Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  So Henry was right after all. She did want to go to bed with him.

  Two

  ‘Surprise visitors!’

  Kate Christie sat up sharply and looked out of the front window. She and Henry were sat with trays on their laps, eating Sunday tea whilst watching the natural history segment on BBC2. This had become a ritual over the last couple of months. Just the two of them, no daughters. They always seemed to be out at friends. Henry had grown to appreciate this time with Kate – preparing the meal together, drinking wine as they did, then sitting side by side on the settee, usually in silence as they ate and watched nature in the raw. It was something he had never done before on a regular basis, chilling out with her, and he found himself to be slightly annoyed to be interrupted by the unexpected guests, whoever they were. He and Kate were actually divorced, but were back together and had been for some time. Things were going pretty well. One day soon, he would be asking her to re-marry him. He tore his eyes away from a pride of lions feasting on an unfortunate antelope.

  From where Kate was sitting, she had the view out of the window to the drive at the front of the house. Henry had to crane his neck to see who had landed.

  There was a massive four-wheel-drive monster in the driveway behind the family Mondeo.

  Henry relaxed and smiled.

  ‘I wonder what they’re doing here,’ he said, rising and rushing with his tray into the kitchen, depositing it on a work surface, then striding down the hall to the front door, opening it just before the bell rang.

  Two kids raced towards him, toddlers, and grabbed his legs affectionately, but with a force that nearly toppled him over. ‘Hey, hey,’ he warned, ‘steady on.’

  Behind the children were the parents, the Donaldsons.

  ‘Well this is a turn-up for the books,’ Henry beamed.

  ‘In the area, just passing, thought we’d call in and say hi,’ said the big American, Karl Donaldson. He extended his huge paw, grabbed Henry’s tiny one, shook it, dragged Henry to him and encircled him with a bear hug. Henry had no choice but to succumb until, ribs almost broken, he was freed. Henry turned to Karen. They embraced with less pressure and kissed.

  ‘You look really well, all of you,’ Henry said, appraising them, bending down to kiddie level and rubbing the heads of both little boys.

  ‘Henry! Invite them in,’ Kate’s voice ordered behind him.

  ‘Kate!’ shrieked Karen, shouldering Henry aside and hurtling towards her.

  Henry shrugged at Donaldson. ‘Maybe we should swap partners,’ he suggested. ‘You and me together and those two together. Life would be much simpler.’

  ‘I don’t really want to sleep with you,’ Donaldson admitted.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Henry said, feigning disappointment. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  How the two men managed to pull it off, neither was sure, but after rustling up some grub for the uninvited foursome, Henry and Donaldson were allowed out to the pub.

  They were given one hour maximum.

  The pub was on the outer edge of the housing estate on which Henry lived. It was a modern, soulless sort of place which made big-bucks from serving up food that Henry described as ‘pre-packaged crap’. In truth, the food was not that bad and he and Kate and the girls had had occasional meals there. It was called the Tram and Tower, references to two of Blackpool’s many delights. It was divided into two sections, restaurant and bar. Without exception the bar was always quiet, even when the restaurant was heaving.

  Henry and Donaldson sat opposite the entrance, giving themselves a good wide-angled view of the happenings in and around the bar. Henry glanced at Donaldson as he gazed around the room, then he himself looked around to see that each woman in the place was getting an eyeful, either slyly or obviously, of the big, bronzed, good-looking bastard sat next to him. Henry had often contemplated, in a very sexist way, that he could have had a fantastic life for himself just feasting off Donaldson’s cast-offs. Henry believed that the American was one of the few men who, truly, could have the choice of any woman he wanted. Henry hated him deeply because of this.

  However, Henry also knew that Donaldson was deep into fidelity and worshipped Karen. Henry wished that he was as angelic as his friend because, all too often, his tarnished halo had slipped.

  ‘It’s good to see you, you ugly swine.’

  ‘And you, pal.’

