Nothing But Trouble, page 19
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
Thirty minutes later, Jessica walked back to the main reception area of the prison, utterly exhausted. Lypski would push his luck further and further and then, just as she was ready to walk, he’d drop the tiniest of morsels. He’d not known much but had said that Carter was obsessed with getting back at the Hydes, that he blamed Richard Hyde in particular for the death of his mentor, Harry Irwell. It was largely what the SCD had hinted at – one of the names on their list would make a move on another and then wait for the retribution. In this case, Hyde somehow had Irwell killed, so Carter was taking revenge. Whether any of that could be proved was another matter entirely.
Jessica retrieved her phone, signed out, and turned the device on as she headed back to her car. She was in the driver’s seat, key in hand, when the phone started to tinkle and flash like a Christmas tree in Debenhams. One missed call, two, three. By the time it had sorted itself out, Jessica had thirteen missed calls, all from Izzy, Topper, or the station. She called Izzy, who answered on the first ring.
‘Are you still at the prison?’ Izzy asked, out of breath.
‘Just leaving.’
‘Good – it’s all kicked off here. Richie Hyde is dead.’
28
Jessica parked her car at the end of a row of marked police vehicles in front of Deansgate train station. She didn’t need to worry about knowing where to go because she followed the trail of officers, the drips of spilled tea on the pavement, and the smell of bacon sandwiches. It was lunchtime and the Greater Manchester Police weren’t going to let something like a dead body get in the way of filling their bellies.
DCI Topper was waiting for her close to the locks, where the tram lines, train tracks, canal, road and row of bars all met. He was sitting on a low wall facing a white Scene of Crime tent, sipping from a polystyrene cup.
‘Where’d you get that?’ Jessica asked.
‘Soon as we set up, some bloke in a burger van pulled up. He must’ve raked it in.’
She nodded at the tent. ‘What’s it like in there?’
‘Not much to see. Richie Hyde went out drinking after his mum’s funeral and never made it home. They reckon he was killed at three or four in the morning – we’ll know for sure in a day or two.’
‘How’d he die?’
‘Looks like he was beaten to death. His wallet and driving licence were still in his pocket, which is the only reason we know it’s him.’
‘Not just a robbery then?’
‘If it was, they forgot the robbing part. Superintendent Jenkinson has already spoken to Richard Hyde, who’s going to formally identify the body at some point this afternoon.’
Jessica waited as Topper sipped his tea. The white investigation tent was set up close to a large green wheelie bin at the edge of a narrow alley running along the back of the train station. Overhead a train screeched past, making the entire area shudder like in a low-level earthquake.
Jessica waited until the noise had passed. ‘Who found the body?’ she asked.
‘A cleaner from the train station. Poor sod was dragging a couple of bin bags back here when he practically tripped over it. There’s a bloody trail of footprints from where the cleaner panicked and ran back inside.’
‘I bet Scene of Crime loved that.’
‘You bet wrong.’
Jessica took a seat on the wall next to Topper. For a moment, they said nothing, listening to the buzz of the city. ‘Was Richie drinking by himself?’ she asked.
‘As far as we can tell. It’s a bit sketchy but updates are coming in all the time. He was still in a full suit from the funeral, so people noticed him, plus all of the bars around here have CCTV. Managers and owners are gradually opening up – give it a couple of hours and we’ll know exactly where he went . . . well, until he ended up here.’ He took another sip. ‘How was our Polish friend?’
‘Utterly delightful – one of Carter’s men, so he says.’
‘As in Carter from the SCD’s list?’
Jessica nodded. ‘Exactly. Priestley told people inside that he’d been set up for the robbery that got him put away. Lypski reckons the reason Priestley slashed him is an extension of the battle going on out here – the Hydes versus everyone else. Carter apparently thinks the Hydes were responsible for killing his old boss, Harry Irwell. It could be simple revenge.’
‘Maybe – this is being escalated, though. The super’s getting more hands-on.’
‘“Escalated”? What does that even mean?’
Topper smiled. ‘Police-speak. There’s little point in me even attempting to run things because of how high this all goes. We’re being left to float.’
‘I don’t get what you mean.’
Topper didn’t sound as if he knew himself. ‘This is now about containment, if it wasn’t already. They want people like you and me to be free to visit Hyde and the rest.’
‘That’s what I’ve already been doing.’
‘I know – which is why Jenkinson’s going to be based in Longsight for a while. You keep doing what you’re doing and he’ll take care of what is now a triple murder investigation.’
‘He’s actually taking work off us?’
‘I know – things must really be bad.’
‘Basically, they’re admitting these are professional jobs and no one has a clue.’
He smirked. ‘Perhaps.’ Topper’s phone started to buzz and he answered with a series of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘okay’ responses. When he hung up, he pointed towards the row of bars. ‘One of the managers over there remembers chucking Richie out at three in the morning – it’s the latest time we’ve got him definitely still alive. I’ve got to hang around here for a bit, so if you want to go say hello . . .’
