‘Can I have a word?’ Rachel said over the phone, closing the distance between them.
‘Who is it?’ the blonde said, frowning with uncertainty.
‘DC Bailey,’ Rachel said as she reached the trio, closing her phone, ‘and DC Ian Mitchell, Manchester Metropolitan Police.’ She showed her warrant card.
‘I’m eighteen, for fuck’s sake,’ the girl said, thinking they were after her for playing the slots.
‘I don’t care,’ Rachel said. ‘Step this way.’
‘What the-?’ The girl was all bluster and outrage. Her friends, swapping sideways glances, uneasy.
‘We’ll talk outside,’ Rachel said, ‘in the car.’
‘What about?’ she said crossly. But she followed them.
Once in the car, Rachel noted her details and checked her record, which was clean. Watched an accordion player, an old woman with a face like leather, take a spot near the gaming parlour, set down a battered hat and begin to play.
‘Where did you get the phone, Bethany?’
The girl’s face fell. ‘The lying bastard,’ she said. ‘Is it stolen?’
‘Where did you get it?’
She paused a moment then sighed. ‘The Blue Dog.’
‘New Moston?’ Mitch asked.
It was a scuzzy little pub that closed every few months but never seemed to stay under.
‘This lad had them. He swore they weren’t nicked.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘How much did you pay?’ Rachel said.
‘Twenty.’
‘Worth, what – maybe one-fifty? And no bells rang? No big flashing warning signs?’ Rachel said sarcastically.
‘He said they were charity. You know, people upgrading, sending them in.’
‘I’m going to have to take the phone,’ Rachel said.
‘Oh, brilliant, that is,’ she said gloomily.
‘And I need a complete description of him. We’ll also be asking you to make a formal statement and you may be required to testify in court.’
‘It’s just a phone.’ She cramped her lips together. ‘Bastard.’
‘And then I’m going to have to ask you not to attempt to contact the person who sold you this. That clear?’
The girl nodded.
‘Have you deleted any information?’ Rachel said.
‘No, it was clear.’
‘Have you created a password or a pin?’
‘No. Just topped up the credit. Can I get that back?’
Rachel laughed, didn’t answer. ‘So, the bloke who sold you it – you know his name?’
She didn’t, but she gave them a good enough description, and the landlord of the Blue Dog, anxious to help and quick to point out that he knew nothing about any black-marketeering on his premises, supplied a name: Desmond Rattigan. Des the Rat. Who could normally be found in the betting shop on Rochdale Road when it was open.
The bookies exuded that particular mix of hope and despair common to such places and reflected in the décor: the bullet-proof glass and the industrial carpeting with its dubious stains vying with the glossy showcards of airbrushed horses and their riders, or the perfect curve of a football above an emerald pitch and the judicious placement of quotes from happy winners.
Like betting shops Rachel had seen before, the aim was to promote itself as a source of leisure not a place of addiction, but a quick look at the body language of the punters, the pent-up anticipation, the bitten-down nails, the isolation as they waited for the dice to roll or the race to end, told a different story. Rachel flashed back to an image of her own father, stub of pencil in one hand, fag in the other, poring over the sports pages. Preparing to go and spend yet more money they hadn’t got on some lively little filly in the 2.10 at Doncaster.
‘Give it to me,’ she’d said once. A week when he’d refused her money for a new sweater even when she thrust out her arms, showing how the sleeves wouldn’t cover her wrists any more. Him saying things were too tight. ‘I’ll put it towards a new jumper.’
He’d halted over his paper and looked at her, set his fag in the ashtray and risen to his feet. ‘What?’
She didn’t back down. ‘Your stake, give it me.’
He’d given her the back of his hand, sent her flying. Setting Dom off, only five and bawling the house down. Bringing Alison in from the kitchen to sort them out, placate their father, shoot Rachel a black look.
Mitch said, ‘Rattigan’s not here.’
No one fitting the description. ‘We could wait a bit? Or ask if he’s already been in?’
Right then the door swung open and in he walked, pegged them for police as soon as he laid eyes on them. Rachel saw him think about legging it, but Mitch had moved behind him, blocking the exit. Handy having someone Mitch’s size on your team. Ex-army and he had that confidence; no need for any macho stuff, from what Rachel had seen of him.
‘Desmond Rattigan,’ Rachel said, flipping her warrant card his way. ‘DC Bailey.’ The other punters put on a good show: pretended not to notice the exchange, though you could tell by the angling of heads, the cessation of movement, that they were all ear-wigging like mad. ‘Could you step outside with us?’
Rattigan didn’t ask why, just shrugged, affecting nonchalance, and did as she asked. They talked to him in the car. Rachel showed him Lisa’s phone in a clear exhibits bag. ‘You sold this phone last night in the Blue Dog. I want to know where you got it.’
‘I never seen it before,’ he said.
Like that, is it? ‘Try again, pal,’ Rachel said sharply, ‘or we could just nick you, take you down the station, search your address, look at building a case against you for handling stolen goods. What’s that these days, Mitch?’
‘Anything up to fourteen years. More, with aggravating circumstances.’
‘We got any aggravating circumstances?’ Rachel said.
‘Very aggravating.’ Mitch didn’t smile, not so much as a twinkle in his eye or the hint of humour in his voice. That, coupled with the sheer size of the bloke, sent a clear message: Deep shit.
‘Where did you get the phone?’
Rattigan hesitated. Rachel felt her impatience growing until he spoke: ‘Lad came round floggin’ it. Didn’t know him. Said it was clean.’
‘You took him at his word? Bit risky, for a man in your line of work.’
‘He said his mate put him on to me, someone I know, so I thought he was OK.’
‘This mate have a name?’
‘Benny Broughton,’ he said.
Rachel felt her spine tingle. ‘And what was the lad who sold it to you called?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Describe him,’ she said.
‘Half-caste, twenties, bleached hair.’ He described Sean Broughton. ‘’S all I remember.’
‘He say why he was selling it?’
‘He said he’d found it.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Half seven.’
‘Yesterday,’ Rachel checked.
He nodded.
The day after the murder. ‘Did you check the phone out?’
‘Yeah, it was fine.’
‘Anything on it? Messages, contacts?’
‘Bit of credit, that was it.’
‘OK.’
‘Can I go then?’
‘No, sunshine, you come with us. We need a statement from you. Beats working, eh?’
He swore under his breath, but buckled up when she told him to and sat there letting out weary sighs at regular intervals as they returned to the nick.
20
THE ATMOSPHERE IN the room had changed up a gear with the developments and Rachel enjoyed being part of it. Mitch was recounting the scene in the gaming parlour when Gill returned, crackling with energy and barking instructions and questions. ‘Statement the girl now. Janet, how much more time to prep? Hold back on Benny Broughton till we’ve arrested Sean. We have the DNA profile through from traces on the body, matching Sean Broughton as anticipated – after all, he had slept with Lisa the previous night, and covered her with the duvet at the very least. Toxicology just in: heroin present, modest level, non fatal – suggests that Lisa partook shortly before her death.’