“There are no houses, just the tower blocks. Not even a parade of shops.”
“Used to be. There were two dozen or so houses over that way, but they were knocked down to make way for the tram lines. The shops were never a bright idea. One or more of them was broken into on a weekly basis.”
“Where do the Rouses live?” asked Greco.
“Trojan House, that one there.” Grace pointed. “Fortunately for us, the flat’s on the second floor. What’s the betting the lift’s out.”
The door leading into the tower block was hanging off its hinges. Inside, the concrete steps up to the higher floors were chipped and crumbling. The place was bleak and cold. Every sound echoed.
Climbing the staircase was a nightmare. Greco tried to avoid putting his hand on the rail. It was so dirty it was difficult to tell what colour it had been originally. Finally they reached the second floor deck. “What number?” he asked.
“Twenty-three.” Grace knocked but got no response. “It doesn’t look lived in.” She tried peering through the window. “Rouse must make a bob or two. Fancy leaving his mum in a dump like this!”
Greco had to agree. The windows were filthy and a pile of leaves and rubbish had accumulated in the doorway. “Not many visitors, by the looks of it.” He knocked again.
He and Grace were about to walk away when a voice called out from inside.
“We’re looking for Mrs Rouse. Can you open the door?”
They heard movement inside the flat and the sound of a television. Suddenly the door was pulled open and an elderly woman looked out.
“Who did you say, love?”
“Mrs Rouse. We’re the police.” Greco showed her his badge.
“Can’t see without my specs, love. You’re not from the gas board, are you?”
“No, we’re police,” Greco replied patiently. The woman was thin with wispy grey hair. She looked in need of a square meal and some new clothes.
“Who are you looking for, love?”
“We’re here about Tony Rouse, your son.”
“He’s not here. He’s not been near in weeks. I don’t know where he gets to.”
“But he does still live here?” asked Grace.
“Now and then. He flits about. Last I heard he’d got himself one of those places in town, in a block of flats in Spinningfields. Said it was more convenient for work.”
Grace smiled at her. “Does he visit?”
No answer to this. “Come in.”
The front door led straight into the sitting room, which looked like a junkyard. It didn’t appear as if anyone had done any cleaning or put the rubbish out in months. Greco shuddered. The place made his skin crawl. There was no way he could sit down.
“Have a seat. I’ll get some tea.”
“Please don’t bother,” Greco said hastily. “Do you have a phone number for him?”
“I do, if I can find it.”
They watched as she moved some of her stuff about. Finally she rummaged in a handbag and passed them a slip of paper. “There. It’s his mobile number.”
Grace took it and copied it down. “Put it back safely, Mrs Rouse, in case you need it again.”
“Is he in trouble? Chances his arm that one. Mixes with some right types. Tells me it’s his job. But he’ll get his head kicked in one of these days if he’s not careful. Reckons he drinks with Ray Shaw.” Mrs Rouse shuddered. “Dangerous job, working for the paper.”
“Slicer Shaw. Know him well, does he?” Greco asked.
“They both grew up around here, so yes, I suppose he does.”
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, Mrs Rouse, I shouldn’t worry. We just want a word, that’s all,” Grace said.
Outside, Greco inhaled deeply, trying to get rid of the stench of that flat.
Grace nudged him. “It’s not her fault. She’s old. She’s got no one but Rouse. That son of hers obviously isn’t up to much.”
“His link to Slicer could be significant.” Greco tapped Rouse’s number into his phone. “Mr Rouse?” Greco nodded at Grace. “DCI Greco, East Manchester CID. I’d like to speak to you as soon as possible.”
Greco listened. “The coffee shop on Gorton Road,” he told Grace.
Chapter 6
A mobile rang. It was the one Slicer had given him. Mickey felt an instant jolt of adrenaline.
“Kid,” began Slicer. “New mark for you. I’m texting you a name and a photo. Tonight, the Bull’s Head. Posh place in Chorlton. Any time after eight.”
