Beneath the Bleeding (39 page)

‘Because I’m too busy trying to find who killed Robbie Bishop,’ Paula said. ‘I’d have thought you’d approve of that.’ Her aggressor harrumphed and pointedly settled back into his game. Paula turned back to Mottishead. ‘I appreciate what you told us before. And it was very helpful. But what I want you to tell
me is what Jack Anderson was like. Not the facts of his life, but his personality. What sort of lad he was.’

Mottishead scratched his stubbly head and grinned. ‘He was up for anything, Jack. After his dad died, it was like he went off his head a bit. Like he had to get everything crammed in before he died. He was shocking with the lasses-if they wouldn’t shag him, he dropped them like a hot potato. And if they did shag him, he’d get bored in a few weeks and dump them anyway. I heard tell he was into all sorts-threesomes, bondage…you name it, he’d have a crack at it. And if he liked it, he’d do it again. Drink, fags, drugs-he had to be the first to try everything that was going the rounds. It was like the brakes came off when his dad died, and they never went back on again.’

He sounded like a prince, Paula thought. Lucky for him their paths had never crossed. ‘Didn’t anybody try to get him to calm down? His mum? Teachers?’

Mottishead pushed his lips out and shook his head. ‘His mum was in a world of her own half the time. Looking back, I think she was popping Valium like Smarties. And the teachers weren’t interested in owt that happened outside the classroom. Jack was too smart to let his schoolwork go down the drain. He knew getting some qualifications was the only sure way to get out of Bradfield. And he wanted out.’

‘Did he ever talk about how he was going to get out? Did he have a career in mind?’

‘He never said what he was going to do for a living. He always said how he was going stratospheric. He was going to leave the likes of us behind and go all the way to the top.’ His forehead creased with the
effort of memory. ‘One time, I remember, we were having a General Studies class and we were talking about ambition. And the teacher was going on about how that Tory bloke, what’s his name, Tarzan they called him…’

‘Michael Heseltine?’

‘That’s the one. Well, apparently when he was a lad, he wrote down a list of what he was planning for his future. Top of the list was Prime Minister. Well, he never made that but he got bloody close, and he did all the other things on the list. The teacher’s going on about this, and about setting goals. And we’re all thinking, “Get a job, get a girlfriend, get a season ticket for Victoria Park.” But not Jack. He’s writing down stuff like, “Get a Ferrari. Own a house on Dunelm Drive. Make a million by the time I’m thirty.” We all laughed at him, but he was serious.’

‘Sounds pretty ambitious,’ Paula said.

That was Jack.’ Mottishead turned serious. ‘If you’re thinking Jack killed Robbie Bishop, I won’t be the one on the telly going, “I can’t believe it.” The road that Jack was on all those years ago? Murder would just be another taboo to walk all over. And he’d make a bloody good job of it. You’d have your work cut out to catch him, never mind to put him away.’

Paula felt herself shiver. This team he used to do the pub quiz with? The Funhouse? Did they all work together?’

‘No, they’d got together because they all play those online games. You know, I’ll be a wizard and you be a dwarf and we’ll have a fight? Anyhow, they’d worked out they all lived local and they decided to
get together for the pub quiz. Nice blokes, but a right bunch of anoraks apart from Jack. He didn’t really fit in with them. Mind you, he never really fitted in anywhere. For all his antics, he never really had proper mates. Just people to do the mad stuff with.’

‘And you’ve no idea where he is now?’

‘Not a Scooby. Sorry. I asked around after I spoke to you the other day, but nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for years.’

‘I don’t understand that,’ Paula said. ‘We believe he’s got a flat in Temple Fields. We think he was in Amatis the night Robbie was poisoned. He must be out and about. I can’t believe nobody’s seen him around.’

Mottishead took a swig from his can. ‘Maybe that’s because he doesn’t live there. A lot of those fancy flats in the city centre, they’re just crash pads for rich sods that live some other place. Maybe Jack made it after all. Maybe he just comes to town when he’s got somebody to kill.’

Hands and shoulders aching from the crutches, Tony made his way down the third-floor corridor. He didn’t remember it being this far from the lift to the MIT squad room. But then the hospital corridor also seemed to have stretched since that morning.

