by Bill Rogers
For over a year she’d been hearing rumours that a flock of thirty or so of these exotic birds had made their home here, but it was the first time she’d sighted even one of them. Was this more evidence of global warming, she wondered? That North West England was now considered a suitable habitat by birds whose true home was the foothills of the Himalayas?
Three minutes passed as, content to let her watch, they chattered and groomed one another’s wings. Heather suddenly realised that Jake had disappeared and called him back. He came bounding through the trees, tail wagging furiously. She took a treat from her pocket and bent to greet him.
The pellet struck her hard. The sudden shock and pain caused her to stumble and topple to the ground. Jack began to circle, barking furiously.
The birds rose as one and flew into the sunset, squawking their displeasure as they went.
Chapter 42
‘What a place to die!’ Carly Whittle observed.
Standing facing the abandoned chapel, surrounded by gravestones, Jo found it hard to disagree. They were alone, it was dark, and a hard rain had begun to fall.
‘Where the hell are the CSI?’ she said. ‘This area hasn’t even been taped off.’
‘We don’t know for certain that he was shot here,’ said Carly, in an attempt to be helpful.
‘We don’t know that he wasn’t!’ Jo snapped back. She saw the fleeting look of disappointment on her DC’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’
‘It’s okay, Ma’am.’ Carly held up her phone. ‘Do you want me to ring Nexus House? Find out where they are?’
Jo wiped a raindrop from the end of her nose and shook her head to displace the rest from the hood of her cagoule.
‘Thanks, Carly,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a poke around.’
She shone her tactical spotlight torch on the chapel doorway. A sodden bundle of cardboard on the stone steps marked the spot where Anthony Dewlay had spent his last night on this earth. When she lifted it with the toe of her boot a tartan blanket was revealed and what looked like the strap of a bag of some kind. She bent, lifted the blanket aside, and pulled out a backpack of the kind favoured by motorcyclists. It looked relatively new. She crouched, unzipped the neck, and tipped the contents onto the blanket. Beneath a sweatshirt with a Preston North End logo lay a towel and a zip-up polythene bag containing a toothbrush, a battery-operated shaver, a washcloth, a bar of soap, a comb, and a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste. In a second polythene bag were three phones.
‘Bingo!’ she said, taking one out and switching it on. It took thirty seconds before the screen lit up and invited her to enter a password. ‘Bugger!’ She’d have to wait for the techies to mine whatever treasures might be hidden inside.
‘CSI are en route,’ Carly Whittle declared, tucking her phone into a pocket. ‘Should be with us shortly. What have you got there, Ma’am?’
She leaned forward, covering them both with her umbrella.
Jo showed her the phone. ‘Basic model, password-protected, almost certainly prepaid – essential technology for the modern pharmaceutical entrepreneur.’
‘Come again?’
‘Drug dealer.’ She held up the bag. ‘There are two more in here. Odds-on, we’ll find scores of text messages from people he’s given his number to so they can contact him when they want to score, and he can give them a location where they can collect. If we’re lucky, we may be able to identify the number of his supplier, though I doubt it. Even if we do, that one’s almost certain to be either prepaid or a single-use and throwaway burner.’
She rooted around among the remainder of the contents of the backpack with a gloved finger. ‘Two pairs of thick woollen socks, all dirty. And . . . ugh . . . likewise, three minging pairs of jockey shorts.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘What I don’t get, is what he was doing sleeping rough?’
‘If he goes to a homeless hostel he’ll either need to be claiming benefits, or have a referral from social services, the council, or an advice centre,’ said Carly. ‘And if he’s known or suspected to be a dealer, there’s no way they’d take him.’
‘True,’ said Jo. ‘But he’s got seventy-five pounds in his wallet. There are plenty of places offering a bed for the night at thirty pounds or less. Better still, he could do what most itinerant dealers seem to be up to these days and stay rent-free in some desperate drug addict’s council flat in exchange for a daily score.’
