Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe) Page 12

  ‘I’ll ask you again, Connor, do you know where your dad is?’

  ‘No,’ he said hotly, ‘I told you.’

  His mother intervened. ‘He doesn’t. I don’t. That’s the truth.’

  Something off-key, Rachel thought. What? Do they really know where he is?

  Mitch obviously picked up on the atmosphere too. ‘You won’t have any objection to me checking that Mr Tandy isn’t in the house?’

  ‘You calling us liars?’ Connor said.

  ‘Connor,’ his mother said sharply, ‘leave it! Go ahead,’ she said to Mitch.

  Rachel followed and they scanned each room upstairs and down, finding no other occupants.

  ‘Look, I have to get to work,’ Gloria Tandy said.

  ‘Thanks, we’re done here,’ Rachel said.

  ‘There’s pizza in the freezer,’ his mother told Connor. ‘Here,’ she got money from her purse, ‘get some milk.’

  She dithered for a moment, uneasy about leaving them with the boy. So Rachel nodded to Mitch and they made a move outside. Mrs Tandy got into her own car, a tatty-looking Ford, and turned the engine over several times before it started.

  Connor emerged on his bike. He hesitated for a moment at the pavement’s edge then bounced his front wheel up and down.

  ‘What do you want him for anyway?’ he said, squinting a little. The sky was bright, the sun struggling to break through the clouds.

  ‘Just want to talk,’ Mitch said.

  ‘He might be able to help us,’ Rachel said.

  ‘About that murder?’

  ‘You heard anything about that?’ Rachel said.

  ‘I’m not a grass,’ the boy said quickly.

  ‘So you have?’ He looked down at his bike, twisted the handlebars this way and that. ‘You picked someone up, it said on the telly. Is it the Perrys?’

  The names had not been disclosed but it must have been easy enough for Connor to guess the ‘two twenty-two-year-old men’ were the twins, given their reputations and previous conviction for arson.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Rachel said, seeing if he’d let something slip.

  ‘A friend of mine, she seen them being arrested. Everyone knows it was them. It is, isn’t it?’

  Neither Mitch nor Rachel replied.

  Connor sniffed, ducked his head and hawked on the pavement. Nice.

  ‘How come people think the Perrys are involved?’ Rachel said.

  He jerked his shoulders up and down in a quick shrug. ‘My dad goes up the King’s on Wednesdays.’

  When he’s not inside?

  ‘Right,’ Rachel said. Was he trying to give his dad an alibi? Did he think he needed one? Did he imagine they wanted Tandy for the murder itself? ‘We just want to talk to him, you tell him when he gets back.’

  As they watched Connor speed off over the cobbles, Rachel said to Mitch, ‘Greg Tandy, he’s only been out nine days and already he’s back in the life.’

  ‘Doesn’t know anything else,’ Mitch said.

  ‘That lad’ll go the same way most likely, in his father’s footsteps.’

  ‘That’s it, look on the bright side,’ Mitch joked.

  She looked over to the ruined warehouse, across the strip of canal with junk floating on the surface.

  What bright side? she thought. Buggered if I can spot it.

  Close to dawn, Janet had gone back with Elise to Vivien and Ken’s. Ken, in the kitchen on the phone, had begun to alert the wider family to the tragedy. His deep voice rumbled in the background.

  Vivien was agitated, exhausted too. Circles under her eyes, hands shaking. Her mother was on her way, their son, away at uni, was getting the first train.

  We all want our mothers, Janet thought, when something like this happens. That comfort, that unconditional love.

  ‘She just collapsed?’ Vivien said, uncomprehending.

  Elise looked at Janet. Janet nodded – tell her.

  ‘Like she had a fit,’ said Elise. ‘Her eyes … went back in her head and she was jerking about.’

  ‘You were out?’ Vivien asked Janet. Her face crumpled with incomprehension.

  Out? ‘Still at work,’ Janet said, ‘Elise rang me at ten thirty.’

