Dead Wrong (3 page)

“Yep, the one close to Leesdon Centre,” she confirmed. “Just as well it was found early. There’s a playgroup nearby, and they use it regularly. Can you imagine if a kid had found it?”

So — it was over. The long, uneventful summer had finally ended. A shocking end, but at least it felt more ‘normal’ than the strange limbo the nick had been in these last months. The case might be gruesome alright, but he still felt the familiar excitement thread down his spine.

It had been so quiet that they’d started taking bets at the station on how long it would be before the Hobfield Estate erupted again. There’d been no trouble for weeks. No beatings, very few arrests, and they were all twitchy. His work this summer had been so quiet, so dull, he’d almost sleep-walked through it.

Nonetheless, the images this news conjured in his mind made his flesh creep. Was this the work of some nutter on the prowl? The next mad craze to hit the estate? He was used to the brutality; it was normal for that hell hole. It came with the gang culture and the drug dealing. But this? Even for the Hobfield this was excessive, to say the least. It smacked of something different. Extreme.

But hadn’t the shooting in the spring been extreme too? God help them if this had anything to do with that.

Calladine had been trying to keep order on the Hobfield for most of his working life. It was a poisonous place, full of kids with no ambition, and precious few prospects. He dreaded the day when one of them would rise up and shake a serious fist at the police. He dreaded the rise of some real hard case, some radical new gang leader who’d flout all the unwritten rules by which they operated. Not that there were many to flout.

He couldn’t think who that might be. He knew most of the usual troublemakers. Was this someone new, reaching for the crown?

His sergeant voiced his thoughts. “Could be linked to the shooting.” She was well aware that this would be uppermost on his mind. “If it is, then it could give us a break. Heaven knows, we need it.”

“Not this sort of break, we don’t.” Had he sounded too abrupt? “It’s too soon to jump to conclusions, Ruth. It could be anything. But if it is connected, some sort of retribution, then it could blow the case wide open . . . But then again, if it’s not?” In the ensuing silence a shudder slid down his spine. Neither option was good. Retribution meant that someone on the Hobfield was one step ahead of him. On the other hand, a takeover, a war over territory, was equally as bad. Both had the possibility to escalate beyond what the local police could deal with.

“We need to get this wrapped up, and quick. It will ripple through the gangs, and give them no end of ideas, if we don’t sort it fast.”

“It’s possible that whoever carried out this latest atrocity has just found out who’s responsible for that boy’s death and decided to sort it himself.” Calladine wasn’t surprised that Ruth had considered this; she was a good detective. But it didn’t make him like the idea any better. If one of the scroats on the estate had cracked the case, then why hadn’t he?

It had been a while since the kid had been killed, and the trail had gone cold. He’d been shot dead one dark night, his young life snuffed out by a single bullet at close range. Surprisingly, there had only ever been a small amount of gun crime on the estate, so this had made everyone jittery. With most of the summer to mull it over, the police had it down as a takeover gone wrong.

Calladine didn’t believe it. The kid was not a gang member for a start. The entire thing bothered him. It had been too clean; there was no evidence, nothing left at the scene. Was that just pure luck for whoever had carried out the murder, or was it something more sinister?

Unusually for the Hobfield, the victim, Richard Pope, had seemed like a good kid, so why had someone wanted him dead? The questions wouldn’t go away. Why had he been a target? He had a fairly innocuous background, he didn’t get into too much trouble — he just didn’t stand out. Calladine could think of far worthier candidates for murder.

It galled him that, weeks down the line, they were no nearer to finding a solution. No one had seen anything, of course, and no one could offer anything helpful about the dead kid either. The team had put everything they had into the investigation and, six months later, they still had a big fat nothing. No witnesses and no forensics (apart from the bullet). Their failure depressed and annoyed Calladine.

As for the Hobfield Estate, it was weird, but there had been a kind of unholy peace among the different factions all summer. It hadn’t felt right.

He had to find out what was going on and fast. Ruth’s suggestion that someone had achieved what he hadn’t been able to, and had now exacted revenge, made him shudder.

