Nothing But Trouble, page 13
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
Thomas Braithwaite didn’t even live in Greater Manchester, let alone operate in it – at least not officially. He’d made his money through manufacturing, thirty miles down the road in Liverpool – yet he was on the SCD’s list as a ‘person of interest’ who might want to target Richard Hyde and his family.
Jessica and Archie were welcomed through an imposing set of double gates by a bulldog of a man – Iwan-something – who had a thick neck, bulky shoulders and protruding forehead. The type of specimen scientists would have sliced open in the early 1900s, trying to figure out if the shape of somebody’s skull dictated their personality. Jessica didn’t need to do any cutting to guess Iwan’s personality – he was a bully, the type of person with whom legitimate factory owners shouldn’t need to surround themselves.
Iwan led them to the rear of the house into a conservatory, where Thomas Braithwaite was sitting at a small black metal table, sipping from an espresso cup, watching his garden ahead of him. There were stables, sculpted hedges and a vast expanse of green. He had black hair that was barely beginning to grey, though it left him with the look of a man who’d seen and done a lot. He was in shape, with a tidy beard and moustache, but it was his eyes that truly told his story: deep, piercing blue that momentarily made Jessica stop still as he reached to shake her hand.
Archie acknowledged Braithwaite with a nod, sitting a little away from the table as Iwan the brute disappeared into the rest of the house.
After the introduction, Braithwaite continued staring at Jessica, not letting her go. ‘I must admit,’ he purred, ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit from Greater Manchester Police. You do realise this isn’t Greater Manchester.’
‘Really? I wondered what that forty-minute drive was all about.’
He didn’t smile. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Richard Hyde.’
Braithwaite’s gaze didn’t shift, eyelids unblinking. ‘What of him?’
‘He’s run into a bit of bad luck in recent days.’
‘So I’ve heard. Such a tragedy.’
‘Sending a card, are you? “Sorry for your loss”, that sort of thing?’
Braithwaite smiled tightly. ‘I’m a busy man, Inspector.’
‘Really? It’s ten in the morning and you’re sitting in your conservatory watching the garden.’
He ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth, weighing her up, wondering what the game was. ‘Are you familiar with Confucius?’
Jessica turned to Archie. ‘Doesn’t he play up front for United?’
Archie started to reply, missing the joke, but Braithwaite remained tight-lipped, waiting until Archie had embarrassed himself before answering. ‘“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”’
‘What’s your point?’ Jessica asked.
‘Come now, Miss Daniel, I can tell you’re an intelligent person.’
‘Are you moving into Manchester?’ Jessica asked, figuring she may as well be direct. He was deliberately being obscure, so it’d most likely annoy him.
‘Why would I want to shift my wares into such a dump a few miles down the road?’
Digs about his beloved hometown was another of Archie’s weak spots. ‘You live close to Liverpool, mate,’ he chirped up, unable to stop himself.
‘And in Liverpool I would rather stay.’
Jessica wasn’t sure if she’d been sent on a fool’s errand, or if Braithwaite was lying to her face. She wouldn’t be surprised by either.
‘The Hydes are off-limits,’ Jessica said.
Braithwaite shrugged. ‘Is that supposed to intimidate me?’
‘I don’t care but I’m passing on the warning that, if anything does happen, you’ll have the entirety of a police force looking into everything you do.’
He nodded tightly, gaze and smile not shifting. As if telepathically, Iwan reappeared in the doorway. ‘Our guests are just leaving,’ Braithwaite said.
One down, a bunch more to go.
Christian Fraser was a name Jessica had heard the previous time she’d had a conversation with Josh from the SCD. Fraser ran an empire of low-level clubs and pubs around the centre of Manchester that were apparently a front for dealing drugs and laundering money. She’d never had any direct dealings with him, but the name of his not-so-dearly departed right-hand man, Scott Dewhurst, still made her shiver with fear and recognition. Dewhurst had changed something within Jessica, making her cross a line from which there was no turning back. In many ways, everything that had happened in her life since stemmed from that moment – the explosion which left Adam comatose, the inherent threat she felt from Chief Constable Pomeroy, the departure of DCI Jack Cole. She either had to live with the decision she made, or be consumed by it. For her, there was no choice: life went on.