  ‘What about Adrian?’ Vivien said.

  ‘He was with Taisie at home,’ Janet said.

  ‘And the girls? Olivia was sleeping over.’

  Janet’s heart sank. Elise closed her eyes, tensed her mouth, fighting tears.

  ‘We thought Elise was staying at yours after the party,’ Janet said. ‘We didn’t know you were away.’

  ‘What party?’ Vivien said.

  Oh Christ. It just gets worse and worse. She should’ve checked, she should have rung and spoken to Vivien, she should not have taken Elise’s word for it. I trusted her. I trusted her and now this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Elise said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  It was mid-morning when Janet finally got Elise home and rang Gill.

  ‘All right,’ Gill answered breezily, ‘it’d better be good.’

  A beat of silence, Janet thinking, Oh God. ‘Elise’s friend, Olivia, there was a party last night. Olivia died.’

  ‘Middleton Road,’ Gill said, quick as a flash, ‘drug-related.’

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Division’s got it. Oh, Janet, I am so sorry. How’s Elise?’

  ‘You can imagine. So I probably need to stay with—’

  ‘Of course. Don’t even think about doing anything else. High profile,’ Gill said, ‘could get kicked up to MIT.’

  ‘I know,’ said Janet.

  ‘We couldn’t take it, I don’t think,’ Gill added, ‘not on top of everything else. If we did you wouldn’t be anywhere near it.’

  ‘I know that.’ A conflict of interest. With Elise a potential witness and Janet being close to the victim and family, any official involvement by Janet could prejudice the inquiry.

  ‘Legal high apparently. Fucking drugs, eh?’ Gill said. ‘The family have been informed?’

  ‘Her parents, yes, still people to contact,’ Janet said.

  ‘OK. I’ll let everyone know the situation.’

  ‘Thanks, Gill.’

  Gill put the phone down, thinking of Elise, of the dead girl. All that promise, a whole life snuffed out. She thought of the lectures she herself had given Sammy. People equated legal with safe. But the drugs were anything but. Horse tranquillizers, plant food. A cocktail of chemicals untested and with unpredictable effects. The police, the law, were constantly playing catch-up, banning those substances linked to death or serious side effects, but it was always too little, too late. The manufacturers could take the same recipe, tweak it, alter one ingredient or the proportion of others and hey presto it was legal again. Potentially deadly.

  Her phone rang. She sat up straighter and answered, ‘Gill Murray.’

  ‘Rita in forensics. Good news.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘As you know, there was no gunshot residue on the swabs from the two suspects, however—’

  ‘I love that word, however,’ Gill said.

  ‘However,’ Rita laughed, ‘we did find gunshot residue particles on the right-hand wrist cuff and sleeve seam of Neil Perry’s hooded jacket and on the right wrist cuff of Noel Perry’s jacket. The wrist is ribbed and particles were trapped there.’

  Gill knew the physics. The act of firing a gun generated a powerful cloud of dust that settled on the hands, forearm and front of the person using it, but the residue was heavy and soon dropped off unless the structure or design trapped it. For that reason cuffs, pockets, seams, zips and buttons were all places worth examining. And if the suspects put their hands in their pockets they could transfer GSR there from the hands.

  ‘Of course, we can’t give you a time frame,’ the forensics woman said. ‘But it tells you they each fired a weapon at some point recently.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Gill said, ‘absolutely bloody perfect.’

  15

  Rachel began wit
h the weapon. ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘No.’ The sore by Neil Perry’s mouth was bigger, more inflamed. She imagined him picking away at it all night in his cell.

  ‘Have you ever fired a gun?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think carefully,’ she said.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am now showing the suspect document 15. This is a report from the forensic science lab. Tests were carried out on your clothing. The report notes gunshot residue on your hoodie. Can you explain that to me?’

  There was a light in his eyes. He was enjoying it, the fucking toe-rag. Most of the scrotes she interviewed, there was resentment or rage, derision, but behind that there were flashes of fear and anxiety or horror at what they’d done. But with Neil Perry there’d been no whiff of that. It went beyond cocky. Something missing, Rachel reckoned, something wrong with his wiring.

