Thrown Down (13 page)

‘Mrs. Knight? Mrs. Patricia Knight?’ asked Colette when a woman answered the door and Colette held up her ID badge.

‘No, sorry, I’m Mrs. Molly Evans from next door’ said Molly who then let Colette in and closed the door firmly. ‘I’ve been giving my friend some moral support today. She’s really needed it. But she’s actually feeling a bit better now. She’s heard from all of her three kids and they’re all on their way over. They live in the city so they’ll be a while yet. She still hasn’t heard from her husband Dennis though. Do you have any news on him?’

‘Is he down as a missing person, Mrs. Evans?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that’ said Molly. ‘I just wondered that’s all. She hasn’t seen him since last night when they went to bed in separate rooms. She’s worried sick about him to tell you the truth’.

‘Well if he isn’t down as a missing person then I wouldn’t know anything about him’ Colette went on. ‘Unless he’s committed a crime of course’

‘Dennis? Oh no way. He’s the law abider of law abiders is Dennis’.

‘Right, well can you lead me to Mrs. Knight, please?’ asked Colette who was getting somewhat irritated by this stupid Molly woman. She couldn’t stand people who seemed to have a remarkable inability to cut to the bloody quick. Why did they always use ninety-three words when half a dozen would do? Some of Colette’s friends complained that she could be a bit too brusque on the phone. But it came from all the endless conversations she had to endure at work with people who went all round the bloody houses to get from a to b. Whether they were fellow police officers or crime suspects, she couldn’t stand it wherever it came from.  

‘She’s through there in the lounge’ said Molly, feeling a little disgruntled. She had the feeling that she wouldn’t get on with this Inspector Ryan if she knew her. She was probably a very forthright feminist career type who’d look down on Molly for having been a stay at home Mum. ‘I’ll make myself scarce but I’ll only be in the kitchen’.

‘You make that sound like a warning’.

‘Detective Constable, my friend is going through a lot’ said Molly. ‘I don’t think it would be fair to subject her to any degree of intense questioning, at least until we find out where her husband is’.

Colette smiled as best she could. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Mrs. Evans’.

Patricia walked through from the lounge and Colette introduced herself.

‘Mrs. Knight? I’m Detective Constable Colette Ryan of the Victoria state police and … ‘

‘ … have you found my husband?’

‘He hasn’t been reported as missing, Mrs. Knight’.

‘Well he is’ said Patricia, firmly. ‘He’s been missing since early this morning and I want you to try and find him’.

Colette hadn’t expected this level of hostility from Patricia Knight. She and her colleagues hadn’t expected her to confirm that any crimes had taken place in Australia and having gone through Knight’s file Colette couldn’t see what she could be charged with now. She was morally guilty of many crimes from Belfast in the early seventies but could actual evidence be gathered all these decades later that would prove her complicity in a court of law? Colette was not one of those who believed that crime has some kind of time limitation on it. Last year some ninety year-old excuse for a man had been arrested in Queensland and extradited to Germany. He was charged with multiple murder pertaining to his time as a Nazi SS guard at a concentration camp during world war two. Some said that he was too old and that it all should be left to history. But Colette disagreed. She didn’t care how old someone was or how many years had passed since the crimes someone had been accused of. If sound evidence could be found to prove their guilt then they should be charged. And that was the problem she saw with Patricia Knight. Could the sound evidence be found in her case?

‘Mrs. Knight, we can get to that but first there are a few other things I need to talk to you about’.

‘Well then you have a problem’.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You look here, lady’ said Patricia, her voice full of intensity and emotion. ‘I know that the British government are at the end of a long chain leading to whoever has sent you here today. Well I’m not playing. Do you understand? I’m not playing! You go back and you say that I will not talk to you until my husband has been found. My terms, my way! You can’t arrest me for anything although I’m sure you’ve thought of ways in which you could. But for now, get out of my house’.

‘Mrs. Knight if you want to play it that way then I’ll have to consult colleagues’ said Colette. ‘But here the law is in charge and not any self assertion on your part. I hope that’s clear’.

