What Vinnie did find interesting was that both baseball caps had a “Kiss Me Quick” logo. They’d obviously been to Blackpool at some stage – another line of enquiry for someone else to follow; but where would you start there? He knew Blackpool had hundreds of hotels, motels and guest houses.
He put a pair of overshoes and surgical gloves on to search the room while he waited for CSI to arrive. The place looked clean, the bin was empty, and the bed had already been stripped. When Vinnie asked the youth about this, he said the maid service hadn’t been in the room yet. A further search located blankets and pillows in a wardrobe, but the sheets and pillow covers were missing.
As he waited for CSI, Vinnie grabbed a local evening paper from reception. The headline was about some poor milkman who’d been found dead on his round that morning. He didn’t realise doorstep deliveries still existed. He read on to discover that the unfortunate bloke had apparently had a suspected heart attack and had been found in the early hours by a passing police patrol that came across his idling but unoccupied milk float. A quote from his wife blamed the stress caused by the commercial pressures facing dairymen unable to compete with the big supermarket chains buying their milk direct from farmers at ridiculously low prices. Who’d have thought being a milkman could be stressful, but his wife made a valid point.
Thirty minutes later a CSI from Preston arrived, and as Vinnie suspected, the forensic search was a waste of time. According to the CSI – Derek, he said his name was - all the surfaces had been wiped down with what he assumed was bleach. Vinnie thanked him for his time and dropped the newspaper back at reception as they both left. He’d ring Harry before heading back to Manchester. He remembered he’d need to call in at his local Spar to pick up some fresh milk, and he felt a twinge of guilt remembering the poor milkman – Mark something-or-other – the article had named him as.
*
Christine had spent most of Monday going through some of her earlier narrative on her Northern Ireland piece. As with her last major work, which she’d done after Vinnie and she had caught up with the deranged killer Daniel Moxley – virtually all the scenes had to be shot as reconstructions.
She’d had a meeting with her editor and the programme’s producer to run Paul Bury’s request past them. She’d faced a mixed response. The editor was worried that Bury might be using them for his own political agenda. She knew and accepted this, but argued that as long as what he was bringing to them fit in with the programme’s objectives, and that they managed Bury with that in mind, it could be gold.
The producer – Sally Ainsworth, a veteran of making such programmes, was clearly up for it, but with concerns.
‘We have to be careful. Investigative reporting has ended up in the dock, literally in some cases, so we do need to tread carefully, but in principle it sounds good,’ Sally said, turning to face Christine’s Editor – June Jackson – who looked less than convinced.
‘We need to know who we’re dealing with first, Christine. Don’t forget it’s my job to rein you in when needed,’ June said.
Christine knew June was in a difficult position sometimes, but she was offended by her remark. ‘Hang on June, have I ever gone off on one and left you exposed? I’m not some over-excited intern fresh from Journalism school.’
‘I was talking generically,’ June said, with the same stormy countenance.
‘Well, that aside then, don’t forget we have total control on what we use. If in the end what Bury brings is too high risk, then we can still bin it,’ Christine said.
‘Not if we have already ambushed some public figure in front of the rest of the media on some politically driven crock of shit.’
‘Now hang on a min—’ Christine started, before Sally cut in.
‘Ladies, please. No decisions have yet been made, but let me remind you that the British media is not the envy of the civilised world because we aren’t prepared to grasp the odd nettle, even if it is dripping in piss.’
Christine couldn’t help but grin, and noticed that June’s expression had cracked as well.
‘Step at a time is all I’m saying,’ June said. ‘We are also envied for our fairness of reporting; remember our reputation opens doors for us where others are barred.’
‘Accepted,’ Sally said, adding, ‘and as you point out June, we need to find out whom first, and then take it from there.’
Christine and June both nodded before Sally bade them goodbye. After she had left the office, her editor spoke. ‘I’m on your side, Christine, just watching yours and the company’s backs, that’s all.’
Christine noticed a full smile now creeping across June’s face, and her own temper softened. ‘I know, June.’
‘Couldn’t you get your police friend Vinnie to check Bury out, discretely? Seeing as he’s now retired, Vinnie may be able to give us a steer on him without leaving any footprints?’
Christine was pleasantly surprised by June’s suggestion, and said she’d speak to him.
‘After all, they brought us into their trust on that Moxley thing, perhaps it’s time we did the same. Or I could speak to his boss, Harry whatever-his-name-is?’
‘Delany, but thanks, let me try Vinnie first.’
Back at her desk, Christine checked the wall clock. It was gone six, and she decided she’d give Vinnie a call before she headed off home. She dialled the number which rang out to voicemail. “Hi DI Vinnie Palmer here…” After the beep she said hi and told Vinnie about their chat and what she was doing. She asked if he could do some very sensitive digging at her editor’s request. ‘Wonders abound,’ she said, and added, ‘she must have got lucky last night.’ She then left Bury’s details and asked him to call her when he got chance.
