DARK TRADE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Helen H. Durrant

  “By my reckoning, we’re here.” Leah Wells ignored his last remark and pulled up outside a large red-brick detached house. “Lives in some style, our villain.”

  “This is a waste of time. We’ll get nothing from him,” Speedy told her.

  “We have to go through the motions. Tanner worked for him. We’ve got to interview Shaw, or it will leave a gap in the investigation.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am. But don’t be surprised if he refuses to talk to us.”

  But much to Speedy’s surprise, Ray ‘Slicer’ Shaw didn’t refuse. He opened the door, knew exactly who they were and invited them in.

  He launched straight in. “What are you doing about the bastard who killed my driver? Streets aren’t safe these days. That estate should be torn down. You lot need to sort the drug dealing that goes on there too.”

  The man had some nerve. He was responsible for most of it! Speedy and Leah followed him into a palatial sitting room. “When did you last see Mr Tanner, sir?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “He wasn’t working for you last night then?”

  “Can’t you add up, copper? I said Tanner worked for me occasionally. When I go out he drives me. These days that’s not very often.” He frowned. “Health issues.”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to shoot Mr Tanner?” asked Leah.

  “If I did, I’d say. I don’t have much time for you lot normally, but Tanner was one of mine. I want whoever took him out catching. The man was gunned down in a public place. Someone must have seen something. That’s your job. Find them and make them pay.”

  Chapter 11

  Speedy and Leah Wells were back in the car.

  “Slicer does have a point,” said Speedy. “The Lansdowne is very public. Our problem is that no one is likely to come forward once they learn that our victim was none other than Slicer’s driver.”

  “Ray Shaw wasn’t like the hype. He came across as a reasonable chap.”

  “It was you who gave us the file,” Speedy reminded her. “You know the truth. Underneath that veneer of respectability, he’s a sadistic killer who harbours grudges. If he finds out that some poor bugger did see the shooting, he’ll beat the crap out of them to get a name. I don’t reckon much to our chances of getting anything after that.”

  “The club he owns, where is it?”

  “Deansgate Locks,” Speedy replied. “But not at this time of day, please! I’ve just negotiated my way around the city centre and it did my head in.”

  “Deansgate Locks is only a stone’s throw away from Spinningfields, where Rouse lives.”

  “We will check it out. But that’s best done at night when the place is open. It would be useful to know if Rouse was known there.” Right now all Speedy wanted was to go back to the nick and get himself a strong mug of coffee. “Can I suggest that we see what forensics turn up first?”

  Leah didn’t appear convinced.

  “I didn’t ask how you got on with Crompton’s wife this morning.” Speedy asked.

  “She was gutted, as you’d expect. She identified the body but couldn’t come up with any reason why anyone would want him dead. And they do know each other, Slicer and our reporter. Before he went, Greco left me a comprehensive report of his findings so far. According to what Rouse’s mother told Greco, they drank together. So Rouse may well have been to that club. Make that visit a priority,” Leah instructed.

  “I bet Rouse only talks to Slicer when he’s after something. I’ll get Joel to look into their background. They are a similar age. Did Crompton’s wife know what her husband was working on?” asked Speedy.

  “She told me that he kept his work to himself. Crompton maintained that the less she knew, the safer she was. She suggested that we look at his notebook, but we didn’t find one.”

  “Good advice from Crompton. Given the killer’s MO I think we can assume he took the notebook along with everything else. We need to find Rouse, or what’s happened to him. Problem is, we don’t know who he’s upset.”

  “Okay, we’ll go back and see what the others have turned up,” Leah agreed.

  Much to Speedy’s relief, she turned towards the Mancunian Way. That would take them to Ashton Old Road and from there it was only a stone’s throw to the station.

  * * *

  “Speedy and I have spoken to Ray Shaw, and Leah spoke to Adam Crompton’s widow. Not that we’re any the wiser. Tony Rouse has disappeared, leaving what looks like a bullet hole on his bathroom wall and a trail of blood. Joel — have you got anything for us from the CCTV?”

