Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (9 page)

the super this morning and he’s been liaising with the SCD . . .’

Cole continued for a few minutes, explaining how important it was and that it could only be trusted

to a senior officer who they all had faith in and blah, blah, blah, but the essence was clear. ‘Can you

visit the leader of Anarky and find out what, if anything, he knows about the attack on Luke

Callaghan? Oh, and if you could do that without letting on that the SCD are secretly monitoring him

and his group then that would be really helpful. And if you could do it by yourself, it would be even

better because we need all the officers we can get, plus we want to do things softly so he doesn’t get

edgy. Oh, and when you’re done with that, if you could get your arse back here because we’re all

snowed under – literally and figuratively – then that would be great too. Any questions? No? Good.’

Jessica wondered if she should get a pair of Velcro shoes for herself.

Under strict instructions not to blow the Serious Crime Division’s monitoring of Thomas McKinney

and his Anarky group, Jessica did one of the things she had specifically been instructed not to: she

wound him up. As she sat in McKinney’s living room, deliberately disobeying strict commands,

Jessica already had her reasoning laid out. It was the exact one she’d used when she got sent to the

headmaster’s office in primary school for punching a boy in the face: he started it. Back then, little

seven-year-old Jimmy Francis had pinched her bottom. In this instance, McKinney started it by

generally being a cocky so-and-so.

He was in his late thirties, with oiled hair parted down the centre. After inviting her in, he sat in his reclining armchair, feet up, wearing sparkling, chunky gold jewellery, designer jeans, designer T-shirt

and designer stubble, ranting about the fact that society was too commercial. He had an orange glow

about him that either came from a bottle or a sunbed and a fake-sounding cockney accent.

And he used to be an estate agent.

What was there to like?

Jessica was interviewing McKinney under the pretence that they’d had an anonymous but credible

threat made against him and that she had to find out certain details to see what action to take. It was

what they called in the trade ‘trying it on’.

She was attempting to keep her voice level but there was a natural level of annoyance she couldn’t

hide. ‘So, Mr McKintey,’ she said, deliberately getting his name wrong, ‘you used to be an estate

agent but what do you do now?’

‘This is a full-time job, sweetheart, we’re looking to go national.’

‘Isn’t “going national” a bit organised for a group whose overall aim is a society without

government or law?’

‘It’s a means to an end, innit? You only get that end goal if you can get yourself into that position in the first place? Plus, we’re in favour of the more up-to-date definition of what you might call

“anarchy”.’

‘Which is?’

‘We believe modern governments are in the control of bankers and corporations. That makes the

rest of us sheep and democracy a sham. We don’t want to do away with all government, we just want

to get rid of this setup and abolish capitalism so we can start again.’

Well, there’s a long weekend planned, what was he going to do after that?

Jessica pulled a printout from her jacket and began to read. ‘Did you believe that when you were

given sixty hours community service for dealing speed four years ago? How about when you got a

conditional discharge for selling stolen packets of Temazepam? Or the supervision order for dealing

mephedrone? Then there’s a caution for threatening behaviour?’

‘Hey! I thought you were here because I was in danger? What have those got to do with anything?’

‘I’m covering all bases, Mr McKinley. Perhaps there could be someone in your past who has it in

for you? Drug-dealing friend? A supplier? Punter? Is there anyone you can think of?’

Stony face: ‘It’s McKinney – and no, I left all of that behind.’

‘Okay, what about your organisation? I gather from the Anarky website that you’re the founder and

chairman but there’s also a secretary, a spokesman, a few people you call “officers”, there’s a bank

account . . . could it be that there’s any friction there? It sounds like it’s a very organised setup but obviously that can create tensions.’

McKinney shuffled awkwardly in the seat, his jewellery clanking together. ‘Well, y’know what it’s

like but it’s never a big deal. I can’t believe any of the lads would’ve made any sort of threat.

Besides, they’re not really the type . . .’

He tailed off before stating the obvious conclusion that if they were going to do something, they

wouldn’t make a threat, they’d just do it. It was interesting that the group had tensions, though, giving Jessica at least one thing to take back to the SCD.

‘What about the money, Mr McKenny?’

‘McKinney. What money?’

‘On your website, it says there’s an annual joining fee, which covers administration costs. That

must go somewhere.’

‘It pays for the website and then I need some left over to pay for the other organisational things,

like renting out places for our meetings. It’s all accounted for.’

As far as Jessica could tell, McKinney charged people whatever he wanted in order to pay himself

a salary so that they could go on the occasional march to protest against the type of capitalism that

allowed him to wear designer clothes. It was no wonder Toxic Tony didn’t have a clue what the

movement was about.

‘Do you think there could be any animosity in relation to that?’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘I’m trying to think of reasons why someone could have it in for you, Mr Mackie, and I found this.’

Jessica passed across a printout of an article from the
Manchester Morning Herald
’s website from the previous summer. In it, an Anarky rally in the centre had spiralled out of hand, resulting in half-a-dozen shops being smashed up and looted. McKinney had avoided prosecution as he pointed out he

was in a pub a mile away. He was, of course, as were his lieutenants – but he was the one who had

whipped up those involved and watched them go.

The man leant forwards in his chair, popping the reclining part back into place. ‘It’s McKinney.’

Jessica peered down at her notes. ‘Sorry, what did I say?’

‘Mackie.’

‘Apologies Mr, er, McKinney – I’m wondering if you can talk me through what happened last

summer.’

He looked at the pages before tossing them back at Jessica. ‘I told your lot at the time, I had nothing

to do with this. We had a peaceful meeting at a local pub and then a few of the younger members had a

bit too much to drink and took things too far.’

‘But they were members of your group?’

‘Look, if some geezer at your place gets sent down for corruption, that doesn’t mean you’re

involved too, does it? I told you then and I’m telling you now – this was nothing to do with me.’

