Marked Men (A Sean Blake Mystery) - Hardcover

Simms, Chris

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0727888811 ISBN 13: 9780727888815

Publisher: Severn House, 2019

Synopsis

In this thrilling sequel to Loose Tongues, DC Sean Blake returns to investigate a number of violent drownings in the Greater Manchester area.

A corpse is found in a Manchester canal, encased in a sleeping bag and weighed down by bricks. DC Sean Blake's investigation has hardly begun before another body with links to it is discovered . . . also drowned. A mysterious figure seen asking questions about the victims becomes the prime suspect. But as Blake delves into the shady pasts of those killed, he finds connections to friends still living - including a crime lord of the city.

Matters are complicated for Blake when those who once formed their childhood gang refuse to cooperate. With a killer so elusive and targets so unwilling to accept help, can Blake stop the body count from rising?

About this title

About the Author

Chris Simms' novels include the DI John Spicer and the DC Iona Khan series. His books have received nominations for Crime Writers' Association Daggers and the Theakston's Crime Novel of the Year award.

@SimmsComment chrissimms.info

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Marked Men

By Chris Simms

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2019 Chris Simms
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7278-8881-5

CHAPTER 1

Manchester

During his final years in prison, several new arrivals had told Jordan Hughes how much Manchester was changing. He'd batted the comments aside, not bothered about what the city looked like. He'd wanted to know how it ran. Who controlled what.

During the slow drag of his sentence, one name had kept cropping up: Anthony Brown. The man he was going to kill. There were other little fucks like Carl and Lee he was going to do, but Anthony Brown ...

As the train had burrowed its way along the narrow Peak District valley, not much beyond the carriage windows seemed different. Same quiet stations. Same little villages. Same craggy slopes rising behind them. He'd found the lack of change reassuring after so much time spent away. But then they'd emerged from the hills on to the Cheshire Plain and he'd got his first glimpse of the city he'd moved to during his teens.

This wasn't change. This was like something entirely new had been laid over the old one. All these tall thin buildings competing for the light. Some with coloured cladding. Some with sail-like embellishments on the roofs. Others just acres of sheet glass. He looked right and saw the sweeping curves of Manchester City's stadium. That had been a building site when he was sent down.

What had been there before all this stuff was built? He had no idea. Surely something.

In the middle of the city, the Hilton Hotel stood higher than all else. Sauron's Tower from that Tolkien book. Lord of the Rings. He'd never read much before prison. Now he'd read a library's worth. He wondered if whoever lived at the very top had a telescope. A big eye to spy on the toiling masses below.

As the tracks straightened for the approach into Piccadilly, the station seemed similar. It still had the curved roof supported by a network of criss-crossing struts. But as soon as he was through the ticket barriers – another unfamiliar feature – he found himself in a different world. One that was airy, smooth, clean. Gone was the dingy little station pub in the top corner. Now there were shops all over the place. He stepped out the front of the station and shook his head. The miserable area of grass and bushes and the white-painted curry house had been obliterated. Massive office blocks now stood in their place. He could see people sitting at their desks. On the higher floors, he could see what socks they were wearing. He could see the crap they'd placed on the floor beside their chairs. Trainers, shopping bags, umbrellas. Boxes of stuff leaning against the glass.

He could remember puking up a bellyful of beer and biryani outside that curry house. If he did that on the same spot now, it would be all over some wage-slave's keyboard.

He'd looked along the main road and saw trees. Proper trees. A whole avenue of fucking trees stretching away. Traffic moving down it. It was a total mind fuck. He wanted to sit down, have a brew, get his bearings. But the greasy spoon at the top of the approach road was gone. What had replaced it had a foreign name. He couldn't see it knocking out mugs of tea and bacon barms.

That first night back in the city, he'd ended up sleeping rough. Next day, he'd learned there were still bedsits that took cash and no questions in Gorton. The little park area near the train station was littered with rubbish. Swings tied in knots. Graffiti on the kiddies' Wendy house. At least some things hadn't changed.

