by Bill Rogers
Fox nodded. ‘That’ll be Jack Reilly and Steve Yates. Unfortunately, Yates left the hospital shortly before we arrived. I’ve got a team trying to track him down.’
‘I’ll start with the O’Neills then,’ said Gordon. ‘Is there somewhere private I can speak with them?
‘We’ve been trying to persuade them to come over to the Bereavement Care Centre. One of their advisers is on her way to collect them, but they’re refusing to budge till they’ve seen the body. Maybe you’ll have better luck.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Gordon as he led the way across the reception area.
Jason O’Neill’s arms were tight around his mother’s shoulders. It looked to Gordon as though he was both holding her up and protecting her. He had his father’s bullish physique, but without the weight. His eyes, red from crying, were full of suspicion.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Holmes. My colleagues and I are here to investigate your father’s death.’
Jason’s eyes widened. ‘Finally!’ he said. ‘Someone who admits he was murdered!’
‘I didn’t say that, Mr O’Neill,’ said Gordon, ‘but we do have reason to believe that your father’s death was suspicious. I’m here to establish exactly how he died.’
‘Reason to believe! Establish how?!’ Jason spat out the words. ‘I’ll tell you how he died. In terrible pain. In fear. In total fucking disbelief. And we had to watch it happen, my mother and me.’
Sheila O’Neill began to sob, every word like a stab to her heart. Her son struggled to hold her upright.
‘Leave it, Jason,’ said Jack Reilly. ‘For your mum’s sake.’
‘He’s right, Jason,’ said DI Robb, the Challenger detective. ‘We all understand why you’re angry, but it isn’t helping.’
Jason rounded on her. ‘Helping? I’ll tell you what’d help – you lot getting off your backsides and finding whoever did it. Because I tell you, if you don’t, we will!’
‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen Ronnie,’ wailed his mother.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible until the pathologist has seen your husband, Mrs O’Neill,’ said Gordon gently. ‘You’ll be able to see him as soon as he’s been moved to the mortuary. While you’re waiting, we’d like to ask all three of you some questions. Not here though – somewhere private. Like the Bereavement Centre. It’s in the same building as the mortuary.’
‘One of the bereavement advisers is on her way,’ Robb added. ‘She can take you over there, and accompany you to the mortuary as soon it’s possible to do so.’
Jason O’Neill looked as though he was about to protest but Reilly put his hand on his shoulder.
‘Better there than down the cop shop, Jace,’ he said.
Sheila O’Neill squeezed her son’s hand tightly. He looked at her and then at Gordon. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
Nigel Fox drew Gordon aside and whispered in his ear. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘I’m going to go outside, warn that lot out there to leave it to us, and then send them packing. Then I need to check on where that mad bastard Yates has got to. You will keep us in the loop, won’t you?’
‘Likewise,’ said Gordon.
Chapter 6
They were about to head off to the bereavement centre when Gordon’s phone rang.
‘I’ll have to take this,’ he said.
Jo stepped away to give him some privacy. He turned his back and lowered his voice. Nevertheless, she could tell from the way his shoulders hunched and the way he became increasingly animated that this was not good news. He glanced over his shoulder at her with a grim expression that gave her the distinct impression that whatever it was, for some reason he held her responsible. After a minute or so he turned towards her and held out his phone.
‘It’s Assistant Chief Constable Gates. She wants a word.’ He looked and sounded seriously pissed off.
Jo took the phone. ‘Joanne Stuart,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you, Ma’am?’
‘You can start by putting this on speakerphone,’ Gates said. ‘I want DCI Holmes to hear this so there are no misunderstandings.’
Jo pressed the icon and held the phone up between them.
‘I’ve spoken with your Director of Investigations,’ said Gates, ‘and she’s agreed to second you to GMP to head up the investigation into the murder of Ronnie O’Neill.’
Jo glanced at Gordon. He shrugged and looked away. When Gates continued, it was – and not for the first time – as though she’d been reading Jo’s mind.
‘In case you’re wondering, DCI Holmes is comfortable with this. I need him to take over an investigation into an unconnected series of shootings.’ She paused. ‘At least I hope to God that it is unconnected.’
Her tone softened. ‘GMP are badly stretched, Jo, and not just by the savage cuts to frontline officers, year on year. Following the Manchester Arena bombing, the Chief Constable has had no option but to transfer a whole tranche of detectives to Serious and Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Command. Your people have agreed that this investigation may have wider national significance and that the NCA will cooperate in any way they can. You can work out of Nexus House – the home of GMP Major Incident Team and Serious Crime Units – with Syndicate One. DS Carter will be your deputy. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this needs a firm hand and a light touch.’
‘I think you’ll find that’s an oxymoron,’ Gordon muttered.
‘I heard that, DCI Holmes,’ said Gates. ‘SI Stuart knows what I mean and so do you. The press will be all over it. The Mayor and the Leader of the Council will start leaning on the Chief, and she’ll be leaning on me. The last thing we need is a gang vigilante war breaking out. A return to the bad old days of “Gunchester”.’
‘And who will I have to lean on, Ma’am?’ Jo asked.
