‘Don’t go too far, my friend,’ Jack said. ‘We may want to speak to you shortly.’
They headed into the main bar area to be greeted by a huge empty space. Somewhere out back, bottles could be heard clanging, alongside the sound of excited chatter. Jack stepped up to the bar, his feet sticking to the floor.
‘Anybody there?’ Watkins called.
A small, pretty woman appeared in a side doorway, straining from the effort of lugging a crate of WKD into the bar.
‘One second, fellas,’ she said in a thick, Liverpudlian accent.
The barmaid dumped the crate on the floor before wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Jack ascertained that she must have been about five foot two and didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Luminous pink bra straps were visible through her sheer-black T-shirt that read, ‘Wanna Shot?’
‘Hello, miss…?’
‘Becky,’ she said, her voice as small as her petite frame.
‘Are you the only staff member on duty?’
‘Other than Gruff,’ she said. ‘The bouncer.’
Gruff indeed, Jack thought. ‘Christensen, would you mind going to have a word with our friendly neighbourhood bouncer, please?’
‘No problem, boss,’ he said, turning to leave.
‘Becky, do you recognise this photo?’ Watkins asked, holding up a mugshot of Jessica Lisbie.
‘Yeah, it’s Jessica,’ she replied, her eyes darting down to the floor.
Jack took note. ‘Are you aware of what has happened?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve seen the paper.’
‘How long had Jessica been working here for?’
‘About three months,’ she replied. ‘Look, I can’t give you much information, I’m afraid. Jessica kept to herself most of the time. She was weird.’
He noted Becky’s disdainful attitude towards her former co-worker. ‘And do you recognise this photo?’
The barmaid took the printout, her eyes scanning the image.
‘I’m not sure. He just looks like every bloke who comes in here.’
Jack smiled. ‘Was Jessica seeing anybody?’
She shrugged. Something in her body language told him she was holding something back.
‘Becky, it’s vitally important that you tell me anything you think you might know,’ he continued. ‘Was Jessica ever involved in any criminal activity that you know of?’
She snorted. ‘No, Jessica was too innocent for anything like that.’
‘How can you be sure if you only knew her through work and she was a somewhat private person?’
‘Well... I... she just never came across that way.’
‘Can you think of any reason as to why somebody would want to hurt Jessica?’
The girl paused. ‘No.’
‘Becky,’ he said, locking her with his eyes. ‘You do realise that if you are withholding something that eventually comes to light, you could be committing a crime and looking at serious jail time?’
That had the desired effect.
‘Gary, who works here, had a thing for her. They’d flirted a bit, that’s all. It didn’t last long. She ended things not so long ago. But... Gary wouldn’t harm anyone.’
Lies. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No... yes... of course he wouldn’t.’
‘Where is Gary now, Becky?’ Watkins asked.
‘He should be in tonight. But... he’s been off for a couple of weeks. I don’t know why. He barely speaks to me now.’
‘But he used to?’
She sighed. ‘Look, Gary and I used to have a thing going. Once Jess started, he wasn’t interested any more. But, if you ask me, what goes around comes around.’
‘Are you saying Jess got what was coming to her?’ Watkins asked.
Welcome to the real Becky, Jack thought.
‘No, of course not!’ she spluttered.
‘Becky,’ Jack began, ‘is there anything else you want to tell us now, while you have the chance?’
Her shoulders fell. ‘Look, Gary... has a bit of a temper. Once or twice he...’ she tailed off.
‘He what?’ Jack asked.
‘Got a little heavy-handed is all, but he’s okay really.’
The detectives finished up in the bar, ascertaining that Gary Dartford was a twenty-six-year-old barman with short, spiky blond hair and a slim build. After some gentle coercing, they’d been given an address by the Scouse barmaid.
‘This could be big,’ Watkins said.
Jack nodded. ‘I’m going to go back to the station and get Gerrard to run a check on Gary Dartford, see if anything turns up.’
‘You think the girl is involved?’
