Nothing But Trouble, page 17
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
Archie was topless on the sofa, lying on his front, chest puffing him up and down as he slept. Jessica sat on the arm of the sofa, pulling the dressing gown tighter around herself, fighting back another yawn.
‘Arch . . .’
He grunted but didn’t move, so Jessica rocked his shoulder gently.
‘Arch.’
His voice was a low grumble. ‘What?’
‘It’s morning.’
‘What time?’
‘Just before nine.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Do you want something to eat?’
Archie rolled onto his back, eyelids fluttering open, grin sliding across his face. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘Bacon butty?’
‘You got brown sauce?’
‘Obviously.’
‘My hero.’ He yawned, which set Jessica off.
When she’d finished, she placed a hand on his shoulder, unable to look him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He shuffled until he was sitting. ‘What for?’
‘I thought you were okay with . . . us.’
‘No worries, it’s all sweet.’
He wasn’t very good at putting a brave face on it. Jessica wondered if she should say something else but found herself staring at the photograph of her and Adam. They were interrupted by her ringing phone: Izzy.
‘Why are you up so early?’ Jessica said, by way of greeting.
‘I’ve got a three-year-old who thinks wake-up time is seven at the latest.’
‘Good point. What’s up?’
‘Is Archie with you?’
Jessica’s gaze shot to Archie, then away again. ‘Archie? I’ve not seen him since he went home in a taxi last night.’
Archie perked up, stretching his shoulders and mouthing ‘Who is it?’
‘That post on the Internet’s still saying that boxing match is tonight,’ Izzy replied. ‘We’ve got a venue just outside the city. Can you get hold of him and ask if he’s heard anything?’
‘I’ll try calling him and come back to you.’ Jessica hung up and then asked Archie if he could get onto his friends while she cooked.
He puffed out a loud breath, still stretching. ‘I’ll see if anyone’s up.’ Jessica only heard the start of his conversation as she headed to the kitchen but it was more than enough for her to know she didn’t want to eavesdrop. ‘Marty, y’big gay. How’s tricks?’
By the time she returned to the living room, brown-sauce-drenched bacon butty in hand, Archie was still going strong: ‘Yeah, well, you tell Ollie I don’t care what slag he pulled last night, I want to know if he’s heard anything.’ A pause, then a bellow of laughter. ‘Aye, sounds about right. Didn’t Davey give her one last Christmas? I heard she loves it there.’ He started cackling again, before realising Jessica was watching. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go – but call me if you hear anything. I’ll see you at five-a-side.’ He hung up and then took the plate from Jessica. The butty was halfway towards his mouth when he realised she was still watching. ‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Is that how you talk to all your mates?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends on the mate. If you want to know about bare-knuckle boxing matches, that’s what you get.’ He took a big bite, sending an oozing dollop of sauce onto the plate and sighing with pleasure. ‘That is perfection,’ he said.
‘What did your mates say?’
‘It ain’t happening tonight.’
‘Izzy says they’ve got a venue.’
He shook his head. ‘If she wants me to head out there with her, then fair enough – but someone’s taking the piss.’ He licked his lips. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a poo.’
It had taken Jessica, Archie and Izzy almost an hour to get out of the city, following Izzy’s disjointed directions along a series of country lanes until they found a line of cars parked in the verges. Small groups of people were traipsing along the edge of the narrow road, dressed as if they were ready for a music festival, not a trip to an underground boxing match. There were girls in short dresses and wellies; lads in combat shorts, open-necked shirts, and vests. If fists and blood were going to be flying, they really weren’t dressed for it.
Jessica, Archie and Izzy parked and followed the others along the lane in the dimming sunlight, passing through a wide metal gate into a field. The week of summer had left the grass yellow and straw-like, a path of trampled, flattened turf leading towards a barn on the far side.
Izzy had told them to ‘dress normally’ in order to fit in, so Jessica was in jeans and a jacket, while Archie was at his chav-tastic best, jeans tucked into Rockports, collar up, hair recently re-greased, ready for a ruck.
