by Nick Oldham
But Henry had been disturbed – inside. He had seen Ingram’s eyes glued with sick intensity to the pictures on the huge TV screen, almost drooling over the action, whilst Henry, who’d had a little preview of the discs, tried to hide his disgust and discomfort, appalled by the horrendous, graphic content.
Those thoughts made him even more determined to stay with the case. As difficult as it was proving at the moment, he knew if he held his nerve and rode through Ingram’s suspicions, he could get under the man’s skin and get him to lead him to, or reveal, his grim secrets.
A car drew in behind him.
Henry’s eyes rose to the rear-view mirror.
Ingram had arrived – alone.
Henry twisted out of the Nissan, stood to greet him. There was nothing in the man’s demeanour that gave Henry cause to be concerned, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding something. He was a con-artist, amongst his many attributes, and disguising his body language would be something he did well. Henry readied himself for this interaction to go either way.
‘Who did you kill, then?’ Ingram asked before Henry could say anything.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Cops were crawling all around the hotel when I got there. Apparently some guy got whacked in one of the rooms last night.’
‘Really?’ Henry said with disbelief.
‘Chambermaid only just found the body. Been knifed a dozen times.’
‘Jesus, never heard a thing.’
‘Didn’t get chance to check on you.’ Ingram fished the receipt out of his pocket and gave it back to Henry. ‘But I will be doing.’
Henry shrugged. Inside, he was relieved.
‘You won’t be wanting to go to the cops, then?’
‘For what?’
‘Because you were at the hotel last night. They’ll be wanting to speak to everyone … possible witnesses.’
‘I’ll give it a miss. They’ll have to come and find me.’
‘Not very public spirited.’
‘Let ’em whistle.’
‘What’s the plan for today, then?’
‘I’m trying to offload some stolen beer. I’m going to see a guy who’s interested.’
‘Lead on.’ Ingram walked to the passenger side of the Nissan and got in, obviously having got over his fear of being driven by a disqualified driver.
Henry took a breath, relieved that some poor soul had been murdered and saved his hide for the time being.
‘It’s basically what I do,’ Henry, alias Frank, was saying to Ingram as he drove up the steep hill known as Ha’penny Brew, which rose from the M6 towards Preston. ‘Usually beer or fags, fence that sort of stuff … couldn’t resist the porn, though, but it went tits up, as it were. What about you?’ he asked conversationally.
Henry braked gently as the hill levelled out and he passed through the 30 signs. There was no response from Ingram, who continued to stare dead ahead as though he hadn’t heard Henry’s question. Henry did not push it. Ingram inhaled a deep breath and sat upright.
‘I’m a businessman who gets pleasure from what he does.’
‘I take it you’re a bit of a porn king? I mean, if you think you can sell on the stuff I’ve got, you must have some contacts.’
‘Some, yeah. I’m very hands-on, too.’ He looked into Henry’s eyes, his own sparkling with double meaning which churned Henry’s stomach.
Henry gave a laugh. ‘I like a man who enjoys his work.’
Ingram fell silent again.
They reached a roundabout. Henry drove straight on towards Preston down New Hall Lane. It was a very unprepossessing route into England’s newest city, travelling down a long stretch of road with terraced housing either side and a variety of grotty shops, mainly run by members of the Asian community. On the left, behind all this, was Preston’s notorious Callum Estate, a hive of fear and violence. Behind the houses on the right was a tight network of terraced streets, populated mainly by ethnic minorities. New Hall Lane ran through the centre of this like the Maginot Line, but Henry knew that whilst racial problems existed, the city generally worked well on that front. It was general lawlessness and youth offenders that caused most of the problems, regardless of ethnic origin.
Henry slowed, turned into a side street that was a dead end. He manoeuvred the Nissan into a tiny parking space.
‘Place we’re going to is just on the front. You coming?’
Ingram nodded.