‘My gut instinct tells me no,’ Jack said. ‘Still, we should keep her in mind, just in case. I want people interviewing all of the staff here. Right now, our priority is to locate Gary Dartford.’
‘It still doesn’t solve the issue of the other bodies,’ the DS said.
Jack knew only too well. ‘If we can establish a link, though, we could be close to solving this thing.’
Seconds later, Christensen appeared in the doorway.
‘Anything?’ Jack asked the DS.
He shook his head. ‘Only started last week. He didn’t much like being spoken to by the police so I made sure to waste some of his time.’ He smiled.
Christensen rarely had a problem getting people to listen to him. Even if they were overweight bouncers called Gruff.
As they made their way back to the station, Jack couldn’t help but feel a little optimistic that they might have secured a breakthrough. They’d keep a lid on it for now but, if Gary Dartford couldn’t be located, they’d have to bring in the press. That’s if they didn’t already know. Looking to his two DSs, he dismissed the idea that one of them would be the mole. Why risk it all to talk to David Robson?
Once thing Jack did know was that Gary Dartford had a link to Jessica Lisbie and that he hadn’t been turning up for work. They had to find out where he was. The words that he’d begun thinking in the bar were playing over and over in his mind, consuming his every thought, as they headed back to HQ.
We have a potential suspect.
12
Now that they potentially had something to go on, the team moved into overdrive. Officers hurtled around the station, printouts, theories and coffee cups flying everywhere. Jane Russell was posted in the MIR, working with DC Gerrard to bring up some history on Gary Dartford, the barman and former lover of Jessica Lisbie. Christensen was giving orders out with his usual no-nonsense attitude. Jack sat, perched, overseeing them all as Pritchard drank a murky-green Cup-a-Soup.
Watkins had raised the question of whether or not the press should be brought in on it. Jack didn’t think so. Get it wrong and the force would look even more ridiculous than it already did. There was no doubt a mugshot of Gary Dartford pasted across the local area would help them track him down, but what if he wasn’t their man? They needed more to go on. Jack, however, kept coming back to the statistics: most people were killed by somebody they knew. Had Jessica been in a relationship with Travis Kane? It wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that she could have been without others knowing. She wasn’t close to her family and her housemate had been away. Perhaps Gary Dartford was the one person who did know about this and it sent him into a jealous rage.
‘Good news,’ Watkins said, looking up from a nearby computer screen.
Jack stood. ‘What is it?’
The DS plonked himself down on a nearby desk. ‘It seems Gary Dartford has previous.’
‘Go on.’
‘Spent a few months in jail for GBH. He’s also had warnings over use of marijuana and a DUI.’
Jack exhaled. Just because somebody had a criminal record didn’t mean that they had committed multiple murders. Still, he needed looking into.
‘We also have an address.’
Jack knew the estate fairly well. Back when he was a bobby on the beat, he would spend many an hour trying to calm people down after an as
sault, burglary or family feud in the area. Most police couldn’t wait to get out of that environment, but he had thrived in it.
They pulled up and left the car at a reasonable distance from the house. Jack had decided to take an unmarked vehicle, just in case. As they parked, another unmarked car fell in line behind them. Then a third car pulled in. All were awaiting Jack’s orders. Watkins cradled a small radio, eyes darting across the street.
‘You want to do the talking?’ Watkins asked.
He nodded.
They left the car and began the short walk to Dartford’s residence. To their left, a group of teenagers were hanging around on rusted BMX bikes, their hoodies pulled up tight around their heads. Jack couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for them. What chance did they have? The best they could hope for was an opportunity to move away at some point before they ended up with a criminal record. Faces didn’t seem to change as Jack’s eyes roamed the streets. Most of the families here were in a perpetual cycle, locked into their own misery and despair. As if sensing an outsider, one of the young lads – no older than thirteen – turned to them and grabbed his crotch. Nice touch, Jack thought.
‘If only I could pepper spray the little shit,’ Watkins said.
