When Jessica got downstairs, the Scene of Crime team didn’t have much in the way of good news. Neither Harriet nor Ian could remember any of the robbers touching anything without their gloves on, except for the crisps – and, although the bowl had been taken away, the fact it had been washed didn’t offer much hope.
‘There’s too much of this shite on TV nowadays,’ one of the officers complained. ‘Bags over their shoes, washing things up – what happened to the days of stupid criminals?’
Quite.
The method of entry was the same as in the other incidents: something bloody big and solid had been crashed into the back door. Apart from the dent indicating it had a rounded end, no one seemed to be able to give them much of a steer on what it might be – other than a vague notion that it was similar to the battering rams they themselves used. As for footprints, since the gang had covered their feet with bags, the best they’d come up with was a slight skid in the mud at the site of the second robbery.
All in all, their hunt for a white man who spoke English with a possibly northern accent and was known to have at least three mates – one with size ten or eleven feet – hadn’t got them too far. The robbers knew the area well enough to get in and out without leaving anything approaching a trace. With the first and second houses, they’d disabled the private CCTV cameras; here it had been the panic buttons. Someone among the gang must have a degree of technical knowledge, which gave the police another avenue to explore. But, as had been unhelpfully pointed out by a succession of constables, anybody could do a bit of research on the Internet and find out how to incapacitate security systems. Some smart-arse had even printed off the instructions to prove it.
After a quick word with the remaining uniformed officers, Jessica headed to the driveway where Archie was leaning on the bonnet of the CID car they’d arrived in.
‘Like the other houses, innit?’ he said.
Jessica sighed, untying and retying her hair as she joined him, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. ‘Topper’s already got a strop on about everything that’s unsolved. Serial burglars are the last thing we need. Did the neighbours have much to say?’
‘Nowt – they’re just worried they might be robbed next. That’s three in five weeks. One of the houses down the road has a camera pointing towards the street but the quality’s awful. A couple of cars went past at around the time our fellas drove off – but it was dark and you can only see lights.’
Jessica pointed along the road. ‘Everything’s too spread out. Even if a bunch of robbers had been sitting around in a van watching a house, it’s unlikely they’d be spotted – especially after dark.’
As she peered along the road, Jessica saw the unlikely sight of an open-top bus turn onto the street. The bright royal blue and yellow colour scheme stood out against the sky, which was its usual wash of grey streaks. As it came closer, she could see a smattering of figures on top, scarves flailing in the wind, hats and gloves protecting them against the northern chill.
Archie offered a shrug, so Jessica moved onto the kerb where she flagged it down. Over the top of the rail on the top deck, a man wearing a deerstalker and holding a microphone peered over the edge.
‘What’s up?’ he shouted down, as half-a-dozen people moved to the edge of the deck and began taking photographs of the police cars.
‘Oi, stop!’ Jessica called, pointing at them. When it was clear they weren’t listening, she turned back to the man in the deerstalker. ‘What’s going on with the bus?’
He held up a blue clipboard with a yellow logo. ‘Haven’t you heard of us? This is Star Tours.’
5
Jessica and Archie sat in the dingy office down a side street opposite the Arndale Centre, staring at a black and white photo on the wall. The subject’s teeth were white, his smile wide, eyes twinkling.
She frowned and turned to face the man sitting behind the desk, whose teeth were yellow, his smile nervous, eyes attempting to do everything but look at Jessica. On the desk in front of him was a metal name plate reading: ‘Ace’.
‘Has Tom Cruise ever been to Manchester?’ Jessica asked, nodding at the photo.
Ace was wearing a cheap, ill-fitting grey polyester suit which he tugged at. ‘Er . . . he was at the Manchester derby a few years ago.’
‘Aye, we won.’ Archie nodded approvingly. ‘Last minute. Take that, you bitter bastards.’
Jessica wasn’t interested in football talk. She pointed to the photo next to Tom Cruise. ‘The Dalai Lama?’
The man in the suit squirmed more than before, pulling at the thighs of his trousers. ‘There were rumours he’s a City fan.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, unconfirmed . . .’
Archie muttered something that didn’t sound too complimentary.
‘Look Mr, er, Ace,’ Jessica said, ‘we’re trying to establish exactly what it is you do.’
A smile finally cracked on the man’s face. He swept his arm majestically, indicating the wall of photographs behind him and the blue and yellow transfer that was peeling away from the grubby window. ‘I’m the owner and CEO of Star Tours.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We offer an exclusive open-top bus tour of Manchester’s rich and famous. I got the idea when I was in LA.’
‘Yes but famous people live in LA. This is Manchester.’
Another sweep of the arm. ‘We have our own glitterati here.’
Shitterati, more like.
Jessica recognised Tom Cruise and the Dalai Lama; beyond that, there were a few soap stars she pretended she didn’t know, blokes she didn’t recognise in football kit, and at least two dozen people she’d never seen before.
‘And this is a business?’
‘Big business! We offer a six-hour tour including soft drinks and lunch. It’s only sixty quid Monday to Friday – seventy-five on a weekend.’
