by Damien Boyd
‘Nothing was ever proven,’ interrupted Hargreaves.
‘His case runs to several box files.’
‘So, what happened to the Carters?’
‘The Shannons did,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Irish. They’d moved in and were squeezing them. They took over, basically, when the Carters disappeared.’
‘They just disappeared?’ asked Sexton.
‘Michael and Kenny Carter did and the rest of the gang just melted away. The Vet too.’
‘What happened?’ asked Dixon.
‘We don’t know,’ replied Douglas.
Dixon looked at Sexton and back to Douglas.
‘That’s it? You don’t know?’
‘No, we don’t,’ replied Douglas.
‘What d’you think happened?’ asked Dixon, turning to Hargreaves.
‘You have to remember we’d lost our informers, those with any knowledge of the Carters anyway. We were blind.’
‘What about the undercover officer?’
‘He’d been pulled out by then,’ said Douglas.
‘So, the Carters could’ve been killed by the Shannons?’
‘We’d have known about that.’
‘How?’
‘The Shannons were different. Old school. You could have a conversation with them, off the record. We’d have known.’
‘Are the Shannons still around?’
Douglas nodded.
‘What information was withheld from the public about the murders?’ asked Dixon.
‘They knew about the trephine, but not that the injury was to the forehead,’ replied Hargreaves. ‘We also managed to keep it out of the press that the victims had been buried alive. It took some doing, but we managed to persuade the editors.’
‘That’s all in Burkett’s book though, isn’t it? So it’s out there now. Anything else?’
‘Handcuffs,’ said Douglas. ‘Each victim had been handcuffed. Burkett agreed to leave that out when he wrote his book.’
‘What about the PM reports and photos?’
‘In the boxes.’
‘And surveillance?’
‘In the boxes.’
‘What about the profiler? Pearson. Is he still around?’
‘Useless tosser,’ said Pandey. ‘It’s so general it could apply to anyone.’
‘Yes, he’s still around,’ said Douglas. ‘Profiling has become far more sophisticated over the years. Back then it was—’
‘Worthless,’ muttered Hargreaves.
‘Was there anyone who fitted the profile?’ asked Dixon.
‘Several,’ replied Hargreaves. ‘That was the problem. I was sceptical, to be honest, but Pearson said he might be of some use and managed to persuade the SIO at the time. The best that can be said is it didn’t do any harm. He just wasted his time and our money.’
‘You ignored his report?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Dixon.
‘Just this,’ replied Pandey, sliding a thin green file across the table. ‘We had the evidence re-tested in 2011 as part of a cold case review, and the set of handcuffs on PC Hocking gave us a partial DNA trace, probably from a spot of saliva. The report’s in the file.’
‘There’s no database match, before you ask,’ said Douglas.
‘I need something to eat,’ said Dixon.
‘We passed a Premier Inn in the taxi. It was a couple of hundred yards back that way,’ replied Sexton, waving his arm in the wrong direction.
‘That way,’ said Dixon.
‘Right.’
‘See if you can get a couple of rooms and if they’ve got a restaurant.’
‘How long for?’
‘Two nights.’
‘Will do.’ Sexton picked up the phone. ‘Is it nine for an outside line?’
Dixon began turning the archive boxes around to read the index of each. He would start with the last murder and work backwards, if only because he found Derek Hervey’s files first. He dragged the first box across from the top of the pile on to the vacant workstation and sat down on the swivel chair.
‘Two twin rooms and the restaurant closes in half an hour,’ said Sexton.
‘Tell them we’re on our way.’
‘I did.’
‘Mind if I join you?’ asked Hargreaves. ‘I’ve not eaten all day and Mrs Hargreaves bailed out on me.’
‘Divorced?’ asked Sexton.
‘She’s gone to stay with her sister.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Don’t be. She was divorcing me at the time.’ Hargreaves grinned as they walked over to the lift.
‘When did you take over Bowood?’ asked Dixon, watching Hargreaves jabbing the button to close the lift doors.
‘I took it over from Paul Butler in 1994.’
‘And he authorised the profiling?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the surveillance?’
‘There’s hours of it. Stills and video. They put it all on disc in 2011. Just watch the stuff from 1995 and ignore the rest. Everyone who’s anyone is there.’
‘Thank you.’ Dixon nodded. ‘Anything else we need to know?’
‘Not here,’ said Hargreaves, stepping out of the lift.
‘Three coffees, please.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
It had been an interesting meal. Dixon had opted for the safe bet: fish and chips with mushy peas. But he had to admire Sexton’s courage. Beef Madras anywhere but a curry house showed a real sense of adventure. He watched Hargreaves weaving his way across the restaurant towards the gents.
‘When he gets back, finish your coffee and make your excuses. All right?’
Sexton frowned.
‘He’s got more to say,’ continued Dixon, eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, right. Yes, of course.’
Sexton did as he was told when Hargreaves returned to the table.
‘Subtle,’ said Hargreaves, taking a large swig of coffee. ‘How’s your history?’
‘Not bad, why?’
‘What happened on the fifteenth of June, 1996?’
