Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe) Read online

  ‘Except Tweedledum and Tweedledee aren’t affiliates as far as we’ve been able to tell,’ the boss said, ‘nor do they have a wide social circle, judging by their phone book contacts and Facebook pages.’

  Janet groaned.

  ‘You may well groan,’ the boss said, ‘a load of racist, homophobic codswallop with photos of this pair as avenging warriors. And atrocious punctuation. Gives new meaning to the fact that we are all descended from apes.’

  ‘We know they’re pally with the EBA,’ Mitch said, ‘they could have associates there to take the weapon.’

  ‘Or they flog it,’ Rachel said.

  ‘It could be an urban myth,’ Kevin spoke up, ‘but some of the kids are saying the Perrys set fire to a cat.’

  A collective moan went up from around the table.

  ‘On that cheery note,’ the boss said, ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

  As expected, Eileen Perry, the grandmother, was insistent that her grandsons had been with her on Wednesday evening. She was a tiny woman, with crooked teeth, oversize specs and arthritic hands, the knuckles swollen like spring onion bulbs.

  ‘They was here,’ she said, arms folded in the hallway. Janet noted that she’d allow them over the threshold of the small terraced house but not any further.

  ‘What time did they arrive?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Teatime.’

  ‘Which is when?’

  ‘Five,’ she said, ‘around then.’

  ‘And when did they leave?’ Janet said.

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Don’t know. I was at work.’

  ‘You work?’ Janet said.

  ‘Cleaning,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Did they go out at all?’

  ‘No.’ Eileen Perry sighed.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Watched telly,’ she said, with a note of disbelief at the question – what else would anyone ever do of an evening?

  ‘What about Tuesday, the day before, did you see them then?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they were here then and all.’

  Wind it up and it walks, thought Janet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Perry, if you think of anything else, if there’s anything you remember,’ she stressed the word, just the right side of polite, ‘do get in touch.’ She held out her card.

  Mrs Perry stared at it for long enough, then unfolded her arms and took it between one distorted thumb and finger. It’d be in the bin before they reached the pavement.

  ‘So she’s learned her lines and trots them out on cue,’ Janet said to Rachel as they got in the car. ‘Any date we care to mention, they were here. All night, she never slept.’

  ‘In fact they live here,’ Rachel chipped in, ‘24/7, never leave the house, never leave her sight.’

  ‘If these two turn out to be our shooters we could do the whole family for attempting to pervert the course of justice,’ Janet said. ‘Three generations.’

  Bobbins, originally Bobbins Hotel, still had its old pub sign, showing a mill worker standing at a loom. There hadn’t been a working mill nearby for decades.

  Snug and Taproom read the stained-glass windows either side of the entrance.

  A handful of drinkers were scattered around the snug, a pair of men played darts in the taproom. The central hallway led past the rooms either side to a general lounge bar. There was a corridor off to the left near the bar, a sign pointing to toilets. The rooms were small, with low-beamed ceilings. Nothing like a gin palace, more like a cottage turned into a hostelry.

  The woman behind the bar was reading a magazine. Janet noticed her nails, great long talons painted with an elaborate red and black design which, on first sight, looked like they’d been spattered with blood. I’ve been in this job too long, Janet thought.

  Rachel explained what they wanted and the woman rang the manager, who said to go ahead – the tapes from previous days were in the office.

  ‘Were you working then?’ Rachel asked as the barkeep unlocked the office door and they edged in. The place was piled with cartons and folders and bits of broken furniture. The woman threaded her way through to the green metal filing cabinet.

  ‘Yes, five till twelve.’

  ‘You know the Perry twins?’ Janet said.

  ‘Twins?’ She looked up, the tapes in her hand. ‘No.’ No fear in her eyes, Janet saw, more curiosity. Perhaps this wasn’t one of their locals, it’d be a fair way to come from Manorclough and they didn’t have a car, as far as the police had established.

  ‘They may have been in here that Tuesday. Identical, five foot nine, bulky, blond, tattoos,’ Janet said.