  They had been friends for half a dozen years now. Donaldson worked for the FBI’s legal attaché in London. The two men had met when Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had since worked together on a number of investigations and had become good friends. Donaldson had met and subsequently married Karen, who had been a serving police officer in the Lancashire Constabulary at the time. She had since transferred to the Metropolitan Police and they lived within commuting distance of the capital. Donaldson travelled in daily to his office in the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square and Karen drove to the Police Staff College at Bramshill, where she was seconded as a lecturer on the Strategic Command Course. Their life seemed settled and idyllic.

  ‘How ya doing?’ Donaldson asked. ‘You look a whole lot better than when I last saw you.’ Which was a week after Henry had been suspended.

  Henry shrugged. ‘Learning to take it as it comes.’

  Donaldson was concerned, though. He knew Henry of old and had seen him crack before. ‘You sure you’re coping?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s helped that me and Kate are really together now. She’s been a rock.’

  ‘Good . . . when’s the full inquest?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Don’t even know when the trial is. Don’t even know when my internal hearing is . . . but I have a sneaking feeling they might go for me before the court trial.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get rid. To cover their backs. To make them look good. They need a scapegoat and I’m going to be it, I reckon.’

  ‘You did nothing wrong, Henry.’ Donaldson sipped his Stella Artois. ‘There’s no way they’ll nail you.’

  ‘Karl . . . a cop got shot and wounded, a vital witness almost died and then two baddies ended up dead . . . they might have a case, y’know. The more I dwell on it . . .’ Henry stared into space, his mouth distorted glumly. ‘Sometimes I think I might give up without a fight . . . see if I can get out with my pension intact.’

  ‘Don’t you ever fucking dare,’ Donaldson warned him. ‘Now you really are worrying me.’

  ‘They’ve closed ranks, Karl, and they’ve got all the ammo.’

  Both men drank their lagers in silence. Eventually Henry inhaled a deep breath. ‘So what drags you up here – really?’

  ‘A combination. An opportunity to mix family business and business business. We’ve visited the in-laws and Karen’s going to stay on for the week with the terrible duo. I’m working up here tomorrow, going back to London for the rest of the week, then coming back on Saturday to pick up Karen et al.’

  ‘I suppose you’re doing what I think you’re doing?’

  ‘Yeah, Zeke,’ Donaldson said. A look of severe anguish crossed his face. He took a long draught of Stella.

  Mm, Zeke, thought Henry, experiencing a sudden flashback to the scene of a double murder under the shadow of a motorway bridge. Two men lying there, one across the other, both with their heads blown apart. One of them was Zeke. Or to be more correct, his real name was Carlos Hiero and he was an undercover FBI agent working deep down in a gang controlled by a Spaniard called Mendoza who had links with American Mafia families. Zeke was his code name and he had been unfortunate enough to have been discovered. The other man was called Marty Cragg, a local hoodlum who owed Mendoza money he was unable to repay. Both had been ruthlessly assassinated on Mendoza’s orders.

  Henry knew that Zeke’s undercover status had been rumbled by the indiscretions of Karl Donaldson’s boss down at the Legat; Phillipa Bottram had been weak and foolish enough to let her bisexual appetite get her drawn into divulging confidential i
nformation to a woman with connections to Mendoza’s criminal gang. It had been Donaldson’s courage to have Bottram put under surveillance that netted her wrongdoing.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’

  ‘As regards Zeke, the murder investigation is getting nowhere. We’re no closer to Mendoza yet, though our intelligence suggests he did order the hit and may well have been present when it happened. Your investigation is, quite rightly, concentrating on tracking down the hit man. We – the FBI – are going for Mendoza, but he’s wrapped in cotton wool . . . although,’ Donaldson said mysteriously, ‘I might just be getting somewhere on that front. Dunno. Can’t say more yet.’

  ‘A source?’ asked Henry.

  ‘As I said – can’t say.’

  Henry understood. Informants were fickle things. Getting them was like playing a trout on the fly. More often than not, they swam away never to be lured again. ‘What about Phillipa Bottram?’

