Dead Wrong (9 page)

* * *

Calladine sat down opposite the station’s other DI. He was an untidy bugger. Plastic sandwich containers, empty beer cans, and a mountain of paperwork, most of it official, littered his desk.

“Ray Fallon,” he began. “You’ve had dealings with him recently, what’s he up to?”

“He’s all but finished. Washed up, that’s what he’s like, Tom. We reckon we’ve got him on that drug bust. Stupid bastard was caught with a car boot full of crack, not his usual style at all. With a bit of luck he’ll go down to. But the CPS are dragging their heels, something about a witness and the evidence. Can’t see it myself, banged to rights Fallon is,” he shrugged. “But you know what Fallon’s like, he’ll bribe someone here, threaten someone there and then he’ll walk. The evidence and the witness will miraculously evaporate into thin air.”

There was no denying it — Fallon led a charmed life, a charmed life propped up by savagery and cash.

“He was in Strangeways. While the legal bods made up their expensive minds, he couldn’t get bail. But last week the slimy toerag had a coronary so he’s had to be moved to Wythenshawe Hospital. He’s had a triple bypass, and won’t be out for a while.” He smiled and again shrugged his bulky frame. “Couldn’t be better as far as we’re concerned — he might even die; scum off the streets, nice one!”

Was that what had been bothering his mother? Calladine wondered. And if she didn’t know, should he tell her? Fallon being so ill could give him a problem — one that had nothing at all to do with the case.

Chief Inspector George Jones walked into the office. He was carrying a couple of files under his arm and had a frown on his face. He’d been promoted to DCI within the last six months and it was obvious to everyone in the station that he found his new role heavy-going. He was thinner — probably stress, Calladine thought, and he was losing his hair.

“I need a word with you two,” he began. “Murder on the Hobfield, bad business.” He shook his head. “I know it’s your case, Tom, but you could well end up needing some help. So in the absence of anything more important, I want you to make your people available, Brad. Okay?”

Brad Long shrugged again. He usually did what he could to help the cause, but Tom Calladine didn’t always ask for his support. It wasn’t his way. Calladine’s working practice was a bit on the
Lone Ranger
side of things. There were times when his own team didn’t even know what he was up to.

Calladine swore under his breath. The last person he wanted foisting on him was Brad-bloody-Long. The man was the butt of far too many jokes for his liking — it was his total disregard for office etiquette and all the excess weight. And he did nothing to help himself, so his lifestyle, the pies and the pints, were finally beginning to take their toll. He’d be no good to anyone in a couple of years.

“Sir, if you’ve got a minute, could I have a private word?”

“Sure, Tom, come into my office.”

Calladine nodded at Brad and followed the Chief Inspector into his office, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want anyone overhearing what he was about to say.

“I plan to visit Ray Fallon in Wythenshawe Hospital.”

George Jones’s face clouded. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Don’t want you stepping on Central’s toes, Tom. I’ll have to clear it. Is this visit pertinent to the case in hand?”

“It might be. Fallon’s responsible for supplying most of the drugs around the Manchester area and, of course, on the Hobfield. More importantly he ran Ice and Hurst. If there’s a takeover in progress then he might say something to me that he wouldn’t tell another cop.” Calladine knew this was pushing it a bit. If he were honest, he was probably the last person Fallon would speak to.

Jones thought about it for a moment. Calladine’s connection with Fallon was something he’d only been told about since his promotion, and even then he’d wondered if the Super had been having him on.

“I want to be able to rule Fallon in or rule him out. If I can speak to him face to face, then I’ll know.”

Jones raised his eyebrows, annoyed. More of the mysterious Calladine instinct. Still, if it worked . . .

“As you are aware, I can see him in an unofficial capacity. As far as Fallon is concerned it wouldn’t look out of place for me to visit, given the gravity of his illness. I’ll tell him I’m reporting back to my mother — he’ll buy that.”

“Okay, but still let me clear it first. Fallon isn’t someone even you see every day. And we don’t want to arouse too much interest, do we? Can you imagine the speculation if someone from the press saw you with him?”

Calladine nodded. He didn’t relish the prospect of a cosy little
tête-à-tête
with one of Manchester’s most notorious criminals either, but he considered it necessary.