‘My God, Pat’ Molly exclaimed after Collette Ryan had gone. ‘You certainly sent her away with her tail between her legs. I’ve never seen you like that before’.

‘You should’ve seen me forty years ago, Molly. The young girl I was back then probably wasn’t someone you’d have wanted to sit down to a cup of tea with’.  

THROWN DOWN NINE

DSI Jeff Barton and DI Ollie Wright were on their way round to Chris O’Neill’s flat. Or to the flat of whoever was posing as Chris O’Neill. As well as the two cases of murder Jeff was also having to deal with a lot of politics around the whole area of Greater Manchester policing and it was pissing him off slightly. There was only so much that the solid, upright and dependable police officer he was known as could take before even his patience was tested. But these were changing times. An election had been won unexpectedly by the Tories and they were going full steam ahead with their vision of a ‘northern powerhouse’ with many of responsibilities that currently were held by the Westminster parliament being dissolved to the ‘city region’ of Manchester. Jeff had no objection to all of this in principle. In fact he rather favoured the idea of devolving powers as close to the people as possible. It might get some of the fat, lazy sods out to vote! But as a serving police officer it meant he’d have to dance even more to the tune of those who supposedly ‘represent the people’ and know precious little about police work. And it was starting with cuts to the number of officers on the ground, in fact, Chief Superintendent Geraldine Chambers was cracking the financial whip left, right and bloody centre. The administration of the city region would be carried out by the existing city council which, in Jeff’s opinion, had served the city quite well. He couldn’t be doing with all these people who had an aversion to changes to the way things were run. Everybody has to adapt to change whether they like it or not. But where he parted with ‘progress’ was when changes really meant cuts and the imposition of even more work on those left behind who were already hard pressed enough as it is. When he first joined the force every police officer seemed to be a Tory. Not anymore. Some had switched to Labour whilst others had gone to the far right. He wondered what his friend the Labour shadow home sectary and now Labour leadership candidate Martha Langton would have to say about it. Perhaps he should ring her. They’d got on so well after he’d helped her unearth a grand establishment conspiracy concerning the grooming of underage girls. He liked her. He liked her a lot. But she was a married woman with three kids and it would be wrong on so many levels because he wouldn’t just be ringing her to see if she’d like to meet him for coffee.        

‘So if O’Neill is actually some other bloke who stole O’Neill’s identity?’ said Ollie as they headed out of the police headquarters car park. He was driving. ‘Then chances are it was someone close to O’Neill. Especially as the real O’Neill only died a year ago?’

‘Yes, that’s my instinct too’ Jeff agreed. He shouldn’t even be going out on the road as much as he did. He was a DSI and he should be back at the station coordinating efforts and firing up the troops. But until he was fully staffed again there was no getting away with him having to get out into the thick of it. And if truth be told, he actually preferred it this way. ‘I’ve been on to the PSNI in Belfast. They’re going to look into the family and friends of the real O’Neill to see what they can find’.

‘It just goes to show, doesn’t it? The Northern Ireland conflict may be over in terms of the IRA and the British Army but the wounds must go pretty deep’.

‘You’re not kidding’ Jeff agreed. ‘Just like with the miners’ strike in the eighties. Some of the feelings around that conflict remain pretty raw. If time is a healer in these things then it takes a generation to even start to prove that in my opinion’.

‘What do you think the story is with Kieran Murphy, sir? Do you believe him when he says he’d had no contact with his brother Barry for the last twenty years?’

‘No’ said Jeff. ‘In a word, no I don’t. I think he’s lying through his teeth and I’m certain we’ll find the proof of that. Any word yet on his phone records?’

‘Not yet, sir’ said Ollie.

‘God these things can be bloody slow’ said Jeff. ‘With everything computerized everywhere these days you’d think it would just be a pressing of a few letters on a keyboard’.

‘But I am expecting them sometime today, sir’.

