Nowhere To Hide

‘Off piste and well pissed. Definitely. We checked out the local pubs. Found a couple of witnesses who remembered him knocking back the pints earlier in the evening. Was with a few others, but nobody knew who they were. Or so they said.’ Brennan leaned back in the hard chair and stretched out his legs. ‘Who knows? Might have been there on business, might have just gone out for a quiet pint or two with his mates.’

‘In Stockport?’

‘It’s been known. Apparently. Though I’d stick to the real ale in the Crown. Is all this going somewhere?’

‘Last case you were working on, before we called on your services.’ Salter turned from the window. ‘Stephen Kenning.’

‘This your specialist subject? Recent cases of the Greater Manchester Police, Metropolitan Division?’

‘Maybe. How am I doing?’

‘Seems to me you’re asking all the questions.’

Salter lowered himself back into the seat opposite Brennan. ‘Okay, here’s another one. Your starter for ten. Tell me about Stephen Kenning.’

‘Another grass. Big time, though. Blew the whistle on a major drugs ring in Longsight, four or five years back. Was in witness protection, living all by himself in a little cottage out in the Peaks.’

‘Picturesque.’

‘Not this bit. But there was a decent view. So you could see anyone coming from a mile away. Except that he didn’t.’

‘No. Shot three times, I understand.’

Brennan nodded. ‘Pro job. It was a couple of weeks before anyone found him. Postman noticed the smell eventually.’

‘Anyone in the frame for it?’

‘You must know the answer to that,’ Brennan said. ‘You seem to know quite a lot about all this.’

‘Don’t pretend you share everything with the likes of us. Any more than we share everything with the likes of you.’

‘In this case, there was nothing to share. I mean, it’s obvious who’s behind it. But we can’t prove any link, and we were never going to get near whoever actually pulled the trigger.’

‘And it took a burden off your hands,’ Salter pointed out. ‘Pain in the arse, witness protection.’

‘If you say so.’ Brennan’s face was expressionless. ‘Anyway, we’d reached a dead end.’

‘This drugs ring,’ Salter said. ‘You know who the key players were?’

‘We know who went inside. That doesn’t mean they were the key players. We took it as far as we could with our resources. I imagine you lot would have the bigger picture. What was it you said about not sharing stuff with the likes of us?’

‘We just try to make connections. Name Jeff Kerridge mean anything to you?’

Brennan looked up. ‘Not as much as he means to you. He was the guy you shot?’

‘Yeah. He was the guy who’d got our corrupt cop on the payroll. They tried to kill me. Then, like you say, I killed him.’

‘You’re saying that it was Kerridge behind the drugs ring?’

‘Kerridge didn’t leave any more fingerprints than he could help. Looks that way, though.’

‘But if Kerridge is dead, who killed Stephen Kenning?’

‘Interesting question, isn’t it?’

‘Another interesting question.’ Brennan fingered the file he’d placed on the table at the start of the meeting. ‘What does all this have to do with our two fall guys in North Wales? I’m assuming you didn’t send me out there just to enjoy the scenery?’

‘Christ, no. Just wanted an objective view on what they were up to. Don’t trust those Welsh bastards to share any more than they need to.’

‘Well, they were very polite, just not very forthcoming. They gave me the basics, but not much more.’ Brennan flipped over the file. ‘Two bodies. One was a small-time crook, known to them. Name of Mo Tallent. The other’s still unidentified. Not on their records. Not yet reported missing.’

‘Nice to be loved,’ Salter commented. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

‘Looked like a warning to me. Somebody frightening off the competition.’

‘But the local plods claim they don’t know who Tallent was likely to be working for?’

‘When did you leave the diplomatic corps? Or have you forgotten that I’m still officially a local plod?’

‘Ah, but not a Welsh one. Sad thing is, they’re probably telling the truth. I bet they really don’t know.’

Brennan shrugged. ‘Don’t really believe that, though, do you? They must have an idea who Tallent worked for. The DI over there told me that everyone had clammed up. Probably so. But the local plods will have a decent idea which clams are worth prising open. A better idea than you, at any rate.’ Brennan flicked through the handful of papers in the file – witness statements, scene of crime reports, all the routine bumf, but nothing that was likely to be helpful. ‘So, yes, if you want my honest opinion, I reckon he was holding something back. Probably no great significance in that, though. He most likely just couldn’t see why he should share his speculations with a bunch who think the Welsh are largely bumbling sheep-shaggers. Not that he was Welsh, as it happens.’ Brennan paused, as if a new thought had suddenly struck him. ‘In much the same way, I imagine, as you’re not bothering to share your speculations with a local plod like me. Or, at least, you’re taking your time getting round to it.’

Salter smiled again, and this time there was a little more evidence of humour in his eyes. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas. You know much about the prostitution scene in south Manchester? Professionally, I mean.’

Brennan ignored the jibe. ‘Not really my field,’ he said. ‘No shortage of it, though, from what I understand.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. It’s the usual mix – from desperate junkies on street corners to the more upmarket escort stuff. Amounts to the same thing in the end, though. It’s the middle ground I’m interested in.’

‘Professionally, you mean?’ Brennan said. ‘You mean the massage parlour type places?’

‘Massage parlours. Brass-houses. The places one step up from the poor buggers on the streets. Again, it’s what you might call a mixed economy. Some sole proprietors plying their sleazy trade in one or two establishments. Some who’ve done a bit better for themselves. High street chains, if you like. Of course, it’s a very competitive environment.’

‘Important to build your market share,’ Brennan agreed. ‘You’ve seen some turf wars, then. Recently, I mean.’

‘There’s been a bit of expansion over the last year or two. Mostly immigrant groups – the Chinese have always been big in Manchester and there’ve been some Romanians making a splash recently.’

‘Not exactly your territory, all this. I don’t see your lot busting massage parlours.’

‘We leave that to you local plods. We’re more interested in what the parlours are being used for. Apart from the obvious, I mean. Drugs. Money laundering. People trafficking. A lot of our targets see brothels as their retail outlets.’

‘So you reckon that what happened in Wales was one of your targets putting the squeeze on the competition?’ Brennan said. ‘Would this be about your famous Jeff Kerridge again?’

‘Yeah, another little thread in Kerridge’s big commercial web. Again, we don’t know for sure. Kerridge was much too smart to get himself directly mixed up in that kind of world. Everything was a step or two removed. But, one way or another, Kerridge had established his own little network of high street boutiques.’

‘Except that Kerridge remains dead,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘So if someone’s putting the squeeze on, it’s not him.’

‘That’s the thing about Kerridge’s sad departure,’ Salter said. ‘It really tossed the cat among the pigeons. Lots of jockeying for position. All the more so as Kerridge’s supposed number two, Pete Boyle, was temporarily out of commission at the time.’