DARK TRADE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Helen H. Durrant

  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 studied 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 h
undred 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.”

  “That wasn’t just cheeky, it was damn rude.” Speedy fashioned an arrow out of a leaflet and chucked it at her. He ran his long fingers through his curly hair. “What I lack in looks, is more than made up for by my charm and charisma. I like a good time, and so do the girls I date.”

  A man approached them. “Can I help? I’m Jason Horton, Doctor Rashid’s partner. I was at the Millstone yesterday. It was my event. It was nothing big. As well as a few general surgical procedures we offer a wide range of cosmetic surgery. Since I left the NHS, that’s been my speciality. The event was for potential clients. It’s a very lucrative add-on to the business. A buffet, drinks, plenty of literature to read, and before you know it, the diary is full.”

  Jason Horton had scrubbed up and changed into a dark suit. Speedy put him at about forty. He was tall with classic good looks — a perfect advert for the clinic.

  “Did you see this young man at your event?” Leah showed him the picture of their victim.

  “I don’t recall the face. And I would. Faces are my thing. Goes with the job.” He smiled. “Plus, if you don’t mind me saying, he doesn’t look like our usual clientele.”

  “He wasn’t,” Speedy confirmed. “What about Tony Rouse? What was he after?”

  Horton shook his head. “Again, I can’t help you. I was talking to prospective clients for most of the evening. I wasn’t clocking who was going in and out.”

  “The manager at the Millstone said Rouse was causing trouble. Didn’t that disturb the party?” asked Leah.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Speedy knew Horton’s type. Smooth, a practised liar. It oozed from every pore. “What did you eat?” The blank look on Horton’s face annoyed him. “Surely you remember that!”

  “A light buffet, smoked salmon as I recall. A selection of cheeses, and champagne.”

  “And olives,” Speedy added. “You see, Doctor Horton, this young man was mur
dered last night. In his stomach we found exactly that — your buffet.”

  Horton looked puzzled. “So what are you saying? That I’m responsible for this young man’s death?”

  “No. We’re simply trying to find out who he was,” Leah told him. “We think Rouse was following him. So if we know what he was arguing about, it might help.”

  Horton shook his head. “Wish I could help, but I can’t.”

  Leah smiled at him. “In that case, could I have a list of your guests? We have no choice now but to contact them all. One of them might recall the victim.”

  Horton looked horrified. Speedy was impressed. Leah had played a blinder. The last thing Horton wanted was the police on his prospective clients’ backs.

  “Rouse wants to run a story on us,” he admitted finally. “He is convinced there is something dodgy going on in the world of plastic surgery.” He laughed. “The man’s mad. It’s all nose jobs and facelifts. What does he think we’re up to?”

  “Did you ask him?” Leah asked.

  “Wherever he got his information from, it’s wrong. I told him so. I got annoyed and asked the doorman to throw him out. That’s all there was to it.” He looked at the picture. “As for him, I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You didn’t answer the question, Doctor Horton,” Leah prompted. “What does Rouse think you’re up to?”

  “He’s a hothead. He muscled his way in, upsetting the staff. I’m afraid we never got round to discussing it. Can’t be much anyway. We have an excellent reputation.” He gave them a practised smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Chapter 8

  Grace was studying the incident board. “Rouse was keeping something back. What do you think, sir? It could be he knows something about the Rashid Clinic. Should we get Joel to look at the place a bit closer? Check their accounts? See if Rouse is right. Make sure the doctors haven’t been up to anything dodgy.”

  “It’s a bit flimsy. We have no idea what Rouse has on them, if anything. I think he was spinning us a tale to put us off the scent. Going on about that clinic was a ploy to avoid talking about the victim. It’s the lad we need to focus on.”