Together they walked out of the side street and ambled down the main road, passing a furniture shop, another selling ethnic foods and a boarded-up pub before reaching the front door of a double-fronted second-hand shop called ‘Jamil’s’, which had a pavement display of battered furniture and old bikes for kids. Henry pushed through the door and an old-fashioned bell announced their arrival. The inner display of goods pretty much matched the outer, although it was augmented with an array of electrical goods, boxes of CDs and DVDs. They threaded their way through these wares and arrived at the sales counter behind which sat a young Asian man, mid-twenties, leaning back in an office chair, reading a copy of the Asian Times.
He lowered the newspaper and eyed his customers, apparently not recognizing Frank Jagger at first, or so it seemed, but then his slight scowl turned into grin. He folded his newspaper untidily and rocked forwards up on to his feet, extending his hand. ‘Hey, pal,’ he said, and shook Henry’s hand.
Henry felt even more queasy inside, but he gripped the young man’s hand and returned the shake.
‘Jamil, how you doing?’
‘I’m good, Frank, how the shit are you?’ He spoke with a broad Preston accent.
‘Good, good.’ Their hands parted. Henry thumbed at Ingram. ‘This is Ryan.’
‘Hi, man,’ Jamil nodded. He did not shake hands, but gave Henry a suspicious looks which queried Ingram’s presence.
‘It’s OK,’ Henry reassured him. ‘We’re in business.’
Jamil shrugged.
Henry turned to Ingram. ‘Let me introduce Jamil Ahmed. This is his business and he’s as honest as the day is short.’
‘What do you want to sell?’ Jamil asked, pleasantries over.
‘Back room?’ Henry suggested.
Jamil raised the flap on the counter and the three of them retreated to a tiny, cluttered office where the Asian guy dropped into a chair behind a paper-stacked desk and the other two cleared two plastic chairs of rubbish before sitting and facing him.
‘How long have you guys known each other?’ Ingram asked.
Henry thought, Small talk, big implications.
The two eyed each other uncertainly. Jamil blew out his cheeks as he worked out the answer. ‘Four years, give or take.’
Ingram nodded.
Jamil turned his attention to Henry. ‘What’ve you got for me, Frank, mate?’
‘Well,’ Henry drawled, ‘I’m in the process of clearing the decks, so I’ve got a bit of a sale on …’
‘Frank, I’m a busy man, as you can see. Just get to the detail, will you? I’m not interested in your financial probs.’
Henry looked at the ceiling with a squint, then back at Jamil. ‘I have in my possession twenty thousand half-litre cans of Stella, which I need to offload PDQ.’
‘A cash-flow crisis,’ Jamil said with insight, sniggering.
‘Not remotely,’ Henry said firmly. ‘Just offering an old friend a bargain.’
‘How much?’
‘They cost a quid a tin in the shops.’
‘I can get lager for twenty-two pence in ASDA.’
‘But this is quality,’ Henry said. ‘Stella Artois.’
‘How much?’
‘I need to cover my costs and make some profit.’
‘How much, Frank?’ Jamil asked irritably.
‘Make an offer.’
Jamil emitted an exasperated breath. ‘Twenty thousand tins?’ His brown nostrils flared.
‘You have to collect,’ Henry said.
Jamil’s head tilted sideways as
he considered. ‘Five pence a tin.’
Henry almost leapt out of his chair. ‘That’s just a grand!’
Jamil shrugged. ‘Take it, leave it.’
‘You robbin’, Muslim bastard!’
‘Robbing, maybe; Muslim, no way. I’m an atheist, just like you.’
‘Robbin’ atheist bastard, then,’ Henry snarled. He sat back down. ‘Ten pence a tin.’
Jamil shook his head. ‘Seven pence, final offer.’
Henry worked it out. ‘Fourteen hundred quid,’ he said despondently. ‘Make it a round fifteen and it’s a deal.’
‘Fifteen hundred it is.’ Jamil extended his hand.
‘What’s the profit margin in that?’ Ingram asked.
‘Narrow,’ Henry said bitterly. ‘Very fucking narrow. Pile ’em high, sell ’em cheap.’ He shook his head in disbelief as they headed back out of Preston towards the motorway. ‘Maybe three-fifty after costs … doesn’t even pay my bloody fine, let alone my creditor.’ His voice was purposely hopeless and so immersed was he in his thoughts, he failed to spot the speed camera until it flashed brightly behind him. ‘Hell, that’s all I need,’ he bleated.