  Leah Wells updated the incident board as she waited for Joel to find the snippet of film he wanted to show them. She was frustrated at the lack of solid information. At this rate they would have spent the day going around in circles, and that wouldn’t look good on the report McCabe had asked for.

  “I think this is the same character I picked up outside the car park.” Joel pointed to the computer screen. “This is from the CCTV at the Bull’s Head. See how he keeps to the perimeter, head down, trying to blend into the shadow cast by that tall hedge. The clothing is the same too.”

  “The quality isn’t good. We never get a good look at his face. But it does look like the same person. Has forensics come up with anything?” asked Leah.

  “Doctor Greg Pentland rang. Something about footprints. He wants you to ring him back.”

  Leah Wells disappeared into Greco’s office to use the phone.

  “How tall, d’you reckon?” Speedy asked Joel.

  “Quite tall. You can gauge by the hedge. A few inches short of six foot, I’d say.”

  “Tall, slight, never looks up at the cameras . . .”

  “Deliberate. Knows the cameras are there and doesn’t want to be recognised.”

  “That could mean we might know him.”

  Leah came out of Greco’s office. “Greg Pentland says the footprints were from a long, slim foot — no smaller than size ten.”

  Speedy shrugged. “So our killer has big feet. I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  She nodded. Speedy looked again at the film Joel had on his computer screen. “He’s young. Probably not yet twenty and still growing, if his feet are anything to go by.”

  “Those boys were killed in cold blood. It took skill and nerve.” Leah shook her head. “What are they teaching them at school these days?”

  “It’s not what they learn in school, Leah. It’s what they pick up on the street that’s dangerous. He’s young, but skilled. There was no rough stuff. No one put up a fight. Like we’ve said before, the kid is a shadow. No one notices. He blends, kills and then walks away.”

  Leah was frustrated. This was all conjecture, and McCabe wouldn’t go for it. They had to come up with something better. What they desperately needed was a break. “I’m nipping out for a bit. Anything comes up, I’m on my mobile.”

  “Want company?” asked Speedy.

  “No. Best I keep you lot out of it.”

  Leah took the blue Vauxhall. It was older than the rest and had numerous knocks and scratches. No one would give it a second look, and that was a distinct advantage where she was going. Travelling along Gorton Road, she took the turn onto the Lansdowne. Swinging round the back of Trojan House, she drove for a further half mile. Sprawled out in front of her was one of the largest social housing estates in this part of Manchester. Built in the fifties, it was in desperate need of refurbishment. There wasn’t a patch of green. The space that had once been laid out to grass was now nothing but a huge bare scar in the expanse of concrete. Slap bang in the centre of all this deprivation was a pub — the Grapes. Anyone passing who didn’t know, would think the place was closed. There were bars on every window, and the walls and door were liberally daubed with graffiti. But the Grapes did a brisk trade. It was the haunt of every dealer and crook within a mile of it, and that included the Lansdowne.

  Leah parked the car where she could keep an eye on it. She quickly changed her shoes, swapping her blac
k flatties for a pair of shiny red heels. She swiped lipstick across her mouth, pulled up the collar of her jacket against the wind and made for the entrance.

  The place was basic. The tables and chairs were made of wood and metal and there wasn’t a padded seat or cushion in sight.

  Leah strode across to the bar. She was chewing gum, her hands in her jeans pockets, and she slouched forward. In the few seconds it had taken her to park up and walk to the pub, she’d undergone a complete transformation. Leah reckoned it was all in the stance and the attitude. “Roman in?”

  The barman nodded to a side room. “Busy. They’ve got a game on.”

  “Get him.” Leah picked up the half pint of beer he’d put in front of her. “Go on, he won’t mind. He’s on a promise.”

  The barman leered at her. “What about giving me a bit of what he’s getting?”

  “Fond of your bollocks, are you?”

  He disappeared to return almost immediately, followed by a heavily built man.

  “Come to see good old Uncle Roman, eh? Must want something.” He laughed, and slapped her across her rear end.

  Leah kissed his cheek. “You know me, see a good thing and I can’t keep away.”

