by Bill Rogers
‘Joanna!’ Rico exclaimed. ‘What a delight to see you.’
‘You too, Rico,’ she said. ‘But this isn’t a social call.’
‘Well, it’s also too soon for a trim,’ he said. ‘I’m intrigued.’
Andy nodded.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Come, sit down and tell me,’ said Rico, pointing to the couches in the salon waiting area.
‘Somewhere private?’ said Jo.
He led them through the salon to one of the rooms at the rear. There was a couch, a single hairdressing chair, and a mirror surrounded by gold LED lights.
‘This is where I work my magic on those clients who value their privacy,’ he said. ‘The TV stars, the models, the WAGs.’
‘Wags?’ said Andy.
Rico raised his eyebrows for studied effect.
‘Wives and girlfriends of Premiership footballer players. I thought everyone knew that.’
‘Mr Swift moves on higher planes,’ Jo explained. ‘I deal with the mundane. For example, what happens to the hair you are left with at the end of the day, Rico? All of the tresses you cut, and the locks and split ends that I see Trenton sweeping up.’
Rico gestured dramatically with his hands like the conductor of an orchestra.
‘I am disappointed! This is what you came to find out? Recycling? Really?’
‘Really, Rico. It’s important.’
He shrugged. ‘Very well. In which case I can tell you that’s all very simple. My apprentices collect the longer lengths of hair and place them in one receptacle. The sweepings from the floor they place in another. Three times a week a specialist waste disposal firm comes to collect them, and to replace the containers. I can show you if you would like.’
‘I would like,’ said Jo.
The four-foot-high rectangular containers were made of recycled cardboard. Jo recognised them as identical to those which the young man had dropped when they collided in the doorway as she was leaving three weeks ago.
‘The small stuff they incinerate I think,’ said Rico. ‘The long hair is quite valuable. Some of it comes back to us in the form of wigs, and hair extensions. Foil, and plastic containers go in separate boxes. Why do you need to know all this, Joanna?’
Jo ignored the question. ‘Could I have the name and address of the waste disposal firm?’ she asked.
Chapter 68
Barnaby’s Salon Waste Disposal Management sat in the middle of an industrial estate in Patricroft, just off the A57 Liverpool Road. The owner, Jason Barnaby, exuding self-made man, was eager to help.
‘National Crime Agency,’ Barnaby said. ‘Never met any of you lot before. Not surprised though. It’s the scrap metal guys in waste disposal you need to take a good look at.’
‘Actually it’s your specialism we’re most interested in,’ Jo told him. ‘Salon waste collection and recycling. Do you cover many salons in the area?’
‘Most!’ he said. ‘Not many, most. Two hundred and sixty in Manchester and Salford alone. I found a niche, made it my own, and fashioned an empire. We’re a cut above the rest. You could say we’re the crowning glory of salon recycling.’
Jo smiled politely at the onslaught of clichés.
‘Is it a family firm?’
‘If you count just me and the wife.’
‘Can you tell us how it works exactly?’
Barnaby smiled broadly. ‘D’you want the two-hour tour or the two-second tweet?’
‘Is there something in between? A two-minute summary, for example?’
‘That’s the foot-in-the-door sales blurb. Goes like this. Confused by EEC recycling regulations? Worn down by snap council inspections? Desperate to avoid hefty fines? Then look no further! Barnaby’s Salon Waste Disposal Management is the only company dedicated solely to your needs. We provide a bespoke collection and disposal service, fully compliant with current legislation, offering competitive rates, with discounts given for quality waste. We provide attractive waste boxes, regular collections determined by you, the client, a seven-day-a-week service, and a fortnight’s free trial period. When would you like us to start?’
‘Very impressive, Mr Barnaby,’ said Jo. ‘What exactly is quality waste?’
‘Ah, that’s waste for which there is a ready and lucrative market. Even after giving discounts, we earn as much, if not more, from selling on quality waste products as we do from charging for collection and disposal of the rest.’
‘Can you give us some examples please?’
Barnaby was clearly enjoying his captive audience. ‘The non-human stuff, like the silver foil, and the plastic product containers are boxed separately. Those are sorted, graded, and sent on to the council recycling centres. Most of the hair swept from the floors is incinerated. Although depending on the level of demand it may be sent off for use as organic fertilizer or to make into mats used to help mop up oil spills at sea.’
‘The affinity of human hair to oil is amazing,’ explained Andy. ‘It just sucks oil up like a magnet does iron filings.’
‘Exactly,’ said Barnaby approvingly. ‘The long tresses and locks are collected separately by the salons, and we sell them on to companies that manufacture hair extensions, wigs, moustaches, eyelashes, and beards for theatrical and fashion make-up.’
Jo and Andy glanced at each other. Jo’s heart sank. That had just added another layer of potential sources for the unsub.
‘I would be very grateful if you could let me have a list of those companies, Mr Barnaby,’ she said.
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Of course.’
‘How many employees do you have?’
‘Nine. Three clerical staff in the office. Five here on the shop floor. And three lads who do the collections and deliveries. My wife does the admin. Strictly speaking, she’s a fellow director, not an employee.’