He’d lied to the nurse. He’d said he was going down to the café on the ground floor to do some reading accompanied by decent coffee, and not to expect him back for a while. The truth was he worked best when he could talk and listen to the team face to face. He wanted to show Carol Yousef Aziz’s blog posts, because he didn’t think he could convince her without showing
her what he meant. And as much as these things, he wanted to avoid another destructive encounter with his mother.

He was disappointed when he walked in to find the only person around was Stacey. Not that he had anything against Stacey. It was impossible not to respect her abilities. He knew from past experience how vital her skills had been to the team’s success. There were people walking around Bradfield who wouldn’t be if it hadn’t been for Stacey’s intimate understanding of silicon and cyberspace. It was just that she’d never quite mastered human communication. He always felt awkward around her, perhaps because he could understand how his own social skills might have been that stunted if he hadn’t worked so hard at passing for human.

Tony swung across the room, smiling as Stacey looked up. Her eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, placing a second chair behind her desk. He sat down gratefully, unslinging his computer bag from across his body. ‘We didn’t know you were coming in.’ He knew it wasn’t meant to be an accusation, but it sounded like one.

‘I was getting stir crazy,’ he said. ‘And besides, this is where I belong at a time like this.’

‘It’s good to have you back,’ she said with all the animation of a talking doll. ‘How’s your knee?’

‘Incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes very painful. But at least I can get around with this leg brace and the crutches. But I need to take my mind off my leg, which is why I’m here. Do you know if DCI Jordan’s due back?’

‘She’s in a meeting with the Chief Constable,’ Stacey
said, already staring at the screen, far more interested in that than in him. ‘She went off about twenty minutes ago. She didn’t say when she’ll be back.’

‘OK, I’ll wait. I need to talk to her about Yousef Aziz.’

Stacey sneaked a quick glance at him. ‘You’re working on the bombing?’

‘And the other stuff. What are you on?’

Stacey gave him a little smile, like a cartoon cat who’s just done something horrible to the dog. ‘I’d rather not say how, but I’ve got all the data from the First Fabrics computer.’

‘First Fabrics?’

‘Yousef Aziz’s family textile business. I’ve printed out all the correspondence and sent Sam off to find a quiet corner to read it in. He’s better at picking up the human interface stuff than I am,’ she said.

‘Did you just take the piss out of yourself?’ Tony said.

She flicked a quick glance his way, a twinkle in her eye. ‘I may be a cyborg, but I still have a sense of humour.’

Tony acknowledged her response with a mock salute. ‘So what are you looking at?’

‘The financials.’

‘And?’

‘It’s stupendously dull, for the most part. They buy textiles from half a dozen different sources, they sell on finished garments to a couple of middlemen.’

‘Middlemen? I don’t understand.’

Stacey took her hand off the mouse. ‘Rag trade 101. The end user is the retailer. They have suppliers who are in effect the wholesalers. The retailer tells
the wholesaler what they want to buy and what price they’re prepared to pay for it. The wholesaler goes to the middleman and tells him what the order is. The middleman parcels out the order to the manufacturers. Who may not be in this country. Or, who might be illegal sweatshops. Some legit manufacturers, like First Fabrics, also do their own samples, which they pass up the line to try and get orders for.’

‘It seems…over-complicated?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But apparently that’s the way it works. And every step of the way, there are profits to be taken. You buy a shirt in a shop for twenty-five quid, the chances are the manufacturer didn’t get more than fifty pee. So the machinists have to make a lot of shirts so their bosses can stay in business.’

‘Aren’t you glad you’ve got a skill that earns more than sewing shirts?’ Tony said, sighing.

‘You bet. Anyway, like I said, that’s what First Fabrics does. Buy cloth, make clothes. Sell clothes to one of two middlemen. At least, that’s what they did until about six months ago.’

Tony’s attention quickened. Anything relating to Yousef Aziz six months previously interested him. ‘What happened then?’

‘This company appears in the accounts. B&R, they’re called. They’re paying more per item than the middlemen. From what I can figure out, the price B&R are paying First Fabrics is roughly half way between what a middleman would pay and what a wholesaler would pay the middleman.’

‘And this started six months ago?’

