by Bill Rogers
ALSO BY BILL ROGERS
THE SI JOANNE STUART, NATIONAL CRIME AGENCY SERIES
The Pick, The Spade and The Crow
The Falcon Tattoo
The Tangled Lock
DCI TOM CATON MANCHESTER MURDER MYSTERIES
The Cleansing
The Head Case
The Tiger’s Cave
A Fatal Intervention
Bluebell Hollow
A Trace of Blood
The Frozen Contract
Backwash
A Venetian Moon
Angel Meadow
INDIVIDUAL WORKS
The Cave
Breakfast at Katsouris (short stories)
Caton’s Manchester (eight walks based on the Manchester Murder Mysteries)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Bill Rogers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904972
ISBN-10: 1503904970
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
Contents
Start Reading
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
blow out
1. extinguish by a current of air
2. an easy victory (in golf)
Chapter 1
FRIDAY, 13TH OCTOBER
The two electric buggies came to a stop. The middle-aged quartet decamped, selected their clubs, and trudged up the wooden sleeper steps onto the seventh tee.
‘Three bogeys, two pars, and a double bogey on the last,’ said Nathan, the tall thin one with sunken cheeks. ‘You two are going to have to sort yourselves out. At this rate you’ll be getting the drinks in all night.’
‘It’s Jack’s driving!’ Steve complained. ‘Seventeen out of our thirty strokes came on the even holes.’ The smile on the face of the British Bulldog tattooed on his right bicep widened as he scratched his bald head with a gloved hand.
‘Well, I doubt you’ll get any joy on this one,’ said Ronnie, the ape-necked powerhouse to whom they all deferred. ‘Gem of a hole. Deceptive little beggar. Hundred and seventy-seven yards, par three. You’ve got two options. Ignore the fairway. Play straight over the pond. That’s going to leave you with two putts for a par.’
‘Providing your first shot doesn’t end up in the drink!’ chortled Nathan.
‘Or,’ Ronnie growled, ‘you can ignore the pond, take the coward’s route, and play the fairway. Lucky for you we’re playing a two-ball foursome. One of you can go for it. The other one can play safe.’
‘That’ll be you, Jack,’ said Steve, stepping forward to address his ball. ‘I’m going route one.’
The three of them watched as he took several practice swings with his seven iron before unleashing his shot. The ball rose above the trees behind the hole, appeared to hang for a moment in a sudden crosswind and plummeted into the ditch at the front of the green.
Steve’s curse was drowned by the laughter of his fellow players.
‘Bad luck that,’ said Ronnie with a broad grin. ‘Another two feet and you’d have been sitting proud. Should have used a six iron.’
‘Sodding wind,’ said Steve, bending to retrieve his plastic peg.
Nathan landed his shot on the fairway, leaving a chip onto the green. Jack followed suit.
Ronnie placed his ball on the tee, took several warm-up swings, addressed the ball, and waited for the breeze to drop. A woodpigeon broke cover from the woods off to their right, their late autumnal coats shimmering russet and gold in the morning sunshine, and flew directly across his line of sight.
‘Bird’s got a bleedin’ death wish,’ he muttered. He raised his iron, judged the downswing perfectly, and struck the ball on the sweet spot. As his follow-through reached its peak he cried out, dropped the club, and slapped the right side of his neck.
‘What’s the matter, Ron?’ asked Jack, his eyes still on the path of the ball.
‘Bloody wasp stung me!’ he replied, rubbing his neck with vigour. ‘Either that, or one of those damn horseflies.’
‘Shame it wasn’t a fraction of a second earlier,’ Steve moaned. ‘Looks like you’re three feet from the pin, you lucky josser.’
‘Luck doesn’t come into it. I keep telling you. You gotta practise.’
‘You saying they had a practice range in Belmarsh?’ said Nathan.
Ronnie rammed the six iron into his golf bag and climbed onto the buggy.
‘I’ve been making up for lost time,’ he said. ‘Played at least one round every day since I got out. If today’s anything to go by I bet that’s more than you’ve played all the time I’ve been inside.’
He was still rubbing his neck as the two buggies wound their way around the pond, and their voices faded on the wind.
Chapter 2
DAY ONE – MONDAY, 16TH OCTOBER
Jo placed the last set of bubble-wrapped plates in the crate and closed the lid. She stood up, dusted the knees of her tracksuit, and looked around. The lounge had an air of desolation. The TV and sofa sat forlorn in a sea
of packing cases. It was not that long since she’d stood here, feeling alone and abandoned. Now all that was changing.