Deansgate was a road that stretched for a mile from Manchester Cathedral and the shopping area of the city at one end to Bridgewater Canal, the train station, and the Locks at the other. It frequently caused confusion to people unfamiliar with the place, who’d heard the shops were around Deansgate, only to get off at the train station with the exact same name to find a busy road junction and some advertising billboards.
Too many Deansgates.
Deansgate Locks added another level of misunderstanding, with around a dozen bars, restaurants and a comedy club sitting on the edge of the canal, underneath the railway arches across the road from the station. Whenever a train or tram passed, the entire area juddered as if it was being shelled.
It was particularly unhelpful when emergency calls came through to say something had happened on Deansgate, with police cars and ambulances trawling up and down the busy road, trying to figure out which end. Jessica often wondered why whoever ran the city didn’t go the whole hog and rename everything Deansgate – they were halfway there in any case.
She crossed the road from the train station, wondering where the burger van had disappeared to. It was nowhere in sight and the faint smell of bacon and brown sauce had set her stomach grumbling.
Aside from skiving uniformed police officers, locals trying to figure out what was going on, and a handful of confused Japanese tourists most likely wondering why they’d got off at the wrong end of Deansgate, the only person Jessica spotted was a man in skinny jeans and a T-shirt, dragging circular tables out of Bar X onto the path at the edge of the Locks. He was stubbly with swooshy dark hair, younger than her, and attractive in an annoying way because he knew it too. The type that went for eyebrow tints and would buy himself pec implants for Christmas. He offered his hand – ‘The name’s Pete’ – talking to her side on, face half in shadow as if he was posing for a catalogue. He perched on the edge of a table, leaving Jessica to stand.
‘I gather you just called us?’ Jessica said.
‘One of the other bar owners reckoned you’d found a body of a bloke in a suit and I had a few problems with a guy like that last night.’
Jessica fumbled through the folder Topper had given her, finding an image of Richie Hyde. As she held it up, Pete started to nod.
‘That’s the guy,’ he said.
‘You sure?’
His eyes met hers, lips creeping into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Perhaps fifteen per cent grin, eighty-five per cent smug. ‘I never forget a face.’ Ugh. ‘Richie-something,’ he added.
‘How do you know that?’
Pete nodded towards the bar with the tiniest inflection of his head. He wouldn’t want to get a hair out of place. ‘He came in at about half one or so. It’s just starting to wind down then, with the groups leaving and going home. He was by himself and got a beer, then slumped on the sofa next to the front door. One of my staff overheard him abusing one of the girls on the way out.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Calling her names. She was wearing a short dress and he had a few suggestions about what might be underneath. I didn’t hear it but I can get you the details of someone who did.’
‘That’d be good.’
‘I was behind the bar helping out, so didn’t know about that until later. The first time I noticed him properly was when he came to get another drink. He was falling all over the bar, slurring his words. He couldn’t even say “Stella”, he was asking for “Senna”. I told him he’d had enough and he started shouting about his mum.’
‘What about her?’
‘I thought it was funny at first, grown man crying for his mum, then I realised he was saying she was dead and he’d been at her funeral. His exact words were, “If I can’t get pissed after my mum’s funeral, when can I get pissed” . . . well, they weren’t his exact words, there were a few more effs.’
‘What did you do?’
Pete flicked his hair, though it was so stiff with hairspray that it barely moved. ‘We were getting ready to close, so it was around twenty to three, quarter to, something like that. I was saying I’d help him get a taxi but he started shouting, saying everyone was out to get him, that his sister was a bitch . . . it was hard to make much of it out.’
‘Did you get him out in the end?’
‘I had to get two of the security lads, partly because I thought he might get violent but also because he could barely stand. He was stumbling from side to side, bouncing off the bar stools.’
‘Where did you last see him?’
Pete gazed along the length of the Locks, pointing towards the end, where they joined the road that led to the train station. ‘Around there. I told him there were taxis by the station that’d take him home and thought that’s where he was going. He was shouting “Don’t you know who I am?” but I didn’t have a clue. No one knew who he was. Just some drunken bloke.’
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘Nope, there was hardly anyone around at that time. We were clearing up, getting ready to close. I assumed he was going to get a cab.’
‘Would anyone else have seen him leaving?’
‘Most of my staff, perhaps a couple of the other security lads at the other bars? I got the impression he’d been in and out of places all day long. I can get you some contact details if you want, though most of them will be getting to work in the next few hours anyway.’
Jessica thanked him for his time and then sauntered back to Topper, thinking it would be the easiest of easy sells when they told the PCs they were looking for volunteers to hang around the bars of Deansgate Locks all evening.
29
It took less than an hour to get the name of a taxi driver who’d seen Richie Hyde. The man’s account was consistent with everything else Jessica had been told. The driver had been parked close to the train station when Richie had fallen into the side of the car face-first with a solid thump. The driver had tried to help him up but received a barrage of abuse for his troubles, before Richie had vomited over the taxi’s wheels. Unsurprisingly, the driver declined the fare and the last he’d seen of Richie was the youngest Hyde stumbling around the side of the train station, using the wall to hold himself up. That was a few metres from where his body had been dumped. The driver hadn’t seen anyone nearby, in fact he hadn’t seen anyone at all. After half an hour without a fare, he’d given up and gone home for the night.