The paving slabs outside the row of shops weren't flat. Like there'd been a minor earthquake and the council couldn't be arsed with straightening things out. Dog crap and crumpled cans. Two lads, lurking on a bench, eyed his approach. He could tell they were assessing him. Weighing him up.

What did they see?

A thirtyish bloke who needed to shave the stubble on his head. Faded tattoos on his fingers. A dun-green military jacket and charity shop trackie bottoms. Trainers that weren't new and didn't have some label that merited respect.

Could they tell that, beneath the bulky coat, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him? That he could do dozens of pull-ups using only two fingers? That he could tense his stomach and take a full kick without flinching? That his inner arms were a raft of scars from where he liked to slice himself?

'Oi, mate,' the slightly taller one said. Fifteen, at most. 'You going in?'

'Say again?'

He nodded at the convenience store with wire-mesh windows. 'You going in?'

Jordan gave a knowing shrug. 'What are you after?'

They turned to each other and shared a triumphant smile. He could see a school tie rolled up in the coat pocket of the smaller one. Both wore dark grey trousers and white shirts.

'Twelve cans of Dark Fruits cider. He's doing them at four cans for five quid.' Two notes were held out. A tenner and a fiver. A sign on the door said to take off crash helmets before coming in. Another said it was an offence to buy alcohol for minors. Yeah, he thought. It's also an offence to ignore your probation appointments, to leave the address you'd been registered at and to piss off to another city to kill some cunts from way back when.

The shelves were laden with drink offers. He scooted straight past the cans and made his way to the counter to study the bottles of spirits behind it. The shopkeeper watched in silence. Cossack vodka came in at fourteen ninety-nine for a full one litre bottle. Job done.

The two lads sprang to their feet as he came out the shop. Their eyes were on the carrier bag in his hand. No way there were twelve cans in that. As he walked past them, he flicked the penny in their direction. It landed on a paving slab and rolled down the gap.

'Where's the ...?'

He slowed his step when he heard the scrape of shoes behind him. Probably the taller one.

'No way, man. We gave you fifteen notes. You can't —'

'Can't what?' He stopped walking, but didn't look back. 'Can't what?'

'Come on, Matt. Leave it. The guy's a total loner. Basket case.'

Loner, he thought. Fair point. He waited, still facing away from them. Matt should listen to his friend. Matt should really listen to his friend. Another second passed then he heard a resigned puff of air followed by, 'Spazzy-eared prick.'

He whirled round. 'What was that? What did you fucking say about my ears?'

The boys started backing swiftly away.

'Nothing,' the taller one said.

He thought of getting hold of the scrawny-necked twat and putting him in hospital. If the police weren't looking for him, he would have.

In his little room, he twisted the cap off and glugged straight from the neck. The liquid scraped down his throat, hit his gut and, a few heartbeats later, rammed his brain into the top of his skull. He gulped again then sat.

The photo album was the only item on the table. He didn't own a lot more. The first pages were full of clippings from newspapers almost twenty years old. Yellowed articles about their seven-man crime spree. Smashed phone boxes, ducks kicked to death, stuff robbed from garden sheds. Then the odd house burglary. A paving slab through Mr Cooper's shop window. Good haul from that.

He turned the pages, stared down at the few photographs he'd managed to keep hold of. They'd stolen the Polaroid camera from some old bloke's house. They were all there, hanging by their arms from a football goal crossbar. Then three of them straddling it, skinny legs hanging down either side. Another shot: him, Dave, Phil and Kevin. Carl in a shopping trolley, Anthony Brown pushing it. Both their mouths dark caves of laughter. Him, Nick and Anthony, lips bristling with cigarettes they'd shoplifted. Lee tipping the same trolley into the canal near Ancoats. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of fondness. Good times had.

