Nothing But Trouble, page 12
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
‘What does that mean?’ Franks asked, probably trying to make it seem like he was paying attention.
‘We’re building cases but I can’t really say more than that,’ Josh replied. ‘This could blow anything we have but, for now, we’re proceeding in the way we have been.’
Josh turned to Topper, who nodded towards the assistant chief constable. ‘It’s filtered down from the top that we’re handling this at our end and keeping Serious Crime out of it – at least to any onlookers. Someone needs to talk to these men – Fraser, Carter, and so on. Nothing accusatory, no arrests, all very off the record. Just a friendly little hello to let them know that we won’t sit back and let a gang war start in this city.’
He turned to Jessica. So did Josh. And Franks. Then Superintendent Jenkinson. Finally, Assistant Chief Constable Aylesbury faced her.
‘Me?’ Jessica asked.
Four people nodded. Franks scratched his crotch.
17
Jessica sat in the station’s canteen, swishing the plastic cup in an attempt to make the coffee drinkable.
‘I’ve been stitched up,’ she concluded.
‘You should see it as an opportunity,’ Izzy replied.
‘An opportunity to be stitched up.’
‘If you’ve got the high-ups backing you, isn’t that a good thing?’
There was one particular ‘high-up’ whose backing Jessica didn’t want, Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy. That was, perhaps, another issue. She was certain she knew things about his past that he’d rather not acknowledge. Things that happened before he was promoted. They’d spoken fewer than half-a-dozen times but it was a dangerous situation in which he knew what she’d found out. After what had happened to Adam, she’d shied away from the confrontation – for now, anyway – but he was still there, in the background, most likely keeping an eye on her.
‘There’s no glory to be had here,’ Jessica said.
Archie had been watching the pair of them in surprising silence. If he wasn’t talking, he was usually eating, but, this time, he was doing neither. He couldn’t keep it up for long.
‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ he said. ‘You get to go and piss off a few jumped-up bellends, everyone’s a winner.’
No one replied.
Jessica nodded towards the swish of blonde near the counter at the front of the canteen. DC Evesham was by herself, peering at the menu. Jessica was never sure why someone bothered to print off a list of dishes each day – it was largely the same: some combination of an all-day English breakfast before eleven; pie, chips and mushy peas at lunchtime; and then whatever was left before they shut up shop ahead of the evening shift arriving. After that, it was vending machine only, though the fact they had a canteen at all was still more than most places.
‘Do you think someone’s told her?’ Jessica asked, nodding towards the constable.
‘Told her what?’ Archie replied.
‘That eating the food isn’t good for a human being’s digestive system.’
Neither Izzy nor Archie said anything, so Jessica leant backwards in her chair and called across the empty room: ‘Ruth.’
The constable spun, a creeping smile of recognition as Jessica waved her over. DC Evesham had been hired in the latest round of long-overdue recruitment, moving from uniformed policing in the city centre – a true baptism of raging lava for a newcomer – into CID. When Jessica had made a similar move, there’d been a buddy scheme, where she was paired with someone senior to learn the ropes. Now, there weren’t enough staff, time or money to make that happen. New recruits were lobbed into the deep end and left to find their own way.
‘Hi,’ Evesham said.
‘Has anyone warned you about the canteen food?’ Jessica asked.
‘No . . .’
‘Just don’t try anything with eggs, well, unless you’re trying to lose weight and you fancy a few days with severe abdominal pains.’
‘Not good, then?’ she laughed, gazing down at Archie’s mound of chips.
‘Feel free to find out for yourself.’ Jessica nodded at Archie’s plate. ‘He’s got an iron stomach.’
The constable smiled appreciatively, before turning and heading back to the counter, jangling the change in her hand. The three of them sat watching her for a few moments before Archie, predictably, filled the silence, angling towards Izzy. ‘I didn’t know you were a fight fan,’ he said.
‘Huh?’ Izzy replied.
‘I saw you looking at the boxing results earlier. I didn’t know you were into that.’
