Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe) Page 8

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ She was genuinely mystified.

  ‘To … just to see you.’

  ‘You were drunk,’ she said.

  ‘I’d had a couple—’

  ‘No! Just listen to yourself. It’s out of control. You’re out of control. You need help.’

  He barked a laugh, humourless.

  ‘I don’t want you coming here, drunk. If it happens again, I will press charges.’

  ‘Bitch,’ he said.

  White-hot rage flooded through her. It took every ounce of self-control not to fly at him, knock him off his chair. Wordlessly she took his car keys from the drawer, dropped them on the table. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Look, we can—’

  ‘Get out,’ she repeated, ‘get the fuck out and don’t come back.’

  Janet felt weighed down, her movements hampered by the protective vest. They waited in cars parked outside Beaumont House, the tower block where the Perry twins lived.

  Rachel yawned, which set Janet off.

  ‘Keep you awake, did he?’ Janet asked.

  Rachel gave her a dead stare.

  ‘Pardon me for breathing,’ Janet said.

  Word came to move in and they filed up the stairs, following the trained firearm unit in their Darth Vader outfits. Janet and Rachel stopped on the fifth-floor stairwell while the specialists went up to the next level.

  They heard the thumping of the ram on the door, then the shouted instructions. ‘Police, police, get on the floor, on the floor. Lie down. Now. Hands on your head.’

  A woman was yelling. ‘What’s going on? Leave them alone. Get your fucking hands off me.’

  ‘The mother?’ Janet said.

  Once the suspects were restrained and a sweep of the flat had been done to check for booby traps, hazards and other occupants, Janet and Rachel and the search team were able to enter.

  In the living room, Noel and Neil Perry had been cautioned, cuffed and were flanked by uniformed officers. They were identical: pale-blue eyes, golden-blond hair cropped close. Large square heads, bulked-up bodies. Not particularly tall, maybe five foot nine, but strong looking. They both wore striped boxers and vests. They had matching tattoos on their forearms, words in a fancy script that Janet couldn’t decipher. Pictures inked on the side of their necks.

  Neither of them said a word, faces set, eyes gazing into the distance. But their mother, clad only in a sheer nightdress, was filling the silence. And then some. ‘You need a warrant,’ she said. ‘You can’t just come in here like the SAS, like a fucking militia and take people away.’

  ‘Mrs Perry,’ said Janet, ‘DC Janet Scott.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘I am here to arrest Noel and Neil Perry and I have a warrant to search the property.’

  ‘Looking for what?’ Noreen Perry said. She had thin, greasy brown hair. She was overweight and her complexion was pale, doughy.

  ‘As you’ll see from the warrant,’ Janet said, ‘we are pursuing evidence connected to the murder of Richard Kavanagh at the Old Chapel on Wednesday.’

  ‘Murder?’ Mrs Perry said. ‘You’re off your fucking trolley.’

  ‘Any objects removed will be itemized and listed,’ Janet said.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mrs Perry said, ‘they’ve done nothing wrong. This is harassment.’

  ‘If you wish to make a complaint, please do feel free.’ Janet was tired of the woman’s knee-jerk loyalty, the blanket defence, the rabid hostility.

  Neither of the twins spoke at all.

  ‘Get them some disposable suits to wear and take them down,’ Janet told the officers escorting the suspects.

  Once they had left, Mrs Perry shook her head, a bitter expression on her face, then eased herself into an armchair.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me where Noel and Neil were on Wednesday evening?’ Janet said.

  ‘Perhaps you could fuck off.’

  ‘Hey,’ Rachel said, ‘watch the language.’

  Janet nearly laughed, Rachel swore like a trooper.

  ‘You can’t say where they were?’ Janet said.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘All evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rachel gave Janet a knowing look.

  ‘They never went out?’ Janet said.

  ‘They were here all night,’ said Noreen Perry.

  ‘You do any washing since?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Machine’s broken,’ Noreen Perry said.

  ‘We’ll check that,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Launderette then?’ This from Janet.

  Noreen Perry shook her head. ‘We’re going to execute the search warrant now,’ Janet said.

  Assisted by four other officers, the search was thorough. Janet and Rachel began in the bedroom that the twins shared. The space was dominated by a large flat-screen TV and games console in front of the window, the floor a tangle of wires and controllers. The lighting was dim, the curtains closed. Janet drew them back to let in some natural light. Cobwebs and dead flies littered the window sill.

  Six floors up and the view was extensive, out over the estate. Janet could see the ruins of the Old Chapel down below, the canal a glinting line between the buildings, the traffic streaming along Shuttling Way, the roundabout, the parade of shops, the roofs of the houses. Another damp day, the sky bruised and mottled.

  Twin beds, each with a headboard and side table, were positioned to face the TV. High-energy snacks and power drinks littered the tables, and there was a mobile phone on each. A laptop lay on one bed. A set of dumbbells sat in the corner. The walls were decorated with posters, a naked woman draped over a Sherman tank, a bulldog wrapped in a Union Jack. A large St George’s Cross flag had been pinned up, and close by hung a pair of ceremonial swords in fancy sheaths. Janet shuddered to think of the twins wielding them.

