Flesh and Blood

by Emma Salisbury

  The DC nodded.

  Coupland jabbed her name with his finger, ‘This changes everything. Whichever way we look at it we now have to consider a gang related motive.’ There were several nods and remarks made Coupland couldn’t make out. The mood in the room was subdued. The investigation had only just got underway and now they were stepping into a volatile mine field. 160 organised crime gangs operated in Greater Manchester, over 8000 ‘troublesome’ families. Crimes relating to any of them took months, sometimes years, to bring to justice. Coupland dug deep in an attempt to lift the team’s spirits. ‘Remember, Tunny is on the same side as us this time. He wants justice for his sister, too.’ The faces staring back at him gave nothing away. Much like he’d tried not to when the Super had pontificated about the virtue of shoe leather, but he knew what they were thinking. Images of flying pigs and a frozen Hell flashed in front of him.

  Through the CID room’s internal window a shiny Superintendent Curtis could be seen marching along the corridor, followed by a pack of journalists as they headed towards the multifunction room used for press announcements and visiting dignitaries. Walking at a slower pace a tearful woman held the arm of a plain clothes WPC, behind them a sombre looking DC clasped a manila folder. The appeal for information relating to the killing of Elaine McMahon’s husband outside his sons’ school would be aired at tea time that night. Coupland wasn’t a fan of exposing the grieving to public scrutiny but if it pricked someone’s conscience into action maybe it was worth the additional pain.

  He turned his attention back to the officers facing him. ‘Finding whoever started this fire could rebuild some of the trust broken down over the years in certain parts of the community.’ He glanced up at the ceiling. Maybe if he said it loud enough, he’d begin to believe it.

  ‘What about the assaults on the arsonists?’ Ashcroft asked. ‘How do they fit in?’

  ‘We’ve no evidence to suggest this is Tunny.’ Coupland raised his hand to quell the muttered objections coming from the back of the room. ‘Yeah, yeah, I hear what you’re saying, but we’ve three statements telling us the best part of bugger all. Yes, it could be Tunny, but it could be the real arsonist covering their tracks.’

  ‘Or creating a smoke screen,’ a DC from the front row quipped, causing a few groans.

  Coupland nodded. ‘We have to keep an open mind.’

  ‘What’s this guy like, Sarge?’ Ashcroft asked.

  Coupland stared ahead, could feel the anticipation of the officers around him. He tilted his head to one side as he thought about his answer, making eye contact with several DCs dotted around the room, wondering if they’d concur with his description: ‘Tunny likes to think of himself as a community fixer. You go to him with a problem, he’ll sort it, but you’ll owe him. He can be deceptive, not your traditional hard man routine. He acts ever so humble but don’t underestimate him for one minute. He’s dangerous. Never forget that. We call him Paul Daniels because he makes witnesses disappear.’

  Ashcroft nodded. ‘Been inside?’

  ‘More than he’s been out but that doesn’t seem to stop him.’ The truth was life on the inside wasn’t a deterrent for men like Tunny. Access to mobile phones smuggled into the prison meant business as usual in terms of running their empires and their reputations meant they weren’t short of lackeys on the outside to do their bidding.

  ‘He made a fortune last time he was inside,’ Turnbull piped up, ‘had drones flying drugs over the prison walls right up to his cell window.’ Drug use in prison was at an all-time high and it never ceased to amaze Coupland the ease with which gangs skirted the system. ‘Drones are quite the accessory for drug smugglers these days, suppose it beats shoving bags of spice up your backside on visiting day.’

  ‘He’s got a racket going on in most of the jails around the north of England,’ Robinson added. ‘Even though the authorities are aware of it there seems bugger all they can do to stop it.’

  ‘What can we do about these attacks though?’ Ashcroft persisted.

  Coupland considered their options. ‘If we find out who the culprits are we can issue them with GANGBOs.’ He pulled a face at the groans that went up around the room. Like an ASBO, a GANGBO was a civil injunction but for all the members of a gang, banning subjects from associating with each other or entering certain locations. The truth was they were a pain in the backside to monitor and an ever bigger pain to uphold. ‘OK, scrap that,’ Coupland conceded. ‘Let’s just hope Tunny really has decided to play ball.’