‘Not as though you’re likely to pay it, are you?’
‘No. The car’s registered to an Asian guy in Rusholme, I think.’ Henry put his foot down and sped to the motorway junction, cutting south on to the M6, then east on to the M61 and back to the car park at Botany Bay, parking behind Ingram’s car.
Henry waited for him to get out, but the man sat there staring, deep in contemplation for a few tedious moments. He then said, turning to look Henry in the eye, ‘So far, so good.’
‘Glad you think so.’
‘Now I need to speak to your creditor.’
‘And why would that be? If you’re gonna bail me out, just go ahead and do it. Give me the money I owe, I’ll pay him off, then you shift the DVDs. Give me five per cent of that and I’ll be happy.’
‘I’ll bet you will. How do I know this whole thing still isn’t a con, just to get me to pay you, then you disappear?’
Henry sighed.
‘You are, after all, a bit of a con merchant, aren’t you?’
‘I’m a businessman. On the wrong side of the tracks, maybe, but still a businessman. I’m trustworthy and that’s why I’m so uptight about my creditor – as well as the fact he’ll cut my balls off if I don’t pay up. I don’t welch on deals,’ he said forcefully.
‘This’ll be the last thing, then. Let me meet him, let me talk to him, and then you and me can be partners. How does that sound?’
The London apartments were always in high demand. Donaldson, therefore, was lucky to get one. It was one of six in a converted house in Holland Park, all owned by the American Embassy. Individually they were valued at around the three-quarters of a million pound mark, but Donaldson observed that even for that price, there wasn’t enough room to swing a raccoon in it. He felt that he had to squeeze in through the door, down a narrow hallway and into the living room-cum-kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom were off to one side. It was all laminate floors and modern, square furniture. His eyes took in the tiny living space, recently used by an FBI agent on a three-month secondment from LA.
‘Is it to your liking?’
Behind him was the young lady from ‘Facilities’ at the embassy. She had been more than eager to help Donaldson find a pad, especially when he regaled her with his tale of woe. He had bumped into the lady more than once in the corridors and had been aware of her lustful gazes. She wiggled the door keys between her fingers.
‘It’s good, thanks, Alex,’ he said gratefully, dropping his two hefty holdalls on the floor. He took the keys and she ran her forefinger across his palm in a suggestive way. Her eyes shone.
‘I know you’re going through some really bad shit,’ she said, ‘but if you need a shoulder or something, you’ve got my mobile number.’
Donaldson nodded dumbly. ‘I have, yeah, that’d be good.’ He did not look her in the face.
When she left he sat on the two-seater sofa and began to cry.
‘It’s very dangerous.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Henry inserted a piece of fried chorizo into his mouth and looked around the restaurant, checking if he’d been followed. His senses were on high alert and his radar tuned in, and he thought he had managed to get into Manchester city centre without a tail, but he could never be one hundred per cent sure. Ingram was very edgy about him still, and Henry was sure the man would not be feeling completely safe until he had chased up every avenue with Frank Jagger. Henry emitted a small groan of pleasure as his bit into the Spanish sausage, his eyes rolling heavenwards.
‘Nice,’ he said to his dining companion in the tapas bar.
Andrea Makin smiled wickedly. ‘I could make you do that.’
Henry started to chew quickly, dropped his eyes and jabbed his fork into a bowl of mixed olives.
‘Sorry, changed the subject there,’ she apologized insincerely. ‘What you are planning is very dangerous and could blow the whole thing to bits. You’ve come a long way in a short space of time … it would be a shame to spoil it.’
‘I think it’s the best way.’
Andrea sat back. She wiped her lips before taking a sip of her Rioja. ‘Convince me.’
‘I’ve had this guy on a rope for over ten years. He owes me a lot and he knows it, even if we have had our run-ins in the past,’ he said wistfully. ‘He knows what side his bread is buttered on, and at the end of the day, it’s a pretty simple ask. All he has to do is remember my name and say he lent me some money that he wants back.’
