The front doors of the industrial unit were raised up, giving a view of the stacked shelf units inside. Sean could make out ranks of baked beans, sweet corn, kidney beans, ravioli and peaches. There were packets of dry pasta and spaghetti. Boxes of biscuits and crisps. Bottles of squash. Other shelves contained blankets, jumpers and dozens of pairs of shoes. Sean thought how, when this kind of scene appeared on the telly, it was usually part of a disaster appeal. A foreign city struck by an earthquake, or a war-torn country on the far side of the world. No longer.
The man standing at the rear of a little van spotted them approaching.
‘Morning,’ Magda announced. ‘We’re police officers.’
He was somewhere in his sixties. The top of his head was bald, the sides covered by little more than a hint of grey hair. He had kind eyes. ‘How may I help?’
Magda nodded at the vehicle. ‘If possible, we’d like to speak with whoever was driving one of your vans late on Saturday evening.’
‘That shouldn’t be too taxing,’ he said, continuing into the unit with a crate of water bottles. ‘We only have the one van. And it’s usually my wife and I who make the runs on Saturday nights.’
Sean noticed the rear of the vehicle was stacked with identical crates. He picked two off from the top and carried them in. ‘Where would you like these?’
The man’s head turned. ‘That’s very kind of you. Just here, thanks.’
Sean placed them next to the crate the man had put down and returned to the vehicle. ‘You go ahead, Magda.’
Her voice sounded behind him. ‘So, were you driving the vehicle, sir?’
‘No. My wife does that. Sheila!’
Sean turned round with another two crates in his arms. A wide-hipped lady had appeared from a side room. She wore a dark green skirt and a purple fleece. Her shoulder-length hair was whiter than what remained of her husband’s.
‘Hello,’ Magda said with a tight smile. ‘We’re detectives. I’m DS Dragomir and this is DC Blake.’
‘Sheila Marshall,’ she replied, watching Sean as he transferred the crates and made his way back to the van. ‘And my husband is Colin, since he probably forgot to say.’
‘We’re interested in locating someone who was near Deansgate Locks at the same time as you on the eleventh,’ Sean said.
‘Do you recall your movements on that evening?’ Magda asked.
Colin’s hands were now clasped before him. ‘It would have been our usual route, wouldn’t it?’
His wife nodded her agreement. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary as I remember. We follow the same itinerary, so everyone knows where and when we’ll be. Which point of the evening?’
Sean placed two more crates down on the shelf and reached for his notebook. ‘At ten thirty-eight, CCTV outside Deansgate train station picked up your van as it turned down the side road that leads to the railway arches.’
‘The Castle Quay stop, we call it, yes,’ Sheila replied. ‘After that, we cross the Irwell and make a few stops in Salford.’
‘When you make a stop, what happens?’ Magda asked.
‘We try to check in with whoever’s there,’ Colin replied. ‘See if people are OK and have some food. If not, we hand out meals and hot drinks.’
‘That night, at the arches, how many people were there?’ Magda asked.
Sean registered the silence and glanced across. They were looking at each other a little uncertainly.
‘About six?’ Colin suggested.
Sheila nodded. ‘Five or six, yes.’ She turned to Magda. ‘We don’t always engage with everyone. Not if there could be a degree of risk to us.’
‘You felt at risk?’ Magda asked. ‘Why?’
Sean sent her a quick look. The way she phrased questions – along with her accent – could make her sound abrupt.
Colin spoke up. ‘That particular spot, it’s poorly lit and the, er, dimensions …’ He cupped his palms.
‘It’s a confined space?’ Sean said. ‘For you to go into?’
‘Yes. There was clearly a group of people in there. A fire was going and they were all chatting. It seemed very intense. So we called across, once we’d parked.’
Sean nodded encouragingly. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Two people soon came forward. They accepted a fair amount of food, mainly pre-packed sandwiches, which was carried back to the others.’
Sean noted the response down. ‘And does it tend to be the same people that stay there?’
‘I think so,’ Colin replied, ‘though no arrangement is permanent when you’re on the streets.’
‘Do you know anyone by name, who used that arch?’
‘A few, though they might just be street names.’
‘And the two that came forward that night …’
‘I’m fairly certain they’re seeing each other,’ Sheila said.
‘You mean a couple?’
‘Yes. We know him as Manny.’
Second person to say he was sleeping there, thought Sean. Win. ‘And the female’s name?’
‘Frankie. I believe she’s originally from the Birmingham area, judging from her accent.’
Magda produced a photocopy of Lee Goodwin’s mugshot from his file. ‘How about this man?’
‘Not there that night, or not that we saw,’ Sheila said.
‘But he did use the arch for somewhere to sleep?’
‘He did. His name is Lee.’
Magda nodded. ‘It was his body recovered from the stretch of canal by Deansgate Locks.’
‘Oh.’ Sheila shared a dismayed look with Colin. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘And is it … you know … suspicious?’ he asked hesitantly.
Magda nodded curtly. ‘It’s a murder investigation. You’re familiar with Lee?’
