DARK TRADE
A gripping crime thriller full of twists
HELEN H. DURRANT
DCI Greco Book 3
First published 2017
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Helen H. Durrant
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
GET THE FIRST DI GRECO BOOK NOW!
DARK MURDER
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A woman is found dead by a canal . . . why have her eyes have been viciously poked out?
Detective Stephen Greco has just started a new job at Oldston CID and now he faces a series of murders with seemingly no connection but the brutal disfigurement of the victims. Greco’s team is falling apart under the pressure and he doesn't know who he can trust. Then they discover a link to a local drug dealer, but maybe it’s not all that it seems.
Can Greco get control of his chaotic team and stop the murders?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
OTHER BOOKS BY HELEN H. DURRANT
CHARACTER LIST
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
To Shelley and Melissa — my two lovely daughters.
Prologue
The knife slid in between the ribs, the tip positioned at the fifth intercostal space, then six inches of hard steel driven upwards. A split second later it entered his heart.
“Sorry. Nothing personal.”
The kid turned, squinting up at his assailant. A strange face, smiling down at him, followed by a sharp pain as the knife was yanked free. For a moment he was stunned, frozen as his brain tried to process what had happened. His hands and eyes flew to his chest. There was blood, more than he’d ever seen. He sank to his knees, unable to scream. Shock and disbelief had taken away his voice. Seconds later he was dead.
* * *
Pocketing the knife, his assailant bent down and kicked him onto his back. He straightened the boy’s legs, and neatly folded his arms across his chest. He put a hand to the jacket pocket — nothing but a few coins. No wallet, mobile or anything else to identify him. Made the job easy, just as Mickey liked it.
“A practised hand, I’d no idea. Boss’ll be impressed,” the driver said as Mickey slid into the passenger seat.
“He’s not my boss. I work for myself. Just get me out of this poxy car park.”
“Don’t get shirty with me.”
The killer examined the meagre haul. “He didn’t have much. Only a kid. What did he do to deserve that?”
“Became a liability. Slicer likes things neat and tidy.” The driver laughed.
“Slicer is an arse.”
The driver looked at him. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Slicer doesn’t frighten me.”
“Well, he should.”
“Slicer can go to hell! You got my money?”
“Slicer said when it’s over.”
“He’s dead. It’s over. You don’t leave this car until I get paid.” There was menace in the words and the driver gripped the wheel, looking ahead.
“He wants to talk,” he admitted. “Pay you himself. Offer you a deal.”
Mickey shuffled uneasily on the seat. “I don’t do meetings. Ring him. Get me my money.”
“Ring him yourself!”
Mickey didn’t like this, it wasn’t how these things worked. A name, a place and payment on results. Anything else was a complication.
“Where does he want to meet?”
The driver smiled. “That’s better. Now relax. He’s got a deal you will be interested in.”
“Where?”
“I’ll pick you up, same place, midday tomorrow,” said the driver. “Don’t worry. Slicer will have your money.”
“He better have.”
“Cocky bastard, aren’t you, kid?”
“No. What I am, is good.”
Chapter 1
Day 1
Another look in the mirror. A tweak of his tie. Steel grey — a perfect match for both his shirt and his mood. Stephen Greco closed his eyes, and a weary sigh escaped his mouth. What was he doing?
“You look smart.” The voice behind him was reassuring, and there was a comforting hand on his arm.
“Thanks, Pat.”
The woman smiled at his reflection. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll be great. This is what you’ve always wanted — promotion to DCI. Remember?”
He gave a half-hearted smile. “That was before . . .” He averted his eyes from hers. His stomach tormented him whenever he spoke of Suzy. “Now I’m not so sure.”
“You need to work, Stephen. It’s good for you. Suzy wouldn’t want you moping. She’d want you to get on with your life. And Matilda needs you to be on top form.”
Mention of his young daughter put the smile back on his face. Pat was right. Life hadn’t been up to much for his six-year-old daughter recently. She asked about her mother constantly — when she was coming back. Greco had tried to explain, but he didn’t have the words, and even if he had, he doubted the child would understand.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Auntie Pat? Once I get back into the thick of it there’s no turning back. It’s a big commitment. You’ve given up your independence to move here.”
“I see it as a fresh start, for us both. Make no mistake, Stephen, I need this every bit as much as you do. You can’t do the job if you’re worrying about Matilda all day long. And me,” she smiled, “I was stagnating in that village.”
He grimaced. “You’re right, as usual. But make no mistake, you’ve got the rough end of the deal. A dysfunctional depressive and a small child to look after.”
