Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe)

by Cath Staincliffe

  Janet agreed and was very grateful that the man had tried to reassure Elise. But the irony kept hitting home; if Elise had bought weed or cocaine then she’d be liable for prosecution and in all likelihood Olivia would still be alive. The law-abiding option had proved the most deadly.

  Rachel called at the newsagent’s first – to see if Liam Kelly knew the girl Shirelle’s address.

  He shook his head. ‘I know who you mean but I’ve no idea which flat she’s in, sorry.’

  Rachel was leaving when he said, ‘I hear you’ve arrested the Perrys.’

  ‘No names at this stage,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘That poor bloke.’ Word had yet to reach the public that another two victims had been found.

  Hawkins House was just across the way from the shops, beside Beaumont House, home to the Perry twins. A concrete pile with a buzzer entry system.

  Rachel pressed a few buttons, a disembodied voice answered, ‘What?’

  ‘DC Rachel Bailey, Manchester Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ the voice said, ‘he’s still in Strangeways. Don’t they tell you anything?’

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’ Rachel said.

  ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ the woman said and the line went dead.

  Rachel peered inside through the safety glass and could see the lights on the lift shaft changing, someone coming down.

  Rachel waited and watched as a young woman emerged dragging a buggy. She swung it round and headed for the door. The child in the pram was huge, fat-faced. Could babies be obese? Rachel had no idea.

  As the girl came out, Rachel held the door, showed her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Shirelle?’

  The girl blinked rapidly. ‘Shirelle?’ she repeated.

  ‘Look, you can tell me which number now, make life that bit easier, or I can fart around getting her address from the DWP or the housing office, which would really piss me off.’

  The girl seemed to be weighing up the options.

  ‘Might be tempted to get the DWP to check you’re getting the right benefits while I’m there,’ Rachel said.

  The baby began crying and kicking its legs. A grating, droning noise that made Rachel want to clamp her hand over its face. Perhaps the mother felt the same. The girl sighed and said, ‘311.’

  Rachel stepped aside, letting her pass. She took the stairs, reckoned it might be better than the lift, but she still had to breathe through her mouth to minimize the stink of piss. The smell of skunk hung heavy in the building too, unmistakable.

  She found 311 on the fourth floor, nothing but the numbers to distinguish the door from any of its neighbours. All painted a dark moss green, probably meant to look tasteful but it served to darken the gloomy hallways even more. There were recessed lamps in the ceiling, protected by cages, and in the one above Rachel a fat black fly buzzed about.

  Rachel listened for a moment, heard the faint chatter from a television inside. Then she knocked. She heard footsteps. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police, can you open the door?’

  A pause. ‘Show us your ID.’

  Rachel held her warrant card up so it was level with the peephole in the door. She heard a soft curse and the door was unlocked.

  ‘What’s it about?’ the young woman said. Arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. She was petite, inches shorter than Rachel, with curly black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore close-fitting sports clothes, trainer socks, and a crucifix round her neck. Her face was peppered with patches of dry flaky skin.

  ‘Shirelle?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Rachel said. The girl didn’t reply but moved back and once Rachel stepped inside Shirelle went ahead of her into the living room. Rachel glimpsed the kitchen as she passed. Quarry tiling on the floor, fitted cupboards in a high-gloss finish.

  Not a junkie. Rachel could tell that straight away, the place would have been empty of everything that could be sold off to feed the beast. But Shirelle’s flat was well furnished. Curtains in red matched the sofa and the chair, the furniture was upholstered, plump, looked brand new. There was a chandelier for the central light and a large telly and SkyBox. Sean was on at Rachel to get one for the sport.

  Framed pictures on the wall were taken from old copies of fashion magazines, Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Browsing the coffee table as she sat down, Rachel saw the buff envelope, addressed to Ms Shirelle Young. Something official.

  ‘So?’ Shirelle said.