“I’ll speak to Central — get clearance, then I’ll let you know. If you do go, for Heaven’s sake go alone. Don’t make the visit look in any way official.”

* * *

“I’m going home to freshen up,” Calladine told Ruth on returning to the incident room. “How about you? Do you need to take an hour after this morning and all that mud?”

“I’m okay, sir. There are showers here, you know . . .” she said, grinning. “But I’ll come along for the ride. I’ve come up with something on Ice.” She flourished a printout. “Did you know that when he was a kid, at Leesworth Comprehensive, he was implicated in the death of another pupil?”

“No, I didn’t. And why, I wonder, has that little snippet been kept quiet all this time?”

“Because in the end, there was no case to answer. There wasn’t enough evidence to take anything to court. But we still have the records on file, and I’m having them dug out.”

They made for Calladine’s vehicle in the car park. It didn’t surprise him about Ice. He’d been trouble ever since he took his first steps. But Calladine had known nothing about this.

“Give those records a real close looking at, Ruth. Digging around in Ice’s background could well throw up something we can use. And while you’re at it, try and unpick what went wrong with the original investigation. We both knew Ice and what he was capable of. If someone thought he was responsible for the death of a kid, then the chances are he probably was.”

* * *

It took less than five minutes to reach his house.

“Who was the kid?” Calladine asked, as they pulled up outside the cottage.

“A boy called David Morpeth. He lived on the estate too. Name ring any bells?”

“No, not a surname I know. You could find out if there’s any family left around here. They might give you some info.”

“I’ll check. I’ll check that, and speak to staff at the school.”

“A kid ends up dead and everything points to Ice. I want to know why — and why the case fell through. The kid’s family wouldn’t have been happy about that. Someone out there could have held a grudge, all this time — wanted to get even.”

“I think we’d know if that was the case, sir. Probably nothing in it, not after all this time. Just background — but interesting nonetheless.”

“Make some coffee, would you? And toast if you want. I missed breakfast this morning, as well as everything else.” He rubbed at his unshaven chin. “Make yourself comfortable, Ruth. I won’t be long.”

* * *

The detective inspector was surprisingly tidy for a man living alone. A little too tidy perhaps, Ruth thought, as she scanned the neatly placed photographs and ornaments on the mantle above the open fireplace and on the shelving unit that covered one wall.

She didn’t come here often and was very curious, couldn’t resist a look. Some of the photos were quite recent. Calladine and his mother, Calladine and Monika, but some were old black-and-white ones. Ruth had never met his ex-wife, Rachel, and had often wondered what she was like. She couldn’t picture the serious, job-obsessed detective even
having
a wife, and so when she found one that showed him with a young woman in what was obviously a wedding gown, she pounced on it.

They looked so young — what had he said? Married and divorced before twenty-one! She was pretty, too. Rachel Calladine was slim with long, reddish hair. What had happened to her? Was it just about being too young, or had she dumped him?

“Wish I could say they were happier times.” He was drying his short hair with a towel as he came into the room. “But they weren’t. Me and Rachel were a disaster. No good putting it any other way.” He grimaced. “We were too young and got swept up in a tide of lust and our parents’ ambition to get their offspring married off.”

“She looks nice. Very pretty.” Ruth put the photo back in its place. Wouldn’t do to pry too deep.

He might be a good cop but he was crap at relationships and that time in his life he kept very much under wraps. Too painful — did he still hanker after his wife, his first love? Ruth had never asked and even if she did, she wouldn’t get a straight answer. But she didn’t like discussing her love life either — not that she had one. Ruth’s current thought was that it was too late for her, plus she’d become far too independent for her own good.

“I thought I asked you to put the toast on. Never mind prying into my private life, Sergeant — we need to eat.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Too nosey, I’m afraid. Do you ever see her?”

“Who, Rachel? God no, not since — well, not in the last thirty years. She moved away, Bristol I think. She probably re-married.” He paused thoughtfully. “I hope she did. I wanted her to be happy. She deserved a better husband than me. I was bloody useless.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Ruth had watched his so-called,
try
to be
better
, effort with Monika, and wasn’t impressed. Goodness knows what he must have been like back then.

