The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  ‘In what way?’ said Carter.

  Attwood pointed his pencil at Jo. ‘Your colleagues at the National Crime Agency have just produced a report into a rapidly expanding trend they used to call “going country” but we now term “county lines”.’

  Jo nodded. ‘I read a digest of that report. City gangs sending dealers as young as eleven and twelve to sell drugs in coastal towns all over the country.’

  ‘They’ve been doing that for years,’ said a sceptical Nick Carter. ‘We used to call it “going out there”.’

  ‘Only now it’s exploded,’ said Attwood, ‘using the motorways and intercity rail network. Across the Pennines into Humberside, up the M6 into Scotland – all over the place. It’s led to a heightening of tension between the local criminal gangs and the newcomers.’ He shook his head. ‘If your victim had been trying to muscle into that business, he could have fallen foul not just of the Liverpool gangs but rivals here in Manchester, or even some of the far-flung ones – in London, for example, or Bristol.’

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Jo. ‘It was bad enough when we thought it was localised. I can just see Helen Gates’s face when I tell her we’re going to have to triple the budget so we can “go country” ourselves.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘Needle in a bloody haystack!’ said Nick Carter, dropping the folder containing the list of names on the desk.

  ‘He did his best,’ said Jo. ‘But I agree. If we have to work backwards from every villain that may theoretically have a motive to murder O’Neill, we could still be at it this time next year.’

  Nick slumped down in a chair. ‘It’s not as though we’ve got any leads.’

  Jo sat down opposite him. ‘So we go with the rule book,’ she said. ‘We continue to follow the evidence. Someone was in those woods. Someone who knew that O’Neill would be on that tee. Someone who arrived and left in broad daylight. Who was a skilled marksman with a power air rifle, and who either had the ability to prepare both the pellet and the poison, or who knew people who did.’

  ‘How difficult would that be, I wonder?’ said Nick. ‘All you’d need is instructions off the internet.’ He pulled distractedly at an earlobe. ‘Shame they’ve just locked up that guy who was reactivating all those antique weapons that flooded the market up here. Even made the bullets that went with them. He’d have been my number one suspect.’

  The phone rang. Jo picked it up. ‘Yes, Ged?’

  ‘It’s DCI Fox, Ma’am.’

  Jo mouthed the name to her deputy. ‘Put him through, please,’ she said, selecting speakerphone. ‘DCI Fox, what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s more what I can do for you, Jo.’ His voice had a smooth, almost oily quality over the phone. ‘And it’s Nigel. Although my friends call me Nige.’

  Jo raised her eyebrows. Nick stuck two fingers down his throat and pretended to gag.

  ‘I have DS Carter with me, Nigel,’ she said. ‘We’re on speakerphone if that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fine.’ The change in tone suggested otherwise. ‘We’ve had a bit of a situation, Jo,’ he continued. ‘I thought I’d better let you know.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The head of one of the drug gangs we’ve been trying to disrupt walked into my office demanding that we give him protection—’ He paused dramatically. ‘—from the O’Neill family.’

  ‘What’s his name, Nigel?’ she asked, catching Nick’s eye, and pointing to the folder on the desk.

  ‘Ryan Walsh.’

  Nick flipped open the folder, stabbed the first page with his finger, and angled the folder towards her. Walsh was number five on the list.

  ‘The Burnage Celtic Crew,’ she said.

  ‘You’re well informed,’ said Fox.

  ‘To be fair, he was one of the names you sent me.’

  He laughed. ‘Anyway, I listened to what he had to say and sent him on his way.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘Didn’t have any reason to. It’s not as though someone had made direct threats or actually fired shots through his living-room window.’

  ‘So why is he this scared? It must have taken a lot for someone like him to beg for police protection. It’s unheard of, isn’t it – a gang boss? Think of the loss of face.’

  ‘Initially, that’s what I thought. But I got the impression he was playing with us. Him trying to take off some of the heat we’ve been applying.’

  Nick looked sceptical and shook his head.