‘But you’ve been involved in marches in the past that have got out of hand, haven’t you?’

‘I’m sure you’ve been involved in policing things where your officers have got out of hand too – a

bit of police brutality here and there. It doesn’t mean it’s your fault, does it?’

‘All I’m trying to establish, Mr McKay, is how far these things go. You’re not a fan of capitalism

but some of your members get the wrong end of the stick and smash up some shops. But what comes

next? You’re not a fan of democracy, so they attack politicians? You’re not a fan of anything

organised, so they come after you? How far do you think some of your members might go?’

As subtle as a sledgehammer. Given the media coverage of the attack on Luke Callaghan over the

past day, he had to know what she was getting at. His eyes narrowed slightly and she could almost see

the cogs whirring. At least she hadn’t mentioned the web forum.

For the first time, his accent dropped, no longer cockney, now a gruff Mancunian. ‘It’s McKinney.

Are you fucking stupid?’

Jessica kept her reply level and calm. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a lot on.’

‘None of the members would make threats against me – I’m like a god to them.’

Standing, Jessica brushed her papers back into a tidy stack. ‘All right, I’ll feed that back and we’ll

be in contact if there’s anything else to report. For now, remember to call 999 if you’re worried in

any way – and I’d keep your doors and windows locked if I were you. Coldest May on record,

they’re saying. I’ll let myself out.’

Wind-up job complete, Jessica called Cole from her car as she headed back to the station. She told

him she’d spoken to the Anarky founder and, although he was far from squeaky clean, she didn’t think

he knew anything about the attack. She also hadn’t blown the SCD’s cover, so they could pucker up

and get her a vanilla slice at the absolute least.

The call was punctuated by the sound of shuffling papers and tapping keys ahead of Cole dropping

the real bombshell: Luke Callaghan had lost his sight.

9

The rest of the day was a write-off, with Luke Callaghan’s doctors saying he was in shock and unable

to speak to anyone. That meant they hammered the same lines as before: Luke’s former business

partner, his wife, and the person he defeated in the election. Jessica had been angling for a free trip to France to interview the beaten candidate – but he was on holiday in New Zealand with as solid an

alibi as anyone could ever have. With all the CCTV checked and eliminated and the witnesses

anything but, that left them firmly in the shite. The only comfort was that the national media were more interested in an alleged affair between a footballer and a soap star. If in doubt, you could always rely on a professional sportsman unable to keep it in his pants to get you out of a hole . . . while getting

himself into one.

Jessica sat in the restaurant area of Sam’s Chop House in Manchester city centre reading through

the menu, making a vague attempt at small talk but not fooling either Caroline or Adam, both of whom

knew her too well. Caroline was her best friend from school and they had spent almost ten years

living together and Adam . . . well, their up-and-down relationship was firmly up and he knew her

better than anyone. Annoyingly so.

Adam’s sister, Georgia, was determined to enrol Jessica into some sort of shopping trip, which

definitely wasn’t going to happen, while her new boyfriend Humphrey thought everything was

‘fascinating’. The final person around the table seemed more interested in gazing back through to the

bar area, where the life-size bronze statue of L.S. Lowry sat with one elbow on the counter.

Caroline was as dressed up as ever for what was meant to be an ‘informal’ get-together: tight

dress, big shoes, bigger hair, and enormous coat hanging over the back of her chair. ‘I just can’t get

used to them,’ she said, staring over her menu at Jessica.

‘They’re only glasses,’ Jessica replied, putting the menu down having decided on the wine,

possibly with corned beef hash. Definitely the wine though.

‘Yes but
you’re
wearing them.’

‘Good to see you’re observant enough to notice.’

Caroline started tugging on Hugo’s arm. He was wearing green cord flares with a matching

smoking jacket and a T-shirt which read ‘out and proud’ – despite the fact he wasn’t gay. ‘Hugo, hon,

what do you think about Jessica’s glasses?’

Hugo turned away from the statue to face Jessica, sweeping his long hair away from his face.

‘Glasses?’

‘She’s wearing glasses.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘It’s the first time we’ve seen her with them.’

His eyes focused in tighter on Jessica. ‘I thought you always wore them?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘I only got them a couple of months ago.’

‘Didn’t you used to have that pair with the sticky-up black things?’

‘No.’

Hugo leant forwards, squinting. ‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘Maybe it was another Jessica?’

With that, his attention was back to the statue, Caroline clinging onto his arm, as he took a pack of

cards out of his pocket, absent-mindedly shuffling them one-handed.

‘Hugo’s just got back from Oslo,’ Caroline said proudly. ‘He’s massive there, aren’t you, hon?’

The mumble sounded a bit like a ‘huh?’ but it could have been a ‘yes’.

Jessica couldn’t quite get her head around their connection. Caroline’s recent relationships had

been – in her own, admittedly drunken, words – ‘a great big bollocking disaster’. She’d planned to

move in with someone before finding out he was a serial killer who subsequently went after Jessica,

then she’d fallen for someone on the rebound, married him, and then divorced almost as quickly.

When the wine got talking and it was just them, it all came out about how she knew she was making a

mistake getting married but she wanted someone to be with. At first Jessica had wondered if going out

with Hugo was another rebound thing but there was something there . . . even if it was hard to define.

Hugo, for his part, was exactly the same as when Jessica had first met him years before –

constantly distracted, odd, strangely dressed, odd, living above a betting shop, odd, a collector of

stuffed animals, odd, and a magician. He was also odd. All that had really changed was that he’d

gone from being a part-time performer to being a full-time one, appearing on television shows,

touring the country and being invited to do things internationally. Some people would be changed by

fame; Hugo didn’t seem entirely aware that he was recognisable.