by Nick Oldham
Henry leaned in front of Donaldson, pulled the curtain back and tapped on the window. She turned to the sound and Henry said, ‘We’re closed,’ exaggerating his lip movement to get the message across.
She flipped back the hood and said, ‘I know.’
Henry’s eyes narrowed. He recognized her, but she was out of context here and for a moment he could not place her. Then it clicked. ‘Bloody hell, what’s she doing here?’
‘Who is she, Henry?’ The question was from Alison, who had joined the men at the window.
‘Marion … Marion Lang … she’s just been brought into the murder team to go through the CCTV footage.’
‘Better let her in, then,’ Alison said.
Karen drove, Flynn alongside her in the old Fiat Panda, out of Puerto Rico into the hills and arriving at the entrance to the small estate of executive villas. It should have been gated and secure, but the metal gates were now missing and had been completely removed since some idiot had driven through them in a stolen car a couple of nights before. The twisted remnants of the gates were stacked on a landscaped area by the road.
Karen drove slowly into the cul-de-sac, past each driveway.
Flynn glanced into the one from which he had borrowed the Lamborghini and saw that the sports car had now been returned – but not repaired. Its front end was as mangled as the gates it had crashed through.
He cringed, wondering how much the damage would cost to repair. More than he earned in a year.
Karen slammed on the brakes and said, ‘Is that the car you escaped in? The one we saw in town, smashed up?’
‘Might’ve been,’ Flynn admitted.
‘Wow – way to go,’ she said, impressed.
‘I’m actually not proud of causing thousands of pounds’ worth of damage to an Italian supercar.’
‘You’d be less proud having your ashes scattered.’
‘Fair point … the villa is the last one on the right.’
Karen drove up to it.
It was in complete darkness and a sign in the garden, which Flynn didn’t recall seeing there on his previous visit, announced the property was for up sale or rent.
‘I think they borrowed the place,’ Flynn deduced. ‘Unofficially.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Karen yanked up the handbrake and switched off the engine. She reached over and grabbed a flashlight tucked in behind the passenger seat.
‘We need to be careful,’ Flynn warned.
‘There’s nobody here, you can just tell … no car in the drive, no lights inside or out, all the blinds drawn … it’ll be OK.’
Astounded by her sudden reckless bravery, Flynn clambered out and followed her up the driveway, but suddenly the darkness lifted as security lighting came on at ground level, illuminating the whole of the villa and the grounds.
‘Shit,’ Flynn said.
‘Be OK – bet no one challenges us.’
Flynn looked around the garden and pool area, remembering it well. He went to the door through which he’d escaped, found it locked. The two of them walked around the outside of the house, checking that the other doors at this level were also locked. They were.
Karen stopped at some patio doors overlooking the pool, blinds drawn up behind them. ‘The locks on these are usually rubbish,’ she said. She handed the flashlight to Flynn, then tugged at one of the sliding doors; it moved slightly in its grooves. She gave it a shake and it rattled loosely in its frame.
‘Are you a burglar?’ Flynn asked.
‘Let’s just hope the place isn’t alarmed. Bet it isn’t.’ She stepped right up to the door, put her shoulder to it, took hold of the handle, braced herself, then pushed, lifted and pulled at the same time. There was a click, the door slid open and no audible alarm went off.
‘Clearly you should have been,’ Flynn said, lighting her face by angling the torch beam up under her chin. She smiled eerily.
She slid the door further open, pushed back the blinds and, taking the torch from Flynn, flashed it into the bare, unfurnished room beyond, then entered with Flynn at her shoulder. There was nothing in the room and they crossed to the inner door, which opened into the hallway that Flynn had run through on his way out. To his left was the door that led to the pool area, to his right was the door to the room where he’d been held captive. Diagonally opposite were the stairs.
Flynn turned right to the room at the end of the corridor and opened it. Karen flashed the torch and Flynn said, ‘This is where I woke up strapped to a chair and looked into Jack Hoyle’s face.’