  ‘I don’t remember any twins. Here you are.’ She found Tuesday’s tape and retraced her steps.

  ‘You just sign this, here.’ Janet passed her the form, describing the item they were removing.

  ‘What’s it all about then?’

  ‘The man found in the Old Chapel, Manorclough, Richard Kavanagh,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘You heard anything?’ Janet said.

  ‘People talking about it.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Saying what?’ Janet said.

  ‘That he must have crossed someone, to be shot like that.’

  ‘He ever come in here?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Don’t think so. There’s some say it could be suicide.’

  Janet stared at her. ‘He shot himself,’ she said, ‘twice?’

  ‘Exactly,’ the woman laughed. ‘That’s what I said but they won’t have it. Mental.’

  Back at the station, Rachel and Janet viewed the tape. The CCTV was split screen, recording feeds from one camera outside the pub and three inside, covering the snug, the taproom, and one in the general bar area which also caught the corridor to the toilets.

  The twins appeared outside the pub at eight twenty-five.

  ‘Behold,’ said Janet, her heart skipping a beat. The pub was busy, a game of pool in progress in the taproom, a large family group in the snug, a row of drinkers in the general bar. They could see the woman they’d met serving alongside a man, presumably the manager.

  The twins spoke to each other and one of them pulled out his phone (Janet guessed it must be Neil), thumbs working over the keys, then nodded to his brother and went into the pub. Cameras picked him up at the end of the general bar area where one of the drinkers, phone in hand, turned and moved away from the bar, pocketing the phone as he walked to the gents. Neil Perry followed him.

  ‘Sex?’ said Rachel. ‘Drugs?’

  ‘I’ve seen that guy before.’ Janet frowned.

  ‘Give us a clue?’

  ‘Wait.’ Janet watched the film. Neil Perry emerged and left the pub, making a small fist, a gesture of celebration, as he reached his brother. The pair walked off camera.

  Seconds later, the other man came out of the toilets and resumed his place at the bar, took up his paper and finished his drink. Then left. Speaking to no one.

  ‘I know that face,’ Janet said again.

  ‘Show Pete,’ Rachel suggested, ‘he worked on Coldhurst for a bit, didn’t he?’

  Pete watched the footage, closed his eyes in thought, and then said, ‘Tandy. Gary … no, Greg. Bit of a fixer in his time.’

  ‘I know the name,’ Rachel said, ‘spoke to a lad called that on Thursday.’

  ‘So what was he fixing for Dick and Dom then?’ Janet said.

  Pete opened the database and typed in the name.

  The man’s face appeared, and his charge sheet. ‘Out on licence,’ Pete said. ‘Just served five for possession of firearms, intent to supply.’

  ‘That’s where they got the gun,’ Janet said. ‘Brilliant. So where is it now?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got it back,’ Rachel chipped in, her eyes glinting. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Manton Road,’ Pete said.

  ‘Middle of Manorclough,’ Janet said. ‘This gets better and better.’

  Gill considered the situa
tion. ‘OK, we discuss this with our guests. Don’t let on, at this stage, that we’re aware of Tandy’s reputation as the go-to man for firearms but tell them we will be speaking to Mr Tandy, to hear his side of things. Tandy is a known associate of Marcus Williams. Perhaps there is some link between Williams and the events of Wednesday night. Mitch, see what the current intel is on Tandy and Williams, will you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Anything I’ve missed?’ Gill said.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ they chorused and returned to work.

  11

  Rachel sat opposite Neil Perry. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday the eighth of May, that’s last Tuesday, at eight thirty in the evening?’

  He hadn’t been expecting this question. He didn’t speak for long enough, some slow process churning away behind clouded eyes.

  ‘My nan’s, I think,’ he said. Default reply.

  ‘You think?’ Rachel made it a question.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a little sore at the corner of his mouth, deep red, and he kept licking and picking at it.

  ‘Do you recall going to Bobbins, a public house in Coldhurst, that evening?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Less than a week ago.’

  ‘I never went there,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Rachel said.