Fraser wasn’t what Jessica expected. He was short with a slim-cut suit, open-necked shirt and glasses, the sort of person on a plane who had a Californian accent and banged on about investing in a technology company no one had ever heard of. He welcomed Jessica and Archie into a plush office at the back of a ‘gentleman’s club’ in the city centre. He was wearing a chunky gold bracelet with matching rings and smelled of too much aftershave. There were leather armchairs, a thick carpet, a whisky decanter on his desk, with an enormous framed portrait of himself on the wall. It took a certain type to decorate a workspace with a giant self-portrait; a person driven by ego and the sense that it was fine for others to think of you as a complete bellend.
DI Franks would fit in well.
Also in the office was another suit-clad dick of a man. Jessica didn’t need to be introduced to know he was a solicitor: he had that look about him, all pinstripes and swept-back gingery hair, conscience uncluttered by such things as working for a gangster. The solicitor checked Jessica and Archie’s IDs thoroughly, making a note of the details, before they sat.
Fraser reclined in the seat behind his desk, sipping from a heavy glass filled with mineral water poured from an expensive-looking bottle. This wasn’t Buxton from down the road, it was imported from somewhere far away, distilled across the thighs of a Ukrainian virgin, bottled at source and then flogged to people with too much money.
The solicitor did the speaking: ‘Your superiors were unclear as to the nature of this meeting,’ he said.
Jessica made a point of ignoring him, turning to Fraser. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it a meeting.’
‘Yet here we are,’ the solicitor continued, unconcerned by such things as being ignored, or morals.
‘I wanted to ask Mr Fraser about his relationship with a possible business associate named Richard Hyde.’
The solicitor continued: ‘Is there something specific you have to ask, or is it a general inquiry?’
‘I was talking to Mr Fraser, not the chimpanzee with a law degree.’
Fraser smiled thinly at Jessica. She wondered if he knew who she was, knew what she did about the demise of his one-time ally.
The solicitor started to reply but Fraser spoke over him. ‘Mr Hyde is a business associate and I’m very sorry for his loss.’ He paused. ‘Losses.’
‘Fair enough – as long as you know that we know.’
‘Know what?’ Fraser asked.
‘That we’re watching. Any other moves on Hyde won’t be greeted with a parade and party balloons. There’s not going to be a war in this city.’
Fraser sipped from his glass, smiling. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Good – we’ll see ourselves out.’
Nelson Carter – or simply ‘Carter’ to anyone who knew him – had worked as Harry Irwell’s right-hand man, up until Irwell’s overdose a couple of years previously. From there, he could have faded into obscurity, but the Serious Crime Division files said he now ran Irwell’s casino on behalf of his widow, Barbara. The nature of Carter’s other activities was unclear, though he was still a person of interest, with a long line of brutal, yet unproven, violent acts attributed to him. He was another thug of a man, bald head, thick arms, brutish shoulders, and the sense that he didn’t mind using them. Jessica and Archie were shown into an office at the back of Casino 101 on Quay Street in the city centre, where Carter met them with a ruthless show of momentary strength, crushing Jessica’s fingers tightly enough to make her gasp as they shook hands. She watched Archie try – and fail – to squeeze Carter’s hand back, wincing with momentary pain before Carter’s paw released him. In that instant, Jessica decided to throw off the leash – she’d been polite-ish all morning and it was time to piss some people off.
‘How’s Babs?’ Jessica asked as they sat across the desk from him.
Carter squinted at her, confused. ‘Who?’
‘Babs Irwell, Harry’s widow. I gather she’s the one who orders you around.’
His eyes glowered even more narrowly, giving a glimpse of the rampaging bull sheltering within. ‘Her name’s Barbara,’ he said.
