The client then went on to explain to Quintel how he had already identified two public phone boxes, which he referred to as A and B. He’d text the numbers in four texts. The first and third text would be the entire number for A, and the second and fourth put together would make up B. He wanted Quintel to do the same, but was conscious that as they would be on the move, they would need to add more numbers as they went along, but as soon as they had their A and B identified, they were to send the four texts with a five minute delay between each. Then they could speak properly, and Quintel could update him.
Quintel sighed as he ended the call. Although he appreciated the client’s professionalism when it came to security, it all seemed like a lot of hard work for nothing. If only he’d have let him explain the draft folder lark again, it would have been a lot easier. But he was the paying client.
‘Jason, hurry up in there,’ Quintel shouted at the bathroom door, ‘I’ve got a little task for you.’
*
Vinnie had spent the rest of the afternoon sorting the incident room out with Harry, who after a canteen tea had said they both should get an early night and start again on Saturday afresh. They were going to have to work all weekend as it was, so should take advantage where they could. Harry was hoping that the Lancs chief, CC Darlington, would have some feedback for them before the weekend was through.
It had just gone dark when Vinnie arrived back at his house in Manchester, and he’d just let himself in when his mobile rang. It was Harry. He wondered if the chief had rung Reedly rather than wait to see him face to face. ‘Yes, Harry,’ he started.
‘Where are you?’
‘Just arrived home, why?’
‘I need you back here, ASAP.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Do you remember a previous home secretary called Reggie Carstair?’
‘Yeah, retired from politics altogether now, hasn’t he?’
‘That’s him. Well, he’s just retired from life now as well. Or should I say, someone has retired him.’
‘Sorry?’ Vinnie said, before Harry went on to explain. He’d only had a sketchy brief himself as it had only happened within the last thirty minutes or so, and spookily not far from where they had been earlier today when they’d been to see the Lancs chief. It had happened on a bypass a mile or so further on from the police headquarters. Vinnie quickly asked what it had to do with them. Surely another syndicate from the Regional Homicide Unit would be given this job?
‘That’s what I would have thought. But the instructions came from GMP’s force control room. Initially, I thought that because we had just set up our own incident room for the murder of Charlie and the conspiracy to murder Reedly, they’d want us to babysit the start until a second team set up.’
Vinnie said the ‘But?’ that he could feel coming.
‘But, I’ve been instructed to SIO both jobs – crazy – and when I questioned it, guess what I was told?’
‘What?’
‘The CC of Lancs, Brian Darlington, who is hot-tailing it back from London as we speak, had ordered I be given the job.’
‘Surely you can refuse, I mean not only should a separate team catch this, it’s going to be massive from a profile point of view, especially when the press get hold of it.’
‘I was left in no doubt. Meet me at the scene, we can talk there,’ Harry said, before giving Vinnie the exact location of the murder.
Chapter Seventeen
Quintel sent the texts, the third of which was the actual number for A. The first had been the STD code prefixed simply by “A is”. He’d already received notice that the client was at his A, so he gave it a minute and rang the number. He listened to the elongated dial tone which surprised him. He hadn’t noticed it wasn’t a UK number; fortunately, he had plenty of one-pound coins with him. After two rings the call was answered.
‘Right we are, we can fecking talk now without worrying about any nosy bastards listening in,’ the client said.
Quintel felt a tinge of worry on hearing the words. He was all for security, and he knew that most serious villains always took care what they said on an open telephone line, or more importantly, on one which could be linked to them. But he also knew it was done out of a sort of cultural habit, rather than any real expectation that someone was actually listening in. There was a tension in the client’s voice that suggested a little more than custom and good operational security. It made him wonder if the client had any grounds to suspect he was being targeted by the filth. ‘Just so you know, I’m one hundred percent happy that the filth here are pissing blind. I take it you’ve no problems where you are?’ he asked, not sure what reaction he would get.
‘If I wasn’t a hundred percent, I wouldn’t be wasting money on you Quintel, so rest assured. And whatever filth knew me was a long time ago,’ the client said.
‘The fact that the client had used Quintel’s name wasn’t good tradecraft, but he guessed it was the client’s way of saying that all was sweet. He briefly considered replying in kind, but didn’t want to antagonise the man further than he needed. ‘Ok, just checking, we’ve both got a lot to lose.’
‘Not as much fecking time as I’ve already lost thanks to those Brit bastards, you should remember that?’
‘Ok, ok, look, I’ve only got a few quid so I’ll be quick. Number two is dead,’ said Quintel, avoiding using Carstair’s name. Now that the shit would be hitting the fan proper he would have to avoid using his name, even if he and the client had been face to face. The client seemed to take the hint as he replied.
‘Aye, number two is a good name for the little shit. Any problems?’
‘None, I should have used my man from the start. Clean as you like, apart from the claret everywhere, of course.’
‘Not too clean, I hope I’d like to imagine the man suffering.’
‘No opportunity with a drive-past. But my man said he saw him look at him a moment before he lost his head.’
