The Nothing Job

by Nick Oldham

  Henry screwed his nose up. ‘There’s a big list of things we’ll need, actually.’

  This stopped Shafer. ‘Why would that be? I understand that your task is simply to …’

  ‘Dot and cross?’

  ‘Exactly … shouldn’t take too much. Not, you understand, that we won’t be as helpful as possible.’

  ‘It’s just basic things,’ he said, pleasantly enough, not wanting to get off too far on the wrong foot. Although he wanted to spell out what he saw his task as being, he could imagine how vulnerable the force would be feeling and then to get a snotty detective to come along from another force and start nosing around again did not help matters. He glanced at the room and saw computer access points. ‘It’d be useful to get a computer in here, for example,’ he said innocently with a deprecatory shrug. ‘We’ll need ease of access to the building, to know where we can photocopy stuff … that sort of thing.’

  Shafer looked slightly relieved. ‘I can get those things sorted.’

  Henry went on, ‘But I will have to go through everything, you can understand that.’ He pointed at the box file on the desks. ‘Then take it from there. May even need to interview or re-interview people again.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘And try to live up to my reputation,’ he added slyly, his face set, his eyes levelling with Shafer’s. They locked, then broke.

  Shafer handed Henry a business card with his internal phone number on it. ‘I’ll let you get settled.’

  He spun on his shiny heels and left the office.

  The three Lancashire officers watched him go, remained silent for a few moments, then Bill said, ‘Don’t know about you guys, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this already.’ He shivered.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Tope said. ‘Didn’t like him.’

  ‘At the end of the day,’ Henry said magnanimously, ‘we are investigating them and they will feel just a bit jittery. Understandable. However,’ he levelled his gaze at Bill and dangled the office key in front of him, ‘nip into the city centre, will you, and buy a padlock and an electric screwdriver from a hardware shop. I think we’ll take the unilateral decision of putting our own security on the door. I’ll lay odds there’s more than one key circulating and I’d like to keep our little room to ourselves. Some coffee, milk and another mug might not go amiss either …’

  ‘And biscuits,’ Tope said.

  ‘Can you manage that?’ Henry asked Bill.

  ‘I’m the gofer?’

  ‘If the cap fits.’

  ‘Short simple steps,’ Henry explained. He now had a mug of cheap coffee in his hands which tasted like treacle, but had a kick like a mule. He was feeling refreshed and ready to rock and roll. ‘Let’s take this whole thing from start to finish. To me that means going back to the shooting Motta was supposed to have committed, then through all the intelligence-gathering after that up to the point where Motta was pinpointed as a suspect and then located. An operational order must have been drawn up for the armed arrest. Then we go through everything relating to the raid and the shooting. See how it all flows. I know there’s gaps, but we’ll fill ’em as we go along.’

  ‘Shall I just fix doors and coffee,’ Bill asked.

  Henry fixed him with a contemptuous stare, then turned his attention to the box file that should contain all the things Henry had just described. He opened the lid for the first time and said, ‘Dig in, chaps.’

  It was a long, tedious, caffeine-fuelled day, as once they sat down to their task they diligently worked their way through the file. It was an orderly and well-put-together piece of work. The IPCC investigator had been assisted by members of the West Midlands Police who had, seemingly, professionally investigated, interviewed and made recommendations.

  On the face of it, Henry could see very little wrong with what had been done.

  Based on what he read, the story of Jonny Motta and his demise was one of those unfortunate but inevitable incidents and if the police hadn’t pulled the trigger, then it was quite likely that someone else would have done so, sooner rather than later.

  There wasn’t much background on Motta, but it seemed he had been a fairly low-level hood in Italy, then Amsterdam, where he was suspected of pimping and running brothels; then he turned up in Merseyside and tried to muscle in on some nefarious but established criminal operations in the city. These included illegal immigrants, drugs and gang-mastering. There was some hint he had been involved with the gangmasters who ran the Chinese cockle-pickers who tragically died in Morecambe Bay. Motta got involved in arguments and fights, and was eventually suspected of killing a guy whose business interests he’d tried to move in on.