Ninety minutes later, Christine was curled up on her leather two-seater, fed and with her first glass of wine in hand; she was preparing to catch up on the soaps. She had started to try and limit her wine intake of late, not that it was out of control or anything like that, but just a health kick. She needed to start jogging again now the days were getting longer, but she’d consider that more another day. For now, not having a glass of wine until after she’d eaten – at home anyway – would have to do.
Then her mobile rang; she hoped it was Vinnie, and sighed when it was not. It came up number withheld, and she could never resist those.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jason’s contact lived in Birmingham, so even though he’d just hired a new car, Quintel suggested they leave it parked up and grab the train to Birmingham New Street. Apart from being a lot quicker, it would also be much safer.
‘The last thing we want is to get stopped by the filth with a boot full of toys. I mean, when was the last time you ever heard of a random stop and search on a train?’
‘Not unless it was full of football supporters, Boss. Fair point.’
‘We could get a cab all the way back, taxis’ never get pulled either, but the train should be ok, and cheaper. How much will the toys cost?’
‘Two-fifty for each grenade, and the same for the extra ammo for our guns, though I’m hoping to swap the sawn-off for a second handgun.’
‘What, you’ve got it with you?’
‘Yeah, in the holdall with the clothes. I just thought…,’
‘Ok, just so I know to leg it if you do get a tug on the way down. But seriously, it makes sense to move it on anyway. And are you sure the grenades can’t be traced?’
‘Other than back to the British Army, yeah.’
Quintel and Jason both laughed in unison. ‘Fuck me, I thought they were supposed to be keeping us all safe,’ Quintel said, before laughing again. He knew Jason had served in the Signals which was where he’d learnt all his surveillance skills, but wasn’t too sure about all his other operational experience. ‘You sure you know how to lob those things?’
‘Trust me. And we’ll only need one; we can keep the second one for something else, if you want.’
‘Fine, so long as you get the bastard. I want to see his bollocks
flying through the air.’
The rest of the trip to Birmingham passed without a hitch. The supplier they met was a world away from the dickhead they’d bought their original guns from in Blackpool. He was clearly an ex-squaddie and Quintel kept quiet and left Jason to give it the ‘old veterans’ banter. He swapped the sawn-off no problems, and when he asked if it had been used, Jason told him it had. That didn’t seem to bother the supplier, who said he’d add a few striation marks to the barrel and firing pins so if it ever did fall into the wrong hands – as in the police – it wouldn’t match any recovered ammunition. Jason said he’d already disposed of the empty cartridges, but his mate said he’d do it nonetheless. He was clearly a professional.
Quintel’s interest kicked in when the supplier produced the ‘Frags’ as he called them from a box. He’d never seen grenades before and expected them to be segmented, like the ones you see on the telly in war films and suchlike, but these ones were round, smooth, and painted black with yellow writing on. They were also smaller than Quintel would have expected.
Jason called them an L.A. – something or other, and said they had a three to four second fuse delay. That would do nicely. Business over, and Jason put the new handgun, a further Glock, and the ammo and grenades into his holdall, and Quintel sat away from him on the return train journey. Once back in Manchester, they grabbed a KFC before picking up the motor and heading to their next destination - Blackley cemetery.
Quintel had taken a call whilst they ate, giving them details of the funeral, which according to the obituary notice would take place at Blackley cemetery the following day. Quintel had a network of people in most parts of the country which could really come in handy sometimes. He insisted each maintain a local post office box to where he could post the odd bung in the form of a retainer or wages. Jason researched the cemetery on his phone and said it was a large municipal multi-faith graveyard situated over rolling landscape in north Manchester. The timing was perfect; they could sort this part of the plan out before moving on to the rest of the business. He’d briefed the client earlier on what he had planned, and he said that he was happy about the diversion. If it went to plan, it would be a shortcut.
They arrived at the cemetery just after seven. Quintel was surprised by the size of the place, which was apparently split into several different burial grounds. The perimeter road seemed to go on for ever, encircling what had once been a golf course, and judging by its size and the established woodland around it, he could easily imagine this. He’d always thought that golf was a game for people dead in spirit, he reminded himself with a grin. Jason said they could risk one drive into the carparks, as it would only be on subsequent occasions that anyone might take any notice. But in any event the place was due to close at dusk, and as it would be dark in less than an hour, they’d only be able to visit it once before the close of play. One visit should be all they’d need. As it was, the place was quiet and even though he thought Jason was being over-cautious, there would be no need to argue.
They parked up and set off on foot to find the Jewish sector of the cemetery. Quintel was carrying a bunch of petrol station-bought flowers that they’d picked up en route. It didn’t take long before they found what they were looking for. Jason paid particular attention to a line of established trees in the foreground, and as they wandered back along one of the many paths, Quintel threw the flowers at one of the graves. ‘What about pinch points?’
‘I’ve spotted a couple, not least on the entrance to the site,’ Jason answered, adding, ‘but I wouldn’t mind a look at those trees from behind. I’ll drive out and park up on the perimeter and have a quick look.’