  ‘What made you think that?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Like I said, there was nothing concrete. He claimed the word on the street is that the O’Neills hold him responsible for Ronnie’s death. That they’re gearing up to lift him and do unspeakable things to him before they feed what’s left to the fishes. And they’ve been warning the rest of his crew to keep their heads down unless they want to suffer the same fate.’

  ‘If it isn’t a game,’ said Nick, ‘the O’Neills must have good reason to think he was responsible?’

  ‘Walsh nibbled away at some of their territory while Ronnie was inside. Ronnie was starting to claim it back. His death could be interpreted as a pre-emptive strike by the Celtic Crew.’

  Jo recalled the discussion she’d had with Andy Swift. ‘But the way he was killed . . . the lengths the killer went to, using a slow-burn poison,’ she said. ‘That sounds personal, not business.’

  She sensed a shrug at the other end of the line.

  ‘They’d had words in the past.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fox. ‘I’m covering my back. I’ve sent a DI to warn off the O’Neills. And I’ve arranged for our surveillance on Walsh and his crew to be a bit more visible. Whatever the truth of the matter, that’s going to disrupt their activities even more. And if I’m wrong and he is the target and the O’Neills are stupid enough to go ahead – well, at least I can demonstrate that I went by the book. But let’s face it, Jo, that’s a hell of a lot of ifs.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong and Walsh does disappear?’

  Fox laughed again. ‘Don’t quote me, but that’ll be one more massive pain in the arse we don’t have to worry about. And look on the bright side: someone will have done your job for you.’

  ‘What do you want to do, Jo?’ said Nick, when the call had ended.

  ‘Make Ryan Walsh our prime suspect. If he’s telling the truth and the O’Neills are out to get him, they must reckon he killed Ronnie.’

  ‘And if he did, do you really think he’d draw attention to himself by crawling to DCI Fox for help?’

  Jo sighed. ‘I know. But we can’t afford to ignore the possibility. I want to know where Walsh and members of his crew were last Friday morning. The registration of their vehicles. If any of them are known to possess, or have a history of using, air rifles. DCI Fox and DI Robb should have most of that information.’

  She stood up. ‘If you crack on with that, I’ll see if anything has come out of the house-to-house enquiries, the CCTV analysis, and the request for information from anyone who was on the golf course that day.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘See yer. Wouldn’t wanna be yer!’

  Melissa Walsh watched her friends climb on board the bus, took a puff of her inhaler, and put it in her backpack. Grateful for the lull in the storm, she turned to walk down the road, past the sports hall and the sixth form centre, before sauntering through the gate in the railings and into Platt Fields Park.

  Her dad was going to be furious, but she’d always been able to wind him round her little finger. He’d sent her a text to say that one of his stooges was going to pick her up from school in the Hummer. The Hummer, for God’s sake! That was never going to happen. It was bad enough her being one of the nouveau riche without having to climb into a black armoured monstrosity with tinted windows outside the region’s foremost all-girls’ private school. Not when everyone else was picking their darlings up in Mercedes and luxury SUVs.
<
br />   She’d told everyone her dad was a businessman. Like Alan Sugar off The Apprentice. One look at that Hummer though, and the tongues would be wagging. Especially if Skanky Morris was driving. In her mind’s eye she could see all the images appearing on Facebook and Instagram. A trickle, then a flood. The rumours and the gossip. It’d only be a matter of time before the trolls turned up.

  She had to stop while a couple of Canada geese crossed the path in front of her and headed down the bank into the lake, pursued by a honking gaggle of larger white geese. That’ll be me, she reflected, if they find out what my dad’s really into.

  She paused to take in the beauty and tranquillity of this place. The autumn colours of the trees on the island mirrored in the shimmering water, as ripples from the wake of the waterfowl gently sliced through them. This was her guilty pleasure, walking home through the park.

