by Nick Oldham
After the initial shock of Georgia joining them, they had quickly decided to head back north, then west, across the River Ribble and have a brain-dumping session at Henry’s local, where he knew he would have no trouble getting a lock-in if required. Ken, the landlord, was very accommodating, even more so than usual when the trio landed on his doorstep just as he was closing up for the night. He almost tripped over his bearded chin when standing aside for them to enter.
Donaldson rubbed his eyes as she finished her tale, concluding with how she had got to Southport.
Corrigan’s villa had remained under surveillance with the trusty Piali doing the honours, and a man believed to be Corrigan returned after a short time and then left with bags packed. Georgia, already alerted, followed him to the airport and discovered he was on a flight to Manchester. Because she had only been given his name by Rosario and had not had the opportunity to unravel his connection to the shooting, there wasn’t enough suspicion to arrest him. Having said that, she didn’t want to lose him.
Using her muscle as a cop, she blagged a seat on the plane. Her passport and a minimum amount of luggage were rushed to her by a colleague, and she boarded the plane right behind Corrigan, sitting two rows behind him – and didn’t have a clue what she was playing at. She was also very much aware that she hadn’t even told her bosses what she was doing either. Operating on a whim was not like her, normally being someone who mapped out every move with excruciating detail, but she was finding it exciting.
‘I’d managed to arrange car hire at Manchester and more by luck than anything, I managed to follow him to South … South …?’
‘Port,’ Henry said.
‘And the hire car’s still there,’ she added.
‘Brilliant,’ Donaldson cooed, locking eyes with her.
Oh God, Henry thought bitterly, seeing her eyes go all gooey. He’s going to fuck this one. I just know it … buggeration! He knew he had missed his chance and it was as if the time they’d spent in Cyprus hadn’t happened.
‘OK, guys,’ he said. ‘What does this leave us with?’
They regarded him, waiting for the answer.
‘Hope that was a rhetorical question, Henry,’ Donaldson said.
‘You mean it’s down to me to pull this together? I don’t even have a clue what’s going on.’
‘After you buy the drinks for us, it might come to you.’
‘OK – but first things first. Georgia.’ He turned to her. ‘You need somewhere to stay.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘There’s one of those Premier Inns or Travelodges just outside Blackpool. I’ve crashed there a few times. Why don’t you fix up a couple of rooms for us there, Henry?’ Donaldson put in quickly. ‘Use Ken’s phone. He won’t mind.’
‘I thought …’ Henry looked at his friend and was about to say, ‘you were staying with me and Kate.’ He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. Now it was certain – Donaldson was going to veer off the straight and narrow. ‘Nothing,’ he said absently. He rose dispiritedly and with a heavy heart set off for the bar where Ken was totting up the night’s takings. Feeling truly sick, he made the call to the hotel and booked two rooms, then returned with three drinks clasped between his fingers.
‘OK, H, what have we got?’ Donaldson folded his fingers behind his head. Georgia waited expectantly, but looking very tired. Henry held his head between his hands and thought for a while, then raised his face.
‘We have two high-ranking detectives consorting with a known Mafia mover and shaker. Dave Anger, Paul Shafer and Walter Corrigan. Corrigan is connected to a man called Rosario?’ He looked at Georgia for confirmation – yes. ‘And Rosario delivers weapons for the Mob, in this case the rifle that killed an innocent cop, but was probably intended for Paulo Scartarelli, now in custody in Lancashire.’
‘We actually don’t know if they are consorting. Maybe they’re scamming Corrigan, on to something big we don’t know about,’ Donaldson said.
‘Maybe, but until I know differently, then they’re consorting,’ Henry said, probably because that was what he wanted to believe. ‘Now, is this connected?’ he posed the next question. ‘A man I believe could well be responsible for the murder of two hookers in Preston has been shot by the police in Merseyside and it seems that this dead guy, Jonny Motta, has been eliminated from the murder enquiry even though it looks as though he’s the prime suspect. Just say that Motta did kill the prostitutes, then another coincidence is that they’re believed to have come from Albania, just like the prostitute Scartarelli murdered.’
