Rachel thought of the post-mortem report, the historic injuries. She knew fuck all about Nigeria but imagined war, rival factions, chaos. Sound reasons to get out, run and hide.
‘Were either of them religious?’ Rachel said. ‘For the funerals?’
Shirelle swallowed. ‘Christian,’ she said, blinking quickly, ‘both of them.’
‘Shirelle Young, that’s your full name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your date of birth?’ Rachel said.
‘Why?’
‘I need all your details. There’s a chance you may need to give a witness statement, be prepared to come to court.’
‘No way,’ she said abruptly, ‘I’m not a witness. I don’t know anything about it.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, you’ve given us their identity, you knew them and even if you’ve not been in touch recently I’m sure you want us to catch who did this,’ Rachel said. ‘Date of birth?’
Shirelle still hesitated. Finally, ‘May third, 1992.’ Making her twenty.
As she stepped out into the fresh air, Rachel considered what she’d learned. There were plenty of questions in her head. Not least how someone on Jobseeker’s Allowance paid for designer furniture, a new kitchen and a state-of-the-art TV.
Rachel, in the car outside Hawkins House, called in the ID information on their latest victims. She also requested someone check out the pizza delivery and establish whether the courier from Gino’s could confirm seeing Shirelle Young on Friday and what time that had been.
Rachel didn’t have to wait long before Shirelle came out of the tower, wearing fancy neon trainers and with a small rucksack on her back. A minicab drew into the side of the road and the girl climbed in. Rachel followed as the cab drove out on to Shuttling Way and headed left away from Oldham town centre. They crossed the ring road and drove into Werneth. Rachel slowed down and allowed a people carrier to overtake her, putting it between her and the taxi so as not to arouse suspicion.
When the taxi stopped outside a house on Crescent Drive, Rachel drove past, noting the number, and parked further down the road outside a barber’s.
The taxi didn’t leave and five minutes later Shirelle came out of the house and got back into the car, which took her home. Shirelle went into Hawkins House again and twenty minutes later she came out and went on foot to the other tower block.
Another fifteen minutes and she reappeared and then headed off into the estate. Rachel couldn’t follow her unless she was on foot.
18
Rachel Bailey looked very pleased with herself, Gill thought. Fair dos. The DC had got them names for the dead couple and identified an associate.
‘She’s got the place kitted out like Ideal Home,’ Rachel was saying. ‘She swore blind that Victor and Lydia didn’t do drugs, but the word on the street is just the opposite.’ She glanced at Mitch, who nodded his agreement.
‘I’m sure she was making house calls after she’d picked the stuff up in Werneth and I’m not talking Avon.’ Rachel’s eyes were dancing, exhilarated by the progress they’d made.
Kevin yawned noisily, arching back in his chair and stretching his arms up and out.
‘Keeping you up, Kevin? Late night?’ Gill said.
‘Bit late,’ Kevin grinned, ‘couple of pints after here then-’
‘Not boring you then?’
‘No, boss.’ Oblivious.
‘Hate to bore you. What with this being a murder inquiry and everything. Keeping you up late an’ all.’
‘It’s fine, boss,’ said Kevin.
‘Is it? Fine?’ She saw his face alter. Light dawning. Dimly but there. ‘Let me tell you, what is far from fine is you sitting here in my syndicate yawning with a mouth like the Mersey Tunnel. That is not fine, that is rude and disrespectful. You want to yawn or fart or belch or scratch your arse, you do it in your own time. Clear?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Now where were we. Oh, murder.’
‘The address in Werneth is for Stanley Keane,’ said Pete.
‘Williams’s muscle man?’ Gill said.
‘That’s right. Previous convictions for assault, GBH, dangerous driving, handling stolen goods and possession with intent.’
‘Mr Nice Guy,’ Gill said.
Pete swung his laptop around so they could see Keane’s charge sheet. The picture showed him to be a bulky man with a bushy beard.
‘Looks to match,’ Gill said. ‘I think we have reasonable grounds for a search of Keane’s house and the same for Shirelle Young’s place ASAP.’
‘Her alibi for Friday is solid,’ Rachel said. ‘Doesn’t necessarily cover the whole of the time frame for the double murder but comes slap bang in the middle of when we estimate it was kicking off, going by when the fire took hold. And when I told her they’d been shot, well, I don’t think she’d any idea.’
Gill looked round the rest of the team. ‘What else do we have? Greg Tandy?’
‘Still no trace,’ Mitch said.
‘Has he got a passport?’ Gill said.
‘Nothing current,’ Kevin said.
‘He could have fled using a false one,’ Rachel said.
Gill’s phone rang and she dragged it out. Dave. She killed it. ‘OK, let’s deal with the Richard Kavanagh charges first. Kevin with Rachel and Mitch in with Lee, hold their hands, walk them through the case, point out the crater-sized holes in their accounts and see if they have anything to add. Then charge them. Happy?’
They were.
Except it wasn’t that simple. Noel Perry, on being brought into the interview room with his lawyer, saw Lee and performed in true knuckle-dragging style. ‘I’m not talking to him.’
The solicitor tried to intervene but Noel wasn’t having it. ‘I’m not talking to some fucking ape in a suit.’
‘Mr Perry,’ Mitch said, ‘abusive language is not acceptable.’
‘So fucking sue me, I ain’t talking to any niggers.’
Gill was watching the unsavoury display, on playback. Lee and Mitch beside her.
‘You OK?’ Gill said.
Lee smiled. ‘Nothing I haven’t heard before. You want to put Pete in?’
‘No way! No lowlife tosser sits in my station and uses that sort of language against one of my officers then gets to call the shots. On the other hand you do not have to take that sort of abuse. Your shout. You go back in, if you’re happy to, and if he won’t play ball then move straight to charge.’ She had paused the video. It showed Noel Perry, eyes blazing, lips pulled back showing his teeth, the tendons in his neck taut like ropes. Every mother’s dream.
‘A pleasure,’ said Lee.
Neil Perry had a sneaky, sly look to him from the start. Cat got the cream. Even the way he sat was cocky, legs wide apart like his balls were the size of grapefruits whereas Rachel knew that steroids made them shrivel. His were probably pea-sized. Like his brain.
‘Mr Perry,’ Rachel said, ‘I want to talk to you some more about the death of Richard Kavanagh. Yesterday you told me you were in Langley on Wednesday evening but we have several eyewitnesses who saw you in Manorclough. Can you explain that to me?’
There was a light in his eyes, not intelligence, not even low cunning but some kind of twisted humour.
‘Must be seeing things. Tapped, probably mental.’ He gave a sickly grin. He’d not brushed his teeth and they were yellow, gummy around the edges.
‘You were also questioned about the presence of gunshot residue on your clothing. Residue which indicated you had fired a gun. How did that residue get on your clothes?’
‘No idea,’ he yawned.
Rachel stifled the reflex to yawn herself. She spoke more quickly. ‘You were unable to account for petrol traces found on your clothing and footwear. Perhaps you could tell me how that got there?’
‘It’s a mystery,’ he said and smiled again. Almost like he was high. But he’d not be able to get drugs in the police station, it was more secure that way than prison, where the drug trade thrived. Half the saddos in jail were addicts and if they couldn’t get stuff smuggled in they’d try making mind-altering substances from cleaning fluids or anything else. She remembered the twins’ father had died from a lethal batch of prison hooch.