‘Babs, Barbara; potato, pot-tah-to. How is she?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I just find it interesting: Harry Irwell has no children, no natural heir, and his wife’s knocking on a bit. With him out of the way, it seems very convenient that you inherit everything. Some might say Harry’s death is the best thing that ever happened to you. Some might also say that the nature of his death was suspicious . . .’
Carter pursed his lips, eyeing Jessica dangerously. ‘Who might say?’
‘Y’know – just some. Anyway, it must be hard following in Mr Irwell’s shoes. You must feel quite the pressure to maintain the standards he set?’
His features were unmoved. ‘Not much has changed.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. Mr Irwell wasn’t exactly a reputable operator, was he? Fingers in people-trafficking pies, drug-dealing pies, money-laundering pies and all that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Course you don’t – now tell me about Richard Hyde.’
‘What about him?’
‘There are all sorts of rumours that Hyde and Irwell had a long-running dispute over who controlled which areas of the city.’
Carter’s features didn’t even flicker. ‘Rumours are dangerous things.’
‘That they are – I’m just making sure those rumours aren’t part of a truth that’s ongoing.’
Carter stood, offering his mitt of a hand again, which Jessica didn’t shake. ‘If that’s all,’ he said, ‘then you should leave.’
Outside the casino, Jessica was about to clamber back into her car when her eye was caught by the shiny black Rolls Royce across the road. The glass was tinted, sun gleaming from the newly washed paintwork, yet there was something about it that seemed wrong. She took a few steps backwards, craning her neck to spot the HYD3S number plate, and then crossed the road, rapping on the driver’s window. As Archie slotted in behind her, the window hummed down, revealing the annoyed brown eyes of Richie Hyde. The last time she’d spoken to him had been in the casino, where he’d been shushed by his sister; now he was alone.
‘Why are you here?’ Jessica asked.
Richie glared at her with contempt. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I don’t want things escalating. I know your mother’s—’
‘What? Murdered? Shot in the head?’
‘We’re looking into it,’ Jessica said. ‘We have people checking the ballistics, the forensics, security cameras, everything – but it takes time.’
One of his eyes was twitching, betraying his fury. ‘So they sent you? What’s wrong with a man?’
Jessica let it go. ‘You should go home, Richie.’
The door clicked open slightly. ‘This needs to be dealt with by a man, a proper man.’ Jessica shoved the door closed with her hip.
‘You’re not dealing with anything,’ she said. ‘You’re going to go home and let us sort it.’
He eyed her up and down, lips twisting into a sneer. ‘How about you get in the car and we’ll have a bit of fun on the way?’
Richie snatched at her wrist, squeezing and pulling before she had a chance to move. Archie lunged forward, grabbing him by the throat as Jessica pulled her arm away. ‘You try it, pal,’ Archie said, pushing himself further through the window. Richie’s eyes bulged, smile disappearing as he realised Archie was serious. Richie was the affluent kid acting like a street punk; Archie was the real deal and they both knew it. Richie squeaked and squealed like a cornered piggy before Archie shoved him backwards.
There was a red mark on Jessica’s wrist from where Richie had been too quick for her. The car window hummed until it was halfway up, though the top of Richie’s head was still visible.
‘He your boyfriend?’ Richie sneered, straining for confidence again. ‘You should keep him on a leash – perhaps he’ll like that.’
Jessica stared through the window. ‘If it wasn’t for what happened to your mother, you’d be face-down on the tarmac with my friend’s knee jammed into your bollocks. Now piss off before we nick you for assaulting an officer.’
He waggled his tongue at her provocatively before the window hummed fully closed and the engine roared to life, sending a cloud of exhaust fumes towards them as he accelerated to the junction and turned left without indicating.
‘What a prick,’ Archie spat.
‘I don’t need you to defend me, Arch.’
‘I thought—’
‘You thought grabbing him by the throat was a good idea? What if he complains? If I told the truth, you’d be suspended.’