‘That’ll have to do, but at least it’s done. Though I’d love to be with you for the next phase – number three. Torture the shite a bit first. Let him know about all the years I’ve had to endure because of him and his kind.’
Quintel wasn’t totally surprised by this, but knew the client knew better. He reminded him for the need to keep well out of it, and by the sound of the dialling tone, he’d already taken care of this. He was itching to ask him where he was, but didn’t.
‘Aye, aye, I know you’re right, just thinking out loud. Not something I’ve been able to do much of over the years because of those bastards.’
He was off on another rant, time to go. ‘Sorry, I’ve run out of credit, have to go, I’ll update you when I have more,’ Quintel said, realising that by the time he’d finished his sentence, the client had gone. ‘And goodbye to you too, you ill-mannered bog-trotter,’ he said as he replaced the phone in its cradle. Time to eat and down a few beers.
*
Vinnie thought he’d seen most things in the fifteen years he been in the police, but professional assassinations were thankfully quite rare. Yes, he’d seen killings carried out for wages, be it by gun or knife, but nothing quite as shocking as this. The bypass where it had occurred was about seven miles outside Preston on a rural stretch about a mile past Lancashire Constabulary headquarters. It was on a section of dual-carriageway between two roundabouts; one at the village of Walmer Bridge and the second at the village of Much Hoole. Both places having delightful old-English names conjuring up leafy images of yesteryear. Both names would not look out of place on a map of the Cotswolds. But here he was seven miles from a modern northern city which still displayed its industrial heritage, between two rural spots that would be forever tarnished.
The whole stretch between the roundabouts, of about a mile, had been closed off. Heavy duty lighting was in place where the crashed 4x4 lay on its side by the road’s verge which was raised. CSIs were here in abundance, several of whom were busy erecting a sort of white canvas patio-style gaz
eebo over it. He pulled his Volvo over onto the opposite carriageway where all the emergency vehicles were parked to preserve the actual route used by the killers. He’d just finished putting his own white suit and over-shoes on when Harry approached.
‘It’s a mess. Body’s still in situ. They had to fax his fingerprints to the Home Office to confirm it was Carstair.’
Vinnie just nodded as he followed Harry to the crashed car. He could only see the underside of the vehicle and had to use a pair of step ladders to get enough elevation to look inside.
The driver’s window was gone and the body was still suspended in the driver’s seat by the seat belt. It was leaning with gravity over towards the passenger side, but Vinnie could see by the blood splattering that Carstair had clearly been shot from his driver’s side by a passing vehicle. But the head was gone, clean off at the shoulders save for a couple of inches of spine that stuck up above the collar line, giving the cadaver a sort of headless mannequin appearance. Without the head it just didn’t look human. Though Vinnie had conditioned himself many years ago to always strive to not see humanity in dead bodies. To try and view them as carcasses as it made them easier to deal with, but on this occasion it was different. As surreal as the corpse appeared, the spine seemed to accentuate the horror that this had indeed been a person not too long ago. He could see grey matter mixed with blood the consistency of jam porridge splattered everywhere to the body’s left, further confirming his initial thoughts. He climbed back down the ladder to face Harry. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘He’d have felt no pain, at least,’ Harry said.
‘True,’ Vinnie said as he composed himself. He was sure that he’d see that visage again when he didn’t want to. ‘Drive-by shooting, probably a shotgun looking at the spread of tissue. Point blank effectively.’
‘Agreed. I’ve already ordered a checkpoint here as soon as the scene is re-opened, and a press release for commuters to come forward. Someone must have seen which vehicle the murderers’ used, even if they don’t know it.’
Vinnie nodded, noting Harry’s use of the plural. There had to have been at least two involved. ‘What now?’ he asked, as he headed back to his motor to change his white suit. Having been so close to the body, he didn’t want to risk cross-contamination with anything he might stumble across which could turn out to be offender-related.
‘Just bag and seal that,’ Harry said, as he started to change at the back of his vehicle from the sanctuary of the opposite carriageway.
‘I know that, Harry.’
‘No, I mean don’t bother with a fresh suit. Darlington has arrived back from London, and is in his office waiting for us.’
Chapter Eighteen
Fifteen minutes later Harry and Vinnie were sat back on the Lancs chief’s easy chairs. His staff officer, whose name Vinnie remembered was Russell Sharpe, had been sent home, albeit unwillingly.
‘He’s usually pulling at the leash to get off, obviously today’s events are a bit more salacious,’ were Darlington’s opening comments.
Neither Vinnie nor Harry said anything.
Darlington joined them at the easy chairs as all three sat at right angles to the other. ‘Initial thoughts?’ he asked.
Harry filled him in, and Darlington nodded, before carrying on.
‘I want you to oversee this Harry, and before you say anything, hear me out.’
Vinnie could see Harry’s mouth open and then close more slowly, as Darlington continued.
‘I’m going to appoint a Lancashire detective superintendent to run the investigation into Carstair’s murder, but I want you, Harry, to take a strategic overview, even though you are the same rank, the Lancs super will report to you, and he’ll be told why on a “need-to-know contract” with threat of castration. You’ll allow him to run it as he would otherwise, as God knows he’ll be under enough scrutiny, especially by the press, but you’ll need to have a daily handle on how the investigation is progressing.’