  Her legs were crossed tightly together and she was blinking more often than was normal. She was shitting it, not so obvious until you saw those little signs. She reminded Rachel of a dog, a greyhound, the sort that look like they are dying from stress, about to keel over, but will run like the wind given chance. Shirelle picked up rolling tobacco, pulled out a paper. Rachel’s mouth watered.

  ‘Two bodies were recovered from the warehouse on Shuttling Way today. A man and a woman of African descent.’

  Shirelle’s hand shook, she spilled some of the rolling tobacco.

  ‘We’re trying to identify those people. I believe you might be able to help us.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ she said.

  ‘Can you help us?’

  Shirelle pinched her lip with her fingers. Rachel wondered what the problem was, why would she hesitate? ‘Shirelle?’

  ‘Victor,’ Shirelle said, ‘Victor and Lydia.’

  ‘Do you know surnames?’

  ‘Victor Tosin and Lydia Oluwaseyi.’

  ‘And what was your relationship to them?’ Rachel said.

  Another pause. ‘I went out with Victor for a bit.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last Christmas. Just a few weeks.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Rachel said, ‘this must be an awful shock.’

  Shirelle flinched, her face sharpening, as though the sympathy angered her.

  ‘Can you tell me what the relationship was between Victor and Lydia?’

  ‘They were together,’ Shirelle said.

  ‘A couple?’

  Shirelle nodded. She was picking strands of tobacco off her clothes, placing them in the paper, trying again.

  ‘So, was that a problem – you going out with Victor?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘That’s why we stopped.’

  ‘Whose call?’

  Shirelle took a drag on her rollie before answering, ‘Mine.’

  ‘How come?’ Rachel said.

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘I’m trying to get as much information as I can about Victor and Lydia to help us work out what’s happened.’

  ‘Lydia didn’t like it and I didn’t want to share,’ she said.

  Could this be a motive? Had something erupted between Shirelle and Lydia or Lydia and Victor? The triangle imploding in violence?

  ‘Do you know why Victor and Lydia would have been at the warehouse?’ Rachel said.

  ‘They were squatting there.’

  ‘Do you know their previous address?’

  Shirelle shook her head. ‘They’re illegals.’

  ‘Immigrants?’ Rachel checked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Nigeria,’ she said. Slowly she rolled the cigarette paper, brought it to her lips and licked the gummed edge. Her hand steady until she used her lighter.

  ‘Were they selling drugs?’ Rachel said.

  ‘No.’ She glanced at Rachel then away. ‘Couldn’t they get out?’ she said. ‘Was it the smoke?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish exactly what happened but it appears they were killed,’ Rachel said, watching her carefully. ‘They were shot.’

  A flare of surprise darted through Shirelle’s eyes and her mouth dropped open. She composed herself quickly, dragging on her smoke, recrossing her legs, but it was enough to convince Rachel that although Shirelle was definitely hiding something, she had not known about the murders.

  ‘Why would anyone want to
kill them?’ Shirelle said, her voice fraying. ‘That’s crazy.’ She sucked in her cheeks, a frown etched on her forehead.

  ‘Either of them been in any bother? Fights, feuds?’ Rachel said.

  ‘No.’

  Shirelle’s phone rang, a polyphonic burst of music, a snatch of vocals and heavy bass. She froze.

  ‘Answer it, if you like,’ Rachel said.

  Shirelle shook her head. ‘You’re fine.’

  I might be, Rachel thought, but you’re far from. ‘Had they made any enemies, was anyone threatening them?’

  ‘No,’ Shirelle said, ‘I’ve not seen them for a while anyway.’

  ‘You broke up with Victor when exactly?’

  ‘End of January.’

  Shirelle’s phone blared again and the girl started.

  ‘Answer it,’ said Rachel.

  ‘S’OK, I’ll text,’ she said. Her fingers flew over the screen, tapping lightly, then a trill of birdsong signalled the text had been sent.

  ‘Work?’ Rachel hazarded a guess.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head.

  ‘You got a job?’

  ‘Signing on,’ Shirelle said, taking a drag on her rollie.