  ‘No idea.’ He gave a slow shrug.

  ‘Not something you’re likely to forget, firing a weapon. Noisy, deafening actually. You still don’t remember?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She wanted to wipe the smile from his face. It seemed like the tighter the corner he was boxed into, the more he relished it.

  ‘This report also analyses the distribution of the gunshot residue particles. The greatest concentration are on the cuff of your right wrist, inside and out, and in the stitching of the lining up to the elbow. The only way you get that pattern of dispersal is when you fire a weapon. How do you account for that?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said, ‘weird, innit?’

  Rachel moved the report to one side, took a slow breath in and out then another. She placed a second report on the table.

  ‘I am now showing Mr Perry document 19. This is another report from our forensics lab, detailing trace materials found on your clothes. Tests found traces of accelerant, namely petrol, on your trainers and your jeans. How did that get there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘There were splashes of the petrol on the front of your jeans. According to the forensic investigators, this pattern is consistent with what would be found when someone was throwing petrol from a container in order to start a fire. Is that how it got on your jeans?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Could’ve been a barbecue,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The petrol, maybe we used it to get a barbie going.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’ A slack smile on his face.

  He was pratting about but she knew she mustn’t let him get her back up and interfere with the agreed strategy for the interview. ‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The victim of the shooting in the Old Chapel.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head.

  ‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick.’

  ‘Didn’t know him,’ he said. Still the denial.

  ‘Tall man, long hair, wore a cowboy-type hat.’

  ‘I don’t know no manky dosser, they eat crap out of bins, full of fleas, in’t they. They eat roadkill.’ If Kavanagh had been anything like Rachel’s father, food would be an incidental, an add-on to be considered once the savage need for a bevvy had been attended to.

  ‘A quantity of illegal drugs were recovered from your room,’ Rachel said. ‘Can you tell me where you obtained them?’ They had debated whether to introduce the drugs or not. Godzilla thought they should. The possibility of a drugs war, robbery or a deal gone sour could still give them motive.

  ‘But we’ve nothing to put Kavanagh next to drugs,’ Rachel had argued.

  ‘Yet,’ the boss said. ‘Could be a dead end but we go down it and have a good root around and find out instead of just ignoring it.’

  Neil Perry laughed and scratched again. Hope he’s got scabies, Rachel thought, and felt her skin prickle in response.

  ‘Was it your intention to supply drugs to others?’ she said.

  ‘No, personal use only,’ he said.

  ‘Excessive amounts for personal use.’

  ‘Bulk buy,’ he said, ‘like with the cash and carry, makes sense.’

  So he’d cop for possession but Rachel wasn’t interested in that, she wanted him for murder.

  ‘Tell me about Wednesday,’ she said.

  ‘Went to my gran’s.’

  ‘We have an independent witness who saw you on Low Bank Road at twenty past seven in the evening,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Can’t have,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘We also have an independent witness who can place you in the grounds of the Old Chapel ten minutes later, at half past seven that evening.’

  ‘They’re lying.’

  So it went on and on, round and round until Rachel felt dizzy.

  Gill was preparing notes in support of the application for a warrant of further detention. The court, specially convened as it was a Sunday, would want to know what inquiries had been made and why more time was needed.

  She sketched out her summary of the evidence, the narrative she would present.

  She started with the eyewitness sightings of Noel and Neil Perry: Councillor Bleaklow placed them in the centre of Manorclough on Low Bank Road at twenty past seven, Mr Hicks in the chapel grounds at half past seven and Rachel had seen them in the alley at twenty past eight. All those sightings contradicted the alibis given by both mother and grandmother, which in turn contradicted each other.

  However, Gill drummed her nails on the desk: eyewitness testimony rested to a great extent on the clothing worn by the suspects. And although the jackets were distinctive and had to be ordered specially online, they might not be the only ones in existence. But then what were the odds of two people, identical in height and weight, within five hundred yards of the Perrys’ flat and the scene of the murder, wearing similar jackets?

