by Robert White
I drove straight to Eggheads, regretting the fact that I’d been unable to resist wearing my new Hugo Boss brogues. As usual, I stood on the doorstep for a lifetime before finally making it to his room with a quarter of a million cat hairs on my trousers.
Stepping inside, I found Simon working on a computer tower clipping in circuit boards. When he looked up, I noticed he was considerably paler than on my earlier visit. The lad boasted a look that I recognised only too well. It was the same facial expression I’d seen on new recruits after their first real action. After their first sight of what munitions do to a human body.
He stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands on his jeans and stood.
“Hello, Mr Fuller,” he offered quietly. His usual bouncing lilt hidden behind a wall of concern.
“You okay, Simon?” I asked, genuinely anxious for the lad.
He nodded. “Aye, Mr Fuller, I’m okay like.”
He walked over to a nearby table, picked up an external hard drive and dropped it in my hand.
“That’s what you wanted, Mr Fuller. Everything on the Todd Blackman murder. I’ll take my five large now, if you don’t mind?”
I handed him an envelope. “It’s all there, Simon.”
He nodded. “I’d prefer if you went elsewhere to examine the content, Mr Fuller. No offence like, but it made me sick to my stomach, it did… couldn’t even look at the old girl’s cottage pie after watching that lot.”
“That bad, eh?”
Simon nodded. “You get mixed up in some very nasty stuff, Mr Fuller, I’ll say that to you for sure.”
I held up the drive.
“You didn’t make a copy, did you?”
Simon shook his head so vigorously, I thought his head might fall off. “God no, Mr Fuller. Be honest, I can’t wait for you to take it out of the house.”
As I drove back to the lock up to begin the ghastly task of reviewing the murder of Todd Blackman, I considered Simon’s words.
Nasty stuff indeed.
Des Cogan’s Story:
It took a while for the atmosphere in the Prince to return to normal after I stepped back inside.
Maggie quietly got on with the task of serving what was left of her customers. Strangers and the threat of violence around pubs does little for trade, no matter why it’s served up. I felt a mixture of pleasure and concern at my actions. Pleased that I’d pissed off the pair of fake tanned bullies, but slightly concerned that I’d been unable to control my temper.
That said, George was delighted, and I had the feeling the old soldier would be regaling the incident to anyone who would listen, and buy him a half, for some time to come.
The clock turned five.
I’d had enough and feeling ever so slightly guilty at my lack of detective work, peered at my mobile with the intention of ringing a taxi home. I figured I’d collect the Yank’s motor in the morning and have another snoop about then.
As I fumbled for the right number, Maggie came and sat by me.
“Thanks for that… before I mean.”
I shrugged. “Nae bother hen.”
Maggie rested a hand on my shoulder. “No, I mean it, Des. Those guys have been a thorn in my side for months.”
“They were nasty pieces of work, for sure.”
“Well, you dealt with them.” She looked concerned. “They weren’t waiting for you outside were they?
I shook my head and smiled. “No hen, they’d long gone, eh? Anyway, dinnea worry about me, I’ve had had a few bumps and bruises in my time… too many, I’d say.”
As I caught her beautiful eyes, I thought I saw something approaching affection in there, but quickly dismissed it as me being over hopeful.
“So long as you are okay, that’s all that matters,” I said.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and lay her palms on her knees. I sensed an announcement.
“Yes, of course. I am, of course, but…” Maggie seemed to stumble over her next words. “Are you, erm… are you hungry, Des?”
As usual, I didn’t read the signs. I reckon I’ve missed out on some fine women over the years as a direct result of my inability to see things in front of my thick coupon.
I rubbed my stomach. “As a matter of fact, Maggie, I reckon there’s a doner kebab, large chips and side of onion rings, with my name on it somewhere nearby.”
Undaunted, she wrinkled her nose and tried again.
“Sounds good, but I’ve made pork belly in honey and mustard with onion mash and green beans on the side.”
Maggie raised her brows and waited. When she realised that this stupid Scottish lump still hadn’t got the message, she added, “I’ll have Julie here in half an hour. She’s doing the evening shift. I’ve got the night off.” She bit her bottom lip, an impish expression etched on her face. “There’s enough for two.”
A light came on in this dumb Scotsman’s head.
“You’re inviting me to supper?”
“I am.”
I couldnea hide my shiny posh teeth at that one. She was as bonny a wee thing as I’d seen in many a year, and a home cooked meal was a rare thing in the Cogan household.
“Well, I’d love to Maggie, that’s mighty kind.”
* * *
She lived above the pub. Her quarters as well kept as the business downstairs. A wee comfy lounge, kitchen come diner, one bedroom, one bathroom.
I sat at the small round dining table as she finished serving up the supper and poured two glasses of wine.
“So, how long have you had this place then, Maggie?” I asked.
She dropped two plates full of delicious looking grub on the table, sat, and took a sip from her glass. “Just two years now. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I cut into my pork. My stomach rumbling in anticipation.
“But no now?”