“I’m only too pleased to have a purpose again. I was going to seed. Looking after you and the little one will keep me sane.” She smiled at him.
“I don’t know about that. Matilda can run rings around the both of us. What’s more likely, is that she’ll wear you out.”
She whacked him with a tea towel. “I’m fifty-eight! There’s plenty of pep in me yet.”
Now for the r
itual. Greco hated the way he was. But since his wife Suzy’s death, his OCD had become worse. He checked his reflection one more time, swept the blond hair from his forehead. He clapped the right pocket of his suit jacket. His mobile was in place. Retrieving it, he looked at the screen. Plenty of battery. Next, he picked up his wallet and badge from the sideboard. Finally, a short walk across the sitting room to the photo of Suzy, the one that stood in pride of place on the mantelpiece. Lifting it tenderly, he traced the outline of her face with his finger, then kissed it. All was in order. Time to go.
Pat called through from the hallway. “Visitor, Stephen! It’s McCabe.”
Greco pulled a face. What now? He could hear Pat at the front door. A short conversation and bursts of laughter. Moments later she reappeared with Detective Superintendent Gordon McCabe in tow.
He came straight to the point. “Morning, Stephen. We’ve got a dead ’un on Gorton Road multistorey. The call’s just come in, so I thought you and me would take a look.”
“Murder?”
“I’m afraid so. Pathologist’s taken a quick look and reckons that whoever put the poor kid out of his misery was no amateur. It looks like the Knifeman has struck again.” He grimaced.
“That makes two. He’s getting a taste for it.”
“No, Stephen, what he’s doing is getting away with it. Same method both times. Victim killed, laid out, and left without any useful evidence.”
“Knifeman?”
“Nickname the team gave him because of how the victims are despatched. This one knows what he’s doing alright. One stroke, bypassing the ribs and straight into the heart. That takes skill.”
“Got time for a mug of tea, Superintendent?” asked Pat.
“Sorry, love. We’ve got to dash.”
Greco saw McCabe taking in his aunt, his eyes sweeping over her form. He looked impressed. Pat Greco was an attractive woman, and his new boss had a reputation.
“We’ll visit the scene together. I’ll leave you and your team to find out who he was. Won’t be easy. He’s young, Asian-looking, and his clothes have seen better days. He could have been living rough. Uniform did a cursory search, but found nothing on him. Stinks of something nasty, Stephen. He looks like a drug runner, and so did the other kid. These killings look like executions to me.”
“Executions. You’re thinking gang or drug related?”
“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore. If the dead kid was carrying drugs, the lab will tell us.”
“We had gang problems in Oldston,” Greco told him as they made their way to the waiting car.
“This is a very different ballgame, lad. It’s not a few small operators hanging around some rundown estate. This is city-wide organised crime. Drug importation, prostitution, people trafficking. There are several minor villains who run things locally, but the big player in Manchester is Vincent Costello. All the local dealers get their stuff from him, and he takes a generous cut. He might live out in deepest Yorkshire but he maintains an iron grip on his operation here. Trouble is, proving it.”
“This could be an attempted takeover?”
“God help us if it is. We’ll be picking up bodies off every street corner.”
Greco hadn’t known him for long, but he was warming to Gordon McCabe. He was a ‘no frills,’ get-the-job-done type, who spoke his mind. Born and bred in Manchester, he had no edge to him. Superintendent he might be, but he had earned the position through sheer hard work. No graduate entry for him — he’d started out as a uniformed constable. But how long he’d stay in the job was anybody’s guess. He wasn’t a fit man. Overweight, with a face Greco could only describe as ‘lived in,’ he’d smoked all his life and was often breathless when climbing stairs. Greco didn’t know exactly how old the superintendent was, but he had to be in his late fifties at least.
“D’you know this part of the city?” McCabe asked as the car pulled up on Gorton Road.
“No, sir. I’m still finding my way around.”
“Most of the terraced streets round here were torn down in the fifties and sixties. The families were rehoused in them buggers.” He nodded at the high-rise flats. “Modern housing was what was promised. A breeding ground for villains is what we got.”
“But there is some nice property here. Those over there for example, sir.” Greco looked at the modern low-rise blocks and new houses that spread out from the main road into the backstreets.
“Aye, those new ’uns might be alright. But there’s still a lot of poverty here. Old stuff that should be condemned — and them eyesores. That’s the Lansdowne Estate.” He gave another nod at the tall blocks. “Not a place to wander round on your own at night.”
The body was lying on the second level of the car park. A young olive-skinned, dark-haired male, flat on his back. His eyes were open, staring up at nothing. His clothing was dirty and worn. His legs were stretched out together in front of him and his arms were neatly folded across his chest. Obviously the killer had had plenty of time.
