‘So you had no idea who he was working for then – recently, I mean?’
‘He took on loads of stuff, whatever paid, really. Private companies, insurance firms, individual clients, women who thought their husbands were playing away, employers who were being ripped off by their staff. He wasn’t fussy.’
Hudson could well believe it.
‘And Declan had no idea who might have taken the laptop?’
‘That was just it, that’s what made him so mad. He’s made a lot of enemies over the last couple of years. People he’d showed up, whose businesses he’d threatened, who he’d got arrested, even. Truth is, there’s a dozen or more people who would willingly have attacked him …’
Now she petered out, the image of her martyred lover fracturing her composure once more. A single tear ran down her cheek, even as she dragged the nicotine into her lungs, trying to master herself. Hudson maintained a cheery, professional expression, but inside he knew exactly how she felt. Sandra clearly thought the case was hopeless, that it would be nigh on impossible to whittle down the number of possible suspects and Hudson couldn’t disagree with that assessment. Declan McManus was a grubby chancer, with few morals or scruples, willing to expose anyone in order to make some easy cash. He had been sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted for too long and perhaps it was no surprise that someone had tried to silence him for good. Whether this was to stymie an ongoing investigation or to settle an old score was unclear, but as Hudson wrapped up the interview, he was left in no doubt that, unless McManus made a miraculous recovery, finding his attacker would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Chapter 12
Squeezing through the gap between the gates, Helen walked away from the yard, deep in thought. Her time with Meredith had been fruitful – she felt they had a pretty clear idea of what had happened and might even have garnered some valuable forensic evidence – but the motive for this crime was shrouded in mystery and likely to remain so, unless they could unearth some credible intel on McManus’s recent goings on. The intent had been to kill, that was clear, and the fact that McManus was still clinging to life might yet prove useful. It was unlikely he’d be fit to be interviewed for days, possibly weeks, but his continuing survival might prompt his attacker to do something rash. Would they be tempted to contact the hospital? Perhaps even pay a visit there to check up on the ailing detective’s condition?
Even as she thought it, Helen knew it was a long shot. DC McAndrew was currently at McManus’s flat in Thornhill, whilst Hudson was talking to his girlfriend – perhaps they would turn up something, but the idea of chancing on a single, stand-out suspect seemed a fond hope, given McManus’s chaotic lifestyle and multifarious investigations. The thought depressed Helen – how they could do with an easy case, an open-and-shut investigation, to bolster morale and remind the powers that be that they were good at their job. Lucky breaks, however, seemed thin on the ground of late.
Helen trudged towards her bike and as she neared it, her mood plummeted still further. Ranged in front of her, lounging provocatively on her Kawasaki, was Emilia Garanita.
‘Off!’ Helen barked, enraged that the journalist should even think of touching her ride.
‘And a good morning to you, Helen,’ Emilia chirped back, running her hand over the leather saddle, before reluctantly straightening up. ‘What’s cooking?’
Even as she said it, an impish smile tugged at her lips, her gaze drifting towards the smouldering wreckage beyond.
‘Any hot leads?’
‘You’re hilarious,’ Helen muttered, pushing past her towards her bike.
‘So I’m told. But this isn’t a laughing matter, is it?’ Emilia gestured towards the crime scene. ‘Arson, attempted murder, destruction of property,’ the journalist continued. ‘Any idea who had it in for McManus?’
As ever, she was irritatingly up to speed.
‘We’ll be holding a press conference later today, Emilia. If you’re interested—’
‘Oh, I know that,’ the journalist returned dismissively. ‘I was just wondering if you had a particular suspect in mind. Was it someone who was targeting him specifically? Or was it a random attack? Should the public be worried?’
‘No, the public are perfectly safe.’
Climbing onto her bike, Helen turned the ignition, signalling the end of the conversation. But Garanita wasn’t finished.
