Nothing But Trouble, page 1
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
AFTERWORD
Interview with Jessica Daniel
SOMETHING WICKED
SOMETHING HIDDEN
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN
FOR RICHER, FOR POORER
PROLOGUE
Spencer O’Brien was fighting a losing battle with the duvet. His bed was built into an alcove of the wall, the covers tightly tucked underneath the mattress on either side. He kicked his legs and flapped his elbows in a vicious battle of good versus evil, light versus darkness, man versus cotton blend. Man was ultimately victorious, wrenching out the covers and spinning into a sitting position.
He checked his phone for the time – ten past midnight – then sat unmoving, listening, sure he’d heard something outside. It wasn’t unusual: he was staying in his dad’s house on the end of a terrace not far from Manchester city centre. There was usually a low hum of traffic and frequently the early-morning cackle of someone on their way home after a night on the lash. It hadn’t sounded like that, though, it was more like a scraping . . . as if someone was trying to get in.
Spencer reached underneath the bed and put on his slippers. There had been three apparent break-ins at his father’s house in the past month. Nothing had been taken but his dad was scared, turning the fear into anger that the police were seemingly ‘doing nothing’. Spencer was a twenty-five-year-old man who had – temporarily – moved back in with his dad, sleeping in his childhood bedroom, all because he couldn’t bear the thought of his father being frightened and alone. His dad might be a Falklands veteran but that didn’t stop him being petrified, even if he never said it.
Whatever Spencer had heard was no longer there, replaced by the rattle of the window and banging of the ancient pipes running across the attic. That was the problem with an old place like this: an intruder could have smashed the windows and stolen everything as everyone upstairs slept peacefully, completely accustomed to the house’s natural clanks and clangs.
Spencer thought about wedging himself back under the covers but had never been good at getting back to sleep once he’d woken up. He also still had the headache that he’d gone to bed early with, a steady throb that felt like it was trying to push his eyes out. It crossed his mind that it could be carbon monoxide poisoning, but then he was paranoid about the state of the house. It was falling apart in all senses – which was why developers wanted to knock it down and start again.
He’d just lifted his feet out of his slippers when . . . Spencer heard another thump. His bedroom was directly above the rear door, through which the intruders seemed to be entering. He slipped across to the window, wrestling the curtain and peering into the dark mess of a back yard. He squinted towards the shadows but the moon was shrouded by cloud, making it almost impossible to see anything other than a sliver of light from the back door, creeping into a triangle across the uneven paving slabs.
Why would the light be on? And why would the back door be slightly open? It would almost be inviting someone to break in . . .
BANG!
Spencer jumped as the booming thunder of a shotgun rocked the house. He froze for a moment, knowing exactly what had happened but not wanting to believe it. His dad had been threatening this for days. If the police weren’t going to do something about the wave of intruders, the invaders, the burglars that so scared him, then he would. Surely he couldn’t have done it? Not this . . .
He took the stairs two at a time, hurdling the lower banister until he reached the kitchen, barely able to take in the sight that greeted him. The back door was open, the handle attached to a thin length of rope that looped over the door and across the ceiling until it dropped down, where it had been wound around the trigger of a shotgun that was tied to a dining chair. His father must have rigged the trap after Spencer went to bed early.
There was a thick spray of crimson across the back of the kitchen, blood clinging to the work surfaces and cupboard doors.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
Spencer crept forward, stepping around the chair and the gun until he could see the body. It was a woman who’d been blasted backwards, a bloody circular shape in the centre of her chest. Her head was resting to the side, long dark blonde hair curving around her cheeks and already matting with blood. He didn’t need to check to know that she was dead. Nobody got up from this, not even in the movies.
He turned at the sound of a cry, seeing his father in the kitchen doorway. His father was in his seventies, wiry white hair darting off in all directions, stripy white and red pyjamas pure Marks and Sparks. He’d once been a proud man but his mind was slipping.
‘Dad . . . what did you do?’
Niall O’Brien stared from his son to the dead woman, mouth wide. ‘I . . . didn’t mean . . .’
‘Where’d the gun come from?’
‘Is she . . . ?’
‘Of course she’s dead!’
Spencer’s raised voice made his father shrink away, stepping back into the hallway, covering his eyes and starting to cry. His footsteps disappeared up the stairs, with Spencer wanting to follow but knowing he had to do something else first.
When the 999 call handler answered, Spencer momentarily thought about asking for the ambulance before the horror hit him once more. He didn’t want to look at the body but he couldn’t avoid it. He’d never seen a dead person before, let alone someone like this, blown to bits. The poor woman. Was she really a burglar? Or just someone intrigued by the open back door and the light? This was so, so bad . . . his father hadn’t just rigged a lethal trap, he’d left the door open and invited intruders.
It felt as if he was on autopilot as Spencer gave his name and the address before the call handler asked for specifics. He turned back to the body, voice quivering.