It was only a fortnight since her civil partnership with Abbie had been dissolved. Abbie was already eight months pregnant by the donor she’d found for herself, and desperate for her share of the apartment. To Jo’s surprise, a cash buyer had appeared and offered the asking price. The only problem was he needed her out by the end of the month, and there was every chance of completion within the next ten days. Fortunately, a perfect apartment had come onto the market on Salford Quays, close to work, and also to Agata who had a place on the opposite side of the Huron Basin. It was too early in their developing relationship to think about moving in together. Jo had the impression that Agata would have been happy to do so, but for her it was a case of once bitten.
She glanced at her watch. If she got a move on she could make the early-morning session at the gym. If anything was going to shake off her melancholy blues, an hour of Krav Maga would do it. She went through to the bedroom, picked up her kitbag and briefcase, and set off.
Grant, Jo’s Krav Maga instructor, raised his eyebrows as she entered the room. The usual suspects were already there, pounding out push-ups, burpees and star jumps like there was no tomorrow. Two bankers from the financial district, two teachers, a female lecturer from UMIST, a fireman, and a door supervisor, aka bouncer.
‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘You’d better do your warm-up while this lot help me get the equipment out.’
Three minutes later, with the blood coursing through her veins and her body covered in a slick sheen of sweat, she joined the others facing their instructor, their backs against the wall.
‘Right,’ said Grant. ‘Today we’re revisiting limitation training. It’s a while since you’ve done it, so remind me. What are we talking about here?’
‘Fending off an attack in a confined space,’ said one of the bankers.
‘Such as?’
‘In an alleyway.’
‘On a staircase,’ said the second banker.
‘In an elevator?’ suggested the fireman.
‘Sitting down on a train or a tram or a bus,’ said the lecturer.
Grant nodded appreciatively. ‘And what is our mantra for limitation training?’
‘Manage the distance to manage the damage!’ they chorused.
‘Exactly. Fortunately, we’ve got a couple of experts here to show us how it’s done. Jo, let’s start with you backed up against the wall. Alex, you’re going to face her as the aggressor.’
He threw the bouncer a large black padded strike shield.
‘Here, this’ll help to protect your ugly mug.’
They laughed on cue. It was a well-worn joke. Alex was probably the most handsome bouncer in the North of England. At six feet five, weighing in at a muscular 190 pounds he was, like Jo, a five-bar-level Krav Maga graduate. He was also an instructor, as Jo could equally have been, had she so chosen.
‘I’m not going to give you any instructions,’ said Grant. ‘I want you to demonstrate the three position scenarios one after another. When you’re ready.’
Jo brought her fists up to her chest and waited. Alex pressed the strike shield against her with the full weight of his body behind it. She could smell garlic on his breath and see individual drops of sweat trickling down his forehead. He nodded to show that he was ready.
She bent her knees, then exploded upwards striking with the crown of her head against the shield where his chin – and a normal person’s nose – would have been. As his head and shoulders jerked back she struck the centre of the shield with her left elbow and then the right. Then she pivoted away from the wall and drove her right knee into his thigh. As he bent forward she hooked her right arm around his neck and flung him into the wall.
Alex stepped back. This time Jo turned sideways on to the wall and waited for him to close on her. She struck first with her right fist into the abdomen, then her left elbow, a headbutt and a knee strike, before wheeling away, and ending as before with the arm hook.
The final scenario, with her back to Alex, looked deceptively easy. She drove her right elbow into his right side, then into his back as she spun free, and kicked his right knee, before grabbing his T-shirt at the shoulder and using that to fling him into the wall.
Jo placed her hands on her knees and gasped for air as the group applauded.
‘Good,’ said Grant. ‘Bloody brilliant given the difference in height between the two of you. Jo used his clothing to drag him down and forward, because she couldn’t reach his neck. You always have to be ready to improvise. Okay. Now I want the rest of you to try it. Then we do it again, this time in the stairwell.’
An hour later, showered and changed, Jo felt amazing, as she always did at the end of a session. Andy Swift, her National Crime Agency behavioural psychologist, had explained why that was. She already knew about the pain suppression and euphoric feeling that endorphins produced, but this was something about the fight-or-flight reaction releasing a protein called BDNF that protected your mind and body from stress, and left you feeling clear-headed and ready for anything. She didn’t care how it worked, so long as it did.
She was just about to unlock the Audi when her phone rang. It was her boss, Harry Stone.
