Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

Rachel couldn’t face the idea of kicking her heels so she spoke up. ‘Boss, can I go to the grandma? Me and Janet?’

Janet gave a little nod, happy to go.

‘Fine by me,’ Her Maj said. ‘Get the CCTV from Bobbins as well.’

‘One thing,’ Janet said, ‘when I asked Noel about the gun, he was… confident. Like he knew that was safe.’

‘You’ve got a gun,’ the boss said, ‘you’ve commissioned a crime, you live in a tower block. You’ve not hidden it at home. Where’d you put it?’

‘Gran’s,’ said Kevin, which earned a laugh.

‘Or you get rid,’ said Rachel, ‘give it to someone to look after.’

‘That’s common practice in the gangs,’ Lee said.

‘Except Tweedledum and Tweedledee aren’t affiliates as far as we’ve been able to tell,’ the boss said, ‘nor do they have a wide social circle, judging by their phone book contacts and Facebook pages.’

Janet groaned.

‘You may well groan,’ the boss said, ‘a load of racist, homophobic codswallop with photos of this pair as avenging warriors. And atrocious punctuation. Gives new meaning to the fact that we are all descended from apes.’

‘We know they’re pally with the EBA,’ Mitch said, ‘they could have associates there to take the weapon.’

‘Or they flog it,’ Rachel said.

‘It could be an urban myth,’ Kevin spoke up, ‘but some of the kids are saying the Perrys set fire to a cat.’

A collective moan went up from around the table.

‘On that cheery note,’ the boss said, ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

As expected, Eileen Perry, the grandmother, was insistent that her grandsons had been with her on Wednesday evening. She was a tiny woman, with crooked teeth, oversize specs and arthritic hands, the knuckles swollen like spring onion bulbs.

‘They was here,’ she said, arms folded in the hallway. Janet noted that she’d allow them over the threshold of the small terraced house but not any further.

‘What time did they arrive?’ Janet asked.

‘Teatime.’

‘Which is when?’

‘Five,’ she said, ‘around then.’

‘And when did they leave?’ Janet said.

‘Thursday.’

‘What time?’

‘Don’t know. I was at work.’

‘You work?’ Janet said.

‘Cleaning,’ she said flatly.

‘Did they go out at all?’

‘No.’ Eileen Perry sighed.

‘What did you do?’

‘Watched telly,’ she said, with a note of disbelief at the question – what else would anyone ever do of an evening?

‘What about Tuesday, the day before, did you see them then?’ Janet asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they were here then and all.’

Wind it up and it walks, thought Janet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Perry, if you think of anything else, if there’s anything you remember,’ she stressed the word, just the right side of polite, ‘do get in touch.’ She held out her card.

Mrs Perry stared at it for long enough, then unfolded her arms and took it between one distorted thumb and finger. It’d be in the bin before they reached the pavement.

‘So she’s learned her lines and trots them out on cue,’ Janet said to Rachel as they got in the car. ‘Any date we care to mention, they were here. All night, she never slept.’

‘In fact they live here,’ Rachel chipped in, ‘24/7, never leave the house, never leave her sight.’

‘If these two turn out to be our shooters we could do the whole family for attempting to pervert the course of justice,’ Janet said. ‘Three generations.’

Bobbins, originally Bobbins Hotel, still had its old pub sign, showing a mill worker standing at a loom. There hadn’t been a working mill nearby for decades.

Snug and Taproom read the stained-glass windows either side of the entrance.

A handful of drinkers were scattered around the snug, a pair of men played darts in the taproom. The central hallway led past the rooms either side to a general lounge bar. There was a corridor off to the left near the bar, a sign pointing to toilets. The rooms were small, with low-beamed ceilings. Nothing like a gin palace, more like a cottage turned into a hostelry.

The woman behind the bar was reading a magazine. Janet noticed her nails, great long talons painted with an elaborate red and black design which, on first sight, looked like they’d been spattered with blood. I’ve been in this job too long , Janet thought.

Rachel explained what they wanted and the woman rang the manager, who said to go ahead – the tapes from previous days were in the office.

‘Were you working then?’ Rachel asked as the barkeep unlocked the office door and they edged in. The place was piled with cartons and folders and bits of broken furniture. The woman threaded her way through to the green metal filing cabinet.

‘Yes, five till twelve.’

‘You know the Perry twins?’ Janet said.

‘Twins?’ She looked up, the tapes in her hand. ‘No.’ No fear in her eyes, Janet saw, more curiosity. Perhaps this wasn’t one of their locals, it’d be a fair way to come from Manorclough and they didn’t have a car, as far as the police had established.

‘They may have been in here that Tuesday. Identical, five foot nine, bulky, blond, tattoos,’ Janet said.

‘I don’t remember any twins. Here you are.’ She found Tuesday’s tape and retraced her steps.

‘You just sign this, here.’ Janet passed her the form, describing the item they were removing.

‘What’s it all about then?’

‘The man found in the Old Chapel, Manorclough, Richard Kavanagh,’ Rachel said.

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘You heard anything?’ Janet said.

‘People talking about it.’ She shrugged.

‘Saying what?’ Janet said.

‘That he must have crossed someone, to be shot like that.’

‘He ever come in here?’ Rachel said.

‘Don’t think so. There’s some say it could be suicide.’

Janet stared at her. ‘He shot himself,’ she said, ‘twice?’

‘Exactly,’ the woman laughed. ‘That’s what I said but they won’t have it. Mental.’

Back at the station, Rachel and Janet viewed the tape. The CCTV was split screen, recording feeds from one camera outside the pub and three inside, covering the snug, the taproom, and one in the general bar area which also caught the corridor to the toilets.

The twins appeared outside the pub at eight twenty-five.

‘Behold,’ said Janet, her heart skipping a beat. The pub was busy, a game of pool in progress in the taproom, a large family group in the snug, a row of drinkers in the general bar. They could see the woman they’d met serving alongside a man, presumably the manager.

The twins spoke to each other and one of them pulled out his phone (Janet guessed it must be Neil), thumbs working over the keys, then nodded to his brother and went into the pub. Cameras picked him up at the end of the general bar area where one of the drinkers, phone in hand, turned and moved away from the bar, pocketing the phone as he walked to the gents. Neil Perry followed him.

‘Sex?’ said Rachel. ‘Drugs?’

‘I’ve seen that guy before.’ Janet frowned.

‘Give us a clue?’

‘Wait.’ Janet watched the film. Neil Perry emerged and left the pub, making a small fist, a gesture of celebration, as he reached his brother. The pair walked off camera.

Seconds later, the other man came out of the toilets and resumed his place at the bar, took up his paper and finished his drink. Then left. Speaking to no one.

‘I know that face,’ Janet said again.

‘Show Pete,’ Rachel suggested, ‘he worked on Coldhurst for a bit, didn’t he?’

Pete watched the footage, closed his eyes in thought, and then said, ‘Tandy. Gary… no, Greg. Bit of a fixer in his time.’