“Fuck.”
END OF PART ONE
PART TWO
Chapter 19
JUNE 25th
SERIOUS CRIMES INVESTIGATION OFFICE,
MANCHESTER CITY POLICE HQ
D.C.I. Andrew Miller was staring gormlessly at the wall in the incident room. Keith Saunders, recently promoted to Detective Inspector following the murder of his previous superior, was giving a briefing to all of the S.C.I.U team.
Five A3 sized police mug shot pictures were pinned up on the incident room wall, placed around a map of Manchester city centre. Each face had a red line connecting their photograph to the part of the city centre where they had previously slept rough, prior to their deaths.
The five homeless people had been found dead in the last few weeks. As it was summer, it was quite unusual to have high numbers of homeless deaths, and the case had been handed to DCI Miller’s team to look at, and hopefully, rule out any foul play.
It all seemed very straight forward. All of the dead people had been poisoned by alcohol, and their toxicology reports had shown extraordinarily high amounts of concentrated methanol in the blood. Alcohol poisoning was one of the most common causes of death in homeless people, but all five of the dead people had unprecedented levels in their systems. The strength of the drink that they had all taken was almost ten times the strength that it is possible to buy from a shop.
In the past decade, the rise in “fake” alcohol products had become a huge industry, particularly in Greater Manchester and other big cities in Britain. Entrepreneurs had invested huge sums of money into creating their own, secret distilleries that were hidden away in warehouses and incognito units on industrial estates where they brewed a cheaper, fake version of famous name spirits, which were then sold in dodgy backstreet off licenses, the kind of which Greater Manchester has a great many.
DI Saunders was addressing the S.C.I.U. team, explaining his theory that these deaths were not simply from a bad batch of dodgy spirits, as the death toll would be much greater. Local hospital trusts all around the city had been approached and asked if their Accident and Emergency departments had seen any particularly worrying alcohol poisoning cases in recent weeks, and the answer had been a resounding no.
“So, how have these five people met their deaths?” Asked Saunders. He stood and paused a minute, looking at the pictures. “We need to know where they managed to get hold of this alcohol, which is of the same strength as nail varnish remover, and has traces of car windscreen wash in it, along with bleach. It’s pretty dirty stuff.”
“Jesus! I bet it tastes awful!” said DCI Miller, pulling his face as though he’d just sucked a grapefruit.
“We’d be seeing a lot more deaths if this stuff was available from a shop. We need to work out where these five dossers have got it from!” said Bill Chapman, one of the department’s Detective Constables.
“Sir,” said Saunders in Miller’s direction. “Could we get uniform to give out leaflets and flyers, warning the homeless about any suspicious drink they are offered?” he asked. Miller considered the question for a minute, sitting cross legged at the back of the small group of detectives. He was twiddling a paper-clip in his hands and he looked quite depressed. After a short time, he replied.
“It’s not a bad idea that Detective Inspector. But we still don’t know what it is that has been drank, do we? So we’d basically be sending out the message that we don’t know what we’re going on about. And that’s not our style.”
DI Saunders looked dejected.
“What if the dossers are mixing all this shit up themselves, and then drinking it?” offered another member of the team, DC Joanne Rudovsky. “Think about it – you can buy those ingredients from Poundland. Three quid would get you a big nail polish remover, two bottles of bleach and a big massive bottle of the windscreen wash. A cheap bottle of vodka is about a tenner – so for thirteen quid, you could produce a massive bucket of booze that will keep everyone buzzing for hours!”
The remark got a hearty laugh from the team.
“Scary thought Jo.” Said Saunders.
“For all we know, they might have been doing this for years. But then maybe the strength of the ethanol ingredient has been changed recently, and they can’t hack it?” added Jo.
“Okay,” said DI Saunders. “Don’t throw pens at me, but I think we’re going to have to go out and talk to the street dwellers about this.”
The room erupted with groans and swear words. It wasn’t a popular suggestion by any stretch of the imagination.
