by Chris Simms
‘You’ve got that here?”
‘We have,’ Mallin replied. ‘And its corrosive effects are even more marked in a rural community like this.’
From his expression, Jon knew he was fishing for some kind of agreement. Until you’ve said what you have to say about my brother, he thought, you’re getting nothing from me.
Mallin continued. ‘We’re not sure where the narcotics are coming from, but you know as well as I do, dealers from our inner cities are looking for new markets. A small town like Haverdale is ideal. Jump on a train from Manchester and you’re here in half an hour.’
So there we have it. Jon wanted to laugh. My brother’s been travelling here from Manchester, therefore he’s dealing drugs.
‘What are you saying exactly?’
Mallin kept his hands at his sides. ‘Trevor Curtis, the landlord of the Spread Eagle, a pub used by the town’s younger residents, had voiced his concerns. He suspected your brother was dealing on the premises.’
Jon nodded. ‘Did he produce any evidence to back up this accusation?’
Mallin shifted slightly. ‘No. As I said, he merely voiced his concerns.’
‘And if Dave was Haverdale’s chief dealer—’
‘I didn’t say chief dealer, DI Spicer.’
‘Sorry. Don’t know how I picked up that impression. If Dave was a dealer, where’s his equipment? Surely you’re not suggesting he was cooking up crystal meth in his hotel room? I’ve seen a presentation on how the stuff is produced – do you realise the stink that’s involved in making it?’
‘No.’
Jon shrugged. ‘Believe me, that entire hotel would have known about it.’
‘I imagine he would have been bringing the drugs here readymade.’
Would have, Jon thought. A statement of fact. He gestured to the evidence bags. ‘So where’s the paraphernalia a drug dealer uses? The rolls of cling film, tinfoil, razor blades, electronic scales. Where are the actual drugs?’
‘We’re unsure, as yet.’
You’ve already decided, Jon thought. Dave was the disease making this town sick and you’re certainly not going to bust a gut finding whoever killed him. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you’ve judged my brother prematurely, to say the least. I noticed the front page of the local paper. There was a story about nighthawks. People searching for buried treasure. The only things my brother seemed to have in his room were walking books and maps. Did it occur to you he was here on some hare-brained scheme like that?’
A flush was now creeping up from Mallin’s collar. Jon softened his voice, realising his anger wasn’t helping his case. ‘What about the phone call this morning? Who rang my brother’s number?’
‘A female called Zoe.’
‘The same Zoe from the address book in Dave’s phone?’
‘We can’t say. That was a mobile number. It transpires this morning’s call was from a public payphone on Cateaton Street, near Deansgate – which, I gather, is in Manchester’s city centre.’
Right next to the cathedral, Jon thought. His mind went back to the last time he’d seen his brother alive. Jon had been trying to trace a suspected arsonist known to frequent the Booth Centre, the cathedral’s facility for homeless people. While checking the place out, he’d come across Dave negotiating some sort of deal that involved a mountain bike. The skeletal man selling it had accepted a ridiculous price in return for what Dave could get him.
‘What did this girl say?’
Mallin tapped a forefinger against the seam of his trousers before coming to a decision. ‘The transcript is in my office. Follow me.’
Jon could feel everyone watching as he crossed the silent room. Mallin’s office was two doors down the corridor, a spacious room lined with cabinets along one wall. The couple of spider plants and framed photos on top of them partially succeeded in adding a less formal feel. As Mallin closed the door and walked round to his desk, Jon studied the photos: the Superintendent, thigh deep in a river, waders up to his chest, fly-fishing rod angled over his head. Another of him with a near identical man, both crouched before a spread of salmon laid out on the grass. Your brother, thought Jon. No doubt still alive and enjoying life. Your next fishing trip with him is probably booked already.
‘How long have you been in the job?’
Jon turned round. Mallin was sitting behind his desk, waiting for an answer, fingers interlaced across his stomach.
‘I joined in 1995.’
The Super inclined his head. ‘And you got into the Major Incident Team four years ago.’