  He turned his attention back to Turnbull. ‘Did you ask Alan Harkins why he failed to mention his connection to Tunny?’

  The DC nodded. ‘He said he didn’t see how it was relevant. That even gangsters are entitled to support their relatives in whichever way they wanted and his money was as good as anyone else’s.’

  ‘Well it’s certainly fragrant, I’ll give him that, the amount of times it’s been laundered,’ said Coupland. ‘No wonder he was cagey with me. He practically jumped out of his skin when you called me earlier. I was tearing him off a strip for not spotting Johnny Metcalfe had gone missing, he must have worked out I hadn’t got wind of Tunny’s connection.’

  ‘What about this Johnny Metcalfe? Should we be looking at him more closely?’

  Coupland puffed out his cheeks as he considered this. ‘I don’t see him being involved, I’m not sure he’d have the wherewithal.’

  ‘What about Harkins, then, Sarge? His record keeping is lax; he’s economical with the truth. Is he just incompetent or is it something more? Do you want us to bring him in?’

  Coupland was already shaking his head. ‘Not yet, we’ve got no real grounds to, though he’s certainly a person of interest. Think I’ll pay him another visit at the home. Alex and I are meeting the fire officer there anyway. See if there’s anything else he’s been keeping from us.’

  ‘When’s the PM due?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Professor Benson has emailed to say the forensic anthropologist is arriving today at 3pm. She’s here to secure identification on the three bodies that suffered severe burns.’ A small but vital difference between the victims’ fate being forever unconfirmed and their families being able to lay them to rest.

  Coupland’s gaze returned to Turnbull, prompting the DC to hold up a printout in front of him. ‘I’ve emailed you all a list of ex-patients who raised complaints against Cedar Falls in the last two years that didn’t have their grievances upheld.’

  Coupland skim read his copy, gave Krispy a nod of approval. ‘I take it this is your work?’

  Krispy nodded. ‘It’s easier extracting information from a database query than searching through a ton of papers.’

  ‘For you maybe,’ Coupland countered, wondering once more where the Super’s shoe leather factored into this equation. ‘Nice work,’ he said, his attention turning to Robinson who spoke next.

  ‘Some patients were transferred out of the area, either because facilities became available closer to where they lived or the other way round, they went to wherever a place became available because they were unhappy.’

  ‘Can they be accounted for on the night of the fire?’

  Robinson nodded, ‘Not all the patients who moved on went into another care home though, some returned home. We’re in the process of tracking their whereabouts…’

  Coupland caught a look that passed between Robinson and the young DC. ‘Anything you want to add?’

  ‘The lad’s played a blinder, Sarge. We couldn’t have pulled this together so quick without him.’

  Coupland regarded Krispy. ‘I do believe our baby’s all grown up. That said, you’ve got to walk before you can run, but I reckon we can start putting more, how shall I say it, “Customer facing” actions your way. Leave it with me.’

  If Krispy could have wagged his tail and panted he would have done. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  *

  After a failed attempt at writing his statement for Professional Standards, Coupland slipped out onto the fire escape st
eps for a sly cigarette. He stared down at the line of patrol cars and police vans, wondering if his days viewing the world from this vantage point were numbered. A white Honda Civic with a broken wing mirror drove into the car park, circling the perimeter before heading towards the exit. The driver slowed, as though consulting something before turning left without indicating.

  If Reedsy’s complaint was upheld Coupland would be long gone. Curtis wouldn’t keep him around if the division had to fork out compensation, he’d be lucky to pull on a uniform, and he didn’t fancy his chances much at that, given the plods he’d rubbed up the wrong way over the years. Besides, he wasn’t sure he was up to the flexibility expected of today’s beat cops. He winced as an athletic looking PC pedalled a police issue BMX into the car park, padlocked it to the bike rack beside the station’s back entrance. The PC removed his bike helmet, saw Coupland looking over and waved a hand in greeting before heading in his direction.