‘Why not use another undercover cop?’
Henry rotated his jaw. ‘Because’ – he stabbed another chunk of chorizo – ‘this guy already has the background, a real background that will withstand any degree of scrutiny, because it is real. He’s a crim, a known dealer, belongs to a criminal family and is therefore watertight if Ingram goes nosing. We don’t have to make anything up, because it’s all there. If he gets followed home, it’s fine. If he gets followed around, fine. The guy’s a lowlife – plus he’s been my snout for ever.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Can’t tell you that, can I?’
‘You have to.’
‘Only if he agrees … if he doesn’t, we’ll rethink.’ Henry spooned some paella on to his plate. ‘It’ll work,’ he said confidently.
‘Your last idea did, I suppose.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘But what if Ingram goes nosing into that?’
‘Jamil’s place? No probs. It’s been trading for two and a half years now and Jamil is so deep undercover I’m surprised he even remembers he’s a cop. That little shop has produced a lot of superb intel for us, and no one knows it’s run by the police. It’s a dream.’
Henry’s personal phone rang. Kate calling.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ He glanced across at Andrea, who winced and pulled a face. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m really sorry but I can’t come home tonight … I’ve arranged for the local cops to keep an eye on the house … don’t worry … and your mum’s there for the night, isn’t she? She’d scare the crap out of any prowler … I wish I could, but … I know you know … night. Love you.’ He ended the call.
Andrea regarded him, puzzled. ‘Something going on?’ She nodded to indicate the phone.
‘Had a few problems with a prowler.’
‘Serious?’
‘Who knows?’
There was a beat of silence, then Andrea said, ‘So you’re in town for another night?’
‘I thought it prudent – just in case Mitch checks on me again.’
Andrea pursed her lips. ‘Of course, if we get seen together now it’s legit, isn’t it? Ingram’s seen us as a couple.’
Henry shook his head. ‘We managed to scam that once and we’re lucky he didn’t recognize you. If he starts to follow you up, you’ve no cover to crawl under and then the job would be screwed.’
She pushed
herself away from the table. ‘I could do wonders for those erection problems of yours.’
Henry blanched and the tortilla in his mouth lost its taste.
‘Anyway, room twenty-six, that’s on the second floor of the Premier Inn, about two hundred yards down the road, which is where I’m staying now. I’ll sneak off.’ She stood up slowly. ‘If you’re not there in half an hour, we’ll forget it. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ Henry murmured.
Ten
With a terrible churning in his guts, telling him this was a huge mistake, Henry Christie made the introductions and prayed that the next phase of the ‘mating-up’ with Ryan Ingram did not hit the fan and cover him with shit.
In the past Henry had been accused of a lack of judgement and that morning he wondered if the allegations had been correct. I mean, he thought, introducing this idiot to Ingram! What the hell am I thinking? This can only go one way – down the U bend and out to the sewage treatment works.
But it was too late now.
Henry had laid the ground and the only possible way of pulling out now was to declare he was a cop.
And, to add extra spice to the situation, Henry was again operating on home turf and dangerously near to his home patch of Blackpool, laughing in the face of the accepted practice that undercover cops should not work within sixty miles of their homes.
At least he had arranged the meeting between Ingram and his creditor in the café of a large garden centre about halfway between the resort and Preston, not somewhere Henry would usually be found.
It was Wednesday morning. Henry had picked up Ryan in Manchester, beaten the traffic and arrived at the garden centre at nine thirty.
The man to whom Frank Jagger allegedly owed a hefty wodge of cash was sitting in a window seat in the downstairs café, sipping black coffee and looking uncomfortably out of place.
‘Troy, uh, Mr Costain,’ Henry said respectfully, ‘can I introduce you to Ryan Ingram? Ryan – Troy Costain.’
Costain gave a little sneer, eyeing Henry as if he were a slug, and nodded at Ingram.
‘Coffee for me,’ Ingram said to Henry. ‘You need another?’ he asked Costain.