Jon met the other man’s eyes, surprised the other man would know a detail like that. ‘Correct.’
Mallin waved a hand in explanation. ‘You were involved in an investigation year before last. The spate of attacks on churches round Manchester.’
Jon nodded cautiously and Mallin spread his hands, gesturing to the chair opposite. ‘I have an interest in ecclesiastical architecture, the case was one I kept tabs on. You faced some challenge there.’
Jon eased himself into the seat. That’s one way of putting it, he thought. Though you wouldn’t describe it like that if you knew what the bastard had done to my brother and sister.
‘It was a shame the culprit perished in the final fire.’ Mallin’s voice rose slightly at the end of the sentence, fishing for more explanation.
Culprit? Jon reflected on the word. That’s one way of describing the piece of shit.
‘I gather you sustained some pretty serious burns, too.’
Jon didn’t look at the slightly puckered patches of skin on his hands. Only in the dead of night when everyone else was asleep, did he run his fingers over the scars. Any time other than that, he acted like they weren’t there, terrified that if he allowed the memory a foothold in his mind, the knowledge that he killed a man would come to dominate his daytime thoughts.
Outside, a siren suddenly began to wail. An engine revved and the noise began to lose strength as the vehicle shot off down the high street. Mallin waited a moment longer before saying,
‘OK, I understand. You’d prefer to keep your counsel.’
Jon raised his eyes. ‘I’ve just lost my brother. Sorry if I’m not in the mood for this kind of chat.’
Mallin stared at him. Oh dear, Jon thought. You and me are never going to be friends.
The Superintendent reached for a piece of paper. ‘The message from Zoe.’
Jon took it, eyes searching out the small paragraph at the bottom.
‘Dave, it’s me, Zoe. You all right? How’s it all going? Has Redino come through for you, yet? Struck gold and all that? I’m missing you. It’s you know . . . not easy. Money.’ Her voice was beginning to waver. ‘Come back, Dave. I’ve got Salvio on my back. Him and his bloody gang, kicking the door at all hours. He wants paying and you know what he does to people who – ah, the frigging pips. I’ve got no more coins. Got no money, full stop. I need you here, Dave. All this with Salvio, it’s doing my head in. When are—’
Jon flipped the sheet over, as though more might be on the other side. ‘She sounds pretty scared of Salvio, whoever he is.’
‘Indeed.’ Mallin shrugged. ‘I think we can assume Dave and
Zoe were a couple.’ He slid another piece of paper across. The last ten calls made and received on Dave’s phone were listed. All were to Zoe and from Zoe. Jon thought of the face on the screensaver.
‘This answerphone message. Was it left by a female who sounded fairly young?’
‘She seemed to be.’
‘Manchester accent?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve tried the number for Zoe that’s in the mobile’s phonebook?’
‘It goes straight through to an out-of-service message. I’ve put in a request to see if the number is registered with anyone. My guess is it will be a pay as you go, leaving us none the wiser.’
Jon was racking his brain. Dave and Zoe speak on a regular basis, using their mobiles. Suddenly she switches to a payphone and her mobile n
umber is dead. She said she’s short of money, perhaps unable to top up her credit. Maybe she’s been cut off by the phone company itself. But why not use a landline rather than walk to a call box? ‘What about the other phone book entries? Who are they again: Marco, Stew, Jock?’
The Super took in a breath. ‘None prepared to help. Either they’re not returning messages or they hang up when we identify ourselves. Jock – a Scottish gentleman – wanted to know where Haverdale was, then roared with laughter when I told him.’
Scottish, Jon thought. That last time at the Booth Centre, a Scottish guy was trying to warn Dave off buying the mountain bike. The man’s rasping comment rang in Jon’s head. It’s a death trap man, a fucking death trap.
‘I realise this is hard for you, DI Spicer, but why do you think your brother was staying here in a hotel? Especially if his partner was short of cash.’
Jon looked away, searching the diamond pattern on the carpet.