Izzy pinched one of his chips, one of the few things in the canteen that was hard for the cooks to get wrong.
‘Apparently there’s a British middleweight title fight happening in Manchester this weekend.’
Archie shook his head. ‘Nah . . .’
‘Bare-knuckle. Apparently people have been talking about it on Internet forums. It was passed up and somehow ended up on my desk.’
‘What are you supposed to do?’ Jessica asked.
‘Firstly, find out if it actually is happening. If so, get a bunch of uniforms in to stop it. There’s almost nothing on the forums – it’ll all be phone calls and texts. If it is happening, I don’t know the venue, time or day. I’ve been asking around to see if anyone knows anything about it but all I get is a bunch of blank faces and people talking about gypsies.’
‘Is it travellers?’ Jessica asked.
‘Probably.’
It was typical of the types of thing that used to end up on Jessica’s desk – minimal information from a dead-end tip but the expectation that, if there was something to it, it’d be acted upon. Jessica suspected it wasn’t the bare-knuckle fight itself that would concern their bosses, more the trouble it could bring if an influx of supporters and hangers-on descended on the city for a drink-filled night of violence. Manchester had its own traveller community, who, for the most part, kept itself to itself. There was obviously some tension but a specialist liaison team acted as go-betweens for the travellers, the police, and the wider community.
‘Wanna know who the British middleweight champion is?’ Izzy asked.
‘Go on,’ Jessica said.
‘Liam “Nine Fingers” Flanagan from London.’
‘Does he actually have nine fingers?’
‘Apparently, though I couldn’t find anything where it said how he lost a finger. I spoke to someone at the Met yesterday, who passed me from department to department. Eventually I ended up talking to someone from their “diversity” team who knew the name. He called me back this morning to say that Flanagan was still in London. If he is on his way up here, then it’s not happened yet – not that we can monitor him anyway. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’
Jessica offered a sympathetic shrug, the best she could manage. There was no glory to be had there, either.
‘I’ll ask around,’ Archie said, amid a mouthful of mushy chip. Both women looked at him. ‘What?’ he added. ‘I know people who know people. If it’s on, one or two of my mates would probably be going.’
‘Are you into bare-knuckle boxing?’ Jessica asked.
He shrugged. ‘Not really. When I was younger, I went to the odd tear-up.’
Jessica slipped her chair back, not entirely surprised. She had an afternoon of briefings with Josh ahead of her visit to Manchester’s crème de la crime. As she was standing, her saviour arrived: DC Evesham, half-eaten sandwich in her hand.
‘I thought you’d want to know,’ the constable said. ‘I was on my way back to my desk when a bunch of people charged out the other way.’
‘Why?’
‘They reckon they’ve found Kevin Jones.’
18
Birchfields Park, the place where Kevin Jones had apparently been spotted the previous evening, was less than a mile from Longsight Police Station. Jessica told Josh she’d talk to him later, insisting the escaped prisoner was more of a priority. It was – but it was also DI Franks’s responsibility. It was a useful diversion, though – anything that kept her out of meetings and briefings had to be a positive thing.
When she arrived at the park, there was a wide square of blue and white police tape cordoning off the ramshackle breezeblock public toilets. Overgrown trees and bushes surrounded the building, growing into the bricks, as if devouring a meal.
A handful of locals, kids off school, dog-walkers and mucky men who lurked in the city’s parks, were hanging around, sitting and standing in the sun, staring towards the building as DI Franks, a dozen uniformed officers and at least three members of CID hung around, pointing and not doing much else. Jessica headed towards the group, when Franks held his hands up, trying to shoo her away.
‘Oh no, I’m not having this,’ he said.
‘What?’ Jessica replied, easing herself into the circle.
‘You’re not taking credit for this.’
‘I don’t want credit, I’m out for a lunchtime stroll in the park.’ She nodded at the building. ‘Besides, you’re the toilet expert.’