‘Really? That’s not the vibe I’m getting, not at all. Muggings, burglaries, carjackings, fires, you name it. And what’s your clear-up rate? Zero. From what I can see, it looks very much like the city is out of control, that we’re losing the battle in the midst of an unprecedented crime wave …’
For once, Helen was inclined to agree with her. Things did feel out of control at the moment. But there was no way she was going to admit it.
‘Been nice talking to you, Emilia. Now I really do hav—’
‘Ever feel that you’ve been in the job too long? That perhaps you’ve got nothing left to give?’
The directness of the question brought Helen up short. She had been wondering the exact same thing earlier in the week, until DCI Grace Simmons had put a stop to her crisis of confidence, reminding her of her many past successes. Yet the questions, the doubts, remained. Emilia Garanita seemed to sense this, smiling broadly as she awaited Helen’s response. But Helen was not going to play ball – not today, not ever – instead sliding down her visor and roaring away, spraying Garanita with a cloud of dust as she went.
Helen moved away at speed, but as she did so, her eye crept to her side mirror. And there was the journalist, looking utterly unperturbed by her sudden, aggressive departure. In fact, Garanita seemed to be enjoying herself, a broad grin gracing her face. It was an image that made Helen feel nauseous – not just Emilia’s knowingness, her confidence, her enjoyment of their current predicament, but also her very presence. Garanita had always been a thorn in her side, but now more than ever she seemed to be an agent of persecution. She was always ahead of the pack, always hot on the scent – in fact, whenever Helen was under the cosh, reeling from yet more bloodshed and tragedy, she could be sure that when she looked up, Emilia Garanita would be standing there, a smile plastered across her face, ready to stick the knife in.
Chapter 13
She stared up at the graffiti, sickened and scared.
Lilah Hill had risen late, bolting down her breakfast, before grabbing her cycle helmet and racing down the hall, desperate not to be late for work. But as she’d approached the front door, she’d seen through the glazing that something was wrong, that someone had defaced their little home. Angry, unnerved, she’d yanked the door open, wanting to see the damage, wanting to confirm to herself that it was just some kids messing about. In her heart, however, Lilah suspected this desecration had a more sinister root and the sight that met her had confirmed that, dashing her fond hopes. Daubed across the front door and adjacent window was a large, black swastika.
It took her breath away. A symbol that contained so much hatred, bigotry and contempt. As a young black couple, she and Martin had experienced abuse and prejudice before, but never anything so pointed or personal, never at their home, and it left her feeling shaken and fearful.
She’d remained there for a minute, maybe two, her arms wrapped around herself, before she became aware that others had noted the attack on their house. A clutch of neighbours had gathered in the street, watching and talking whilst local schoolkids walked by, pausing en route to take in the awful image. Oddly, ridiculously, Lilah felt embarrassed, ashamed even, as if somehow this wanton act of vandalism was her fault. They were the only black couple living in the street, a fact that had always made her uncomfortable, and this attack increased her unease tenfold.
‘Martin!’
Her voice sounded weak and fractured, but it must have conveyed her shock and distress, for moments later her husband appeared. Stepping outside, he turned to take in the damage.
‘Look what they’ve done,’ L
ilah whispered, her voice shaking.
Martin scrutinized the swastika, his expression unreadable.
‘They must have done it whilst we were sleeping …’ Lilah continued, tears pricking her eyes.
It was a terrible thought, the idea of someone creeping up to their front door whilst they were slumbering, and she was expecting Martin to react with anger, expletives, outrage. But to her surprise, he simply shook his head and walked back inside.
‘Martin? Where are you going?’
She sounded pathetic, desperate, which was more or less how she felt. Realizing what a spectacle she was now making of herself, Lilah tried to master her emotions, to regain her composure. Taking a few steps away from the house, she raised her mobile phone, snapping photos of the defaced exterior. But as she did so, Martin returned, ruining her shot. To her great surprise, he was carrying a bucket of soapy water and a sponge.