‘How long had he been booked in for?’
‘Three nights. And he’d been here on another three occasions over the last few weeks. Three nights, away for a night, back for another three. Shuttling to and from Manchester . . .’
‘Picking up fresh supplies of drugs.’ Mallin blinked.
‘Just thought I’d finish your sentence off for you.’ Jon’s voice was cold.
Mallin tilted his head slightly to the side. You said it, not me.
Jon put the piece of paper back on the desk and crossed his arms. ‘How many digs have been discovered lately?’
‘Four.’
‘Do they coincide with my brother’s stays in that Haven
Inn?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think all the digs were discovered immediately, but I could probably check. However, no spades, nothing of that nature was left on the hill where your brother was found.’
‘Can I see this hill?’
‘We need to know more about him, DI Spicer. Where did your brother live? Who did he work for? What sort of company did he keep? You know the routine for a murder investigation.’ He removed a print-out from his file. ‘I have his record here. Juvenile offences involving cars: Taking Without Owner’s Consent. Then the odd arrest for possessing drugs. Breaking and entering a residence by Lake Windermere. Another fine for possession of Class B drugs.’
I know my brother’s bloody record, Jon thought. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. Do you want it before or after I visit the crime scene?’
Mallin’s eyes flashed again. ‘DI Spicer, this is a Derbyshire Police Authority investigation. You’re not involved in any professional capacity. Not even an advisory one, understood?’
‘Fine. I just want to see where my brother died, that’s all.’
‘Tell me what you know and I’ll have Constables Batyra and
Spiers drive you out there.’
Jon leaned back in his seat. ‘Thank you. My brother was thrown out of the family home a bit before his eighteenth birthday, following his third TWOC. He went to live with friends in a central Manchester squat. Over the past decade I’ve come across him maybe six times. Not a lot was said. Family news, that sort of thing.’
Mallin was frowning. ‘Here you are, a detective inspector. What set your brother off on such a contrasting route?’
A face flashed into Jon’s head before he could stop it. The monster who’d got to Dave when he was just a young kid. Jon felt his fingers flex, the memory of his fist slamming into the side of the man’s head so strong. The way he’d toppled into the long grass, flames engulfing his unconscious body. ‘Boozing. A taste for trouble. He had a wild side and I suppose it took over.’
Mallin’s eyes were narrowed. An interview-room stare. ‘How did your brother support himself all those years?’
‘Unemployment benefit. Cash-in-hand jobs. He’d pick fruit on farms, stuff like that. He spent one summer in the Lake District. No rent to pay when you’re squatting in someone’s holiday home near Lake Windermere.’
Mallin’s eyes touched on Dave’s record. ‘But the links to drugs are there. Possession at least.’
‘Possession and nothing else. No convictions for dealing. He was a dosser, a bit of a rogue.’ Once again, the memory of Dave outside the cathedral returned. His brother riding off on a perfectly good mountain bike, exchanged for . . . what? Jon leaned forward. ‘OK. My brother had a trivial involvement in drugs. Perhaps that involvement stretched to selling the odd bit here and there, who knows? But what you’re describing in Haverdale is dealing on a professional scale. The people behind it will be making huge amounts of cash – and they don’t give a shit about the damage they’re doing. My brother rejected a conventional life, but he still had morals.’
Mallin pushed his bottom lip out.
Fuck you, Jon nearly snarled. ‘What about the phone message? This Redino or whatever his name is? Zoe’s talking about striking gold. That could be a reference to an archaeological find.’
Mallin sighed. ‘I’m going to contact the drug squads in Sheffield and Manchester to see if Redino is a known name. I think you’d better face the likelihood your brother wasn’t in Haverdale searching for buried treasure. Striking gold is, in my opinion, a reference to sealing a drug deal.’
‘And the maps? The walking book? The recent digs?’
‘Your brother had to stash his drugs somewhere.’
Jon shook his head. ‘No. This isn’t adding up. Can I see the crime scene now?’
