Detectives were bustling about a table in the centre of the Operations Room where Ransford was giving an impromptu update. During the night, the DCI announced, a tip-off had been passed to an XCalibre Intelligence Officer: the remains of what was once a red Nissan could be found behind a unit at the edge of a semi-derelict industrial park near Carrington. The officer beside Ransford immediately pointed out that, from there, it was just a short drive to the M62 which led west towards Liverpool.
Ransford nodded his agreement: the caller said he’d heard that’s where the shooters had come from; two men working for the Flannigan family, who had been vying with Brown for control of the lucrative drugs trade in the smattering of towns between the two cities.
No information had reached XCalibre concerning Jordan Hughes. A couple of people had heard of him and one had come across him while he’d been in prison, but he wasn’t aware Hughes had even been released.
The same questions had been put out in relation to Carl Parker. Again, no one thought he played any significant part in Brown’s organization. Lee Goodwin and Phil Nordern, however, did ring a few bells. The source who had served time in prison had avoided returning to Manchester on his release, so his knowledge of the current set-up was inevitably dated. But he did remember that, in the past, Brown had used the two men for a few jobs, including torching rivals’ assets: vehicles, business units and a couple of pubs.
On reaching his desk, the first thing Sean spotted was a message from Maggie James saying that Alan Eales was already in the main conference room, which she’d booked out for the entire day. From the coat covering the back of Magda’s chair, it appeared she was also somewhere in the building. After retrieving his images of the blonde-haired woman from Majorca he circled the desk to see what his partner had been up to. At the top of her pad was a single underlined word: toxicology. A few jotted notes below it. Had the Spanish police come back with something?
He continued to the conference room Eales had been allocated. The Super Recognizer was before the laptop, back straight, head still as he scrolled through row after row of mug shots. He didn’t move as Sean eased the door fully open.
‘What have you got there, Alan?’ Sean asked, pulling out the chair beside him.
‘XCalibre’s primary player list. Given what happened yesterday, I thought it was worth me refreshing my memory.’
Sean’s eyes skimmed the procession of faces moving up the screen. Exclusively male, the majority a few years either side of twenty. Most had cropped hair and looked like they spent time lifting weights. ‘These are all yet to be charged?’
‘Not all.’ Eales pointed to a yellow dot beside one face. ‘That denotes previously detained and questioned. The pink ones stand for currently in prison. And the black …?’
‘Dead?’ Sean asked. He counted five dots of that colour moving by.
‘That’s right.’
‘How long is that list?’
‘About one hundred and fifty. Of those, there’s about thirty who pose a significant risk. The rest are just foot soldiers.’
‘You’ve been involved with XCalibre before, then?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘And the two working for Brown?’
He moved up several rows. ‘There’s one. He’s yet to get his black dot, obviously.’
The name below the image read Gary Dace. Sean stared at the man he’d passed in Brown’s office. Weird, he thought.
‘And the other’s somewhere near the top. There you go.’ Eales then moved the cursor up to the corner, minimized the screen and turned slightly in his seat. ‘Yesterday, you mentioned a female who’d been close to a couple of murders.’
‘This is her.’ Sean placed the images on the table. ‘Another one to keep on your radar. I have the CCTV from Anthony Brown’s place and also the sailing club on the other side of the reservoir. I’ll put it all in the shared folder.’
‘Thanks. And I’ll continue with the Debdale Park footage?’
‘However you wish to play it. Everything needs looking over.’
On re-entering the main room, he spotted Magda at her desk. She brandished a sheet of paper at him. ‘Get this! Our man at the consulate must be a charmer; the Spanish police came through.’
He hurried over. ‘Toxicology?’
‘Not just that – they got a hit on some hotel CCTV, too. McGhee’s samples were still in the lab, so they re-tested as I asked. He was full of … guess what?’
‘The same type of sedative found in Goodwin’s and Nordern’s samples?’
‘Gold sticker for you. Ketamine.’
‘Enough so he would drown?’
‘Easily. If he was conscious when he went into the water, he wouldn’t have stayed that way for long.’ She pointed to her notepad. ‘This is from the Hotel Anfora. The camera behind reception gives us several sightings of a blonde woman.’
Sean sat on the edge of the desk. ‘What do you think?’
