by Chris Simms
Marlow swivelled in his seat, punched a password into his computer and activated a drop-down menu. ‘Sorry. This is hardly your run-of-the-mill event. It just didn’t occur to me.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jon murmured, rolling his eyes at Rick.
‘What’s the date on Tsarev’s file?’ Marlow asked.
Rick leaned across and closed it so he could see the cover.
‘Eighteenth of August.’
Marlow tapped on a few keys and the screen filled with names. ‘We processed over two hundred and seventy that day,’ he whispered at the screen. ‘Easy to forget details. Now, sort by nationality. Russia. Here we go.’ His voice became louder.
‘Two more. Andriy Bal and Vladimir Yashin.’
Rick raised an eyebrow. ‘Ten quid says they’re made-up names.’
Marlow got to his feet and called across the room. ‘Stewart, you picked up a case on the eighteenth. Reference number . . .’ He flexed his knees to examine the screen. ‘B8471872. The B stands for Bal.’
A man of about thirty looked up, hair swept forward as if he’d been sticking his head under a hand-drier. ‘And?’
‘Could we have the file, please? It’s urgent.’
The man started sorting through the pile on his desk.
‘What about the fourth one?’ Rick asked.
Marlow bent down to regard his screen once again. He straightened back up and surveyed the room. ‘Is Jim Price in today?’
‘Manchester,’ someone called back. ‘Substantive interviews at Dallas Court.’
Marlow turned to Rick and Jon. ‘That’s where the file will be. I’ll bring up the copy stored on the system.’ He sat back down, pressed a couple of buttons, frowned, then pressed them again.
‘Has anybody else’s computer . . .’
A chorus of groans started to ripple across the room. Heads starting going up.
Marlow looked over to the young woman in the corner.
‘Natalie?’
‘I’m phoning them now,’ she called back.
Marlow sat back down, palms slapping against the tops of his thighs. ‘Every time the system crashes we have to ring a bloody IT company down in London. I think the government would contract out the supply of air in this place, if they could.’
The young inspector walked over, holding Bal’s file before him like it was a drinks tray. ‘Sir ordered a White Russian?’
‘I could bloody do with one,’ Marlow muttered, taking it from the man’s hands and opening the cover. ‘Let’s see – he had his first reporting event already. Substantive interview scheduled for this Thursday.’ He glanced up. ‘What were your thoughts, Stewart?’
The man thrust both hands into his pockets. ‘His story wasn’t checking out.’
‘No surprise there. On what grounds was he claiming—’
Jon cut in. ‘Sorry – let’s worry about that later. What I need to know is where the man is now.’
‘Of course.’ Marlow’s face reddened and he bowed over the file once again. ‘Not far away, as it happens. Runcorn.’
Runcorn? Jon pictured the succession of roundabouts connecting an industrial landscape. ‘I didn’t think anyone actually lived there.’
‘Well, the Home Office has found some housing stock somewhere in the area,’ Marlow replied, extending the file towards Jon.
‘Where is Runcorn?’ Rick asked.
‘Next to Widnes,’ Jon replied, writing the address down. ‘Top of the Mersey estuary.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Rick asked, hands on knees in readiness to stand. ‘Call for local support?’
Jon glanced to the windows. ‘We could be there in the time they take to respond. Let’s go for it.’
They both stood and Jon gestured at the door. ‘Can we get out without a pass?’
‘No,’ Marlow replied. ‘I’ll have to escort you down.’
Rick flicked a business card onto Marlow’s desk. ‘My mobile’s on that. Can you call your colleague with the other file? We’ll need that fourth Russian’s address as quick as possible.’
Jon and Rick sped along the A561, the Mersey glinting away on their right-hand side. The road took them inland, skirting round Liverpool John Lennon.
Jon stared for a moment at a huge sign for the airport. ‘Wish they’d get over The Beatles.’
Rick frowned. ‘World’s most famous band.’
Jon pushed his bottom lip up. ‘You reckon? Overrated, if you ask me. Scousers? They just cling to the past.’
‘Surely you’re not knocking them for celebrating the fact The Beatles came from Liverpool?’
