The End Game, page 3
‘Serves you right,’ Kate said, as he walked off towards the hall. ‘Shouldn’t have been so long on the phone.’
Caton consider an appropriate riposte. He decided there wasn’t one – there rarely was.
‘Have a lovely day!’ he said.
Chapter 6
8 a.m.
The map on the satnav indicated long tailbacks on the anti-clockwise section of the M60 north of Stockport. Caton decided to cut across the city and then pick up Ashton Old Road. Halfway up Wilmslow Road, he recalled that shortly before the first lockdown he’d been intending to visit the restoration of the Marcus Rashford mural. He slowed and turned left into Copson Street.
It was some years since he’d driven down here but the street was still recognisable from when he’d grown up back in the early days. At less than one hundred and eighty metres long, he was surprised at how lively and diverse it had become. He passed a smart cafe, two dentists – one boasting twenty-four-hour emergency care, a pharmacy, an opticians, a solicitors, a range of shops, and five restaurants and fast-food outlets offering Lebanese to South Indian cuisine. And that was in the first fifty metres alone. There were precious few towns in the area with a high street as vibrant as this. Caton swung into Moorfield Street and parked up outside Age Concern.
On the opposite side of the road, Akse’s mural, five metres high and over fifteen metres across, covered the entire gable end of the Coffee House Café. None of the spray-painted graffiti remained. The young footballer stared down at him – strong, proud, defiant, challenging. A riposte to the sad individual who had thought that missing a penalty for England was more important than the twenty million pounds plus the footballer had raised towards the FareShare food charity of which he was its most famous ambassador.
An elderly woman, laden with two carrier bags of groceries, stepped off the pavement and came to stand by his open window. ‘Scum!’ she declared.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Caton said.
She nodded towards the mural. ‘Saw you looking. Scum! The ones that defaced that with their dirty words and filthy drawings. Not fit to lick the dirt off his boots. Or Sancho’s, come to that.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said.
‘’Course I’m right!’
She put her bags down, then leaned with one hand on the roof of the car, settling in for a chat. Caton retreated into the cabin, wishing he’d been wearing one of the facemasks sitting in the glovebox, and wondering if they’d ever see the light of day.
‘They should’ve knighted him by now, and that’s from a dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue City fan,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ he responded.
She leaned in closer, her blue-rinse perm brushing the window frame. Blue-rinse perm. He hadn’t seen one of those in years.
‘D’you know how much we locals raised to get this mural restored?’
‘No.’
‘Just under forty thousand pounds in less than two hours on Julie’s JustGiving page.’
‘That’s impressive,’ Caton said.
‘Too bloody right! And before you ask, it only cost a fraction to put it right. All the rest went to the charity.’
‘Well, it’s been lovely talking,’ he said, ‘but . . .’
‘You’ve things to do, places to be. Of course you have.’
She retrieved her bags, straightened up with a grunt, and set off down the street, muttering as she went. ‘Scum!’
Caton returned his attention to the mural. Across the full width ran a quote from Rashford’s mother, Melanie, that had inspired him:
‘Take pride in knowing that your struggle will play the biggest role in your purpose.’
‘Isn’t that the truth,’ Caton murmured.
As he pulled away from the kerb, a call came through. It was DI Carter.
‘Where are you, Boss?’
‘On my way in, why?’
‘Where exactly?’
‘I’m about to join Wilmslow Road, just north of the old White Lion pub.’
‘Good,’ Carter said. ‘We’re needed in Ancoats. There’s been a suspicious fire at a business on Naval Street. Everything points to an arson attack.’
Caton slowed at the junction.
‘See you in ten,’ he said.
Chapter 7
Caton had a fondness for Ancoats. Just over half a square mile bounded by Ashton Old Road, Ancoats Green and the Rochdale Canal. As a sixth-form student at Manchester Grammar, it had been one of his favourite local history projects. The world’s first industrial suburb, it was packed with cotton mills and silk mills, glass factories, warehouses, churches, chapels and schools, together with rows and rows of back-to-back houses and squalid courts.
