Dead To Me

19

MITCH DROVE WHILE Rachel kept an eye on the data from the telecoms officer who was monitoring the phone. ‘Still in the vicinity of Piccadilly Gardens,’ she relayed as they crossed the inner ring road. Traffic was busy in town, but Mitch was a good driver, just pushy enough to make his way through the throng of buses and cars without taking risks. Rachel continue to navigate until they reached the large square and Mitch pulled into a bus-stop bay to park. ‘Still on the Piccadilly side.’

They got out and scanned the street. The wide pavement was busy with shoppers, hawkers flogging hats and brollies, tourists and paper-sellers, queues waiting for buses, a band of African drummers were working the gardens, the music carrying to where Rachel stood.

Rachel tried Lisa’s number and she and Mitch watched the passers-by to see if anyone chose that moment to answer their phone. Nothing. Plenty of people had their handsets glued to the side of their heads, but neither of them saw anyone answer a call – though someone did answer. ‘’Lo?’ a female voice. Rachel didn’t reply. Didn’t want to spook whoever had the phone before they had them in their sights. Rachel surveyed the nearby properties. A newsagent’s, a gaming parlour, a bank, a kebab shop.

‘Let’s start in there.’ She signalled to the gaming parlour. Somewhere to chuck good money after bad, as far as Rachel was concerned. Losers spending their benefits the same day they got them. The place was murky inside, impossible to tell whether it was day or night, the carpeted floor sticky underfoot. The clatter of slot machines and the clamour of sound effects from the games made it impossible to hear much else. Rachel, Mitch at her elbow, scoped the aisles. There was a mishmash of people, all ages, most down-at-heel. Some solos, others in couples or little groups. Rachel dialled the number again, heard the ringing sound in her ear and watched. She saw a girl respond. One of a trio at the end of the room round a fruit machine, tarted up as if for a night out: short skirts, low-cut tops, back-combed hair, thick glittery make-up. The slutty look. Never know it was winter. Two blondes, little and large, and a redhead. It was the big blonde that had moved.

‘Back wall,’ Rachel said to Mitch. ‘Watch her.’ Rachel saw the girl slide the phone open and glance at the display. Hesitate, scowling at the number, then answer. Her voice was guarded, ‘Yeah?’

‘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.