‘Vague, vague,’ Donaldson almost tutted.
‘You come up with something better,’ Henry said sulkily, a jealous streak a mile wide inside him.
‘I haven’t got anything better,’ Donaldson admitted. ‘Except that Scartarelli and Corrigan are connected, even if it’s only by the use of that villa in Cyprus.’
‘It would be interesting to see if we can find a link between Scartarelli and this Motta,’ Georgia said. She was taking it all in, moving it around even though she was exhausted. ‘If there is, it completes the circle. Corrigan – Motta – Scartarelli – and your officers, Anger and the other one.’
The tame landlord Ken appeared bearing a large plateful of sandwiches, with several varieties of fillings. He placed it on their table.
‘On the house. I can see brains ticking.’
‘Ken, you are a star.’
‘And I’m also off to bed. Help yourself to any bottles or shorts if you want anything more and we’ll settle up tomorrow. Leave by the front door, but make sure it’s locked behind you.’
Georgia dived into the food, suddenly ravenous. The men ate more sedately, munching thoughtfully.
‘You’ve been hankering to see Scartarelli,’ Henry said to Donaldson. ‘Why don’t we all go and have a word with him?’
Henry crept into bed at 2.35 a.m., sweaty, alcohol-breathed and very tired. He muttered some sort of apology to Kate, who made an unintelligible response, though it was clear she wasn’t over the moon at his appearance. Henry tried to sleep, but his mind refused to allow it as it mulled things over.
Problem was, Henry actually enjoyed mulling things over, trying to make some sort of sense of the cards he’d been dealt. He also didn’t like jumping to too many conclusions but he liked putting them together and testing them to destruction. That was how breakthroughs were made: sifting, sorting, trying things out. And that was why, thirty minutes after going to bed, he was up again in his dressing gown, sitting in the conservatory with the blinds drawn, pen and pad to hand. He wrote out a list of names, characters and some notes.
Three dead prostitutes
Jonny Motta maybe killed two of them Paulo Scartarelli killed the third one – over a year ago having been ID’d by hooker on deathbed. So the cops had to do something about it. Not much, though. Just circulated as wanted. Not much detecting going on! Police Authority ordered cops to do something – hence me, Operation Wanted.
Walter Corrigan. Cyprus. Mafia – linked to Scartarelli – he ran there but accidentally located by Georgia!
Corrigan – Scartarelli – does Corrigan want him dead? (Fails, kills a cop) Cops in Cyprus get act together. Find Rosario, Mafia gun supplier who fingers Corrigan as the contractor?
Corrigan leaves island, comes to UK.
Seen i/c Anger/ Shafer – big, old-time buddies
What are they up to?
Have Lancs cops really eliminated Motta properly. I know it’s the guy I fought – fingerprints in neck. Maybe the fingerprints I took will prove it!
Am I just linking stuff that has no connection?
Is everyone guilty? Is anything connected? Prob not.
Is KD screwing GP!!!!
Henry scrubbed a few heavy lines through the last entry and tried not to think about it. He read through the notes and thought, But what’s my job here? The answer was to tidy up the shooting of a man by police officers in Liverpool.
Then he had another
thought. The original IPCC investigator met his death in suspicious circumstances. A hit-and-run. Should that be investigated again? Did that have any bearing on anything?
He found his way to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a healthy shot of Grants which he swallowed in one, making him bare his teeth in reaction.
‘Bed,’ he declared.
He was up at seven, shaved, showered and the rest. Over a strong filtered coffee he sent texts to Jerry Tope and Bill Robbins, asking them to meet him at Leyland police station, where Scartarelli was being housed prior to his court appearance. Neither replied.
He had also arranged to pick up Karl Donaldson and Georgia on his way through, even though it stuck in his craw. What would they look like? Flushed and sex-sated. Yuk!