‘I’ll wait in the motor then,’ Quintel said.
They returned to the car and Jason drove out of the carparks and stopped on the perimeter road, close to where an elevated ridge supported a group of mature trees. Quintel put the car radio on and waited.
Thirty minutes later, Jason returned to the vehicle. ‘Any good?’ he asked as Jason closed the driver’s door.
‘Perfect. We get a great elevated view, and it’s relatively close to the road, so all good news.’
‘So we can leave the car here, get the view we need, and be off in ragtime?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Brilliant, let’s go and find a local hotel for the night.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Christine checked the time on the dashboard clock as she pulled up outside the same pub. It had just gone eight and dusk was turning into nightfall. She glanced through the bay window into the pub’s front snug, half expecting to see Bury sat in there waiting for her, but the room looked empty. Then she heard the passenger door being opened. ‘Bloody hell,’ she exclaimed before she realised that it was Bury.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said as he closed the car door.
‘Where did you come from?’
‘Been stood in the shadows, until I saw you pull up.’
‘Well, give me a bit of warning next time; you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry, again.’
‘Ok, Paul, what’s so urgent you need to separate a girl from her Prosecco?’
‘The main man, the one I told you about. He’s meeting some local Republican cronies in an Irish bar in the northern quarter of the city.’
‘You’ve got good intel.’
‘We never ask about such matters but, yes, he’ll be there for a couple of hours.’
‘So do I finally get to find out who your nemesis is?’
‘You do.’
‘That’ll please my editor.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘I hope you aren’t expecting me to ambush him tonight?
‘No, I need more proof yet, but if I’m right, the bastard is playing both ways.’
Christine asked Paul what he meant, and he told her that the guy was Catholic, and in a senior position in Northern Ireland; on the face of it he was all for the new power sharing assembly helping to unite both Unionists and Republicans in a common goal. There was even talk of him being nominated for an award. But if Paul was correct, he was at the heart of all that was corrupt inside NIUCS – Northern Irish United Crime Squad. According to Paul he was due to meet local Irish Republicans for a social gathering in an Irish boozer called The Blarney Stone. She knew the place. A typical commercial Irish pub full of TV screens with every possible sport being shown at the same time.
‘As I recall, it’s a bit of a man’s pub - won’t I look out of place in there?’
‘I just thought you’d like a look at the man close up, and witness who he’s meeting.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He knows me, so I can’t get too close, it’ll spook him, but the guys he’s meeting are all from over here, so they won’t know me, but trust me, they will be bad boys. Surely it would help your story to put him together with undesirables?’
‘It might if I knew who we were talking about?’
She watched Paul take a deep breath before he said, ‘Mathew McConachy.’
‘As in the First Minister in charge of the Northern Irish Assembly?’
‘Aye, that’s him.’
That would be a scoop, Christine thought - the effective leader of the regional government in the Province who was currently the darling of Westminster. She understood why Paul seemed so jumpy. He showed her a photo of McConachy on his smart phone, and she instantly recognised him, but it didn’t do any harm to refresh her memory. Then she asked Paul exactly what he had in mind.
He suggested that she simply locate where McConachy was in the pub, note who he was with, and try to get a photo if possible, perhaps by taking a selfie or something, then he would be able to ID who McConachy had met. If she got in close enough she might be able to hear some of their conversations. He’d stay outside in the car and try to clock them as well; as they came and went.
It was all starting to sound a bit like a surveillance operation to Christine, and she wished Vinnie
was with her. She suggested bringing Vinnie into it so he could go in the pub with her, make it all easier.
‘No offence, but I don’t want to trust anyone else just yet, these men have contacts all over the place.’
She tried to argue Vinnie’s position but Paul was having none of it. She asked him if he had any idea who McConachy was meeting, but Paul said he didn’t.
‘Look, just give it twenty minutes, like you’ve been stood up, enough at least to put McConachy together with men he would no doubt not want to be publically seen with. He’s not really known this side of the water, he’ll feel safe.’
Truth was she’d been in as soon as she realised who was involved. She drove the short distance to The Blarney Stone and parked up on the road outside, opposite the main door. The time now was 8.45 pm and according to Paul, the meeting was due from 9 pm. She took a deep breath and left Paul in the car as she walked confidently to the main entrance to the pub. It was a large two-storey building with its front aspect painted white, with large brass lamps sticking out over bay windows.
The main room had a long bar at one side facing a brick wall with several flat screen TVs on. Off to the right under the two ground floor bay windows were alcoves with table and chairs. The place was quiet, as after all it was a Monday evening and as far as she was aware, there were no major sporting events on that night. Indeed, the TV screens seemed to be playing replays from the weekend’s football action, and all had the volume turned down low. Two guys who were sat at the bar on stools glanced up momentarily as her stilettoes clicked against the hardwood floor.
The Badge & the Pen Thrillers Page 37
