‘I think we should call him,’ Magda said, eyes fixed on the image of Anthony Brown displayed on her monitor. ‘Yeah, let’s call him. He knew all three victims; it’s not unreasonable that we go to him asking for help.’
‘Background enquiries?’ Sean asked. ‘Getting a picture of their lives. That kind of angle?’
‘Yes. Not an interview – it’s us approaching him, politely asking for assistance. The dynamics of it will intrigue him, arrogant bastard that he is.’
‘He’s the type that likes to feel important, is he?’
‘His ego is enormous, Sean. Each time an investigation into him collapses, he gives interviews to anyone who’ll listen. The poor, persecuted businessman, hounded by vindictive authorities. It’s his way of mocking Greater Manchester Police.’
Sean stretched his shoulders, readying himself to get up. ‘So he’ll be using it as a chance to mock us, too?’
‘Of course. But to do that, he’ll have to sit down and talk. Reckon you can suck it up?’
‘What, having scumbag criminals try to ridicule me? I was a uniform in Salford before this, Magda. Came with the territory.’
She smiled. ‘It was a tough paper round, yes?’
He cocked a forefinger in her direction. ‘Hey, she’s sounding like a local!’
An alert slid into the corner of his screen. ‘Katie’s just added some more CCTV files.’ He reached for his mouse and went into the shared folder. The footage had been sourced from cameras overlooking the main entrances into Debdale Park. An accompanying note from Katie explained Phil Nordern was on camera at 20.43 p.m., main gates, camera 2.
Magda’s voice floated from beyond his monitor. ‘There is footage from four cameras, all together. That’s a lot of material.’
Sean opened the file for camera 2: 19.00 to 22.30. In all, 210 minutes that needed to be checked for that one alone. Magda was right. ‘Let’s have a quick shifty of Phil Nordern.’ The camera was probably somewhere above and behind the information board. On the main road beyond the gates, traffic went to and fro. Every so often, individuals appeared: most accompanied by a dog of one sort or another.
‘They like those little pig-dogs in Gorton, don’t they?’ Magda asked, pushing a chair next to his.
‘Staffies?’ Sean replied, watching an overweight one waddle by. ‘Lovely dogs when treated right. Very affectionate.’
‘And look!’ She pointed to the screen. ‘Your favourite!’
A petite woman with a long black ponytail was being practically dragged through the gates by a sturdy-looking Malamute husky.
‘So like a wolf,’ Magda said with a grin. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
Sean checked over his shoulder, relieved no one was close by. ‘Very funny.’
‘What? You don’t think it is?’
A variety of thoughts bubbled in Sean’s mind. Yes, Malamutes were – like every dog type – descended from wolves. But the isolation of the breed, kept in the Arctic as hauling animals by the Inuit people, meant their appearance had hardly changed in 5,000 years. He studied the animal’s plume-like tail arching over its back: the long fur was perfect for protecting the muzzle when it was curled up in a sub-zero blizzard. Did the woman being walked by the animal know anything of the dog’s deep-felt yearning to drag heavy weights for mile after mile? Did Magda? He fought back the desire to share all that he knew; she would only tease him.
‘Is that him?’ He pressed pause. ‘Carrying the fishing gear?’
The man who had come into view was about thirty and wearing a long, dark coat. A variety of bags and cases hung from each shoulder. Smaller ones dangled from both hands.
‘It’s him,’ Magda confirmed.
Sean let the footage resume. Phil Nordern moved with a laborious, shambling gait. Stranger to exercise, Sean thought, watching the man as he made his way in the direction of the lake.
They both leaned forward in the hope he was being followed by Army Coat. A couple more dog-walkers. A female jogger, a flash of blonde hair showing beneath a black beanie hat. Two boys – about twelve – pushing skateboards. A man with a girl of about eight and a fluffy little West Highland terrier.
They watched for another ten minutes before Magda flapped a hand impatiently at the screen. ‘We could sit here all day and find nothing.’
‘True,’ Sean said, half turning his head, eyes still on the screen. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Anthony Brown.’
‘Did you see there’s new footage?’ Katie’s voice came from the next aisle of desks, where she had paused on her way to somewhere else.
‘Looking at it now, cheers,’ Sean responded, pausing the clip.
‘I’m expecting more later. There’s the camera from beside the visitor centre.’
‘La naiba,’ Magda muttered. ‘We’ll be here all night.’ She nodded at the folder in Katie’s hands. ‘What have you got there?’
Katie glanced down. ‘Oh – the bank account details for Kevin Rowe. I’m taking them over to DS Fuller.’
Magda beckoned her closer. ‘Anything we should know about?’