Greco was looking around. “Why wasn’t he found earlier? This is a busy car park.”
“Cheeky buggers taped off this level. Chap on the gate came up here early doors to investigate and found him.”
The pathologist at the scene was Bob Bowers, who greeted him with a smile. “DCI Greco. Congratulations! I heard about your promotion. Mind you, it’s a double-edged sword. All it gets you is more responsibility, and you’ve still got all this stuff to sort out.”
“Anything that’ll help?”
“No ID, but I might find something when I get him back. Teeth are well looked after, so dental records might give us a name in time. I plan to do the PM back at the Duggan, this afternoon at about two.”
Chapter 2
“Some of you already know DCI Greco. The rest of you met him in the pub last week,” McCabe told the team. “So don’t be shy. Give him your support. My gut tells me we’re in for a bumpy ride with this one.” He nodded at the incident board. “Introductions over. I’ll leave you lot to get on with it. The chief constable wants me for lunch.” He winked.
Greco had swapped Oldston station for the new headquarters of the Serious Crime Squad, on the outskirts of Manchester. The old police station that had served Openshaw had been given a makeover, and was now state of the art. The new office was streamlined, with huge windows that let in plenty of natural light. Greco had his own space behind a frosted glass partition. His office furniture was new, and his desk sported a brand new laptop.
Some of the old team had come with him at his request — DS Jed Quickenden, aka Speedy, and DC Grace Harper. Grace was both a colleague and a friend. During the worst of times, Greco had been able to lean on her, and he valued her support. Of all his old team, she was the one he’d been closest to. This was something Grace sometimes misinterpreted.
Until a week ago, he’d had no idea who else would be joining them. The new members of the team were a DI, Leah Wells, and a DC, Joel Hough. Apart from half an hour spent in the pub, where he learned that both had transferred from Manchester Central, he knew little about them.
Leah Wells was his age. She was a tall, lithe woman, who looked as if she was often at the gym. Long dark hair tumbled untidily across her shoulders, and her eyes were blue. Cornflower blue, he’d noticed, the same shade as his daughter’s. She had a wide smile and a slightly turned up nose. Leah Wells was pretty. The only drawback was that her clothes were too casual for Greco’s liking. Today she was in a pair of well-worn faded jeans.
Joel Hough was young, in his early twenties. He was tall, dark-haired, with heavy glasses which made him look geeky. His speciality was IT. He sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He didn’t even look up when Greco addressed the team.
“Unknown male, still in his teens I’d say. Stabbed, and his body laid out on the floor of the multistorey car park on Gorton Road,” he began. “There was nothing on him to help with identification. No mobile either. I doubt this was robbery. The kid didn’t look as if he ha
d two halfpennies to rub together.”
“Perhaps the killer was disturbed,” Grace offered.
“I don’t think so. The killer laid him flat on his back, straightened him out, and folded his arms, which takes time. We don’t know if anything was taken from the scene. But he could have been running drugs. Bear that in mind. I’ve read the file on the individual called ‘the Knifeman.’ McCabe reckons this has all the same hallmarks, and I agree with him.”
“Current thinking is that he is a specialist hitman,” said Leah Wells.
“The two killings have been young men. We suspect the first was delivering drugs around the Lansdowne Estate. It is possible that the second one was too.”
“If that’s so, then they’ll be local, known. The multistorey is only a stone’s throw away from the Lansdowne,” Grace said.
Greco nodded. “That could be right. Our latest victim is young. Someone should miss him before long, and call it in.”
“If we are going with the killings being drug related, we have to consider why they are different from the norm,” Leah pointed out. “The usual way of disposing of a rival is with a bullet. Quick and simple. I’d like to know what’s changed.”
“Bullets get attention, media and the like,” Greco reminded them. “The headlines after that doorstep shooting in Beswick last year went on for weeks. The Knifeman is a shadow. No one sees, no one hears. That makes the incidents less newsworthy. The doorstep shooting got the media attention it did because there was a screaming match first, and a group of kids were playing in the front garden.”
“I haven’t heard anything on the streets about a bust-up in the drug gangs, or a new face on the block,” one of the PCs added. “If something was going on, there would be whispers all over. There’s plenty of dealing, but it is strictly controlled. Each firm has its own territory.”
“I’ve checked the HOLMES database, sir,” Joel Hough piped up, his face turning red as all eyes turned his way. “It fits no other method of killing in our area. Stabbing features widely, as you’d expect. But not the skill, or the way the body was left.”
DARK TRADE a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 1