Loose Tongues

by Chris Simms

  ‘Of course. Is everyone there? Who’s doing the briefing?’

  ‘Talk later, bye.’

  Janet Blake continued to look at the screen of her phone even though the call to her son had ended. Detective Constable Blake. He’d kill her if he knew that’s how he was now listed in her phone. Smiling to herself, she recalled the look of amazement and joy on his face when he’d been notified that, within just two months of completing his aidship to become a detective, he’d been allocated a place in the SCU, with a team working a double murder.

  That smile slipped slightly when she reflected on the phone call she’d made to her old colleague at Ashton station, Tony Shipton. Tony had done well in the years since they’d walked a beat together. In fact, he’d risen to the rank of Assistant Chief Constable – one of only a handful in the whole of Greater Manchester Police. He’d always said he’d do her a favour if he ever could: now she’d cashed in that promise and got her only son a huge step up the career—

  A voice further down the bus had become so loud it broke Janet’s chain of thought.

  ‘I said that to her. ’Course I did, Linds! I said to her you’re bang out of order doing that and she said it was first come, first served, but she’s full of shit, as we both know, so I said you got to it before Steve even put it up and you know I wanted the extra shift on that Saturday, the sneaky fucking bitch.’

  Janet could have rubbed her hands together. The hours she spent going round and round bus routes had a soporific effect: conversations like this were a bloody godsend. Her wheelchair was up at the front of the bus, facing sideways towards the driver. Trying to appear casual, she took a glance at the rows of seats to her right. The bus only had a smattering of passengers. The woman was three rows back, now nodding vigorously. Pointy face, twisted in a grimace, maroon-coloured hair cut in a severe bob. With the fingers of her free hand, she was attempting to balance a packet of twenty Lambert and Butlers on the railing of the seat in front. Janet could just see the red of a lighter poking out from the woman’s curled palm. She’d be lighting up the instant she got off.

  The seat across the aisle was taken by a good-looking man in his mid-forties. He had on a dark green bomber jacket that was spattered with dry paint. From the frown on his face, he was unable to ignore the woman, too.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, and that. Yes, I know she did. I told you, Linds, she’s a sneaky fucking bitch. What can I do? Steve? Soft as shit. Gives him the pout and that’s it, she gets away with it every bastard time. Tomorrow? Staying in bed for most of it. Danny’s not back till next week. Somewhere up near Newcastle. Yeah, house to myself. Bliss. Then I’m back in on Saturday, but only until lunch. Yeah, Linds, I know it’s shit, but what—’

  ‘Hey.’

  A male voice. Word too loud to be speaking on the phone.

  Janet adjusted the bulky folder of survey forms balanced across her lap and took another look. This could get interesting. The good-looking guy was leaning across the aisle towards shrew-face. Now he’d moved, Janet could tell that, beneath the jacket’s padding, the guy was heavily muscled.

  ‘Turn it down, will you? I can hear every word of this and it’s making my head ache.’

  The woman lowered the phone from her face to give him an open-mouthed stare. ‘You what?’

  ‘You talking to Linds. I really don’t want to know.’

  ‘You hearing this, Linds? Some bloke’s just had a pop at me. Unbelievable.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not having a pop. I’m just asking you to keep it down. The whole bus is having to listen. You’re swearing like they gave out badges for it at school.’

  Janet looked away so no one could see her smile. The man had a faint accent. German or similar.

  ‘You’ve got a problem with me talking to my friend? How about you take your problem and fucking do one? There’s plenty of other buses behind this one. If you don’t like what you hear, get one of them.’

  The man crossed his arms, sat back and slowly shook his head. ‘You should really watch your mouth. Anyone told you that?’

  ‘Linds, it’s my stop, I’ll call you back.’ She stuffed the phone in her pocket and started to stand. Five feet two and stick thin. ‘You fucking threatening me?’

  ‘I didn’t threaten you.’

  ‘Yes, you fucking did.’ The bus was beginning to slow as she started for the exit doors midway down the aisle. A man – late fifties, greying hair – was also getting off. Now he found himself trapped behind the woman as she turned back to the bloke in the bomber jacket. ‘You should close them flappy ears of yours and button that lip. Listening in on people.’