“OK, Ruth, I’m not far away. Where are you now?”

“I’m on the edge of the common, just off the Circle Road, sir. I’ve got the area cordoned off but I’m trying not to attract too much attention. With luck any onlookers will shrug it off as just another burnt-out car.” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Doc Hoyle has been and gone. He’s taken the bag and fingers to the mortuary. I’ve told Julian, so forensics will be examining the bag.”

DS Ruth Bayliss walked away from the rest of the group. “SOCO are combing through everything, doing a fingertip search of the immediate area and I’ve got Dodgy knocking on doors along Circle Road.” ‘Dodgy’ was Detective Constable Michael Dodgson, the latest recruit to the team. “I got here before anything was touched,” she told Calladine. “The bag was just lying there, on the swing. Whoever left it, sure as hell wanted it found — and talked about.”

“We have to stop that, for now at least. Have a word with the jogger. I don’t want the press to get wind of this.”

“Already sorted, sir. Turns out he’s a solicitor, so he understands why he should keep his mouth shut.”

“Get his statement. Did he see anything, anyone else hanging around?”

“He says not, but he did see the seven fifteen to Manchester pass along the road, and it was packed. Someone on that bus might have seen them. Should we think about putting something out, an appeal? No need to give the details.”

Calladine wasn’t keen. Until he knew where this was going, he didn’t want the press involved.

“Not yet. You’ve got things sorted, well done. Check if there’s any CCTV, particularly along the row of shops at the top end, then meet me at the mortuary, and we’ll see what Doc Hoyle has to say.”

He sighed. The prospect of a case, after the long summer hiatus might be exciting, but someone seeking retribution for murder, or a possible new drugs war on the Hobfield didn’t fill him with much joy either. The Hobfield was a cesspit, the embodiment of all that was wrong with the entire area. It was no place to conduct a satisfactory investigation.

* * *

The sign on the road that indicated entry to Leesdon said
Leesdon Village,
but
village
was a bit of a misnomer. The place was much too spread out and built up to deserve that particular description.

Calladine had watched Leesdon grow, seen it thrive briefly during the seventies, and then take a spectacular nosedive after the Hobfield was built.

Ever since the mid-eighties, the area had gone steadily downhill. Calladine thought this was a great shame, because it was situated right in the middle of some fantastic countryside.

This was where Calladine had spent his life. He’d been born and raised in Leesdon, and now lived in a small cottage just off the High Street.

Leesdon was one of a number of villages which were known collectively as Leesworth, situated in the Pennine foothills, and steeped in industrial history. Quaint stone cottages bordered the village roads. The old stone woollen mills, once the main source of employment, had long since been converted into pricy apartments. This had brought in the business types, those hard-working souls who were happy to commute into Manchester every day, and were prepared to pay through the nose for a pocket handkerchief of a flat.

But there had been no gentrification in Leesdon. Leesdon was the exception.

Once the Hobfield Estate had been established, no further development took place. The village was condemned to be the eternal poor relation of an otherwise desirable, upmarket area. News of the Hobfield, and its dubious reputation had spread, and the developers stayed away.

There weren’t many amenities or quite enough shops; none of the big chains were here, and there hadn’t been a bank for two decades, since some fool had tried robbing it.

But Leesworth Police Station remained; his own nick, and the place in which he intended to work out the rest of his time with the force. And, of course, there was the hospital which served the local area and beyond. He was headed there now.

The
Cottage Hospital,
as it was still fondly called, had a small emergency department, several wards, and a mortuary.

Hopefully Hoyle would give him something he could use. There’d been nothing after the shooting, and Calladine knew the man well enough to know he felt this failure as acutely as Calladine himself.

You might say that Doctor Sebastian Hoyle was every bit as old school as he was. The doctor could easily have moved up the career ladder by transferring to one of the bigger acute hospitals within the Greater Manchester area, but he hadn’t. Like Calladine, he remained firmly rooted in Leesdon. This gave the two men a common bond.