“Only if we can wear fucking gas masks!” said Bill Chapman.
“Now, come on,” said Miller from the back, stifling a grin.
“We need to know if anybody knows of a cheap home made drink that’s going around. If so, who is selling it? We are not looking to prosecute anyone for making it, not yet anyway, we just need to try and work out if it is common knowledge that there is a concoction available that will get you off your tits for a few quid.” Saunders began pointing at the map. “Chapman and Worthington – you can go around this area,” he pointed at the Gay Village and the China Town district of the City Centre. “Rudovsky and Kenyon,” He pointed to the team’s other two Detective Constables, Peter Kenyon and Jo Rudovsky. “You two concentrate on this area please,” Saunders tapped on map, on the opposite side of the city centre, around the Manchester Arena and Victoria train station. Hundreds of homeless people slept in the doorways, back exits and loading bays of the buildings in the City Centre, and many more lived underneath the railway arches at Castlefield, which is where Saunders intended to work with his boss DCI Andy Miller.
“I’m going to look around Castlefield with the gaffer.”
“So, Sir, we are not saying there is anything suspicious about the five deaths at this stage?” asked Peter Kenyon, his face suggested that he was unsure what the actual point of this inquiry was. Peter was an experienced detective, he’d been with the S.C.I.U. since its inception – but he couldn’t remember a case so vague in terms of its actual point.
DCI Miller saw where this was headed and stood up to support Saunders. He walked to the front of the room, and stood by Saunders at the wall of photographs.
“That’s a valid point Peter. This case is being viewed as “suspicious” at this stage. We don’t have any understanding of why five homeless people are dead, other than that they all drank a massively toxic mixture of insanely strong alcohol. We need to figure out if the deaths were intentional, or just a bit of misadventure by desperate homeless alcoholics. The fact that the dead people all died on separate occasions, at separate locations, and that the hospitals haven’t seen any other cases of alcohol poisoning suggests to me that there are reasonable grounds to be suspicious.”
“Okay, so, if we all know what we’re doing, I suggest we work late into the night, speak to these people while they are easy to find, and we can meet up and have a team brief at four pm tomorrow, giving us all a good lie-in.” said Saunders, emphasising the lie-in bit, while knowing full well that spending a night talking to Manchester’s homeless people was about as soul destroying as it could get for any detective. The mood was predictable as the team sullenly pushed their seats back to their desks and quietly got on with their work.
“DI Saunders, have you got two minutes?” Miller ushered Keith Saunders towards his office at the back of the incident room.
“Sir?” he said, as he started writing notes on the white-board.
“Two minutes, when you’ve done that. Cheers.”
Miller walked across the incident room floor, smiling at the dejected faces of his SCIU colleagues.
“Cheer up. Talking to tramps is nothing! I had to go down into the sewers looking for a suitcase full of cocaine once. Shit and periods, piss and Johnny-bags swimming around in my wellies. I could still smell it six months later. Soft bastards!” he shouted as he closed his office door, and smirked to himself because only he knew that it was a complete lie that he’d just made up on the
spot.
A minute or two later, Saunders knocked and came in.
“Sir?”
“Oh, sorry to bug you Keith, I know you’re busy,” Miller squinted at his computer screen. “It’s about tonight – I’m not available, sorry – I’m on a night out. It’s been on the calendar for two weeks, look.” He pointed to his PC screen, and the staff rota calendar that the SCIU team used for booking days off and leave periods. It read MILLER OFF ALL NIGHT NO MATTER WHAT. AND I MEAN NO MATTER WHAT.
“Shit, I didn’t see that Sir. Sorry.” Saunders looked really annoyed with himself for not being as efficient as he ought to be.