‘Do you get roads in Manchester named after Oasis?’ Jon responded, provocatively. ‘Joy Division? The Smiths? Happy Mondays? Stone Roses? Doves? Elbow? Those Scousers have even preserved that cellar where The Beatles used to play. Turned into some sort of shrine. Or grotto. Go down there and you’ll find groups of fat fifty-year-olds who start blubbing every time “She Loves Me” gets played on the jukebox. Pathetic. Time they moved on.’
Rick shook his head. ‘What is it with this antagonism? Two great cities, almost touching. Football teams, rugby teams, amazing music. You lot should be proud.’
Realising Rick hadn’t detected the note of sarcasm in his voice, Jon fought back a smirk. But he knew plenty of people – Mancunians and Liverpudlians alike – whose main reason for living was based on a hatred for the other city. Which was ironic, he reflected, because they were precisely the people who would mourn most if the other city were to somehow ever vanish.
The road started to rise up, the pale green girders of the Runcorn Bridge rearing above them like the struts of a roller-coaster ride. As they crossed the Manchester Ship Canal where it emptied into the Mersey estuary, he glanced down at the dirty-looking water. ‘Why do Manchester’s toilets have such a strong flush?’
Rick sighed. ‘Do tell me.’
‘It’s a long way to Liverpool.’
His partner managed a resigned smile.
Jon grinned, amused at how his partner just didn’t get the rivalry between the two cities. ‘Right, Marlow said to continue to the big roundabout and take the turn-off for Weston Point.’ He nodded at the sprawl of chimneys, storage tanks and industrial buildings away to their right. ‘That bloody huge eyesore, over there.’
The roundabout’s curve took them almost back on themselves before a slip road allowed them onto a dual carriageway which led towards the massive chemical works. ‘OK, take the first turning and then look for some sort of apartment building set off the main road.’
A minute later, a seventies-style block of flats came into view. ‘Stanhope Road,’ Rick said, pointing to the sign partially obscured by weeds springing up out of the heavily cracked pavement. ‘This is it.’
Jon turned right and the road led them into the vast parking area which surrounded the building. Four cars were grouped near the main entrance. He looked across the empty ocean of asphalt to a row of five pine trees on the car park’s far side. ‘No cars. How the hell do the poor bastards get about?’
‘Bus, by the looks of it.’ Rick pointed to a shelter further down the road. Over a dozen people were huddled in its shade. Those who couldn’t fit in were sitting on the kerb, staring across at their vehicle.
‘Grim,’ Jon said, pulling up beside a Mini Metro with a rear panel that was crumpled and scratched. He got out of the car and immediately felt the sun beating down on his head. The shower which caught us in Liverpool must have passed this way too, he thought, looking at the rapidly diminishing remains of a puddle near the Metro’s rear wheels. In its middle, the body of a pale and bloated worm bowed slowly back and forth. ‘Come on, then. Flat forty-six.’
The lobby of the building was cool and gloomily lit. Jon squinted at the sheet of A4 paper stuck to the lift. ‘An engineer has been notified. Looks like that’s been stuck there for weeks.’ They started up the stairs and had reached the first-floor landing when the sound of quickly approaching footsteps caused Jon to slow.
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A man with closely cropped hair and wearing a black turtleneck top was bouncing down the steps towards them. Their eyes connected for a moment and his expression caused Jon to step aside. Once they’d reached the next flight, he looked back at Rick. ‘Wouldn’t like to bump into him at night in a dark alley.’
Rick peered down the stairwell. ‘Didn’t notice him.’
‘Scary. Looked like someone had just given him some seriously bad news.’ They continued up to the fourth floor and Jon pushed through the door into the corridor. The flat directly in front had the number forty on its door. ‘Must be just along here,’ Jon murmured, looking to his left and then flaring his nostrils.
‘Can you smell . . .?’
Rick nodded. ‘Definitely.’
Jon saw a door was slightly ajar further down the corridor and he hurried towards it, the aroma growing stronger with every step. Flat forty-six. Using his elbow, he pushed the door inwards, immediately spotting a man sitting on the sofa. His head was tilted back to expose a yawning throat wound.
