 |
 |
“You ready?” Chalkie leant through the doorway to the office. “If I’m going to drop you off and get home in time we need to go now.”
Thurstan nodded, placed some files in his drawer, locked it and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand. “Thanks, I appreciate this.”
Chalkie signed them out whilst Thurstan spoke quickly with Degsy about the arrangements and enquiries for the following day. Someone held a phone in the air and called, “They need to speak to a DCI now! Body at Thurstaston beach.” Chalkie wandered over.
Finished, Thurstan, moments later, stood in front of him with a face full of questions.
Chalkie looked at him and raised his forefinger as he spoke to the Control Room Inspector. “Yeah ...yeah....ok. We’ll get there as soon as we can ... Thirty minutes, depends on the traffic. We’ll take the Birkenhead tunnel.”
He put the phone down and rolled his eyes at his oppo. “Shooting victim in the car park next to the sailing club. We’ll have to make a detour. I’ll tell you about it in the lift.”
At a far-flung edge of the Wirral peninsular, known to some as ‘God’s country’, Chalkie and Thurstan stood alongside the slipway to Thurstaston beach, watching the pathologist go about his business. Eventually, he rose from the body, stepped over and spoke.
“Well, as you can see, no expense spared on bullets. I’ve looked at the angles of entry and can tell you I’m fairly certain the hole in the centre of his forehead was the cause of death. He was sitting upright when that was delivered, looking towards his killer. Close as well. Looks like the others were delivered whilst he was slumped over, but I’ll know more when I’ve had him on the slab and rummaged around.” He stepped back with a disarming smile. “Just got to go and finish a couple of things then I’ll be off.”
Chalkie, a light breeze in his face, took in the view across the Dee estuary; the glistening water and the Welsh coast beyond. “Do you know? This is the first time I’ve been here. Apart from him,” he pointed at Donny Mostyn sprawled in the car, “it’s really nice.” He wandered around the vehicle. “What do you reckon?”
Thurstan took a deep breath. “Well, it looks like a gangland killing, for all intents and purposes, but if what the Pathologist says pans out then I think it’s just been staged to look that way.”
Chalkie rubbed his chin. “If that’s right, surely the killer would have known it wasn’t going to stand up to hard scrutiny, so, why bother?”
Thurstan smiled. “Maybe they’re letting us know they’re back and giving us what we need to write it off with the press. Or, it could just be a thick twat with a large expense account.”
Chalkie laughed. “You think it could be your boy, Nickson, don’t you?”
“I do. I can almost smell him all over this and that’s why I’ll take this one off you.”
“Whoa! I can’t let you do that! You’ve got enough on your plate.”
Thurstan shook his head. “I can balance the two jobs, especially if you lend me two or three of yours who aren’t being fully utilised.” He patted Chalkie’s arm. “You get on your way or you’ll be in deep shit with the kids if you miss ‘em in that play. I’ll have a word with the crime scene crew and speak to those uniforms who’ve just come off the beach. I’ll bum a lift off one of them when I’m done.”
It was late when he got home. The patrol was kind enough to wait for him, outside the chippy, whilst he got himself a Chinese meal. He poured himself a large whiskey with a dash of water from the tap and downed it in one. Jacket off, he spooned rice onto a plate, decanted the chicken curry, grabbed a fork, and settled down in front of the telly.
The following morning he reorganised the staff and reallocated enquiries. The ‘beach girl’ press appeal was under way and they were waiting on the results of the post mortem. He’d named the teams in the style of a WW2 specialist unit; Beach Commandos; ‘A’ – Southport: Intel, Missing Persons, Domestic Violence databases and the search for meaningful CCTV. ‘B’ – Wirral: Intel, Informants, Sailing Club and more CCTV. It helped him focus.
With a steaming mug, he sat himself down in his office for a short respite. Someone had left a copy of the local paper on his coffee table. He checked the date, it was current enough.
Five minutes later, he dragged his jacket on and signed out of the office. “I’m on the mobile, Arthur,” he called to the office manager.
****
In Cavern Walks, Thurstan descended the steps into the bar. The music hit him like a wet curtain as he pushed through the happy crowd, leant on the bar and tried to attract someone’s attention. A surprisingly strong skinny guy, with a loaded tray he hadn’t looked capable of carrying, backed away from the bar. “It’s all yours now, mate,” he cheerily imparted.
Thurstan spoke quickly to the barman who pointed to a door guarded by a bouncer. It took several attempts but eventually, the doorman heard what he was being told and called it in. Within seconds, he nodded and opened the door. As Thurstan passed him, he was grabbed by the shoulder. “Third on the left,” was yelled in his ear. He smiled his appreciation. The door closed, leaving the noise a distant memory. He made a mental note to ask who did their doors and windows. He was impressed. A second bouncer waved him in.
“Well, well, Mister Baddeley! Advertising does work! You come for your freebies then have you? Or is it just a social call?” Mickey Fenton grinned at him from behind a large oak desk. “I never had you down as a keen reader of the Echo.”
“Hello, Mickey. I’m not normally, but you know how I worry about you. Sadly it’s not purely a social call. Donny Mostyn?”
Fenton lit a cigar and puffed a pall of smoke into the air. “I thought it wouldn’t be long. What do you think of the place anyway? You missed the grand opening. Might catch it on the news tonight though.” He got up and poured himself a scotch. “I’d offer you one but you’re obviously on duty.”
A little smile and he sat down once more. “Yeah, Donny. Tragic and so young. Only to be expected though, what with all the sordid little things he had his grubby little mitts in. The words I’m hearing are ‘it’s not local’. Caused quite a stir, so people were keen to confirm. Will that do you?”
Thurstan nodded. They had an understanding. If something involved the local organised crime chiefs, Mickey would say he’d heard nothing. Otherwise, it was to everyone’s benefit to set the record straight.
“How’s Sharon?” The temptation to mention Fenton’s wife had proved too much.
Mickey scowled. “I’d rather not hear that woman’s name spoken, if it’s all the same to you. Years of devotion I gave her and she repays me by trying to stitch me up like a kipper.”
Thurstan affected a sympathetic countenance but couldn’t resist another poke, although he already knew the answer. His prize would be the momentary expression on Fenton’s face. “When’s your trial?”
Mickey took a swig and put the glass on his desk. “Three months, as you’re fully aware, I’m sure. Not that I’m concerned. Not being able to go on holiday this year was a kick up the arse. Had to surrender the bloody passport. Not to worry, there’s always next year.”
“Nice to see you so confident, Michael.”
He forced a smile. “One has to do their best, Mister Baddeley. Anything else?”
The DCI had started to turn for the door. It felt almost as if Mickey wanted to tell him something. “Well, seeing as I’m here. We found a naked girl on the beach, Formby way. Is there something you could tell me?”
He took the cigar from his mouth. “I’m glad you asked because now that you’ve brought it up, there is something.” He got to his feet and wandered, thoughtfully, up and down behind his chair.
“It might be worthwhile you looking at a couple of brothers who’ve set themselves up in Southport. Them and a few spurious relatives. The Council and Immigration think they’re Syrian refugees but they’re not. They’re Albanians, passing themselves off.” He placed the cigar in the ashtray. “I don’t bother out that way anymore. Too much trouble. You know I’ve never been into supplying girls, I don’t agree with that sort of thing, but from what I’m hearing, they’re into everything and getting a little too cocky.”
“Not worried about them filtering south to the city?”
A genuine grin. “I look forward to them trying.” He emptied his glass.
They nodded mutual grudging respect and Thurstan left to slap his face with a wet curtain once more. Dexy’s Midnight Runners were imploring Eileen to take off her dress.