As he pulled in, Calladine could see Sergeant Ruth Bayliss pacing up and down the car park, talking into her mobile phone while she waited for him. She was wrapped up against the cold weather in a long woollen coat and scarf. Neither of these did her any favours on the appearance front. Ruth didn’t follow fashion — she wore what she was comfortable in. She covered up mostly — those who knew her well knew that Ruth had a thing about her weight, and this coloured how she saw herself. But the truth was, it was all there. A different hairstyle, a little makeup and she could be a stunner. Ruth had small features and a clear, pale complexion. Lose the weight and change her attitude and she could give any female you mentioned a run for their money.

Calladine parked his small saloon car and nodded back as she greeted him with a wave. She’d worked as his sergeant for a number of years, and they got on well. Ruth could be highly critical of both his ideas and methods at times, but he knew that she considered him good at what he did. She could hardly think anything else — his team had the best clear-up rate in the nick.

And he was easy on the eye, even if he thought so himself. Not that he was vain but according to his mother, who was his greatest fan, he had lean angular good looks which suited his dark hair. In his younger days she’d likened him to some film star or other, which had caused far too much hilarity among his friends for comfort. He smiled to himself. Did she still think that, he wondered, now that his once mid-length dark hair was close cropped and fast turning to grey? She didn’t say much that made any sense these days.

The regard was mutual. Calladine enjoyed working with Ruth, who, in her turn was easy to get on with and good at her job. He trusted her. She was a very practical woman, and a real asset to his team. Apart from working together they also had friends in common. She’d been married briefly to the brother of his on-off girlfriend Monika. Combined with her plain speaking, this gave Ruth an edge with the inspector that the others didn’t have. She often advised him, and pulled no punches. Calladine was hopeless where the women in his life were concerned, a failing he was well aware of, and he often turned to Ruth for help.

Despite this, Calladine knew precious little about Ruth’s private life. If she were anything like him, he thought, she’d be damn lucky if she had one. But that didn’t stop him wondering how she’d managed to get to her mid-thirties with no ties. She was attractive, in a comfortable sort of way, looked after herself, and was intelligent. Perhaps she was too intelligent for most men — she saw straight through people, right to their flaws.

“Julian says he’s got something for us already,” she told him with a smile as he approached. “Says he can give us something really useful on the plastic bag when we get back.”

Calladine nodded, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets against the icy wind. Once summer was done with, the cold seemed to set in hard around here. He shivered, and felt his cheek twinge. He had questions, plenty of them, but his mouth was still numb and he couldn’t trust his lips or tongue to work quite properly yet.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Ruth asked. “Monika’s birthday; you said to remind you.”

Calladine swore under his breath. He hadn’t exactly forgotten, but he hadn’t come up with any ideas either.

“Flowers?” he mumbled.

“You should try to do a little better than that, sir. You are trying to make this work — again.” She raised her eyebrows. “Think of something she likes, something she’s into.”

Calladine knew that there were times when Ruth despaired of him. She thought Monika was a great idea, and she didn’t ask for much either, so the least he could do was give her something she’d appreciate for her birthday.

Calladine shrugged. “What d’you mean? As far as I can tell Monika’s into her work — just like me.” Monika was the manageress of the care home his mother lived in. When she was off-duty, she usually lay exhausted on the sofa in her flat. On the rare occasions when they were both free at the same time they went out for a meal or film. This was probably the reason their relationship was so shaky.

“Look, Tom, it’s about time you made a decision. Are you serious about making this work? What you’re doing is playing around with Monika’s feelings and it isn’t fair. It’s a simple enough question — do you want her or don’t you?”

The truth was, he didn’t know. Ruth seemed to think Monika was right for him, so why the doubt? And having to decide on a present would bug him all day; he was no good at this sort of thing. Why did it have to be so damned difficult? She was a woman, wasn’t she? So what the hell was wrong with flowers — surely a big bunch of them couldn’t be wrong?

“Don’t get flowers; get her something a little more personal, jewellery perhaps.” They were by this time pacing along a hospital corridor. “What does she like?”