  Donaldson snorted, disgusted. ‘That bitch –’ he almost spat the word – ‘as good as pulled the trigger on Zeke herself, and what happened? Ill-health pension.’

  Henry snorted too. ‘The FBI sounds just like our lot.’

  ‘No cojones. She’s back home in the States, free as a bird. No blemish on her character. Not what you know, but who you know. She’s well in with the top political brass, I figure . . . or is that me being cynical, but if I’d done what she’d done, my testicles would be stuck down my throat by now.’ Donaldson’s face mirrored his feelings.

  ‘Outrageous.’

  ‘We’re pretty sure the hit man’s killed at least two more people for Mendoza since. One in France, one in Andorra.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  Donaldson shook his head. ‘It’s the weapon that links them, same as the one used for Zeke and Cragg. Your – Lancashire’s, that is – investigation is widening. Lots of trips to exotic locations for your boys. Barcelona and Paris, France, to name but two.’

  ‘Could’ve been me jetting off,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘Not to be, though.’ He rolled his eyes as he thought about what he was missing. Not just the ‘jollys’, as they called them, but the cut and thrust of high-profile inquiries. ‘But, I have been asked to do a bit of investigating work on the side for the mother of a friend of Leanne’s.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah and whilst it’s hardly international stuff, it might be a bit of something to do, have some fun.’ He drained his pint and did a time check. He looked at his and his companion’s empty glass. ‘At least two more, I reckon.’ He gathered them up. ‘Same again?’

  Deep in the undergrowth, Verner smiled to himself as he looked through the night sights. He was enjoying himself because this was just a bit different from the usual stuff he was paid to do. It was fun and easy and for once, although this did not make any difference to him in the least, no one was going to get hurt. Only animals. Only horses. The people would just get a scare.

  It was 9 p.m. He watched the security guard saunter boredly around the stables some 200 metres away from his position.

  From where he was, on a hill to the south of the stables, he had a good view across the main yard, which was open at one side, but with stable blocks on the other three sides. Each stable door was now locked and bolted, the hired stable-lad having carried out this task an hour earlier, then left for home. Each horse was now locked up and safe for the night.

  He watched the security guard walk from door to door, trying each lock. Then he spun his view around to the main house, again a good 200 metres away to his left. Lights blazed at most windows, the family at home. Not a problem, thought Verner.

  The sound of the engine starting up made him arc the night sights back to the stables. It was the security guard driving away in his van, the ‘Wickson Security’ logo on the side of it. He watched the van drive past the front of the main house, then down the long driveway to the main road.

  Now the yard was still. The fluorescent yellow lights shone brightly.

  Verner relaxed and thought about the hours to come.

  His orders were to up the stakes tonight. So far, things had been pretty mild. ‘Put the fear of God into them,’ he had been instructed.

  He thought about the horses he had hurt previously. And smiled. He enjoyed hurting. He enjoyed killing, too. But hurting was like a sport, a pastime, whereas killing was a profession.

  Hurting had been fun. He had wondered what it would be like to hurt a horse, wondered if he would actually have disliked doing it, hurting a poor, dumb, defenceless creature. But it had been excellent because they were not actually dumb enough not to show terror in their eyes. As he’d slashed them, their expressions had been glorious to behold.

  Tonight, though, he had been told to go one step further.

  The pair made it back with about thirty seconds to spare – just at the point where the ladies were getting a little agitated and the children, because it was late and they were tired, fractious.

  Kate and Henry stood at the door and waved Karl and his family off. As the 4x4 turned out of sight, Henry slid his arm around Kate’s slim waist and planted a kiss on the side of her face.

  She pulled away from him slightly.

  ‘Drink equals friskiness with you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said, mocking offence. Then, ‘OK – yes it does.’

  They closed the front door and melted into each other’s arms. ‘It’s a good job I’ve had half a bottle of Blossom Hill red then, isn’t it?’ Her face tilted up. He kissed her slowly, gently, deliberately.