‘We have more important things to worry about right now, Watkins.’
The worm-eaten black, wooden door of number twenty-eight greeted them. It was a narrow house, just a tall thin doorway with one window to the right of it. A wooden board covered a large crack in the bottom corner of it. The lawn looked like it hadn’t been cut in years, various thick weeds sprouting in all angles. Jack had to kick empty cans of Strongbow out of the way to get to the door.
He knocked three times.
There was a shuffle before it slipped open, a chain blocking their entry. A young face appeared in the narrow gap, tab in mouth, hair long and greasier than a doner kebab.
‘The fuck do you want?’ a broad Geordie accent greeted them, pitch rising at the end.
‘Is Gary in?’ Watkins asked.
‘You can piss off. Always bothering my Gary, you lot,’ she screeched, pulling her garish, pink dressing gown tight against her.
‘Us lot?’
‘Pigs. I can smell you from a mile off. What has he not done now?’
‘We would just like to talk to him, miss?’
‘Crystal. I’m his lass. He’s not in.’
Jack moved his foot in between the door and the frame as she made to close it.
‘What are you doing? I know my rights.’
‘Crystal,’ Watkins continued, ‘we have reason to believe that Gary has been caught up in something very serious. If he is in the house, we need to know right now.’
The young woman began a throaty cough. ‘I swear, he’s not in,’ she choked. ‘Try the Black Bull down the road. He’s usually in there at this time. If not, he’ll be at a mate’s house. I practically never see him now. If you do find him, tell him to get home.’
Jack glanced up at the various windows to the house. He couldn’t see any movement. His gut instinct told him she was telling the truth. Still, given the serious nature of what Dartford might potentially have been involved in, he decided it was best to check anyway.
‘If you let me in to have a look around I will be sure to pass on the message,’ Jack said.
Gary Dartford’s ‘lass’ took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Fine.’
Twenty minutes later and they’d found no sign of their suspect save for some old clothes, three dirty magazines and a small bag of weed. They stood outside, scanning up and down the street.
‘Happy now?’ Crystal spat.
‘Not at all,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ll be in touch about the drugs.’
They left the young woman to her swearing fit.
‘Psycho,’ Watkins muttered.
‘Compared to most people around here that was pretty friendly.’ He paused and looked up and down the street. ‘Come on, let’s go check this pub.’
The smell of stale beer hit them long before they entered the pub. The building stood at the top of the estate, a deep redbrick structure with what looked like prison bars on the windows. A large, black double door stood at the front, complete with a shoddily-painted wooden sign declaring, ‘The Black Bull,’ above it.
As they entered, the three or four patrons who were sitting in various places around the bar, fell silent. Jack suddenly felt like they were in some kind of Spaghetti Western film. A solitary barman stood talking to an elderly looking man with an eye patch, perched on one of the three stools that were placed by the bar. Unlike the bald patron he had a thick head of sheer white hair and a stained apron covering an enormous beer belly.
‘What’ll it be?’ he barked, cigarette abuse lining his tone.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Jack answered.
‘Pigs,’ he spat. ‘I should have known. I don’t give out information to non-paying customers.’ He turned to face them.
‘Fine,’ Jack said. ‘Two cokes.’
Whilst their host set about pouring their drinks, Jack looked around the various liqueurs on offer. An assortment of coloured bottles lined the back wall. He’d have loved a Honey Jack Daniel’s right about now.
Watkins handed over the money. ‘We’re looking for a Mr Gary Dartford.’
‘Aye,’ he replied.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I might do.’
‘Stop messing about,’ Watkins snapped. ‘Do you or don’t you know where he is?’
The barman paused, placing a large hand on his bearded chin. ‘No, sorry.’
‘What a waste of time,’ the DS fumed.
Jack would have been inclined to agree had it not been for the sound of the pub door opening at that very moment.
Before he could turn, the barman called out. ‘Run!’
He spun round just as the back of a young man with a lot of hair gel headed in the other direction.
