‘He kept the ring,’ Janet said, on their way back to the car.
‘Probably couldn’t get it off,’ said Rachel.
‘What?’
‘His fingers got swollen, his knuckles. The only reason an alkie down on his luck wouldn’t part with a piece of gold like that is because he’d have to cut his finger off to get at it.’
‘You are such a cynic,’ Janet said.
‘A realist.’
‘He could have had the ring cut off.’
‘Not easy if it’s really tight. And most jewellers won’t let someone like that over the threshold.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Janet said. ‘I think he kept it because it was all he had left to remind him of what he’d had, what he’d lost.’
Rachel stared at her. ‘Cue the violins.’
‘Harsh,’ Janet said. ‘So where has he been since Bury in 1999? What was he doing on Manorclough?’
‘Rick!’ Rachel exclaimed, making Janet jump out of her skin.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Hang on.’ Rachel looked back through her notes, eyes running across the pages, flipping paper over then back. ‘Not written it down.’
Janet tutted. ‘Naughty.’ Write it down, a mantra the boss drummed into them.
‘Can we stop on Manorclough?’ Rachel said. ‘Something the woman at the newsagent’s said. A tramp they gave handouts to, called Rick.’
‘Brilliant,’ Janet smiled. ‘Let’s go see, shall we?’
7
The misty rain at the coast had turned to a steady downpour back in the Pennines. The shop was busy, a bunch of rowdy kids in uniform, buying sweets and fizzy drinks. The air peppered with ‘fucks’ and ‘knobs’ and ‘slags’.
‘Ten Lambert & Butler,’ one of the kids said. Liam Kelly’s eyes flicked towards Rachel.
‘Proof of age?’ he said.
‘Come on, Liam,’ the lad complained.
Liam Kelly simply shook his head. The lad wheeled round, arms raised in exasperation.
‘One twenty-nine,’ Liam Kelly said, pointing to the snacks.
‘I need some fags.’
‘Against the law, I could be prosecuted,’ Liam Kelly said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, DC Bailey?’ The kids looked at Rachel and Janet. The hubbub quietened.
‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘And this is DC Scott.’
‘Aah!’ the lad who’d been refused service groaned. ‘The dibble.’
‘Cagney and Lacey,’ someone called out.
‘Is it about the murder?’ said a girl with teeth covered in braces and a narrow face like a shrew’s. ‘That fella what was shot and burned alive?’
‘If he was shot, he wouldn’t be alive, thicko,’ the first lad said.
‘Depends where they shot him,’ she snapped back, shoving the boy for good measure.
‘It is about the murder,’ Rachel said, ‘and if anyone here knows anything that might help, you can call at the mobile incident unit up the road. In complete confidence,’ she added.
‘Not very confidential if everyone can see who’s going in,’ piped up a very small boy with a brutally shaved head. He had a point.
‘You can ring in,’ Rachel said.
‘You ever shot anyone?’ This from the shrew girl.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Rachel said. ‘You’re not armed,’ said the small lad. ‘Only special units carry guns.’
‘Now we’d like a word with Mr Kelly…’ Janet said.
‘Ooh!’ a voice called out.
‘A threesome, eh?’ the shrew girl said.
A bout of laughter.
‘Who’s got the handcuffs?’ More laughter as they spilled out on to the streets.
Liam Kelly raised his eyebrows, shook his head.
‘Your partner,’ Rachel said, ‘she mentioned someone yesterday, hadn’t been round for his food parcel?’
‘Rodeo Rick, yeah.’
‘Seen him today?’
‘No,’ Liam Kelly said.
‘Where’s he live?’
‘He’s homeless, dosses where he can.’
‘Can you describe him?’ Rachel said.
‘Tall, on the skinny side, long hair.’
‘White guy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How old?’
‘Hard to say, fifties, sixties.’
‘You know his full name?’ Rachel said.
He shrugged. ‘No. Goes by Rodeo Rick, wears check shirts, an old cowboy hat.’
Rachel looked at Janet, who nodded her agreement.
Rachel picked out the best photo from Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Could this be him, when he was younger?’
Liam Kelly took the picture. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s not…’ He looked at Rachel, his shoulders sagging. ‘You think it’s him?’
Rachel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, yes. Was he dossing in the chapel?’
He frowned. ‘Could’ve been. God, I never thought…’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t say where he stayed, best to be cautious.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, some places, he could be done for trespassing. But he liked to be off the streets, out of sight, come dark. He’d get a bit of aggro, people having a go.’
‘How long had he been in the area?’
‘Few months. Found him going through the bins before Christmas, told him he’d no need, we’d give him out-of-date stuff.’
‘Ever hear of him mixing in bad company?’ Rachel said.
‘Never. Kept to himself. He was on the drink. That’s all he could be bothered with. He’d beg now and then if he had to,’ said Liam Kelly.
‘Any enemies?’
‘Not that I know of.’ He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Poor old sod.’
The confirmation of identity represented a significant breakthrough, dental records putting the seal on what already seemed to be the case. Gill called the syndicate together for an update.
She was about to speak, the room quiet, when Pete leaned over and muttered something to Mitch.
Gill caught the words, better defence and injury time.
‘Do I look like Sir Alex frigging Ferguson?’ she said.
Pete straightened up, a sick look on his face. ‘No, boss.’
‘José Mourinho? Arsène Wenger?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Then why are you talking football twaddle in my briefing? You in the wrong job, Pete? Want to go try out for the Latics?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Mitch?’
‘No, boss.’
‘OK, we have a lot to get through,’ she began, ‘and it doesn’t involve dribbling or fancy footwork. Our victim is Richard Kavanagh, aged sixty, separated from wife Judith in 1997, last seen by her two years later, when she told him not to visit again. Shopkeeper, artist, husband, father in his glory days. Alcoholic, rendered destitute. Known locally as Rodeo Rick on account of his liking for flannel shirts and a leather cowboy hat. He’d been sleeping rough for several months on Manorclough. No one reporting any criminal behaviour, he has a clean sheet and not known to be involved with any illegal activity on the estate. So why does he end up shot and set on fire in the Old Chapel?’
‘Mistaken identity?’ suggested Pete.
‘Possibly. If so, mistaken by who, for who?’ Gill said. ‘Talk to people, see if we can find out anything more about him, his movements, contacts, any possible enemies. This man so far has no reputation for violence. Test that out. Had he any drinking buddies who can tell us more? Was he known to homeless charities or hostels in the area?’ Nine times out of ten, building a profile of the victim led you to their killer. Usually someone close by. Who’d been close to Richard Kavanagh?
She turned to the notes on the whiteboard. ‘Two elements we are investigating, firearms and arson. Firearms first. The lab reports the bullets are both from the same gun. The gun was used in 2007 in a post office shooting in Stockport – not a million miles away. Perpetrators were arrested, charged and are currently enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality at Strangeways. We’ll have a chat with them, see if they’d like to earn some Brownie points by telling us what happened to the weapon. Did they sell it on, give it to someone for safekeeping?’