by A K Reynolds
SUNDAY
I began the day with a visit to the McDonalds in the Snipe Retail Park, a shopping area marginally less depressing than Strangeways prison, where I ordered an unhealthy breakfast. After eating it, I went into a mobile phone shop with a garish neon sign in the window declaring: We Fix Mobile Phones Cheap, intending to ask for help with Tara’s mobile, hesitating in the doorway.
What if they found something illegal on it? Would they keep the thing and report me to the police?
Those concerns stopped me from entering the shop.
It occurred to me I could try to get someone shady to help, the type who wouldn’t report me to the police. But after my experience with Muldoon, I didn’t feel I wanted to put my trust in anyone like that ever again. Which left me with one solution. I had to find Sarina. Because she’d been present at or around the time that Tara had been attacked and therefore might know what secret the phone contained.
Of course, I knew that Sarina could be dead. Whoever had killed my sister was ruthless enough to have killed my wife while he was at it. But Sarina’s body hadn’t been found, which meant it was more than likely she was still alive. She was either being held captive, or on the run like me. Chances were, she was on the run, because if someone had kidnapped Sarina, they’d have been in touch demanding some kind of ransom from me. And so far, no one had.
Whatever had happened, I had to find her. If I did, we’d have a chance of clearing this whole thing up. She’d be able to tell me the significance of the mobile phone, and it would divulge the reason people were out to torture and kill me. Then the police would understand I’d been forced to take drastic action in self-defence. Sarina would also be able to tell me and the police what’d happened to Tara, removing altogether the cloud of suspicion hanging over us both.
I rang MKM International, Sarina’s place of work, and asked to speak to Mary Mangano. Mary was one of Sarina’s work colleagues, and also a personal friend of Sarina’s who’d come to our wedding a few months before.
‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said, ‘we don’t seem to have anyone called Mary Mangano working here. Can you tell me what this is about?’
Damn. It seemed she’d left the company and by the sounds of things, the receptionist wasn’t going to divulge any information unless I could justify her giving it to me.
‘I’m from the Greater Manchester Police and I’m investigating a murder. Ms Mangano may be able to help with our enquiries. Can you tell me when she left the company and who her new employers are?’
‘What was your name again?’
‘I didn’t give it. But since you ask, I’m DS Patty Harker.’
‘And you’re with the police?’
‘I’m a detective superintendent.’
‘Sorry, I had to make sure. You can’t be too careful. I’ll find out for you. Just putting you on hold.’ There was a brief silence, then the Bee Gees singing Saturday Night Fever came on before being mercifully cut short. ‘I’ve spoken to our personnel department, DS Harker. We’ve never had anyone called Mary Mangano working here. You must have been given the wrong information, sorry.’
‘Could she have worked for one of your other branches?’
‘We only have two offices, this one and the one in London. She didn’t work for either.’
‘I have another question for you before you hang up.’
‘What is it DS Harker?’
‘You have someone else working there. A young woman called Sarina Scarpina-Perez. When was she last in your office?’
‘Putting you on hold again.’
Sarina continued to use her maiden name after we got married. It was on the identity tag she wore round her neck when she got home from work, and when she met me at lunchtime in the entrance of the tower block where MKM International was based.
‘I’ve checked with HR. We’ve never had anyone called Sarina Scarpina-Perez working for us.’
A feeling of dread gripped me.
‘Thank you for your help,’ I said, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice before hanging up.
Dread was quickly followed by confusion.
Sarina didn’t work where she’d told me she worked, and nor did her friend Mary. I remembered Mary well because she was one of only three guests Sarina had invited to our wedding. Sarina was an orphan and didn’t have any family to speak of, not even distant relatives. She didn’t have many friends, either. Hence why her guest list had been limited to three. Who were her other two guests? I racked my brains and their names came back to me: Emma Radbone and Linda Curnow. I’d personally written out their invitations and Sarina had hand-delivered them. But I couldn’t for the life in me remember what their addresses were. All I remembered was that all three of her friends had hailed from Manchester. I checked Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn. A handful of people bearing their names were listed but none of them lived in Manchester, and, critically, none of them looked like our wedding guests.