Jon retreated a step and turned to Rick. ‘There’s a body in there,’ he hissed.
Rick peered round Jon into the flat. ‘Christ. What do we do?’
Jon thought for a second. ‘I’ll lead. Keep your eyes on the doorways leading off from this room. Any movement, shout.’
Cautiously, he pushed the door fully open, and dipping his head, quickly glanced behind it. Clear. ‘That guy’s only just died,’ he whispered, edging a step further into the flat and quickly checking the tiny bedroom and bathroom. The place was empty. Suddenly, a shrill noise rang out and Jon almost leapt up in the air.
Rick fumbled for his phone. ‘DS Saville.’ There was a slight tremble in his voice. ‘Oh. Yes, Marlow mentioned you have a file – sorry? Right, that would be great, cheers.’ He snapped his phone closed, unable to peel his eyes from the corpse. ‘That was Jim Price. Marlow’s colleague doing the interviews in Manchester.’
‘Yeah? Well, he almost gave me a bloody heart attack,’ Jon murmured, stepping lightly over to the galley kitchen and glancing in again. ‘What did he want?’
‘The fourth Russian, Vladimir Yashin. He failed to show up to his substantive interview. Price sent someone from Enforcement and Compliance to check his address. No sign of the bloke.’ His phone pinged. ‘This’ll be his mugshot. The system’s back up so Price said he was sending it.’
Jon was now examining the bedroom. Sheets were in a frozen cascade over the end of the single bed and a pillow was crumpled against the flimsy-looking headboard. He turned back to study the body. The man’s eyes were actually still moist. There was surprise and dismay on his face. Jon extended a finger and held it to a blood-free patch of skin behind one ear. Minutes, Jon thought. He was killed minutes ago.
‘Someone’s been hitting this guy with the ugly stick,’ Rick said in a muted voice.
Jon glanced over and Rick turned the phone so its screen was visible. He felt his eyes widen. ‘The stairs! We just passed him on the stairs!’ He bolted back out of the flat, sprinted down the corridor and starting bounding down them, left shoulder bouncing off the wall as he reached each landing. Seconds later, he got to the lobby and raced outside. Bright sunlight hit him and he cupped a hand over his brow, eyes sweeping the car park. No movement except the shimmer of heat rising from the tarmac.
‘The bus stop,’ Rick breathlessly announced behind him. They jogged over. ‘Hello, anyone speak English?’
The people regarded them in silence.
‘We’re police,’ Jon said, holding his warrant card up. Shoulders suddenly hunched and faces looked down. ‘Does anyone speak English?’
An elderly man with leathery skin got up from the kerb, the hook of his nose casting a shadow across his lips. ‘I speak English.’
Jon gestured at the tower block. ‘A man. Black top, short brown hair. Tanned. He came out of that building just now. Did you see him?’
The person frowned then spoke rapidly in Arabic to the watching group. A woman with a beige headscarf nodded, hand fluttering as she spoke. Her fingers looked like they were shooing off an insect.
The elderly man looked back at Jon. ‘She says the man drove off. His car was red. The one next to yours.’
Jon looked across at his dark blue Mondeo. Next to it was a partial tyre track where the Mini Metro with the dented rear had reversed through the puddle. Like a row of dark hyphens, the damp imprints led across the car park, fading to nothing well before the exit.
Thirteen
The sun had just started to sink behind the row of five pine trees. Jon eyed their finger-like shadows creeping across the car park with suspicion, as if they were readying themselves to snatch the building and its crime scene away.
‘Oh, and I brought you these.’
He turned to Marlow, thinking it was somehow strange to see the man outside of Reliance House.
The inspector fished two cans of Vimto from his shoulder bag.
‘You Mancunians love this stuff, don’t you? They’re quite cold. I was told there are no shops anywhere near this place.’
Reaching out a hand, Jon took one and popped the tab. ‘Cheers. And thanks for taking the trouble to bring us Yashin’s file.’
‘No problem. It’s nice to get out of the office.’
As Marlow handed the other can to Rick, a van trundled into view, coming to a stop outside the front of the building. Jon watched as a uniformed officer hopped out and opened the rear doors, releasing the group who’d been waiting at the bus shelter. Earlier, they’d been taken away to give statements at a Liverpool police station.
