Alex Walters - Nowhere To Hide

‘In some people’s eyes. Not in everyone’s, I imagine.’

‘Your case was a little more spectacular than mine.’

‘Not through choice,’ Salter said. ‘I just didn’t know what I was taking on. Nearly went completely tits up. The outcome was the same for both of us.’

‘A corrupt copper exposed. I guess so. My case wasn’t so clear-cut. Apparently.’

‘No. Well, things rarely are, are they?’ Salter paused, a smile playing softly across his lips. ‘Unless you’re actually caught with your hands in the till.’

Brennan nodded, accepting that Salter was just playing games. He’d come across plenty like Salter over the years. Smart-arse graduate types who maybe weren’t quite as smart as they thought, but who enjoyed yanking people around until they were found out. Christ, he’d probably been one of them himself, though it hadn’t felt like it.

‘Is that why I’m here, then?’ Brennan said. ‘Birds of a feather, and all that. Or did you just feel sorry for me?’

‘Not my call. Though of course you’re just what we needed. Like I say, the really experienced investigators are getting thin on the ground here. We’re up to our ears in ex-Revenue types. They’ve been only too keen to stay with us. Well, it’s more fun than chasing up some dodgy builder for accepting too much cash in hand. No, it’s the honest-to-goodness coppers we’re short of.’

‘So now you’ve found an honest-to-goodness copper, what exactly do you want to do with me?’

Salter pushed himself slowly to his feet and walked over to the window. The meeting room was in the Manchester regional office, an anonymous industrial building in the furthest corner of an equally nondescript industrial estate, somewhere in the far reaches of Trafford Park. The window looked out over the rear of a small-scale distribution company – a couple of lorries lined up for loading, a forklift truck, a couple of piles of poorly stacked pallets. ‘Kevin Sheerin,’ Salter said.

‘Go on.’

‘You knew him?’

‘We all knew him. Not that any of us particularly wanted to. Small time dealer. Occasional grass. No one’s friend; probably a few people’s enemy.’

‘And now no longer with us.’

‘Hit and run. Back streets of Stockport. Sheerin, pissed out of his head, fell into the road and was hit by a car. Driver didn’t stop. Not entirely sure I blame him.’

‘Accident, then?’

‘Christ knows. Like I say, Sheerin had made a few enemies. Grassed up a few of the wrong people. Got away with it as long as he did only because he was so small-time. But he might well have pissed off one person too many. Not worth wasting a lot of resources on, either way.’

‘So you weren’t treating it as murder?’

‘We were treating it as a hit and run. Inquest gave an open verdict. We made the usual efforts to find the driver – CCTV, any witnesses. But no dice yet, as far as I know.’

‘Is Stockport Sheerin’s usual stamping ground?’

‘No. He’s more of an inner-city Manc type. Cheetham Hill. That’s another reason he survived as long as he did – kept on the right side of the people who matter up there.’

‘So he was off piste when he was killed?’

‘Off piste and well pissed. Definitely. We checked out the local pubs. Found a couple of witnesses who remembered him knocking back the pints earlier in the evening. Was with a few others, but nobody knew who they were. Or so they said.’ Brennan leaned back in the hard chair and stretched out his legs. ‘Who knows? Might have been there on business, might have just gone out for a quiet pint or two with his mates.’

‘In Stockport?’

‘It’s been known. Apparently. Though I’d stick to the real ale in the Crown. Is all this going somewhere?’

‘Last case you were working on, before we called on your services.’ Salter turned from the window. ‘Stephen Kenning.’

‘This your specialist subject? Recent cases of the Greater Manchester Police, Metropolitan Division?’

‘Maybe. How am I doing?’

‘Seems to me you’re asking all the questions.’

Salter lowered himself back into the seat opposite Brennan. ‘Okay, here’s another one. Your starter for ten. Tell me about Stephen Kenning.’

‘Another grass. Big time, though. Blew the whistle on a major drugs ring in Longsight, four or five years back. Was in witness protection, living all by himself in a little cottage out in the Peaks.’

‘Picturesque.’

‘Not this bit. But there was a decent view. So you could see anyone coming from a mile away. Except that he didn’t.’

‘No. Shot three times, I understand.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Pro job. It was a couple of weeks before anyone found him. Postman noticed the smell eventually.’

‘Anyone in the frame for it?’

‘You must know the answer to that,’ Brennan said. ‘You seem to know quite a lot about all this.’

‘Don’t pretend you share everything with the likes of us. Any more than we share everything with the likes of you.’

‘In this case, there was nothing to share. I mean, it’s obvious who’s behind it. But we can’t prove any link, and we were never going to get near whoever actually pulled the trigger.’

‘And it took a burden off your hands,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Pain in the arse, witness protection.’

‘If you say so.’ Brennan’s face was expressionless. ‘Anyway, we’d reached a dead end.’

‘This drugs ring,’ Salter said. ‘You know who the key players were?’

‘We know who went inside. That doesn’t mean they were the key players. We took it as far as we could with our resources. I imagine you lot would have the bigger picture. What was it you said about not sharing stuff with the likes of us?’

‘We just try to make connections. Name Jeff Kerridge mean anything to you?’

Brennan looked up. ‘Not as much as he means to you. He was the guy you shot?’

‘Yeah. He was the guy who’d got our corrupt cop on the payroll. They tried to kill me. Then, like you say, I killed him.’

‘You’re saying that it was Kerridge behind the drugs ring?’

‘Kerridge didn’t leave any more fingerprints than he could help. Looks that way, though.’

‘But if Kerridge is dead, who killed Stephen Kenning?’

‘Interesting question, isn’t it?’

‘Another interesting question.’ Brennan fingered the file he’d placed on the table at the start of the meeting. ‘What does all this have to do with our two fall guys in North Wales? I’m assuming you didn’t send me out there just to enjoy the scenery?’

‘Christ, no. Just wanted an objective view on what they were up to. Don’t trust those Welsh bastards to share any more than they need to.’

‘Well, they were very polite, just not very forthcoming. They gave me the basics, but not much more.’ Brennan flipped over the file. ‘Two bodies. One was a small-time crook, known to them. Name of Mo Tallent. The other’s still unidentified. Not on their records. Not yet reported missing.’

‘Nice to be loved,’ Salter commented. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

‘Looked like a warning to me. Somebody frightening off the competition.’

‘But the local plods claim they don’t know who Tallent was likely to be working for?’

‘When did you leave the diplomatic corps? Or have you forgotten that I’m still officially a local plod?’

‘Ah, but not a Welsh one. Sad thing is, they’re probably telling the truth. I bet they really don’t know.’

Brennan shrugged. ‘Don’t really believe that, though, do you? They must have an idea who Tallent worked for. The DI over there told me that everyone had clammed up. Probably so. But the local plods will have a decent idea which clams are worth prising open. A better idea than you, at any rate.’ Brennan flicked through the handful of papers in the file – witness statements, scene of crime reports, all the routine bumf, but nothing that was likely to be helpful. ‘So, yes, if you want my honest opinion, I reckon he was holding something back. Probably no great significance in that, though. He most likely just couldn’t see why he should share his speculations with a bunch who think the Welsh are largely bumbling sheep-shaggers. Not that he was Welsh, as it happens.’ Brennan paused, as if a new thought had suddenly struck him. ‘In much the same way, I imagine, as you’re not bothering to share your speculations with a local plod like me. Or, at least, you’re taking your time getting round to it.’