I began to think the unthinkable: Sarina had lied to me about her friends and her job, and possibly about everything else. She had mortgaged my house without my knowledge, probably by forging my signature and by who knows what other means. And, quite possibly, she was involved in the murder of my sister. More than likely, Mary Mangano, Emma Radbone, and Linda Curnow had been party in some way to Sarina’s crimes. It was evident that I had to speak to them to get at the truth. With luck, they’d be able to help me find Sarina.
But finding them was going to be difficult. I’d have to start by getting hold of the wedding album. The problem I had was that it was in my house, and I couldn’t risk going back there. Not again. Where else could I get hold of a copy? My parents had one. But I couldn’t approach them for it. It’d mean asking my dad to scan the relevant photos and email them to me. No doubt he’d want to know why, and I’d have to come up with a lie that wouldn’t make him and my mum more upset than they already were. Which would be impossible. So getting the photos I needed from my parents was out of the question. What about the photographer who took them? He was bound to have copies, wasn’t he? But Sarina was the one who’d made all the arrangements for our wedding, and I hadn’t a clue who he was.
I walked along Market street, a narrow road characterised by grimy brick buildings, dilapidated looking shopfronts, garish signs, and cut-price goods and services. Halfway along the street was a taxi office. It was the kind I wanted to avoid if possible. Rightly or wrongly, I thought a black taxi would be safer than minicabs.
I’d told myself I was going to avoid taxis because of the risk if I got into one operated by Devlin. But in desperation I nevertheless took a big chance and ordered a taxi to Cheltenham road and asked it to stop at the end. My luck held. It took me where I wanted to go, rather than taking me on an unscheduled journey to a torture-chamber. When it passed by the house that backed onto mine, I took as good a look at it as I could from the moving taxi to check whether anyone was in. As far as I could see the place was deserted. No one was visible through the windows and neither of the two cars belonging to the homeowners were parked on the drive. When my taxi stopped, I paid the fare to the taxi driver and told him to wait there.
The driver, a thin-faced Asian man with a hook nose and shock of black hair, twisted his mouth into a cynical crescent-moon smile. ‘Why should I?’
I gave him a cynical smile of my own and took a twenty-pound note from my pocket. As I proffered it to him, he grabbed it, but I didn’t let go.
‘Make sure you wait for me. I’ll be back.’
I didn’t let go of the note till he nodded.
Going home again was taking a big risk but I’d cased the joint and established there was no threat. What could possibly go wrong?
I got out and walked to my target house, a brick end-terrace with a bay window and a pointless layer of cream render between the top and bottom bays. A low wall separated the front garden from the road. Turning into the drive with a confident gait as if I had every right
to be there, I strode up to the wheelie bins, grabbed the grey bin, dragged it behind the house, out of sight of passers-by, and hauled it over to the fence.
I had to cross over the lawn with it, and as the wretched thing was full and rather heavy, the wheels left unsightly gouges in the damp lawn. Moving quickly so as to minimise my chance of being detected, I climbed on the bin and vaulted the fence. On the other side I ran to my back door, bent over as if trying to evade the rotating blades of a landed helicopter, and let myself in. Careful not to expose myself to view from the front of the house, I grabbed the album containing our wedding photos from the upstairs storage unit. When I’d got it in my hands, my curiosity got the better of me about a completely different issue. I went into the front bedroom, got on my hands and knees, crawled to the window, and surreptitiously peered out onto Scales Avenue. A black Audi was parked across the way and it had a man in it, who – at least to my paranoid eyes – looked like a gangster. He had close-cropped hair, a neck every bit as thick as his head, and an evil expression on his face. He made no move to leave his vehicle, preferring to sit there and occasionally turn his head to stare in a different direction. While I was watching he raised a beaker in one hand and a flask in the other, and poured a brown liquid from the flask into the beaker. He was there for the long haul. He had to be one of Hench’s men.