‘In Manchester?’
Hargreaves nodded.
‘I was still at school,’ said Dixon.
‘I’ll give you a clue: there was a loud bang.’
‘A bomb?’
‘That’s right. The IRA planted a one and half ton bomb outside the—’
‘Arndale Centre,’ interrupted Dixon.
‘Well done. They gave a warning an hour before it went off and we evacuated the whole area. Eighty thousand people and no fatalities, thank God. Some casualties, but no fatalities.’
‘And the Shannons are Irish.’
‘They are.’
‘What about the Carters?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the connection then?’
Hargreaves leaned forwards across the table, his voice hushed. ‘About a month after the bomb went off, Special Branch told us to leave the Carters alone.’
‘Why?’ Dixon watched him twiddling his cufflinks so the Manchester United crest was the right way up.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. We were already pulling our undercover officer out by then anyway.’
A waiter began collecting the coffee cups.
‘A double scotch and a taxi, please,’ said Hargreaves. ‘In that order, preferably.’
‘I’ll get the bill,’ said Dixon.
‘I know.’
‘Did you ever find out what was going on?’
‘Not really. We had our suspicions, but we never had them confirmed.’
‘And?’
‘The word on what was left of the street was that Carter knew who was behind the bomb and had been talking to the anti-terror lot. Then he disappeared. He was never heard of, or from, again.’ Hargreaves pointed at the chocolate in front of Dixon.
‘Do you want that?’
‘You have it,’ replied Dixon, sliding it across the table. ‘I’m diabetic.’
‘The information
we had was that either the Shannons or the IRA had him killed.’
‘And?’
‘It was the IRA, with the Shannons pointing them in the right direction. That’s the most likely explanation,’ continued Hargreaves. ‘And it cleared the way for the Shannons.’
‘So, either Carter really was talking to Special Branch,’ said Dixon. ‘Or the Shannons just spread the rumour that he was so the IRA would step in and do their dirty work for them.’
Hargreaves snatched the glass from the waiter and drained the whisky in one gulp. ‘No one’s ever been prosecuted for the attack, except a GMP officer who was leaking stuff to the press.’
‘Really?’
‘The journalist was sent down for contempt for refusing to reveal his source and the officer was acquitted.’
‘What was the information?’
‘Names of suspects, from memory. None of it was ever printed.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Operation Bowood was closed down and we turned our attention to the Shannons.’
‘And The Vet?’
‘If the Irish didn’t kill him then he’s still out there. Somewhere. And coming out of retirement too, by the sound of things.’
‘Your taxi’s here, Sir.’
‘Will you be back tomorrow?’ asked Dixon, standing up.
‘No fear. There’s a Champions League game against Barcelona.’
‘Home or away?’
‘Away,’ replied Hargreaves, grinning. ‘You’re on your own.’
Chapter Nine
Two rings. He smiled. She must have been waiting for his call.
‘What’s up?’ Jane asked.
Dixon pressed the ‘mute’ button on the TV remote and slumped back into his pillows.
‘Not a lot. You?’
‘Same shit, different day. How’s Manchester?’
‘Cold.’
‘And the case?’
‘Looks like a copycat to me, but I’ve not said so yet. I want to keep this lot interested as long as I can.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘There’s no precision to Harry’s murder. I saw the injuries to his neck. Whoever did it was hacking away with the fleam. Five goes at it, according to Roger. And he had at least two goes with the trephine. The Vet knew what he was doing.’
‘There must be a connection though, surely?’ asked Jane.
‘There must. Particularly as there’s stuff that was never released to the public.’
‘Like what?’
‘The handcuffs, for a start. How did the copycat know about them?’
‘They’re not in Burkett’s book?’
‘No. The IRA are involved too.’
‘What? You be bloody careful.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘How long are you staying up there?’
‘Tonight and tomorrow night probably. Unless I can get away any sooner,’ said Dixon. ‘Have you spoken to Sonia?’
‘Not today.’
‘How’s Monty?’
‘Fast asleep.’
‘Typical.’
‘What’d he have to say then?’ asked Sexton, through a mouthful of cornflakes at breakfast the next morning. Dixon was pushing a piece of bacon around his plate, deep in thought.
‘Hargreaves. What’d he say?’
‘The IRA killed Michael Carter in 1996 and the rest of the gang disappeared.’
‘Including The Vet?’
Dixon nodded.
‘What were the IRA doing here?’
‘Just google “Arndale Centre 1996” when you get a minute.’
‘A bomb?’
‘One and a half tons of it.’
‘And they know that for sure?’ asked Sexton.
‘That was the information they had at the time.’
‘If that’s right, then this must be a copycat, surely?’
‘Yes, but where is he getting his information from?’
‘About the handcuffs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stuff like that is bound to creep out over time,’ said Sexton. ‘On internet forums and stuff like that. It’s been twenty years, don’t forget.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Dixon. ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves for as long as we can, though. Roger Poland will confirm it soon enough, I expect.’
‘OK.’