‘What are you doing? We can’t wipe it off!’ she exclaimed, hurrying towards him.
‘You want to leave it like this?’
‘No, of course not. But I need to take some pictures. Plus, the police will need to see it.’
‘You’re calling the police?’
It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or was simply surprised.
‘Of course I am. We have to report this.’
‘For all the good it’ll do.’
‘We can’t just let this go.’
‘Well, call them if you want, but you’ll have to clean it up, then.’
He plonked down the bucket, making to leave. And now Lilah clocked the crisp white shirt, the smart navy trousers.
‘You’ve got a job interview …’ she said, kicking herself for forgetting.
‘And you wouldn’t want me to miss it, would you? You’ve been the one who’s been on at me to get a job.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good, because I’m not going to let anyone stop me.’ He looked up at the graffiti, as he spoke. ‘Especially these brainless idiots. Wish me luck?’
She did as she was asked, kissing him warmly on the cheek, but her heart wasn’t in it. Of course Martin had to go, he couldn’t let himself be intimidated, but was he really going to leave her here alone?
‘What if they come back?’
‘They won’t, they’re cowards,’ he reassured her.
‘They could have done anything last night. Poured petrol through the letterbox or—’
‘They wouldn’t have the balls. We won’t be seeing them again, trust me.’
Turning, Martin carried on down the road, checking his phone as if nothing had happened. Upset, Lilah turned away, once more taking in the front of the house. The sight punched her in the guts and this time a tear slid down her cheek. Suddenly, she felt out of control, as if she didn’t know what was going on or who, if anyone, she could trust.
‘Jesus, look at that …’
The schoolboy’s muttered exclamation snapped her from her introspection. Gathering herself, wiping away her tears, Lilah dialled 999. In spite of Martin’s disapproval, she would do the right thing. But as she waited for the operator to answer, as her eye alighted once more on the bucket and sponge in front of her, she realized that she wanted none of this – the attention, the hassle, the silent judgement. No, in truth, she just wanted it all to go away.
Chapter 14
Lee Moffat threw back his head and laughed, a deep, wicked roar that filled the room. This was far better than he could possibly have hoped for.
‘What’s it say?’ he said, finally mastering himself, turning to face his companion.
‘That McManus is in intensive care, that his injuries are possibly life-threatening, that he’s burnt to a fucking crisp, basically,’ Darren replied, his thick Scottish accent coating the words. ‘It’s all over local radio, the internet, everything.’
‘And they’ve named him?’
‘Aye. “Declan McManus, a local private detective, formerly of the Met Police …”’
‘Show me.’
Lee gestured at him to hand over his phone, which his companion did, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Darren’s new iPhone, borrowed from a Porsche they’d lifted three days ago, was his pride and joy.
Swiftly, Lee scrolled through the news feeds, drinking in the pictures of the blaze, chuckling at the photo of McManus, whose plump, scowling face stared back at him.
‘I wonder what odds you’ll get on him pulling through,’ he muttered.
‘Best call Ladbrokes, eh?’ Darren joked confidently, even as his feeble words died in the air.
Lee ignored him, lost in his own thoughts. Maybe McManus would die of his injuries, silencing him for good. Else he’d survive, ruined, cowed, far too concerned for his own hide to poke his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Honestly, happily, Lee didn’t care which.
Either way, his life had just become a lot easier.
Chapter 15
‘I know we need another case like a hole in the head, but these are the facts we have so far.’
The team had gathered in the incident room at Southampton Central and watched as Helen pinned a photo of Declan McManus to the murder board.
‘Declan McManus, aged forty-two. Born in Belfast, but spent most of his working life in London, first as a detective sergeant in the Met’s financial crimes division, then as a disgraced detective sergeant, dismissed from the Force for fraud, false accounting, accepting bribes and perverting the course of justice.’
