Low Profile

by Nick Oldham

  They were about halfway along Yeadon Way, concrete walls either side. Because of traffic flow there was no way of spinning the big car around, except dangerously. Donaldson indicated their position.

  ‘Up to the roundabout and come back,’ Henry said.

  Donaldson nodded, floored the accelerator and the three litre engine growled with power. At the roundabout with the stainless steel sculptures in the centre of it he went all the way around, the car swaying on its soft suspension, then he put his foot down again.

  There was no sign of Cherry and the Merc. Henry told Donaldson to come off at the junction with Waterloo Road, which was in South Shore.

  ‘Wonder where she’s headed?’ Donaldson mused.

  ‘Unless she’s taking him shopping, they might’ve gone to the club,’ Henry speculated. This was the one in South Shore where Runcie Costain, Liam’s son, had been murdered. It was the only place Henry could think of.

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Tope asked.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Just guessing. If they’re not there, we’ll get a patrol to sit on the house until they get back.’

  Henry turned to Donaldson. ‘It’s the place that belonged to John Rider – remember?’

  ‘Do I?’ Donaldson said with emphasis, pursing his lips. He knew the place because he and Henry had uncovered a gun running racket operating from the place many years before that had ended up very unpleasantly indeed. The ‘John Rider’ Henry referred to had been killed in a shoot-out in the pub.

  ‘Runcie Costain took it over a while back,’ Henry explained, ‘but when he came to grief it never reopened … at least I don’t think it did, unless it’s under the radar. Let’s just check it anyway. No harm done now. Remember where it is?’

  ‘Think so,’ Donaldson said. He swung the Jeep over the railway bridge at Waterloo Road, then dropped on to Lytham Road, turned left, then third on the right – not too far from Severn Road – on to Station Road, leading on to Withnell Road where the club was situated.

  Turning into it, there was no sign of the Merc. Donaldson drove down the road towards the promenade, past the club, a huge building set amongst the terraced houses. Way back it had once been a casino; it had always remained licensed premises of sorts since and had not suffered the ignominy of being converted to flats like so many other buildings in Blackpool had.

  ‘Go to the bottom, turn left, left again,’ Henry told Donaldson, who complied, driving back up Osborne Road and glancing down the alley that ran at the back of the club. That was where they spotted the Mercedes, which was effectively blocking the alley, parked at the back gates of the club.

  Donaldson pulled in to the kerb a little further on and said, ‘What now, boss?’

  ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

  Donaldson nodded, as did Tope – but with far less enthusiasm.

  Henry dropped out of the Jeep, the other two behind him, and walked into the alley.

  Henry stopped abruptly. His right arm shot out, stopping Donaldson and Tope, then he herded them into a doorway at the back of a yard.

  He had seen Cherry slide open the rear passenger door of the Merc and look inside, not having seen the cops. She then pulled out and extended a metal ramp from the open door and Costain appeared in his wheelchair, rolled down the ramp and through the double gates into the yard at the rear of the club.

  Cherry was still leaning into the Mercedes, saying something to someone inside, although it was impossible for Henry to hear her words or see who they were directed at because of the darkened glass.

  He remained tense, hoping Cherry wouldn’t glance his way, but he knew his luck couldn’t hold.

  Cherry gestured to whoever was in the car to get a move on. Her body language showed irritation and annoyance. Then she reached in and hauled out a slim young Asian female, who was trying to pull her arm away from Cherry’s grip, but without success. Cherry dragged her out of the car and into the back yard, but just before she went out of sight she had a quick look around and saw the three men.

  Her face registered dismay.

  Henry set off at a run, not remotely liking anything he was witnessing here. Something terribly wrong was happening and even as he started his run his mind was telling him, trafficking.

  He heard Cherry yell something – a warning – and Henry ran faster, spinning into the yard to see Cherry forcing the girl through the back door of the club, screaming at her to get in and pushing past Costain who, in his wheelchair, was obstructing the door.