“I thought I’d go and talk to the staff at the school later. There must be someone left who remembers what happened to David Morpeth.”

“Good idea. I’m off to Wythenshawe.”

“Why? What are you up to?”

“I’m going to visit Ray Fallon in hospital. Apparently he’s had a heart attack and is in a bad way.”

Ruth was astonished. No one visited Ray Fallon, not without a lot of red tape. And anyway, why would anyone want to?

“What on earth for? Does Jones know? Won’t that get you into bother with the Manchester force?”

“Yes, Jones knows and I’ll take my chances with Manchester. They can’t do much anyway. I have a distinct advantage when it comes to Fallon.” He poured the coffee into two mugs.

“I’d be very careful if I were you, Tom. That man’s dangerous. Well, more than dangerous, he’s evil. If you annoy him you’ll find yourself in very deep doodoo. I met him once, you know . . .” She shuddered. “I sat in on an interview before I came here, when I worked at Manchester. The man creeped me out. He’s a smooth bastard and no mistake. He’s so well mannered, so cool and sure of himself. He knew we had nothing, and he played on it. I don’t envy you. To be honest I think you’re just wasting your time. You’ll get nothing from him.”

“I’ll be fine. No need to worry about me.”

Ruth shot him a dubious look.

“Take a look at that photo, the one on the middle shelf, half way along.”

Ruth picked up the old, grainy, black-and-white snap. It showed a woman and two young boys. “Your mum? And one of the lads is you?”

“The one on the left is me. The one on the right is Ray Fallon.”

Ruth blinked and held the photo up to the light streaming through the front window. “Good heavens, you’re right! How did that happen? How come one of Manchester’s most dangerous criminals is so pally with my DI?”

“Fallon is my cousin.” He handed her a mug of coffee and a slice of toast. “Our mothers were sisters. When his mum died he came to live with us. Just down the road in fact, at number forty-two. From the age of eight, my mum practically brought him up.”

Ruth didn’t know what to say. So they were rather more than cousins, then. From what he’d just told her they were more like brothers. She looked again at the photo. The boys were laughing. They each had hold of one of Freda Calladine’s hands. They seemed happy, the three of them together.

“But you’re both so very different — you’ve turned out complete opposites.” She was struggling with this new knowledge. “You’re a cop, a damned good one, and he’s a vicious bastard who’d shoot you dead without a flicker of conscience.”

“I know exactly what he’s like. I have no idea why things are the way they are. Fallon left us at sixteen, and just disappeared. When he returned in his early twenties the metamorphosis was complete. He was the monster we know now. This isn’t general knowledge at the nick. I don’t want it to be, either. Jones and the Super are the only two who know — and now you, of course.”

“So why tell me?”

“Because I might get something from him, and then you’ll need to know. I can’t work on this alone, Ruth. I can get in to see him, plead the family angle. Once my mother knows what’s happened she’ll expect me to see him anyway. Besides you’re a friend,” he said, “and it’s time I told you.”

“Has this — your relationship with Fallon — ever caused you any problems?”

Calladine laughed. “Why do you think I’ve never risen above DI? Jones is a good cop, but he’s younger than me and hasn’t been in the job as long. Plus his clear-up rate as a DI was mediocre at best. I was overlooked, deliberately so, because of Fallon. No one says anything, but I know how things work. I can’t be allowed to rise through the ranks above a certain level. Fallon is a gun-carrying murderer, a well-known gangster. And he’s my bloody cousin.” He slammed his empty mug down on the table.

Ruth had often wondered why Calladine had never gone for promotion. Now she knew.

“Just be careful, Tom.” She put a hand on his arm. “Whatever you do don’t rile him. You don’t want his thugs on your tail.”

“He won’t do anything to me, Ruth. I’m family and, despite the violence, he’s old school. Besides my mum would kill him.”

Chapter 9

Tom Calladine couldn’t remember when he’d last seen his cousin. But whenever it was, it wouldn’t have been from choice, of that he was sure.

After circling the hospital car park for what seemed an age he finally found a spot, paid what seemed to him an exorbitant fee, and went to find the coronary care unit.