Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

‘What did you watch?’ Janet asked.

He shrugged. ‘Dunno, can’t remember.’

‘Did you go out at all that evening?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure? Maybe to run an errand?’ she said.

‘No.’ That same vacant nonchalance.

‘If I told you that someone had seen you in the vicinity of the Old Chapel that evening, how would you explain that?’

‘They’re wrong.’

‘They are sure it was you, you and your brother,’ Janet said.

‘Can’t have been.’ The dull expression in his eyes hardened into something more intense, more acrimonious.

‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’

‘No.’

‘He looked a little like this.’ She passed him a photo, one created using software to age the original image and show how the subject would appear when he was older. ‘I am now showing Mr Perry exhibit PR31.’

‘No.’ He shook his head several times over.

‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick. He wore a leather cowboy hat.’

‘Never seen him.’

According to Liam Kelly, Richard Kavanagh was a familiar figure, walking around in all weathers, sometimes begging. Anyone who lived in the area would know him by sight.

‘You were charged with arson and spent time in a young offenders’ institution, that right?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And in that incident an accelerant was used to spread the fire. The same method as was used in the Old Chapel this week.’

‘You can’t put that on us.’

It was common for Mancunians to use ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. Leave us alone, get off us . But Janet suspected from his last words that Noel was talking about himself and his twin. It was important to focus on him and him alone, even if it messed with his mindset. Important from a legal standpoint.

‘Even though a witness saw you there?’

‘They’re lying,’ he said. He stared at her as if he’d stare her down. Janet smiled, deflecting his attempt to threaten her. The ideal situation in an interview was to try to create a bond, forge some connection, however unlikely that seemed. Given time and her skills, it was usually possible. But she’d a sense it might elude her with Noel Perry.

‘Tell me about your jacket,’ she said, ‘Class of 88. Where did you get it?’

He hesitated a fraction, then said, ‘Online, they make ’em to order. You tell ’em what you want.’

‘So they’re unique?’

‘I suppose,’ he said, frowning slightly. Realizing perhaps that unique might not be so great when it came to witness identification.

‘What website are they from?’

‘Don’t remember,’ he said.

‘We can check on your computer,’ Janet said. ‘Have you ever been in the Old Chapel?’

‘No.’

‘What about in the grounds, the land around it?’

‘No.’ He scratched his side again.

‘You possess a firearm, a gun?’

‘No,’ he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt comfortable, cocky about the weapon. Why?

‘Tell me what you did earlier on Wednesday.’

‘Just in the flat,’ he said.

‘Doing what?’

‘Gaming, with Neil.’

‘And the day before, Tuesday?’

‘Same,’ he said.

‘You’re unemployed,’ Janet said, ‘signing on?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded.

‘When did you last sign on?’

He took a slow breath, pulled a face, screwed up his eyes. ‘Monday,’ he said, eventually. ‘Last Monday.’

He was slow-witted, Janet saw, maybe a side effect of his lifestyle: drugs, steroids messing with his concentration. Or by nature. He was definitely on the slow side.

‘Thick as pigshit,’ Rachel said to Janet in the custody suite, ‘mine was. Starved of oxygen or inbred or something.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Janet hissed, flaring her eyes at Rachel, aware of a solicitor passing by on the way to the next call of duty.

He’d sat there, his big head reminding Rachel of a teddy bear, those old-fashioned ones, stuffed with straw or whatever, and he’d answered her in monosyllables. Saying the minimum. Less you said, less you could make a mistake. His longest reply in response to a question about his tattoos. He’d read out quotes on his forearms, ‘It is not truth that matters but victory,’ and ‘If you want to shine like the sun then first burn like it.’ Nodded and added, ‘Mein Kampf.’ Then pointed to his neck. ‘That’s a lion and that’s a unicorn.’ Rachel thought they looked like meerkats. Said nothing.

‘Not thick enough to admit being there, being involved,’ Janet said when they were alone. ‘But they’re both giving their nan as their alibi. Meanwhile Mam’s saying they were with her. Story’s all over the place. If they are our killers they’ve really not thought it through. Same old, same old,’ Janet said, gesturing to the stairs to indicate that they should go out for a bit.

‘I know,’ Rachel agreed. Most of the crimes they dealt with were sad, savage and often pointless. The culprits similar. Grubby little arguments leading to loss of life. Families riven by violence and raised on crime. She thought fleetingly of Dom, twenty-eight years. Pushed it away.

Rachel only had chance for half a fag, Janet keeping her company, before Kevin came down to find them. ‘Boss wants us all.’

‘Now?’ Rachel said.

‘If not sooner.’

Upstairs in the briefing room, Godzilla was looking perky, eyes sparkling, back ramrod straight, zinging with energy. We’ve got something, Rachel thought, must be. Something’s turned up. The weapon?

‘Neil Perry’s mobile phone,’ the boss said, straight in, no messing. One good thing about Godzilla, she never bothered with chit-chat or anything, it was all about the job, the case. Rachel got that, wanted to do it like that if she ever made it as far as SIO.

‘Chock-a-block with text messages. Many run-of-the-mill, to his very limited number of contacts. One of particular interest to an unregistered number last Monday evening, Tomorrow 830 Bobbins and to the same number the next evening, Here now .’

Bobbins was a pub in Coldhurst, known to the police who regularly attended when customers fell off their perches and started knocking lumps out of each other, or the fixtures and fittings. A series of managers had tried all sorts: home-cooked meals, family room, quiz night, disco, sounds of the 80s, pool table, large screen, but nothing seemed to change the quality of the clientele.

‘We want CCTV from the pub that Tuesday evening. Who was Neil Perry making arrangements with? Rachel, Janet,’ Godzilla turned to them, looking expectant, ‘initial impressions?’

‘Cautious,’ Rachel said, ‘but not that bright.’

The boss nodded. ‘I’d say leaving all your messages on your phone backs up that observation. Sandwich short of a picnic.’

‘We should check out the alibi, the gran,’ said Lee.

‘Where are we on the search, the forensics?’ Janet asked.

‘Nothing else of interest at the property, forensics have fast-tracked the hoodies, the jeans and trainers with them,’ Her Maj said.

‘We know the alibi is false even before we see Grandma,’ Rachel said. ‘I saw them and Mr Hicks saw them near the chapel, we know they’re lying about that.’

‘But if that’s all we have,’ Janet said, ‘we’ve nowhere else to go. They sit there swearing blind they weren’t around and we say the opposite. But if we can find another piece of solid evidence…’

‘Janet’s right,’ Godzilla said, ‘all we have at present is a sighting in the vicinity. We have nothing that puts them in the chapel, at the scene of the murder, nothing that puts a gun in their hands, nothing that connects them to this particular fire. Until we get that next step, we wait to interview them again. Let them twiddle their thumbs or whatever else.’ She grimaced. ‘Strike that image.’