The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  The man was almost as wide as he was tall. His bronzed bald head shone like a polished snooker ball. The bottom third of his left ear was missing. As he moved, the flesh around his middle swayed disconcertingly. He heard their feet crunch on the gravel drive and turned around. An off-white, three-inch scar ran from where his earlobe should have been and down across his neck, just short of the jugular.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded. He registered the IDs they were holding aloft and, with his finger still on the trigger, lowered the pressure washer lance to the ground. Pieces of gravel shot towards them, forcing them to move back.

  ‘I suggest you switch that off, Mr Stanley,’ said Jo, ‘before I arrest you for assaulting police officers with intent to cause actual bodily harm.’

  He smiled thinly as he released the trigger. ‘Clumsy of me,’ he said. ‘I forgot it was still on.’ He dropped the lance on the floor, placed one hand on the trunk of the car, and shuffled his legs apart so he could reach down to switch off the power unit.

  That’s confirmed one thing, Jo decided. There’s no way he could have fired that shot himself. Not unless he drove a mobility scooter through those woods beside the seventh tee. The thought of it conjured up a smile.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he demanded.

  His face, flushed from all the effort, seemed even more belligerent. Less like a hippo and more like a bouncer gone to seed.

  ‘I was just admiring your Jag,’ she said. ‘Is that the V6 super-charged version?’

  Her quick thinking wrong-footed him. ‘Er . . . yeah,’ he said. He recovered his composure. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk motors.’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Stanley,’ she said. ‘I think it’s better if we do this inside.’

  He folded his arms as best he could, resting them on his bulging stomach. ‘Not unless you’ve got a search warrant.’

  Jo turned to Carly. ‘Do we have a search warrant, Detective Constable?’ she asked.

  Carly shook her head. ‘No, Ma’am. I didn’t realise we’d need one.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Jo. ‘Given that it was never our intention to carry out a search. But if Mr Stanley feels we ought to, then you’d better go and get one.’

  ‘Hang on!’ said Stanley, looking very confused. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  Jo raised her eyebrows. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I know what I said. Just tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Ronnie O’Neill,’ she paused. ‘Recently deceased. As I’m sure you know.’

  He visibly relaxed. So much so that Jo was beginning to think they were wasting their time. But then again, maybe he was a damn good actor. No one whose business was as bent as his could have possibly managed to avoid the Proceeds of Crime Act without having become a very proficient liar.

  ‘I wondered how long it would be before your lot came knocking,’ he said. ‘I should’ve guessed. You’d better come in so I can get it over and done with.’

  They followed him across the gravel and up the steps into the porch. He shouldered the door open and waddled down the hall ahead of them.

  ‘Close the door after you,’ he grunted.

  He led them into a kitchen the size of Jo’s apartment and turned to face them, his back propped against the central island.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Ask me. Where was I when Ronnie O’Neill was killed?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jo, knowing full well this was too good to be true. ‘Where were you when Ronnie O’Neill was killed?’

  Stanley spread his arms wide. ‘Now how can you expect me to know where I was, when I don’t even know when he was killed?’

  ‘Fair enough. So where were you between 10 a.m. and twelve noon last Friday morning?’

  He frowned. ‘Last Friday? I heard he died yesterday, in MRI.’

  ‘It’s Friday morning that we’re interested in,’ said Jo. ‘Where were you, Benjamin?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m Benjamin to my wife when she’s pissed off with me, and Benjie to my friends. You’re neither. So it’s Mr Stanley – got it?’

  ‘Last Friday morning, Mr Stanley?’ said Carly Whittle.

  He turned his beady eyes on her. ‘Found your tongue have you, sweetheart?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Jo. ‘Benjamin Stanley, I would like you to accompany us to the North Manchester Divisional police station to assist with our enquiries into . . .’

  ‘Whoa . . .’ he said, holding both hands out in front of him. ‘There’s no need for that. I was only having a laugh.’

  ‘So, you regard Ronnie O’Neill’s death as a laughing matter?’ said Jo.

  ‘Come on, that’s not fair,’ he complained. ‘You wanna know where I was on Friday? I’ll tell you. I was at Malaga Airport waiting to board a plane back to Manchester. Check with the airline. Check with Border Control.’

  ‘The perfect alibi,’ said Jo.

  He bristled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What it says. If you were in Spain, there’s no way you could have attacked Ronnie O’Neill yourself.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘But someone could have done so on your behalf.’

  He placed his hands on the counter behind him and levered himself upright.

  ‘That’s it!’ he said. ‘I’m not saying another word without my solicitor present.’

  Jo got the impression that if he could have got away with adding ‘before I throw you out myself ’, he would have done.

  As he shepherded them out of the kitchen and down the hall, he was unable to resist a parting salvo. ‘Okay, I get it. You think because he chopped my ear off, I owe him one. Well, he got his comeuppance, didn’t he? A seven-year stretch in Belmarsh. If anything, there was more of a chance he’d reckon he owed me one. Why d’you think I’ve got the gates and the cameras?’

  Jo turned around on the step. ‘Just so long as you don’t think you still owe that family a payback,’ she told him. ‘Because we’ll be watching you.’