  ‘I only go to the King’s or the George or the Black Pig.’

  ‘But that Tuesday you went to Bobbins,’ she said, ‘you and your brother.’

  ‘We never.’ He gritted his teeth and rocked slightly and she could sense a growing aggression in him.

  ‘I am now showing Mr Perry a CCTV recording, exhibit JS18.’ She had lined up the footage so it began with the two men arriving outside the pub. She set it running and paused it before Neil Perry went inside.

  ‘That is you and Noel, am I correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said tightly.

  ‘And can you read the date and time at the bottom right-hand side of the screen?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, sounding offended, as though she was casting doubt on his ability to read. Well – you never know.

  ‘Please would you read them out to me?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘For the recordings.’ She nodded at the machine recording the interview, the camera in the corner. ‘And so we can be sure that you understand my question and what I am suggesting.’

  ‘Eighth of the fifth,’ he read the date, then the time, ‘twenty twenty-five.’

  ‘Which was last Tuesday at twenty-five past eight, you agree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At this point you make a call on your mobile phone. Who were you calling?’

  ‘A mate.’

  ‘With no name in your contacts list on your phone?’ Rachel said.

  A spike of something in his eyes, understanding perhaps that they had gone through his phone. Well duh. ‘Which mate?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t remember,’ he back-pedalled.

  ‘Let’s see if we can jog your memory,’ Rachel said. She pressed play. The film showed Greg Tandy with his phone, making eye contact with Neil Perry, standing up from his barstool. ‘Which mate?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘You just rang him,’ she said.

  ‘No, not him.’

  ‘Who then?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Can’t remember, I told you.’

  ‘How come you followed him to the gents?’

  ‘I didn’t follow him. I needed a slash,’ he said, his eyes flinty, a spasm twitching across his forehead. He rubbed at the sore on his mouth.

  ‘Why did you arrange to meet this man?’

  ‘I never.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape I am now showing Mr Perry a screenshot of the text from his mobile phone, item number PR46. Will you read it out, please?’

  His face darkened. It was getting to him. Rachel eased back in her chair a little. This wasn’t about getting him riled up, no need to provoke. Just the steady, relentless presentation of evidence, exposing lie after lie.

  ‘Tomorrow 830 Bobbins,’ he said.

  ‘I put it to you that you set up a meeting with the man in the CCTV film, that you used your mobile phone to alert him to your arrival at the bar and that you then met him in the men’s toilets.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘That man’s name is Greg Tandy,’ Rachel said. ‘Ring any bells?’

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll be talking to Mr Tandy later, perhaps he’ll be able to tell us what you were meeting him for. Was it drugs?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Several different illegal substances were found in your room. Were you dealing?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I’m interested in what business you’d have with another man in a pub toilet,’ Rachel said. ‘Were you meeting for sex?’

  He sprang to his feet. ‘Don’t you fucking say that.’

  ‘Neil, Neil,’ his solicitor said, ‘sit down.’

  ‘Fucking libel, that is,’ spit flew from his mouth, ‘fucking bitch.’ He sprang at her, face contorted, the tendons on his neck taut like wires.

  His fist connected with her shoulder, spinning her round, throwing her to the floor. He came after her, the solicitor shouting.

  Neil Perry kicked at her, she dodged the blow, scrabbled up, not far from the wall. Rachel threw an arm back, connecting with the alarm rail, the bell sounding shrill.

  ‘Fucking lezzer,’ he yelled, ‘you take that back, take it back!’ He was enraged, Roid Rage, giving him both strength and aggression. He caught her wrists, his hands rock hard.

  ‘Let go,’ the solicitor shouted, ‘Neil, Mr Perry.’

  ‘You take it back,’ he said, froth at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ Rachel said. ‘Assaulting a police officer, you want that adding to the charge?’

  ‘You calling me a fucking queer?’

  You’d rather be called a Nazi. ‘You could clear it up, fuckwit,’ she said. ‘What were you doing in the toilets with Greg Tandy?’