  The murder enquiry, run by Paul Shafer, pinpointed him as the prime suspect and an arrest operation was pulled together. When his flat was raided, he pulled a gun and was shot dead for his trouble by a firearms officer because he didn’t put it down when requested. It was one of those split-second decisions, yet it seemed the officer had acted lawfully and reasonably in the circumstances.

  There would be no prosecution.

  The officer would get his old job back.

  A bad man had been taken off the streets.

  And all was right with the world of policing in Liverpool.

  ‘Observations?’ Henry asked at last.

  It was 4 p.m.

  Bill stretched and yawned.

  ‘Bill? Firearms perspective?’

  ‘Looks sound. Good risk assessment on the operational order. Well-briefed team. Looks as if the officer did everything right and reacted according to the situation.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill. Jerry, your take?’

  Tope nodded. ‘Looks fine to me, too. The work’s been done for us here, I’d say.’

  ‘Huh hum,’ Henry guggled as Tope spoke. ‘Yep, yep … cut and dried … not many witnesses, though.’

  ‘There wouldn’t necessarily be many on a job like that,’ Bill said. ‘Multi-occupancy flats, early-morning raid silently done. Most folk wouldn’t even be awake.’

  ‘True,’ Henry conceded. He ran his fingers over the stack of statements in front of him, let his mind do some wandering. ‘It would be nice to have a couple more independents, though. This is all very police-heavy. However …’ He winced.

  ‘I wonder where all the photos are?’ Tope said. ‘Crime scene, dead body, all that sort of stuff. There’s nothing in here like that. Is that odd?’

  ‘Good point. Let’s ask to see them. Should be available … OK!’ Henry clapped his hands and made them jump. ‘From what we’ve read it’s all pretty done and dusted? Agreed?’

  His team regarded him as though he was losing his mind. He allowed himself a grin. ‘Good – I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength, guys. We start from scratch and work through it, because that’s the only way I’ll be satisfied that all bases are covered.’

  They both nodded.

  ‘In that case we do what we’re best at. Jerry, the intelligence side, Bill, you make more coffee … only joking. Honest!’ he said in reply to Bill’s warning look. ‘You need to pay the firearms team a visit and start chatting about the guy who pulled the trigger. Look at his record, all that sort of stuff. I’ll leave that with you. Jerry – intelligence and statements. Once we get logged into their computer system, will you be able to access their intelligence files?’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Do that and dig up anything related to Motta … you know the score.’

  ‘And what will you be doing, boss?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Just messing about. I’m the boss, I delegate while you plebs do the work. Now, about that coffee, Bill …’

  Henry called it a day at 6.30 p.m. After securing the office door with the padlock that Bill had bought in town, the three of them piled gratefully into the Mondeo in the Albert Dock car park. Henry asked Tope to drive and he sat in the back, Bill being up front with Tope. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. But he didn’t sleep. He found himself thinking through the day.
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br />   Suddenly, he shot forward.

  ‘You two guys in a rush to get home?’

  ‘To my wife and kids? Hardly,’ Bill said.

  ‘Jerry?’

  ‘So-so … going out for a pint with Dave Rooney and his missus. Why?’

  ‘Something’s bothering me, just a nagging up here.’ Henry touched his forehead. ‘How do you fancy having a look at a gunshot victim?’

  ‘I’d rather have a pizza,’ Bill chirped.

  ‘I’ll treat you to one later,’ Henry promised.

  Instead of taking the A59 which would have taken them back up to Preston, Jerry slotted on to the A565 and headed out towards Southport. To keep her happy, Henry gave Kate a ring on his mobile to say he’d be late, then sat back again and sighed deeply, pleased with himself at having done his duty by her. By the time they reached the outskirts of Southport he was so drowsy he almost regretted the diversion. He pulled himself together and stretched, slapping the back of Bill’s head because he had nodded off.

  ‘The mortuary is at Southport General. Just follow the signs,’ Henry told Tope.

  ‘OK.’

