Vigilante (7 page)

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Jessica asked.

She could hear Craig Millar’s mother taking a deep breath. ‘Just find who did it.’

SEVEN

Ben Webb hunched over the snooker table to line up his shot. He could feel a slight fuzziness around his eyes as the day’s beer intake was slowly beginning to take hold. He had been waiting for the feeling all evening as he knew he played a lot better when there were a few drinks inside him.

The lights above the table flickered slightly and Ben pulled back from his shot, scowling at the hanging set of lamps above him. He crouched back over to line it up again when the lights went out fully. Ben stood and turned to his friend at the other end of the table. He could only see a silhouette in the gloom. ‘Hughesy, you wanna go have a word?’

The snooker club was empty apart from four men around one playing table. Two were sitting chatting to each other, the only light a small desk lamp on a round table between their chairs. Four drinks were on the table and one of the men picked his up to finish what was left. Ben and his friend Des Hughes were standing next to the snooker table itself. Five large playing tables were in darkness near to them and now their lights had gone out too. Apart from the lamp next to the chairs, the only illumination came from the bar next to the exit.

Des walked around the table and stomped up the two steps that took him away from the playing area onto an area where people could sit and eat. There were no lights there either and Des cursed as he clipped a few of the chairs on his way over to the bar. His heavy boots clanged off the chair legs, his cries of anger echoing quietly around the empty space. As he approached the bar, he called out. ‘Oi, Mario. What happened to the lights?’

An olive-skinned man with dark hair walked through a door from behind the bar and approached the front. The man wasn’t very tall but he stood a couple of inches higher than Des. It would have been clear to any outsider who was more intimidating though. The person behind the bar was slight and, while Des wasn’t particularly muscular, he had naturally bulging forearms and hunched forwards as he walked. He may have been short in stature but he made sure his posture showed he meant business – it had served him well over the years. The lights from above the bar glinted off Des’ shaven head, the tattoos running down his arms prominent against the rest of his skin.

‘My name’s not…’ the man behind the bar started to say.

‘I don’t give a fuck if your name’s Mario, Luigi or any other dirty foreign muck. Turn those lights back on before I come back there and turn them on myself.’ Des thumped his fist on the bar to show he wasn’t joking and the other man took a step back.

‘It was closing time twenty five minutes ago…’

Des stared at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m not going to ask again.’

The person behind the bar gulped and gave a half-look behind him before nodding. His voice wavered slightly but he said: ‘Okay, okay.’ The man went back through the door behind the bar and Des heard a low cheer behind him. He turned around to see the lights flickering back on over their table and then turned back to the bar. The server was in front of him again.

‘Give me a pint of this stuff too,’ Des said, pointing to one of the pumps on the bar.

The man stammered as he replied. ‘I…I can’t. It’s too late…My licence.’

Des slammed his fist down on the bar, harder this time. The pump handles shook and glasses rattled. ‘Do you really want me to come back there?’

The man shook his head furiously. ‘No, no. Please…’

‘Right, well, you better get pouring then, hadn’t you?’

The barman reached under the bar and pulled a glass out. Des grinned as he saw the man’s hand shaking as the liquid flowed from the tap into the glass. He put the drink down on the bar and looked up at Des. ‘Two pounds eighty please.’

Des looked at him incredulously, picking up the drink and turning around. ‘You must be bloody joking,’ he said, still walking.

Back at the table, Ben was re-lining up his shot. ‘Hughesy, what do you reckon? Pink or blue?’

Des put his drink down on the table between the other two men and walked towards his friend. ‘Blue. Just kiss off it and roll down for that final red. Piece of piss and fifty quid in the bag.’

Ben hunched back for his shot as Des took a step back. The other two men stood and took a step towards the table to watch. Ben pulled back the cue and pushed forwards.

He knew instantly he had missed.

The white ball did slip nicely off the blue and run down to set up the red but the coloured ball rattled off both jaws and rested over the centre pocket.

‘Shit.’ Ben clattered the bottom of the cue down onto the floor and looked up to see Des shaking his head.

‘It’s all right. These two still have to clear up,’ Des said, not sounding entirely convincing. He walked over to the drinks table and picked up his full pint glass, taking a sip from the top and then looking over at the other two players. He narrowed his eyes and spoke menacingly. ‘We’ll see if pretty boy’s got any balls now, won’t we?’

Des and Ben’s opponents looked at each other and then one of them reached out to take the cue from Ben. He settled over the table before comfortably potting the red and then turning around and sinking the black. His friend replaced the black ball as Ben nervously walked around the table. He was a similar build and shape to his friend – short and hunched – but without the menacing demeanour Des had. He scuffed his feet as he shuffled, carefully watching each shot.