He gave Mickey no chance to object. Slicer seemed to think the deal was done.
Mickey sat in front of his newly purchased, expensive laptop. A quick search and there he was, Slicer’s mark. This one would give him no trouble. Middle-aged, soft-looking bloke in a suit. Doing stuff for Slicer was all very well, but Mickey was impatient. Once the rumours about the killings started, it was important for folk to add it up wrong, to see a turf war where none existed. Not yet anyway. What was needed was bad blood between Slicer Shaw and Costello. Mickey wanted the huge criminal organisation fractured at the core. Up for grabs.
Word on the street already had the two killings down to gang rivalry. Mickey would fan the flames. The blame must land firmly at Slicer’s feet. Costello would think his old mate had been stirring it, planning to take the entire patch for himself. If Slicer disappeared, Costello would need a new right-hand man in these parts. Then Mickey would step in. It was a good start, but the plan needed some heat.
After Mickey had dealt with this mark, someone close to Slicer had to go. Someone who would leave the villain vulnerable. But not by the knife. That would put Mickey, aka ‘knifeman,’ squarely in the frame. Something different was required. Something the police would attribute to Costello. The force would spend months chasing their tails trying to stop a gang war. Slicer would assume Costello was coming after him next. Meanwhile, Mickey would move the plan up a notch.
What Mickey needed was a gun. For an execution, Costello-style. It would ensure that suspicion fell elsewhere. He knew someone who could supply what he needed, in one of the flats in Trojan House. Mickey had money now. Time to make a deal.
* * *
“She needs a visit from social services,” Grace said once they were back in the car.
“I doubt she’ll thank you for that. It’s not our place to interfere.” Greco shuddered. “That flat needs a damn good clean. How do people live like that?”
“I’ll certainly be having a word with that son of hers. The poor woman needs help.”
Greco nodded. “That’s the place over there. Better keep your feelings under wraps, Grace. Keep the conversation with Rouse on track. We need him to talk to us. I can understand your concern, but we have a job to do.”
“Come off it, Stephen. What sort of bloke leaves his elderly mother in a place like the Lansdowne, alone and fending for herself?”
“Unpalatable as it is, it’s not our problem.”
Greco parked the car in a side street and the two walked to the café. “Do you know what he looks like?” asked Greco.
“His smiling face stares out from the Chronicle most nights,” Grace said. “He’s not a very nice man. Tony Rouse likes to dish the dirt. Holds nothing back. If it’s got a grubby underbelly, he’ll be rooting around in it.”
“I know you’re angry, but don’t antagonise him, Grace. We need information, not his newspaper blasting us for police harassment. Take a deep breath and let me do the talking.”
The café was empty except for Rouse, who sat against the back wall, his face in his notebook. He was a big man, out of condition, middle-aged and losing his hair. He was wearing a suit that had seen better days.
He greeted the two detectives with an oily smile. “You’ll be DCI Greco? How can I help?”
They sat down opposite him. “Last night you were seen talking to this young man at the entrance to the multistorey on Gorton Road.” Greco showed him the photo of the victim. “Do you know him?”
Rouse st
udied the photo. “I did speak to him. Not that I got much back in return.” He handed the photo back. “I’ve no idea who he was. Just a lad down on his luck. I gave him some small change for a sandwich. Why? Has he complained?” Another smile.
“You argued with him about money. You were heard.”
“I gave him a couple of quid, he wanted more. There’s no mystery.”
His explanation sounded plausible enough.
“It was dark. There was no one about. The lad was edgy. To be honest, I thought he might try and mug me. Thought I’d bluster my way out of it.” Rouse smiled again.
“Did you see where he went after you’d finished arguing?”
“No idea. I was glad to get away. I legged it to my car. Dodgy area that. Best avoided.”
Greco frowned. “I think you were following him. We believe the lad had been to a restaurant called the Millstone. You were there too, before moving on to the multistorey.”
“No law against eating out, is there?”
“Bit of a coincidence though.”