He popped back upstairs to say goodbye to Kate, who was flat out on her back and snoring loudly. Having kissed and closed her mouth gently with the tip of his finger, he went back down and picked up his mobile phone, which was ringing: Karl.
‘What?’ Henry said grumpily.
‘Don’t bother to pick us up, we’ll make our own way over in my tank.’ He meant his Jeep.
‘Whatever,’ Henry said, thumbing the end-call button, certain he heard a familiar female giggle in the background before the connection was axed. Darkly he drove to Leyland via the M55 and M6, exiting at junction 28. The police station was less than five minutes from the motorway, right next to the Magistrates’ Court and opposite a large Tesco superstore. He parked at the back of the sports centre, also opposite the station.
Henry’s mood did not lighten when he let himself into the nick and made his way up to the canteen, which was completely devoid of personnel now that the canteen facility had been axed. It had been replaced by self-service machines dispensing pre-packed breakfasts that then needed heating in a microwave, all in the name of cost-cutting. The morning social had been well and truly curtailed here.
He grabbed a frothy coffee from another machine and took a seat by a window overlooking the road out front, waiting for the arrival of his colleagues.
Bill Robbins landed first, followed shortly after by Jerry Tope.
The other two were noticeable by the lateness. Morning sex, Henry thought jealously.
His trustworthy team got a coffee each at his expense and sat by him.
‘What’s happening?’ Bill asked.
Henry explained why they were at Leyland – a subject which got some shocked reactions from the men – then asked Jerry if he had made any progress on the IT front.
‘Of course, but nothing so far with the CCTV stuff, I’m afraid. However …’ He produced a copy of an email, which he passed to Henry. ‘This was sent to Dave Anger from Paul Shafer.’
Henry twisted it around and read it. ‘Keep up the good work. If we keep our heads down and don’t lose our nerve, this’ll smell very wealthy – eventually. OK for S’Port meet?’
Henry thought it over, then raised his eyes. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not on that subject.’
‘OK – keep on it.’
‘There is something else, actually. That expense account, Operation Wanted. I’ve discovered something interesting and I—’
Henry frowned. ‘Not for here and now, Jerry. Will it keep?’
‘Mm, OK. Mind if I keep digging on it, though?’
‘Do what you want,’ Henry nodded.
Donaldson and Georgia strolled into the dining room, both bouncing following their night of passion. At least that was how Henry saw it. They had picked up the ID badges that Henry had arranged for them at the front desk.
‘Glad you could make it,’ was the most original greeting he could manage.
‘Morning, guys,’ Donaldson beamed as Georgia rushed to Bill and gave him a big hug. Bill responded in kind and held on for just a moment too long for decency, but she didn’t seem to mind. They exchanged a few how-are-you’s and then Henry introduced her to Jerry Tope, who was mesmerized.
‘Jerry,’ Henry cut into his reverie, ‘I believe you’ve got some IT-based things to pull together?’
‘Yeah, boss.’ Reluctantly he slunk away, tearing his eyes from Georgia only as he went out through the door.
Henry did have to admit she was stunning, dressed in tight jeans, a loose blouse and denim jacket. He scowled at Donaldson, who winked playfully at him, then they all sat at a table whilst Bill scurried about getting more coffees.
‘What’s the plan, H?’ Donaldson asked, stretching and yawning.
Henry gave him a double-take, then took a breath to clear his mind of the horrible image he had of the Yank and the Cypriot ‘doing it’. He had never been so utterly jealous of a man having sex with a woman before. Just wasn’t like him.
‘I’ll go down to the custody office and check where we’re up to with Scartarelli. He should be about ready to be taken over to court and I reckon the time he spends waiting in a holding cell will give us the opportunity to speak to him.’
‘How much time could that be?’
‘Depends how many people are up this morning. We’ll just have to suck it and see.’
Donaldson nodded. ‘OK, bud.’
‘If you guys want to wait here, I’ll go down and see what’s happening.’