‘She looks extremely similar to the one McGhee photographed. I think it’s her, but have a look yourself.’ She went into her emails, selected the most recent message and opened its attachment. Three shots of a female in what was clearly a hotel foyer. In one, a large sun-hat obscured her face. In the other two, she wore fifties-style sunglasses, the tortoiseshell frames of which were enormous. Her hair was tied up in one image, hanging loose in the others. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Late twenties or early thirties, athletic build, blonde hair. Similarities are certainly strong.’ He leaned forward. ‘I wish we could see what colour her eyes are behind those shades.’
‘Why?’
‘Nick McGhee had a thing for photographing women with green eyes. Did the hotel give her name?’
‘Jemma Wells. I doubt it’s genuine, but you never know.’
‘Can you forward the images to me? I’ll include them in the stuff for Alan Eales.’
‘I saw him earlier,’ Magda said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘He came through the doors and just stood there. I think if Maggie James hadn’t caught sight of him, he’d still be there studying the carpet.’
‘You didn’t go over?’
‘I was on the phone to James at the FCO. Anyway, I doubt he’d have recognized me.’
‘You what? He’s a …’ Sean saw her shoulders shaking. ‘Oh, very good. You got me.’
She looked up, laughter in her eyes. ‘Ha! Now, I need to get all this ready. We’re in with Ransford at eight, remember?’
He spent the next quarter of an hour working through the old court records, looking for any mention of a female name. No joy. The gang, it appeared, was boys only. At least, in terms of what the police had recorded.
Maggie James appeared by his desk. ‘Call came in for you just now. You were in with the Super Recognizer person.’
‘That wasn’t just now,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Jesus.’
She extended a slip of paper. ‘We are – to put it mildly – rushed off our feet. It must have been overlooked.’
He realized how petulant he must have sounded. ‘Sorry. Who’s it from?’
‘I’m not sure. Here.’
The name jotted into the upper field read Ron Taylor. The box below that read Leeds Probation Services. The person Jordan Hughes had been assigned to once he came out of prison. Sean toyed with whether to ring him back now or later. Another of his mum’s nuggets came to mind: don’t let your to-do list grow too long.
His call was answered by a rumble-voiced man with a Yorkshire accent.
‘Ah, yes. DC Blake. You called me about Hughes. Any other sightings of him your side of the Pennines?’
My side of the Pennines, Sean thought, amused at how the other man’s tone made it implicit Lancashire was on the wrong side of the hills that divided the two counties. ‘Not as yet.’
‘OK.’
He heard the clatter of a keyboard and guessed the man was updating Hughes’s file as they spoke.
‘Right. You wanted to know what arrangements were in place for him.’
‘Yes. He has no family, so I wondered—’
‘He didn’t have much of anything, if I’m honest. Family, friends, possessions. It was a challenge trying to make provisions.’
‘He got a place in a probation hostel, is that right?’
‘An approved premises, as we must now call them. He did. And we arranged some basic things, too. Like a bit of cash, some food coupons. Help with the benefits system. He didn’t even have clothes, though a lady from a charity had already stepped in for that, which was one less thing on my list.’
Sean remembered Jordan’s appearance. The bulky army coat and shapeless grey tracksuit bottoms. Second-hand trainers. He wondered how it worked. Did the charity choose the items for him? Or had Hughes been shown a selection and picked out the ones that would make him look like someone you’d cross the road to avoid. ‘Have you the name of that charity? Probably best I give them a call.’
‘You know, I haven’t. As I said, they’d already made contact with Jordan prior to his release.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Yes. If the person coming out will be, to all intents and purposes, destitute. Like Hughes was.’
‘Will the prison in Leeds know?’
‘I’m certain. After all, the clothing would have been dropped off for him at some point.’
‘Did he ever mention knowing anyone in the Manchester area? He’s here, so he must be staying somewhere.’
‘Probably kipping on a park bench.’
‘No one in the homeless community is aware of him. We’ve made plenty of enquiries. I suspect he’s got a place. No one in the bail hostel at Leeds with links to Manchester?’
‘No. I already checked for that.’
Sean sighed. ‘I was afraid you had.’
‘Another thing you should be aware of. Hughes is on some quite powerful prescription drugs. For anger and mood swings. With him being AWOL, he won’t be able to get more supplies.’
Great, thought Sean. The guy’s a time-bomb, too.
‘I’ve got someone waiting, here. Good luck, DC Blake. And let me know, please, if he does show his face.’
As soon as Sean cut the call, Magda spoke. ‘We need to go.’
He checked the clock on his screen. Eight o’clock. The meeting with Ransford.