger than heroin. Manchester is supposed to be the centre for its manufacture in the UK.’
‘Which gang is doing that?’
Robbo shrugged his shoulders. ‘To be honest, we don’t know. We haven’t seen a rise in the use of opioids like America yet, but mark my words, it’s only a matter of time.’
‘They’re still in the other rackets like robbery, prostitution, gambling, extortion and pornography?’
‘Prostitution and extortion, yes. Gambling and pornography, not so much. The Internet has broken their monopoly on those vices. Whilst armed robbery, the go-to crime to fund the drug trade in the early 2000s has all but died out.’
‘Why?’
‘One explanation is you lot have made it far too dangerous…’
A burble of laughter spread around the room.
‘…But don’t congratulate yourselves too soon. A more likely reason is the drugs trade is now self-financing. They are making so much money they don’t have to resort to robbing post offices to fund it any more.’
‘Anything new they are moving into?’
‘This may sound strange but security seems to be one of the areas they are developing and, as you see with the number of construction projects in Manchester, we believe they have moved rapidly into property development and the building trade. Taxis and transportation seem to be another area where they are expanding, particularly Michael Connelly. Any more questions?’
There was a collective shake of the head. The screen changed again.
‘According to our latest intelligence, here are the four main gangs operating in the city at the moment. The Eccles mob, run by this man.’ A blurred black and white picture of a rotund Michael Connelly appeared on the screen.
‘Ugly bugger, ain’t he?’
‘Sixty-two years old, born in 1956, he’s spent twenty-two of those years in jail…’
‘Who says crime doesn’t pay…?’
DCI Robinson ignored the interruptions.
‘Married with three kids, two boys and a girl.’
‘Where does he find the bloody time?’
‘The eldest, Graham Connelly, is following in dad’s footsteps.’
‘Which one is our vic?’
‘He’s the second son, Gerard Connelly. A few minor convictions and served three months on remand at Risley. But, for the most part, has kept his nose clean.’
‘What’s the Connellys’ source of income?’
‘The usual; drugs, prostitution and extortion. But of late, they have been moving their money into transport and property development. As with all gangs, this is an attempt to legitimise themselves, led by Graham. This son is an interesting character. He was charged with assault on a young boy aged twelve, two years ago, but managed to get off on a technicality and a lot of Daddy’s money.’
‘Just what we need, another paedo on the streets,’ muttered Dave Hardy under his breath.
The screen changed and the words Salford appeared in block letters. Robbo carried on speaking.
‘The next gang is based in Salford. After the murder of its reputed head honcho, Con Morgan in 2013, it was taken over by his number two, Big Terry Marsland.’ Another picture appeared on the screen of a tall, shaven headed man. ‘Ex-nightclub bouncer and fitness fanatic, Terry is not to be trifled with. He quickly and violently imposed himself on Salford and until now, we believed he had an informal truce with Michael Connelly. He has one son and one daughter both involved up to their necks in his business. Philip and Tracy…’
‘Where do they get these names?’ asked Dave Hardy and was answered by laughing from the other detectives.
Robbo ignored him. ‘Any other questions?’
When there weren’t any, he pressed another key on his computer. Another picture appeared on the screen, this time taken in a police station during an arrest.
‘The third lot in the frame for this is the Cheetham Hill mob. They’re mostly into drugs with a side salad of “protection” services. They keep themselves to themselves and are led by Ahmed Yousof. They’ve been leading the expansion of the drug trade across the county borders particularly into the smaller towns of Cheshire and Wales.
‘The final mobster in our rogues’ gallery runs the Moss Side Yardies. While not as powerful as the gangs of the 1990s, they still are a strong force in the area, particularly in drugs and prostitution. This is Tony Ryder, the boss. The scar across his face came from a knife fight when he was sixteen. According to intelligence he has been building up an arsenal over the last six months.’
‘Where’s he getting his guns?’
‘From London, a dealer called Peter Dominguez. He’s been around for years but nobody has ever pinned anything on him. Most seem to be reconfigured Makarovs from the Eastern Bloc, but we’ve heard whispers of Uzis and Armalites being part of his latest offering.’
A collective whistle came f
rom the gathered detectives.
‘Why?’ asked Ridpath.
Robinson shrugged his shoulders.
‘Why what?’
‘Why is Tony Ryder suddenly arming up? I thought they all had an agreement?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. He could be wanting to expand, recapture the glory days of the 1990s. Who knows with these thugs.’
Claire Trent stepped forward. ‘Any more questions?’
A collective shake of the head.
‘Right, gentlemen and ladies. We’re going to sit on these four gangs for the next week. Charlie, I want your team in unmarked cars watching the Connellys.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I also want you to follow up on Gerard Connelly. His father told you they hadn’t seen him for three days previous to Wednesday?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Find out where he’s been. We didn’t find a mobile at the scene, but do we know his number?’
‘The father refused to give it me.’
‘You explained we could trace his whereabouts through the mobile masts and his calls, and he still said no?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Wanted to talk to his solicitor first.’
‘Bastard,’ she swore. ‘Well, track down his car. Perhaps we can trace his movements through ANPR and CCTV.’
‘They wouldn’t give me that either.’
‘Well, pull your finger out and get on to DVLA in Swansea. Get Chrissy Wright to help you.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Lorraine…’ A woman who Ridpath had never seen before stood up.
‘Can you and Catherine introduce yourselves to the team?’
Another young woman with short blonde hair rose from her chair next to Lorraine.
The young woman started to speak in a clear, authoritative voice. ‘My name is Catherine Delaney. I’m twenty-five years old, a detective sergeant. I was born in Manchester and work with DI Lorraine Caruso in Bolton.’
‘They’re getting bloody younger,’ whispered Dave Hardy out of the side of his mouth.
The older woman spoke next. ‘My name is Lorraine Caruso. I’m not going to tell you buggers what my age is. Married with two kids and a detective inspector attached to Bolton CID working with Catherine for the last year or so.’
Where the Dead Fall Page 11