‘Maybe he was hiding from someone. The same someone who killed him?’
Jo pursed her lips. ‘Except that, as far as we can tell, neither of the other victims were expecting their killer. Why should he be the exception?’
‘You said it, Ma’am,’ said Carly. ‘As far as we can tell.’
A car horn sounded. They turned to watch the lights of a van as it led a quartet of cars down the semicircular tarmacked path towards them. Jo flashed her light in its direction. It was a Ford Transit with blue and yellow markings, emblazoned with the CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION logo.
‘That’s a lot of people,’ Whittle said.
‘It’s a lot of ground,’ said Jo. ‘Not to mention the woods all the way around the perimeter.’
‘There was a time when I fancied myself as a CSI,’ said the detective constable. ‘It’s on days like today that I thank my lucky stars I’m not.’
The lead van came to a halt. The passenger door opened and Jack Benson climbed out. He pulled up his hood and came to join them.
‘He certainly picks his places, your killer,’ he grumbled. ‘Is this where the victim was found?’
Jo pointed to the chapel doorstep. ‘Over there. But we think he was shot several days ago, so there’s no telling if it happened here or not.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Benson responded. He turned through 360 degrees. ‘It’s going to take an army to search all this, and you’re saying it could be a waste of time?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Jo. ‘If this was where he was sleeping on a regular basis it could still be where he was shot. And we believe that’s his rucksack. You may get something from that if the perpetrator searched it.’
DS Miller, the Forensics search team manager, joined them, accompanied by a civilian in a high-vis jacket and trousers.
‘Have you heard this, Dave?’ said Benson. ‘The victim was found in that doorway, so we’re going to have to search all of this, including the woods, on the off-chance the killer was here.’
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ said Miller. ‘If he was shot here, with all these trees dotted around the chapel, there’s a limit to the number of places from which the killer would have had a clean shot.’
‘Is this going to take long?’ asked the civilian. ‘We’ve got three interments booked in for tomorrow.’
‘And you are?’ said Jo.
‘Harold Farnworth, Cemeteries Maintenance Supervisor.’
‘Well, Mr Farnworth, it’ll take as long as it takes. But there’s no reason why your burials can’t still go ahead. Tell me, were you aware that there was a man sleeping rough in this cemetery?’
‘We have had some signs of that over the past week or so,’ he replied. ‘Bits of cardboard and newspapers.’ He pointed to the chapel doorway. ‘Like that stuff there. Trouble is, the council’s got seven cemeteries and one crematorium. With all the cuts, I haven’t got the personnel to send someone out to check every night.’
‘There you go, Jack,’ said Jo. ‘It sounds like our victim has been making a habit of dossing down here. Maybe it won’t be such a waste of time after all.’
‘Well, there’s a limit to what we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘I suggest . . .’
Jo’s phone rang. She held up a hand. ‘I’ll have to take this.’ She turned her back to the wind and rain and checked the screen. It was Nick Carter.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said. ‘We’ve got another one!’
Chapter 43
It was 7.50 p.m. when they finally emerged from the rush-ho
ur crawl around the M60. A firearms officer armed with a Heckler & Koch semi-automatic stood outside the main reception doors of Wythenshawe Hospital. He directed them to the Acute Medical Receiving Unit where Nick Carter was waiting for them.
‘The victim was walking her dog in Fletcher Moss Park,’ Nick told them. ‘Name of Heather Rand. Sixty-four years old. Single. Lives in West Didsbury.’
‘Rand?’ said Jo. ‘Where do I know that name from?’
‘She was a Manchester Coroner. Just retired.’
‘That Heather Rand,’ said Jo. ‘I must have been to loads of her inquests.’
‘You and me both.’
‘What’s her condition?’
‘Stable. Only because our friend made a mess of this one.’
‘A mess? How?’
‘His aim was off for once.’
