Cath Staincliffe: Ruthless

‘Is a fucking joke,’ he interrupted, ‘and you lot couldn’t catch a cold.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way but I’m dealing with a major incident.’ Before he could moan any more Rachel said, ‘We’d like to talk to two individuals who wear matching hoodies, eighty-eight printed on the back and a picture of an eagle.’ Something like dislike slithered through his eyes, the Celtic knot at the base of his throat rippled. ‘The Perry brothers,’ he said, ‘twins.’

‘They live around here?’

He nodded. ‘Beaumont House, the tower block.’

‘They trouble?’ Rachel said.

‘The community policing team will tell you all about it.’ She gave him a grin.

‘They don’t come in here,’ he said, ‘they’re banned.’

‘How come? They nicking stuff?’

‘Not that so much,’ Liam Kelly replied, ‘threatening people, nutters, idiots the pair of them.’

‘How old?’

‘Nineteen, twenty,’ he ventured. ‘Look,’ he gestured to a stack of boxes, crisps and fizzy drinks, ‘I’ve stuff to sort.’

‘Nearly done,’ Rachel said. ‘You got that tape?’ He fetched it for her and she was about to leave when she heard a door out the back being unlocked and then a slam. A black woman with dreadlocks, wearing combat pants and a green vest, came in, saying, ‘Liam, that stuff’s still out there, shall I chuck it?’

‘Give him another hour, then take it to the food bank.’

The woman glanced at Rachel, able to tell she wasn’t just a passing customer or a rep pushing confectionery. ‘Feeding strays,’ she explained.

‘Dogs?’ Rachel said.

‘No – people.’ The woman laughed. She had a missing tooth. ‘But I think it’s only Rick that takes it.’

‘Stuff past its sell-by date,’ said Liam Kelly.

‘I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not,’ the woman said.

‘Better than giving him money to piss away on booze,’ he replied.

‘Softy at heart.’ She punched his arm.

‘Get off.’ But there was affection in his tone. ‘Police, about the murder,’ he gestured to Rachel. ‘This is Mels.’

‘You see the fire?’ Rachel asked.

‘Some. I was doing cash and carry,’ Mels said, ‘got back and it was all going up. You think it’s a drug thing? They say he was shot.’

‘We don’t know what’s behind it yet. But if you do hear anything, I’d really appreciate it if you got in touch.’ She handed over her card.

The chippy was busy. Rachel ignored the queue and the muttered complaints as she barged to the front and spoke to the Chinese woman serving, telling her she wanted to talk to her about the incident at the Old Chapel.

‘OK.’ She called out something Rachel couldn’t follow and her husband, Rachel assumed, came out from the back and took over at the counter so Rachel could talk to Mrs Lin, who spoke reasonable English. They were working until eleven but their son had told them about the fire. They’d no CCTV and she had no idea who might have been involved in the murder or the fire.

‘What about other trouble?’ Rachel said. ‘In the shop?’

Mrs Lin pulled a face, shook her head. When Rachel referred to the spate of break-ins next door, to the other arson attacks, all she said was, ‘Kids. It’s kids, yes. Very bad.’

Questions about the Perry twins were met with quick, vehement shakes of the head as if she was barely listening to what Rachel was saying. The husband’s approach to serving was heavy-handed, slamming chips on to trays, shovelling fish on top, banging the parcels on the counter top for the customer.

‘I wanted scraps,’ the person at the front of the line said loudly.

The man barked something in Chinese and his wife pulled another face. ‘Finished?’ she said to Rachel.

Rachel briefly considered asking for chips and curry sauce but thought it best not to give the locals anything else to grumble about. ‘For now.’

‘You here about that murder?’ a woman at the back of the queue called out.

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘Can you help?’

‘Me? No.’

‘If anyone can,’ Rachel said, addressing them all, ‘there will be a mobile incident van setting up in the area any time soon. And if anyone is aware of a person missing from home please let us know.’

Coming out of the chip shop, Rachel saw the lad on the stunt bike who had been among the crowd at the fire, cycling her way on the wrong side of the road. Numpty.

‘Hey,’ she called out as he mounted the pavement, braked and slung his bike down. ‘You want to watch that, get yourself killed.’

‘Fuck off,’ he said and spat on the floor.

‘Charming,’ said Rachel. She showed him her warrant card. ‘DC Bailey, Manchester Metropolitan-’ Before she completed the sentence, he snatched his bike and was riding over the roundabout and off along Tanners Back Lane.

Rachel went after him. He was faster than she was and he knew the area so she expected to lose him. But then as he reached the junction with Derby Fold Lane an HGV roared past. The boy didn’t have time to stop, maybe his brakes weren’t working, so he pulled the bike up to do a wheelie and went over backwards, skidding across the road with the bike on top of him. The lorry drove on oblivious.

Rachel caught up to the boy and pulled the bike off him. He scooted to the side of the road, swearing repeatedly and rocking in pain. His arm was skinned, elbow to wrist, and his cheek cut and bruised.

‘Why did you run?’ Rachel said, crouching down.

‘’Cos you were chasing us,’ he said. ‘Not until you scarpered, I wasn’t.’

He winced, twisting his arm over to look at the damage.

‘Nothing broken,’ Rachel said.

‘You a bleeding doctor?’

‘No, but I’m a trained first-aider. Just watch the attitude,’ she said.

‘Huh?’ he grunted. He puffed himself up. ‘You nearly got us killed.’

‘That’s not on me. You ought to do your cycling proficiency. Rules of the road. You get a certificate,’ she teased him.

A twitch that might just have been a smile.

‘What’s your name?’

He squinted at her, blue eyes alert. ‘Connor.’

‘Connor who?’

‘Connor Tandy.’

‘Right.’ She stood up. ‘I’m investigating the murder of a man found in the remains of the Old Chapel after last night’s fire.’

‘So?’

‘So. You were there,’ she said.

‘I was not!’ he said, shocked.

‘Not there, there,’ she said. She pointed. ‘You were watching the fire, last night.’

‘So. It’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Did you see anything? Do you know anything?’

‘Like what?’ He studied his injury again.

Rachel sighed. ‘Anything suspicious?’

‘No.’

‘You heard any rumours?’ she said.

‘I’m not a fucking grass.’ He touched his cheek, gingerly.

‘So you have heard something?’

‘No.’ He got to his feet, limping slightly.

‘Can you wiggle your toes?’ Rachel said.

He just glared at her and bent for his bike.

‘Any idea who he might be, the man who was killed?’

He shook his head.

‘How old are you?’ Rachel said.

‘Sixteen.’

‘I can check.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Not in school?’

‘Off sick,’ he said.

‘How’s that then?’ Rachel said.

‘Hurt my arm.’ He showed her the fresh scrape, beaded with blood.

She fought a smile. Cheeky little bastard .

‘Where d’you live?’

He sighed. ‘Manton Road.’

‘You know it’s an offence to lie to a police officer?’

‘It’s God’s truth,’ he said, outraged again.

‘And you not knowing anything about the murders, that true?’

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘you fucking deaf?’