‘So go on then,’ Detective Chief Inspector Ransford said, placing the print-outs back on his desk. ‘This all happened after he died?’
Sean Blake didn’t want to look at the collection of crime scene photos again. The victim’s wounds covered the crown of his head, back of his neck and the top of his right shoulder. Crude slashes, like someone had gone at him with a blunt meat cleaver. ‘Propellers, from canal boats passing by. That’s the pathologist’s theory.’
Ransford looked doubtful. ‘All confined to just these parts of him?’
‘He was upright,’ Magda said. ‘Standing in his sleeping bag. The end of it had been weighed down with rabble.’
‘Rubble,’ Sean corrected.
‘Yes, rubble. The neck of the bag had been pulled tight around his chest and his arms were inside.’ She let Ransford absorb the information. ‘So, when the body wanted to float – gas build-up – he rose to his feet.’
Sean couldn’t stop himself from picturing the corpse swaying there like an aquatic zombie, sightless eyes staring into the murk. The top of his head would have been not far below the surface. ‘The pathologist can’t give an accurate time of death. But he thought the body had been in the water for over forty-eight hours.’
‘Which would mean sometime on Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Was he dead when he went in?’
‘He can’t say for sure. Not yet. But someone had secured his wrists with a plastic tie. Not a nice way to go if he was still alive.’
Ransford glanced at the images again. ‘How did the ID come about so fast?’
‘Pure luck,’ Magda replied. ‘The same group of council workers carry out these operations to clean the locks. When they were doing the stretch of canal that goes through Castlefield, they’d seen him about. Talked to him a bit.’
‘Homeless,’ Sean added. ‘Had a place under the railway arches there.’
‘Fighting off competition for it from all the other poor bastards, was he?’ Ransford asked without smiling.
Sean nodded. Despite Manchester’s first ever mayor making homelessness a key part of his recent election campaign, not much seemed to be happening. ‘It is like a refugee camp down there. We found his patch though. One of those pop-up tents. Not a lot inside except food wrappers and empty cans. Torn-up cigarette ends: he obviously scoured the pavements. Anyway, we’ve sealed the area off.’
Ransford slid a document out from beneath the photographs. Studied it. ‘Given his record, it’ll be one less for uniforms to be dealing with.’
Sean said nothing. Yes, the bloke was just another city-centre scrote. A nuisance for the public; an inconvenience for the police. But before that, he had a life. A childhood. He wasn’t born a thief. Or a drug addict.
‘OK,’ Ransford sighed. ‘He turned up on our patch, so he goes on our board. What’s the situation with the Party in the Park stabbing?’
Magda lifted a thumb. ‘The CPS emailed earlier. They’re satisfied it’s the same man.’
‘So they’re taking it up?’
She nodded.
‘Which means it’s off your desk?’
‘It will be, by tomorrow.’
Ransford showed his palms. ‘When you two first mentioned bringing in that Super What-do-you-call-it?’
‘Recognizer,’ Sean said.
‘Super Recognizer, that’s it. I nearly laughed.’
‘Same as everyone else,’ Magda said, swapping a proud grin with Sean.
‘I’ve got to say though, what he did … how many faces did he go through again?’ Ransford asked.
‘Official ticket sales for the festival were twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty-eight,’ Sean stated. ‘Add in the vendors, security staff, stage crews – all the non-paying public. Plus, the shot which identified him was at an angle. And by then, he’d turned his jacket inside out and found a baseball cap from somewhere.’
‘And this Super Recognizer was able to pick him out. Bloody weird skill.’ Ransford gathered the paperwork together and held it out to Sean. ‘Away you go, then.’
‘The job’s ours?’ Sean heard the thrill in his voice and almost blushed.
The DCI floated a weary glance to Magda. ‘Still like an eager puppy, isn’t he?’
Magda nodded. ‘I’m trying to break him of that.’
Ransford’s face became more serious. ‘First actions on this, Magda. OK?’
They emerged from the DCI’s side-office into the main working area. Immediately to their left was the section occupied by Civilian Support. Sergeant Colin Troughton – the office manager – had a workstation positioned between them and the detectives and uniformed officers who made up Greater Manchester Police’s Serious Crime Unit.
Sean checked the door to their boss’s office had swung closed before murmuring, ‘First actions?’
Magda replied, without turning her head. ‘We meet the set steps for any murder. But we are not to give ourselves any headaches after that.’
‘Really?’ Less than a year into becoming a detective and Sean realized he was still feeling his way. ‘Do murder victims always get ranked like this?’
Magda gave him a sad look which said yes. ‘Want to do the honours?’
As she made her way to their pair of desks, Sean approached the white board that dominated the wall at the room’s far end. Black tape marked out a giant grid. All live investigations were listed there: boxes for writing in the Force Wide Incident Number then the victim’s details.
Sean placed the print-outs aside then picked up a red marker pen. He wrote, Lee Goodwin, thirty-one, No Fixed Address. After that came the column for the investigating officers. He felt a fizz in his spine as he wrote, DS Magda Dragomir/DC Sean Blake.
‘Heard about Paul Morris, have you?’
He turned to see Dave Fuller. The bullet-headed DS had emerged from his corner desk and was making a show of studying the board. Sean said nothing. It had been a rhetorical question.
‘Now working traffic down in Chester. Thanks to you.’
Sean clicked the cap back on the pen. ‘Wasn’t me who forgot to interview that cab driver.’
Fuller crossed his arms, spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, but it was you who whispered in Troughton’s ear, wasn’t it?’
Sean took his time placing the pen back on the little ledge. ‘You know I had no choice, not with how fast things were moving by then.’
‘Fink scum.’
Sean regarded the DS’s thick neck as he stalked off. Paul Morris had been part of the man’s loyal little gang. Sean would never be forgiven, he knew that. Oh well, he thought. Too bad. He lifted the print-outs from the side table and forced himself to look at the uppermost picture. Goodwin stared up, eyes accusing slits in his puffy face. I’ll give it my best shot, Lee, I promise.