“Don’t apologise to me mate, I’m going out for dinner with friends. But give my regards to one-eyed Jack if he’s still alive. He used to be a fantastic grass at one time – he knew everything there was to know about low-life scum in the city. That was in the days when they used to all sleep in Piccadilly Gardens. It was like a refugee camp, bodies everywhere.” Miller grinned at the memory of the stinking, homeless drunk who could solve impenetrable cases in return for a bottle of Thunderbird and a pouch of Old Holborn. “Good old one-eyed Jack.” Muttered Miller as he returned to his computer screen.
“Have a good night Sir, and please, don’t rub it in tomorrow!”
“I’ll try,” smiled Miller, with a wink.
Chapter 20
“Well, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here, and on a school night as well!” said Andy Miller to his wife Clare, as he clinked glasses with her, and their friends, Ollie and Pippa. The group were eating at one of Manchester’s finest restaurants, “Gaucho,” on Deansgate in the city centre. It was a late birthday treat for Ollie who’d had to work through his birthday weekend.
“The rest of my team are out interviewing the homeless. Oh, I do feel guilty, sitting here in excellent surroundings with fine Argentinean food and great company – while they are walking around asking pissed up dossers if they’ve been offered any cheap spirits recently!” Andy laughed at his own caustic sarcasm and his guests chuckled along too.
Clare wasn’t buying her husband’s statement. “When you say you feel guilty, do you actually mean that you think it’s absolutely hilarious?” she asked, sniggering away.
“Yes, sorry, yes. That’s exactly what I meant.” Replied Andy with a sly look on his face.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not my boss!” said Pippa wearing a neutral looking “is she serious, isn’t she serious” expression on her face.
“I’m glad I’m not your boss Pippa! The one thing I can’t stand is trying to manage bossy, opinionated women!” retorted Andy to a shocked laugh from Pippa. Ollie and Clare were laughing hysterically too, mainly due to the sheer bravery of Andy’s come-back.
Pippa and Ollie had lived a few doors away from Andy and Clare on Grosvenor Road in Worsley, until recently when they’d moved into their dream property across the Salford boundary at the exclusive new Haughton Park development in Bury, about four miles away from Worsley. It was nice for the four to get together, and to have a good catch up. Pippa was the head of the Primary Care Trust, and was regularly painted as a nasty, oppressive bitch in the local newspaper, especially when expensive cancer treatments were refused for people because of a lack of funding. Ollie was a website designer and ran a hugely successful business which offered bespoke designs for such well known brands as Marks and Spencer and Next, among a long list littered with iconic retail names.
“So, how is life up your way?” asked Clare. “Is it all settling down now, after all the protests on the news?”
“Yes, well, to be honest,” replied Ollie, “it was all a bit of a storm in a teacup. If the media hadn’t got themselves involved, I doubt there would have been much of an issue at all, really.”
“God, yeah it was a bit much all that, wasn’t it? So are neighbour relations okay? The way Granada Reports were going on, it sounded like you’d moved into the middle of world war three!” Andy shook his head at the memory of the media frenzy from just a month or so earlier.
“No, honestly, it was nothing. The people who the council put in are fine – they’re just ordinary people. It really was a strange story, it just showed the media up for what a snobby bunch they are – and it was all led by a couple of the most stuck up tossers you can possibly imagine!” said Pippa. “It’s embarrassing really.”
“The media are determined to demonise the poor – it’s to take everybody’s mind off the fact that the bankers have bankrupted the nation, and not a single one of them has been sent to jail for it. The story about your estate was perfect to remind everybody that they should hate the poor! That’s all it was!” Clare looked as though she was getting quite angry.
“You’re absolutely spot on,” said Pippa. “At least one programme a night on the television is anti-poor propaganda. “Benefits Britain” or “Drunk dads on the dole” or “Honey I have eighteen kids and I’ve never worked a day in my whole life but I want a bigger house!” Pippa laughed mockingly as she said it, at the sheer tastelessness of the media’s attack on the most demonised, neglected and overlooked section of society.
“Poor folk are the only people that we are allowed to openly hate now. Well, them and paedophiles. Think about it. We can’t say anything without risk of offending some section or other of society – but we can all stick together and openly abuse poor people – in fact, it’s bloody well encouraged by the television programmes that you’re on about Pippa!” said Clare.