  Wearing latex gloves, to prevent contaminating any evidence they might find, they went through the bedding first, checking under the mattresses and inside the pillowcases. In the side-table drawers were condoms, knuckledusters, batteries, and lots of plastic baggies containing drugs: cannabis, white powder that was probably cocaine, yellow pills with a stamp of a palm tree on and some coloured capsules in plastic containers. Janet showed the capsules to Rachel.

  ‘Steroids, be my bet,’ Rachel said.

  On a folding canvas chair, Janet found the hoodies and held them up.

  ‘That’s them,’ Rachel said, ‘Class of 88.’

  They took pictures of the items they were seizing, in situ, and then secured them separately in evidence bags, clearly labelled. The laptop was taken, along with the phones. As well as the discarded clothes from the chair they removed shoes and trainers from the room and garments from the laundry basket in the bathroom.

  The search team continued to look in all the usual places for the weapon or ammunition: the airing cupboard, cistern in the bathroom, under the bath panel, in the freezer, bread bin, cupboards, fridge and microwave, behind pictures, inside lampshades and cushions, up chimneys, under drawers, behind radiators. They examined the pots on the balcony outside.

  They found no handgun, no bullets and no stash of petrol.

  On the dot of ten, Gill got a call from Trevor Hyatt, the fire investigator. ‘Morning,’ she said, ‘we’ve got the Perry brothers in the cells, awaiting solicitors, will let you know soon as—’

  ‘I wasn’t ringing about that,’ he said. ‘We’ve had another fire. The big warehouse on Shuttling Way. Been burning all night. Tenders are still there, getting it under control but we’ll not be able to go in for some time. Several floors, very hazardous environment.’

  ‘Is it arson?’

  ‘Extremely likely. Once we do get in, we should be able to check the seat of the fire and establish whether accelerants played a part,’ he said.

  ‘And if they match,’ she followed his train of thought, ‘could be the same person or persons?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘geographically close, about a quarter of
a mile apart, both buildings disused. Looks like a pattern.’

  ‘OK, keep me posted. The questioning of our suspects will be confined to the murder and the Old Chapel fire at this stage. Can’t go fishing.’

  ‘Understood,’ Hyatt said.

  ‘Janet, you take Noel, Rachel – Neil,’ Gill said. ‘Solicitors have arrived. Gunshot residue tests on the suspects’ hands came back negative.’

  That was disappointing but not unexpected, thought Janet. Three days since the murder and the residue was easily washed away.

  Once in the interview room, Janet had done the preamble, explained to Noel why he was being interviewed and what his rights were. Then she asked him to tell her what he had done on Wednesday evening.

  ‘I was at my nan’s,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Langley, 43 Perkins Close.’

  ‘And how long were you there?’ she said.

  ‘Stayed over.’

  ‘What time did you get there?’

  ‘About five.’

  ‘Anyone else there?’ Janet said.

  ‘Neil was.’

  ‘Right. What did you do while you were there?’

  ‘Watched telly.’ He stretched and scratched his ribs, making the disposable suit crackle. Indifferent: a good act or was he actually unconcerned because he’d nothing to fear?

  ‘What did you watch?’ Janet asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno, can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you go out at all that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure? Maybe to run an errand?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ That same vacant nonchalance.

  ‘If I told you that someone had seen you in the vicinity of the Old Chapel that evening, how would you explain that?’

  ‘They’re wrong.’

  ‘They are sure it was you, you and your brother,’ Janet said.

  ‘Can’t have been.’ The dull expression in his eyes hardened into something more intense, more acrimonious.

  ‘Did you know Richard Kavanagh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He looked a little like this.’ She passed him a photo, one created using software to age the original image and show how the subject would appear when he was older. ‘I am now showing Mr Perry exhibit PR31.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head several times over.

  ‘You might have known him as Rodeo Rick. He wore a leather cowboy hat.’

  ‘Never seen him.’

  According to Liam Kelly, Richard Kavanagh was a familiar figure, walking around in all weathers, sometimes begging. Anyone who lived in the area would know him by sight.

  ‘You were charged with arson and spent time in a young offenders’ institution, that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And in that incident an accelerant was used to spread the fire. The same method as was used in the Old Chapel this week.’

  ‘You can’t put that on us.’

  It was common for Mancunians to use ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. Leave us alone, get off us. But Janet suspected from his last words that Noel was talking about himself and his twin. It was important to focus on him and him alone, even if it messed with his mindset. Important from a legal standpoint.

  ‘Even though a witness saw you there?’

  ‘They’re lying,’ he said. He stared at her as if he’d stare her down. Janet smiled, deflecting his attempt to threaten her. The ideal situation in an interview was to try to create a bond, forge some connection, however unlikely that seemed. Given time and her skills, it was usually possible. But she’d a sense it might elude her with Noel Perry.

  ‘Tell me about your jacket,’ she said, ‘Class of 88. Where did you get it?’

  He hesitated a fraction, then said, ‘Online, they make ’em to order. You tell ’em what you want.’