  ‘You’re only coming over for the nicotine hit, Ronan, admit it,’ Coupland scoffed, wafting the smoke downwind.

  ‘You’re not wrong, given the bloody day I’ve had, Sarge,’ the officer replied, trudging up the stairs. ‘These cycling shorts are chafing the hell out of me.’

  ‘Save that talk for your wife, Ronan, I’m getting an image that’ll keep me awake tonight for all the wrong reasons. At least it’s keeping you toned.’

  ‘I’ll be doing trials for the Olympic team at this rate, given the sodding miles I’ve done today.’

  ‘Go and get yourself a well-deserved bacon roll, son. There’s only room for one Adonis in this station and that place is well and truly taken.’

  Ronan looked as though he’d be more at home in a boy band than pounding the beat. He took a pride in his appearance most men didn’t bother with once they’d married but Ronan’s wife worked at Media City, was surrounded by suave news readers and weathermen, it didn’t pay to become complacent.

  As he drew level his radio crackled into life with a message from the control room: ‘There’s a man jumping over a fence carrying a machete on Canal Street.’

  Ronan tutted before hitting the reply button. ‘Do you have a description?’

  ‘He’s carrying a machete, Ronan,’ Coupland cut in. ‘What more do you want?’

  Ronan rolled his eyes to imply Coupland didn’t know the half of it. ‘This is my fourth machete shout this shift, Sarge,’ he said, stomping back to his bike, thoughts of a butty up in smoke. ‘A thug on a bike kicking off in all different parts of the city, it isn’t the same person, I’m telling you.’

  Coupland looked at him. It wasn’t unusual for scrotes to use pedal bikes instead of cars to commit serious crimes. It meant there were no registration plates to be picked up by ANPR cameras. Plus, a bike meant they could go off road if police vehicles came in pursuit. Coupland sighed out a lungful of smoke. ‘Send your report over to me when you’ve finished the shout,’ he called down as Ronan clambered back on his bike, a thought taking shape in his head. Battered arsonists and thugs with machetes. The incidents might be happening in different parts of the city and carried out by several people, but with everything that had gone on in the last three days it could only be one man pulling their strings.

  *

  ‘Are you DS Coupland?’ A young woman held a mobile phone towards him as she moved in his direction.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I asked at the desk and the officer said you’d be out here.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Coupland said, though more to himself, already working out she was one of the journalists who’d attended the press appeal for James McMahon’s killer.

  ‘Is it true Kieran Tunny’s sister was one of the victims of the fire at the weekend?’

  Close up she was older than she looked, tattooed on eyebrows and lash extensions made her resemble a Russian prostitute. A highly surprised one at that. ‘All press enquiries should be forwarded to our media department.’ Coupland quoted the standard phrase that had been drilled into them following a spate of officers being caught off guard by local journalists.

  ‘I know that, I’ve just spent the last hour with them.’ The reporter sounded tired, as though it had already been a long day but she had to go through the motions. ‘But our readers like to hear what’s going on from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

  Coupland studied her. ‘Do they now? And which arse wipe of a rag have you crawled out from, dare I ask?’

  If she was startled by his reply the tattooed eyebrows gave nothing away, instead she fished in a pocket and held up a business card. ‘I work for an on-line paper; our articles are updated hourly and we encourage readers to send in their own news.’

  Coupland bent down to take the card from her, curiosity getting the better of him. Angelica Heyworth. He stiffened, recognising the reporter’s name and the logo on her card. An image of Austin ‘Reedsy’ Smith with his broken nose. Of Johnny Metcalfe running naked into a corner shop. ‘Wow, I can see I’m in the presence of a true professional,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how long did you have to train to do your job? A week of Ladybird How to books or did the Dummies Guide do the trick, then you were off, bad-mouthing cops and sympathising with traffickers like you’d been doing it for years?’

  A smile tugged at thin lips. ‘Ah, I was wondering whether you’d read it.’ Her eyes lit up, already formulating her next story.