‘You’ve got Carter and the rest of the syndicate. The Operation Challenger and Operation Xcalibre teams will concentrate on de-escalation. That means dissuading the O’Neill organisation from trying to do our work for us and stopping all the other gangs from attempting to take advantage of the situation. All you have to do is catch Ronnie O’Neill’s killer.’
Jo placed her hand over the phone and whispered to Gordon, ‘Should be a breeze.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Gates. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
Gordon rolled his eyes.
‘I’ll handle the press from Central Park,’ she continued. ‘I’ll leave you two to get on. The clock is ticking.’
She ended the call before either of them had a chance to respond.
Jo handed the phone back to Gordon. ‘Just like the old days,’ she said.
‘With half the resources,’ he said sourly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘About . . . them parachuting me in like this.’
‘Don’t be. Not your fault. Besides, I’ll have my investigation sorted in no time. A couple of wannabe hardmen riding around on scooters, trying to frighten each other by firing popguns through each other’s windows? Yours, on the other hand, is shaping up to be a right nightmare.’
‘Thanks for that,’ she said. ‘You always were a ray of sunshine.’
Chapter 7
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ said Jo. ‘You could be here a while.’
They were in a family room on the ground floor of the Children’s Hospital. Sheila O’Neill, who had proved to be in no state to be questioned, was next door with the bereavement adviser and DC Whittle. Her son was pacing up and down like a caged animal. Jack Reilly stood behind a settee facing the door as though expecting someone armed with a Kalashnikov to burst through it at any moment. Jo and DI Alice Robb were standing just inside the door.
O’Neill glared at them. ‘Why don’t you two piss off and do your jobs?’ he said. His eyes rested on Jo. ‘Hang about,’ he said, ‘do I know you?’
‘Our paths crossed when I was based in South Manchester,’ she sa
id.
His eyes widened. ‘That’s it! You and some copper with a broken nose and cauliflower ears tried to pin GBH on me.’
‘You were never charged,’ she said.
He grinned, exposing a row of crooked teeth and a pair of gold crowns. ‘Course I wasn’t, cos I didn’t do it. What’s this then? You coming back for more?’
‘This isn’t helping, Jace,’ said Reilly.
‘He’s right,’ Jo agreed. ‘The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner we can get on with our investigation.’
‘Go on then,’ said O’Neill without breaking stride. ‘What do you wanna know?’
‘When did your father receive that injury to the right side of his neck?’
Jason stopped pacing, stared at her and then at Reilly. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ she replied.
His eyes widened. ‘You saying that’s what killed him?’
‘As I said, we don’t know. What do you think caused your father’s death?’
‘He was poisoned, wasn’t he, Jack?’ He looked to his friend for confirmation. ‘That’s what Steve said.’
‘What Steve thought,’ said Reilly. ‘What we all thought.’
‘And when was this poisoning supposed to have taken place?’ Jo asked.
‘Friday night. We went to an Italian in the city centre, to celebrate Mum and Dad’s thirtieth anniversary. It was straight after that he started to get ill.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Da Rapallo, on Albert Square.’
‘How many of you were there?’
‘Five tables of eight.’
‘Forty then?’
‘Yeah, give or take.’
‘Was it a private party, or were there other diners in the restaurant?’
‘We took up about half the restaurant, but the place was packed all night.’
‘DC Whittle will get the details from you when we’ve finished,’ she told him, ‘including the names and addresses of everyone who was in your party. But for now, can you tell me when your father received that injury to his neck?’
‘Friday morning about . . .’
‘11.30,’ said Reilly.
‘Yeah, half eleven. We were on the golf course playing a two-ball foursome. Dad was driving off the seventh tee when he suddenly dropped his club and slapped the side of his neck. Something stung him.’
‘Wasp, he thought,’ added Reilly. ‘Or a horsefly.’
‘Did either of you see it?’
‘No,’ they said in unison.
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Like what?’ said Jason with a sneer. ‘Buzzing?’
‘Anything at all unusual,’ said Jo.
They stared at her and then at each other.
‘Hang on,’ said Jason. ‘Are you saying someone shot him? Someone shot my dad?’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ Jo replied. ‘I’m simply trying to establish how he came by that injury.’
But Jason wasn’t listening. He was staring wide-eyed at Reilly. ‘That’s just the kind of thing those bastards would do, Jack.’
Reilly shook his head. ‘They’d have made sure. Blown your dad’s head off.’
‘What bastards would those be, Jason?’ asked Jo.
Jason ignored her question. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘It was only a scratch.’
Neither Jo nor Alice Robb responded.
‘What if it was a poison dart, Jace?’ said Reilly. ‘Like they do to an animal?’
‘Animal!?’ O’Neill yelled. ‘My dad?’ His eyes bulged and his fists clenched. ‘I’ll give them fucking animal!’
Chapter 8
Jo pulled up at the gatehouse, showed her ID, and waited patiently for them to check her out.