‘This really doesn’t seem like a boxing match,’ Jessica whispered.
‘I told you, it’s not,’ Archie replied.
Izzy remained quiet, not wanting to be wrong, though the sinking feeling must be growing within her: they’d not seen anyone over the age of thirty.
‘Where did you get the info?’ Jessica asked.
‘We’ve been following Internet discussions all week. There’s a team with the Met who deal with this sort of stuff, so we’ve been liaising with them.’
‘There’s your problem,’ Archie said. ‘The Met. Soft southern twats. Too busy quaffing champagne and eating canapés to know what’s going on in front of them. These fighters aren’t idiots – they’re hardly going to stick a place and time on an open forum.’
‘It wasn’t an open forum – the Met gave us a password and a list of code words.’
‘Then this lot know the Met are onto them and they’ve planted the info.’ Archie nodded to the barn. ‘This is one big setup. They’re hoping to draw us in to create a big stink, then, while we’re mucking about here, the fight will be going on somewhere else.’
‘Now?’ Izzy said.
‘I doubt it – there’ll be spotters here looking out for police, wondering who’s taken the bait, then the fight will be on in a few days or so and the same people will be keeping an eye out there. You’ve not got a radio, have you?’
‘Just my phone,’ Izzy replied.
‘How many uniforms have you got on standby?’ Archie added.
‘Two dozen.’
‘They’re going to have a quiet night. Unless there’s a big-time crack den in there, you want everyone to hold back, pretend we haven’t noticed.’
‘But they’re going to see us,’ Izzy said.
‘Yeah . . . stick with me.’
Archie puffed his chest out and upped his pace, marching towards the barn. As they got nearer, the music became louder, strobing pillars of light flashing through the windows. Doof-doof-doof-doof. Two big bald men in suits were on the door, frisking the line of people waiting to enter. The girl in the short dress and wellies did a spin and they waved her through, but the lad in combat shorts had to turn out his pockets. Jessica and Izzy hung back slightly, letting Archie take the lead as he strutted ahead with a flick of his head. ‘A’ight, lads. How much?’
The doorman’s gaze flashed to Jessica and Izzy, then back to Archie. ‘They w’you?’
Archie winked. ‘Aye, pal.’
‘Tenner each.’
Archie made the transaction with a handshake, then held his arms out wide as the other man in a suit frisked him. Jessica and Izzy got off lightly, each having their pockets patted but, aside from a phone and wallet, they were clear.
As soon as Jessica passed through the corrugated metal door, the noise hit her: a thunderous bass that made the ground tremble, so loud that it felt like the walls were going to collapse. Before she knew it was happening, a girl just inside the door grabbed Jessica’s hand and pressed a stamp onto the back of it. The impression left a clear image glowing in the dark: a hand with a raised middle finger. Archie and Izzy turned their hands around to show identical marks.
Each step felt painful, the thudding thump-thump-thump growing louder until they emerged into the main open area of the barn. Izzy’s information hadn’t simply missed the target; it had shot over the top, wiping out half-a-dozen bystanders in an act of appalling collateral damage. It wasn’t a bare-knuckle boxing match, it was a rave. Around the edge of the barn was a series of raised platforms, barely clothed women gyrating into poles as groups of lads gawped beneath. At the far end, two men were standing behind DJ decks, bobbing their heads in time to the deafening chorus of dance music, while, in front, a wave of people had their hands in the air, glow-stick bracelets illuminated in the flashing lights. Next to the door they’d entered through were five bikini-wearing girls behind a row of plastic milk crates, which served as a bar. Behind the girls were stacks of bottles and cans, a scrawled sign reading: EVERYTHING = £5.
Archie leant in, tugging on Jessica’s sleeve until she and Izzy were close enough for him to be heard over the music. ‘I hope you’ve brought cash,’ he said.
Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve got about a tenner.’
Izzy sighed: ‘I’ve got fifty quid.’