The yellow, green and brown balls all followed into the pockets and the man with the cue settled down to line up the simple blue. On the side of the table were four twenty-pound notes and two tens. Before he could crouch properly over the table to take his shot, he moved the money to one side.

‘Oi,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve not won yet.’

The man looked back at him. ‘I was only moving it.’

Des was still by the drinks table, pint in hand. He mumbled something but none of the other three could hear exactly what it was. The man with the cue gently rolled the blue into the pocket, leaving himself on for a straight pink.

‘Two more,’ the man’s friend said excitedly. Ben gritted his teeth but said nothing.

The pink was hammered straight into the centre of the pocket but the white rolled slightly past the spot where the black was situated. The man with the cue crouched over the cue ball then stood up again. ‘Do you reckon it’ll go?’ he said to his friend.

‘Probably. Just be careful not to pot the white.’

Des walked over to the table and nudged the man holding the cue with his hip. ‘Tough shot that, sonny. Tough, tough shot. Fifty quid at stake too. There’s a
lot
of pressure on this.’

Ben joined in. ‘Aye. Not easy, that. Looks to me as if the white’s going to go in if you take it on. Might be better just playing a safety? Lot of money at stake.’ Des nodded along with his friend’s assessment.

The man crouched over the table and set himself, pulling back the cue and softly hitting through the ball. The black rolled towards the table and bounced off both jaws before dropping. The white was heading for the centre pocket, gliding almost in slow motion, before colliding first with the top jaw, then the bottom, and rolling safely into the centre of the table.

‘Yesssss!’ The man dropped the cue onto the table and snatched up the handful of money.

‘Get in,’ his friend said, walking quickly around the table.

Des slammed his half-full glass on to the table, a few drops splashing out of the top and on to the playing surface. ‘Double or quits?’

The two men were dividing up the cash. One of them turned back towards Des and Ben. ‘Sorry, guys, we’ve gotta get back. I’ve got work tomorrow.’

Des picked the glass back up and downed the rest of the drink in one before throwing it on the floor where it smashed. The other two men had put their winnings in their respective pockets and turned to walk away when the shattering of the glass made them both turn around.

‘Are you…’ one of them went to say but Des cut them off.

‘Do you really think you’re going to walk out of here with my money?’

The two men looked at each other, suddenly realising their beaten opponents weren’t having them on. ‘Sorry, man,’ the taller of the two replied. ‘Maybe play another night, yeah? Win your money back then?’

Ben spoke next. ‘Do we look like a pair of mugs to you?’

The two men were walking backwards but Ben and Des took a deliberate step forwards almost as one, Des picking the snooker cue up from the table. ‘No…no…’ one of the men stammered. ‘Seriously, you can have your money back, it’s okay.’

He motioned to reach into his pocket but Des reacted too quickly. He swung the cue forwards with the force breaking the wood in two and the sickening sound of wood on skull echoing around the near-empty room. The second man stumbled backwards over a chair and Ben was on him in a flash.

From the bar area, the server’s voice was shouting. ‘Hey, stop…’

Des kicked the body on the ground and shouted over towards the barman. ‘Do you want some too?’ The man had lifted the hinged part of the bar and was halfway out from his position but stopped moving as Des shouted. He took a step backwards and turned away.

Des kicked the grounded man again as Ben took care of the second person. He shouted as his fists swung down on the man’s face. ‘Do. You. Think. I’m. A. Fucking. Mug?’ Each word was punctuated by a swing of the fist but neither of the two grounded men fought back.

Des crouched over the first person, rifling through the man’s pockets, taking a mobile phone, wallet and the cash before putting all the items into his own pockets. ‘Oi, Webbo, leave him,’ he shouted towards Ben. ‘Don’t wanna kill the prick.’

Ben’s eyes were wide and raging but his friend’s voice froze him. He stopped throwing punches and used the floored man’s own shirt to wipe his bloodied knuckles on, then went through the victim’s pockets, also removing a phone, wallet and cash.

The two men stood up and walked over towards the bar area. The only noise was their footsteps and the faint whimper of one of the men on the ground. Des made his way to the barman, who was now facing the two men, eyes bulging with terror.

Des tapped him firmly but with an open-hand on his cheek. ‘So then, Mario, what happened in here tonight? Made a bit of a mess of the place, haven’t you?’

The man whimpered. ‘Please…’

‘I asked you a question, Mario. What happened in here tonight?’ He used his thumb and index finger to cup the man’s face and forcibly turn it to face him.