The plastic sheet was no longer there. Flynn took the torch from Karen and shone it around the room; he saw no indication of what had happened in here. It had been cleaned up.
He went out, Karen at his heels, and walked to the foot of the stairs where he found a light switch and flicked it on, looked up the steps to that first small landing.
Karen gasped behind him.
‘Is that blood?’ Karen asked, seeing the smeared red on the wall at the first landing where the man Flynn had shot through the chest had slammed backwards and slithered down on to his backside. The man was gone but the evidence of his probable death was still there.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s blood.’
Marion Lang, thirty-eight years old, single, admin worker, was a very frightened woman. She was on a stool by the dwindling fire in the bar, Henry opposite her. Donaldson and Alison were at the bar, chatting in low tones.
Frightened, Henry thought, was an understatement.
Terrified was closer to the truth.
She had removed her duffel coat and now sat primly with her hands clasped on her thighs, a coffee on the table in front of her.
She had a pretty but sad sort of face, hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Henry knew she had been with the constabulary for twenty years, mainly doing admin work, and had applied for HOLMES training to liven up her dreary job a little by being drafted on to major incidents and murders. From that she had also developed a skill at reviewing CCTV footage, which required a certain mind-set that most detectives didn’t possess. Henry had used her before, which is why she was brought in on this murder following the chase through the streets as Woodcock pursued Hawke. She was a quiet, conscientious person, very suited to spending hours sifting through footage, and Henry liked people like her on investigations.
‘I hope I haven’t made a mistake here,’ she said, mouse-like.
‘In what way, Marion?’
‘I always go the extra mile, you know?’
‘Yes, I know … that’s why you’re on this investigation.’
‘People said I could trust you, Mr Christie. I hope I can.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Only I was going to tell you something earlier, then DCI Woodcock went into your office and you seemed very friendly towards each other.’
‘We’re colleagues and we get on,’ Henry said, wondering where this was going.
‘Can I trust you?’ She raised her face defiantly.
‘Yes you can.’
She pursed her lips, then seemed to come to an inner decision. ‘As you know, I’ve been looking at the CCTV footage following the supposed chase on foot – you know, when DCI Woodcock was supposed to be chasing that man who killed the couple?’
Henry nodded but winced inwardly at the word ‘supposed’ being used twice. It did not bode well. He said, ‘There are no cameras in Exchange Street, though.’
‘No there aren’t,’ she agreed. ‘But that didn’t stop me looking through all the footage from all the other cameras in the area, just to see if I could spot the man, or someone like him, either before or after this foot chase. I go the extra mile, like that.’
‘You’re a valuable asset to the team,’ Henry said genuinely.
She primped proudly at the praise, but then her forehead creased and concern crossed her features.
‘What’s up, Marion?’
‘I hope I’m not going to regret this,’ she said.
‘It’s obviously something vital,’ Henry said encouragingly. ‘Coming all this way out here at this time of night.’
‘I think it’s vital, but if you and he are proper friends, then I’ve had it.’
‘Me and the DCI?’ Henry asked. She nodded. ‘We’re not mates, but we are colleagues. I’m his boss, just like I’m your boss. So what’s going on?’
She had a manila folder with her which she had placed down by her stool. She picked it up and held it between her hands. ‘These are some stills I’ve enhanced and downloaded from a council CCTV camera on Dickinson Road – timed just a few minutes before the DCI started chasing that man who, oddly enough, never gets found. Also there’s a DVD in there that I’ve downloaded too.’
‘OK.’ Henry was now feeling concern.
She opened the folder and took out a photograph and gave it to Henry. The time and date stamp confirmed what Marion had just said and the image was perfectly clear.
‘I’ve worked in the Field Intelligence Office for the last two years and I recognized this man.’