‘There’s a woman at our house . . . she’s been shot,’ he said.
‘Is there any immediate danger?’
‘No, it’s . . . complicated.’
‘Can you see if she’s breathing?’
‘She’s definitely not.’
‘Is she someone known to you?’
Spencer stared at the body, about to say ‘no’ when it dawned on him that she seemed horribly familiar. She’d been wearing a suit when he saw her before but now she was in jeans and a jacket.
He gasped a reply, crumpling to his knees. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Spencer?’
‘She’s a police officer,’ he stumbled. ‘She was here the other week.’
There was a short pause before the handler replied. She sounded unsteady herself. Shocked. ‘To confirm, you’re saying that a police officer has been shot at your house?’
‘She’s some sort of detective . . . she came round because there’s been a bunch of break-ins at my dad’s house. There’s something that’s come out of her pocket, an ID card – it’s right here.’
‘Mr O’Brien, you shouldn’t—’
‘I can see it from where I am. There’s blood all over it but her name’s clear. It’s Detective Inspector Jessica Daniel.’
1
THREE WEEKS PREVIOUSLY
Phoebe drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, enjoying the sunshine on the back of her knuckles. It was officially summer. Well, not officially, but the sun was out and Manchester was bathing in its wondrous glow. That was as good as declaring it was summer, even if it only lasted for the morning.
She squinted into the distance, wondering why nobody ever did anything about the state of the traffic heading into the city every morning. There were traffic lights everywhere, as if the council were paid according to how many times the damned things blinked red. Somewhere ahead, a car horn beeped, then another and another, vehicles communicating via the medium of a high-pitched bleating.
It wasn’t doing Phoebe’s dull headache any good.
She pulled down the sun visor, shielding her gaze from the glare off the car ahead and closed her eyes. On the radio, the track changed to something upbeat: something that brought back memories of dancing on Friday night. It was by someone who had a single letter as one of their names – like Jay Z but not as good. Dave G, or something? There was definitely a G in there. Gav P? No, that was ridiculous.
Phoebe’s eyes jumped open, the seatbelt clamping against her breastbone as the ringtone blared through the Bluetooth headset welded to her ear. Instinctively, she touched the earpiece, expecting somebody to start moaning about the delivery of a printer or something similar. It was a Monday, for crying out loud, why couldn’t people leave her alone?
‘Phoebe Davies,’ she said, trying to sound upbeat, ‘how can I help you?’
Phoebe laughed, easing the car into first and creeping along a few vehicle lengths until she reached a halt again.
‘I didn’t think you’d make it out of bed today,’ she said. The last time she’d seen her friend Imogen was the previous day, passed out on another mate’s sofa. The combination of the sun, barbecue and booze hadn’t done any of them any good.
‘Uggggghhhhh . . . me neither,’ Imogen replied. ‘How’s your head?’
‘Not happy – plus it’s sunny and I’ve got to work. There’s an audit today.’
‘Yuck.’
‘I thought there were laws about this sort of thing? What’s the point in the European convention on human rights if it doesn’t include having a day off when the sun’s out?’
Imogen wasn’t listening. She smacked her lips together and Phoebe could tell she was grinning. ‘You’ll never guess who Nicola went home with after you left yesterday.’
‘Who?’
‘Guess.’
‘Not Leo . . . ?’
‘Aww, yuck. Course not. No one’s ever gone home with him. It was Dylan.’
Phoebe was about to reply when the car behind beeped its horn. She realised the traffic was moving, though she wasn’t.
‘Hang on.’
She yanked the gearstick into first and bunny-hopped forward, engine growling in protest. All too soon, the lights flickered back to red as she came to a halt at a four-way junction. She glanced in her rear-view mirror to see the man in the red van behind waving his arms around, calling her a list of names that she didn’t need to be a lip-reading expert to understand.
BEEEEEEEEEEEP!
‘All right, piss off.’
Imogen’s voice echoed from the tinny speaker. ‘Me?’
‘Not you, some bloke behind me is having a heart attack. Anyway, Nicola went home with Dylan?’
The traffic started to filter across the junction, weaving around as cars turned onto the main road, heading into, or away from, the city centre. Phoebe glanced in her mirror again, where red van man was still fuming. She could see a vein bulging around his eye.
‘Yeah, so Dylan was, like, totally trying it on with her. You know what he’s like – top button undone and those really tight shorts. Anyway, Nicola’d had four Bacardi Breezers and you could tell she was up for it. One minute, she was sitting on the lounger in the garden, the next she’d disappeared. Ollie reckoned he heard noises coming from the spare bedroom but he’s always exaggerating. Next thing you know, Nicola’s saying goodbye, then Dylan’s offering her a lift home – as if none of us knew what was going on! You’ll never guess what happened next.’