Up ahead was Nexus House. From the outside it could easily be mistaken for just another brick and glass office block on the industrial estate just yards from the M60 motorway. In reality, it housed three of GMP’s elite teams: the Serious Crime Division, the Economic Crime Unit, and the Cold Case Unit. The Forensic Services team was also here, which in theory meant a much faster turnaround of crime scene samples. It had been opened less than two years ago, a fortnight after her secondment to the NCA.
Jo wondered why they were taking so long in the gatehouse. She was impatient to get going, but also apprehensive. Presumably the syndicate she’d worked alongside on Operation Hound would have relocated here by now. She hoped so, and that it would be the one that she was about to head up. This investigation was going to be challenging enough without having to establish her authority and credibility after being parachuted into an already tight-knit team.
One of the civilian gatekeepers tapped on her window and handed back her ID.
‘All good, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Follow the road around to the right and park up wherever you can find a space. The entrance is slap bang in the middle. You can’t miss it.’
At the front desk she was told that ACC Gates had rung and told them to expect her. She was asked to complete a form giving her details and car reg and then handed a temporary guest pass on a lanyard. A member of the front desk staff led the way to one of the major incident rooms on the second floor. Jo took a deep breath and opened the door.
She had no idea what she’d been expecting, something new and shiny perhaps, but it was more the shock of the familiar. It was like walking into the MIR at Central Park, or even being back at Longsight. Row after row of desks, each with a monitor. The only real difference was the absence of wall space, compensated for by standing whiteboards and interactive screens. Also the number of empty desks, presumably reflecting the steady erosion in front-line staff.
Nobody looked up as she entered the room, but she’d already spotted some familiar faces. Duggie Wallace, a collator and senior intelligence analyst, Jack Benson, senior crime scene investigator, and Detective Constable Jimmy Hulme, the joker of the pack. To her right, Ged, the syndicate Office Manager, was deep in conversation with Gordon Holmes. If this was her syndicate, it was a great start. Ged noticed her for the first time. She smiled and said something to Gordon Holmes. He turned and waved Jo over.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to queer your pitch or tread on your toes. I thought you might welcome my having a few words with this lot to explain my imminent departure and warn them that they’d better give you one hundred per cent or they’ll have me to answer to.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Which was not what she was really thinking. This was all about him needing to say goodbye, and making sure they knew he hadn’t been pushed aside by a woman. As for warning the syndicate to behave for her, it was the kind of patronising male behaviour that still haunted the force despite the best efforts of the Equality and Diversity team.
‘Welcome back, Ma’am,’ said Ged.
There was no way she was going to call Jo by her given name, and she had always struggled with Ms Stuart. Jo couldn’t care less. Having Ged on her side was worth a dozen lapdogs.
Gordon clapped his hands twice. ‘Listen up!’ he bellowed.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up. Several of them smiled when they saw Jo beside him.
‘There’s good news and bad news,’ he said.
‘No change there then,’ someone said.
Gordon waited for the laughter to subside. ‘The bad news is that I’ve been reassigned to Syndicate Four to investigate the outbreak of shootings in South Manchester.’
This was met by a few groans and some sympathetic murmurs that left Jo in doubt as to how much he would be missed.
‘The good news is that DI Stuart – currently NCA Senior Investigator – has been seconded back to us to lead a new investigation. Her bad news is that she has to do it with you lot.’
Benson and Wallace began to clap. DC Hulme and several of the others joined in. Soon the entire room appeared to be applauding her. Jo had been hoping that the old guard would be h
appy to see her, but this was embarrassing.
Gordon stepped aside to make way for her. She stepped forward, motioned for those who were standing to sit down, and waited for the applause to fade.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘The feeling’s mutual. I’m guessing that by now you’ll all have heard about Ronnie O’Neill’s untimely demise in suspicious circumstances?’
Heads nodded, and there were murmured asides.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘the investigation is now officially ours.’
There were murmurs of excitement and a couple of people even punched the air.
‘I’m glad to see you’re all up for it,’ she said. ‘Because this has A-plus priority. That means twenty-four-hour coverage until we have a handle on it. Probably, until we have the perpetrator in custody.’
That was met with a few more groans, but nowhere near as many as she’d expected. But she knew that none of them would have been in this syndicate if they didn’t live for moments like this. They would work every hour that God sent them to get the job done, and deal with the domestic fallout when it was all over. Until the next one came along. It was a relentless process – one that cost too many of them their domestic relationships. Hers included.
‘So, initial lines of enquiry,’ she continued. ‘Jack, I need a CSI team down at the Worsley Golf Course. At the moment, it appears to be the nearest we’ve got to a crime scene. Though God knows what kind of trace evidence they’ll get after all the rain we’ve had overnight and this morning. Then, as soon as we have a list of people who were on the course on Friday morning, I’ll need some of you to interview them. There’ll also be door-to-door enquiries at some of the surrounding properties. The rest of you will either be collating information as it comes in, sifting intelligence on potential suspects, or analysing passive data – in particular, CCTV from the hotel and golf course parking lots and the surrounding roads.’
‘What will we be looking for, Boss?’ said Detective Constable Hulme.
‘Honestly?’ she replied. ‘Right now, I haven’t a clue. But trust me, by the end of the afternoon I will.’