The Falcon Tattoo (The National Crime Agency Series Book 2)

by Bill Rogers

  Black clouds descended as the motorway crossed over the Pennine Way on Windy Hill. Jo switched on BBC2 to catch up on the news and caught the weather forecast.

  ‘We expect the next few days leading up to Boxing Day to be unsettled with showers or longer spells of rain. The rain will be most persistent in the north and west. Daytime temperatures will generally be above average, although the wind chill on higher ground will make it feel much colder. Odds of a white Christmas in this region stand at four to one, and any snowfall is likely to be limited to high ground.’

  My God, she thought, the day after tomorrow is Christmas Eve. How did I forget that? The answer was simple. She had immersed herself in the investigation to the exclusion of all else. Had Abbie still been at home, there would have been no escaping it.

  Jo and Abbie had promised to spend Christmas Day with Jo’s parents and she had still not told them that they had separated. Worse still, she hadn’t even bought their presents. And what to do about Abbie’s presents, hidden at the bottom of her tights drawer? A deluxe two-night luxury glamping stay in the Cotswolds, and the exquisite gold Pandora charm studded with turquoise-coloured topaz that Abbie had fallen in love with but rejected as far too expensive. She could try taking the charm back? Or put both presents on eBay and take what she could get?

  You’re better than this, she told herself. You know where Abbie’s staying. Wrap them up, buy a nice card and drop them off. What do you have to lose?

  It was approaching seven in the evening when Jo reached the outskirts of Manchester. The normal rush hour traffic had come to a grinding halt. The outside temperature had fallen dramatically and was already approaching freezing. Two gritters had just sped past on the hard shoulder, heralding a tricky night ahead. She decided to give up trying to reach the office, left the motorway at the Middleton turn-off and headed for the city centre.

  The traffic began to flow again down Cheetham Hill Road. She released the clutch and set off. Her mind wandered back to those two presents. The worst that can happen is that Abbie will send them back, she reflected. If she does, I’ll give them to a charity, then at least something good will have come out of it.

  An hour and a half later, following a frenzied shop in Kendals, Jo placed the bags containing her parents’ presents on the floor while she found her key and unlocked the door to the apartment. She shouldered the door open and bent to retrieve the bags.

  There was a piece of card on the floor in the hallway. She picked it up, went inside and closed the door. Switching on the lights, she went through into the lounge, dumped everything on the floor and sat on the arm of the sofa. She turned the card over. There was a note scribbled in pencil on the back in a barely legible hand.

  Delivery next door.

  Jo stared at it. She had not been expecting a delivery. Her professional instinct was to be suspicious and concerned. A genuine courier would have left some kind of official card and contact details. She went to the door, opened it and stepped out on to the mezzanine. Which next door? There were two. She started with the one on the left: the woman, a few years older than her, whom she seemed to remember having said that she worked in one of the iconic Co-op Insurance Society Towers. She rang the bell and waited. Rang it twice more and then gave up. She had better luck with the next one.

  An older man, whom she had never seen before, stood there with a broad grin on his face. He was holding a large arrangement of white chrysanthemums and black lilies in a silver-and-black box.

  ‘I assume these are for you?’ he said.

  ‘Someone pushed this through the letter box,’ she told him, holding up the note. ‘It just says there’s a delivery next door.’

  ‘There you go then,’ he said. ‘Somebody loves you.’

  She thanked him and hurried back into the apartment. The flowers were quite heavy, so she placed them on the coffee table while she searched for the accompanying message. She was unable to find one. Her heart skipped a beat. They must be from Abbie, delivered by the florist. But Abbie had a key – she would have brought them in herself if it had been her. There was only one way to find out. She rang Abbie’s mobile, and was surprised to find it answered almost immediately.

  ‘Jo,’ said Abbie, her voice an icy monotone, ‘I wondered when you’d ring.’