  Next was the preparatory act, the meeting with Greg Tandy, a man out on licence after serving a sentence for firearms offences. That still begged many questions, not least what the meeting had been about. While the police suspected Tandy of supplying the gun to the brothers, it was only a suspicion, no hard evidence to support it.

  Much stronger was the forensic evidence: gunshot residue on the clothing of both suspects indicated the use of a firearm. No time could categorically be given as to when the gun had been fired but Gill was sure that they would be able to secure expert opinion that, taking into account the amount of particles found, the incident had been recent, a matter of days rather than weeks or months.

  The presence of petrol traces, in significant amounts, on the jeans and trainers of the brothers, petrol containing the same additives as in that used to start the fire, while not conclusive was persuasive evidence. They shared everything, she thought, the gunshots, one each, taking turns, chucking the petrol about. In it together.

  What was still missing was motive. No known link between the parties. Could it be a stranger murder? They often occurred as a result of fights, fuelled by booze, testosterone and rampant stupidity. Men were twice as likely to be the victims. Or predator killings. Was this one of those? She would talk to Lee again about the psychology of the crime. He could do the next interview with Noel if Janet was still off. Focus on that line of questioning for a while.

  Gill stretched her arms, reaching up towards the ceiling, flexing her fingers. She checked the time, texted Sammy that she wasn’t sure when she’d be home and not to save her any casserole, then she began to type up her report.

  Rachel was on the doorstep, looking slightly sheepish.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to come,’ she said. ‘If now is not good—’

  ‘No, come in,’ Janet said, glad to see her.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Taisie bobbed out from the kitchen. ‘Hi, Rachel.’

  ‘All right. How you doing?’ Rachel said.


  Taisie adored Rachel, had a girl crush on her, and clung like a limpet whenever Rachel called round.

  ‘I’m good.’ Taisie nodded. ‘I’m in the school play. And I got on the football team.’

  ‘Get you!’ Rachel said and Taisie beamed and blushed; all the mardy, awkward, bolshie side of her had disappeared.

  ‘Who is it?’ Janet’s mum came into the hall from the lounge. ‘Oh,’ her voice fell with disappointment. If Taisie thought Rachel was the bee’s knees, Dorothy thought she was a walking disaster.

  ‘It’s Rachel, Mum.’ Dorothy just didn’t get the friendship. Not that Janet did all the time. She and Rachel didn’t always see eye to eye on things. They were at different stages of life, different backgrounds, but something just clicked.

  ‘We’re off to get some air,’ Janet said.

  ‘At this hour?’ Dorothy said.

  ‘They called it walking the dog in my day,’ Ade grumbled from the living room. In my day? He talked like an old fogey sometimes.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Janet said, glancing at Rachel who looked lairy, wondering if she’d put her foot in it. Janet gave her a little nod, it’s OK. Grabbed her coat.

  ‘It’s raining,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘It’s stopped, actually,’ Rachel pointed out.

  Dorothy rolled her eyes. Before there could be any more sniping Janet opened the front door and got them out of the house.

  She took a gulp of air, cool, damp, and another.

  ‘How is she?’ Rachel took her arm.

  ‘Asleep now. Oh God, I need a drink. Come on.’ As they walked up to the junction where the pub was, Janet filled her in. ‘You know Elise never puts a foot wrong, quick to point the finger, moral high ground and all that, then … it’s like she’s fallen off a cliff, Rachel.’ She thought of the look on Elise’s face, the deep sadness but worse than that the shame. ‘She lied to us about everything, about this party, she said there was a group going and everyone’s parents had said yes. But Vivien and Ken, Olivia’s parents, had gone off on a romantic weekend in Edinburgh thinking Olivia was having a sleepover at our house. Next thing they know, Olivia is dead. And of course Elise had told us she was staying at Olivia’s.’