Henry stared at the photograph and ground his teeth. It showed DCI Woodcock standing on the kerb by an open car door. It was a Vauxhall Insignia, and Henry knew this belonged to Woodcock. He was talking to another man whose face was turned away from the camera, which was obviously at the top of a lamp-post somewhere nearby. Henry looked at Marion. ‘I can see the DCI, but I can’t ID this other man.’
Her hand dipped into the folder and withdrew another photo. On this one the DCI was looking away from the camera, showing the back of his head, whilst the man he was talking to was looking the opposite way, now facing the lens.
‘Who is he?’ Henry asked, even though he knew the answer.
Marion’s mouth clamped shut, then she said carefully, ‘This is the trust bit. People tell me you’re incorruptible but that doesn’t mean to say you won’t protect your colleagues and, in so doing, screw me – or worse.’
‘You can trust me,’ Henry reiterated. ‘What is this man’s name?’
She handed him another photograph. This time both Woodcock and the other man were facing the camera. ‘Roland Barclay.’
‘Yes,’ Henry confirmed. ‘You’re right, it is.’
‘But I do not know if there’s any significance in this. A DCI meeting a villain on the streets – it happens.’
‘And two minutes later the DCI is chasing another bad guy on foot.’
‘Mm,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ve scoured all the footage regarding that and I’m certain if what DCI Woodcock had said was true, somewhere I would have spotted the man, because I’m good at what I do and, based on what he said, the man should have appeared somewhere on foot – but he didn’t. That said, I don’t know if the DCI talking to this man is of any interest or if I’m just being silly.’
‘Do you have film of the whole of this meeting?’ Henry asked. She nodded. ‘So what happened?’
‘There was a lot of finger pointing from the DCI, who grabbed the other man’s jacket at one point and shook him; then the DCI got into his car and drove away. A minute later he was chasing the suspect – allegedly. Barclay crossed the road, probably into Walker Street, and then he was gone. If I had time I could probably track him further.’
‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention,’ Henry said formally.
‘Ahh.’ Marion tilted back her head and regarded him cynically. ‘End of story, eh?’
‘Well, to be fair, there might not be anything to this,’ Henry said.
‘So I’ve wasted my time?’
‘No you haven’t,’ Henry said. ‘What exactly do you know about Barclay?’
‘Thief, con man, burglar, has a violent streak. I know he’s assaulted some of the old people he’s burgled.’
‘Do you know anything else about him?’
‘Should I? I just brought this to your attention because I felt uncomfortable with it … Just didn’t feel right.’ She shivered. ‘They just seem so chummy at one point, then at another the DCI’s angry and shakes Barclay.’ Her shoulders fell. ‘But maybe it is nothing. Maybe he’s just an informant or something.’
Henry held up a hand – the number one stop sign. ‘Actually this is important, Marion, and you’ve done the right thing, but you probably don’t know why. Roland Barclay was found dead in his flat in South Shore this evening; you probably haven’t heard.’
She rocked forward, shocked, her hand covering her mouth.
‘It looks like he died from a shotgun wound.’
‘Did he kill himself?’
‘No – I think Archie Astley-Barnes killed him in a burglary that went wrong. Barclay managed to get home, but died from his wounds … and, Christ! There’s something else I’ve remembered, too.’ He shut up, then said, ‘You’ve done a brill job here and you can trust me to get to the bottom of it.’
She beamed delightedly.
And Henry sifted back through his brain. Earlier that day, after visiting the home of Scott Costain’s girlfriend Trish in the posher part of South Shore, he’d been returning to the MIR in Donaldson’s Jeep along Lytham Road. He saw himself talking to Jerry Tope in the back seat, then swivelling around to face the front and seeing a car pull up at the junction with Severn Road.
Woodcock’s car.
EIGHTEEN
Henry was back in the MIR at seven the following morning, jumpy as hell, a horrible sensation running through him. No one else was in and he drifted around the room looking at the timelines and charts he and Woodcock had helped to put together in relation to the double murder. He spent a good long time looking at the mug shot of Hawke that Donaldson had sent him, comparing it to his own e-fit of the guy, which was very close to the real thing. Henry looked into Hawke’s eyes, the eyes of a true killer. A professional hit man – but not in the sense of the Jackal; his was a sordid world of back street killing. He swallowed at the memory of just about evading Hawke’s bullets and then stepped even closer to the mug shot to look even more deeply into those soulless eyes, wanting to know what drove a man like that on.