  The seated man’s ears flushed red. Janet noticed they did stick out quite badly. ‘No ch-ch—’ he fought for his words. ‘N-n-no choice, the tongue on you.’

  As the bus pulled to a stop, the woman’s face shone with playground glee. ‘No ch-ch-ch, no ch-ch-ch. Learn to sp-sp-speak before you start on someone, dickhead!’ The doors opened and she stepped off the bus. She was immediately at the window, her middle finger pressed against the glass, eyes drilling the man.

  He stared straight ahead, face now poppy-red.

  THREE

  ‘First up everyone, we’ll be spreading the workload a bit with some new members to the team. We have Detective Constable Mark Wheeler, who many of you will no doubt remember from his recent rotation here. A pleasure to have you back, Mark.’

  He bowed his head while attempting a modest grin.

  ‘And Detective Constable Sean Blake, who’s joining us from across the river in Salford. That right, Sean?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, my congratulations for having survived that. Better class of criminal in Manchester proper, we like to think.’

  A few people chuckled and Sean managed a smile.

  ‘Next, we have two CSWs to join Maggie’s team. Helen Johnson and Katie May. Have I got that right?’

  Sean looked to the side of the room. Both women were nodding back. Sean noticed that Katie was blushing. Their eyes touched and he gave her an encouraging nod.

  ‘Good. Welcome all. Now, to business.’ The officer half turned to the noticeboard. ‘I called this briefing a bit later because we were waiting for approval on the warrant for Pamela Flood’s sometime partner, Ian Cahill.’

  He tapped the mug shot of a nasty-looking bloke that had been pinned alongside the image of the murdered woman.

  ‘We now have that. Word came in that Cahill’s been using a property in Middleton. He’s there right now, tucked up in a nice warm bed. We have a car outside his house. As you’re aware, Cahill is already well-known to us. Previous convictions include ones for assault, so a Tactical Aid Unit will be going in to make the actual arrest. We’ll have a presence there as back up and to go straight in and search the property once Cahill’s been carted off.’

  He consulted a clipboard on the table beside him.

  ‘Detectives Fuller, Morris and Moor, it’s your lucky day.’ He paused as a thought occurred, then his eyes cut to Mark Wheeler and Sean Blake. ‘You two? Are you up to date with your officer safety training?’

  Sean nodded, as did Mark.

  ‘Good. Nothing like a live op for bonding a team: you’re coming, too. Stab-proof vests for everyone at the scene. DS Fuller? We’ll need the evidence collecting kit.’

  He lifted an arm and rotated a wrist to expose his watch.

  ‘The TAU boys have a rendezvous at the end of Cahill’s road in twenty, so we need to get going. Two cars, myself and DS Fuller driving. The rest of you? Keep to your allocated actions and I’ll see you back here soon.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Sean glanced across to see that a stoutly built female in a brown skirt and white blouse had asked the question.

  ‘Yes, DS Dragomir?’

  ‘Has anything to connect Cahill to Francesca Pinto yet come to light?’

  Sean let his gaze linger on the woman for a second longer. Her light brown hair was cut in a short, sensible style and the
frames of her glasses seemed too thick. The accent, he guessed, was Eastern European. Bulgaria, Slovenia or something similar.

  The leading officer looked briefly at Pinto’s photo, as if the murder victim was able to hear his answer. ‘Woodhill’s – the firm of solicitors where Francesca worked – are still checking their records to pinpoint when and where she and Cahill crossed paths. It won’t take long to dig the information out.’

  Sean found himself in the back of a dark green Volvo being driven at an uncomfortably fast pace by DS Fuller. The flesh at the base of his skull bulged out above his thick neck. Directly in front of them was an identical vehicle that contained Detective Chief Inspector Ransford and Detective Constables Morris and Moor.

  Sean kept glancing down at his hands, disappointed how they were slightly sweaty. He couldn’t quite believe they were on their way to arresting the prime suspect in a double murder case. It was exciting – but it also felt surreal.

  He glanced up to see Fuller’s beady eyes on him in the rear-view mirror. ‘All right back there?’