  Her dad thought she always caught the bus home, like she’d promised. Unknown to him, on days like this she’d stroll across Platt Fields and then take a shortcut through Fallowfield. It was less than a mile and a half. She glanced at the clock on the front of the pavilion. It was only 3.38. If she got a move on she’d be home by a quarter past five.

  Melissa failed to notice the man in a grey hoodie and sweatpants sitting on the bench behind her, talking into his phone. He waited for her to set off walking, then stood up and followed her.

  There were shouts and screams coming from the skateboard park. As she passed the two bowling greens an old guy sweeping sodden leaves looked up and waved. She almost returned his wave but didn’t. You never know, she told herself. What if he’s a perv or a paedo?

  She paused in front of the gates and stooped to pick up a chestnut with half its shell still attached. Running her fingers lightly over the surface of the shiny reddish-brown fruit, she marvelled at the magic that nature was capable of producing. She placed the chestnut in her coat pocket and walked out onto Mabfield Road.

  She failed to notice the white van parked at the side of the exit, until she heard a metal door sliding open. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth and she felt herself grabbed from behind and lifted bodily off her feet. A second pair of hands seized her coat, and she was bundled into the van. The door slammed shut and the van set off. At the corner of Riga Road, the door slid open a fraction and Melissa’s backpack was flung onto the pavement. The door closed and the van sped off, turned right onto Wilmslow Road and slowed to match the speed limit.

  The van was on the outskirts of the city when Melissa’s phone began to ring.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  The detective leading the passive data analysis on the shooting eased back his chair and turned to looked up at her. ‘The problem is, we’ve no way of knowing if he did exit down that track between the big detached houses and onto Leigh Road. The only static cameras are back towards the motorway, and further down the road as it approaches Boothstown.’

  ‘What about the CCTV from the houses?’ Jo asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Waste of time. They’re set back from the road, and they’re angled on the driveway, the fence, and the gates. You can’t see what’s on the other side.’

  ‘What about the static cameras? Have you been looking for any significant time lapse between cars entering and then leaving that stretch?’

  The second she saw the pained looked on his face she regretted having asked.

  ‘We’ve been doing that as a matter of routine, Ma’am. The half a dozen we identified as potentially having stopped to pick someone up have all been investigated and eliminated. One was a courier. One a tradesman. The rest were residents.’

  She noted the sudden change from ‘Boss’ to ‘Ma’am’. A gentle reminder not to underestimate this team.

  ‘There is another possibility, Ma’am,’ said the female detective alongside him. ‘What if the perpetrator didn’t get a lift, or drive off in some vehicle he parked up? What if he simply crossed the road and entered the fields on the opposite side? He’d only have been visible for a couple of seconds then, at the most.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ said Nick. ‘I thought there was a wall along there and dense undergrowth.’

  ‘The wall ends immediately opposite where he’d come out,’ she replied. ‘Look.’ She opened Google Earth, clicked on a marker pin she’d set up, and zoomed in.

  Sure enough, the wall curved inwards and was replaced by a row of bushes forming a hedge beneath the trees that lined the road. There was a gap less than a yard or so wide between the bushes, through which a gravel and sawdust path was just visible.

  He could easily have squeezed through there, Jo realised, even with a golf bag on his back.

  ‘Where does this lead to?’ she asked.

  The female detective exited Street View and zoomed out. On the opposite side of the trees were fields.

  ‘This is the former Worsley New Hall and Gardens Estate, developed by the Earl of Ellesmere,’ she said. ‘The Royal Horticultural Society have just started clearing some of the grounds in preparation for a new RHS garden.’

  ‘Doesn’t that mean there would have been people around on Friday?’ said her colleague. ‘Volunteers, contractors, or whatever?’

  ‘Possibly. But I understand they’ve started work on the walled kitchen garden, which is way over here. He’d be hidden by the trees most of the way. They probably wouldn’t have taken any notice of him even if they did see him. All he had to do was turn left along the field edge, then join this path here, and follow it for six hundred yards to the motorway roundabout. If he had a car parked at the John Gilbert pub he could head off in any direction and no one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Jo. ‘That gives us another avenue to explore.’