‘Murdering bastard,’ he thought. He was a guy who did it simply because he enjoyed it and was well paid for it.
So why was he here in the UK, killing Percy and Lottie? Just what had Percy got himself involved with? Henry’s gut feeling told him he wasn’t far from the answer, even though it was still eluding him. Once it all started to unravel it would be quick, he thought.
‘Not long now,’ he said to Hawke’s photograph, and tapped his own nose.
‘Talking to yourself, first sign of madness,’ a voice came from behind him.
Henry didn’t turn. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty mad,’ he said, and only then did he turn and look at DCI Woodcock. ‘Mad at myself, mainly.’
‘Why’s that, boss?’
‘Tell you soon.’ He and the DCI were standing across the office from each other and Henry tried – in vain – to look into his eyes, but he was too far way.
‘What did you want me to come in early for?’ Woodcock sounded edgy.
‘Just wanted to run through the Roland Barclay thing with you. I know it’s probably going to be straightforward, but I just want to get it all right in my mind so I can concentrate on Percy and Lottie and I don’t have to think about it while I hunt this sack o’ shit down.’ He flicked his thumb at Hawke’s picture. ‘Come into the office.’
The two men went into Henry’s office. Henry sat at his desk, poured two coffees from the jug and pushed one over to Woodcock, who reached for it gratefully and sat down.
‘I’m sure it will be straightforward,’ Woodcock said. ‘I’m sure the bloods will all match and there’ll be other stuff to put Barclay at Archie’s house … bastard.’
‘Yeah, I agree,’ Henry said, feeling his voice shake.
‘You OK, boss?’
‘Fine … another late night, just basically knackered, I guess.’
‘Yuh, know what you mean.’
‘I didn’t really get a chance to ask you yesterday, but
have you ever had any dealings with Barclay?’
Woodcock’s face screwed up as he considered this. ‘Nah, can’t say I have.’
‘Ever locked him up?’
Woodcock thought about that one, too. ‘No … course I knew of him … petty con man, basically.’
‘When did you last see or speak to him?’
Woodcock fidgeted and took a hurried sip of coffee. ‘I don’t know … ages, I suppose. Can’t remember.’
‘Oh, right,’ Henry said, feeling dithery and nervous. He nodded sagely, wondering whether to pounce or play. ‘Where did you get to about three o’clock yesterday afternoon, Pete?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know … when I went out to deliver that death message from Gran Canaria, where were you?’
‘Here, sorting stuff,’ he stated.
Henry pouted, then said, ‘No you fucking weren’t. You left the MIR after I’d gone up to Shoreside and came back after I returned, then went to the post mortem.’
‘Henry, what the hell is this, the Spanish Inquisition? I went to the canteen, grabbed a bite to eat. That OK?’
Henry could sense Woodcock’s panic beginning to escalate.
‘Right, Pete, let’s just start this again: where … were … you? Simple.’
‘What? What is this? I went for a sandwich.’ His hand gestures were starting to betray his worry and uncertainty.
‘Try again,’ Henry said, breathing down his nose. ‘I’m very patient – up to a point.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say. Sorry, I was out of the office getting a butty, mate.’
A shimmer of cold steel ran down Henry’s spine. ‘Don’t call me mate,’ he said chillingly.
‘OK, sorry … boss, then. Look, what is this? Do I need my solicitor?’ He laughed at his feeble joke.
‘I’ve done a bit of checking through this year’s custody records – you know, the actual paper ones that go into the binders, the ones that get actually written on, that say what happens to prisoners in custody.’
‘And?’
‘Roland Barclay has been arrested three times this year …’