  ‘So they’re unique?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, frowning slightly. Realizing perhaps that unique might not be so great when it came to witness identification.

  ‘What website are they from?’

  ‘Don’t remember,’ he said.

  ‘We can check on your computer,’ Janet said. ‘Have you ever been in the Old Chapel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about in the grounds, the land around it?’

  ‘No.’ He scratched his side again.

  ‘You possess a firearm, a gun?’

  ‘No,’ he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt comfortable, cocky about the weapon. Why?

  ‘Tell me what you did earlier on Wednesday.’

  ‘Just in the flat,’ he said.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Gaming, with Neil.’

  ‘And the day before, Tuesday?’

  ‘Same,’ he said.

  ‘You’re unemployed,’ Janet said, ‘signing on?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded.

  ‘When did you last sign on?’

  He took a slow breath, pulled a face, screwed up his eyes. ‘Monday,’ he said, eventually. ‘Last Monday.’

  He was slow-witted, Janet saw, maybe a side effect of his lifestyle: drugs, steroids messing with his concentration. Or by nature. He was definitely on the slow side.

  ‘Thick as pigshit,’ Rachel said to Janet in the custody suite, ‘mine was. Starved of oxygen or inbred or something.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Janet hissed, flaring her eyes at Rachel, aware of a solicitor passing by on the way to the next call of duty.

  He’d sat there, his big head reminding Rachel of a teddy bear, those old-fashioned ones, stuffed with straw or whatever, and he’d answered her in monosyllables. Saying the minimum. Less you said, less you could make a mistake. His longest reply in response to a question about his tattoos. He’d read out quotes on his forearms, ‘It is not truth that matters but victory,’ and ‘If you want to shine like the sun then first burn like it.’ Nodded and added, ‘Mein Kampf.’ Then pointed to his neck. ‘That’s a lion and that’s a unicorn.’ Rachel thought they looked like meerkats. Said nothing.

  ‘Not thick enough to admit being there, being involved,’ Janet said when they were alone. ‘But they’re both giving their nan as their alibi. Meanwhile Mam’s saying they were with her. Story’s all over the place. If they are our killers they’ve really not thought it through. Same old, same old,’ Janet said, gesturing to the stairs to indicate that they should go out for a bit.

  ‘I know,’ Rachel agreed. Most of the crimes they dealt with were sad, savage and often pointless. The culprits similar. Grubby little arguments leading to loss of life. Families riven by violence and raised on crime. She thought fleetingly of Dom, twenty-eight years. Pushed it away.

  Rachel only had chance for half a fag, Janet keeping her company, before Kevin came down to find them. ‘Boss wants us all.’

  ‘Now?’ Rachel said.

  ‘If not sooner.’

  10

  Upstairs in the briefing room, Godzilla was looking perky, eyes sparkling, back ramrod straight, zinging with energy. We’ve got something, Rachel thought, must be. Something’s turned up. The weapon?

  ‘Neil Perry’s mobile phone,’ the boss said, straight in, no messing. One good thing about Godzilla, she never bothered with chit-chat or anything, it was all about the job, the case. Rachel got that, wanted to do it like that if she ever made it as far as SIO.

  ‘Chock-a-block with text messages. Many run-of-the-mill, to his very limited number of contacts. One of particular interest to an unregistered number last Monday evening, Tomorrow 830 Bobbins and to the same number the next evening, Here now.’

  Bobbins was a pub in Coldhurst, known to the police who regularly attended when customers fell off their perches and started knocking lumps out of each other, or the fixtures and fittings. A series of managers had tried all sorts: home-cooked meals, family room, quiz night, disco, sounds of the 80s, pool table, large screen, but nothing seemed to change the quality of the clientele.

  ‘We want CCTV from the
pub that Tuesday evening. Who was Neil Perry making arrangements with? Rachel, Janet,’ Godzilla turned to them, looking expectant, ‘initial impressions?’

  ‘Cautious,’ Rachel said, ‘but not that bright.’

  The boss nodded. ‘I’d say leaving all your messages on your phone backs up that observation. Sandwich short of a picnic.’

  ‘We should check out the alibi, the gran,’ said Lee.

  ‘Where are we on the search, the forensics?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Nothing else of interest at the property, forensics have fast-tracked the hoodies, the jeans and trainers with them,’ Her Maj said.

  ‘We know the alibi is false even before we see Grandma,’ Rachel said. ‘I saw them and Mr Hicks saw them near the chapel, we know they’re lying about that.’

  ‘But if that’s all we have,’ Janet said, ‘we’ve nowhere else to go. They sit there swearing blind they weren’t around and we say the opposite. But if we can find another piece of solid evidence …’

  ‘Janet’s right,’ Godzilla said, ‘all we have at present is a sighting in the vicinity. We have nothing that puts them in the chapel, at the scene of the murder, nothing that puts a gun in their hands, nothing that connects them to this particular fire. Until we get that next step, we wait to interview them again. Let them twiddle their thumbs or whatever else.’ She grimaced. ‘Strike that image.’

  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.