‘I’m guessing there is an operational reason, sir?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, I’ve had two little chats with DCC Jim Reedly on the phone today.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Same treatment you received. He tried to mushroom me. I had to remind him that he is only a deputy chief constable, even if he is pissing in a bigger pond than me.’
Vinnie enjoyed listening to Darlington swear. Very rare to hear a chief speak like this, well for an inspector anyway, he felt like he was peering through a very private window which would be normally shuttered to the likes of him.
‘Did he open up?’ Harry asked.
‘No, he didn’t. But he forgets I’ve known him over a number of years. We did our Senior Command Course together when we were both superintendents. I remember getting pissed with him one evening when he was bragging about some secret work he’d done for the home secretary’s office some years earlier.’
‘I’m guessing that was for Carstair,’ Vinnie said, speaking for the first time.
‘Indeed, though he never elucidated as to exactly what. I got the impression he was trying to say that he’s done several different types of things on and off over the years. I took no notice at the time, as it wasn’t unusual for senior officers to do various reports on things for the home sec from a strategic point of view, I just wrote it off as a braggart trying to make more of it at the time.’
‘Bigging himself up?’ Harry asked.
‘It happens at all ranks, as you two no doubt know. Just because a bull-shitter reaches the chief level ranks doesn’t mean they stop being a bull-shitter. But when Carstair was killed, I thought it too much of a coincidence.’
‘A man after my own heart, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so?’ Vinnie said, continuing, ‘I don’t believe in fairies or coincidences.’
Vinnie wasn’t sure whether his remark would be deemed as levity but he need not have worried, as Darlington laughed out loud.
‘Exactly,’ he said, adding, ‘you’ve got a good deputy here, Harry.’
‘I hope so,’ Harry said, and all three grinned.
Darlington then swore them all to secrecy before he continued; Vinnie could tell that as open as he was being with them, it still didn’t come easy talking negatively about a fellow senior officer, albeit from a different force.
‘My first chat with Reedly was on my way to London, and I’d decided to have a face to face with him on my return. That was before poor Mr Carstair was killed. My second chat was about an hour ago, he’d seen something on regional TV in Manchester, God knows how they picked it up so quickly. It was Christine Jones who reported it – should have been a cop, that one. Do you know her?’
Vinnie and Harry both nodded, expressionless.
‘Anyway, let me tell you, Reedly sounds a worried man. Say’s he might have one or two pointers to help us, jobs he’s worked on in the past. He made no connection to Carstair other than to say he’d seen the news and to ask what had happened. It was my turn to stonewall him. I’m going to keep some space from Reedly now, and I have already recorded all my dealings with him. I intend to keep a dignified distance, just in case you turn anything up on him that’s dirty, Vinnie,’ Darlington said, looking at Vinnie and using his first name for the first time.
‘Me, sir?
‘Yes, Harry’s told me he’s had you under the radar so to speak, and I want you to carry on that way. You will report to Harry, who apart from having the investigation of Charlie’s murder and the conspiracy to murder Reedly to SIO, will also have the overview role into the investigation of Carstair’s killing as I’ve said, just in case they are, as we suspect, linked.’
‘No problem sir, but what about resources?’
‘None official, Vinnie, but use whatever you and Harry agree on. But your first task is tomorrow. I want you to drop in unannounced on Reedly, who is currently on gardening leave at an address in Manchester. So if that’s all for now?’
Vinnie and Harry both nodded and all three stood up in uniso
n.
Ten minutes later Vinnie pulled his Volvo over to drop Harry back at his motor, and turned to face him before he got out. ‘What do you reckon to all that?’
‘I think he suspects Reedly of something, so he’s playing it safe, but I think we can trust Darlington.’
‘Agreed.’
Vinnie bade Harry goodnight and said he’d make contact with him tomorrow, and Harry left. Vinnie was just about to drive off when he remembered he still had his phone set to silent-running from the meeting with Darlington. As he turned the ringer back on it immediately rang, and the screen said, “Christine Calling”. He took the call.
‘Vinnie, you’re harder to track down than my cameraman.’
He apologised and explained before she went on to mention the killing of Carstair.
‘You’re not involved in the investigation of that as well, are you?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Yeah, look, I might need your help again. I’ll be back in Manchester tomorrow, can I give you a bell to meet up, after I’ve seen someone?’
‘Sure, how could I refuse?’
Vinnie smiled as he finished the call, and set off for home.
Chapter Nineteen
As it was Sunday, Christine allowed herself a later start and didn’t arrive at Salford Quays until gone ten. The media city that existed there now was second to none. A huge modern expanse of various film and TV offices and studios, which had helped see in a rise in northern generated material. In TV drama alone there was emerging what was being called “Northern Noir” and many authors were writing thrillers to feed this growing market. TV documentaries were generally more cosmopolitan but her current exposé had elements of both. Life in Northern Ireland post the peace agreement and the official ending of the armed struggle would have both national, regional, and hopefully international interest, or so her producers hoped.
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