‘You’ve been immensely helpful, Mr Barnaby,’ said Jo. ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for just one more thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘A list of the names and addresses of your employees.’
Barnaby’s face clouded over. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘You never mentioned anything about any of my staff being part of whatever it is you’re investigating.’
‘That’s because we don’t have any reason to suspect they are,’ she said. ‘But it would be so helpful if we could have those details, and have a word with each of them. Just so we can eliminate them from our enquiries.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘What is it you’re investigating exactly?’ he said.
‘It’s a murder investigation, Mr Barnaby,’ she said. ‘A multiple-murder investigation.’
For a moment she feared he was going to force her to seek a warrant for those details. Then he sighed, and she knew he had relented.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘You’d best come up to the office.’
They followed him up the metal staircase on to the mezzanine. Jo paused at the top to look down at the scene below. Two men were unloading boxes holding salon waste from the back of a transit van. A second van swung into the hangar-like space with a squeal of tyres before coming to a halt. Barnaby stopped and cursed under his breath.
‘I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve told him about that,’ he said.
The driver’s door opened and the driver climbed out.
‘Beck!’ Barnaby shouted. ‘Get up here! Now!’
The young man looked up.
A cold hand wrapped itself around Jo’s heart. She placed a hand on Andy’s arm.
‘Mid-twenties. Five foot seven tall. Athletic build,’ she whispered. ‘Curly black hair.’ She had a nagging feeling she had seen him somewhere before. It was the hair.
The young man appeared to do a double take. Then he turned on his heel, and disappeared around the front of the van.
‘Stay here, Andy,’ Jo shouted over her shoulder. ‘Get his name and address, and text it to me. Then let Gordon know what’s going on. Ask him to divert India 99 in case we n
eed them.’
The other employees stopped to watch as she sprinted across the factory floor, and out on to the forecourt.
The driver was sixty yards away, out of the saddle of a mountain bike, pedalling like an Olympic champion.
‘Beck!’ she yelled. ‘Stop! Police!’
By the time the echoes had faded on the wind, he had disappeared around the corner of a building, and was gone.
Chapter 69
‘His name is Beck, Bryan Beck,’ said Barnaby, handing Jo a human resources file. ‘Lives with his father. Calls himself Bomber Beck. God knows why. He’s worked here for three years. Never given me any reason to sack him, although he can be a pain at times.’
‘In what way?’
‘He stands right up close. In your face. Flies off the handle at the slightest provocation, then before you’ve had a chance to have a go at him he’s all nice as pie again and apologetic. His co-workers reckon he thinks he’s a cut above them. He’s always bragging, telling tall tales. He likes to do things his way rather than how he’s supposed to do them. And his record-keeping is erratic.’
‘In what way?’
‘The salons sign off the number of boxes collected and delivered. Only sometimes the number on the sheet hasn’t tallied with the number he checked in when he got back here.’
‘What did he say when you tackled him about it?’
‘That the salon owner got it wrong. He was sorry – he should have checked.’
‘Does that happen with any of your other delivery staff?’
‘Now and then. What is it they say? To err is human? But I’m talking once or twice a year. Not like Beck. I was wondering at one point if he was ripping us off. Selling quality waste direct to some of our customers.’
‘How do you know he wasn’t?’
‘I checked. There’s only a few local ones, and he doesn’t have a car. They all assured me they hadn’t been approached, and I believed them.’
‘He doesn’t have a car?’
‘He said he didn’t own one, and I’ve never seen him in one. Always comes on that bloody bike.’
‘Why bloody?’ said Andy Swift.
‘Because in his lunch breaks he does tricks in the yard. Showing off.’
‘Tricks?’
‘Bunny hops, wheelies, nollies, spin turns. Jumping over crates and stacks of pallets. Thinks he’s bloody Evel Knievel.’
Jo held up her tablet. ‘I’d like your permission to take a photo of the front page of his file so we have his photo and address.’
When she finished, she handed him her card. ‘If he comes back, Mr Barnaby, don’t tell him why we were here. Make up a story about break-ins at neighbouring premises if you have to. Then ring me or text me straight away.’
‘I’m sorry about the helicopter,’ said Andy as they made their way back down the stairway. ‘As soon as the scene was secure, the North West National Police Air Service control centre diverted it to look for a vulnerable missing person in Derbyshire.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ she said. ‘It’s him though, isn’t it?’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘Barnaby’s description could have been straight out of the manual. Invading personal space, emotionally erratic, haughty and braggadocious, inclined to risk-taking. That’s five out of the top-ten signs of a psychopathic personality. Even so, do you know how many people there are out there who are like that?’
‘A lot,’ she replied. ‘But only one who collects human hair from salons, and does a runner when he sees police officers. I’d like you to head to Central Park and tell DCI Holmes what we’ve learned from Barnaby.’
‘What are you going to do, Jo?’
‘Go to his home address. I need Gordon to apply for a warrant and send a search team to me there. If Beck is there, I’ll arrest him and do a Section 18 search without a warrant. If he’s not, I’ll try to persuade his father to let us search. Either way we can’t give Beck the chance to destroy evidence.’