Ace reached into a drawer and took out a flyer, passing it across the desk. Jessica skim-read the list of famous names on the front before turning it over and taking in the route as he continued to speak.
‘The Japanese lap it up,’ Ace said. ‘We take tourists from the centre down through Alderley Edge, towards Cheshire and back again. It’s really taken off in the past six months, so we’ve bought a second bus. I’m looking into getting a bigger office over by Piccadilly Gardens. People can’t get enough of it. We’ve got all the Coronation Street lot and the footballers, of course. Then there’s the reality TV crowd. They’re massive at the moment and there’s something on all the time, so there are always new people being added to our maps.’ He pointed to the face of a blonde woman behind him. ‘You must remember her? She did that thing with the bottle on television where she stuck it up her—’
‘I think the wider point, Mr, er, Ace, is that your tour is taking crowds of people along suburban streets where other non-famous people’s privacy could be compromised.’
Ace clearly didn’t get the point, still dramatically whirling his arms. ‘You’d be surprised who lives where. There’s some famous magician type who lives above a bookies out Stockport way. The Scandinavians love him – they all want their pictures taken next to the front door. We offer an unparalleled service, giving our customers an insight into what it’s like to be famous.’
‘But this is Manchester.’
‘Yes . . .’
Jessica didn’t know what confused her the most. ‘Are you saying that people are seriously paying seventy-five quid to stand on the top deck of a bus and get soaked, just so they can be driven past the house of someone who was once on Big Brother?’
Ace shrugged. ‘We’ve got advance bookings for the next six months. By the time the summer comes around, we might have to get a third bus.’
Jessica turned to Archie. ‘We’re in the wrong business.’
Archie’s mouth was hanging open: ‘Seventy-five quid?’
‘Yes.’
‘Each?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some people will pa
y for any old shite.’
Ace didn’t even bother to protest, his knowing smile an admission that he couldn’t believe his luck either.
‘We’re going to need some information from you,’ Jessica said. ‘From what I can tell, your bus has been regularly heading past at least one house which has later been robbed. That’s a lot of potential witnesses who could have seen something suspicious. I want the names of all your tour guides – plus as many details as you have of anyone who’s been on your tour since you began trading.’ She nudged Archie. ‘My colleague here will help to collate everything.’
Before either of them could complain, Jessica was on her feet and heading towards the door, muttering under her breath. ‘Seventy-five-sodding-quid.’
Jessica sipped the foam from the top of her pint and then wiped her top lip. Archie slid onto the booth’s soft bench opposite her and downed a third of his drink in one go.
‘You really are a cow sometimes,’ he said.
‘You say the sweetest things.’
‘That Ace guy’s a maniac. I thought it was a nickname but he’s officially changed his name because he thought “Ace Mancura” sounded more showbiz than “Clive Yates”.’
‘He’s right.’
Jessica had never tried real ale until she started spending time with Archie. She wasn’t even sure she liked it – but at barely two quid a pint, it was like the old days of hanging around with her friend Caroline at university, getting pissed for under a tenner and then stumbling home. She took two large mouthfuls.
‘It was a waste of time anyway,’ Archie continued. ‘His records are pretty good but his buses have only ever gone past the last house that was robbed – nowhere near either of the other places. I spoke to the tour guides but nobody remembers anything suspicious on that street.’
‘I didn’t think we’d get much but Topper wants to see everyone doing something. It was worth a try.’ Jessica peered across to where someone on the far side of the pub had just fed a couple of pound coins into the jukebox and started up an Oasis tune. ‘This is among the better places we’ve been to.’
As he took another large mouthful, Archie made an approving grunt.
‘Where are the crisps?’ Jessica asked.
‘What crisps?’
‘I’ve not had any tea.’
Archie took another sip and then climbed to his feet. ‘You’re so high maintenance.’
‘I’m really not.’
He grinned, gave her a wink and headed back to the bar.
In an attempt to find a spot that was somewhere in between their workplace in Longsight, Jessica’s house in Swinton and Archie’s flat in Stretford, they had tried a succession of places along the top end of Oxford Road where plenty of student types hung around. One night they had accidentally ended up in a hole that played only dance music, another time it had been a sports bar – which was fine for Archie, but left Jessica wanting to throttle him and everyone else there. This evening, they had ventured off the main road and stumbled across a grungy-looking bar next to a curry house. Or, as Jessica saw it, they’d found the perfect combination.
Archie returned with a packet of Quavers, two bags of salt and vinegar and a cheese and onion for luck. He was also managing to cling onto two more pints as well, despite Jessica still having half of hers remaining. He plopped down all four packets and they set about opening them until the table was a mass of foil and fried potato. Over the speaker system, a second Oasis song began: whoever had fed their cash into the jukebox really knew what they were doing.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Jessica replied through a mouthful of Quaver, ‘it’s been shite at the station this afternoon.’
Archie was in the process of eating six crisps at the same time but nodded to at least acknowledge he’d heard.
Jessica tried not to grin: ‘Anyway, we’ve got nothing back from the early test results – as with the other robberies.’
‘They must be clever.’