Katie gave a small nod. ‘His card was used later that evening – after the pathologist’s estimated time of death.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘A mini-mart not far from his home address. DS Fuller is about to drive over to question the owner. He spoke to him on the phone just now and the man remembers serving someone with a load of alcohol at that time.’
‘Was he able to give a description?’
A nod. ‘Short hair and a military-style coat.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’d really better get this …’
‘You go, cheers, Katie.’ Sean turned to Magda, eyebrows raised. ‘Fuller certainly won’t be trawling hours of bloody CCTV hoping to find Army Coat on camera.’
Magda’s bottom lip was out. ‘Nothing in life is fair. Talking of which, shall we go and see a stinking rich criminal?’
Anthony Brown took a sip of coffee. ‘Not bad, Gary. Which one’s this?’
The man filling a second cup by the machine leaned his heavily muscled torso forward to study the rack of pods. ‘Indonesian. “Delicately balanced with an exotic touch of woodiness”, it says.’
‘Tasty. Very tasty.’ Anthony turned to the blank security monitor on the far table. ‘OK, this bloke who turned up the other night asking for me. You said it was Saturday, that right?’
‘Yes. How come the sudden interest?’
‘And he was drunk?’
‘Totally bladdered. Staggered in off the street.’
‘But I remember you saying he was asking for me. Specifically, me.’
‘Yeah. He started going through the rack by the doors, grabbing flyers for Brouhaha and that, demanding to know where he could find you.’
Anthony nodded. ‘Let’s have a look at him, then.’
‘Sure.’ The man set his cup aside. The fingers that worked the unit’s controls were peppered with crude little tattoos. ‘Right, this is the bit. Fucking lucky I didn’t lamp him, watching it again.’
The footage was frozen on the partially open front doors. ‘Here we go.’ They slid apart to reveal a figure in an army coat and grey tracksuit bottoms. His head was down as he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. After swaying on the spot for a second, he became aware of the stand beside him; flyers for Anthony’s other establishments round town. ‘So, here’s Lorraine asking if she can help. He just waves her away. Flyers are now going all over the floor. Clearly off his tits, so she radios me. Now, when he’s waving that one in his hand, it’s when he’s saying your name. Asking for you, like.’
‘Stop it there,’ Anthony ordered. The person on camera was caught in the act of looking up. ‘Well, fuck me.’
‘You know him, boss?’
‘I do.’ Anthony took a sip of coffee. Carl had been correct: Jordan Hughes had come back. Kept his promise, after all these years.
‘So what’s the score with him?’ Gary asked.
Anthony gave the man a look.
Gary immediately dropped his eyes. ‘You want to see the rest?’
‘Do we get a clearer look at him?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He resumed the recording. Jordan’s arm was still flapping as Gary and another wedge-shaped man came into view. They approached slowly, from both sides, body language relaxed. Jordan stepped back, mouth still working. One of Gary’s arms shot out, heel of his hand connecting with the centre of Jordan’s chest. He staggered backwards out of the doors, vanishing from view. ‘That was it. We stood in the doorway. After he’d spouted off at us for a bit, he went on his merry way.’
‘OK – that bit where his face is on show. Go back to that.’
Gary reversed the footage frame-by-frame, stopping as Jordan’s chin came up.
‘Copies of that to everyone,’ Anthony said. ‘I want this fucker found. He’s here, in Manchester. Has been for a few days.’
‘I’ll put the word out.’
‘He was inside for a long time. Not sure which nick he was last in, but he might be kipping on someone’s floor he did time with. Could be in one of those halfway houses. Maybe just sleeping rough. I want him, Gary.’
‘Have you got a name, boss? It’ll help.’
‘Hughes. Jordan Hughes. But when we discuss him, let’s just call him the Rat, OK?’
Anthony turned back to the screen. It was the state of Jordan’s eyes that bothered him. Blazing, they were. Two fiery pits. Anger like that, it had an effect on the rest of the face. Shrivelled it.
He thought of the night they’d set the guy in the cemetery on fire. His sleeping bag was polyester or nylon or something that soon reeked of burnt plastic. The man’s hair had gone up unbelievably fast. Greasy, probably. Then the flames had jumped across to his big beard. Within seconds, the bloke was a human bonfire. Thrashing and bucking. That hideous high-pitched scream …
Anthony shook his head.
Jordan was the only one of them who had tried to do something. Crouching down and batting at the bloke’s flaming head. Then throwing his coat over him, but missing. They were all panicking by then. Carl had legged it, followed by Nick and Lee and Phil. Just he and Kevin watched Jordan’s pathetic attempts to help.
And that was the cruel thing, really. By trying to save him, Jordan had ended up covered in the evidence that led to him being sentenced for the man’s murder …