  Cherry shouted, ‘There!’ She turned and pointed at Henry, then stumbled past Costain with the young girl.

  Costain seemed to panic, grinding the joystick control of his wheelchair around as though he was mixing food with a pestle and mortar. The wheelchair jerked backwards, then jumped forwards, the front wheel spinning, then back again and the whole contraption became jammed in the doorway, the electric motor whirring frantically, and smoke began to rise from somewhere underneath the chair, near to the battery. A flame licked up through the spokes of the rear wheels and Costain started jerking around like a marionette in a panic.

  ‘Get me out of this,’ he screamed, ‘get me out of this.’

  Henry slowed to a deliberate walk, a smile on his face, Donaldson and Tope behind him.

  Costain saw what was happening. ‘You bastards – get me out of this feckin’ contraption.’ He tried to heave himself up with his arms and throw himself out of his chair, a cloud of black smoke surrounding him, a thin flame licking up between his useless legs.

  Henry gestured for Donaldson and Tope to help the old man out. They grabbed his upper arms and lifted him out between the two of them, light as a tailor’s dummy. As they raised his bottom from the seat, something clattered to the floor between the chair and the footrest.

  Henry picked up the little pistol Costain had had hidden under his legs and looked at it closely as Donaldson and Tope held the withered old man up between them. The weapon was definitely for real, small though it was, probably a .22, Henry guessed, his knowledge of firearms a little hazy these days.

  He waved it in front of Costain’s face and said, ‘What’s in the club?’

  Costain, suspended between the two men like a onesie on a washing line, pulled his lips back into a snarl and then spat at Henry, the globule of drooling spittle hitting him on the chest. The expression on Costain’s face turned to one of victory at this.

  ‘Nice man,’ Henry said. ‘What am I going to find in there?’ he asked Costain, gesturing with the gun to the club.

  Costain’s eyes then bore into Henry’s as though he had the devil behind him. ‘Hell on earth,’ he growled.

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ Tope said.

  ‘Hold him here and call the van … I’ll go and see what delights await.’ He turned.

  The wheelchair was well alight now, flame and smoke filling the doorway to the club. Henry went towards it and hitched his toe under the footrest and tried to drag it out whilst leaning backwards at an angle and wafting the smoke away with the gun. He managed to edge it forward enough to give him a gap through which he could sidestep inside.

  The club that had once belonged to John Rider and had fallen, via a series of sales, into the nefarious hands of the Costain family had indeed not suffered the indignity of being converted into flats for out of work people. Instead it had become something much more dark, brutal and squalid. On the first floor, a series of fifteen small rooms no bigger than police cells had been created by inserting thin dividing walls lower than ceiling height, and furnishing them with grubby beds and cheap canvas wardrobes. More sinister, steel securing rings had been drilled into the walls, to which chains and manacles were attached.

  Two days later, Henry could still hardly believe what he had stumbled on. The end result of a people trafficking operation in which thirteen young women from various backgrounds and countries worldwide had ended up, via William Costain, as prostitutes in Blackpool. Some had been chained to their beds, some not. All were drug
users, having had addiction thrust on to them, living a life of sheer, brutal purgatory less than two miles from the house he owned on the edge of Blackpool. It was something like a horror film, thirteen women raped and abused many times, every single day, by people who lived in Blackpool or visited the resort for just that purpose.

  At least Henry had freed them from this terrible existence.

  But he knew this was only the present batch. Many others had been before, used, abused, then sent on to other locations. Hundreds, Henry believed, had been through this system, the destruction of which had now become the focus of his life. It was a business worth thousands of pounds a week, millions a year.

  And the investigation – which had caused an international media frenzy – had only just reached the point where Henry, as he sat down to interview Cherry for the sixth time, was able to say, ‘Tell me about Percy Astley-Barnes.’

  Of the two prisoners, Cherry was the only one talking. Liam Costain said nothing at all and hid behind a wall of solicitors and complaints of police brutality.

