For now, the late team could deal with things but tomorrow someone was going to have to dig through the contents of both bins. Jessica knew just the people for the job.
3
The lights flickered in the newly refurbished incident room at Longsight Police Station. After a temporary spell upstairs without heating but with an increased risk of everything from asbestos poisoning to Legionnaires’ disease, everyone was allowed to work in the basement again. Well, ‘work’ being a subjective term considering the electricity had been on the blink since they’d moved back the previous month. That was combined with the fact that it still reeked of fresh paint.
Jessica scowled upwards as the white strip bulb chuntered angrily before deciding it wasn’t going to douse them in darkness. Below, the mix of uniformed officers and CID officers rabbited to each other.
Quieting them with her trademark ‘all right, shut it, you lot’, Jessica glanced at the scrawl of notes she’d made. Her handwriting really was appalling. Behind her on a whiteboard, images had been pinned up of the area at the back of the rowing club, alongside a large photograph of Damon Potter in his rowing uniform. He had a physique much like Holden’s the night before – tall and lean but with strong shoulders. His dark hair was cut short, determined brown eyes staring out into the room atop a chiselled jawline.
‘Okay, so we have an official ID on the body of Damon Potter from last night,’ Jessica said. ‘We should have cause of death back later but there were no obvious bruises on his body and no signs he was attacked. Regardless, he didn’t just fall into the bin – so someone knows what happened to him. I’ve got things to do today, so I want you lot doing the digging here. Who does he hang around with? Does he have a girlfriend or boyfriend? Where does he live? Who are his family? Is he a cat or dog person? All that sort of stuff. The night boys have started but nothing was open.’ Jessica nodded towards DS Louise Cornish, a middle-aged, slightly frumpy woman who was staring past her towards the board. ‘Louise will sort things at this end. Damon was a member of the rowing club, so I want details on that too – who are the main people involved? What do they get up to when they’re not dinghy-racing, or whatever it is they do? Those of you with Iz already know what you’re doing; those on bin duty are already on site – everyone else with Louise.’
Chairs scraped and tea was slurped as the assembled officers slowly started to move. Jessica nodded at Acting Detective Sergeant Izzy Diamond, indicating an unoccupied desk near the front of the room.
Izzy looked tired, blinking rapidly and pushing a loose strand of long brown hair behind her ear. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she said, peering at Jessica, eyebrows raised.
Jessica tried to sound as if she didn’t know what her friend was talking about. ‘What?’
Izzy’s half-laugh wasn’t convincing. ‘You should’ve pulled my people to investigate your body in the bin.’
‘We’ve got enough officers.’
Izzy shook her head, not complaining. Jessica slid a photo out from under the keyboard on the desk. It was a still frame taken from a CCTV camera at an off-licence, showing a balaclava-wearing man pointing a serrated-edged knife in the direction of a cashier.
‘Any luck with the tattoo?’ Jessica asked, pointing at the complex shapes on the robber’s bare wrist.
Izzy shook her head. ‘That picture from Monday is the clearest. The marks are distinctive but we’ve not had anyone coming forward to say they know someone with tattoos like that. We’ve been around the city’s tattoo places and identified them as some sort of African tribal patterns but if our guy got it done in Manchester then no one’s saying anything.’
Four off-licences robbed after dark around the city, thousands of pounds taken, with the only clue being the tattoo. Jessica stared at the figure again. Not particularly fat or thin, dark short-sleeved top, jeans from George at Asda, size nine or ten workman’s boots, balaclava covering his face. It wasn’t an original outfit but it did the job.
Izzy had recently been promoted from constable to sergeant on a temporary six-month basis. This was the first proper case she had been assigned. Jessica knew the fact she hadn’t solved it quickly was annoying her.
‘How’s Amber?’ Jessica asked, referring to the sergeant’s young daughter.
‘Growing,’ Izzy replied, not wanting the subject to be changed and lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I really need to get the job permanently. Mal’s had his hours cut and the extra money . . .’
‘They’re not going to deny you that because there’s some tattoo we’ve not been able to find.’
‘It’s not going to help – especially if this guy keeps holding up shops.’
Jessica couldn’t argue; if the attacks continued then someone higher up the chain would take over the case anyway – likely her. She was about to offer some sort of encouragement and head off when Izzy added: ‘Has the guv still got the arse with you?’
Jessica tried to brush the remark off with a shrug but Izzy wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Did you ever figure out what’s up with him? It’s been going on for months now – ever since that Scott Dewhurst guy was shot.’
Even the sound of his name made the back of Jessica’s neck prickle. That bald head, the thick fingers and his vice-like grip. If she closed her eyes, she would still be able to see him.
‘I don’t think it’s that,’ Jessica replied. ‘Anyway, it’s not just me. I think he’s just getting grumpy in his old age.’
It was true: Detective Chief Inspector Jack Cole had been off with her ever since Dewhurst was shot. It wasn’t that he’d said anything specific, more that his replies were always short and that he went out of his way to avoid meetings involving her that weren’t absolutely necessary. Jessica didn’t mind that as such – anything that got rid of extra paperwork and what she considered time-wasting was fine by her – but the fact other people had noticed proved it wasn’t just in her mind. As for why, Jessica didn’t know. She was up with all of her targets and, despite the tattoo robberies, there wasn’t much on their unsolved pile.
Izzy caught Jessica’s eye, nodding towards the door with a knowing grin. ‘Here’s your sidekick.’
Jessica turned to see Detective Constable Archie Davey swaggering towards her. There was no other way to describe the way he walked: knees bent outwards, chest pumped forward, shoulders back. It would be laughable but for the fact that he actually had the presence to pull it off. After being short-staffed for longer than Jessica could remember, Greater Manchester Police had finally got around to hiring some new constables and Archie had been the first face through the door six weeks previously. At barely five foot eight, he was hardly the stereotypical police officer but he had served his dues working for uniform in the Southern district of Manchester.
‘All right?’
Archie’s thick Mancunian accent rarely failed to make Jessica smile. In another life, he would have been the exact type of lad about town they spent half their days trying to catch. With the raise of an eyebrow, he could turn from being a happy-go-lucky constable to looking like he wanted to tear a person’s lower intestine out. He probably could as well. The product of a Stretford council estate, Archie knew the city as well as anyone but had chosen the right side of the criminal fence. On the odd occasion she had seen him in action, Jessica had been surprised at how far a local-sounding voice could get them on Manchester’s estates. He was the perfect appointment. Even at twenty-seven, he sounded like more of a scally, chav or whatever else they were called nowadays, than half the people they arrested. His dark tight curls were gelled back, which, combined with his cocky smirk, had contributed to a few of the females around the station noticing him. His ladies’ man reputation preceded him.