Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe)

by Cath Staincliffe

  Gloria rolled her eyes. ‘How long for?’

  ‘I don’t know. We need to identify the threat. If you do speak to anyone on the phone do not reveal your whereabouts.’

  Rachel sat outside in her car and rang in. Godzilla answered.

  ‘Rachel. Everyone all right?’

  ‘Yes, boss, settled in for the night.’

  ‘Good. We’ve recovered several bullets from the scene.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Rachel said.

  ‘None. All too busy tucked up watching the soaps.’

  ‘I’ve got the clothes to log in,’ Rachel said. ‘Boss, I didn’t get to talk to the neighbours about Tandy’s recent movements.’

  ‘Briefing tomorrow, we’ll look at that then.’

  Another inch, Rachel thought, a different angle of entry and they would have had another fatality on their hands, a scrappy, mouthy fourteen-year-old, shot watching TV.

  27

  Rachel had been brooding about Sean blabbing to her mother for twenty-four hours. It all came to a head as soon as she got in. He started wittering on about tomorrow’s football and where to watch it, like nothing was wrong. Even Sean must have noticed the god-awful atmosphere last night and her mother’s sudden departure from the pub.

  ‘How could you tell Sharon about Dom, about me turning him in?’ Rachel said. ‘That was private.’

  ‘But she’s your mam,’ Sean said, ‘Dom’s too.’

  ‘In name only. You had no right!’

  ‘Rachel, please, calm down.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’

  ‘I thought she knew, knew he was in prison, I thought you’d have told her.’

  ‘That I fucking put him there? And now she’s playing the bloody martyr, the saint. Blood is thicker than water. You look out for your own. Fucking hypocrite.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but at least it’s out in the open.’

  He really did not get it. He thought shoving people back together again meant they’d all play happy families. He did not see the Baileys were more your Jeremy Kyle-style family. Fractured and fucking hopeless. She should never have married him. The thought was like a knife, swift, lancing through her. Oh God. She felt awful, disloyal, and cruel. Don’t be daft, she told herself, give it time.

  ‘You know what she’s like,’ she was saying, ‘a bloody disaster.’

  ‘She’s not all bad,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t be doing with her, Sean, every time I turn round she’s here, wanting things, talking—’ She didn’t know how to make him see it.

  ‘She’s missed a lot,’ he said.

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘But it’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? Think of the future.’

  She didn’t want to. ‘I need to take it more slowly,’ she said, ‘small doses, you know?’

  ‘OK.’ He sounded reluctant.

  ‘So don’t encourage her. If she comes round, tell her we’re busy or we’re going out.’

  He looked pained. For all his street smarts Sean was rubbish at lying, at playing games.

  ‘Though we probably won’t see her for a bit, the way we left things. Least not till she’s running short,’ Rachel said.

  Sean nodded, pulled her close, kissed her. Rachel felt uncomfortable, too hot, and twitchy. She drew away. ‘Think I’ll have a run,’ she said.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Wind down.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the sofa, Thai chicken curry?’

  ‘Sean—’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘do what you got to do.’

  He was so grateful to have her there he’d bend over backwards rather than say anything to challenge her. But instead of being thankful, that made her feel worse. She made an excuse: ‘Bitch of a day.’

  ‘Go,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘course you will.’

  ‘Sammy, I need to talk to you,’ Gill said. ‘Turn that off.’

  ‘I cleared up the other day,’ he objected.

  ‘It’s not that.’

  He looked at her, picking up on her serious tone, paused his game.

  Gill crossed and sat in the armchair. She felt anxiety fluttering behind her breastbone. ‘It’s about your dad,’ she said. ‘He’s gone into rehab.’

  ‘Where?’ Sammy said.

  ‘A place in Cheshire. Like a hotel.’

  ‘Without a minibar.’

  She smiled, ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How long will he be there?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘I don’t know, as long as he needs.’

  ‘OK.’