“Aww, all this stuff with these developers, their strong-arm tactics, it wears me down Des. I mean, just like them, I saw the opportunity here. Ancoats is on the up, just like the Northern Quarter. I figured I could get in early and reap the benefits, but they’ve been at me to sell to them for months now. It was all friendly at first, but as time goes on, they get more and more threatening.”
“I reckon those boys are just trying it on. They see an easy target. Woman on her own, lean on her a bit and she’ll give in. Like you say, the place is on the up. They’ll more likely move on soon.”
“I’m not so sure, Des. Those guys, well the ones they work for anyway, are buying up swathes of property, whole streets, shops, land, you name it. They’re big time.”
Maggie chewed on a piece of delicious pork. She held her hand over her mouth as she spoke.
“Lucas Estates they’re called.”
That pricked my ears up.
“Don’t they own that place where the young lad was killed?”
Maggie frowned. “Oh yes. Did you hear about that? Terrible so they say. I’ve heard some dreadful rumours. Some say the young lad was nailed to the wall in there. They’ll have some trouble renting that place, I reckon.”
She shook her head angrily. “But it won’t bother them buggers. I mean, they own most of the new and renovated property around here. There’s going to be two huge tower blocks built too. Apartments for the rich though. Not the likes of me, or old George.”
“A bit like the gaff on Deansgate then, the place where all the footballers have flats?”
“A lot like it from what I can gather. I mean we’re talking in the hundreds of millions.”
“Jeezo, I figured those two were just small time muscle. I mean, it’s a bit of an unusual tactic for such a big firm. I tell ye though, if you went to the papers, it would ruin their reputation, maybe even drop them in it with the local council…some of this land must be public property?”
“It is. The big proj
ects are all based on publicly owned or reclaimed land. But Lucas want the small stuff too, and the older residents are in no position to fight back. Leaning on pensioners that have lived here for years, or small shops and businesses, like mine, it’s a pushover for them. We’re easy meat, and to be honest, we’re too scared to say anything. There’s rumours of another lot following the boys in suits about who aren’t so polite. I’ve heard of one fella getting a right hiding when he wouldn’t sell his shop.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “So, this Lucas Estates not only want the big infrastructure projects, they are desperate to control all of the surrounding properties too, eh?”
I mused a moment as I polished off my onion mash. “Makes sense. I mean, if all the houses around these two main towers are renovated, and the old-fashioned boozers like The Prince are turned into cafes or eateries, they can charge more for the flats, eh?”
Maggie raised her eyebrows.
“There are still people who like the old- fashioned boozers you know?”
I smiled. “Aye, me included, if ye hadn’t noticed.”
Maggie smiled back, reached across the table and touched my hand. “I just need you around more often and I’ll be okay, eh?”
We finished our meal. I offered to help with the pots but Maggie was having none of it and sat me in a comfy armchair in the lounge.
I was all cosy, the drink blurring my senses. As I kicked off my shoes, I recalled being in JJ’s front room watching Grace stitch his hands. I’d felt the same warmth then. Nothing to do with the temperature, just that feeling of being safe, comfortable and wanted.
I thought about wee Kaya and made a note in my head to visit soon, well, as soon as this job was finished anyway.
Maggie stepped into the room and broke my spell.
She opened a cupboard beneath a small Hi-Fi.
“What kind of music do you like, Des?” she asked as she flipped through her CD collection.
“Aww, hen, I’m no bothered. I was never one for dancin’ or concerts. I dinnea mind a wee bit of Pavi like…. if ye have him.”
“Pavarotti?”
“Aye, that’s the big fella, eh? Sang at the football.”
“I’ve the Three Tenors.”
“That will be fine hen…but hey, I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”
Maggie pushed the CD into the unit and adjusted the volume. She stood, stepped over to my chair and sat on the arm. It felt good to have her so close. She looked into my eyes and smiled.
“You don’t have to go anywhere tonight Des.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I had two reasons for heading straight for the lock up.
One, it was safe and secure, and two, I could change out of my cat hair infested trousers.
I’d invested in the building some years earlier when I worked for a guy by the name of Joel Davies, a rather unpleasant character who made as much money from drug dealing as he did from his international antique business.
I collected his debts and settled his scores. Nothing to be proud of, but most got what they deserved.
The lock up housed a few vehicles that I’d acquired over the years, some useful workhorses, some nice toys; although my Aston and the MV Augusta were parked at my penthouse apartment in Bowden.
The interior also boasted basic living accommodation, a small kitchen, bathroom and some cots to get your head down. Here, we safely stored weapons, ammunition, medical supplies and emergency cash.
There was no way I was about to invite Mitch along. The last thing we needed was the CIA rocking up at the front door uninvited.
Besides, from what I could see, Mitch was Carver’s boy and as likeable as he had first seemed, there was little doubt where his political affiliations lay. He was firmly ensconced in the Bible Belt culture that JE Blackman was so fond of and the somewhat extreme beliefs that went along with it.