In the mid-1880s, it had also housed gangs of Manchester’s most notorious Scuttlers, the city’s own version of Birmingham’s Peaky Blinders. Naming themselves after the streets in which they lived, the Bengal Tigers, Poland Street Lads, and Pollard Street Scuttlers, waged turf wars and vendettas against each other, as well as gangs from the neighbouring Bradford and Miles Platting districts. But their real venom was reserved for the gangs of Salford. In that respect, it was much the same as today, Caton reflected, except that the axis of power had shifted to South Manchester, and pointed, brass-tipped clogs and leather belts with large brass buckles had been replaced by knives and guns.
By the outbreak of World War One, several thousand Italian émigrés fleeing civil war had joined a substantial Irish community, and the area of Ancoats around St Peter’s Church swiftly became known as Little Italy. Utilising the surplus ice from a massive fruit and fish warehouse on Blossom Street, around seventy Italian ice cream vendors had fanned out from here on horse and cart and tricycle across the city. Caton smiled as he turned onto Great Ancoats Street. If he remembered rightly, it was on this street that Antonio Valvona, biscuit-maker, had created the world’s first ice cream cornet, replacing the shared ‘penny lick’ glass bowls that were thought to be spreading typhoid and cholera across the city. In doing so, he had saved the ice cream industry.
By the time that Caton joined GMP, Ancoats had become a shadow of its glory days. The mills and warehouse were either derelict, in ruins, or had been demolished, the canals lost or stagnant. The population had dwindled to just over a thousand souls.
His musing ended abruptly. A white van had stopped suddenly in front of him, one brake light missing, the other smeared with dirt. Caton stamped on the brake and cursed as his seat belt dug into his chest. His car skidded the final few feet and came to a stop with a discreet thump, bumper to bumper. The door of the van slid back, and the driver got out. Bald, red-faced, short and stocky, his chest swelled with righteous indignation. He thumped his beefy hands on the roof of Caton’s car, and leaned in.
‘What the fuck were you doing?’ he demanded.
Caton lowered the window a fraction, held up his warrant card in his right hand and, with his left, pointed to the dashcam mounted below the rear-view mirror.
‘Are you aware,’ he said, ‘that it’s illegal to drive with only one brake light? Even more so when it happens to be obscured. You’re looking at a sixty-pound fine, three points on your licence, and a vehicle rectification notice.’
He paused to allow the man time to process the information. Waited for the aggression to wilt, his shoulders to sag, for him to remove his hands and step away.
Caton lowered the window. ‘Or I could issue you a verbal warning?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘I’ll take the warning,’ the man muttered.
‘I didn’t catch that?’ Caton told him.
‘I said, I’ll take the warning.’
‘Good,’ Caton replied. ‘You have ten days to get your lights fixed.’ He leaned out of the window and called after the retreating van driver. ‘And don’t forget to clean that light before you set off!’
The man checked his stride, swore beneath his breath, leaned sideways, spat on his left hand, and rubbed the offending light, exposing the red plastic but leaving a thin smear of dirt. Caton decided to let it go. He had already ridden his luck. In theory, because he was on official business, he should make out a report. In theory. He rubbed his chest, hoping that his ribs were only bruised, started the engine, and set off in the wake of the van.
He turned into Redhill Street, entering Ancoats proper, and drove between the canal and the redbrick and sandstone buildings. Former palaces of industry, these mills and warehouse had been transformed into elegant apartments. In the spaces between, and on the pedestrian-friendly streets and squares, had sprung up dozens of restaurants, bars and shops, and several craft breweries. What less than twenty years earlier had been a scene of utter neglect and desolation had become a desirable destination to live, work and play. It seemed an unlikely place for arson. Caton turned left into Bengal Street, sharp right into Naval Street, and stopped. The way ahead was blocked by a police van slewed across the street. Parked outside a Victorian red-brick warehouse, he spotted a fire service incident unit, a patrol car, and several unmarked cars. Caton locked the car and set off on foot.