  She rubbed at the cloth, the piping around the edge of the chair arm. They had picked the design together, her and Dave, argued about the colour scheme. She won. And later he admitted it worked, both comfortable and stylish at the same time. They had christened the couch the night it was delivered. Days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Sammy sound asleep upstairs. They’d been so bright back then, nothing seemed too hard. Gill working all hours solving murders, Dave gaining promotion. Both ambitious. Both still on the way up, proud of each other. Good prospects. Good money. Enough to build this place, enough for good food and clothes and cars. And Sammy. The blessing of Sammy.

  All that and now this.

  She made a fist, tapped it on the chair a couple of times. ‘Your dad, he’s been – well, you know he’s been having problems for a while.’

  ‘Yeah,’ a hint of sarcasm there. She was stating the bleeding obvious. She kicked herself. ‘Well, he came here drunk last night, broke into the summerhouse, blacked out. And now he’s getting help, professional help.’

  Sammy’s mouth twisted, he shook his head in disgust. Seeing this, his loss of respect for his dad, hurt more than anything.

  ‘It’s hard for us to understand,’ she said, ‘but it’s a disease, an illness. It’s not about you or me or anyone else. He still loves you, Sammy, whatever else. You know that?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘He does. And so do I.’ She gave him a hug. ‘We’re going to be all right.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘How’s Orla?’ She changed the subject.

  ‘Good, yeah.’

  ‘We should go out some time,’ she said, ‘the three of us, a meal.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘before Christmas or after?’ Sarky. Sarky was OK.

  ‘I do have days off,’ she chided him. ‘I’ll tell you when and you can ask her.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘She’s not vegan or anything?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘OK, that’s a date to be arranged.’

  She expected him to return to his game but he switched it off and disappeared upstairs.

  Gill closed her eyes, took a breath and let it out slowly. She looked outside where the cherry tree stood in shadow, the rain falling steadily against the windows. She closed the curtains.

  It’s going to be all right, she told herself. Who knows what might have happened if she hadn’t found Dave when she did, if she hadn’t forced him to see what was so blindingly obvious, if she hadn’t finally got through to him. And now he was off her back, out of circulation and, she dearly hoped, was going to make a good recovery. She’d need to get the glass fixed in the summerhouse, clear out the mess in there. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight she meant to eat something decent and get a good sleep and try to feel halfway normal again. For her and her boy.

  It was all going to be all right.

  Day 7

  Wednesday 16 May

  28

  ‘What the fuck is going on out there? See this?’ Gill held up a copy of the Sun. DEATH TOWN screamed the headline. ‘We’ve got three murders, a high-profile drug death, and now people are running around beating up and shooting at potential witnesses. We know the same weapon was used in all three killings but we do not have that weapon.’ She took a breath. ‘What we do have is a man in custody, in possession
of incriminating evidence. The clock’s ticking and we need more on him. Anyone?’

  Rachel spoke up. ‘For the timeline, Tandy left the family home on Friday. He’d heard about the Kavanagh murder, reckoned it was good news. His missus had had enough. They argued. No contact between him and the family since, according to her.’

  ‘The lab has found his DNA on the gloves.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Rachel said.

  ‘Hold your horses – there’s also another profile,’ Gill said.

  ‘On the system?’ Janet asked.

  ‘No,’ Gill said. It weakened their case. Tandy’s defence could always claim that someone else, identity unknown, wore the gloves, fired the gun and used the accelerant.

  ‘It’s not Stanley Keane, he is on the DNA database?’ Janet again.

  ‘Yes he is and it’s not him,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Where is Keane?’ Gill said.

  ‘No sign.’ This from Mitch.

  ‘Time we paid Marcus Williams a visit, maybe Keane is staying there,’ Gill said.

  ‘Are you thinking Keane might have shot Lydia and Victor?’ said Janet.

  ‘The items recovered, the gloves, were at his address, we can link him to Shirelle and the drug business, he’s a known associate of Williams but … the DNA doesn’t fit.’ Gill felt boxed in; the evidence they acquired kept weakening the case rather than supporting their suspicions. ‘Sticking with Tandy,’ she went on, ‘if he is our killer, what’s the likely sequence of events? Starting with his release.’