He turned the page again and looked at more recent newspaper cuttings. An advert for Parker's Cars: MOTs, tyres and exhausts. A report about Abbey Hey's under-10s football team, South Manchester champions. A photo of a van: Crazy Diamond Window Cleaning Service, landline and mobile numbers. A flyer for the Outdoor Centre at Debdale Park.

Aside from Anthony Brown, it had been so easy to find them. Work places, home addresses, what they did in their spare time. That first day back, he'd even dropped a little matchstick gallows onto the few coins in Lee Goodwin's Styrofoam cup. The guy had been utterly wasted, slumped by the cashpoint on Portland Street. Didn't even notice.

They all thought their lives had moved on. That the past had been put well behind them. He drank from the bottle again. The years had crept by and they'd all forgotten about Jordan, that dumb new kid they'd fitted up for murder.

CHAPTER 2

Two days later

Detective Constable Sean Blake regarded the slate-grey silt welding his feet in place. It smelled like it looked: cloying, dank, musty.

The sheer sides of the drained lock made an oblong of the morning's grey sky. It was like peering up from the bottom of a grave. Droplets of water pattered all about, the echo making their impact sound more substantial than they really were. Like the beginnings of a deluge about to burst through the closed gates at his back.

Beside him, the man in waders and a fluorescent jacket spoke up. 'Things people chuck in. Shocking.'

'How often do you drain the water out to do this?' Detective Sergeant Magda Dragomir asked, hard hat tipped back on her head to release her eyes from its shadow.

'Every year. Otherwise, we run the risk of items lodging in the lock mechanisms. Or damaging the underside of boats passing through. Plus, it's not good for the environment. Fish and that.'

'Fish?' Sean asked. He couldn't imagine anything living in the city centre's canal system.

Jutting from the expanse of mud before them was an array of dirt-smeared objects. Half-bricks, upturned chairs, broken umbrellas. Countless bottles, cans and glasses. Further off, a mountain bike minus its front wheel. A woman's stiletto shoe. Two traffic cones.

'Three hundred grand, that's the annual clean-up bill for the network. Never found a body before, though.'

Sean lifted his gaze to the white tent at the far end of the lock. It was at an angle, one corner leg too high. The straps of the waders he'd been handed before climbing down the ladder weighed heavy on his shoulders. Rubber gloves encased his forearms. A fluorescent bib. He adjusted his hard hat, picturing his wavy mass of thick black hair trapped beneath it. When he took the thing off, it would spring out in all directions. Jack-in-a-box style. 'We'd better take a look.'

'Some of this mud can go up to your thighs,' the council worker said. 'Avoid the pools of water and you'll be all right.'

Sean glanced at Magda. With her feet sunk from sight, she looked top-heavy. A pin at the end of a bowling lane. Something was causing a look of disgust. He peered down and spotted the plunger of a syringe.

'We're getting all the treats today,' she announced grimly.

'Manchester at its finest,' Sean replied, lifting a foot clear of the mud and releasing a sulphurous smell.

Behind him, Magda let out a little exclamation.

He looked over his shoulder to see her arms waving unsteadily at her sides. 'I stepped on that brick and it moved!' She placed a gloved hand against the side wall then changed her mind. 'Futu-i!'

He masked his smile by rubbing the end of his nose. He had no idea what it meant, but it was great when she swore in Romanian. Checking her expression, he saw she was genuinely freaked out. 'Stay here, Magda. I'll go.'

'Really?' She couldn't hide her relief. 'You're sure?'

'We don't both need to see it, surely?'

Without waiting for an answer, he set off carefully towards a shallow barge that lay stranded on the canal bed. The council worker had explained this was where all the junk and debris would be thrown. When the water was let back in, the vessel would rise up and be towed away.

He regarded the blackened slimy brickwork level with his face. I'm five-ten, he thought. About three feet above my head, and the wall's surface turns light grey. Which means that, when the lock's full, the depth of water is around nine feet. Deep enough to hide all sorts.