‘Nothing…’

‘That’s right, nothing. Now get that mop out and clean this place up.’ Des released the man and turned back to Ben. ‘Let’s go.’

The two men banged open the double doors to leave the club and walked down the stone steps that led outside. They didn’t say a word to each other as they exited the building into the night and started walking down the middle of the road.

It wasn’t a long journey home but Des had enjoyed one of the best nights he’d had in ages. They walked for a few hundred yards until they reached a junction. Des moved over towards a street light and uttered a quiet, ‘hey’ to his friend to indicate for him to do the same.

He stood in a position where there was enough brightness from the lamp that he could see what he was doing but so he wasn’t directly under it. ‘Do you wanna take the phones?’ he asked, pulling the mobile he had taken from the club out of his pocket and offering it to Ben. His friend took it and Des added: ‘How much did he have in his pocket?’

Ben pulled the other man’s wallet out from his own pocket, replacing it with the phone. ‘I dunno, you take this and I’ll…’

He stopped talking as they heard footsteps from the path next to them. There was a man about to walk past them, hands in pockets. Ben was going to wait for him to pass before finishing his sentence. He turned away slightly from the unwanted interrupter as they drew level but suddenly felt a huge pain in his neck. He thought he heard shouting but for some reason his eyes weren’t focusing. He started to reach up to where the pain was coming from but felt himself falling backwards, still struggling to see clearly. All of a sudden there was a man’s face in front of him. He thought he vaguely recognised the person’s features but then he felt another burst of pain and all he could see was black.

EIGHT

Jessica went to the station the next morning with the intention of getting into a marked car with Cole and heading back to the prison. She walked to the detective inspector’s office but saw he was on the phone. He looked up, seeing her in the doorway, and waved her into the room. She could only hear his half of the conversation and couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.

After a few moments he hung up. ‘Ready to set off?’ Jessica asked.

‘There might be a problem with that.’

‘How do you mean? Was that the prison?’

‘No. Someone from North Manchester.’

The GMP’s regular forces were divided up into around a hundred areas, each served by their own neighbourhood station, but the CID departments’ jurisdictions were much wider and separated into North, South, East, West and Metropolitan. Jessica worked for the Metropolitan branch, generally dealing with anything central. There were sometimes tensions between the five divisions, usually over who controlled certain areas, but nothing too serious. Metropolitan were often caught in the middle simply because geographically they were literally in the centre. Crimes could originate in the centre of the city but then there would be obvious links to cases that had begun to be worked on by one of the other branches. Occasionally it worked in reverse but not that often.

‘Why were they calling here?’

‘Someone up there actually has a brain.’

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

Cole gave a half-laugh. ‘They’d read about Craig Millar’s murder and the details had stuck with them.’

‘Because of some case from the past?’ Jessica’s instant fear was that another situation she had just started to get her teeth into was going to be snatched away because of internal politics.

‘No, far from it. Two fresh bodies were found last night. Some DC was writing up his notes and spotted that the way the pair were stabbed to death seemed very similar to how Craig Millar was killed. He was phoning me to see if things sounded familiar.’

‘Did they?’

‘One knife wound to the neck, two to the chest?’

‘On both of them?’

‘No, just one but it seems close enough. Then he told me the two names.’

‘Go on.’

‘Desmond Hughes and Benjamin Webb.’

‘You’re joking?’ Jessica recognised the names as easily as she had Craig Millar’s. Cole shook his head.

‘So three of Manchester’s most prolific criminals have been taken out within a week of each other?’ Jessica added.

‘Looks like it.’

Jessica shook her head in disbelief. ‘Wow…so what’s happening now?’

‘The Scene of Crime boys have taken the bodies and I guess we’re back waiting for test results again. If there’s anything to directly connect our killer to theirs then we’ll have something pretty serious on our hands.’

‘It can’t be a coincidence though, can it? Killed in a similar way and all three with lengthy records.’

‘You wouldn’t have thought so, would you? It would seem to rule the Wright brothers out too.’ Kevin and Phil Wright had been bailed the previous week and weren’t really considered suspects for Craig Millar’s murder but hadn’t been formally excluded either. If these new killings were confirmed as the work of the same person, it would make their involvement even more unlikely.

‘What do you reckon, organised crime?’

Cole shook his head again. ‘No way. It’s not clinical enough. If it were something like that, it would either be far more brutal or there’d be a gun or something. Plus these three might be thugs and nuisances but they’re hardly criminal masterminds, are they?’

Jessica nodded in agreement and breathed out heavily. ‘Did the guy say if the Scene of Crime team found anything on the bodies?’