Chapter 8
Nick Carter was on the other side of a tape marking off the inner cordon. He was talking to a man, a head and shoulders taller, wearing a blue T-shirt, and white forensic trousers tucked into a pair of wellington boots. Caton gave his details to the female PC holding the log, and ducked under the tape.
‘This is DCI Caton,’ Carter said. ‘Boss, this is Jadyn Brown, group manager of the Greater Manchester Fire Scene Investigation team.’
The two men shook hands.
‘Why don’t you tell Mr Caton what you just told me?’ Carter said.
All of six foot five tall, and seventeen stone in weight, Brown was built like a second row forward. Caton could see him rescuing people from a first-floor window without the aid of a ladder, given which his voice came as a surprise. He was softly spoken yet authoritative, with just a hint of Caribbean heritage.
‘Preliminary findings,’ he began. ‘We received a call in the early hours of this morning reporting a fire at these premises. The appliance arrived less than three minutes later, and quickly extinguished what was left of the fire. It was immediately evident that this was not your average petrol through the letterbox.’
‘In what way?’ Caton asked.
‘It was an explosive incendiary device,’ Brown said, ‘but the perpetrator wasn’t out to burn the building down. Far from it.’
‘And you know because . . .?’
‘Firstly, it was placed next to one of these ventilation inlets where it would do specific but limited damage.’
Caton stared at the two large steel panels with louvred slats, set into the wall close to its base. One was bowed and twisted beyond recognition.
‘What’s behind there?’ Caton asked.
‘A bank of computer servers. Part of a dedicated server farm for a small digital company. Looks like someone was out to damage this business without actually gutting the building.’
‘Because of the placement of the device?’
‘And because the 999 call was received immediately before the device exploded. There are two reasons we know that to be the case. Firstly, because the call was made at 2.28 a.m., and yet a resident in one of those apartments behind you stated that she heard the sound of a small explosion just after 2.30 a.m. She’d just come in from work at a bar in the Northern Quarter and had not yet gone to bed.’ He paused. ‘Furthermore, the company’s own equipment shows that the servers affected by the explosion stopped working at precisely 2.30 a.m.’
‘They wanted you to get here before the fire had a chance to spread?’
‘If so, it worked. Manchester Central is only a quarter of a mile away. Like I said, our appliance arrived in just under three minutes.’
‘Where did the call originate?’ Caton said.
Brown pointed. ‘The far end of the street. And before you ask, the number was untraceable.’
Caton stared at the blackened metal. ‘How bad is the damage?’
‘The two servers immediately behind there have been ruined.’
‘There are others?’
‘Follow me,’ Brown said.
He led Caton around the corner of the building and pointed to four identical ventilation panels on the south wall, intact and untouched.
‘There are eight more servers in there,’ he said. ‘The room was equipped with an inert-gas suppression system that all but put out the fire before we arrived. There’s also a powerful heat extraction and ventilation system to keep the servers at optimum temperature. The smoke was sucked out, leaving the rest of the building unaffected. As I said, the server units next to where the explosive device was located are out of action, but all the others are still functioning.’
‘So, either the perpetrator wasn’t aware of their existence, or this is some kind of warning? Extortion, maybe?’
Brown nodded. ‘Or an insurance scam. That’s for you to find out.’
‘How long before you have something concrete for us to work on?’ Caton asked.
‘There’s not a lot to the scene. Your best chance is with whatever CCTV is out here, and with the device itself. I’m liaising closely with your crime scene manager, so there shouldn’t be any delay in getting you a report.’
‘Where are the owners?’ Caton asked.
‘Follow me,’ Carter said.