  ‘So it was you,’ said Jo, her mood lifting so fast that she almost felt weightless. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful? What are beautiful?’

  ‘The flowers. You did send me some flowers?’

  ‘Flowers?’

  Abbie paused, and in that moment Jo already knew what her answer was going to be. Her heart sank in her chest like a stone.

  ‘No, I did not send you any flowers. Maybe you have a new admirer?’

  An awkward silence hung between them.

  Abbie spoke first. ‘I assumed that you were ringing in response to my note?’

  ‘Note? What note?’

  ‘The one I left underneath the remote. Beside the television?’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ Jo said. ‘I haven’t been near the television in . . .’

  ‘Days,’ said Abbie. ‘Three days to be precise.’

  ‘I’ve been . . .’

  ‘Busy with work? What a surprise.’

  Jo was about to say that this wasn’t fair. That a young woman had died. That what else was she supposed to do, given that Abbie had walked out on her? But she knew it was pointless.

  ‘By the way,’ Abbie continued, ‘I rang your parents and gave them my apologies for Christmas Day. Apparently you hadn’t bothered to tell them about us. Your mother was gutted. I got the impression that your father was upset too, only he didn’t seem at all surprised.’

  Jo’s heart sank. What was always going to be a difficult conversation with her parents was now going to be ten times worse. How could she have been so stupid?

  ‘What does your note say, Abbie?’ she asked. ‘If you give me a moment, I’ll read it.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ came the cold reply. ‘I wouldn’t want to upset your busy schedule.’

  And then the line went dead.

  Jo got up, walked over to the television and found the note. It was short and to the point.

  Jo, we can’t go on ignoring each other. There are things we need to sort out, and in any case I hope we can still be friends when the dust has settled? I’d like that. Perhaps we could meet for a drink and to exchange our Christmas presents? Somewhere neutral. You decide. Abbs X

  Jo’s hand began to tremble and her eyes welled up with tears. She had assumed that the flowers were a peace offering, a way back from the brink. This carefully crafted note with its bounded reconciliation and closing kiss had a finality all of its own.

  She let the note flutter from her fingers. Those damned flowers. If they weren’t from Abbie, then who were they from? She dried her eyes with the heels of her hands and went to wake up her Mac.

  Chapter 40

  The mysterious lilies, Jo discovered, were Queen of the Night and not black but a dark shade of red. She read on. Lilies were universally seen as symbolic of purity with one exception: when left on graves they were a symbol of death. So also were chrysanthemums. On All Souls Day, the Day of the Dead, people in Italy left chrysanthemums on the graves of their loved ones.

  She logged off, and stood up. The despair she had felt following her exchange with Abbie was turning to anger. Someone was playing a game with her. Sending her a message. There were no spurned admirers nor jilted lovers – this was work-related. Her instinct told her that it was to do with Operation Juniper. If so, it could only mean one thing: she was getting close. Too close for someone’s comfort.

  It took five minutes to contact the building superintendent, a further five to convince him of the urgency of the matter, and close to an hour for him to arrive at the apartments.

  ‘This couldn’t wait till the morning?’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she told him. ‘Besides, I didn’t think you’d apprecia
te being called out then.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he replied. ‘You thought I’d prefer to come out at eleven pm instead?’

  He opened the door to his office, switched on the lights and went over to the desk on which the security monitors stood. He turned to look at her.

  ‘This is police business, right?’

  Jo showed him her warrant card.

  ‘Urgent police business,’ she said.

  He shook his head, pulled his chair out and sat down.

  ‘When are we looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘My next-door neighbour said they were left with him at around four o’clock this afternoon.’

  The superintendent entered a few keystrokes and a blank screen came to life.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, starting the playback at ten to four. He fast-forwarded the recording until a figure with an awkward shuffling gait approached the entrance. He immediately froze the image.

  ‘He’s a tramp!’ he said.

  ‘Rough sleeper,’ Jo said.

  ‘Whatever.’