  ‘It could just as easily be another blind alley to go down,’ murmured Nick.

  ‘I know,’ Jo replied. ‘But we can’t afford to ignore it, however many person hours it takes.’

  The door to the incident room burst open, and Gordon Holmes barrelled in.

  ‘Thank God you’re both here,’ he said. ‘DCI Fox asked me to let you know there’s been a development.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell us himself ?’ said Nick.

  Gordon shrugged. ‘Search me.’

  ‘A good development or a bad one?’ Jo asked uneasily.

  ‘You tell me. Apparently the twelve-year-old daughter of one of your suspects has gone missing. The father thinks she’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘Ryan Walsh?’ said Jo.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Walsh swears that the O’Neill family is out to get him. He begged your pal Fox for police protection. He said no. That’s why he asked you to tell me. He’s too embarrassed to do it himself.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Gordon. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jo. ‘This is the last thing we need. Where is DCI Fox now?’

  ‘He’s on his way round to Walsh’s, trying to establish what’s really going on.’

  ‘Hoping against hope that it’s not a kidnap,’ said Nick. ‘For his own sake.’

  ‘Come on, Nick,’ said Jo, ‘get your coat.’

  ‘Why, where are we going?’

  ‘To join them. I’m not leaving it to DCI Fox to handle. For the sake of Operation Alecto, and above all for the sake of that missing girl.’

  Chapter 25

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  DCI Fox strode across the kitchen and pushed Jo into the hallway. A dog began to bark somewhere in the house.

  ‘You do that again,’ she said quietly but firmly, ‘and I’ll break your bloody arm.’

  ‘Did you just threaten a senior officer?’ Fox growled.

  ‘Did you just assault a junior officer?’ Jo replied. ‘A female one at that?’

  ‘He did,’ said Nick. ‘I saw him.’

  Fox stabbed a forefinger at Nick. ‘You stay out of it!’

  ‘Look, Nigel,’ said Jo. ‘I get why you got DCI Holmes t
o do your dirty work, but right now only one thing matters. Not your operation or mine. This is all about the safety of that girl.’

  ‘She’s only been missing an hour and a half,’ he said. ‘I’m not convinced she’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘The father is.’

  ‘We can’t take his word for it. He’s paranoid.’

  ‘Look,’ said Jo. ‘You’ve already turned down his request for protection. Wouldn’t it be safer to assume the worst, just in case?’

  He thought about it. ‘I’m dealing with this,’ he said. ‘I’m prepared to let you listen to what he has to say just in case it has a bearing on your investigation. But only on condition that you keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Jo. Not that she had any intention of doing what he asked.

  ‘So much for Mr Charmer,’ whispered Nick as they followed Fox into the kitchen.

  A pale-faced, bottle-blonde woman stood by the sink. Her hands were shaking and there was a sound of ice chinking against the sides of the tumbler she clasped in her hands. She’d been crying. A muscular, shaven-headed man, close to six feet tall, stood beside a granite-topped island, the knuckles of his clenched fists white with tension. Fear was etched on his face. A second man, skinny, with the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks of a habitual user, stood near the back door as though hoping to make a swift exit should things turn nasty.

  ‘Mr Walsh,’ said Fox. ‘This is Senior Investigator Stuart and Detective Sergeant Carter. They’re investigating the death of Ronnie O’Neill. I’ve agreed they can listen to what you have to say.’

  Walsh stared at the newcomers, and then back at Fox, his eyes blazing with indignation. ‘I asked you here to find my daughter. Not to try to pin that bastard’s death on me.’

  ‘That’s not why we’re here,’ said Jo. ‘We have as much interest in ensuring the safety of your daughter as DCI Fox.’

  Fox turned on her. ‘I told you . . .’ he began.

  ‘The sooner you tell us,’ Jo continued, ‘why you believe your daughter has been kidnapped, the sooner we can set about finding her.’