‘Good’ said Jeff. ‘Well we’ve already established that Padraig O’Connell wasn’t in contact with any of the other members of the Murphy family but my guess is that whatever led to O’Connell’s murder didn’t come from the Murphy family. Although I still want them watched and, if necessary, brought in’.

When they got to O’Neill’s flat at Palatine Gardens just inside Didsbury, one of Manchester’s most sought after districts where property prices are probably equal to anything that could be found in the south, it reminded Jeff of the block he lived in when he first met Lillie Mae. It was very much like this, built in the 1930s, white solid concrete exterior walls, flat roof and curved corners. The exterior was all painted white and the block was three stories high. A few happy memories flashed across his mind’s eye and he could almost see her walking out of the block to that old red Renault 5 car she used to have. They were such happy days when they had their whole lives ahead of them and they were full of the promise of new love. Little did they know then that they would be torn apart by tragedy so soon into what they thought was going to be a lifetime together. This was a bad grief day. He’d been okay until he got here and not that there were any good grief days. But now he felt like his heart was on the ground.

‘Sir?’

The spell that Jeff had fallen under was broken by Ollie’s deep baritone of a voice. Jeff had heard him singing once. He was quite brilliant. If he wasn’t such a good officer Jeff would tell him to pursue a career as a singer. ‘Yeah? I’m sorry, Ollie. What was that?’

‘I said can you see what’s pinned to the window of that second floor front flat’ Ollie pointed out. ‘I bed flat to rent’.

‘And that’s O’Neill’s flat?’

‘DS Bradshaw described it as second floor right hand side as you face the building so yes, that must be it, sir’.

‘And I suppose that’s the landlord’s mobile number written underneath’ said Jeff who already had his phone out and was pressing the appropriate numbers. He was lucky that it was answered at the other end straight away. ‘Hello? To whom am I speaking, please? … Mr.Patel? … Well Mr. Patel, are you the landlord of the one bed flat you’re advertising in Palatine Gardens? …You are? Good, well I’m Detective Superintendent Jeff Barton of the Greater Manchester police. Is the flat currently empty? …It is, okay well can you confirm that the former tenant was a Mr. Chris O’Neill? … Then can you tell me when he vacated the property? …Two days ago. I see, well thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Patel. One of my team will be in touch to make your statement official’. Jeff pressed the ‘end call’ button on his phone and kept it in his hand.

‘So if O’Neill vacated the property two days ago that means it was straight after Padraig O’Connell’s murder’ said Ollie.

‘Yes’ said Jeff who was back on his mobile and pressing the button he needed. ‘I want a warrant putting out for his arrest on suspicion of murder’.

DS Adrian Bradshaw and DC Joe Alexander made their way to the Wilmslow hairdressing salon of Jade Matheson and having parked their car a few doors down they made the rest of the way on foot. Joe looked up and saw that Adrian was smiling.

‘What’s up with you, laughing boy?’ Joe asked.

‘Well we couldn’t look more like detectives if we bloody tried’ said Adrian. ‘Suits, shirts, ties, polished shoes’.

‘I know’ said Joe who was already seeing the funny side of it. ‘Either that or somebody should get us a bloody brief!’

The salon itself was one of those ultra modern affairs with glass walls and mirrors everywhere. Joe didn’t quite know what to make of it. Gone were the days when hairdressing salons looked like somebody’s lounge with chairs arranged in a row and pointing at mirrors on the walls. He used to have to sit in places like that when he was a child and there was nobody to look after him when his Mum went to get her hair done. She still goes every Friday morning, regular as clockwork, come rain or shine but she wouldn’t like this place. It was far too cold with its black and white décor and smart arthouse type pictures of women in various poses to do with being ‘modern’. However some of the young ladies who worked there were rather pleasing to Joe’s eye. And being on a hairdressers salary meant that they’d probably not mind having a slightly older, financially secure police officer with a big bed and an even bigger heart to take care of them. None of the clientele would be interested. Round here girls who could afford to get their hair fixed at a place like this wouldn’t be interested in anyone who was only a detective constable. They’d have to be several ranks higher than that.