  Still laughing, he led her to a table by the window, out of earshot. “Must be serious to bring you to this shithole.”

  “It is. I need something on the Knifeman,” she whispered. “The joker who’s new, and good with a blade. You must have heard.”

  Roman McLaughlin was in his mid-sixties. He was a large, ugly man with a wicked scar running down his right cheek. He had a past, and he’d been inside. Leah didn’t know his real first name. He’d been given the nickname ‘Roman’ because of the shape of his nose. They’d met five years ago when Leah had been working a case at Central. Roman had witnessed the torching of a friend’s house. His family had been asleep inside and they’d stood no chance. The brutal killing had sickened him. Shortly after that he’d approached Leah, and he’d proved very useful ever since. He knew a lot of bad people, and they still thought of him as one of their own. Problem was, he insisted on always meeting at the Grapes. He maintained it was safer for them both. Working out of Central meant that Leah wasn’t known here. Anyone who saw them together simply thought she was his latest tart. But given her recent promotion to the area, that would have to change.

  “You don’t look well, Roman.” Leah noticed the grey pallor of his cheeks. He wheezed when he spoke, and each sentence ended with a harsh cough. He drank too much, smoked too much and as far as Leah could tell, hardly ever left this place. “You need to take care of yourself or you’ll end up in hospital.”

  “Don’t worry about me, love. I’ve plenty of life left in me yet.”

  “The Knifeman, you’ve heard of him?”

  “Word has it that the Knifeman is Slicer’s new pet.”

  The Knifeman was working for Slicer Shaw! Did that make sense? Surely he had plenty of thugs on his payroll already? “I don’t understand. Slicer isn’t short of muscle.”

  “He wanted someone clean. These killings are related, special. Don’t ask me how or why because I don’t know, not for sure. Once the job is done, Slicer will walk away, his operation intact, but I bet we don’t see your knifeman again.”

  “You think Slicer will get rid?”

  “Yes. This is a one-off job. After that — the kid’s expendable.”

  “In that case, can I presume that the two lads were not drug runners?”

  “You presume right. But I’ve no idea who the poor bastards were. No one knows.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Leah asked him.

  “I heard a whisper. Nothing concrete, you understand.” Roman leaned in closer. “People trafficking is what I was told.”

  That was something they hadn’t considered, but they should have.

  “The lads were trying to get away and had to be silenced.”

  Leah smiled at him. “Thanks, Roman, that makes sense. Who told you this?”

  He pulled a face. “If I tell you, little lady, and he finds out, I’ll get nowt else.”

  “Take the risk, Roman. I need this case to break.”

  “Tony Rouse. I was drinking with him a few nights ago. He’s usually a tight-lipped sod but he’d had a few and couldn’t keep his gob shut. Didn’t say much, mind you, but just enough. He’s chasing a story and reckons it’s big. Trafficking on a grand scale. The people doing this have it all worked out. The kids, the method, and places to sell them on once they’re in the UK.”

  “Did he say where the kids were destined for?”

  “Not exactly. But it is bound to be some backstreet sweatshop or factory where the staff get next to nowt.”

  “Did Rouse say that?”

  “He hinted. That’s what it usually is.”

  They had to find Rouse, bring him in. Get him to tell them what he knew.

  “Do you know where Rouse is holed up?”

  Roman shook his head. “I reckon he’s got in too deep. Attracted the attention of the wrong people. If he’s still alive he’ll be difficult to find.”

  “Slicer’s driver was shot last night. What was that about?”

  “I’m not sure. There are a lot of rumours doing the rounds. It is hinted that Slicer wants the big man’s patch.”

  “He wants to take over from Costello?” Leah was genuinely surprised. She didn’t think he had the balls.

  Roman nodded. “The shooting, killing the driver, was Costello fighting back. Marking Slicer’s card.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Like I say, that’s what is going around. I have no reason to doubt it. Slicer Shaw has played second fiddle to Costello for years. People are saying he’s had enough.”

  “Any idea who he is, this kid with the blade?”