He held up a clear polythene evidence bag containing a small plastic polypot sealed with biohazard tape, in which nestled a bloody, flattened pellet.
‘This went through her parka and a woolly sweater and embedded in her upper arm. Unfortunately, she then fell over and dislocated her other shoulder. She’s a tough old bird though. She got back to her car and drove herself here.’
‘With a dislocated shoulder?’
He grinned. ‘I know. Lucky she wasn’t pulled over by a traffic car, not that we can afford them anymore.’
‘I need to tell them to get onto the Manchester Royal,’ she said. ‘Have them send over a dose of the ricin antidote Porton Down delivered this morning.’
‘Sorted,’ he told her. ‘As soon as I heard she was here, I rang them and told them about the antidote. It was couriered over straight away. They’ve already administered it.’
Jo collapsed onto a chair and let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘We’ve finally got a live one. How soon can we talk to her?’
‘Right now, if you want. They’ve just moved her into a private room on one of the wards.’
They showed their ID to the uniformed constable sitting on a chair outside the entrance to the ward and headed to the ward front desk.
‘How is Heather Rand doing?’ Jo asked the ward sister.
‘Very well, considering. A&E knew what they were dealing with thanks to the police alert we received earlier in the week. The pellet was removed immediately under local anaesthetic, and the wound was thoroughly flushed out. Then her shoulder was reset. The antidote was administered half an hour ago. Now all we can do is monitor her and wait to see if there are any complications.’
‘And pray,’ muttered Nick Carter.
‘That too. Although I understand that the prognosis with such early treatment, irrespective of the antidote, is generally favourable.’
‘Are we able to speak with her?’ said Jo. ‘It’s extremely important that we do.’
‘Of course. I gather that she’s understandably anxious to talk to the police herself. Just don’t tire her out. Follow me, please. And one of you will need to bring a chair from the day room. It’s just down there.’
Heather Rand was sitting up in bed with her right arm in a sling. A stand supported two IV bags that fed a catheter inserted in her left forearm. A bank of screens monitored her vital signs. There was colour in her cheeks, and she seemed remarkably calm and collected. She regarded them with bright steely intelligent eyes.
‘I know you two from the Coroner’s Court,’ she said, once introductions had been made.
‘Indeed,’ said Jo. ‘More times than any of us care to remember, I guess.’
Heather pushed with her left hand on the bedclothes in an attempt to lever herself up, wincing with pain as she did so.
‘Allow me,’ said Jo, hooking an arm under her left armpit, and lifting her gently at the same time as she plumped the pillows up behind her back with the other hand.
‘Thank you,’ said the former coroner. ‘That’s much better.’ She smiled. ‘When I retired I thought that was the end of police officers, medics, and expert witnesses. How wrong was I?’
‘The doctor said you’re doing really well under the circumstances,’ said Jo.
‘Some circumstances,’ she frowned. ‘Ricin. What the hell is that all about?’
‘They’ve told you then?’
‘They had to. In order to get my permission to administer the antidote. I thought I’d misheard. I’d assumed they meant mycin – that it was a simple antibiotic. But ricin? As far as I’m aware that’s a weapon of choice for political assassins and terrorists.’
‘There have been recent incidents of its use in domestic murder attempts,’ Nick told her.
‘Attempts?’ There was a hard edge to her voice. ‘Don’t you mean actual murders?’
Jo and Nick glanced at each other. Carly Whittle turned her attention to the screen of the tablet on which she was waiting to take notes.
‘Come, come,’ said Heather. ‘Just because I’ve retired doesn’t mean I’m not capable of watching the news and putting two and two together. Two deaths following shooting incidents with air rifles in less than a week. One here in Manchester, one in Southport. All the panic about possible Russian involvement. And now here’s me. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Keep this to yourself,’ said Jo, ‘but it’s actually three. There was another one earlier today. You’re the fourth to have been shot – the only one to have survived.’
