smiled.
She tutted, put the door to, unhooked the chain and let the two detectives come into her living accommodation. It consisted of three tiny rooms: a bed/living room with a mattress covered with grimy sheets in one corner, a couple of big, second-hand armchairs and a good quality TV set on top of a small cupboard; a minuscule bathroom, and a kitchen with a three-ringed cooker, sink and no fridge. In overall area, the flat was no bigger than a small towing caravan but was much less luxurious.
A large amount of baby clothing littered the place; in one corner of the room was a high pile of unused disposable nappies. The room smelled of sick and pooh with just a hint of cannabis.
What a fucking life, Henry thought. She must be all of seventeen. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘ Jodie Flew.’
‘ You alone here?’
‘ At the moment, yes,’ she answered tartly. ‘What d’you want?’ She brushed back a strand of greasy hair from her face. The baby’s volume decreased. Seymour crossed to the TV and switched it off.
Henry told her, gave a description of the dead girl and asked Jodie if it were possible she knew her, or if she lived in one of the flats.
‘ Well, maybe. Dead, eh?’ Jodie was not too concerned by the news. ‘A new tenant moved into one of the flats upstairs, day before yesterday, don’t know which one, but I only seen her a coupla times in passing. Could’ve been her, from the description. Hard to say. You spoken to the landlord?’
Henry shook his head.
‘ He lives downstairs.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘If he isn’t in, he’ll be at his club, that one on Withnell Road.’
Henry thanked her and made to leave.
‘ Any idea where that bastard of a boyfriend of mine is?’ she asked as they stepped out.
‘ Should we?’
‘ Well, he’s always in trouble for something or other. He went to the match yesterday and he hasn’t come back yet. I know he gets pissed up an’ all, but unless he got himself nicked, it’s a long time to be away, even for him.’
‘ What’s he called?’
‘ Shane Mulcahy.’
Henry blanched at the mention of the name. He knew Shane hadn’t given this as his address, otherwise he wouldn’t have knocked on the door in the first place. ‘Does he live here?’
‘ Most of the time. Sometimes crashes out at his mum’s.’
‘ Did he give you that?’ Henry nodded at her.
‘ What? The kid or the black eye?’
‘ Whichever.’
‘ Both.’
Henry regained his composure and said, ‘No, don’t know. Why don’t you give the nick a ring and ask the Custody Sergeant?’
‘ What with? I don’t have a phone and I don’t have any spare money until the Giro comes. That bastard took it all with him yesterday. I’ll ring his soddin’ neck when he comes back.’
She slammed the door behind them. Henry heard the chain slot back, then the TV get turned up.
Seymour said, ‘Isn’t that the one you kneed in the knackers?’
‘ You make it sound like an unprovoked assault, Dave. It was self defence.’
They went outside and trotted down the steps to the basement flat.
Henry rapped on the door.
‘ There’s one thing about it,’ Seymour said dryly. ‘There’s a one hundred per cent chance of him giving her a black eye again, but only a fifty per cent chance of him fathering another little Shane Mulcahy.’
The front entrance to the club was a pair of large wooden doors, gloss painted a deep shiny maroon.
Henry looked at Seymour with a surprised expression when the doors had been virtually closed in their faces by Jacko with a curt, ‘You’ll have to wait here while I get the boss.’
‘ Interesting reaction,’ said Seymour. He leaned on the doorbell as though pushing it hard would make it ring out in a more official tone.
‘ Something to hide?’ mused Henry.
They both waited for the ‘boss’ to arrive.
En route to the club, Henry had asked comms, via his PR, to see what could quickly be unearthed about a John Rider on the PNC and Indepol, Lancashire’s own crime intelligence computer.
There was no response for a few minutes. He and Seymour had by then arrived at the club and were obliged to park outside whilst waiting for the reply. Parked up in front of them was Rider’s Jaguar.
Checking up on people was pretty standard for Henry, no matter who he was dealing with. If they had ever been of interest to the police, he wanted to know.
After a tedious five minutes, the radio operator got back to him. ‘From the PNC — two previous, both over ten years old. Want details?’
‘ Affirmative.’
‘ Nineteen seventy-nine, armed robbery in Blackburn. Two years. Hijacked a security van. Nineteen eighty- two, again in Blackburn, living off immoral earnings. Two thousand pound fine, eighteen months suspended. Received?’
‘ Yep.’
‘ Not a lot on Indepol. There’s an old “target” file for him in existence somewhere, probably Manchester. There’s an RCS and NWOCS reference. That’s it… and PNC is flashing a warning signal. Apparently, if it’s the same guy, he uses firearms and is violent.’
‘ Thanks,’ Henry acknowledged, as usual not using radio terminology such as ‘Roger and out,’ because it made him feel slightly foolish. ‘Pimp and blagger,’ said Seymour.
‘ Firearms and violent,’ added Henry. ‘All very well to know.’
The door opened.
‘ Mr Rider?’ Henry asked.
A nod.
‘ Your employee is very rude.’
‘ Not half as rude as I can be. What can I do for you?’
‘ Can we come in?’
‘ Do you have a warrant?’
Henry looked pityingly at Rider. ‘We have a statutory right to enter licensed premises at any time.’ Or so he thought. He wasn’t completely certain, but he sounded it. ‘We need to ask some questions about one of your tenants who was found dead on the beach earlier today.’ He wasn’t completely sure about that, either.
Rider sighed. ‘Come in then.’
Conroy’s whole afternoon had backfired very badly indeed. He slouched angrily down in the back seat of his Mercedes which sped smoothly eastwards along the M55. What an almighty fucking cock-up!
Firstly there was the matter of John ‘holier-than-thou’ Rider, who like some sort of demented religious convert had forsaken all things criminal. Conroy had expected a soft touch — a serious misjudgement.
He’d been a hundred per cent certain he would be able to walk all over Rider and make a very one-sided deal which would give him access to the club. It had been apparent though from the first moments of their encounter that Rider wasn’t the slobbering drugged-up drunk he’d been expecting to meet. He was very much the Rider of old who was not to be messed with.
It didn’t alter the plan, though.
Conroy still wanted into the club — and very soon.
All it meant was that the next approach to Rider would be more formal and if necessary backed up with force. How much force was a matter for Rider, but there would be no room for negotiation. Conroy would get what he wanted.