Colin dwelled on the information for a moment. ‘Yes, he was one of the people who’d become entrenched in that way of life. He’d been provided with accommodation in the past, but it never worked out. He needed support on many more levels than just being allocated a flat—’
‘Maybe he was one of the people beside the fire?’ Magda cut in.
‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose …’ Colin responded. ‘As I said, there were three or four others back there. Just silhouettes against the flames, though.’
‘And how about a man with hair cropped very short? Wearing an army jacket? Possibly very drunk.’
From the way their heads shook again, Sean could see Magda’s directness was beginning to grate on them. ‘You might have passed him on the approach road,’ he interjected more softly. ‘We know he was in the vicinity.’
‘Sorry,’ Colin said. ‘We didn’t pass anyone.’ He looked to his wife. ‘Did we?’
Sheila nodded in agreement. ‘No.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sean said. ‘Where might the people who were camped there be now? Since the discovery of Lee’s body, they’ve abandoned that spot.’
‘We could try asking,’ Sheila said. ‘But there are many, many places like that dotted about the city.’
‘If you could,’ Sean said. ‘Thinking about this intense discussion taking place, could you hear what that was about?’
‘They were talking about someone,’ Colin said. ‘An unfamiliar face who had been asking questions, I assume. Most were saying to just keep your mouth shut. Frankie, I believe, wasn’t so sure. Is that fair to say?’ He turned to his wife.
‘Yes. They were chastising her, weren’t they? Telling her off. I always feel a concern for female rough sleepers, for obvious reasons. Manny appears to watch out for her, credit to him.’
‘Where could we find them?’ Magda asked. ‘If we were to look now?’
‘Manny and Frankie? They’re often in the city centre. Piccadilly Gardens, by the cash points or outside McDonald’s.’
‘Or you could try besides Debenhams,’ Colin added.
‘Yes. If it rains, there’s a recessed bit down the side of it. As if you’re walking toward Affleck’s Palace.’
‘I know it,’ Sean replied. ‘Flower seller has a stall there?’
‘That’s the one,’ Colin replied.
‘How would you describe them?’
‘They’re quite a contrast. Manny is six feet tall, maybe an inch or two more. But he has a very thin build, doesn’t he?’
Sheila nodded again. ‘And a stooped posture. It makes his hair hang forward. He has one of those pudding-bowl styles. Like the Manchester bands have.’
Sean knew exactly what she meant: it was a style that had clung on round the city for years.
‘Frankie is much shorter,’ she continued. ‘My sort of height. She often colours her hair purple or pink. I suspect she has learning difficulties.’
Sean closed his notebook and took out a few cards. ‘If you see either of them, could you please ask them to call us? We have reason to believe there was some kind of altercation after you left that involved the man with the army jacket.’
Colin reached for the cards. ‘We’ll do our best.’
‘Or you could ring us and let us know where they are, if you see them,’ Magda added, now moving back to their car. ‘We’ll be discreet, I promise.’
Sean closed his notebook and set off after his partner, before glancing back. ‘And good luck with what you do here. You deserve medals, if you ask me.’
They got to Piccadilly Gardens in less than twenty minutes. Halfway round, they spotted a figure lying across a doorway and went for a closer look. He had short ginger hair and, when he asked them for change, he had a Bury accent: definitely not Manny.
After handing over some coins, Sean surveyed the gardens. Rows of benches. Metallic sculptures with what appeared to be branches, interspersed between actual trees, though their branches appeared unhealthily bare. The usual street performers beating out a rapid tattoo on tom-toms. Before them, an old man glided and twisted and spun with a surprising lightness to the music. If only to dance like that, Sean thought, trying to pinpoint what gave him such grace. Something to do with the looseness in his arms and shoulders, maybe.
The closest Sean had ever got to moving like that was in the gym where he’d been taught to box.
His coach had been a bullet-headed chunk of muscle. But, like the old man, he’d moved with a deceptive smoothness in the ring. Dainty steps that let him close in and draw away. Time and again, Sean found himself reeling from a jab, left like a silent offering on his face.
‘Shall we check that other place they mentioned?’ Magda asked.
Sean turned, thoughts of his schooldays still crowding his head. Boxing was how he’d deflected attention from those pupils who’d homed in on him for being different. Being bullied was, he’d learned over the years, a common experience for many young carers. Another unwelcome price alongside the isolation and loneliness of a life spent largely at home. ‘Debenham’s?’ he replied.
‘OK.’
They walked towards the top of Market Street where the tram tracks curved round from the direction of Shudehill. The aroma of frying meat came at him in oil-laden waves from the hot dog stand permanently positioned at the mouth of Tib Street.
‘Why do people buy that căcat?’ Magda muttered.
Guessing what the word meant, Sean glanced at the long queue of shoppers stretching away from the counter. ‘Tradition? Been there years, that place.’
The recessed section past Debenham’s side doors was deserted. He looked down at a bundle of damp-looking bedding, several flattened cardboard boxes and an assortment of discarded food wrappers. Closer to the pavement were the withered remains of some carnations, their petals fading to the same shade as the dirty concrete they were strewn over. Sometimes, Sean thought, Manchester is bloody grim.