  ‘So you can see, we’re concerned to try and find out who would have cause to harm Victor and Lydia. You sure you can’t think of anything?’

  Shirelle pressed her lips together, puffed out her cheeks a little. ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘They were living in the warehouse,’ Rachel said. ‘What was that like?’

  ‘Pretty grim,’ Shirelle said, ‘the place was in a state.’

  ‘They were downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, they had some old chairs and milk crates and pallets to put stuff on.’

  ‘How long had they been there when you met them?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Not sure, a few weeks.’

  ‘I hope you understand, as a matter of routine I have to ask you where you were on Friday evening,’ Rachel said.

  Shirelle stared at her, a look of incredulity spread across her face. ‘What— you are not serious?’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Here,’ she said emphatically. She took a final pull on the fag and crushed it out in the cut-glass ashtray.

  ‘Anyone verify that?’

  ‘No. Yes. Pizza delivery.’

  ‘What time?’ Rachel said.

  Shirelle shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Some time around eight.’

  ‘Which takeaway?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Gino’s.’

  Rachel made a note. ‘Noel and Neil Perry,’ she said, ‘you know them?’

  A look of dislike crossed Shirelle’s face. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Did they know Victor and Lydia?’

  ‘Was it them?’ she said.

  ‘Did they know Victor and Lydia?’ Rachel repeated.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  There was a sound from outside the flat, Shirelle glanced quickly at the door. Was she expecting somebody? She pulled her attention back to Rachel and said, ‘If that’s it …’ Putting a brave face on but Rachel could tell she was shocked and upset. If Shirelle knew the couple squatted in the warehouse she must have realized they could have been killed in the fire, even if she hadn’t known about the shooting. But she had not contacted anyone in authority to share her fears. All weekend she must have lived with that dreadful suspicion.

  ‘Almost done. When the warehouse went up in smoke, why didn’t you tell anyone there could be people inside?’ Rachel said.

  ‘I didn’t know they were still there,’ she said, her eyes darting round the room. ‘Like I said, I’ve not been for ages.’

  ‘Do you know whereabouts in Nigeria they came from?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Just Nigeria,’ she said.

  ‘Any relatives over there?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Did Victor talk about Nigeria, why he’d come?’

  ‘No. Just said it was a nightmare, horror show and that was that. This was his life now. He was getting by. He wanted to go back to school, get an apprenticeship, but he was illegal.’

  Rachel thought of the post-mortem report, the historic injuries. She knew fuck all about Nigeria but imagined war, rival factions, chaos. Sound reasons to get out, run and hide.

  ‘Were either of them religious?’ Rachel said. ‘For the funerals?’

  Shirelle swallowed. ‘Christian,’ she said, blinking quickly, ‘both of them.’

  ‘Shirelle Young, that’s your full name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your date of birth?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need all your details. There’s a chance you may need to give a witness statement, be prepared to come to court.’

  ‘No way,’ she said abruptly, ‘I’m not a witness. I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, you’ve given us their identity, you knew them and even if you’ve not been in touch recently I’m sure you want us to catch who did this,’ Rachel said. ‘Date of birth?’

  Shirelle still hesitated. Finally, ‘May third, 1992.’ Making her twenty.

  As she stepped out into the fresh air, Rachel considered what she’d learned. There were plenty of questions in her head. Not least how someone on Jobseeker’s Allowance paid for designer furniture, a new kitchen and a state-of-the-art TV.

  Rachel, in the car outside Hawkins House, called in the ID information on their latest victims. She also requested someone check out the pizza delivery and establish whether the courier from Gino’s could confirm seeing Shirelle Young on Friday and what time that had been.

  Rachel didn’t have to wait long before Shirelle came out of the tower, wearing fancy neon trainers and with a small rucksack on her back. A minicab drew into the side of the road and the girl climbed in. Rachel followed as the cab drove out on to Shuttling Way and headed left away from Oldham town centre. They crossed the ring road and drove into Werneth. Rachel slowed down and allowed a people carrier to overtake her, putting it between her and the taxi so as not to arouse suspicion.