‘Be careful, Jo,’ said Andy. ‘You might want to do a risk assessment before you step foot inside that house.’
She stopped walking and stared at him.
‘I already have. Does he pose a threat? Yes. To vulnerable women in the dark at night. Does he carry weapons? Yes. A pair of scissors and a garrotte composed of human hair. Does he scare me? No.’
Andy raised his eyebrows.
‘I was thinking of his nickname.’
‘Nickname?’
‘Bomber,’ he said. ‘You might want to call the bomb squad.’
Chapter 70
Beck’s address was a 1980s townhouse off Fog Lane, where Burnage morphed into upmarket Didsbury. A stone’s throw from Sifters Records emporium, immortalised by Oasis’s Noel Gallagher in Shakermaker. Jo parked up in a neighbouring street of terraced back-to-backs.
The doorbell was answered on the third ring. A man in his mid-fifties, Jo guessed, going on seventy. A frayed cardigan over a grubby washed-out white shirt. Baggy grey trousers. Worn slippers of indeterminate colour. His nose broken, and not reset. Several days’ growth of beard. The cloudy eyes and stale breath of an alcoholic.
‘Mr Beck?’ she said.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s asking?’
She held up her ID.
‘Police.’
‘He doesn’t live here any more,’ he muttered.
‘Who?’
‘Bryan. My son.’
The way he said the word son made it sound like a piece of excrement on the sole of his shoes.
‘What made you think it was Bryan I was enquiring about?’
‘Because it usually is. Or should I say, used to be.’
‘Do you mind if I come in, Mr Beck?’ she said.
He opened the door, and backed off down the hall. ‘Close it after you.’ He disappeared through a door on the right.
She followed him into a cluttered through-lounge cum diner with patio doors that looked out on to a small overgrown garden. The television was on. She recognised the programme as Escape to the Country. His son wasn’t the only one living in fantasy land.
‘Did he often get himself into a lot of trouble, Mr Beck?’ she asked.
‘His mother spoiled him rotten. If he didn’t get what he wanted, he’d just take it.’
‘Stealing?’
‘Thieving more like.’
Jo wasn’t sure of the distinction.
‘Such as?’
‘Sweets when he was little. Then records and such. And books.’ He paused and rubbed his hand through the stubble on his cheek. ‘Stuff from other people’s washing lines when he was in his teens.’
‘Women’s clothing?’
‘Bras and panties. Dirty little bugger.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Like I said, he doesn’t live here.’
‘Why did he leave?’
He sniffed, and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his cardigan.
‘We don’t get on. Especially since his mother died.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because she was the only reason he stayed.’
‘How did your wife die, Mr Beck?’
‘Cancer. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Not your fault, nor mine. Though that’s not what Bryan reckoned.’
‘What do you mean by that, Mr Beck?’
‘He reckoned the way I was with her helped bring it on.’ He spat the words out. ‘Stupid bastard!’
‘The way you were with her?’
Mr Beck glared at Jo.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Mr Beck said. ‘But I never touched her. Not once.’ He scowled. ‘Not that I didn’t have cause.’
‘For example?’
His face darkened. ‘What difference does it make? She’s been dead three years.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Jo said, ‘but please bear with me. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about Bryan’s upbr
inging.’
‘What are you saying? That whatever it is he’s done is down to me?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Good. Because I had bugger all to do with it. Whenever I put my foot down, she’d take his side. Whatever I said, she contradicted. That’s why we parted ways. That’s what he meant about the way I was with her.’
It felt to Jo as though he was speaking in riddles, but she had a feeling it would be worth persevering a little longer.
‘Parted ways?’ she said. ‘She left home?’
‘May as well have done. After he was born, she went through a bad patch. She bonded with him alright but went right off me. I spent more time in the gym, down the pub, and with the snooker team. She wanted the good life. I couldn’t give her that on what I was making, so she started going out late at night with them who could.’
‘Other men?’ she guessed.
Mr Beck kicked a leg of the coffee table. ‘What do you think?’
From the drop in his voice and the way his shoulders slouched, she had a sense of what that must have done to him. The big man in the gym cuckolded by his wife. To all intents and purposes neutered.
‘Why did you stay with her?’ she asked.
Mr Beck shrugged. ‘You just do, don’t you?’
She had no reply to that. In the silence that followed she realised how cold the room was, how empty the house felt.
‘When did you last see Bryan?’ she asked.
‘Last Thursday. He calls every other week or so to see if there’s any mail for him. It’s usually the odd parcel or two. I reckon he only calls when he knows he’s expecting one. Never stays. Doesn’t even cross the threshold. Just grabs whatever it is, and beggars off.’
‘Do you have any mail for him?’
‘No.’
‘Have you any idea where he might be staying?’
‘No. He never tells me anything.’
‘Does your son keep any of his things here?’
He shook his head. ‘When he left, he took everything with him. There were boxes of books. Weird stuff.’
‘In what way weird?’
‘You name it, he collected it. He had shelves full of Shakespeare, and that true crime rubbish. I blame his mother. They were always reading to each other when he should have been out there kicking a ball around with his mates.’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘What was left was rubbish. I threw it all in the bin.’