  ‘Is anything you write remotely connected to the truth?’ he asked. ‘I mean, come on,’ he took in the polyester coat pulled in too tight at the waist, the clunky platform boots scuffed at the heel, ‘you’re more Angela than Angelica, love, who are you trying to kid?’

  Angelica bristled, tugging at the belt on her thin coat. ‘At least I don’t go round punching people.’

  Coupland looked up at the sky. ‘It would help if you got your facts right for a start. I didn’t punch him, it was a head butt!’ he spat, seeing, too late, the recording light glowing red on her phone. He rolled his eyes in frustration, ‘For Christ’s sake, is that all your job is about?’ he snapped as she tapped something into her phone before dropping it into a faux leather shoulder bag. ‘Make you proud, does it? Tripping folk up till you get the story you want!’ he called after her but she was already walking away.

  *

  ‘When’s the boss back from his course?’ Alex asked Coupland as he returned to his desk.

  ‘Seminar,’ he corrected her. ‘Any time now. Got a text from him earlier to say he was just leaving Knutsford Services.’

  ‘So, what was the seminar about?’

  ‘Sharing best practice.’

  ‘Christ, and Superintendent Curtis didn’t get an invite?’

  ‘He sent the DCI in his place. Apparently delegates were being put up in a Travelodge.’

  A ping in Coupland’s inbox signified an email. As promised Ronan had sent him a copy of his report. Machete wielding youths had been spotted running out of a dry cleaners on Bolton Street, a hairdressers on Broughton Lane and marauding across an allotment off Mossfield Road. Dressed in dark clothing, the men were described as white, mid-twenties, faces partially obscured by scarves pulled up over their noses. Victims were shaken but otherwise unhurt. None wanted to give a statement. All started off trying to deny anything had taken place at all. The calls had been made by concerned neighbours who now all suffered from amnesia. Coupland wasn’t surprised, it was easier that way than saying something that might come back to bite them further down the line. The manager of the dry cleaning firm insisted there had been no disturbance at all until Ronan pointed out a machete blade embedded in the wall.

  ‘Forget Tunny hedging his bets,’ Coupland called over to Alex, as he cross checked the victims’ names against Turnbull’s report. ‘He’s conducting his version of house to house enquiries.’ He forwarded the email to her. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Alex’s eyes widened as she read the list of names. ‘These are all folk who supply goods and services to Cedar Falls. Where’s Tunny getting his infor
mation?’

  ‘Think we can take a guess at that, don’t you?’

  ‘Time for that briefing?’ DCI Mallender popped his head around the CID room door, indicating with his hand that Coupland follow him to his office. Coupland obliged, eyebrows raised at Alex as he passed by her desk.

  ‘Good luck,’ she mouthed, referring to the pointless request Coupland would make for the team’s overtime to deal with the spike in assaults following Catherine Fry’s murder. Pointless because it would never be granted. The mantra from on high was that each station had to do more, with less. Alex knew that Coupland would do right by his team; she also knew that no officer would do any less than was expected to get the job done. The problem was that the powers that be knew this too.

  Coupland brought DCI Mallender up to speed with the investigation. There’d been no time for preamble, no making small talk or enquiring how the seminar had gone. They were both still standing in Mallender’s office, the DCI had placed his jacket over the back of his chair and on seeing the post piled up on his in tray had moved round to the front of his desk to perch on the edge, as though by keeping it out of sight he could concentrate that little bit harder on the news Coupland was imparting.

  ‘So Tunny’s sister is one of the victims?’ he winced, hands automatically going to his hair as though he was about to pull out a clump of it. ‘That’s all we need.’

  Coupland made a sound like a toy gun popping. ‘You’ve not heard the half of it yet.’

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t,’ Mallender grumbled. ‘Did you deliver the death message yourself?’

  ‘I wasn’t delegating that one.’

  ‘How’s he taken it?’

  ‘We’ve got machete wielding henchmen rampaging through the city; I’ll leave you to work it out for yourself.’

  ‘Great.’

  Coupland shifted under his gaze. ‘Three arsonists we’ve questioned have ended up in A&E.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you I hope?’