Franks harrumphed, pushing himself onto tiptoes, trying to intimidate her.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I believe the building is due for demolition this month.’ Franks was showing a disturbing amount of knowledge about public toilets, which wasn’t in itself a surprise. He pointed towards a row of trees that lined the park. ‘Kevin Jones’s girlfriend, Bronwen-something, lives on that estate. I spoke to her personally on the day Jones escaped custody but she said she hadn’t heard anything. Despite the delay in approving surveillance, she was spotted coming to this block with a bag of what we think were groceries. That was an hour ago. She’s not emerged since, so I suspect she must know we’re here.’
Franks had really gone out on a limb by suspecting that – of course she bloody knew. Rather than go in quietly with a couple of officers, Franks had turned up with the police tape and too many people, drawn the attention of the public, and, potentially, turned it into a siege. Typ-i-bloody-cal.
‘Has anyone actually seen Kevin Jones?’ Jessica asked.
‘Well, no . . .’
‘Has anyone approached the block to speak to Bronwen?’
‘Well, no . . . I didn’t think it would be prudent.’
Prudent? If they weren’t so busy, DCI Topper and the superintendent would be having a fit.
‘What’s your plan?’ Jessica asked.
‘We wait it out. They can’t stay in there forever.’
Jessica peered from Franks’s determined face to the block and back again. ‘If Bronwen took in a bag of groceries, plus they have a toilet and fresh water, they could stay there for days.’
Franks shuffled uneasily. ‘They won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s, er, not so pleasant in there.’
Jessica didn’t want to know how he knew that. ‘Surely it’s better than a prison cell? He’s going back to jail anyway, and she’ll be done as an accessory. This could be their last few days together in a long time.’
‘Um . . .’
This was worse than she thought. Franks had been a liability ever since he’d arrived at Longsight on the back of an unlikely promotion, but at least he’d been relatively harmless. Before she could say anything else, he’d plucked the loudhailer from his feet and was marching like a sergeant major towards the building.
‘Come out with your hands up!’
Franks stood, glaring at the crumbling pile of bricks, as if his will alone could force the inhabitants to do what he wanted. There was a flicker of movement – someone with long hair poking their head around the wall, before disappearing again. Franks stood, one hand on his hip, as he put the loudhailer down again, turning back towards his small band of unfortunate followers.
‘Well, they’re not coming out,’ he said.
His eyes were darting from side to side, realisation dawning that he should have put a little more thought into things before arriving. Jessica knew exactly what had happened – the tip had come in and he’d run out of the station with a handful of officers, front-page accolades in mind. Up until now, that sort of glory-hunting would have served him well – it had got him to where he was – but he was always going to come unstuck sooner or later. Like every industry, the police force had its fair share of useless bastards who everyone knew weren’t up to the job, yet, somehow, they kept getting promotions. Some people knew how to interview well, which was most of the battle.
‘You’re not going to get them out by shouting,’ Jessica said.
Franks rounded on her, pumping himself up taller. ‘What do you suggest?’ he snapped.
‘A woman’s touch – Kevin Jones is a small-time nobody, not a gangster. He was in the right place at the right time when Priestley was sprung. It could’ve been anyone. Carl Frosham decided to stay put in the prison van, Kevin ran for it. He knows he’s stuck, he’s just holding out as long as he can.’
Jessica took a step towards the building as Franks reached forward and grabbed her shoulder. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he snarled.
She stepped away. ‘You want to go and talk to them?’
He spun in a circle, peering from officer to officer, embarrassing himself as his rabbit-in-the-headlights expression made it clear he didn’t. He was hoping someone had a better idea but it was too late for that. Either go and have a word, or get tactical firearms involved – again – and have a Sky News helicopter swirling as officers with machine guns lined up in the park.