Twenty minutes later they were back on the fourth floor of the GMP headquarters building staring at the huge pile of archive boxes. Douglas had signed them in and was hovering.
‘Get anything useful from Ray Hargreaves?’
‘Just gossip about the IRA,’ replied Dixon.
‘It was never proven.’ Douglas shook his head. ‘It could just as easily have been the Shannons.’
‘Or both.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got everyone out trying to find out what they can.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Dixon turned back to the box on the workstation in front of him. He dropped the lid on the floor and then pulled out a handful of files. It felt a bit like a lucky dip.
The post mortem report on Derek Hervey made interesting reading. Handcuffs again, and a single clean incision with a fleam to open up the jugular vein in the neck. A thirteen millimetre hole had been drilled in his forehead, then he had been buried in a shallow grave beneath a pile of sand on a building site. Time and trouble had been taken to replace the sand, which seemed odd given that the discovery of the body was inevitable. Dixon frowned.
‘Who have you got?’ he asked.
‘Lee Henry,’ replied Sexton. ‘A small time drug dealer.’
‘What about the fleam?’
‘A single cut to the external jugular vein.’
‘And where was he found?’
‘Cypress Street Allotments, buried in some poor sod’s vegetable patch.’
‘Is it overlooked?’
‘There are some terraced cottages opposite, but no one saw or heard anything.’
‘How long was he there?’
‘Only a few days. The bloke was going to plant some brassicas, whatever they are.’ Sexton shrugged his shoulders.
‘They’re not being buried with any real intent to hide the bodies, are they,’ said Dixon. ‘Hervey was buried under a pile of sand on a building site and Hocking in a flower bed in a public park.’
‘The burial is almost the murder weapon,’ said Sexton.
‘And a statement. A murder isn’t going to intimidate anyone if the body isn’t found, is it?’
Dixon pulled another folder from the box and began flicking through the witness statements in it, comparing them with the copies in the red box file. He found the original versions of the edited statements and cross-checked each redaction.
‘You getting the same names redacted?’ asked Dixon, peering over the computer in front of him.
‘Yes,’ replied Sexton. ‘Just the informers. There’s reference to a barman here called Rick Wheaton. Maybe that’s the undercover officer?’
‘If it is, it’s not his real name.’
‘You learning anything new?’
‘Lots. I’m just not sure it’s stuff I need to know,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head.
He put the lid back on Hervey’s box and fished a pile of witness statements out of another on the floor next to his workstation. They came from Brian Hocking’s colleagues in the Tactical Vehicle Crime Unit. It was a specialist unit targeting vehicle crime in Manchester and they had just started filming X Cars, a fly-on-the-wall documentary for the BBC. They had been investigating a spate of thefts of very high value cars, having been told that the vehicles were being stolen to order.
Hocking, a trained pursuit driver, received a radio call just before midnight to join in the pursuit of a silver Porsche 911 Turbo that had been reported stolen minutes earlier. The high speed pursuit had lasted eleven minutes when Hocking took a wrong turning, allowing the vehicle to escape.
His partner and passenger throughout the chase, PC Po
tter, confirmed that the Porsche had been out of sight for a matter of seconds. Dixon smiled. PC Deborah Potter had seen it turn right at a crossroads, but Hocking had turned left. When questioned, Hocking had said he had made a simple mistake. His shift ended at 2 a.m. He left the police station just after that and never arrived home. His body was found two days later.
Dixon spotted Douglas at the coffee machine.
‘Is it an Anti-Corruption or a Counter Corruption Unit?’
‘Counter,’ replied Douglas.
‘I’m guessing they’ve got a file on Brian Hocking. Can I see it?’
‘Is it relevant?’
‘I won’t know that till I’ve seen it, Sir.’ Matter of fact.
‘Leave it with me,’ said Douglas, with a loud sigh.
‘And the officer who was sent down?’
‘Baker.’
‘His too.’
Dixon placed a coffee on the desk in front of Sexton. He had made no effort to stir in the powdered milk, which was floating on the top.
‘Er, thanks,’ said Sexton.
‘You looked at the other murder?’
‘An associate of the Shannons, apparently. The post mortem is almost identical. You could change the names and not notice any difference.’
‘Where was he found?’
‘In the middle of a local football pitch. They’d even cut out the turf and replaced it over him. The groundsman got a bit of a shock when he was marking out the pitch.’
‘Make a start on the disappearances then and see if anything leaps out at you.’
‘That’s the rest of the boxes!’
‘Apart from the surveillance. I’ll look at that.’
‘Will do,’ replied Sexton, puffing out his cheeks.
‘Jane said you were up here.’
Dixon looked up to find Roger Poland standing next to his workstation.
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Flying visit. I’ve got a two o’clock with Geoffrey Burkett. Then I’m briefing this lot before the train home at sevenish.’
‘Can I come with you to see Dr Burkett?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Poland. ‘They’re laying on a car.’
‘Have you got your PM report?’
‘Here’s your copy.’ Poland dropped a large brown envelope on to the desk in front of Dixon. ‘It’s in your email too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s life on the Major Investigation Team?’