‘For ten minutes in the outer cordon. I have forensics up there and they don’t need any interruptions.’
‘No problem. I just need to use the toilet before we go.’
The Superintendent pointed to his side. ‘End door on the left. I’ll give Batyra and Spiers a shout.’
Jon let himself into the toilet area. A row of sinks, four urinals and two cubicles; both empty. He turned round, closed the door leading back into the corridor, took his mobile phone out and quickly selected the number of his partner in the MIT. ‘Rick, it’s Jon.’
‘OK, mate. Why the whisper?’
‘I haven’t got long. I need a favour.’
‘Work? Christ, Jon, it’s a Sunday. In fact it’s Easter bloody
Sunday. Do you ever stop?’
‘Did I ever mention my younger brother, Dave?’
‘Yeah, once. Moved out of Manchester, lost touch with your family.’
‘He’s dead.’
Two second’s silence. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Listen, I wasn’t straight with you. He didn’t ever leave Manchester, not completely.’
‘It was him, wasn’t it? That time we were making enquiries at the Booth Centre summer before last. He was with the homeless lot.’
Jon turned away from the door, glimpsing himself in the mirror above the sinks. Hunched, furtive, sneaky. ‘How did you know?’
‘The way you kept me at arm’s length. You used his name and I asked Alice, just to make sure.’
Jon lifted his chin, the weight of the secret suddenly gone.
‘Yeah, that was him.’ Emotion suddenly welled up and his throat muscles clamped about his voice box, choking the words before they could reach his mouth. He coughed twice, but when he spoke, there was still a tremor in his voice. ‘He’s gone, Rick. All those times I meant to find him and sort things out between us. I kept putting it off and now I’m too fucking late.’ His words petered out and he found himself staring down at the urinal’s gutter. That’s where I left you, he thought. Sloshing around with the dregs. You bastard, Jon. You total bastard.
‘Don’t beat yourself up, mate. I saw him too that time, remember? It was him pushing you away.’
‘I know. But he was in the mess, not me. I shouldn’t have let him fob me off like that. It was all he was ever going to do. I should have tried harder.’
‘Things aren’t that easy. Not if the person doesn’t want to be helped.’
Noises in the corridor. Batyra, Spiers and the jangle of keys. Jon raised his chin. ‘Lis
ten. Dave didn’t just die, he was murdered.’
Shock distorted Rick’s voice. ‘How?’
‘I’m trying to find out. All I’ve got at the moment is some kind of a link to poaching. Whoever killed him appears to have some local knowledge of it. I’m going to try looking into that, but I could do with you checking something with the homeless crowd.’
‘OK.’
‘I need to find a girl called Zoe. She could well knock around with that lot.’
‘Any description?’
‘She’s pretty, but thin. Catwalk kind of look. Black hair, canine teeth, overly pointed, like on a vampire.’
‘Got it. What’s the connection?’
‘I think she’s Dave’s other half. There’s a message from her on his phone and she mentions a name. Redino. It’s only guesswork at this stage, but I reckon he may well have played a part in Dave’s murder.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Out in Haverdale. I’ll be taking this week off. Compassionate leave. There was also a Scottish guy with that Booth Centre lot, may well be known as Jock. If he’s there, start with him. Know anyone in the drug squad?’
‘A couple.’
‘Can you get this Redino name checked on the quiet?’
‘Spelling?’
‘God knows. Got to go.’
The connection cut and Rick lowered his hand to look at the receiver while he tried to gather his thoughts. ‘Sorry,’ he eventually said, carefully replacing the handset and glancing at the two women sitting in silence on his leather sofa. ‘Work call, as you probably gathered.’
‘No problem,’ said the older one on the left with a smile. The black rectangular frames of her glasses lent her a slightly officious air, further reinforced by the harsh lines of her dark bob. ‘It must be such an interesting thing to be in, the police.’
Rick’s smile only touched one half of his mouth. ‘Interesting? That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Aside from the hours, of course,’ she hastily replied with a glance to the phone.