  When the taxi stopped outside a house on Crescent Drive, Rachel drove past, noting the number, and parked further down the road outside a barber’s.

  The taxi didn’t leave and five minutes later Shirelle came out of the house and got back into the car, which took her home. Shirelle went into Hawkins House again and twenty minutes later she came out and went on foot to the other tower block.

  Another fifteen minutes and she reappeared and then headed off into the estate. Rachel couldn’t follow her unless she was on foot.

  18

  Rachel Bailey looked very pleased with herself, Gill thought. Fair dos. The DC had got them names for the dead couple and identified an associate.

  ‘She’s got the place kitted out like Ideal Home,’ Rachel was saying. ‘She swore blind that Victor and Lydia didn’t do drugs, but the word on the street is just the opposite.’ She glanced at Mitch, who nodded his agreement.

  ‘I’m sure she was making house calls after she’d picked the stuff up in Werneth and I’m not talking Avon.’ Rachel’s eyes were dancing, exhilarated by the progress they’d made.

  Kevin yawned noisily, arching back in his chair and stretching his arms up and out.

  ‘Keeping you up, Kevin? Late night?’ Gill said.

  ‘Bit late,’ Kevin grinned, ‘couple of pints after here then—’

  ‘Not boring you then?’

  ‘No, boss.’ Oblivious.

  ‘Hate to bore you. What with this being a murder inquiry and everything. Keeping you up late an’ all.’

  ‘It’s fine, boss,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Is it? Fine?’ She saw his face alter. Light dawning. Dimly but there. ‘Let me tell you, what is far from fine is you sitting here in my syndicate yawning with a mouth like the Mersey Tunnel. That is not fine, that is rude and disrespectful. You want to yawn or fart or belch or scratch your arse, you do it in your own time. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

&nbs
p; ‘Now where were we. Oh, murder.’

  ‘The address in Werneth is for Stanley Keane,’ said Pete.

  ‘Williams’s muscle man?’ Gill said.

  ‘That’s right. Previous convictions for assault, GBH, dangerous driving, handling stolen goods and possession with intent.’

  ‘Mr Nice Guy,’ Gill said.

  Pete swung his laptop around so they could see Keane’s charge sheet. The picture showed him to be a bulky man with a bushy beard.

  ‘Looks to match,’ Gill said. ‘I think we have reasonable grounds for a search of Keane’s house and the same for Shirelle Young’s place ASAP.’

  ‘Her alibi for Friday is solid,’ Rachel said. ‘Doesn’t necessarily cover the whole of the time frame for the double murder but comes slap bang in the middle of when we estimate it was kicking off, going by when the fire took hold. And when I told her they’d been shot, well, I don’t think she’d any idea.’

  Gill looked round the rest of the team. ‘What else do we have? Greg Tandy?’

  ‘Still no trace,’ Mitch said.

  ‘Has he got a passport?’ Gill said.

  ‘Nothing current,’ Kevin said.

  ‘He could have fled using a false one,’ Rachel said.

  Gill’s phone rang and she dragged it out. Dave. She killed it. ‘OK, let’s deal with the Richard Kavanagh charges first. Kevin with Rachel and Mitch in with Lee, hold their hands, walk them through the case, point out the crater-sized holes in their accounts and see if they have anything to add. Then charge them. Happy?’

  They were.

  Except it wasn’t that simple. Noel Perry, on being brought into the interview room with his lawyer, saw Lee and performed in true knuckle-dragging style. ‘I’m not talking to him.’

  The solicitor tried to intervene but Noel wasn’t having it. ‘I’m not talking to some fucking ape in a suit.’

  ‘Mr Perry,’ Mitch said, ‘abusive language is not acceptable.’

  ‘So fucking sue me, I ain’t talking to any niggers.’

  Gill was watching the unsavoury display, on playback. Lee and Mitch beside her.

  ‘You OK?’ Gill said.