Although Leyland police station is the one used by Lancashire Constabulary to house suspected terrorists and other serious offenders, it is still a fairly quiet nick in comparison, say, to Blackpool, where chaos reigns 24/7. It is one of the force’s most recently constructed stations, comparatively speaking, and was built with extra security because it was an opportunity not to be missed as no other station in the county had high security. And it was handy geographically, being so close to the motorway network.
Making his way down the flight of stairs to the custody office on the ground floor, Henry bumped into no one, even in the corridor leading up to the cell complex.
He buzzed at the steel door, looked at the security camera, flashed his warrant card and was allowed in.
The custody sergeant was a bruiser called Eccles. He glanced up from his paperwork – literally, he was reading the newspaper – and smiled. He knew Henry from old. They had about the same length of service and their careers had intersected occasionally over the years.
They greeted each other warmly and asked brief questions about families and shared friends.
‘So, Henry, what can I do you for? Scartarelli, I’ll bet.’
‘Yeah. I want to arrange for some people, including myself, to have a chat with him for intelligence-gathering purposes.’
‘No probs.’
‘Has he had his brekkie yet?’
‘Had everything,’ Eccles confirmed.
‘I’ll go and get my colleagues,’ Henry said enthusiastically. ‘One’s from the FBI – whoow! – and another’s a Cypriot cop.’
‘Only one thing …’
‘What would that be, Chris?’
‘He’s already gone to court.’
Henry’s eyes automatically rose to the clock on the wall, which read 8.27. Court didn’t start until ten, so Scartarelli’s transfer across was early by any standards.
‘Yeah, I thought that, too,’ Eccles said, reading Henry’s mind. ‘The escort came early and wanted to take him, so who was I to refuse? I made them take the other remand prisoner, too, even though they weren’t interested in him. Another one you were involved with, by the way – Downie?’
‘I know him all right.’
‘He’s been charged with some jobs over here, indecency and deception. Looks like he’ll be in for a long stretch, as will the Italian, of course.’
‘That’s good to hear. Er, who actually came for Scartarelli?’
‘A new security company …’ Eccles rooted out the custody record and flicked it open. ‘DellHouse Security. They’ve just taken over the SecSer contract, apparently, though I hadn’t heard about it. Must be keen to make a good impression, hence the earliness.’
Henry scanned the custody record which showed a company
stamp and a scribbled signature on the line indicating that Scartarelli had been handed over.
‘I’ll just mosey through, if that’s OK. I’ll fix up the interview with the guards.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Buzz me through.’
Henry walked across to the steel door which was the entrance to the short underground tunnel leading from the police cells to the holding cells underneath the Magistrates’ Court next door. It was a brightly lit tunnel, concrete-lined, less than twenty metres in length. Henry walked briskly along it and came to the next door, which opened into the holding area. This contained a number of cells, interview rooms and an office as well as an electric shuttered door for the prisoner loading bay, big enough for a large, single-decker prison bus to reverse into.
The first strange sensation for Henry came when he was able to get through to this complex through a door which should have been locked and manned by someone controlling it. He could just push the tunnel door open and it swung gently on its well-oiled hinges.
He stepped into the holding area.
All the lights were on … but there was no one at home.
At the least there should have been a guard in the office, clearly visible through the big plate-glass window. No one sat there.
Henry crossed to the office and looked in through the window, just to confirm it was empty and that a guard wasn’t tying shoelaces or something.
It was empty.
‘Hello,’ he called.
No sign of any of the prisoner escorts.
He walked over to one of the cell doors and looked through the window. The cell was empty, too. The next cell along was also empty. However, much to his relief, the third cell contained the two prisoners who’d come across from the police cells.
Scartarelli was inside, as was the other remand prisoner, Downie, sitting side by side on the bench.
As Henry’s face appeared at the toughened-glass window in the cell door, both prisoners turned their heads to look sourly up at him. Neither gave him a welcome smile. Both still had their wrists shackled by rigid handcuffs.