  ‘We know he went to the George Inn for the EBA meeting and that the Perry twins were there,’ said Janet.

  ‘And he met with Neil Perry at Bobbins on Tuesday,’ said Rachel, ‘possibly to supply the weapon. He gets chucked out by his missus on Friday when he’s cheering about the first shooting. He takes his gear, the firearms, clothes, the gloves and stuff, to Keane’s.’

  ‘At some point he gets the gun back from the Perrys,’ Janet said, ‘he acquires a can of barbecue lighter fuel and he goes to the warehouse, shoots the victims, sets the fire. Returns to Keane’s.’

  ‘What then?’ said Gill. ‘Where is the gun now? And where did he get the lighter fuel? It’s a plausible narrative as far as it goes but at the moment it’s a fairy story. We need much more.’ The lack of CCTV in the area was another obstacle, no record of who was going to and from the warehouse or on the approach roads.

  ‘We have no motive—’ Janet said.

  ‘Unless Tandy wanted to make a name for himself with the Bulldogs. Bit of ethnic cleansing,’ said Mitch.

  ‘Or there’s some drugs war simmering, something we’ve not uncovered,’ said Lee.

  ‘However,’ Gill held up her hands, ‘motive is the least of our concerns. Janet and Rachel, you carry on checking for any sightings of Tandy with the neighbours and then at Keane’s. Mitch and Lee, pay a visit to Williams, we get a search warrant.’

  Her phone rang. ‘DCI Murray.’

  ‘Alan here, from ballistics.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Bullets recovered from the Manton Road address, we’ve run a comparison and they match those used in all three murder cases.’

  Gill felt dizzy. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes, one weapon, six bullets, all fired from the same gun. The one you’re looking for,’ he said, emphasizing the point.

  ‘Thanks, Alan. The missing gun,’ she told the team, ‘it was used in last night’s attack at Tandy’s house.’

  ‘Could that be Keane?’ said Rachel. ‘Sending a warning to Tandy to keep his gob shut?’

  ‘It could be bloody Batman for all we know,’ Gill said, ‘but it tells us that if Tandy did the warehouse murders, he got rid of the gun between Friday night and Monday when we brought him in. We may never get that gun.’ In organized crime, weapons were passed from hand to hand, hired, sold, borrowed, hidden, looked after. The same weapon used by different people in the commission of diverse offences, as appeared to be the case now.

  ‘Maybe Tandy just went apeshit, lost the plot,’ Rachel said. ‘He’s out and back home but it’s the same shitty little life. His wife is on at him, she actually tells him to do one. So what’s it all for? He pulls a Terminator, picks on someone to hurt, someone who won’t stand a chance. Justifies it to himself ’cos he’s a racist dickhead.’

  ‘Why copy the Kavanagh killing?’ Gill said.

  ‘He’d been bigging it up,’ Rachel said. ‘That’s why Gloria chucked him out – well, partly. He gets the idea then.’

  ‘How did he know to go after the victims?’ Janet asked. ‘Victor and Lydia? He’s not a user.’

  ‘No,’ Gill agreed, ‘nothing on his medical.’

  ‘Stuff in the house, though,’ Kevin said, ‘Keane’s house.’

  ‘But not in the room Tandy was occupying.’ This from Lee.

  ‘His missus said he never touched drugs,’ said Rachel.

  ‘What if the twins told him about them? Could it be a challenge? We’ll do the wino, you do the black kids,’ Rachel said, ‘we can tell you where they’ll be.’

  Gill sighed. ‘Greg Tandy is a career criminal, a gun man. I can’t see him entering some pact with a pair of lowlife scumbags like the Perry twins.’

  ‘If it was Tandy, he’d know to get rid of evidence,’ Rachel said, ‘so why hang on to the gloves then?’