‘Go!’ Jack ordered.
‘I’ll be back for you!’ Watkins called to the barman, before setting off in pursuit.
They fled the pub, cokes and change still on the bar.
‘Suspect in pursuit, can be seen running south from the Black Bull pub,’ Jack called over the radio.
‘Will he be recognisable?’ a crackled reply came.
‘He’ll be the one running from two policeman, blond hair, greased with gel, white sports shoes – yes, he’ll be recognisable.’ They rounded a right-hand turn, making up very little ground. ‘I’ll go this way, try and cut him off,’ Jack told Watkins, turning right onto a housing estate.
The sound of the police sirens began blazing around him as he set off in pursuit. Knowing the area like he did, Jack would be surprised if anybody even batted an eyelid. It wasn’t long before he could feel a stitch beginning to build up in his side. He cursed his lack of fitness, promising to himself that he’d cut out the tabs if he could just catch this one person. They had to avoid him going to ground at all costs.
He’d just begun to slow when the slender figure of Gary Dartford came running through a small cut between two fences, almost knocking him to the ground.
‘Wait right—’
He was off again, sprinting away in the opposite direction. Looking back through the cut, Watkins appeared, panting. Jack turned and continued after the suspect.
Dartford was no more than twenty feet from him, but he couldn’t seem to gain any ground. His stitch exploded into searing pain, but he forced it to the back of his mind. The assailant made a sharp left, pushing past two old ladies who were dragging small carts up the road. Jack followed suit, ignoring their foul-mouthed tirade. He then made another right and Jack pushed on harder, almost within touching distance now. He could hear Dartford’s laboured breathing as the effort began to show.
Turning left into another cobbled cut, Jack reached out and grabbed a handful of white sports jacket. No use. It came off in a swift motion, almost knocking him to the ground in the process. He’d los
t a few feet now. Tossing the jacket to the floor, he took off his own and pushed on, his shirt clinging to his body.
‘I’ve not done nothing wrong,’ a surprisingly youthful voice shouted from up ahead.
‘Why are you running then?’ Jack hollered.
‘I know what you lot are like. Just fuck off and leave me alone!’
‘I won’t tell you—’
He was interrupted by loud crash. Unable to stop in time, Jack fell over the crumpled body of Gary Dartford, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Instantly, pain shot up through his right arm. The pram they’d run into lay off to their left, perched on the edge of the road. A young mother stood open-mouthed as the screams of a young child rose around them.
Clearing the stars in his vision, he grabbed the bony shoulder of his suspect, dragging him back to the ground as he attempted to scramble up. ‘Will you just calm down, I only want to talk to you!’
The fist aimed at his head broke his speech, but Jack was equal to it, moving to the left to dodge the blow. Dartford shrieked, momentarily stifling the cries of the baby as his fist made contact with the concrete ground. He raised his arm back up, covered in blood and let out another yelp of pain.
‘Police brutality!’ he called out, tears forming in his eyes.
Jack took hold of him. ‘Enough of this.’
Dartford began wriggling under his grasp and the other, less damaged fist came flying at him. Yet again Jack dodged it. Another cry rose up, this time, not from Gary Dartford.
‘You punched me, you little shit!’ Watkins whined, holding his hand to his nose as a sea of red exploded over his face.
The Blue Bamboo employee turned his attentions back to Jack, raising his one good hand up in a boxing stance.
Jack drew out his CS spray. ‘Not today, sunshine.’
‘My client has been clearly mistreated!’ Casey Clifton, duty solicitor and grade-one asshole, bellowed, planting a fist down on the interview table for added effect.
Jack surveyed the chaos around him. To his left, Watkins sat, nose plugged up with bright red tissue paper. Sitting opposite him sulking, Gary Dartford had both of his hands resting on ice, his eyes resembling that of a heroin addict with a chronic case of hay fever. Clifton sat next to him, his pristine brown suit shimmering ever so slightly in the dim light of the interview room.
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