  Ten minutes later they were following a hospital porter down a long corridor. The porter was a lucky find because he was manoeuvring a gurney with a black body bag on it containing a dead patient for sliding into a fridge.

  ‘Fourth one today,’ he moaned. ‘Must be a bug going round. Dropping like flies.’

  ‘Remind me not to get ill here,’ Henry said, looking worriedly at the other two.

  ‘I think they came in with it,’ the porter said defensively, virtually ramming the trolley through a set of double doors and into the hospital mortuary that was on the lower ground floor, often called a basement. The walls were lined with body fridges, most of which had labels on their doors. The place almost had a 100 per cent attendance.

  ‘You need him,’ the porter said. He pointed to a man sitting in an office to their right. Rock music blared from a CD player and Henry recognized the group as the Cure, ironic based on the fact he was standing in a place where people came who were beyond a cure. Henry thanked the porter and leaned against the office door. He flashed his warrant card.

  The mortuary attendant had sleepy eyes, crooked teeth and skin so pale and waxy under the artificial light he looked like a moving cadaver.

  ‘Help ya?’ he asked dreamily.

  ‘I want to have a look at a body you have stored here.’

  ‘Got loadsa bodies stored here.’

  ‘How many have two bullet holes in them?’

  The sleepy eyes opened a little more. Henry saw how bloodshot they were. ‘Ah, that one.’ He rocked up on to his feet, surprising Henry with his height – or lack of it. He was about five feet tall, but when seated looked average. Obviously an optical illusion. ‘Follow me.’

  Without checking Henry’s ID properly, or asking to see Tope’s or Bill’s, he led the three officers down the mortuary, nodding at the porter, who was leaving after having put the latest visitor in the fridge.

  The fridge doors were stacked four high and there were thirty rows of them and the body they wished to inspect was down at the far end, two up from the floor.

  ‘These are our longer-term residents down here,’ the attendant said. ‘The ones without homes to go to. Two tramps, someone who died in hospital we haven’t ID’d yet and your chappy.’ He grinned. ‘Old mates.’

  ‘You need another hobby – seriously,’ Bill said, bringing a broken-toothed laugh from the man.

  ‘I’m dating one of the tramps. She’s a lovely lady, tangoes like a Latino once she defrosts.’ He pulled the lever down on the door and opened it. A blast of icy air gushed out. ‘Why d’you want to see this guy?’

  ‘Morbid curiosity,’ Henry said.

  ‘I can go with that,’ the attendant said. He slid out the tray on which lay the muslin-covered body of Jonny Motta.

  The three cops took up positions from which they could see the body clearly and, like a magician revealing his latest trick, the attendant folded back the material.

  Everyone remained silent, until, inevitably, Bill had to say something: ‘Good shooting.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows at him and though he didn’t agree verbally he did so mentally. Despite the post-mortem mess in which the body was, sewn up with no finesse whatsoever, the two places where the bullets had entered the body were still clear to see – grouped side by side over the heart.

  ‘Great shooting under stress,’ Bill added.

  He would have been dead before hitting the floor of his flat.

  Jerry Tope gasped. He had managed to keep it in, but the sight of the murdered man got to him and he staggered drunkenly away, then out of the mortuary doors, groaning and retching.

  The body wasn’t a very nice sight, but Henry had seen much worse in his time. In fact Jonny Motta looked in pretty good condition to say he’d been shot to death and kept in a fridge for a few weeks.

  ‘Good double-tap, that,’ Bill said admiringly again.

  ‘OK, thanks for that.’ Henry now looked at Motta’s face, twisting his own head so he could inspect it from a variety of angles. Motta had been a good-looking man, that was plain. Dark eyes, a hooked but imperious nose … and there was something about him he couldn’t quite figure. The problem was that during the course of the post-mortem, Motta’s scalp had been pulled down over his face like a balaclava so that the top of his skull could be removed and his brain inspected. Standard procedure in all PMs. But when the skin had been pulled back into place it hadn’t been stitched with as much tension as originally and the features had sagged slightly.