  ‘Could Keane have been involved and then fitted Tandy up?’ Gill said.

  No one answered.

  ‘Enough,’ Gill said. ‘Bring me something solid, quick as you like.’

  They got bugger all from Tandy’s neighbours, apart from a lot of nosy questions about where the wife and boy had gone and rumours that Greg had shot at his own family. Given he was in custody at the time, that didn’t hold water. As for anyone seeing him any time on the Friday evening going to or from the warehouse, they drew a big fat blank.

  Over in Werneth, where Stanley Keane lived, there were no fences at the front of the properties so it would be easy for the residents to see people coming and going. The neighbours to the left of Keane were out, no cars in the drive, no one home. At the other side, Janet and Rachel were greeted by a young woman in a yellow onesie, her eyes furred with fake lashes and her fingernails individually designed.

  She’d not really paid attention to next door until all the police showed up. Stan Keane was a nice man, friendly enough. No, she didn’t know him well. Hadn’t seen him for a few days.

  Janet showed her a photograph of Greg Tandy. ‘What about this man?’

  ‘The one you arrested Monday. Saw him then. You were there.’ She nodded at Rachel.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Before that, can you remember when you first saw him?’ Janet said.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Today is Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sucked her teeth, dazzling white, Janet noticed, set off by vivid-pink lipstick. ‘Friday. ’Cos I was heading out. Girls’ night.’ She seemed pleased that she could remember.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Half seven,’ she said.

  ‘And where was this man?’ said Janet.

  ‘He was going out too, just ahead of me.’

  Heading for the warehouse, wondered Janet? ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Did you see him after that?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t surface until the Saturday afternoon. Serious hangover, well trollied,’ she laughed. ‘Saw him coming in. He’d a bag then,’ she smiled, ‘probably been to the gym. No way was I going to make it, I tell you. I usually go Saturday.’

  ‘A gym bag?’ Janet’s heart gave a kick in her chest.

  ‘Well, holdall.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Blue.’ The girl laughed. ‘The things you remember!’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Didn’t see him until the police came.’ She lowered her voice, leaned closer. ‘What’s he done?’ Janet caught a whiff of fa
ke tan.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Janet said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘The bag he had his gloves in,’ Rachel said as they crossed the road.

  ‘Sounds the same.’

  ‘But she reckons it was the Saturday and he didn’t have the bag on the Friday.’

  ‘That would have been too perfect,’ Janet said.

  ‘Maybe he left the bag somewhere on the Friday after the murders and went to fetch it on the Saturday.’

  ‘Why? Where?’

  ‘His house? Though I don’t know that Gloria would have let him over the threshold.’

  At the house opposite Stanley Keane’s, a Polish man answered. He explained his nationality when he spelled out his name, which consisted mainly of consonants. His English was excellent and barely accented. He too had noticed Tandy, the new resident, but found it harder to recall dates and times. He worked twelve-hour shifts in a call centre and when he was home he was usually in bed or half asleep.

  He thought some more and then said, ‘I did see him going into Wetherspoon’s. That would have been about eight o’clock, on my way home from the bus.’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘It would be a great help if you could remember which,’ Janet said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I’d done twenty days in a row. Saturday was a day off so I know it wasn’t Saturday but before that.’

  ‘If you remember,’ Janet said, ‘please get in touch.’ She gave him her card.

  The man knew Stanley Keane by sight but they had never spoken. He’d last seen him on Sunday evening, putting the bins out.

  The manager at Wetherspoon’s didn’t recall Greg Tandy but the girl who was chalking up meals on the blackboard did. ‘Friday,’ she said, ‘it’s the only night I work here. He reminded me of Jimmy Carr, the comedian, but an older version. You know, the black hair and the big eyes. He sat over there, by the slot machines, on his own at first.’

  ‘Someone joined him?’ Janet said.

  ‘Yes, about half nine. Bigger bloke, beard and biker’s jacket, comes in here sometimes.’

  Stanley Keane.

  ‘How long did they stay?’