Cath Staincliffe: Ruthless

There were eight units altogether, two-storey buildings. Two blocks of four with a gap in the middle that led to an alleyway behind. Chippy, newsagent cum off-licence, hairdresser, then an empty unit either side of the cut-through, a pound shop which covered half the pavement in brightly coloured plastic boxes, baskets and bins, Soapy Joe’s and beyond that the tancab.

The launderette was noisy and humid, a bank of washing machines down one side, several in use, dryers at the far end, bench seating and areas to fold clothes. The smell of detergent and fabric conditioner and hot metal.

One customer sat on the benches, intent on her phone. Mrs Muhammad emerged from the door at the back. ‘Police?’ she asked Janet. Janet nodded.

‘We’ll go outside,’ Mrs Muhammad said, ‘can’t hear yourself think in here.’ She pulled up her headscarf and threw the length over her shoulder to hold it in place.

Janet checked Mrs Muhammad’s details and asked her to describe what she’d seen on Wednesday night.

‘I’d just got back from here and I was putting the youngest to bed, he’s at the front in the boys’ room. I went to draw the curtains and I could see smoke coming across the road, from the chapel.’

‘You didn’t see anything unusual before that?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’ Janet was thinking of the gunshots.

‘No. I looked to make sure, you know, then rang the fire brigade. By then there was even more smoke. Now they’re saying this bloke died in there.’ She looked at Janet, keen, curious.

‘That’s right. Did you ever see people going into the building or in the grounds?’

‘Now and then. Not often, you know. I don’t know how they’d get in. Wire fence all round,’ she said, ‘and the building is all boarded up.’ Her eyes flicked over Janet’s shoulder and narrowed. She stepped to one side and yelled, ‘Oy, Rabia. Get here, now!’

Janet turned to see a teenage version of Mrs Muhammad in black jeans, a white blouse and spike-heeled boots, carrying a large sequined bag.

The girl hesitated – she was at the end of the row of shops – then walked up, her heels smacking on the pavement.

‘Why aren’t you in college?’ her mother snapped as she drew close.

‘Free period,’ the girl said, contemptuously. ‘I’m going back after.’

‘Make sure you do,’ Mrs Muhammad said.

‘I will. I said.’ The girl scowled. ‘OK?’ She spun around and stalked off.

‘Girls,’ Mrs Muhammad breathed, ‘ten times more trouble. You got kids?’

‘Two,’ Janet said, ‘girls.’

‘Good luck with that,’ she said and Janet smiled.

‘People trespassing?’ Janet prompted her.

‘Oh right, so sometimes there’s been kids in, not recently. Don’t know why they’d bother, what’s there to do in there, all weeds, i’nt it? It were a right blaze.’ She shook her head, patted at the scarf on her shoulder. ‘The house still stank even with all the windows shut.’

‘There have been other fires started deliberately?’ Janet said.

‘Yeah, the mosque, the school. It’s not good,’ she said. ‘Thought it was racists, the mosque, you know, but the school, we all use the school. What’s all that about? And this,’ she tipped her head in the direction of the Old Chapel, ‘well, it’s not good, is it? Who could do that to a person? That is really horrible.’

‘Are you aware of anyone causing problems in the area, antisocial behaviour, that sort of thing?’ Janet said.

‘You always get a few.’ She grimaced.

‘Can you think of anyone we should be talking to?’

Her expression altered slightly, becoming guarded, suspicious. ‘No,’ she said.

Janet wasn’t sure whether she resented the implication that she might know criminal elements in the area or whether she did know and was frightened to say so.

Rachel spoke to the residents at numbers six and eight Low Bank Road, all of whom had seen the blaze but nothing else. She recognized the woman at number six, she’d been there with the buggy and all her kids. The bloke at number ten, Mr Hicks, was housebound. He thought he had seen someone going down the side of the chapel. Running. ‘I think there were two of them,’ he said.

As soon as she asked for more details he faltered.

‘Men?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Black, white?’

‘More likely Pakis round here,’ he said.

‘Could you tell?’ asked Rachel.

‘No.’

‘Height?’ Thinking of the victim who was six foot tall. Might he have seen the victim and someone chasing him?

‘Couldn’t say,’ Mr Hicks replied.

‘What were they wearing?’

His rheumy gaze brightened, like some part of his brain had coughed into life. ‘Them jackets.’

‘Jackets?’ Rachel said. ‘What like?’

‘Football,’ he said.

‘Football strip?’ Hardly counted as jackets.

‘No,’ he sneered. ‘American football.’ What the fuck did American footballers wear?

‘Wi’ hoods.’

Hoodies? Rachel’s sense of progress evaporated. ‘You mean hoodies?’ That would rule in most of the local youth and half their parents.

‘Like…’ he waved one crabby fist, thumb and fingers together as though holding the answer, ‘… baseball.’

Make your mind up.

‘Wi’ numbers on,’ he said.

Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. The couple she’d seen in the alley, puffing billies. Class of 88. ‘Both of them had these jackets?’ she asked.

‘One did, the other was further away and these glasses aren’t so good, need a new prescription from the optician. But how am I supposed to get there? They expect me to fork out for a taxi?’ Shit eyesight didn’t exactly make him prime witness material but still.

‘You make out the numbers?’ Rachel said.

‘Two fat ladies.’

‘Eighty-eight,’ Rachel supplied.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘What time was this?’

‘About half past seven. Half an hour later it’s all on fire.’

Rachel left him and headed for the shops, the buzz that comes with a promising lead simmering beneath her skin.

She found Janet at the parade. ‘Witness sighting of intruders in the chapel grounds,’ Rachel said. ‘The description matches two lads I saw down here last night. Wore hoodies with matching numbers on the back.’

‘A gang thing?’ Janet said.

‘No idea.’

‘Worth asking about,’ Janet said, ‘see if we can get names. I’ve spoken to the launderette, that’s where Mrs Muhammad works, and I’ve done the tancab. I’ll do the hairdresser’s if you take the off-licence and the chip shop.’

The off-licence cum newsagent was staffed by a young white guy with elaborate tattoos on both forearms and around his neckline. Rachel had noticed the CCTV camera outside the shop overlooking the entrance, and another behind the counter. ‘The cameras working?’ she asked him once she’d flashed her warrant card and noted his name. Liam Kelly.

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll take any recordings from last night.’

‘Sure,’ he said.

She asked him about the fire but he couldn’t tell her much. The shop was open until ten so he had heard about the fire but not seen anything till after he’d locked up.

‘You know anything about the Old Chapel, people breaking in there?’

‘No.’ He looked up as the door buzzer went and a woman came in. She picked up a copy of the Sun , asked for twenty fags, paid and left. Once they were alone again Rachel asked him about trouble in the area.

‘What, like the shop being done four times in as many months?’ he said.

‘Your community policing team-’