Chapter 9
It was an enormous room, occupying the top floor of the old warehouse.
Cast-iron pillars one foot in diameter supported the vaulted ceiling. The stains on the bare wooden floorboards had been retained as witness to their history. What might have seemed stark and cavernous had been softened by pale blue paint on the ironwork, including the bars on the arched windows. Modern works of art hung on the bare brick walls. Large potted plants, quiet uplighting and black industrial-style hanging lamps contrived to minimise the sense of space and define the purpose of different areas.
Caton was unconvinced. Neither reflective of its historical weight, nor comfortable in its modernity, it left him feeling disappointed.
He and his DI were led past a drinks station, a breakout space with flip charts and whiteboards, a meeting space with a table and chairs for ten persons, and six workstations, each equipped with a bank of computer monitors, keyboards, laptops and tablets, and an ergonomic chair.
At the far end of the room, hidden behind a screen of tall plants, they found the directors seated in a conspiratorial huddle – an impression reinforced by the expression on the faces of the two men. It was as though they had been caught smoking behind the school bike shed.
Following a brief introduction, the young woman went over to join her colleagues, freeing the sofa on which she had been sitting for the two detectives. Caton sat down and sized up the three of them, judging them all to be in their early to mid-thirties.
Jake Gorlay, who had been introduced as the CEO and creative director, was tall, athletic and in his early thirties. He kept his blond hair short and his designer beard was artfully modelled on that of an A-list movie star. He wore a grey sports jacket over skinny-fit washed-out jeans and sported highly polished light tan brogues.
Beside him on the sofa, Louie Ellish, senior artist and animator, looked more like Caton’s idea of the archetypal graphic designer. Of medium height and build, he had black curly hair, designer glasses, and wore a cardigan over a white T-shirt and jeans. On his feet were a pair of white trainers. Of the three, he looked the most nervous.
Nuan Lau, senior programmer and head of production and distribution, returned Caton’s gaze with an intensity that was almost unnerving. She was short and slim, with coal-black eyes. Her auburn hair, shot through with crimson highlights, hung halfway to her waist. In her left hand she held a mobile phone. Her right hand clutched a stainless steel and BPA-free plastic vacuum flask, one of those claiming to have been designed to help save the planet, or, at the very least, the oceans.
‘Perhaps we could start with you telling me what it is you do here?’ Caton said. The three directors looked at each other. Through some unspoken agreement, it was Jake Gorlay who responded.
‘We’re an independent video game producer and publisher,’ he said. ‘Medium-sized, not in the same league as Google or Sony, but we do alright. I come up with ideas, we knock them around, then I come up with a storyboard. Louie works on the graphics and oversees a team of designers we contract work out to. Nuan here does the programming. When a game is ready, Nuan produces a pilot. We tweak it, then install it on one of our servers, and market and stream it direct to people’s devices. They get the full video and audio. When gamers start to play the game, all of their inputs come through the controller on the server and they play in real time, independently or with others.’
‘If the server’s damaged, none of them can play the game?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And that’s what’s happened here?’
‘Two of our high-clock CPU servers have been destroyed. That means that two of our most lucrative games are offline.’
‘It’s costing us five grand in lost revenue every day,’ Louie Ellish said. ‘Not to mention the stream of complaints from our customers.’
Gorlay glared at him.
Nuan Lau raised the hand in which she held her flask. ‘But I’ve already uploaded our most popular game onto one of our other servers which had spare capacity.’
‘And,’ Gorlay added, ‘I’m exploring the possibility of having our games hosting outsourced to a specialist provider instead of maintaining a server farm of our own.’
‘I told you we should have done that two years ago,’ muttered Ellish.
‘Not helpful!’ Gorlay responded.
‘Do any of you have any idea who might be responsible for this?’ Caton asked.
A glance passed between the two men. Lau stared at them, as though curious to see how they were going to respond.
Jake Gorlay replied for all of them.