I needed to get a look at the files Simon had obtained, in private, before deciding what, if anything, we would share with the CIA.
After parking the Range Rover a block away from our base, I paid for overnight parking, then walked through the balmy Manchester streets, my mind a whirl of questions.
By the time I opened the shutters on the lock up, it was just before 2000hrs.
I checked my phone for messages, but the screen was blank. Lauren was obviously still with Larry.
Dropping my phone on the table, I stripped and stepped straight into the shower hoping the hot water would wash away my nagging jealousy, founded or not.
By 2015hrs, I parked myself at our large dining table and plugged Simon’s external hard drive into my laptop.
Any murder enquiry has an all-encompassing file of its own within a police system called HOMES (Home Office Major Enquiry System) This was developed back in the day after vital clues were missed during the Yorkshire Ripper inquiry.
Even Simon would have trouble accessing that baby.
The documents we had access to, were Larry’s own reference materials and so not the whole picture, but would hopefully be good enough.
The Chief Inspector had laid out all the relevant files the way you might expect, in chronological order. Statements from the witness who had found the body, the first responders, the uniforms, the medics, first detectives; then forensics, medical examiner; the beginnings of the first inquiries, house to house, any sightings of suspicious persons or vehicles.
Separate to these reports were Larry’s own musings and notes.
I bypassed them all and went straight to a video file, opened it and pressed play.
It was the forensics team entry video, complete with commentary.
The guy holding the camera and delivering the running commentary was joined by a second, who acted as exhibits officer. His role was to mark or collect obvious items of evidence. A third person, who remained unseen and unheard other than the flashing of their camera, took dozens of stills.
The video began with the two film-makers identifying themselves by name and stating the time, date and the address of the crime.
Could have saved Des a job… And, where is the Scottish twat?
The team entered via the ground floor describing it as the front entrance to one of three flats. The door looked new. There was an electronic entry system fitted to the left hand side with three call buttons. All had name plates next to them, but all were blank. Either the flats were empty, or the residents hadn’t yet filled them in.
The guy commentating was monotone but professional. He described the overall dwelling as they stepped inside. ‘Newly renovated house, separated into three apartments. Two on the ground floor. One larger first floor. All currently unoccupied. No sign of a forced entry.’
Someone had a key or knew the code?
‘Victim is reported to be present in apartment two. Entrance door at the end of the hall to our left.’
However, the camera first swung right to a newly painted bannister rail. White paint, red bloodstain.
Accidental?
Looked like a glove smear.
The crew marked it, described it, and there was lots of flash photography.
Left turn, narrow hall. Door at the end, ajar.
Again, lots of new white paint except for the right-hand wall. An arrow, maybe three feet long, halfway up, painted in what had to be blood, dark red dried drips chasing the imperfections in the plaster, a crudely manufactured tip pointing towards the door. Above the makeshift arrow was daubed a short Arabic script. I opened a second file. Larry had already had the cursive translated. In English, it deciphered as ‘Fornicator.’
There was more marking, more droning descriptive, more flashes from the unseen cameraman. There were bloody glove marks on the door and frame. The perpetrators appearing to have made a hurried exit.
Disturbed? Panicked?
The forensics te
am carefully filmed the whole frame, and took dozens of stills before stepping into the flat.
Small hallway. Right turn. Another makeshift arrow, painted in blood. This time the numbers 7:80/84 daubed above.
I paused the video, opened Google in another window and searched.
The numbers related to verses in the Quran.
“...For ye practice your lusts on men in preference to women: ye are indeed a people transgressing beyond bounds.... And we rain down on them a shower of stones.”
I hit play again and the team found Todd Blackman.
The killers had daubed more claret on the far wall of what would have been a lounge come diner.
Despite the primitiveness, despite the drips, there was no doubt. Picked out in Todd Blackman’s blood, floor to ceiling, was a full-sized crucifix.
Todd had been stripped naked and nailed to the makeshift cross by his wrists and feet.
At some point, before they had nailed him to the wall, they had cut him in the groin. No doubt to use his blood for their artwork.
Inserted into that wound was what appeared to be a stick or stave. God only knew how far into his abdomen it went.
A dark pool of what had remained of his bodily fluids formed at his feet. There was no crown of thorns, no loincloth.
Written across the boy’s naked chest, by what appeared to be a bloodstained gloved finger was more Arabic.
I checked Larry’s file again. The script translated as, ‘Homosexual.’
When Carver had said the murder may have been religiously or sexually motivated, he was on the money. All that nonsense about mistaken identity was just for our benefit. This put the cat right amongst the pigeons.
Lauren North’s Story:
Larry couldn’t make my proposed dinner date as he was meeting JE Blackman and driving him to Salford General to formally identify his son.
However, he did make drinks in town.
We sat in The Moon Over the Water, a big chain owned pub that was busy enough to hide anyone’s conversations.
If Rick was in any way worried about our date, he needn’t have been. Larry was totally preoccupied with the case and nursed a half-pint of London Pride looking drawn and tired.