‘Bloody hell!’ The colour drained from the former coroner’s cheeks. The pitch of one of the bleeps from the monitor rose and accelerated momentarily, before falling back close to its former levels. ‘This is a spree killer?’
‘Or a serial killer,’ said Nick. ‘Depending on how you read the intervals between each attack.’
‘Whatever,’ said Heather. ‘He’s clearly on a rampage of some kind.’
‘We don’t think so,’ said Jo. ‘Rampage and spree imply someone frenzied and out of control. These attacks involve careful planning and preparation. There is method behind them.’
Heather sank back into the pillows. ‘Method in the madness,’ she said.
‘If you like.’
Heather raised her left hand, trailing wires across the bed, as she tucked it under her right elbow to provide extra support. ‘But why me, for God’s sake?’ she asked.
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said Jo. ‘I need to ask you some questions. Not all will make sense but I’d like you to bear with me. Is that okay?’
Chapter 44
‘Fire away.’ Heather Rand grinned ruefully. ‘Whoops – that was a Freudian slip.’
‘At least you can joke about it,’ said Nick. ‘That’s a good sign.’
Jo gave him a dirty look. He just shrugged.
‘I’m going to throw some names at you, Miss Rand,’ she said. ‘Then ask you some questions about your movements today, and finally explore the possibility that some person or persons may have a grudge against you. Detective Constable Whittle will be taking notes. Is that alright?’
‘That’s fine,’ the former coroner replied. ‘And, please, call me Heather.’
‘Very well, Heather. Let’s start with those names. I’ll run them past you. You tell me if any of them mean anything to you. Let’s start with Ronald O’Neill, also known as Ron or Ronnie O’Neill?’
She thought about it, then shook her head. ‘No, sorry. That doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘In his fifties. Short, stocky, muscular, shaven-headed?’
‘Still no, I’m afraid. Sounds like a bit of a bruiser.’
‘How about Morris Arthur Grimshaw? In his twenties. Scouse accent. Thin, with a pinched face, sharp nose, small eyes, and protruding teeth?’
Her eyes moved to her left, and then up towards the ceiling. She shook her head. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me, although I’ve seen a fair few young men like him in the public gallery over the years. Usually when one of their mates has come to a violent and untimely end.’
‘And finally,’ said Jo, ‘Anthony, also known as Ton
y, Dewlay. That’s D, E, W, L, A, Y. In his late forties and a homeless rough sleeper. Before then he worked in insurance in Preston.’
Once again, Heather shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never heard of him either, I’m afraid.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Hang on. These are the other victims, aren’t they? Three more, you said.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo. ‘I can’t confirm or deny that.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Heather replied, ‘you don’t have to. I can check that out online on my phone, or as soon as my neighbour brings me my tablet in the morning.’
‘About today, Heather,’ said Jo. ‘I understand you were walking your dog in the park?’
Alarm flooded the patient’s face. She attempted to sit up and winced with pain. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Jack! How could I forget Jack?’
‘It’s alright, Miss Rand,’ said Nick. ‘Jack’s fine. Our first responder called one of our dog units. One of the dog handlers has taken him home with him.’
She sank back into the pillow. ‘Poor Jack,’ she said. ‘He must be worrying as to what’s going on. He’s a real fretter.’
‘By the time you get out of here,’ said Nick, ‘you’ll probably find he’s been taught a few more tricks.’
‘How often do you take him to Fletcher Moss?’ Jo asked.
‘Twice a day, early morning and early evening. At weekends, we go later in the morning. It’s funny really, but although I’ve retired, I seem to be sticking to the old routines. Weekends are every bit as special even though I no longer work.’
‘Do you always follow the same route?’
‘Invariably. There are two ways round, but I always end up going through Stenner Woods.’
Jo nodded. ‘That’s where the incident occurred?’
‘Where I was shot? Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘If I hadn’t stopped to admire those parakeets . . .’
‘Tell me about your movements prior to arriving at the park, Heather,’ said Jo.