‘Aye, well—’
Jessica sighed, rubbing his arm. ‘But thanks.’
He thrust his shoulders forward, puffing his chest out. ‘What d’ya reckon?’
‘That we’re three down and none of them know anything. It’s all a bit of amusement for them, watching us chase our tails and talk in riddles because we can’t accuse them of anything outright. Serious Crime should do their own dirty work.’
‘Do you reckon it’s foreign gangs moving in?’
Jessica shook her head. ‘I doubt it – this lot would be up in arms. Carter, Fraser, Braithwaite, Hyde and the rest will spend years arguing over a petty few clubs and pubs but the minute foreigners step on toes, they all work together. None of them have mentioned anything.’
‘So who’s moving on Hyde?’
Jessica bobbed from one foot to the other, wishing she had an answer. ‘Who knows? Let’s get the rest of this list ticked off, then we can go get some grub.’
They crossed the road back to the car, with Archie leaning on the passenger’s side. ‘You up to much tonight?’ he asked.
She couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Yep, got loads on at home.’
20
After talking to the rest of the names on Josh’s list of scumbags, grabbing a burger with Archie, and then reporting everything back, Jessica was told by DCI Topper she should go home a whopping forty minutes early. It was better than the usual practice of staying late but she wasn’t in the mood for sitting on the sofa watching some nonsense on television. Instead, she drove back to Swinton, weaving through the streets close to her home until she found the correct address.
Nerys Morrow seemed confused as she opened the door a few inches, taking Jessica’s ID inside. ‘You can phone the number if you want to check who I am,’ Jessica said.
A pair of eyes appeared in the gap before the door opened further, revealing a woman in her late sixties, nursing a dodgy hip that left her leaning to one side. She had wiry, curly grey hair, appearing older than Jessica’s next-door neighbour, even though she was younger.
‘Sorry,’ Nerys said, peering beyond Jessica to the road behind, ‘I’m a bit careful nowadays.’
It wasn’t a surprise considering Nerys had been scammed by a younger woman knocking at her door, much like Alf had been. She shuffled along the hallway, waiting for Jessica to lock the front door, before leading the way into a living room. The walls were covered with framed photographs of years gone by: beaches, parks, birthday cakes, Christmas crackers with party hats, thumbs-ups, hugs, smiles, smiles, smiles. A catalogue spanning a lifetime of family. Jessica turned in a circle, taking it all in, as Nerys pressed herself into a comfy-looking armchair.
‘That’s my Neil,’ she said, not needing to point at any particular image because he was everywhere: Neil and Nerys, Nerys and Neil.
‘We were married for forty-nine years,’ she said, voice cracking slightly, no need to fill in the blanks.
Jessica didn’t reply, feeling the twinge of the lifetime the woman had lost.
‘I was hoping someone would be back,’ Nerys added. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’
‘Sorry?’
‘After that woman came to my house, you sent police officers round and they wrote everything down, then I didn’t hear anything. Have you caught her?’
Jessica shook her head. ‘Sorry, Mrs Morrow, that’s not exactly why I’m here.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘My next-door neighbour suffered an incident a little similar to the one you experienced and I’m trying to find out if the same woman was involved.’
Nerys pushed herself up from the chair, trying to stand but grimacing. She clicked her fingers, which Jessica wasn’t sure she’d ever seen an older person doing. It seemed strange. ‘I remembered her name – but only after your policewoman left. I wrote it down, it’s on the fridge.’
‘I’ll go,’ Jessica said.
She smiled as she entered the kitchen – the fridge was covered by a mass of Sudoku puzzle magnets, a mishmash of words from famous sayings for someone to reorder, and individual letters. At the top, ‘Annie’ was spelled out in a mix of purple, green and fluorescent yellow plastic characters.
Jessica had a quick look around the near-spotless kitchen but there was little to see, other than a small pile of dust and grit sitting next to the bin, ready to be scooped up. She returned to the living room, returning Nerys’s smile.