‘Nope…but I guess you’ve got a little friend who could tell you.’ Cole had a serious look on his face throughout their conversation but, with the last remark, he broke into a grin. ‘What was his name, Adam?’ he added mischievously.

Jessica felt herself blushing slightly. ‘Something like that,’ she said, trying to sound calm.

Cole went to tell Farraday about the development as Jessica made her way into the office she shared with Reynolds. Her colleague was already there at his spotlessly clean desk, typing on the keyboard.

Reynolds had been in the job quite a while longer than her. He was black and heavily built but outwardly gentle with it. He was well-known as a bit of a wind-up merchant but a really good detective. Jessica often used him as someone to bounce ideas off, even though they rarely worked together directly. He was currently investigating a case involving a string of assaults on students. His theory was that there was some sort of local gang initiation ritual linked to it all but it was difficult to get information either way. Often the students would be drunk or embarrassed, so trying to tie one thing to the other was hard.

She wanted some privacy for her call, so made a quick excuse and walked through to the canteen. Jessica found an empty table in the corner and took her phone out of her suit jacket’s pocket. She hadn’t contacted Adam since the text message and felt a bit awkward. Although she was phoning him for professional reasons, he would most likely ask her about that ‘coffee’. Jessica hadn’t been planning to give him a proper answer but figured she would have to come up with something. She pressed the screen to dial his number. It had barely rung once when he answered.

‘Hello.’

‘Adam?’

‘Yeah, hi.’ He sounded a little nervy but certainly enthusiastic.

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Jessica Daniel. Have you got a couple of minutes?’ She made sure she emphasised her title as if to point out it was a phone call relating to the job.

Adam didn’t take the hint. ‘Oh great. I’m quite busy but I can talk for a bit.’

‘I understand you might have a couple of new arrivals to be working on?’

‘Huh? Oh right…Are they yours?’

‘They might be. Have you found anything?’

Adam’s tone lowered as the penny dropped that Jessica was calling for business reasons. ‘Sort of. My boss is on it now. I’m about to go through and help. There’s all sorts on the bodies though. It looks like they’ve both been stabbed but one of them has blood on his knuckles too. It’s going to take a bit of sorting out. I doubt you’ll get any results today apart from formal IDs.’

‘What do you mean, “blood on his knuckles”?’

‘Just that. It looks like he’s been fighting. It’s hard to tell. I don’t want to tell you something that might not be true.’

‘Fair enough. Can you call me if you get anything?’

‘Er, we’re supposed to call it back through to the division it came from first.’

‘I know but I’m asking you to call me.’

‘All right.’ There was an awkward pause broken by Adam. ‘Did you get my text?’

He obviously knew she had.

‘Yeah. It’s pretty mad here at the moment though. I don’t really drink coffee either.’

‘Oh, right…’

Adam sounded disappointed and Jessica felt a little bad. She sighed silently to herself and took a deep breath. ‘How are you fixed for Sunday evening?’ she added.

Adam’s response was instant, his words blending together as he spoke too quickly. ‘Yeah, brilliant, that’s great. I’ll see you there.’

‘Er, where? Do you want to sort out somewhere to meet?’

‘Oh right, yes.’

‘I’ll text you something, okay?’

‘Yeah, of course. Sorry, yeah. Sorry.’

Jessica hung up and giggled quietly to herself. He had given her something to start on though. She went back to her office and logged on to her computer to look at the details that had already been entered for Webb and Hughes. She saw the area the bodies had been found in and clicked through to check details of the previous evening’s emergency calls. There were the usual things she would expect to see but then one particular log jumped out at her: an incident in a snooker club where two men had been assaulted. It was the only call that seemed serious enough to perhaps be linked to Webb and Hughes, given the area their bodies had been found in. If one of them had fresh blood on his knuckles, it would either be from something unreported – or the record she had in front of her. She wrote down the details and picked up the phone, knowing she would have to play a little internal politics herself.

It took a few calls but she eventually pulled together everything she would need for the rest of the day. The prison visit was definitely off for now, given they might have a new crime to ask McKenna about.

She went to find Cole to pass on the news and he was back in his office. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What did the DCI say?’

‘He didn’t seem too fussed and reckoned it was two less troublemakers we were going to have to deal with.’

‘I spoke to Ad…the guy from the labs.’ Jessica repeated the details Adam had told her and then the report from the snooker club. ‘There are two men who were beaten up. Both are at North Manchester General Hospital. One is in intensive care but the other apparently looks a lot worse than he actually is. The local boys up there were going to talk to him this afternoon but now we are. I had to go through Northern CID but they didn’t seem to be too bothered about handing the case over. I think they see it like the DCI does – two more criminals off the street.’

