‘Nothing else to write home about,’ Susan told her. ‘Pretty straightforward.’
‘Cause of death might be plain,’ Janine said, ‘whodunnit and why is anything but.’
There was an outside chance that Gleason’s killing was linked to some other criminal activity that the police had yet to uncover. The drugs gangs in the city regularly settled disputes with a bullet. Except nothing ever remained settled. There’d be a drive-by or cycle-by shooting. And then a couple of weeks later another kid, almost always a black kid, would be gunned down in retaliation. Several times victims had been killed in error for other targets. Innocent bystanders caught up in the bloody and savage tit-for-tat. Janine had covered a couple of those cases. They’d been hard. Not only the tragic waste of young lives blown away but the sheer hopelessness of the gang members. Kids with deadly weapons and deader souls; trapped in a cycle of poverty, lawlessness and violence. Talking of honour and brotherhood. They had no hope or apparent desire for a life beyond the gang. After interviewing these boys, Janine had come away asking herself how it had come to this. How did babies, toddlers, youngsters grow up to be stone-cold killers, so completely alienated from the mainstream?
Janine considered the likelihood of a gang connection to the shooting but nothing they had learnt so far put Stone or Gleason anywhere close to that scene.
Harper was chatting to Andrea at one of the booths along the wall when Shap and Butchers arrived. He glanced up and pulled a weary face, got to his feet and met them halfway across the room. ‘Back again?’
‘There a problem?’ said Shap.
‘Just it’s not very good for business. Word gets round.’
‘That’s the trouble with murder. Bloody inconvenient.’
‘Well, have you any idea how long this is going to go on?’ Harper’s frustration was plain.
‘Long as it takes.’ Shap, followed by Butchers, continued over to join Andrea. Harper went behind the bar where the barmaid was re-stocking glasses and bottles, the clinking of the glasses audible above the soft, jazz music that was playing. Norah Jones begging someone to come away with her.
A flick of her eyes was all the greeting they got from Andrea. She lit a cigarette and sat back, left arm crossed over her waist acting as a prop for her other arm.
Shap dragged a chair over from a nearby table, turned it round, straddled it and nodded at the girl. Butchers sat down opposite her on the bench seat, pulling his daybook out and riffling through to the last entry.
‘What do you make of Lee Stone?’ Shap asked.
‘Bad news. I never liked him. They reckon he shot that Gleason lad, don’t they?’ Her eyes sized Shap up, assessing whether the rumours were true.
‘You ever come across Jeremy Gleason?’ Butchers asked.
‘Now and then. He hung about with Lee. I felt sorry for him really.’
‘Why’s that then?’
She shrugged. ‘He was a bit of a loser that’s all, like a big kid really. His eyes were out on stalks when he came in here – couldn’t believe his luck.’
‘He come in often?’
‘No, couple of times, looking for Lee. Did Lee kill him?’
We don’t know.’
‘Tight that.’
‘You saying you think he could have?’ Shap said.
‘I’m not saying ‘owt, I’m asking.’ She lowered her arm to the ashtray, flicked her thumbnail against the tip of the cigarette, dislodging the ash.
‘Did Rosa ever have any bother with Stone?’ said Shap.
‘Don’t think so, she stayed well clear, like the rest of us.’
‘What about Sunday – you see him giving her any hassle? Making a nuisance of himself?’
‘No.’
‘But he did do that?’
‘Don’t you all?’
Shap grinned.
‘You know she was pregnant?’ Butchers put in.
Andrea grimaced, stopping mid-way through a toke on her fag. ‘No. Oh, God.’
‘Any idea who the father might be?’
Andrea shook her head.
‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Shap said.
‘Like what?’
‘Anything you might have remembered, anything sprung to mind?’
Andrea blew smoke out as she shook her head.
Shap nodded his thanks and Butchers checked his watch and noted the time in his book.
There were three other girls working: Shelley, Carmen and Dee. Shap and Butchers spoke to each of them and learnt nothing new. When they’d finished Butchers put his book and pen away slowly, eager to prolong the time away from the station but Shap caught his eye and jerked his head towards the exit. Time to face the music.
Debbie had gone quiet. Even her crying was silent. She’d been taking the tranquillisers that the doctor had prescribed. Other people had been in and out, making meals that neither of them could face, tidying up a bit and dealing with the demands of a world that still turned. Debbie was upstairs now, creeping about.
Chris sat in the kitchen, the television on, sound muted. Last night’s Evening News was on the table, coverage of the accident on the front page. Ann-Marie’s face, hair in bunches, her new front teeth looking big in her face. He wondered why they had chosen that photo rather than any other. They had hundreds of her, videos too: holidays, birthdays, Christmases. Would a day ever come when he could bear to see her on the screen, chattering and hamming it up for the camera? The way she put her hands on her hips when she was exasperated by something, the sudden gurgle in her laugh.
He turned the sound up as the lunchtime news came on and pressed record on the VCR. A picture flashed up, a mug shot. ‘Greater Manchester police have taken the unusual step of issuing this picture of 27-year-old Lee Stone, who is wanted for questioning in connection with last night’s shooting.’ The shot changed to an alleyway and police tape fluttered in the wind. ‘The victim, Jeremy Gleason, aged 24, died at the scene. Both men lived in the Wythenshawe area of Manchester.’ The picture changed back to the studio. Behind the newsreader Stone’s mug shot remained. ‘Police have warned the public not to approach Lee Stone who may be armed but to contact the police immediately.’
And Ann-Marie? He was incensed. He killed my daughter too.
He fetched a bottle of vodka from the fridge and poured himself a tumbler full. He rewound the tape, played it again, freezing the image so he could study the photograph. Smoking steadily (no need to smoke in the garden now) he regarded the narrow eyes, the slight sneer to the mouth, the broad chin and close cut hair that gave Stone the look of a hard man, a bruiser.
Chris drank and smoked, replaying and freezing the tape each time the VCR switched back to standby. He swallowed and sucked until his mouth felt sour and his eyes ached. When he stood to go upstairs he stumbled and knocked the bottle and glass to the floor; they both smashed. He left them there.
Upstairs he peed but didn’t bother to wash or clean his teeth. He went into Ann-Marie’s room. The dog, lying on the lower bunk, lifted his head, looking wary, expecting to be banished.
Chris kicked off his trainers and pulled off his top and jeans. He lay down beside the dog and tugged at the purple ‘groovy chick’ duvet cover until it covered him and shut out the flat, grey light from the afternoon outside.
Chapter Twelve
Butchers stood in front of Janine, eyes averted, hands clasped.
‘Did you want to see Chris Chinley charged with murder? Does that make anything better? For them? For you?’ There was a pause, his face remained impassive.