Ducking low, I reversed my crawl and as quietly as I could, even though there was no chance of the man in the car hearing me, left the house by the back door. I threw the wedding album over the fence then used my own wheelie bin to negotiate the fence without looking where I was going, because I was desperate to get over the fence quickly. I landed on the neighbour’s lawn in a crouch, grabbed the album, and straightened up.
It was only then that I realised I wasn’t alone. A burly man about six inches taller than me was in the garden, hands on hips, inspecting the twin gouges in his otherwise pristine lawn. He was wearing white trainers, a hoodie, and sweatpants. His hoodie and sweatpants had a blue camouflage design on them. Out of the corner of my eye I saw there was now a car parked on his drive. He raised his head and glared at me, a vein on the side of his bald head seeming to pulse with anger.
‘What do you think you’re fucking playing at?’ he said, advancing on me with balled fists.
For a fraction of a second I stood rooted to the spot, my mind in a complete panic because of his threatening behaviour. It seemed he was a man who took his lawn seriously and didn’t care to have it messed with. He was over-reacting if you ask me. When he got to within swinging distance my mental faculties returned to me, and I made as if to move to my left. He shadowed my movement and I swerved to my right, wrong-footing him, and sprinted across his damaged lawn then along his tarmac drive, his heavy footsteps informing me he was close behind.
When I got to the road he was still close behind me and catching up, and I cursed the wedding album for being so heavy and slowing me down. We would’ve been evenly matched as runners if not for that damned album. As I sprinted for the taxi his clattering footsteps behind me got ever closer. Then I felt his fingers on my collar. With the album in both hands I abruptly turned and whacked him on the side of his meaty head with it. Due to the speed of my turn and the weight of my weapon he released my collar, staggering sideways. But he quickly recovered and resumed his pursuit of me, keeping with me the whole way till I got to the taxi. As I neared it, the driver threw the door open on the passenger side for me to jump in. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and gasped, ‘Step on it.’
My erstwhile attacker meanwhile had halted next to the taxi and was hammering on the side window with his fist. ‘You haven’t fucking well heard the last of this,’ he shouted.
‘I suppose you’ll expect a tip for that,’ I said to the driver after we’d pulled away.
‘Yes, boss.’
It was then that I saw a black Audi racing past my erstwhile attacker. Was it the one that’d been parked around the front of my house?
‘See that Audi at the back of us?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Lose it.’
All credit to that taxi-driver. He stepped on the pedal and risked his licence by driving through a red light in order to lose the Audi. Whether it was the Audi I’d seen staking out my house I didn’t know for sure, but I was glad we’d lost it.
I had the taxi drop me off back at the Snipe Retail Park as I didn’t want the driver knowing I had a room at the Travelodge. As I climbed from the taxi a young man wearing a black hoodie and ridiculously baggy jeans of the sort which made him look as if he’d shit himself standing on the pavement stared at me, narrowing his eyes. He must only have been about eighteen but he had the kind of lines running from his nose past the corners of his mouth that suggested he smoked. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a mobile phone, and swiped the screen. Right away I knew he was working for Hench. It made me realise just how dangerous it was for me to stay in Manchester. There was an army of dealers, users, prostitutes, pimps, fake business owners, and employees all over the city who were briefed about me, knew what I looked like, and would get a reward for reporting my location to Hench. I wasn’t safe anywhere. So far I’d been lucky but my luck wouldn’t hold forever. Sooner or later they’d get me and I’d face a protracted and highly unpleasant death.
I got right back in the taxi. ‘Drive,’ I said.
‘Where, boss?’
‘I don’t know, anywhere. Just drive.’
We got onto the M60. I desperately wanted to leave Manchester in favour of somewhere safe, or at least marginally safer, but couldn’t do that because I still had urgent business to attend to in the city.
‘Turn onto the A56 and head into Prestwich.’