‘But are they? Everyone keeps saying that – but it’s hardly the perfect crime, is it? They’ve watched a bit of television, perhaps read a few things on the Internet, and they know how to get in and out without leaving much of a trace – but they’ve still got to get rid of all this stuff. You can’t just walk into a jeweller’s and sell the things you’ve nicked. You can’t go on eBay and say, “Here’s a bracelet worth fifty grand, starting bid ninety-nine pence”. Apart from our guy today with his fifteen thousand “petty cash”, they’ve not got away with that much money – not when you consider the risk.’
Archie finished his first pint and started on the second. ‘There’s always someone who’ll buy – some dodgy under-the-table jeweller or pawn shop. I know we’re keeping half an eye on the ones in the city but you could go anywhere in the country to sell. Someone will always buy nicked goods.’
‘Jewellery’s not the same as nicking a TV or a phone though. It’s not the type of thing people buy to hide away at home – they buy it to wear it, or to give to someone they’re trying to impress. Someone will always pay – but if you’re the gang who’s stolen it, you’re not going to get anywhere near as much money as you think. So why go to all that risk? You could ram-raid a shop, dive in and out and be done with it. You don’t have to spend the night in a stranger’s house – especially when the main thing you get short-term is fifteen grand. Then you’ve got the hassle of off-loading the rest of the jewels. Think about the difference in sentence for being caught: for a shop robbery, you might get five years if there’s pre-planning. Burglary, possible kidnap charges, threats of violence and the like and you can double that at least.’
‘So you don’t think they’re that clever?’
Jessica necked the rest of her first pint in one, realising she wasn’t explaining herself too well. ‘Yes and no . . . I don’t know. Obviously that only applies if we catch them – and considering we don’t seem very close to doing that then they’re clearly smarter than we are.’ She paused: ‘Well, smarter than you.’
Archie ignored her, working his way through the mound of crisps. ‘You do know they’ve probably only nicked about a quarter of what this lot claim. It’s like the minute there’s a car accident, everyone’s hobbling around clutching the back of their necks, banging on about whiplash. These rich types dream of a burglary – suddenly that Argos bracelet they’ve never worn is an antique pearl necklace that’s been handed down by their grandmother’s grandmother. It’s all a giant insurance con – like the latest must-have accessory: designer handbag, expensive shoes, oh and we were burgled last month.’
It wasn’t that Jessica disagreed with him – whenever there was an injury, theft or suspicious fire, the first thing any of them thought was ‘insurance scam’ – but his theory didn’t feel right either.
‘This is too elaborate to make a few quid off an insurance company,’ Jessica said.
‘You want to go through it, don’t you?’
Jessica bit into a crisp, embarrassed that she’d spent enough evenings drinking with him that he could read her so easily. ‘It’s for your benefit, seeing as you’re the young constable and I’m the . . . inspector.’
She’d almost said ‘old’.
Archie snatched the final cheese and onion crisp. ‘Go on then – for my benefit.’
‘Okay, so we don’t have any e-fits, obviously. We’re rounding up the usual scroats to see if they know anything—’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Franks’ – the idiot brought it up in our senior meeting last Friday and Topper was all over it. He reckoned that because the victims all agree the accent is “sort of local” that we should bring in anyone from around here who’s ever been convicted of a robbery. I think they’re up on Wednesday if we’ve not figured out anything before then.’
‘Wanky sodding Frankie. What a knobhead.’
Jessica ‘mmmed’ an agreement through a mouthful of ale. It really did taste awful. ‘We’ve been asking the victims if they can try to remember a
bit more about what the gun looked like. They all say only one of the four had a weapon. We’ve got some firearms expert comparing the statements to see if he can find a match. I don’t know what Topper thinks might happen but it’s not as if they’re going to be breaking into houses with a registered gun – it’ll have been bought from a pub somewhere for a hundred quid.’
She stopped for another mouthful, before continuing. ‘A couple of years ago, we found this guy on that council estate over the back of the station, less than half a mile away. He knew someone who worked on the Liverpool docks dealing with the container ships coming in. They had this boat arriving from Ecuador three times a year with all sorts of supplies on it – including a mini arsenal of guns. Our man in Liverpool would stick them in the back of his car, speed over here, drop them off at this housing association place and then they’d flog them to all and sundry. We only got lucky because his next-door neighbour got tired of the television being on loud late at night. It could have been a disaster because we only had two PCSOs going around to shut our arms dealer up but he got edgy, jumped ten feet over a balcony and bolted into the park. Our boys were left there with an open flat door wondering what was going on. When we went through the flat properly, we found a dozen pistols, two semi-automatics and an MP5.’
‘Why didn’t he put up a fight?’
‘We never really found out – I think he was a bit stupid. His Scouse mate was the brains of the operation, if you can believe that. I suppose they thought they could make more money in Manchester. This guy thought he was running a shop out of his flat.’
‘Are you sure the Scouse guy was the clever one?’
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t the Manc.’
‘Bin-dipping bastard.’
‘Didn’t Liverpool beat Man United this season?’
‘All right, sod off.’
‘Home and away?’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Referees in their pockets and all that.’
For Richer, For Poorer Page 4