  ‘Think we’ve got time to . . . y’know? Before the girls get back?’

  ‘Is it going to be a slowie or a quickie?’

  ‘Long and slow . . . I’ve had a drink, remember?’

  She gulped. ‘Even if they come back, they wouldn’t interrupt us, would they?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare.’ Henry took her hand and led her upstairs, feeling very frisky indeed.

  The chill of the night did not bother Verner. He had been in far colder, more uncomfortable places.

  It was an hour since the security patrol had left. At the main house, some lights had been turned off, leaving only the main lounge and one bedroom light on. The time was slowly approaching. His watch said 10.17.

  There was some movement in the stable yard. Quickly he put the night sights to his eyes.

  It was a teenage girl, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt top. She was edging her way around the yard, keeping to the shadows. What the hell was she up to? And who the hell was she? He could not quite get a sharp focus on her face, but he kept the glasses held firmly to his eyes, watching her movements. It was obvious she was trying to keep unseen. She dashed quickly across the yard, then back into the darkness of the stables. Verner could clearly see her at the door of one of the loose boxes. She was messing with the lock. Suddenly the door opened and she went inside, closing it behind her.

  ‘Shit,’ Verner breathed to himself. A delay, maybe a complication. What was she up to? He breathed out, relaxed, waited.

  Ten minutes later she emerged, locking the stable door behind her. She paused, rushed across the yard and disappeared behind the building that was the tack room. Verner next picked her up in his sights as she ran towards the main house.

  Twenty minutes after that, the security patrol car re-entered the grounds and parked in the middle of the stable yard. The driver got out and checked each stable door carefully, then left.

  Security sure is tight, Verner thought.

  Henry’s promise to Kate came true. Their lovemaking was long and sensual, not always slow, sometimes fast and furious and with abandon, but always – always – with love and respect. It was as though he and Kate had just invented sex. It reminded him of the times all the years before when they were courting and then newly wed when they went for it at every opportunity – and they were determined to enjoy it to the full today.

  When their daughters arrived home together, Henry slowed down to a stop, remaining deep in
side Kate, who, with mischief, used her internal muscles to drive him wild, making Henry gasp with pleasure.

  ‘Oi,’ he warned her.

  ‘What?’ she said innocently.

  Jenny shouted, ‘Good night you two – we know what you’re doing!’ The girls giggled naughtily, then went to their respective bedrooms.

  Henry and Kate laughed quietly. Sex had never been so much fun for them.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘time to get my own back.’

  When it was over, they lay embracing face to face, locked tight in each other’s limbs.

  ‘That was lovely,’ Kate sighed, her face nuzzling one of Henry’s nipples.

  He breathed out contentedly and closed his eyes.

  Sometime later as they lay dozing, Henry said, ‘I got propositioned today.’

  Doing the horse had been a lot of fun. It was a power thing. Slashing cuts across the buttocks with a cut-throat razor, then going for one of the eyes, driving the stiletto into the eyeball, causing it to burst with a fantastic ‘pop’ and a spray of clear liquid. Then slicing off its mane and shearing the tail.

  All good fun and very necessary to prove a point.

  Kate did not like the idea at all. It showed in her whole demeanour and tone of voice. At least Henry was not surprised and he was ready for it with his argument, which, admittedly, he knew was pretty thin.

  ‘You could get into trouble,’ Kate informed him.

  ‘It’s just gonna be me bummin’ around, asking a few questions, that’s all. I know four people in the area with convictions for mutilating horses. It’ll probably be one of them. They’re easy people to deal with for someone like me. Just very weird.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Kate said coldly. ‘I meant with work.’ She sighed through her nose, a sure sign she was pissed off. She was sat up in bed, knees drawn up with her arms folded around them. Still naked. ‘You’ve got enough problems without having more by doing some unofficial investigating.’

  ‘I’m not going to get paid for it. It’ll just be helping a friend of my daughter.’

  ‘Hm,’ sniffed Kate. She shook her head. Did not like it one bit.