  He zoomed in on the image. A man of indeterminate age, with thick straggly hair and an unkempt beard, stared directly into the camera with rheumy eyes.

  ‘I know him,’ said the superintendent. ‘He’s one of those homeless blokes that hangs around the city centre. Only he normally wears a Man City beanie.’

  Jo craned forward.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘He’s a regular.’

  He had been outside the Royal Exchange when she and Abbie went to see Maxine Peake playing Hamlet. Abbie had given him a pound and told him to keep the carnation he offered her. That was typical of Abbie. At least, Jo reflected, I know where to find him.

  The superintendent had zoomed out and was running the tape on.

  ‘How the hell did he get the entry code?’ he said.

  They watched as the man pushed the door open and entered the foyer. It would have been as easy to discover the code, Jo knew, as it was for fraudsters to read pin codes over the shoulder of guileless shoppers.

  ‘What’s that he’s holding?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘An arrangement of flowers,’ Jo told him, ‘for me.’

  She had seen enough.

  ‘Thanks for coming out,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  He stopped the tape and turned around.

  ‘That could have been a bloody bomb!’ he said, concern etched all over his face.

  ‘It might be worth changing the code, and reminding all of the residents to shield the pad when they enter it,’ she suggested.

  The superintendent stood up.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Have a good Christmas,’ Jo said.

  ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘You too.’

  But she had already left the room.

  Chapter 41

  The narrow beam of light sliced through the ink-black darkness and reflected off a broken bottle on to the ceiling of the brick-lined cavern. Something moved ahead of her. She raised the torch and caught a rat scuttling across the sea of rubbish and into the shadows.

  Jo shivered. It had been a mistake to come here alone past midnight. It was not the occupants she feared, but the dozens of discarded needles crunching beneath her boots. There would be many more scattered among the heaps of bottles and cans, the rotting mattresses and cardboard. It had been a wise decision to don her NCA waterproofs and helmet, to clip her baton to her belt, but the thing that she missed above all was a mask. The stench of human faeces and stale urine assaulted her nostrils, threatening to trigger the gag response.

  It was hard to believe that human beings lived in these caves, entered through railway arches that turned into tunnels deep beneath the River Irwell. The council claimed that there were properties enough to house them all. Man United legends Gary Neville and Nicky Scholes had even opened up their renovation of the Stock Exchange to homeless persons as a temporary measure. Yet some still chose to make this hell a home. Was it a choice, she wondered, or a desperate last resort?

  A large cardboard box moved as she brushed against it with her foot. She swung the torch to reveal a face, and an arm raised to shield the eyes. She stepped back and moved the beam to the right. The arm moved. It was a woman – or was it? It was difficult to tell with the beanie pulled low over the forehead, the face smeared with grime, the body hidden inside the empty boxes.

  ‘Fer fuzz’ sake, leave me ’lone,’ the woman said, her words slurring each into the next.

  ‘I’m looking for Barry,’ Jo told her. ‘You may know him as Bazz?’

  The woman tried to pull a flap of cardboard over her head. Jo pulled it back.

  ‘Barry,’ she insisted. ‘Where is he?’

  A wavering hand appeared, pointing towards the tunnels.

  ‘Down there?’ Jo said. ‘Barry’s down there?’

  ‘Dunno,’ the woman replied. ‘Maybe.’ The hand retreated. ‘Now sod off an’ . . . le’ . . . me . . . alone.’

  Jo backed off and stood up. She was not prepared to go any further into this subterranean underworld. Even sober, it was unlikely the woman would have made much sense. Accepting anything she said in her current state was like believing you could win the lottery. Reluctantly, Jo turned around and began a careful retreat.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as a semicircle of half-light appeared ahead. Just a few yards short of freedom from the toxic chamber, she stopped. A narrow shaft of light was advancing across the front of her vision. A shadowy shape filled the entrance. She raised the beam of her torch at the same time as the new arrival, and was forced to place a hand in front of her face and peer through the gaps in her fingers. She was staring into the startled face of Barry ‘Bazz’ McGinty.