  He grabbed her throat, his eyes glittered, she saw the crude drawings on his neck ripple and twitch. She could smell his sweat and another high chemical scent a bit like bleach. Behind him the solicitor ran to the door and opened it, calling out above the alarm.

  Rachel, feeling the blood sing in her temples, raised a foot, and stamped down hard on Neil Perry’s. He grunted, but tightened his grip and moved closer, pinning her against the wall so she had no leverage to ram her knee into his balls. His breath was hot and meaty in her face. If he got any closer she’d bite his frigging nose off.

  Her instinct was to claw at his hands, try to peel them away from her neck, but her training and experience had taught her that, especially with someone so strong, it would be futile. She needed to distract him from choking her by going for something soft and vulnerable – eyes, nose, groin. She saw dots dancing at the edge of her vision, felt the force crushing the cartilage in her throat, the pressure mounting in the back of her skull. She raised her hands, fingers bent like talons, and grabbed at his face. He reared back and his grip loosened slightly. Then he moved sharply, whipping her head forward then back, like a rag doll. Rachel’s head smacked against the wall, a wave of nausea washed through her, saliva thick in her mouth.

  She went limp, deliberately, letting her body weight drag her down, him with it. He lost his balance slightly and had to let go. Rachel kicked out hard, her heel connecting with his kneecap, and Perry yelled in pain and staggered back.

  ‘Fucking bastard toe-rag,’ she said, her voice dry, grating.

  She was up and swung out her other leg, catching the back of his foot and tripping him up. A burst of triumph gave her fresh energy as he landed heavily.

  ‘Knobhead.’ She drew her foot back, ready to kick him, to kick his face in, to turn his head to pulp, as several officers piled in and were on him.

  Rachel stood pant
ing. ‘That’s all on record,’ she said, clearing her throat, trying to make herself heard above the din of the alarm. ‘You’ve been framed, pal. You’ll not be getting the fifty quid, mind. What a spectacle.’ Neil Perry gave her a look of contempt but Rachel didn’t care, the case against him was growing and she was beginning to think they’d be able to nail him and his scumbag brother for Richard Kavanagh’s murder.

  She turned to the solicitor, who looked shaken, close to tears. ‘Break?’ And then to the men hoisting Perry to his feet. ‘Put him back in the cell, will you. And turn that bloody alarm off.’

  Mitch was on the phone reporting back to Gill: no response at Greg Tandy’s address on Manton Road. According to probation records, Tandy was living there with his wife and son.

  ‘Try again in the morning,’ Gill said.

  There was suddenly a crashing sound in the outer office and raised voices.

  ‘Night,’ she ended the call and flung open her office door. ‘What the fuck is going—’

  Dave. On his hands and knees trying to pick up the contents of Kevin’s desk, by the looks of it. Lee bending over him. Dave threw up an arm, holding a fistful of papers, released them on to the desk. Then saw her.

  ‘Gill.’ He practically dribbled the word. ‘I just wanted …’

  She just wanted … to die. There and then. To disappear.

  ‘All right?’ Kevin stood at the door from the landing, coffee in hand, bemused.

  ‘Kevin, Lee,’ she said briskly, ‘I’ve got this.’ No introductions needed. They both knew Chief Superintendent Murray.

  ‘Shall I get a first-aider?’ Kevin said. ‘Or the paramedics?’

  ‘No need,’ Gill said.

  ‘Give you a hand,’ Kevin said, ‘my desk, don’t mind.’

  Fuck off and die. ‘Kevin – thanks. No. Leave. Now. See you in the morning.’ The messages hit their target. Kevin stopped, Lee nodded, grabbed his jacket and left. Kevin trotted after him.

  She could just imagine the conversation. The humiliation.

  ‘Get up,’ she told Dave, though maybe he’d be safer on his hands and knees. She couldn’t lift him. He was half her weight again. Probably more these days.

  He levered himself upright using the desk as ballast. ‘Sit there,’ she pointed to Kevin’s chair, ‘and stay there.’