‘Where are you, Jo?’ he asked. He was abrupt and focused. Not at all like Harry.
‘Outside the gym. I’ll be in the office in fifteen minutes.’
‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘Get yourself over to Manchester Royal Infirmary, Jo. The Critical Care Unit. There’s a suspicious death Greater Manchester Police want our help with.’
‘Is Max going, too?’
‘I’ve just asked Max to work on an operation looking into what looks like an organised honour killing crime syndicate. The rest of the team, too. I’m afraid you’ll be on your own on this one. Although you’ll be able to draw on NCA resources, obviously.’
The way he said it, it didn’t sound obvious at all.
Harry homed in on her silence. ‘Are you alright, Jo?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied.
‘Only given everything you’ve been through since you joined us . . . not to mention what happened before that . . .’
‘I told you, I’m absolutely fine,’ she insisted.
‘Only nobody would blame you if you wanted to . . .’
‘What is this, Boss?’ she demanded. ‘Have I ever let you down?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Then can we please just move on?’
There was a long pause before he answered. ‘Very well, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. So, what more can you tell me about this suspicious death?’
‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ he said abruptly. ‘Got to go. GMP will brief you. Good luck.’
That’s ominous, she thought as she put her phone back in her bag. Harry Stone doesn’t believe in luck. And neither do I.
Jo laid her head back against the rest and took a moment to reflect on their exchange. He hadn’t needed to elaborate. Three investigations in less than three years during her secondment from GMP to the NCA, two of which had ended in her having to discharge a weapon and face an internal enquiry. The most recent of which had seen the perpetrator make her a target of his sickening fantasy. But, as always, Harry had been right. It was the backwash from her abduction in the Bluebell Hollow case that was threatening to resurface. Think of it as dealing with grief, the counsellor had told her. And she had. By acknowledging it for what it was. Then throwing herself back into her work. By taking up Krav Maga. By seeking new challenges with the National Crime Agency. And now, Abbie’s departure had become a second grief. Prodding her defences. Testing her resilience.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
‘Manage the distance to manage the damage!’ she intoned.
Experience had taught her that it wasn’t just the physical dimension of wellness where that applied. She inserted the key in the ignition and revved t
he engine. Felt the power beneath her foot. Took back control.
Chapter 3
‘Assistant Chief Constable Gates rang,’ Ged, the Incident Room Administrator, continued. ‘She would like you to urgently attend Manchester Royal Infirmary to investigate the suspicious death of a—’ She looked at the note in her hand. ‘—Ronnie O’Neill.’
DCI Gordon Holmes remembered him. A ruthless gang leader. Short, stocky, muscular, shaven-headed. A pocket battleship. He’d be in his fifties by now. ‘I thought he was doing a stretch in Belmarsh?’ he said.
‘He came out on parole,’ Detective Sergeant Carter said, ‘a month ago. Looks like someone was waiting for him. You’re welcome to this one. Whoever topped him has just stirred a bloody great hornets’ nest.’
Gordon followed Ged across the room, pausing at Carly Whittle’s desk.
‘Detective Constable Whittle?’ he said.
She looked up at him, pushed back her chair and leapt to her feet.
‘Yes, Sir!’
For a moment he thought she was going to salute.
‘Whatever it is you’re doing will still be here when you get back,’ he told her. ‘I want you with me.’
‘Yes, Sir!’
She grabbed her bag from the side of her desk and straightened up. Gordon found it strangely unnerving that they were standing eye to eye. Hers shone with excitement. As he turned to lead the way he was grateful that she was wearing low wedges and not high heels. With those blonde curls piled on her head she was already taller than him.
‘Just one thing,’ he said as he opened the door to the corridor. ‘It’s not Sir. It’s Boss, or Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Yes, Boss!’ She’d almost shouted it.
Gordon sighed and headed for the exit. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘the meter’s running.’
‘Ronnie O’Neill,’ said Gordon. ‘Tell DC Whittle what we know about him, Nick.’
They were speeding down Alan Turing Way, blue lights flashing. DC Carly Whittle in the passenger seat, DS Nick Carter in the rear.
Nick braced himself on the back of Carly’s seat as he leaned forward. ‘Long-standing boss of a South Manchester crime syndicate. Suspected of running a drugs empire, extortion, armed robbery, kidnapping, and grievous bodily harm. Far too clever though. Only ever convicted once, for the GBH. He all but killed a guy from Stockport trying to muscle in on the city centre clubs.’