  ‘Ronnie O’Neill was a mad bastard!’ he shouted at their retreating backs. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish. If you find out who did do it, let me know. I’d like to shake his hand.’

  The two detectives faced each other over the roof of Jo’s Audi.

  ‘What do you think, Boss?’ said Carly.

  ‘What do you think?’ Jo replied.

  ‘He seemed genuine to me.’ Carly grimaced. ‘If that’s a term you can apply to scum like that.’

  ‘A word of caution, Detective Constable,’ said Jo. ‘I suggest that you resist referring to any member of the public, however flawed, as scum. Not only is it the beginning of a slippery slope, but, if anyone was to report you, you could be looking at a disciplinary. And don’t apologise or look so embarrassed. Of course he’s scum – just don’t let anyone hear you using the term. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘You drive,’ Jo said, throwing Carly the keys.

  Carly looked at them suspiciously. ‘Are you sure your insurance covers me?’

  ‘What do you think? I’m going let you drive uninsured? Open it up, will you? I need to sit down before I fall down.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind my asking,’ said Carly as she belted up.

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’d be worried if you hadn’t. As it happens I’ve got fully comprehensive for third parties, for business use only. You know how it is. In this job you never know when you might need to chase someone on foot and have someone else take over the controls.’

  ‘Are you okay, Boss?’ said Carly. ‘You look really peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jo assured her. ‘Bugger all sleep and no breakfast, that’s all. There’s a cafe and sandwich bar on a shopping precinct on Victoria Avenue, just before we join the motorway. Let me know when we’re there.’

  She adjusted the seat, lay back, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 20
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  Somewhere a phone was ringing.

  Jo jerked awake and sat up. It was her hands-free phone. The screen told her it was Agata, then the ringing stopped. She looked around; they were outside the cafe. The wind had picked up and rain lashed the windshield.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Just over half an hour,’ said Carly. ‘You were really gone. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Next you’re going to tell me I was snoring?’

  Carly raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said Jo. She opened her bag and took out her purse. ‘Here, make yourself useful while I ring this number back. I’ll have a double-shot skinny latte and a bacon sandwich. With brown sauce. Plenty of it.’

  She watched as her DC bent into the wind and sprinted, head down, until she reached the shelter of the billowing blue-and-white striped cafe awning. Then she returned the call.

  ‘Aggie. You called me.’

  ‘Jo! Thank God. I didn’t want to bother you at work, not in the middle of a murder investigation, but I was worried about you. You haven’t returned my texts.’

  Jo could have kicked herself. It was amazing having someone actually care about her again. And having someone to care about. One more reason why she didn’t want to mess this relationship up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only managed a few hours’ sleep last night and it’s been full on since I got in. In fact, I’ve just had a nap in the car, courtesy of the new DC.’

  ‘Good for her,’ Agata replied. ‘You sound as though you’d benefit from a large strong coffee.’

  Jo smiled. ‘Mind reader.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help with your packing,’ said Agata, ‘but I hope to be back in Manchester before you move in to your new apartment. I can help with that instead. And throw you a celebration dinner at mine.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Jo told her. ‘I just hope we can wrap up this investigation before then.’ Some hope, said the little voice at the back of her brain. ‘How is your own investigation going?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘ “Interesting” is all I can say over the phone. I’ll tell you more when I see you.’

  Jo laughed. ‘You’re even more paranoid than I am.’

  ‘With good reason, Jo.’

  There was a rap on the passenger window. Carly Whittle stood there with sodden hair, two Styrofoam cups clasped to her chest, and a paper bag tucked under her chin.

  Jo lowered the window. ‘I’m sorry, Aggie,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to go. Breakfast is here.’ She smiled up at her DC and took one of the cups from her.

  ‘No problem,’ said Agata. ‘I have to go too. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ said Jo.

  Just saying it gave her a warm glow inside. It was yet another confirmation that she’d been too long in an emotional wilderness.

  The driver’s door flew open and Carly ducked inside the car. ‘Bugger this,’ she said. ‘Next time it’s your turn, Boss.’ She wedged her cup between her thighs and handed Jo the bag. Jo opened it up. There were two bacon sarnies, six sachets of brown sauce, and some paper napkins.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘But I can only manage one of these sandwiches.’

  Carly mopped her face with a handkerchief, and then prised the top off her coffee cup. ‘The other one’s sausage. It’s for me.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Jo, reaching inside for hers. ‘This is just like being on the road with DCI Holmes.’

  Carly nodded. ‘He’s always saying an army marches on its stomach.’

  ‘Don’t tell him I said this,’ said Jo, ‘but you can definitely tell that he does.’

  They kept the laughter short and got stuck into their sandwiches.

  Hailstones beat a tattoo on the roof and hood, and torrents of water poured down the gutters, pooling in the road where drains were full to overflowing.

  Jo wiped her mouth with a napkin, screwed it up, and placed it in the paper bag. ‘Where the hell did all this come from?’ she asked, peering through the windshield.

  ‘On the radio it said it’s the tail end of Hurricane Ophelia. Downgraded to a storm.’