Archie held out a hand, pooling their cash into his pocket. ‘I don’t reckon the guv will let us put this through on expenses.’ He nodded up towards an alcove built into the wall near the closest pole-dancer. Jessica hadn’t seen it at first but there were two men inside, each gazing towards the floor, scanning from side to side. ‘There are two on the other side as well,’ Archie added. ‘Spotters, looking for anything weird.’
‘We could just call it in,’ Izzy said.
He squinted and shrugged. ‘If you want – but that’s what they’re after. They want to know police are watching that forum. This is your test. What’s the best that can happen? We arrest a few ravers, maybe get the odd kid with a few Es in his pocket? They don’t care because none of the people you’re interested in will be here.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Izzy asked.
He winked. ‘What do you think? Drink, dance and don’t act like a copper.’
Izzy turned to Jessica, the highest-ranking officer on site. Her call. Archie’s head was beginning to bob like a nodding dog in the bag of a car; Izzy – for once – looked out of her depth.
Jessica turned to the makeshift bar. ‘Well, if it’s a fiver a drink, I’m at least getting something good.’
25
The organ music wasn’t helping Jessica’s throbbing headache. Three nights on the booze was too much for someone in their thirties. Drinking was a young person’s game and, while Izzy had the excuse of driving, Archie had insisted he and Jessica throw themselves into the role of excited partygoers. They’d got out of the barn at half-one in the morning, trailing back to the car amid a series of yawns and attempts to appear inconspicuous. Perhaps against her better judgement, Jessica was confident Archie knew more than either of them about the situation. Underground boxing, nods, winks and cash-filled handshakes were his thing – though that was little consolation for Izzy, who was embarrassed at dragging them out to a rave when she was supposed to be trying to stop an unlicensed, illegal boxing match.
Not that any of that mattered, because the only thing GMP’s high-ups were bothered about was Lisa Hyde’s funeral going off without a hitch. If anyone asked, the murder investigation was ongoing, they were following up promising leads and were confident of a result, blah-di-blah-di-blah. In actuality, no one had a sodding clue what had happened to Owen Priestley or Lisa Hyde. There were hardly any leads to start with, plus minimal forensics. It seemed likely that it was part of a move by a ‘business rival’, which explained the professionalism, and they were still on tenterhooks, hoping there was no retribution, no war. For now, all the police could do was offer a presence at the funeral, sending out a message that they knew what was going on behind the scenes, even if they didn’t.
Jessica was in a regular black suit, with a dark blouse, waiting on the path leading to the church as the organ music continued to pound her disjointed senses. It wasn’t raining but the sunshine of the previous week had gone, leaving an overcast wash of grey and a warm breeze in its place. The grounds of the church were slightly tatty, an overgrown patchwork of grass snaking across the pathways, ready to consume its prey.
Richard, Richie and Natalie Hyde were at the entrance to the church, heads bowed, shaking hands with the people attending, which provided a strange dichotomy in which everyone was acting tactfully, even though Jessica knew most of the people couldn’t stand one another. Not only that, chances were that one of those attending had arranged the murders. She watched Christian Fraser, Thomas Braithwaite and Carter each shake hands with the Hyde trio, offering brief words of condolence, before stepping into the church.
The church grounds were flanked by long rows of leafy hedges, with uniformed officers positioned intermittently around the rim, though Jessica wondered who was being protected from whom. Was the enemy within the church, or without?
Her head bowed, Jessica joined the back of the line, as Topper had told her she should. They were the token police attendees, and trooped along until they reached the trio of Hydes, with Natalie and Richard shaking hands, accepting the muttered condolence. Richie simply glared at Jessica, daring her to say something untoward. Her head was far too throbby for any of that.