  Sean gave a silent nod, before deciding a proper reply was more appropriate. ‘Yeah, fine thanks.’

  ‘Good stuff. You were looking a bit queasy for a second. You don’t get carsick, do you?’

  ‘No. Just …’

  ‘Feeling like you’ve been swept up in a whirlwind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fuller nodded. ‘It’s not always like this, believe me. But we don’t believe in comfort zones in the SCU. Or passengers. Especially not passengers. Keep on your toes, always show willing, and you’ll fit right in.’ His head turned towards the front seat where Mark Wheeler sat. ‘So, Marko, fraud investigations not your cup of tea?’

  Mark lifted his chin and directed a relaxed smile towards the vehicle’s ceiling. He was, Sean thought, like a star pupil. Football captain, head of year and an A-grade student, all rolled into one. Someone being groomed for the top.

  ‘Too much sitting at a desk, staring at numbers. I was nearly nodding off.’

  Fuller grinned. ‘Yeah, bollocks to that. Bringing in the bad guys: nothing beats it.’

  They hit a knot of traffic that slowed them to crawling pace. Sean let his gaze trail along the pavement beyond his window. A solitary schoolboy was cramming a cereal bar into his mouth, his book bag almost sliding off the hunched shoulder of a too-big blazer. I remember that, Sean thought. During his school years, there often wasn’t enough milk in the fridge for them both. Since Janet was housebound during most of that time, he’d just grab something from the corner shop and stuff it on his way to school.

  Next, he saw a man in his early thirties looking stressed. In one hand was a bunch of keys he was managing to jangle loudly with every rushed step. He made a woman going in the opposite direction pause by positioning himself in her path. Words were rapidly spoken. The woman shook her head apologetically, having to step round him. He raised a hand in passive protest then continued on his way.

  Their car moved forward and Sean twisted in his seat, certain he’d seen the bloke somewhere before. They reached a set of lights and rolled to a stop. Sean realized, in a few more seconds, the man would catch them up. He half lowered his window to listen.

  ‘Excuse me, love. Love? Listen, I’m really sorry, but I just came out of a job interview and my car’s been towed! I’m fifty pence short for the bus fare out to the compound. That’s all.’

  The Northern Irish accent put a drawl on his little speech, as if – given a choice – his words would be happier to stay in his mouth. Sean took another look: Daniel Thompson. The straggly hair might have been grown out, but no doubt it was him. It must have been, Sean thought, ten months since I arrested him for breaking into an amusement arcade. The poor bloke had crowbarred an entire row of fruit machines open, all of which had been emptied earlier that afternoon. Crime was never going to make him rich, that was for sure.

  ‘Ah, cheers, love. You’re a saviour, seriously.’

  Thompson waited a couple of seconds then began to manoeuvre himself into the path of someone new.

  ‘Really sorry, pal. I just came out of a job interview to find my car’s been towed. Thing is, I need—’

  ‘Thompson!’

  His head whipped round.

  Sean had already wound the window fully down. Using two fingers, he drew a bead from his eyes across to the other man. I’m watching you.

  Thompson blinked a couple of time before realization dawned. ‘Constable Bl—’ He swiftly regained his composure. ‘Day off, is it. No uniform?’

  Sean brought him closer by crooking a finger. ‘Bought yourself a car and learned to drive since you got out?’

  Thompson smiled sheepishly. ‘You’re a sharp one, Constable Blake. It’s my cousin’s. I only borrowed it, you see.’

  ‘That right? So what’s the make?’

  ‘It’s a you know – one of them Japanese ones … Toyota?’

  Sean’s eyes were on the set of keys. ‘Really? Because I don’t see a fob for a Toyota in your—’

  ‘Hey!’ Fuller barked. He was peering between the two front seats, hostile stare on Thompson.

  The young man had to bend down to make eye contact. ‘All right, over there?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The friendly twinkle vanished from Thompson’s eyes and he immediately stepped back, a wheedling note lifting his voice. ‘No need to get all—’

  Fuller accelerated through the green lights, now using the rear-view mirror to look at Sean. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘I crossed paths with him a bit when I was working in the Pendleton nick.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Fuller didn’t sound interested. ‘Forget lowlifes like him, DC Blake. They’re not your shout anymore.’