“Britain’s biggest bums!” said Andy, laughing at the transparency of it all.
“Help! I spent all my giro on cider and pot!” offered Ollie to a loud, enthusiastic wave of laughter from around the table. It took a few seconds for the silliness to abate.
“Yes, well it was quite strange to start with. But it’s all fine now, it works a treat.” Said Pippa. “We do try to avoid inviting the poor over for barbeques though. It has the tendency to become so inadequately competitive. I raise your Asda value beef burgers with this tray of Waitrose king prawns!”
“Oh God, that’s so inappropriate!” Clare found this bizarre conversation droll and distasteful at the same time.
“I think the lobster we keep in the freezer will always be our skud missile in that particular war!” said Pippa, pretending to be very pleased with herself.
“Oh, God, stop it Pippa – you’re making us sound as bad as those bloody snobs on the news! Hey - that reminds me Andy – I wanted to pick your brains about something actually.” Ollie looked slightly serious.
“Oh, right?” Andy took a large sip of his wine, still grinning at the poor people being abused so casually.
“Yeah, but – er, well it’s not that entertaining really. I’ll speak to you in a bit.” Ollie blushed slightly, realising that what he wanted to talk about would be boring for everybody else.
“Tell you what, shall we go and have a smoke?”
“Oh, Andy! I thought you said you were trying to give up?” Clare’s tone made it clear that she wanted to say something a lot more assertive, but was on her best behaviour.
“One can’t do any harm.” He stood, patting his jacket pocket to double check the cigarette packet was all set. Ollie stood too and Clare rolled her eyes at her husband, before making a face at Pippa.
“Oh leave them to it. We can discuss their inadequacies while they’re away!” said Pippa, instantly cheering Clare up and diffusing the hovering bad vibes.
“Won’t be long!” Andy brushed his hand across his wife’s shoulder.
“We’re discussing your inadequacies darling, so please, take as much time as you like.”
*****
“I’m smoking about thirty a day at the minute,” said Andy as he offered his pack to Ollie. “Clare thinks I’m only having the odd one here and there. I bet I’m smoking more now than I ever have done!”
“Why’s that then?” Ollie lit his cigarette and sat down at one of the smoker’s tables outside the busy restaurant.
“Dunno. Bec
ause I love them!” Andy smiled as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs.
“How long did you give up for?”
“Eighteen months. Tell you what though – it gets harder and harder the longer you go. In the few weeks before I started again, it was all I could bloody think about.” Andy suddenly remembered the circumstances of him starting the habit again, and it made him feel sad.
“So, what’s up?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound a bit happier than he actually felt at that moment. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Oh, well it was something I meant to give you a call about last week – but it completely slipped my mind.” Ollie took another drag on his cigarette. “It’s a bit weird really, and I probably just need to mind my own business.”
“Oh?” asked Andy, raising an eyebrow. Ollie was the least “nosey” person he knew. All Ollie ever did was mind his own business.
“What we were talking about with the council moving tenants in – well one of our neighbours, he was making a big noise against it. Not publicly as he works at the council, but behind the scenes, he was being a right old bastard, no doubt orchestrating that media response.”
“Right?”
“Yes, sorry – so anyway, he’s not around anymore. I’ve not seen him for about three weeks, and when I was washing the car the other night, his wife was out, watering the flowers and I just mentioned that I’d not seen him. Graham he’s called. And she started getting all jittery. I’ve never seen her like that before, she’s usually really smiley and happy-go-lucky. But she seemed really, I don’t know – nervous. It was really awkward.”
“So where do you think he is?”
“Well that’s what I’m saying, maybe I ought to mind my own business. There was talk that he was driven off in a police van, so I’m thinking that he might be in prison.”
Neighbours From Hell : DCI Miller 2: The gripping Manchester thriller with a killer twist Page 14