  Roman McLaughlin smiled at her. “No, I don’t have a name. No one does.”

  * * *

  The notebook was full of nonsense. Words and funny little squiggles Mickey didn’t understand. Crompton was some sort of investigator and he’d been working for Tony Rouse. Some words did stand out. The Rashid Clinic for starters. So it had to be significant. The two dead boys, the pair he’d killed, had been there. It said so in the notes. One name was underlined — Jamal Ali. What was so special about him? It might be nonsense to Mickey, but was it worth money? No good asking Slicer. He was best avoided until he’d got over the driver’s death. So who? Perhaps that hack, the man Crompton had worked for? He would pay. Either that or Mickey would threaten to send it to the police. On the back page was Rouse’s name and mobile number. Mickey tapped it in. Nothing, the thing was dead.

  Rouse was up to his neck in this. But how to find him? This notebook had to hold a clue. Mickey glanced at the clock and then studied the reflection of the skinny kid who looked back at him from the glass.

  Then he had an idea. He smiled. There was someone who might be able to help.

  Chapter 12

  The Italian restaurant was in a pleasant little square at the confluence of several narrow lanes. It was early evening, and the late autumn sun had brought folk out. People sat outside drinking and chatting. Inside, the place was just as busy.

  Grace looked around. “Nice. Wish this was on our doorstep after work. Very different from the Gorton Arms.”

  Greco went straight to the bar and asked for Amani Ali. The young man serving looked at him with suspicion.

  “What do you want with her?” he asked.

  “She knows we are coming. My name is Greco.” He omitted the ‘DCI.’ The fewer who knew the reason for their visit, the better. The barman disappeared to return a few minutes later with a young woman. Greco put her in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a plain black dress that covered her arms and legs, plus a headscarf. The barman spoke to her in what Greco guessed was Arabic, and then gestured to a room off the main eating area.

  “Is it alright for you to take a few minutes off?” Greco asked. “We can wait until you come off shift if you’d rath
er.”

  Amani Ali said nothing. Once the three of them were inside the small room, she closed the door, and nodded at Grace. “Who is this?”

  “DC Grace Harper. I thought you might be more comfortable if she was present,” he explained.

  “Okay, she can stay,” Amani said.

  “You’ve seen the photo of our victim. It isn’t very good, I’m afraid. Is there anything you can tell me about Jamal that will confirm that it’s him?”

  “Jamal has an old scar where he had his appendix out. But the big thing is his feet. They are different sizes.” She smiled. “We always teased him about it as children. My parents had to get his shoes specially made. Fortunately they were well off. Before the war, that was.” She lowered her head.

  So it was him. Now the grim task of confirming the news. “I’m afraid it is your brother who was killed, Miss Ali. We are both very sorry.”

  She stiffened. “Where is his body?”

  “He is still in the morgue.” Greco saw her face fall. “The forensic people will do tests. It might be possible for them to tell us where Jamal had been, or what he’d been doing prior to his death,” he explained.

  “You will not find anything. The men who killed Jamal are evil, and they are clever. They trade in misery.”

  “What do you mean, Amani?”

  “Jamal will have been given the clothing you found him in. Apart from his shoes, the rest will tell you nothing.”

  Greco recalled Roxy Atkins saying that his clothing hadn’t fitted properly.

  “His shoes have proved useful,” Grace agreed.

  “Who gave him the clothes he was wearing?” asked Greco.

  “I suspect the men who took him. He was kept prisoner.”

  “Do you know who they were? Their names, or where we can find them?”

  “No,” she told Greco. “But Jamal was terrified. When he first came to England he was brought here to Brighton. The men who brought him got him a job in a hotel. He was told to stay put and not to tell people who he was or where he’d come from. But he rang me. I was living with a friend in London. I came here and found work to be near Jamal. We saw each other. He was okay, earning a little money, and he had somewhere to live. But then one day he rang me. He told me that the men were taking him away. He said there was no way he could escape because they were watching him. If he tried to run, they would kill him. He wanted me to help him, but there was nothing I could do.”