Prestwich is known for its large community of orthodox Jews. My hope was that this meant there would be fewer pushers and prostitutes and the like than there would be in other areas of Manchester, making it a safer place for me to be out and about. I had the driver drop me off at the KFC and after paying him I walked to the Premier Inn, taking careful note of my surroundings.
A young man with a broad-brimmed hat, twirly sideburns and a long black coat gave me a quick glance from the other side of the road. It occurred to me that he might be one of them, and my number might be up. Then I told myself that it’d be too much of a coincidence for the first man who saw me to be mixed up with the same crew as Hench, and I continued walking briskly to the hotel and booked myself in.
‘Have you some writing paper I could have, and a pen I could borrow, please?’ I asked the concierge.
He handed me a few pages of A4 headed paper that were otherwise blank, and a ballpoint pen which had Premier Inn stamped down the side of it.
‘You’re welcome to both, gratis.’
My room was as anodyne as all such hotel rooms are, but it felt good and offered an opportunity to gather my thoughts for a while. I made myself a coffee, opened the wedding album, and went carefully through the photos it contained. While doing so I remembered that as we’d gone through the album together I’d noticed there were few, if any, decent pictures of Sarina’s friends. For instance, in one of the group photos, Mary Mangano was brushing hair from her face, obscuring her features with her hand. Emma Radbone had her head down and seemed to be staring at her feet. And Linda Curnow was looking to the side. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, other than that it was bad luck, but now I saw it as significant. They hadn’t wanted clear pictures to be taken of them. I flipped through the pages and selected those of the photos that provided the best evidence of what Mangano, Radbone and Curnow looked like, and binned the album. It was no use to me now, other than for having a certain sentimental value, and I couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Not until life was back to normal. Survival had to take precedence, closely followed by unearthing the truth about what was going on.
My room was equipped with a small desk and a straight-backed chair. I pulled out the chair from under the desk and spent
the next three hours seated browsing the websites of all four of the acting and casting agencies that were based in Manchester. None of them had what I was looking for. Next, I tried Liverpool agencies. Same result. Finally, one in Leeds, called Urban Flair, came up trumps. When I scrolled down one of its website pages headed: Flair Talent, I found three women on its books who bore more than a passing resemblance to the three guests Sarina had invited to our wedding. The names of these women, unsurprisingly, differed from the ones I knew them by.
Mary Mangano was referred to as Kim Diaz; Emma Radbone was referred to as Storm Brooks; and Linda Curnow was referred to as Daniella Baverstock.
What was surprising was that their hair looked very different to that in our wedding photos, so different, indeed, it was a near miracle I recognised them. For instance, Mary Mangano had been a long-haired redhead. As Kim Diaz, she had short hair, bleached almost white, in a spiky hairstyle. The logical conclusion seemed to be that it was no accident they’d changed their appearances as well as their names.
A visit to Facebook told me that in-between acting jobs, the woman I now knew as Kim Diaz worked in a stylish Leeds café called Caffeine Highs. It was on Briggate at the eastern end of the city centre, just down the hill from Harvey Nichols.
I made a few notes about what I’d found then rang the place using a deep voice I’d perfected years before to take the piss out of a tutor while studying my law degree at university.
‘Hello, I need to speak to Kim Diaz.’
‘She’s busy. Who’s calling please?’
‘Mark, from her agency Urban Flair. I don’t want to disturb her during working hours. Can you tell me when she finishes her shift, please?’
‘6 p.m.’
‘Thank you.’
It was 2.30 p.m. If I got weaving, I could make it to Caffeine Highs before Diaz left the place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On Kosherpages.com I found the listings for Jewish taxi firms. One in particular caught my eye. Yablon’s Taxi’s. It offered customers a safe journey in the face of the rising tide of anti-Semitism. I’m not Jewish, but going on the assumption that Jewish businesses were less likely than Gentile ones to be fronts for gentile criminal gangs, I reckoned it ought to offer me a safe journey, and used it to book my taxi.