  ‘It’s alright, Barry,’ she said, lowering her torch. ‘I just need a word with you. Can you please take that torch off my face?’

  As the beam swung away and down, she walked towards the entrance. She was relieved to find him backing away. Drips of stagnant water landed on her helmet and on the floor beside her. Beyond the arches, she could see a curtain of rain swaying with every passing gust of wind.

  ‘I’m Joanne Stuart,’ she told him. ‘A senior investigator with the police. But you’re not in trouble – I need your help, Barry. Just a minute of your time then you can be on your way.’

  Beneath his arm, he carried a rolled-up sleeping bag shrouded in cellophane. In the same hand, he held a plastic shopping bag. He lowered the bag gingerly to the floor. There was no need to enquire as to the contents. The sound of tin on tin and glass on glass was evidence enough. Barry adjusted the sleeping bag with the hand holding his torch and the beam swung wildly across the walls and the gently curved ceiling.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘What is it this time? The Great Train Robbery? Oh no, you got them, didn’t you.’

  His voice surprised her: here was an educated man fallen from grace, Jo guessed. At least he was sober enough to crack a joke. But then presumably he’d spent the bouquet delivery money on the cans and sleeping bag. She raised her torch at an angle so that she could see most of his face in the light reflected from the wall beside him.

  ‘It’s about the flowers, Barry,’ she said.

  He nodded his head, cleared his throat and spat on the floor.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I used to smoke. Buggered the bronchial tubes. I ought to have sued them – too late now.’

  ‘The flowers, Barry,’ Jo persisted. ‘Who asked you to deliver them?’

  ‘And buy them,’ he said. ‘Not just deliver them. Sniffy little madam wasn’t going to let me have them. Not till I showed her the money and gave her the name.’

  He grinned, favouring her with a mouthful of yellow stumps.

  ‘They were for you, weren’t they? Stuart, that’s what you said. That was the name. Joanne Stuart.’

  ‘You’ve a great memory, Barry,’ she said. ‘So tell me, who gave you the money and the name and the address?’
>
  ‘It was a lad,’ he said. ‘Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Never seen him before. He said did I want to earn thirty quid. Fifteen now and fifteen when I’d done the job. I asked him was the Pope a Catholic. He said he didn’t know.’

  Barry laughed, which set off a coughing fit. She waited patiently for him to recover.

  ‘Where was this?’ she asked. ‘Where this boy came up to you?’

  ‘I was crossing Great Northern Square,’ he said. ‘The little toerag had been following me all the way up Watson Street from The Midland Hotel. Didn’t know I’d clocked him, but I had.’

  There was definitely CCTV on the square, Jo knew. That was something at least.

  ‘Can you describe him?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Shorter than me, thinner than me, Doc Martens, jeans and a hoodie. I only saw his little pointed nose and his thin tight mouth. Like a weasel.’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘A kid just out of nappies acting up the Manc’ hardman.’

  ‘Manchester, not Salford?’

  He chuckled. ‘If you can tell the difference you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!’

  ‘What time was this, Barry?’

  He shrugged. ‘Do I look as though I keep a track of the time?’

  ‘Within an hour will do,’ she said. ‘You delivered them to the apartments at four pm. How long before that did he approach you?’

  He thought about it.

  ‘It would be about three o’clock then.’

  ‘Did he write down any of the instructions? The kind of flowers, the shop, the address and number of the apartment, the entry code?’

  Barry nodded.

  ‘All of that,’ he said.

  ‘What did you do with the note?’ she asked.

  He sensed the urgency in her voice and nodded sadly.

  ‘Sorry. He said to rip it up when I came out, and stuff it a bit at a time down the grids as I went to meet him.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘I was worried he was watching me. That I wouldn’t get the rest of the money.’