Phoebe opened her mouth to reply but the words never came out. There was a squeal of wheels from in front. A prison van was waiting in the yellow criss-cross area of the junction, indicating towards the city centre. As it inched forward, a grubby white van accelerated from the opposite direction, lurching one way and then wheel-spinning sideways at the last moment.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The front of the white van slammed into the cabin of the prison van, making it slide, wobble as if it was going to topple over, and then settle back onto all four wheels.
Phoebe yelped, not realising the sound was her until she heard Imogen in her ear, asking what was wrong.
There was a rush of grey from the front seats of the white van – airbags – and then the doors sprung open. There were two men in jeans and trainers with hooded tops and balaclavas. One was in black, the other blue. Each had a sawn-off shotgun pointed at the cabin of the prison van. The person in black angled the weapon to the sky and pulled the trigger. The bang was so loud that Phoebe jumped, unclipping her seatbelt and diving sideways so she was spread across the passenger seat, out of sight. The gearstick dug into her ribs as she heard a man’s voice.
‘Out!’
She peeped over the dashboard, where a man in a uniform was climbing out of the prison van, arms in the air.
‘Phoebes?’
Phoebe tapped her ear, ending the call and then plucked off the headset, dropping it on the driver’s seat. She was trying to watch what was going on, while remaining unseen.
The first man getting out of the prison van had been joined by a second. Black hoody was aiming his shotgun towards the pair, as blue hoody grabbed something shiny from them and hurried to the back of the van. There was more shouting and then another bang. Phoebe could see other drivers in their cars, watching, not daring to intervene. She risked a quick glance behind, where the man in the red van was on his mobile. As she wondered if she should’ve called the police, sirens sounded in the distance. Black hoody heard them too, glancing towards the city centre and raising himself onto tiptoes. He shouted something towards his mate, who was edging sideways to peer around the two officers. They were on their knees, hands on heads, staring at the tarmac.
BANG!
Another gunshot and then black hoody ran to the back of the prison van, shouting something Phoebe couldn’t make out. Moments later, the two hoodies dashed across the junction with two men in suits a little behind. The four of them disappeared behind a hedgerow at full pelt, not looking back as the blare of the sirens melded into a deafening chorus.
2
The tea machine in the canteen of Longsight Police Station snapped, crackled and popped its greeting, showing a flagrant disregard for a certain breakfast cereal company’s copyright on those particular noises. That done, it croaked, wheezed, made a grinding noise, and then launched into something that sounded like someone with laryngitis trying to blow their nose. Eventually, when it had finished angling for attention, it spat out a tan plastic cup that was foaming with what was hopefully milk. Detective Inspector Jessica Daniel plucked it from the holder, sniffed the liquid, grimaced, and then crossed to the table. She leant back into the cold plastic chair and fought a brave, though ultimately losing, battle against a yawn.
‘Aren’t you going to get me one?’ Detective Constable Dave Rowlands asked.
Jessica nodded towards the machine. ‘Don’t your legs work?’
‘But you were already there.’
‘When was the last time you bought me something?’
‘Friday – that Dairy Milk in the offy, then a glass of wine in the Wounded Duck.’
Jessica rolled her eyes back into her head. What day was it again? She vaguely remembered the Friday – sitting in the hallway of the magistrates’ court, only for the defendant to plead guilty at the last minute. She mooched around the shops afterwards, blamed the buses for taking her time to get back to the station, and then met her colleagues and mates, Dave Rowlands, Izzy Diamond and Archie Davey, around the corner for a swift few halves before nicking home.
On Saturday, she’d hammered through the midget-sized pile of paperwork she’d not managed to palm off onto someone else, then accidentally got stuck in the traffic from a football friendly on the way home. Schoolgirl error. Basics.
On Sunday, she’d . . . hmm . . . think . . . gone to the city centre with Bex, and then they’d spent the day in the park reading and marvelling at the blue skies and hazy ball of warmth. A rare day off when it hadn’t lashed it down. Summer was here!
That meant today must be Monday. Whew, on the wrong side of thirty-five, it was a relief knowing which day of the week it was without checking.
Jessica dug into her jacket pocket, spilling a metallic clatter of coins onto the table. ‘Knock yourself out,’ she said, nodding at the machine.
Rowlands hunted through the shrapnel, clearing out the rest of the coppers Jessica had been trying to get rid of since the mardy cow in the post office had dumped it on her the previous week.
‘You’re too generous for your own good,’ he said.
He scuttled past her towards the machine, smelling of the same hair gel as when she’d first met him too many years previously. Any man over the age of thirty-five with spiky hair had some serious questions to ask of himself. For the most part, Rowlands had calmed down in recent years, but those bloody spikes remained, like a baby hedgehog welded to the top of his head.
More yawning.
The tea tasted as bad as ever, most likely made with the kind of browny-grey sludge water that was usually stuck to the nation’s draining boards.
Dave flopped back into the chair opposite, sipping what the machine laughably called a ‘latte’.
He nodded towards the main doors. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be interviewing that lad from this morning?’