  Jo scrunched the bag into a ball and stuffed it in the side pocket on the door.

  ‘Well, if this is the tail end,’ she said, ‘I’m bloody glad we didn’t get to experience the front end.’

  Her phone rang. It was Nick Carter.

  ‘Boss,’ he said, ‘I was getting worried. You’ve been off the radar.’

  ‘Not really.’ She winked at Carly Whittle. ‘We’ve finished interviewing Benjie Stanley. Just about to join the M60.’

  ‘What’s that noise I can hear?’ he asked.

  ‘“The Ride of The Valkyries”,’ she told him.

  ‘Can’t hear your engine though,’ he said. ‘Are you at the lights?’

  ‘What is this? The inquisition?’ she mouthed to DC Whittle, who raised her eyebrows. ‘I stopped to pick up some coffee to keep me awake,’ she said. ‘We were just about to set off when you called. Why? What’s the hurry?’

  ‘ACC Gates used her influence to get permission for us to talk to the guy who was the undercover asset on Operation Mandera. He’s currently with the Regional Crime Squad. He’s on his way over here now. I knew you’d want to be here when he arrives.’

  Jo sat up. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes. I’ve just spoken with him. If you hurry you might just pass him on the motorway.’

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  She looked across at DC Whittle. ‘Have you completed the pursuit course?’

  Carly smiled. ‘Yes, Boss.’

  ‘Good.’ She fastened her seat belt. ‘Show me what you’ve learned.’

  Chapter 21

  Detective Sergeant Robert Attwood entered the room.

  She observed him closely as they shook hands, exchanged greetings, and took their places at the table. He was nothing like she’d expected. Several inches shorter than her, clean-shaven, in a sports jacket, black-and-white checked shirt, and black moleskin trousers. Undercover, he’d stand out a mile. An impression that was heightened when he spoke.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Ma’am,’ he said in a quiet cultured baritone voice, ‘but you’d never have recognised me when I was on Operation Mandera.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think I was that obvious.’

  ‘Reading people, especially their body language and their faces, it’s what keeps you alive.’

  Jo didn’t see any need to tell him that she really did understand. That she’d been there too. It could too easily be misinterpreted as scoring points.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to come and talk to us,’ she said. ‘I realise that from your point of view any sharing of information beyond your handler represents a degree of risk.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right, Ma’am. To be honest, I was surprised when they agreed to let me assist you. It must be important?’

  ‘It is.’ She told him why.

  ‘I see where you’re coming from,’ he said. ‘You’d like me to tell you the names of any villains I came across who might have a grievance against your victim, Ronnie O’Neill?’

  ‘Not just while you were undercover,’ she told him. ‘But also while you’ve been working with Regional Crime and my NCA colleagues on Operation Titan.’

  He frowned, and sucked air through his teeth. ‘I can try. The trouble is that most of it is going to be really superficial. I mean, I don’t recall anyone actually saying they were going to off him, or even that they wished he was dead. It’s more about him being viewed as a difficult customer, a rival, or an obstacle to their plans. Any one of those things might give them a reason to rejoice in his death. But not necessarily to feel they had to eliminate him.’

  Jo tried hard to hide her disappointment. ‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘You’re saying that there was no one who felt so strongly about him that the
y’d be prepared to have him killed.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that I became aware of. Having said which, I was only a soldier. I never sat at the top table, as it were. What was said behind closed doors remained a mystery to me.’ He shrugged. ‘And again, even with the talk I was party to, some of these guys are even better actors than I am. Especially the real psychos. Trouble is, with nineteen of the ringleaders jailed on the back of the operation I was involved with, there’s a new breed coming up behind them we haven’t got a handle on yet.’

  ‘I’ll take what I can get,’ said Jo. ‘If you can just list them in priority order, together with an indication of any potential motive for killing Ronnie O’Neill, that would be brilliant. We can add them to the list that Challenger have just sent us.’

  ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘Give me twenty minutes. But I warn you. It’s going to be a long list.’

  An hour later he had taken them through each of the names on the list, including those now in prison serving lengthy sentences. Combined with those from Challenger, there were over forty names in total.

  ‘And that’s excluding some of the foreign gangs beginning to feel their way,’ he said. ‘Like the Bulgarians.’

  Nick Carter sat back and shook his head.

  ‘We had no idea,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a mammoth task to work through this lot.’

  ‘If you had to go with your gut,’ said Jo. ‘Who would you put your money on?’

  DS Attwood stared at the list of names. ‘I don’t know about the individuals, but if you’re pushing me . . .’

  ‘We are,’ said Jo, trying not to sound as though she was pleading.

  ‘Then I’d say there are two motives you could concentrate on. The first one is the Merseyside drug barons – inside and outside prison – who’ve had their supply lines into Lancashire, Cheshire, North Wales, and the Lake District disrupted by our recent successes. They’ll be looking to grab some of the lucrative Greater Manchester drugs market, in particular, the rapidly expanding spice trade.’

  He picked up his pen, leaned forward, and ringed four of the names on the list. ‘The second is a bloody sight more problematic.’