After Jessica and Topper had found a spot towards the back of the pews, Richard, Richie and Natalie Hyde entered, walking from the back of the church and taking their places in the front row. The floor was stone, loud and echoing, with ancient pillars, walls and stained glass creating a heightened sense of melancholy. Jessica had been to funerals before, including her own father’s in a place similar to this, but there was a different feeling about this. The rows of wooden benches were packed with mourners, yet Jessica got the sense that very few people actually knew Lisa Hyde. People were here for status, wanting to appear as if they were standing shoulder to shoulder with the Hydes, without actually knowing the person who’d died. As well as the faces Jessica recognised, there were more than a hundred she didn’t: normal-looking, well-dressed business owners and associates who, perhaps, didn’t realise the true nature of the Hydes’ enterprises.
At her father’s funeral, there’d been tears throughout, not only Jessica’s, but from the people who really knew him. He had run the post office in a small village, a central figure, on first-name terms with everyone. Here, there was no crying, just mournful, predictable stares towards the priest amid a wave of sitting and standing that greeted various hymns and readings. It left Jessica with no sense of who Lisa Hyde was. Neither of the dead woman’s children spoke in testimony to the type of mother she was, and all Richard Hyde contributed was a passage from the Bible, before concluding with ‘I love you’. It felt mechanical, though that wasn’t necessarily surprising. If the Hydes had built a reputation on fear, they could hardly expect warmth in return. If Lisa Hyde’s own children had nothing positive to say, then who else would speak for her? Richard Hyde had to keep a brave face. He was surrounded by rivals, each looking for a sign of weakness that he couldn’t risk showing. Besides, if one of them was responsible for the killing, he wouldn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how hurt he was. It was a bizarre circus of respect where these men turned up to witness each other’s mourning, all fully aware that none of them could have cared less.
As the priest spoke, Jessica kept an eye on Richard Hyde, who was sandwiched between his children. He was staring past the altar towards the enormous stained-glass image of Jesus’s birth at the front of the church, where a large wooden cross hung from the roof. He was holding hands with Natalie, who leant forward and whispered something in his ear. He sat tall throughout, not daring to let the mask slip. Collectively, the message was going out: the Hydes were dealing with what had happened and the empire wasn’t crumbling.
The soulless display continued as everyone headed outside after the service, moving from the rear of the church into the graveyard. Nearly everyone was already through the gates when Jessica noticed Natalie and Richie Hyde were by themselves. She turned in time to see Richard clambering into a shiny black Jaguar at the front of the church, head bowed, desperate to get away. She didn’t blame him.
After the farce of the funeral, the hellos and goodbyes, the nods and apologetic glances, Jessica and Topper returned to the station for a debrief from Serious Crime. They had photographs of the funeral attendees, saying it was the biggest gathering of professional criminals they’d seen in years. No one cared. The police had watched it all happen, not intervening, because, on paper at least, none of them were crooks. When Jessica finally got out of meetings, briefings, a working lunch, debriefings, and more meetings, it was already past the end of her shift. Another day wasted. If they spent as much time doing as they did talking, things might actually get solved.
Jessica had not had time to do anything about Annie, nor hunt through The Big Book of Bastardly Shites, © Greater Manchester Police, to see if she could spot the blonde hoody-wearing woman who seemed to be watching her or Bex.
She would have got as much done if she’d spent the day in bed.
After the trudgery of driving across the city, Jessica parked outside her house, fumbled in the back seat for her bag and, eventually, keys, then made her way to the front door. Click, clunk and she was in, met by a scrabbling sound from upstairs and a scraping of a stool from beyond the door ahead.
‘Bex?’
Jessica moved through to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway, confused as she was met by the hoody woman with dirty blonde hair, sitting calmly next to the counter, sipping a cup of tea.
26
‘Who are you?’ Jessica asked.
The woman panicked, eyes darting both ways as she coughed an unintelligible reply, before pointing to the hallway behind Jessica. Bex was emerging from the stairs, notebook and pen in hand.
‘Oh, hi,’ Bex said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
Jessica glanced between Bex and the newcomer. ‘What’s going on?’
Bex handed the book and pen to the other woman, turning back to Jessica. ‘Just . . . trust me.’
Jessica wanted to object, to say that she’d seen the stranger spying on them, but Bex sounded so reassuring, so . . . adult, that she said nothing.
