‘Rodeo Rick, yeah.’
‘Seen him today?’
‘No,’ Liam Kelly said.
‘Where’s he live?’
‘He’s homeless, dosses where he can.’
‘Can you describe him?’ Rachel said.
‘Tall, on the skinny side, long hair.’
‘White guy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How old?’
‘Hard to say, fifties, sixties.’
‘You know his full name?’ Rachel said.
He shrugged. ‘No. Goes by Rodeo Rick, wears check shirts, an old cowboy hat.’
Rachel looked at Janet, who nodded her agreement.
Rachel picked out the best photo from Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Could this be him, when he was younger?’
Liam Kelly took the picture. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s not…’ He looked at Rachel, his shoulders sagging. ‘You think it’s him?’
Rachel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, yes. Was he dossing in the chapel?’
He frowned. ‘Could’ve been. God, I never thought…’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t say where he stayed, best to be cautious.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, some places, he could be done for trespassing. But he liked to be off the streets, out of sight, come dark. He’d get a bit of aggro, people having a go.’
‘How long had he been in the area?’
‘Few months. Found him going through the bins before Christmas, told him he’d no need, we’d give him out-of-date stuff.’
‘Ever hear of him mixing in bad company?’ Rachel said.
‘Never. Kept to himself. He was on the drink. That’s all he could be bothered with. He’d beg now and then if he had to,’ said Liam Kelly.
‘Any enemies?’
‘Not that I know of.’ He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Poor old sod.’
The confirmation of identity represented a significant breakthrough, dental records putting the seal on what already seemed to be the case. Gill called the syndicate together for an update.
She was about to speak, the room quiet, when Pete leaned over and muttered something to Mitch.
Gill caught the words, better defence and injury time.
‘Do I look like Sir Alex frigging Ferguson?’ she said.
Pete straightened up, a sick look on his face. ‘No, boss.’
‘José Mourinho? Arsène Wenger?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Then why are you talking football twaddle in my briefing? You in the wrong job, Pete? Want to go try out for the Latics?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Mitch?’
‘No, boss.’
‘OK, we have a lot to get through,’ she began, ‘and it doesn’t involve dribbling or fancy footwork. Our victim is Richard Kavanagh, aged sixty, separated from wife Judith in 1997, last seen by her two years later, when she told him not to visit again. Shopkeeper, artist, husband, father in his glory days. Alcoholic, rendered destitute. Known locally as Rodeo Rick on account of his liking for flannel shirts and a leather cowboy hat. He’d been sleeping rough for several months on Manorclough. No one reporting any criminal behaviour, he has a clean sheet and not known to be involved with any illegal activity on the estate. So why does he end up shot and set on fire in the Old Chapel?’