Some poor sod had been dispatched to test the wheel rims for traces of vomit, which would allow them to confirm at least part of the driver’s story. Yuck.
Richie had been spotted on all sorts of CCTV systems. In one sequence, he was leering at girls in a pub, in a second, he was abusing different young women in another. From what they could make out, he’d left his mother’s funeral, got a taxi from Oldham to Manchester city centre, and then spent the best part of twelve hours lurching from bar to bar, drinking himself into a stupor, while simultaneously being turned down by most of the female population of England. It was what Archie might have called ‘a good night’, though it hadn’t ended so well for Richie.
Predictably, the one thing they didn’t have on camera was anything to do with Richie’s demise. No one had been spotted following him, let alone beating him up. The train station closed at midnight, meaning its security cameras showed long periods of empty corridors and unoccupied platforms. Richie Hyde had walked around the corner from the taxi rank and then turned up beaten to death in a nearby alley six or seven hours later.
Two Hydes and a close friend down, two Hydes to go.
It was a balmy, warm evening in the grounds of Richard Hyde’s house, though the collective mood, unsurprisingly, wasn’t matching the weather. There were three marked police vehicles outside the main gates, plus Jessica’s and two more unmarked cars. Natalie Hyde and her father were both at home, the casino left in the hands of others, as a succession of officers with ever-increasing ranks sought to assure them that the police were doing all they could to find out who was targeting the family. To an untrained eye, it looked like a strange garden party, with lots of people in suits milling around the perfect lawn, chatting calmly. It was the body language that gave everyone away, with flappier arms than usual revealing a sense of pervading fear, more on the side of the police than either of the Hydes.
As the other officers did the talking, Jessica watched. Richard Hyde seemed to be in shock – he’d not long identified the body of a second family member and now he was being talked at by a list of people wanting to tell him he was safe. She couldn’t figure out if he was nodding because he was taking them at their word, or because he didn’t know what else to do. His eyes were blank as he stared from person to person, not saying much.
Natalie Hyde was almost ignored in the attention being lavished on her father. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose shirt, out of a suit for the first time that Jessica had seen. It completely changed the way she looked, no longer the tough businesswoman with a steely exterior, now an attractive, attentive woman absorbing everything around her. She could blend in anywhere like this, a social chameleon.
Jessica crossed the lawn, unnoticed among the chattering, worrying men in suits, and sat next to Natalie at a small round metal table.
‘Are you okay?’ Jessica asked.
Natalie didn’t look at her but she snorted, unamused. ‘What do you think?’
‘I meant with all of this.’
Another snort. ‘A bunch of scared men talking in clichés, making promises they can’t keep.’
Which, in one sentence, summed up exactly what Jessica thought.
‘Do you know who did this?’ Jessica asked.
There was a long pause, the silence eclipsed by the chattering male voices. Blah-di-blah-di-blah. So many words, so little knowledge. Superintendent Jenkinson was whispering to Topper as one of the assistant chief constables took his turn in trying to reassure Richard Hyde that the triple murder investigation wasn’t a dud. Hyde must’ve known it was bullshit. He might have kept his hands clean over successive years but he knew a professional hit when he saw one. He knew the point was that no evidence was left. His family was being exterminated.
Natalie knew too: ‘You don’t have a clue, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’
‘So who did this?’
‘We have a list of suspects.’
‘Shall I name them? Nelson Carter, Christian Fraser, Thomas Braithwaite. Not them directly, obviously. People who work for them. Do you want me to go on, or can you be honest and admit you haven’t got a scrap of evidence that points to any of them?’
‘I’ll be honest if you can be honest.’
‘Go on.’
‘If you’re naming those three, how about you give us a reason, a motive why they’d be coming for you? Something specific.’ Jessica nodded at the crowd of people in front of them. ‘This is one big farce. My lot know who your father is, they suspect the things he’s done, yet they’re talking to him like they’re trying to schmooze a business lunch on expenses. The reason we have no evidence is because it’s one giant charade – everyone wants to pretend we’re dealing with legitimate businesses but people are dying. If you don’t give us a reason for who might be coming after you – a real reason – then what do you expect?’
Natalie was quiet for a few moments and then she shuffled in her seat, turning to face Jessica. ‘Y’know what? You’re absolutely right – you have no right being here, there’s no point. It’s a family matter we have to deal with.’
‘I told you before, there’s not going to be a war.’
‘Wake up – it’s already started. What are you going to do to stop it?’
‘How do you know Eric Maudsley?’
The question took Natalie so by surprise that she reeled back in her seat, blinking rapidly. ‘Who?’
‘He owes money to your casino. How can that happen?’
‘Um . . . sometimes we give credit. It depends on individual circumstances. If a person has won a substantial amount, they might choose not to withdraw the money and keep going instead, so we’d give a little leeway.’
‘What happens when they can’t pay?’
‘We get it back through direct debits, or, occasionally, debt-collecting agencies. It almost never comes to that and really isn’t a problem. It’s a tiny part of the business.’
‘If it’s a tiny part, then you’d know the names of the people who owe you.’