Jessica snatched herself away, walking carefully towards the building. It looked like it had been built for the minimum amount possible: ugly grey blocks of stone in a square, with a rippled tin roof on top. Cottaging chic. The smell of piss caught on the gentle breeze as she neared, the heat of the past few days combining with a fetid sewer system to create a toxic summer cocktail. It was no wonder the block was being bulldozed – a hole in the ground would have been more hygienic. Brambles and nettles were thigh high, creeping through the tendrils of tree branches, all fighting the expanding, uncut hedgerow and dousing the corner of the park in a dark shadow, despite the sun slicing through the rest of the area. The temperature dropped by a few degrees, making Jessica shiver as she avoided a coating of mud that was clinging to the path. Despite the lack of rain in the past week, there were still pools of filthy water in the undergrowth, a microclimate hiding in plain sight. It was the perfect place to hole up if the smell could be overcome. There was shelter and the likelihood that no one would be paying too much attention.
Jessica’s footsteps crunched across the gravelly, crumbling entrance to the toilet block, as she headed into the men’s. Either she’d become accustomed to the stench, or it was the sewers outside which stank, not the toilets inside. There was a row of what could barely be called windows high on the wall – more like gaps in the concrete – but no artificial light.
‘Hello,’ she called, her voice echoing into the darkness.
There was a rustling, the glimmer of light catching a silhouette at the far end.
‘I’m not coming closer,’ Jessica added, watching the shape settle until she realised there were two people sitting next to one another. She waited, allowing her eyes to adjust until she could just about make out the scene. It looked like two people were sitting on fold-up deckchairs next to a row of sinks. One had long hair, the other was thicker-set. Neither was moving.
‘You can say hello,’ Jessica said.
Neither of the shapes replied.
She looked around for somewhere to sit but there were only the toilets in the cubicles next to her, so standing it was.
‘Look,’ Jessica said, ‘this is going to happen in one of three ways. First, there are a bunch of dozy bastards out there who’ll hang around until you come out. When you eventually do, they’ll be tired and annoyed, it’ll make a big story on the news and then, when you both end up in court, the magistrates or judge will be really pissed off. Second, someone out there will decide they’d rather be home watching Corrie than messing around in a park on a summer’s evening. They call up a bunch of big blokes with guns, who’ll storm in here, scare the shite out of you both, and nick the pair of you. Third – and this is my preferred option – you come out with me now. You can hold hands, put your arms around each other, peaceful as you like, and there’ll be a belting picture on the news tonight. Your solicitor will say you’re a misguided couple who’ll do anything for love, we’ll get Wet Wet Wet in to do some backing vocals over a video montage, and you can both make a shitty situation marginally less shitty. It’s up to you. Either way, I’ve got a meeting to get to.’
There was a shuffling and it occurred to Jessica that, if the shadows were from something else and it was just a single person taking a wee, then she was going to look pretty silly.
Moments later, thankfully, a man’s voice echoed. ‘D’you reckon you can give us ten minutes?’
‘Why ten minutes?’ Jessica asked.
‘I’ve just opened a bag of jam doughnuts.’
Jessica almost laughed. If she’d been locked up, or trapped in the station’s canteen for long – both ideas were equally bad – she’d probably be craving a few cakes too. Suddenly she had a desire for doughnuts herself: one of those big bags of ten her mum used to get from the local bakers for a quid. Covered in sugar, blackcurrant oozing from the centre. Yum yum. She used to get one for being a good girl and tidying her room.
‘Tell you what,’ Jessica replied, ‘I’ll give you five minutes. Eat what you can, then come out. I’ll tell everyone you’re surrendering, then, in the report, I’ll let everyone know how cooperative you both were. Deal?’
There was a whisper and then male and female voices spoke at the same time: ‘Deal.’
19
The next day, Jessica found herself in the situation of both being on her own and feeling watched. She had Archie at her side, of course, it was too much for her to go marching into a succession of lion’s dens entirely by herself – but there was no Serious Crime Division to report to, no bosses wanting immediate reports. Of course, the SCD and her bosses did want immediate reports but not in a way that made it look like that. That left Jessica in her car, driving from place to place, trying to remember everything for when the inevitable questions came later. A lone wolf in the middle of a hunting pack.