  Sean leaned forward. ‘Even if he’s right in front of me, ripping folks off?’

  Fuller sighed. ‘Small fry. Not your concern.’ He floated a faint smile in Mark Wheeler’s direction.

  Sean was just able to see his fellow detective constable’s eyebrows lift in tacit agreement. Cheers for that buddy, thought Sean, sitting back.

  ‘So,’ Mark announced, ‘how come this guy is our man?’

  ‘Cahill?’ Fuller shoved his bottom lip out. ‘Pamela Flood had taken out a restraining order on him. CCTV from a camera on the house a few doors down from hers shows Cahill making his way along the street at three in the morning. One of those infrared jobs; got him plain as day.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Hours before she was killed. He shouldn’t have been within a kilometre of her house and, when originally questioned, claimed that was the case. We now also know he called her earlier that evening.’

  ‘You managed to pull in his phone records?’

  ‘No. With it being a murder investigation, we obtained all of hers. He rang asking to be taken back. They ended up having a proper go at each other. By the end of the call, he’s threatening to kill her.’

  ‘Actual threat?’

  ‘“I will slit your fucking throat.”’

  ‘The romantic old so-and-so.’

  Fuller laughed.

  The rear of Cahill’s property ended at a five-foot-high wooden fence. Fuller peered over it then sank back down out of sight. ‘All the curtains upstairs are drawn. Bloke’s about to get the mother of all wake-up calls.’ He tried the back gate and found it wasn’t locked. ‘Result. We’ll get closer. If he does exit the property, we can bring him down before he takes a step.’

  Before leaving the station, they’d all changed into casual clothes and trainers. Sean’s stab-proof vest was digging into his armpits. He sank to his haunches and tugged at its lower edge. Beside him, Mark Wheeler moved an extendable baton from hand to hand. Finally, Sean thought, a trace of nerves. Just a trace, but enough to prove he’s human.

  DS Fuller checked his watch. ‘Right, thirty-six seconds and the front goes in. We’ll hear a load of shouting as the TAU pile up the stairs. Let’s get in position.’

  As he slipped through the half
-open gate, the first thing Sean noticed was a children’s trampoline. Way too big for the garden, it was practically touching the back of the modest property. In the other corner was a small conservatory, double doors that, when open, would give access to a cramped patio. Empty beer bottles and cans floated in the tray of a rusty barbecue.

  Moving quickly, they approached the house and pressed themselves against the rear wall, out of sight of anyone peering from a first-floor window. DS Fuller gave a thumbs up, then mouthed he was checking the side of the property for any door there. He skirted carefully round the trampoline and disappeared from sight.

  Sean frowned. What was a trampoline doing in the garden? In the briefing at the end of the road, he was sure it had been stated Cahill lived alone. There were no kids in—

  A massive bang sent a tremor through the bricks behind him. Another. The TAU had started swinging their Enforcer against the front door. Must have extra locks on it, thought Sean, looking up to see a bedroom window had swung open. A pair of bare feet then lower legs, calf muscles stained by tattoos, appeared.

  Another bang, this one accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.

  Above him he could now see muscular thighs, then black boxer shorts with the words Calvin Klein repeating round the waistband. From inside the house, a chorus of shouts.

  Police! Do not move! Stay still! Police!

  The muffled thud of boots going up the stairs. Sean looked down; the trampoline was directly beneath the window. Cahill’s legs were now fully out. His lower back appeared as he started sliding himself across the windowsill.

  ‘He’s going to jump down!’ Sean yelled, trying to drag the trampoline away from the house. But the metal frame’s lower edge came up against the patio. The trampoline abruptly halted and Sean fell back into a sitting position. Next to him, Mark Wheeler was fumbling with the release mechanism of his baton.

  Now hanging by just the fingertips of one hand, Cahill twisted and dropped, knees flexing as he made contact with the elasticated surface. The next thing he was launched forward, directly at Mark. The two men went down, arms and legs intertwined. Cahill’s right elbow came back and he started peppering Mark’s neck with pathetic little rabbit punches.