  Cherry was a different kettle of fish and sometimes she was so garrulous it was hard to shut her up, but she was fighting for her freedom, and although she claimed her only role in proceedings was just to look after the girls, Henry suspected it went much deeper than that. He would play her and eventually find out the truth.

  ‘What about him?’ she said.

  The tape was running, recording everything.

  ‘Everything,’ Henry said.

  Cherry sniffed up. ‘He had nothing to do with all this,’ she said. ‘He came to Liam with some half-baked information about diamonds and Liam, being who he was, couldn’t resist a sparkle.’

  ‘What information?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Percy’s in the diamond business, yeah? He hears stuff and there’s a rumour that a shedload of blood diamonds on a boat bound for some dealer in Amsterdam got wrecked off the coast of Gran Canaria in a storm. Percy reckoned he’d done his research, knew where the boat had gone down but needed a backer to finance a dive to find it … it was believed that the diamonds were in a security box and could have survived the accident.’

  ‘Blood diamonds?’ Henry said.

  ‘Conflict diamonds or whatever. I didn’t even know what the fuck that meant really … apparently they’re from West African diamond mines, used to finance terrorism or wars by being sold through legit markets in the West … I dunno … anyway, Percy thought he knew where they were, hooked Liam with the story … but then, fuckin’ stupid Liam, being Liam, did a shitty thing.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Got Percy drugged up, then videoed him screwing one of the Asian girls, thinking it would make him loyal, give him power over him … instead it put the shits up Percy, who panicked and threatened to blow the whole trafficking thing out of the water. He said some things he shouldn’t, Liam got mad and – bang!’

  ‘A hired killer does the rest?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Liam couldn’t afford that to happen.’

  ‘Why did Percy go to Florida with Liam?’

  Cherry looked quickly at Henry. ‘You know about that?’

  Henry tipped his head. ‘I’m presuming that was before Liam’s shitty thing?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t go, but I know they visited Liam’s contact over there, some Italian guy called Fioretti. I’ve never met him. He’s the one Liam’s in the people business with, been in business with him for ages, right back to his IRA days when he was gun running for the republicans. He was going to put up the finance for the dive on the wreck – well, him and Liam were.’

  ‘That would have cost a lot.’

  ‘Not in comparison to the possible end result … Percy thought there would be about four million pounds’ worth of diamonds down in the drink … twenty, thirty grand upfront to dive on it is nothing. There’d be enough for everyone, and Percy was planning to put his share back into his business – which, if you’re interested, is going tits up – and he was going to sell the rest of the diamonds on the market for the other two. Truth is Percy wouldn’t have got anything anyway. If the diamonds were there, Percy would have ended up with a bullet in the skull anyway, I reckon. People like Liam and Fioretti do not share, certainly not with people like Percy, and Percy hadn’t got a clue what he was getting himself into. Naive idiot.’

  ‘OK … and this killer, Hawke? He works for Fioretti?’

  Cherry nodded and Henry said, ‘For the purposes of the tape, the interviewee has just nodded.’ He didn’t really need to say it because it was being videoed as well.

  ‘And Hawke was brought over from America especially to kill Percy?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t have any contract killers on our books,’ she laughed, then stopped sharply on Henry’s hard look.

  ‘And poor Lottie, Percy’s girlfriend …?’

  ‘Collateral damage?’ Cherry ventured.

  Just like he would have been. ‘Where is Hawke now?’

  ‘I don’t know and telling you would be nuts, even if I did.’

  Henry squinted, trying to work it all out. ‘So what was Scott Costain doing out in the Canaries and is his death connected to all this?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He went out for a recce … but someone was there already, diving where the wreck is supposed to be. Whoever it was musta whacked him and Trish.’

  ‘Who do you think that was?’