The elderly man he’d spoken to earlier approached, the baggy folds of his pale cotton trousers flaring with each step. ‘I am concerned,’ he announced. ‘We all are. Our interviews were earlier this afternoon and we missed them. The police officers were not interested, but our asylum claims can be rejected because of this.’
Jon turned to Marlow. ‘Can you sort that out for them?’
Marlow sighed then removed a notepad from his bag. ‘Let me have all your ARC cards,’ he said to the elderly man. ‘I’ll note your reference numbers down and contact your case owners to explain.’
‘And our claims will not suffer?’
‘They won’t suffer,’ Marlow replied wearily.
The man started relaying the information to group. Jon continued watching the old man. He had a certain air of authority about him. ‘Could I ask,’ he said, continuing to address him with exaggerated slowness. ‘What were you back home?’
The man drew in breath. ‘I was head of the economics department at An-Najah University, Palestine.’
Christ, thought Jon. And there’s me talking to you like you’re thick. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’
He turned to his car, where Rick was sitting with the file on Vladimir Yashin that Marlow had just delivered. Jon’s eyes lingered on the man’s mugshot. Same guy as they’d passed on the stairs, absolutely no doubt about it. He looked off to the side, eyes snagging on the remains of the worm near his vehicle. The Metro must have reversed over it when Yashin had driven away. The sun had then dried the creature out, so the body now resembled a mangled rubber band.
So close, Jon cursed. So bloody close to catching him. ‘Anything of use?’
Rick raised one shoulder then let it drop. ‘Not really. He was destitute, like the three victims. And, according to Jim Price’s notes, none of the information initially given checked out. All we’ve got is the photo and his fingerprints.’
Jon finished off his drink, placed the can on the roof of his car and looked wistfully at the block of flats. A white crime-scene van was parked by the entrance, along with two marked police cars. Despite an immediate call, no patrol had spotted the Metro on nearby roads. ‘I don’t suppose forensics will find much. Not if the other two crime scenes are anything to go by.’
‘No. Probably the same story for Yashin’s flat, too.’
‘Where was he being housed?’
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sp; ‘Cheetham Hill. Buchanon sent a team over to check his accommodation.’
‘Who?’
‘Gardiner and Murray.’
Jon nodded. The two detectives were also part of Buchanon’s syndicate and both had years of experience handling crime scenes.
‘I still want to have a look at it myself.’
‘I never doubted anything different.’
A silver Passat pulled into the car park and Jon straightened up. ‘Speak of the devil. Buchanon’s here.’ The vehicle eased to a stop beside them and Jon watched as their senior officer climbed out and self-consciously passed a hand over the tight crimps in his light brown hair. Why, Jon thought, do you bother? A hammer and chisel couldn’t make an impression on your barnet.
‘Afternoon, boss.’
Their eyes met for a moment, then Buchanon flexed his knees. ‘Hello, Jon. Bit of a trek getting here.’
Jon caught Buchanon’s odd expression and was trying to make sense of it as his senior officer glanced about. ‘Strange place for a block of flats.’
Rick spoke up. ‘It used to house workers for one of the industrial plants by the estuary. Long since closed down.’
‘Hello, Rick,’ Buchanon replied, a patch of sunlight catching in his hair as he regarded the building. ‘Same MO as the other two, then?’
‘Identical,’ Jon replied. ‘A length of wire or something similar looped round the neck from behind. Considerable force causing a laceration right through the cartilage.’
‘I can’t believe you actually passed him on the stairs.’
Jon felt the corners of his mouth curl down. ‘I know. I’m gutted.’
‘But you got a decent enough look at him?’
‘Yes. No doubt it was the man using the name Vladimir Yashin. Short brown hair, wiry build, five ten or so. He looked like he’d just killed someone, too. Didn’t I say to you, Rick? He had this look in his eyes. It made me step out of his way.’
Buchanon held a hand towards the group gathered around Marlow. ‘Witnesses?’
‘Well, they spotted our man leaving the building and driving off in a red Mini Metro.’