“Look, copper. I don’t know who he is, and I don’t know what he was doing at the Millstone. I can’t help you.”
But Greco persisted. “In that case, tell us what you were doing there.”
“The Millstone was holding an event for a clinic, the Rashid Clinic. I’m interested in knowing more about the place. It’s early days in my research, but if I’m right in what I suspect, it’s going to be a huge scoop. I went to the Millstone to try and talk to a couple of the surgeons.”
“And did you?” asked Grace.
“No. Threw me out on my ear.” He grinned. “You can’t win ’em all.”
“Tell us more about this scoop you’re chasing, Mr Rouse,” said Greco.
“I can’t. It’s all conjecture at the moment. But rest assured, the moment I get any sort of proof of what I suspect, you’ll be the first to know.”
Greco changed tack. “Did you see anyone else at the multistorey?”
“Some old bloke gave me a hard time for shouting.”
That would be Stanley Barton.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone else, or where the lad went?” asked Greco.
“No idea. I had things to do. What is this? What’s the lad done?”
“Gone and got himself murdered,” Grace told him. “And you are one of the last people to have seen him alive, Mr Rouse.”
Rouse held up his hands. “Not guilty. He was fine when I left him.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Again — no idea.”
“We have given his photo and details to the media. His image will be everywhere very soon.” Greco saw the man’s face drop. “Someone will come forward and give us a name.”
“Wish you luck.”
“You don’t look happy with that, Mr Rouse. Worry you, does it?”
“Look, Miss—”
“DC Harper.”
“I can’t help. The lad was probably a drug runner off that damned estate.”
“Is that why you spoke to him?” asked Greco. “Were you in the market for drugs?”
Rouse’s eyes bulged and his cheeks puffed out. “Think what the bloody hell you like! But get off my back.”
He got up and left.
“Doesn’t like answering questions much. Slimy bugger, isn’t he?” Grace said. “Where to now?”
“Back to the station. See what we’ve got between us when Leah and Speedy get back.”
“D’you reckon he was telling the truth about the clinic?”
“If he was, it might explain things. He saw the lad leave, or worse, get thrown out of the Millstone and decided to speak to him.”
“That could have been the argument Stanley Barton heard,” Grace suggested. “Perhaps the lad wanted money for what he knew.”
“We need a lot more information before we start concocting theories.”
* * *
When they returned to the incident room, PC Gareth Dobbs and Joel were staring intently at Joel’s computer.
“We’ve spotted something on the CCTV, sir,” he told them. “See this figure on the road about a hundred yards or so outside the multistorey? Hood up, hands in pockets and keeping to the shadows.” Joel took the film back so they could catch the figure walking along the pavement. “What d’you think?”
“It’s not our victim — different clothes. He’s tall and slightly built. Our lad was small.”
“Keeps his head down. Looks nervous,” Dobbs said. “He knows the camera is there.”
“He’s stopped. Looks like he’s waiting for someone. He doesn’t move for several minutes, then this.” A car pulled up by the side of the road. “There’s the figure again, and he’s getting in.”
“He gets into a car. He’s driven a few yards, and then into the multistorey. So what was he doing? Getting a lift inside?” asked Grace.
Greco looked at them. “A meeting? Or the driver is making sure the job gets done properly. Always presuming that this is our killer, of course.”
“That figure doesn’t appear again, sir. So whoever he is, he went in and came out in a car.”
“The film is time-stamped at eleven thirty. Can we get the number plate of that car?” Greco asked Joel.
“The image isn’t very good, but I’ll see what I can do with it.”
“Send a copy to the Duggan as well,” Greco said. “We need to know who was driving that car.”
Chapter 7
Doctor Faisal Rashid was tall, immaculately dressed, good-looking but not in a startling way. He looked like a man you could put your faith in. He spoke reassuringly about procedures and treatments. He offered considerable expertise, but most of all he offered immediate treatment (unlike the NHS).