Stacey clicked with her mouse and brought up a new screen. She swung her monitor round towards Tony. ‘There.’ She pointed to a ledger entry. ‘First time they show up.’

‘So who are B&R?’ he asked.

Stacey tutted. ‘I don’t have access to Companies House database, and they don’t issue detailed information like directors and company officers on a Sunday. All I have is a registered address, which is an accountant’s office in north Manchester, and the nature of the business.’

‘Which is?’

‘Garment wholesaler.’

‘So for some reason, six months ago, First Fabrics discovered the joy of cutting out the middleman?’

‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’

He could sense her impatience to continue with her work. ‘That’s really interesting. Now I need to make a phone call.’ He pushed off with his good leg and the wheeled chair scooted a few feet away. He swung round so his back was to Stacey, then dialled the number Sanjar Aziz had given him. The phone was answered on the third ring. But not by Sanjar.

‘Hello,’ said the voice. Deep, Mancunian and cautious.

‘Is this Sanjar Aziz’s number?’ Tony said, equally cautious.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘This is Dr Tony Hill. Who am I talking to?’

‘Mr Aziz is not available right now. Can I take a message?’

‘No message,’ Tony said and ended the call. He was about to ask Stacey how to find out whether Sanjar
Aziz had been arrested when Kevin walked in with a sheaf of papers.

‘Hiya, Tony,’ he said, looking genuinely pleased to see him. He perched on a desk opposite and ran through the usual questions about the mad axeman and the knee. ‘You here to give us a hand?’

‘I hope so,’ Tony said. ‘I need to talk to Carol. And you? What are you working on?’

‘This and that. I went to see the Double Aitch’s headmaster. All three of the poison victims went there, but the head says he’s never met any of them and he didn’t set up the trap that reeled Popeye in. For what it’s worth, I think he was telling the truth.’

‘Wait a minute. What trap?’

Kevin outlined what Cross’s widow had told Carol. ‘He’s not leaving much to chance, is he?’ he concluded.

Tony looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ he said. But his mind was racing.
Sophisticated, elaborate. You’ve lined up your targets in advance. You take risks, but they’re carefully calculated in advance and you do everything you can to minimize their effects. You like connection with your victims but you don’t need to see them die. I think you’ve planned this whole campaign out in advance, beginning to end, and you’re methodically working your way through it. And I don’t understand what’s in it for you. What’s the pay-off here?
He sighed. ‘None of which takes us much further forward. So, what are you up to now?’

‘Aziz’s mobile.’ We got the call records this morning and I’ve been shut in a cupboard checking out all the numbers.’

‘Anything interesting?’

Kevin shook his head. ‘Mostly business and family. A few mates, but we already had their names. There’s
only one thing that looks a bit dodgy.’ He pointed out a number to Tony. ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone bought with a false name and address. Those fucking phone shops would sell a phone to Osama bin Laden if he walked in with the cash. They’re supposed to ask for ID, but do they buggery. Anyway, as you can see, there’s a lot of calls and SMS traffic between the two phones. Unfortunately, Aziz erased all the texts. I tried ringing it, but nobody’s home.’

‘When did these calls start?’ Tony asked.

‘Dunno. Aziz only got this phone six months ago. The calls are there more or less from the beginning.’

Again, the magic six months. Before Tony could say more, the door swung open and Carol walked in, speaking over her shoulder to someone in the corridor. When she turned and spotted him, she shook her head in obvious despair.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Did they discharge you already?’

‘Not as such,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you, and I wanted to avoid my mother. You know?’

‘Will you excuse us, Kevin? Unless you have something that won’t wait?’ Kevin backed off and headed for his own desk. Carol pushed his chair further away from Stacey and pulled up another next to him.

‘Are you crazy?’ she said. ‘They keep you in hospital for a reason, you know.’

‘You sound like the nurses.’

‘Well, maybe they’re right, did you consider that?’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘I need to be working, Carol. It’s all I know. I don’t do smelling the flowers.’ He saw the spark of understanding in her eyes. She’d once spent three months trying not to do her job. It
hadn’t healed her. It had nearly finished her. Nobody knew that better than him. He pointed to his computer bag on Stacey’s desk. ‘I have something I want you to look at. I think I’m seeing something, but I’m not sure if it’s just that I want to see it.’