  ‘Can I borrow a pair of latex gloves?’ Henry asked the mortuary attendant.

  The man came back a minute later from his office, handing Henry a pair which he slid on, then twiddled his fingers.

  Bill and the mortuary attendant watched with interest as Henry leaned over Motta’s body, placed his thumbs on the hairline on either side of the head and eased the skin upwards, pulling it tighter over the skull and redefining the features, even if the mouth became a sickly grin which dribbled with something disgusting.

  Henry kept his thumbs in place, reared back slightly with his head to get a better view of the face, angling his head again, squinting at Motta.

  Then he looked carefully at Motta’s neck and right arm and muttered, ‘Mm – recognize him, Bill?’

  Bill shrugged. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Go get Jerry, will you?’

  Bill retreated from the mortuary and found Tope in the corridor, bent double, hands on knees, whiter than a shade of pale. He looked nauseous in the extreme.

  ‘Never been good with dead bodies,’ he admitted to Bill, wiping flecks of spittle from the corners of his mouth and sucking in.

  ‘Then I don’t have good news for you. Boss wants you back to have a gander at Motta. He’s given him a facelift.’

  ‘Oh God, I’d rather be searching a database.’

  ‘Sorry, pal.’ Bill slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. ‘Needs must.’

  Tope took a deep breath and pulled himself together, brushed his trousers down and re-entered the mortuary with the unwillingness of a pupil entering a headmaster’s study for a sound thrashing.

  He averted his eyes all the way, keeping them firmly on a blemish in the paint on the wall behind Henry.

  ‘Do I have to do this, boss?’ he bleated. He dropped his eyes a few degrees and looked directly at Henry, over the body.

  The DCI frowned, but refrained from making the remark he really wanted to make and instead said, with as much genuine empathy as possible, ‘Just look at the fucker, will you?’

  Jerry swallowed something wedged at the back of his throat, then cast his eyes downwards, trying to control his breathing and not vomit.

  ‘Recognize him?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly and looked away.

  ‘Take a proper fucking look,’ Henry said, getting angry.

  Tope bit his bottom lip, st
eeled himself and looked at Jonny Motta’s face, which was still being manipulated to look as natural as possible by Henry’s thumbs.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Keep looking. I know you’ve been doing a bit on that double murder in Preston … what d’you think?’

  ‘Bloody hell – yeah!’

  ‘Go on,’ Henry encouraged him.

  ‘Spitting image of the guy caught on the CCTV tape.’

  Bill butted in. ‘You mean that murder you turned out to? The one where you drove around with the body in the boot?’

  ‘The very one,’ Henry confirmed with a cold stare. ‘A mistake anyone could have made.’ He turned his attention back to Jerry Tope, who seemed to have forgotten his adverse reaction to dead bodies and was now looking at Motta’s face from all angles as Henry held the skin tight.

  ‘Looks like the guy on the CCTV,’ he said. ‘Not a hundred per cent certain, though, but he isn’t far off.’

  ‘It is him,’ Henry said.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Well,’ Henry began and released Motta’s skin. His face suddenly slid gruesomely downwards like some horror-movie special effect. His face distorted and Jerry Tope was once again reminded of exactly what he was looking at.

  ‘Oh, Jeez,’ he cried, and spun away from the table, unable to contain his sickness any more. He hurled the contents of his stomach across the tiled mortuary floor, splattering vomit up the wall.

  Tope was given a mop and bucket, floor cleaner and disinfectant. He diligently slopped up his mess, an activity that made him feel even more ill until the majority of it had been wiped up and was in the bucket. Some colour seeped back into his cheeks as he sprayed the area with bleach and water.

  Henry watched him dispassionately and without much interest, his mouth pursed and his bum very much mirroring that shape, twitching to a beat as his mind whirred.

  Perhaps he was just being picky, but he could not for the life of him work out how Jonny Motta could not be identified as the murderer of two poor girls in Preston city centre.

  Unless, of course, he was completely wrong, which wouldn’t be a first. Maybe the two forces had liaised and Motta had been discounted as a suspect despite the similarity of appearance.