He placed a hand on the side of the barge, grateful to grip something solid. He knew the metal must have been cold, but the thickness of his gloves made it impossible to tell. The tent was another dozen steps beyond it. He made his way forward, wet mud kissing and sucking at his feet. He spotted what looked like a handbag, its smooth strap wet. Eel-like.

The tent door had been left unzipped and he paused before lifting it aside. It's going to be horrible, he told himself. You know that. Just get it done, it'll be fine.

The dead man resembled a giant caterpillar. No, a grub. Something primeval emerging from the earth. Sean realized that, from the chest down, he was encased in a sleeping-bag. Red, where the material showed through the filth. His hair was heavily matted, straggles of it half obscuring the side of a face that had started to bloat. Which meant he'd gone in a day or two before. Maybe longer.

Sean rolled the tent door fully back and secured it with the Velcro tabs. That let in enough light to see and allowed the sour smell to dissipate.

Could the person have accidentally rolled in? A rough sleeper, comatose on alcohol or Spice or some other drug? Weird place to sleep, though. On a tow path, exposed to the weather. He noticed the bottom end of the sleeping bag bulged out.

Leaning down, he prodded it with a finger. Something hard. The bloke's meagre possessions? Rammed in there so they couldn't be stolen in the night? He crouched down and ran a hand over the material. A squarish shape. Another. And another. All about the same size. He closed his fingers round one, testing its weight. Heavy. Like a broken brick. The end of the sleeping bag was stuffed with them. He'd been weighed down. Or had weighed himself down.

Sean craned his neck towards the doorway and took in a massive breath of untainted air. The top of the sleeping bag was rumpled where it had slipped down. As he searched for the zip, Sean realized the top of the man's head was severely lacerated. To the extent chunks of hair had been gouged out. More gashes covered the back of his neck. Rank.

He found the zip pull, but struggled to get hold of it. Bloody stupid great gloves. He didn't have latex ones on underneath, so he'd have to keep them on. Nightmare. He thought he had about fifteen seconds before he'd need to breathe again. His fingers were like frankfurters, pink and rubbery. Finally, he got hold of the tab between a finger and thumb. The zip made a burring noise as he dragged it down.

A T-shirt, silt caked in its folds. The collar was torn, flesh of the exposed shoulder slashed deep. I could really do with breathing, he thought, noting the man's forearms were dotted by prison tattoos. Palms together, as if in prayer. Puffed up fingers. Baby-like creases at the wrists. Not creases: something digging into the skin. Sean was now so desperate to get air, his throat felt like it was pulsating. Fighting the urge, he looked closer. Plastic. A thick ribbon of plastic. A plastic tie!

He stepped out of the tent and dragged in air like a diver escaping the deep.

Magda called out, 'What's it looking like?'

Sean curled his fingers then brought the backs of them together so they formed an M.

Murder.

CHAPTER 3

'So go on then,' Detective Chief Inspector Ransford said, placing the print-outs back on his desk. 'This all happened after he died?'

Sean Blake didn't want to look at the collection of crime scene photos again. The victim's wounds covered the crown of his head, back of his neck and the top of his right shoulder. Crude slashes, like someone had gone at him with a blunt meat cleaver. 'Propellers, from canal boats passing by. That's the pathologist's theory.'

Ransford looked doubtful. 'All confined to just these parts of him?'

'He was upright,' Magda said. 'Standing in his sleeping bag. The end of it had been weighed down with rabble.'

'Rubble,' Sean corrected.

'Yes, rubble. The neck of the bag had been pulled tight around his chest and his arms were inside.' She let Ransford absorb the information. 'So, when the body wanted to float – gas build-up – he rose to his feet.'

Sean couldn't stop himself from picturing the corpse swaying there like an aquatic zombie, sightless eyes staring into the murk. The top of his head would have been not far below the surface. 'The pathologist can't give an accurate time of death. But he thought the body had been in the water for over forty-eight hours.'

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Marked Men by Chris Simms. Copyright © 2019 Chris Simms. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Severn House
• Publication date: 2019
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0727888811
• ISBN 13: 9780727888815
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 256