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.’
‘Way I heard it,’ Brennan said. ‘Kerridge and Boyle weren’t all that chummy towards the end anyhow?’
‘You heard right. It was a question of who’d screw the other one first. But Boyle saw himself as the heir apparent. Trouble was, he wasn’t the only one.’ Salter laughed. ‘Once Kerridge popped his clogs, various parties stepped into the breach pretty quickly, even before Boyle was back walking the streets. Chief among them, Mrs K.’
Brennan raised an eyebrow. ‘Kerridge’s wife?’
‘The fragrant Helen. Not a lady to be underestimated.’
‘So you think all this is linked? Kenning and Sheerin and these two poor bastards in Wales. Collateral damage in the war of the Manc succession?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Bit thin, isn’t it? I mean, you could well be right. But these were the kinds of buggers who made enemies every way they turned. Might have been a dozen people wanted to take them out.’
‘Might have been. But Pete Boyle definitely did.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Done a bit of digging,’ Salter said. ‘Called in a few favours from a few scrotes. Informants.’
‘Imagine our lot would have done the same. Not aware they found much.’
‘Maybe not. But they didn’t know the question to ask. They didn’t think to ask about Pete Boyle.’
‘Boyle’s a big player in these parts,’ Brennan pointed out. ‘Especially now that Kerridge has gone. His name would have come up.’
‘No doubt. But there’d be no direct connection between any of these cases and Boyle. Or Kerridge, for that matter. Not even Kenning the grass. I only made the link between Kerridge and that drug ring after the event. We hadn’t got it pegged as one of Kerridge’s outfits – still haven’t, officially. It was only after I’d made the link between Kenning and Boyle that I went back and checked the detail of the case Kenning had been involved in. One or two of the players who went down were second-level associates of Kerridge’s. It doesn’t prove for certain that Kerridge had a finger in that particular pie, but I’d wager money on it.’
Brennan frowned. ‘I’m not following this. You’re saying that these cases are all linked to Boyle. But that it’s not a direct business link.’
Salter was smiling broadly now. He had the air of a magician who was in the process of pulling off a particularly neat piece of misdirection. ‘Not quite. Boyle’s got a real business interest in all three cases. But that’s not why they were picked.’ He leaned forward and pulled Brennan’s file towards him, then flicked through the pages until he found the short report on Mo Tallent. ‘Tallent,’ he said. ‘Petty thief and grifter. Spent most of his adult life living in sunny Rhyl, for reasons best known to himself. But born and brought up in less sunny Hulme. Left in his early twenties. Partly because, for one reason or another, he’d seriously fucked off Peter Boyle. And, trust me, Peter Boyle is not someone you want to