  ‘Not sure, but Liam’s been putting all this together and he thinks someone overheard him and Fioretti planning when they were out in Florida and decided to go for the diamonds first. He reckons the only time that could have happened was when they went out on a fishing boat owned by Fioretti and maybe one of the crew members was working for someone else and passed the info on … nobody’s sure.’

  Henry visualized the face of Jack Hoyle in the background of Lottie’s photograph, wondering if it was him and what his connections were with organized crime in Florida. Interesting ones, he thought. But where the hell was Hoyle? So far, with Karl Donaldson’s help, the FBI in Florida had been trying to trace him but no one had seen him in Key West for a few weeks and certainly not on the Silverfin. Rumour was that Hoyle was double-crossing Fioretti by acting as a double agent for some other nameless hood out there and feeding that person any information he could glean from conversations overheard on board the boat which, it seems, Fioretti often used for planning criminal activities, well away from snooping Feds. Instead, it was his own staff snitching on him.

  ‘Who’s Jack Hoyle?’ Henry asked.

  Cherry stared blankly. ‘No idea.’ Henry believed her.

  Henry took all this in, the first real interview about Percy’s death, knowing there was much more to learn and that he would get to the bottom of it and would finally destroy the criminal enterprise that was the Costains. If it was the last thing he did before retirement.

  ‘So why did Liam come over here from Ireland?’ he asked Cherry towards the end of this particular interview.

  ‘Too much heat over there, wanted to whip the Costains into shape over here. Big plans to turn them into something international … would’ve succeeded if you hadn’t turned up when you did.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Henry said. ‘And why did you marry him, Cherry?’

  Cherry gave a long, deep sigh, rested her head sideways on the palm of her hand and said wistfully, ‘Fucked if I know.’

  The interview went on for much, much longer but in the end there had to be a break and, as Cherry was taken back down to the cells, Henry’s head was swimming with it all. In his jacket pocket, he felt his mobile phone vibrate. He took it out and saw the caller was unidentified. He half-thought of not answering, but did.

  ‘Henry Christie,’ he said.

  ‘Henry Christie,’ came a voice he knew well. ‘How the hell are you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You still interested in Jack Hoyle?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because at this very moment in time,
’ Steve Flynn said, ‘I’m looking right at him but, get this, he has no idea that I’m here.’

  TWENTY

  He had been watching for three days and nights from the second floor apartment in which he’d been ensconced with Karen.

  The information from Eduardo, the old sailor, had been correct. Destiny was moored in Puerto de Mogán, almost under Flynn’s nose, as Mogán was the next port along the coast from Puerto Rico. Eduardo had told Flynn the boat had sailed in from Lisbon seven days before and was registered to a boat hire company in Lagos, on the Algarve. That was all the old man knew, but it was enough for Flynn. He’d found the boat.

  After Eduardo had passed Flynn the information, he and Karen drove over to Mogán and, after checking out the marina and finding that Destiny wasn’t in, they spent the day mooching arm in arm like real tourists and lovers through the market lining the fisherman’s quay, and eating and drinking at a few of the bars and restaurants that lined the port.

  Destiny motored in smoothly at five that evening. Flynn and Karen had been able to watch her tie up from the cover of one of the restaurants, sitting at the back of the terrace behind multi-coloured bougainvillea and trailing geraniums. From that position, though, they had only been able to watch the boat’s activity from a discreet distance but they saw two divers cleaning their equipment, then leaving the boat in a battered four wheel drive.

  ‘Hired help,’ Flynn said to Karen.

  That left two people on board and Flynn, who could now see properly through one recovering eye and one good eye, recognized Jack Hoyle and one other man, unless there were others who had not shown themselves.

  Flynn and Karen dawdled in the restaurant for another hour, happy in each other’s company but tense from the situation, particularly when Hoyle and the other man, looking as if they had showered and changed, hopped over the side of the boat and began walking towards them. Flynn flipped the cost of the meal on to the table and he and Karen exited via the back of the restaurant, on to the tight, pretty streets of the port, which was known as Little Venice.