There was an ironic clap from the rear of the group, one of the junior members trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Smiling briefly, Helen continued: ‘He’s been resident in Southampton for two years now, working as a private detective. Last night, he was the victim of an arson attack at his Portakabin office in Locks Heath. He’s currently in an induced coma at Southampton University Hospital – they’re saying he’s critical, but stable – so for now we’re treating this as attempted murder.’
‘Who knew he worked there?’ DC Malik asked, on the front foot as always.
‘Very few people, according to his girlfriend,’ Joseph Hudson spoke up. ‘Sandra Keaton, a couple of people that he used as scouts on more complicated cases, but other than that—’
‘What do we know about these “scouts?”’ Helen queried.
Hudson didn’t look up, instead scrolling through the notes on his iPhone.
‘Lauren Jackson and Samuel Taylor. We’ve got addresses and are chasing them down now.’
Nodding briefly, Helen carried on: ‘The fire was intense, as you’ll have seen from the extensive coverage in the press. These are our photos of the scene …’
She pinned up a series of carefully framed shots, which outlined the devastation.
‘Almost nothing was spared. There may be fragments of files we can muster, but I wouldn’t count on it. Did we find anything at his flat in Thornhill?’
DC McAndrew shook her head. ‘Dirty clothes, empty takeaway boxes and a bundle of newspapers. This guy travelled light …’
‘Go through all the newspapers. See if there was a particular case, person, incident that he was interested in. Anything he might have circled, articles he’s torn out. Did the girlfriend have anything interesting to say?’
This time, Helen turned to face Hudson. Any residual sense of antagonism, of triumph, after their encounter last night remained well masked as he raised his eyes to meet hers, responding in a professional, considered manner.
‘She was in bits and, to be honest, she didn’t know much. It was very much an on-and-off thing, a relationship of convenience, nothing more.’
His gaze didn’t waver for a second, a knowingness creeping back into his expression. Breaking eye contact quickly, Helen turned back to the group.
‘OK, so in the absence of any obvious leads, we’re going to have to go back to basics. Who was McManus seeing? Who was he talking to? Where was he going? We’ve already pulled his call history from the phone company.’
Helen held up a sheaf of pap
ers, all of which were studded with telephone numbers and call durations.
‘This gives us an idea of who McManus had contacted recently, though obviously not the content of those conversations. We’ll need to talk to everyone on this list, but we should also canvas neighbours and local residents near the yard. Did they see anyone loitering, near his flat, his car, the Portakabin? Was he arguing with anyone in the days leading up to the arson attack? Let’s also go through the obvious CCTV pinch points – the train station, the Westquay shopping centre, the hospitals. Was he tailing anyone? He has no immediate family locally – his ex-wives live in Belfast and Durham respectively and have no contact with him – so let’s really dig down into his professional life. We know that someone tried to access his flat a week ago, that his laptop was stolen from his car the day before yesterday, and that pretty much all of his casework files went up in the blaze. The manner of the attack suggests that his attempted murder was not impulsive, but instead a carefully planned attempt on his life, so, for the moment, I’m assuming that it was linked to his job. What was he doing that people didn’t like? What did they want to stop?’
‘What sort of thing was he known for?’ DC Osbourne asked.
‘Anything and everything. Financial crime, corporate fraud, insurance scams, infidelities, bigamy, will disputes. He did some work for lawyers’ firms too—’
‘It’s got to be financial,’ Hudson interrupted abruptly. ‘Something active, something ongoing that threatened some lowlife’s scam or enterprise.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Helen retorted. ‘He could have been silenced to protect someone’s marriage, their family, their livelihood—’
‘Or it could be revenge for something he’d done on a previous assignment,’ DC Bentham offered. ‘The settling of an old score, by someone whose life had already been ruined by McManu—’
‘I don’t buy it,’ Hudson interjected once more, cutting him off. ‘You’d have to be pretty pissed off to go to such lengths over an old score. I think whoever did this was desperate, up against the wall, a person or organization who wanted to send out a message that this is what you get if you meddle in their business.’
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