He’d poured his life into his vocation, and his business. Despite his talent, success hadn’t come easy. The money to open the private hospital, the Rashid Clinic, had been hard come by. He worked long hours and had high standards. He expected the same from his staff, and most of all from his partner, Jason Horton. But lately Jason’s interest had waned, which was a shame because the clinic was poised to take off in a big way. An expensive advertising campaign had borne fruit, and increasing numbers of wealthy clients were beating a path to their door. Jason was a brilliant cosmetic surgeon, who was affable and well-liked. But he had one big flaw. Jason Horton had a gambling problem.
Faisal Rashid’s handsome face was pulled into a frown as he strode into his office, waving a sheet of paper at his PA, Sonia Jarvis. “When did you arrange this?”
“His wife rang this morning, Doctor. Doctor Horton spoke to her. Now Mrs Khan wants him transferred to Manchester General, under the care of Doctor Banister.”
“He was having his treatment here. It was all arranged.”
“Doctor Horton said there had been a setback. That perhaps it was time to look to the National Health . . .”
“Enough!” A nerve on Faisal’s brow twitched with annoyance. “Doctor Horton is an idiot!”
Then his mobile beeped. It was yet another alert from the bank, the third this morning. He sat at his desk and tried to focus. He opened the lid on his laptop, and scrolled through his emails until he found the latest one from the hospital’s account manager at the bank, sent within the last ten minutes. The clinic’s account was overdrawn. This was the final straw. The balance had diminished consistently week by week over the past two months. Horton told him it was due to the increased cost of medical equipment. He was lying. Faisal had to put a stop to this before his world crumbled to nothing.
He slammed the laptop lid closed. With no money available and bills to pay, he’d be forced to take out a loan, something he’d avoided throughout his entire business career. Leaving Sonia cowering behind her desk, he went in search of Jason Horton. He found him coming out of the operating theatre, still gowned up.
“We need to talk. I don’t understand what is going on inside here.” Faisal tapped Jason’s head. “You have drawn heavily on clinic funds.
So much so that the account is now in the red.”
“It’s a mistake, Faisal. I’ll sort it.” Jason waved his hand airily. “There’ll be cheques waiting to clear in the system. Don’t stress so much, it’s not good for you.”
“How many more, Jason? When is it going to stop? You’ve used clinic money to fund your habit. If that isn’t bad enough, the people you are dealing with are crooks. Carry on like this, drag us further into debt and this clinic will have to close!”
“You’ve got it wrong. It’s like I said. I’ll ring the bank myself and find out what’s going on.”
Faisal was not reassured. “Do it once you’ve cleaned up. I want the account put right today. Another thing, Khan can’t transfer to Manchester. We are going to help him. You said you had it organised.”
“You really do need to chill,” Horton replied. “We’ve had a small problem. I’ll ring him. Offer him alternative treatment. I’ll persuade him to stay, trust me.”
“You better had. We can’t afford to have patients deserting. Him and the problem with the bank. You are becoming a liability.” Faisal strode off. He needed to do the ward rounds. His patients were spending a great deal of money. They expected his attention, and he would make sure they got it.
* * *
Leah smiled at the receptionist sat behind the desk in the sumptuous waiting room of the Rashid Clinic. “DI Wells and DS Quickenden from East Manchester CID. We’d like to speak to one of the surgeons who attended the event at the Millstone yesterday.”
“Certainly. Take a seat. Help yourselves to tea or coffee.”
Speedy looked around. “Very nice. If I needed something sorting, this is the place to be.” He grabbed a cup, filled it with hot coffee from a jug and sat down. “Wonder how much it costs to have work done here?”
“Depends what you’re thinking of. Looking at you — nose job, ears pinning back. You could be worth a fortune in cosmetic procedures to this place.” Leah laughed.
“Cheeky sod. If you weren’t a DI and I knew you a little better, I’d get you for that.”
“Don’t mean anything by it. Just teasing. You must have something, despite the way you look. You attract women pretty easily.”
Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set Page 41