‘How do you see it?’

‘That three people have been murdered, possibly by the same person, possibly by Donald McKenna or someone connected to him.’ Cole nodded but Jessica couldn’t tell if it was because he agreed with her or because he was acknowledging what she said. ‘The northern boys say that wallets and IDs belonging to the two snooker-club victims had been found on Hughes and Webb so I don’t think there’ll be much doubt where the blood on the knuckles came from. They’re going to pass that on to the forensic team, which might speed things up a little.’

‘I guess it shows Hughes and Webb weren’t mugged either if phones and wallets were found on them,’ Cole added.

‘Exactly, just like Craig Millar.’

‘Are you off to the hospital?’

‘Yeah, aren’t you coming?’

‘No. Farraday wants me on some other bits for now. His exact words were, “scum killing scum isn’t a priority today”. He wants to wait for the test results to come back before we go back to the prison too.’

There wasn’t much Jessica could add to that. She was still clear to go to the hospital but her boss’ attitude was starting to wear her down.

She went through to the main floor and made her way over to Rowlands’ desk. ‘Oi, grey head. Get your coat, you’ve pulled,’ she said, clipping him round the ear.

‘I’m not
that
desperate,’ he replied, swatting her hand away.

‘Neither am I but we’ve got a hot date with an assault victim at the hospital.’

‘Which hospital?’

‘North Manchester.’

‘That’s miles away. You’re not driving, are you?’ Jessica’s skills with a vehicle were widely questioned around the station. She would describe her driving as ‘specialist’, others used the word ‘reckless’.

‘Well, Detective Constable, you have two choices. One, you can come with me or two, there were two more bodies found last night that may or may not relate to our case. If you want, I can get you drawing up a list of names connected to those two and then cross-checking everything back with what you’ve already done.’

Rowlands stood up quickly. ‘Fine, I’m coming but I hope someone’s checked the seatbelts. I don’t trust your capricious driving.’

Jessica looked at him again, narrowing her eyes.
‘Capricious?’

‘I told you, I’m raising the level of conversation around here.’

‘Did the letters in your alphabet spaghetti spell that out last night or something?’

‘Jealousy isn’t your best trait, you know.’

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jessica and Rowlands spent the rest of the day putting the pieces together. First they had been to the hospital where they spoke to the only one of the two snooker-club victims who was capable of talking. He told them he had been hit over the top of his head with a snooker cue. There was a large gash and he had a black eye, plus two broken ribs where he said he had been kicked on the ground. He had got off lightly compared to his friend though. The second victim was on life-support in the intensive care ward. He had swelling to his brain and the doctors weren’t sure if he would survive or not. Jessica had shown the man some mug shots and he had identified Webb and Hughes as the culprits.

‘Are you going to arrest them?’ he asked.

‘It’s a bit late for that,’ Jessica replied before telling him of his attackers’ fate.

The two had lengthy records with a slightly more serious edge to them than Craig Millar. Hughes had been in jail for possession of a firearm plus had a string of assaults to his name. Webb didn’t have the weapons charge but most of their records matched up. They clearly worked as a pair. Interestingly to Jessica, they had both only been released from prison in the past year, meaning all three victims – plus Donald McKenna – had been in the same jail at the same time.

After leaving the hospital, they had gone to the snooker club where the emergency call had come from. They spoke to the owner, who told how he had been terrorised the previous night.  He said he was too scared to intervene in the assault but had at least given a full description to officers the night before. Samples had been taken from the club and sent through for analysis but the local police hadn’t connected that incident to the two murders at the time. Jessica texted Adam just in case but felt pretty sure someone else would have already told the labs about the link.

The owner didn’t know Hughes and Webb personally but said he recognised their faces from the club. They hadn’t caused him trouble in the past but, given their records, Jessica thought they were an accident waiting to happen once alcohol was thrown into the mix.

It was becoming clear that the three victims’ links to Donald McKenna would be extensive. At first Jessica had set Rowlands to look for direct connections between McKenna and Millar but the link seemed to be the prison itself.

They arrived back at the station late in the afternoon. Jessica typed up her notes from the day and then went through the lists Rowlands had compiled. The names that linked McKenna and Millar were simply other known criminals. Some of them would have no doubt been in prison at the same time as Hughes and Webb too, which would be something to start with. She checked through the computer records and narrowed the list further but none of the names jumped out at her. They were all petty troublemakers, each of them a nuisance, but no one who she would have bet had the inclination, let alone motive, to kill three people.