Vengeance
Page 11
‘I understand,’ Vinnie said, and he did. He went on to reassure Dempster that if they found the correct hotel and he appeared on any CCTV footage paying their bill, that the CCTV and information would be kept out of the evidence chain.
‘What, you mean you’ll bin it?’
‘No, I’m not bent, we’ll just show it to the trial judge in private and he’ll order it be kept secret to protect you, trust me this is not bullshit.’
‘I do, but you’ll have to find the hotel the hard way, now if we’re done here, do me a favour and leave via the back alley.’
Vinnie agreed and told Dempster to get his ear looked at before it became infected. As soon as he was back in his motor he gave Harry a bell with the update. Harry said he’d get the house-to-house team’s DS on it straight away. They could narrow it down on the phone first and only visit those premises that had had two males checking out earlier today, there shouldn’t be too many to then follow up with a visit. Vinnie agreed but asked Harry to pass any possible results to him, that way he could ensure Dempster was kept out of it and therefore safe.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Quintel was pleased the unexpected opportunity had presented itself. After they were done, they drove straight to Manchester before the morning traffic arrived, and dumped their motor at a city centre drop-off park for the vehicle’s hire company. They then strolled onto the concourse of Piccadilly railway station and had an early breakfast at one of the many twenty-four hour food outlets. It was 5.30 am by the time they sat down to eat, and the vast concourse was already starting to get busy.
He hadn’t told Jason the significance of Milky, just that it was necessary to further their aims. And professional to the end, he hadn’t asked other than to hope that what he’d done would obtain what Quintel needed. He was sure it would. Over breakfast in a quiet corner he had filled Jason in. He could see he’d been impressed.
They grabbed the morning’s newspapers and more coffee to while away the clock until it was eight, when he sent Jason off to a different national franchise to get a new set of wheels. He’d have to use his own details now, but as no one knew they were in Manchester, that shouldn’t present any problems. They’d just keep hiring different cars from different firms, all with national coverage dropping them off in different places every few days until the job was over. That was the thing about leaving footprints; as long as they weren’t connected, who could ever place them together. Too many villains were lazy, and that was often their downfall.
While Jason was sorting the car out, he’d speak to the client. He’d use one of the many public phone boxes in and around the railway station, but ensured he found one with no apparent CCTV coverage. He sent two texts to the client; the first said “C - 0161” and the second contained the rest of the number.
He got a text back saying “Give me 10 mins to my A”. After nine minutes he was about to pick up the phone to ring the client’s A when the public phone rang, making him jump. He answered it, and it was the client.
‘I hope you’ve got some more good news for me? You’ve just interrupted my Monday morning fun, so you have.’
Too much information, Quintel thought, but he was sure the client’s inflatable friend would wait. ‘Ah right, look I’ve had a diversion to attend to—’ But before he could explain further the client started on one of his rants. Quintel cut back in, ‘If you’d fucking let me finish.’
Silence, followed by the client, who was calmer now. ‘This had better be fucking worth your cheek, go on.’
Quintel did. He explained his other business that morning, its relevance and the significance of what he’d planned next.
‘I fooking love it. It reminds me of the old days; before half my life was robbed from me by those Brit bastards, that is. But where will you get the kit from, or the knowhow?’
Quintel hadn’t wanted to tell the client that Jason was ex-British Army; he thought it might cause cultural difficulties, so he said he’d served in the French Foreign Legion, and had seen active service in Africa protecting French interests. He seemed to buy it.
‘So he can get his hand on grenades, still?’
‘He says so, which will be a lot easier than homemade stuff,’ Quintel said.
‘We could have done with him back in the day, and maybe we can still use him come the tomorrow,’ the client said.
Quintel didn’t say up the revolution, but closed by adding he’d bell him again in a couple of days.
‘Just before you go, I may need you to fit an extra target in, say for ten large?’ the client said.
Quintel hadn’t expected this; the business plan was working already.
‘It’ll be a piece of piss, no bother, I promise – if at all,’ the client said.
‘Unrelated?’
‘Yes, there’s talk of someone sticking their nose into our business, which isn’t that rare, but if it’s true then they are over on the mainland, so you may as well have it.’
‘No problems, just let me know,’ Quintel said, before they ended their call.
He smiled as he walked away, at least now he knew where the client was, though it would have been easy enough to trace from the telephone number. Not that it really mattered, but it was nice to know. Now, he’d head back to the concourse and wait for Jason. They had a busy couple of days ahead of them, and it was time to use his contacts to get hold of the hardware, and then explain to Jason exactly what he wanted him to do with it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vinnie spent the rest of Monday chasing dead ends fed from the DS running the house-to-house team – via Harry. Eventually he landed on the correct hotel around teatime. It was part of a national chain in Leyland, close to the motorway network. The uninterested youth on reception had been on duty all day, and had been there when Quintel and Jason arrived, though they hadn’t booked in under those names. Regardless of the lack of information the receptionist was able to provide, Vinnie was sure it was the right hotel. He showed the youth a photo of Dempster and he confirmed that he was the one who’d paid the bill. He hadn’t realised that they’d left before then. He showed Vinnie a copy of the CCTV at reception when they first arrived, but both had been wearing baseball caps pulled down to obscure their faces. No court of law would allow a positive identification from this partial view, but Vinnie was certain it was them. The youth gave him copies of all the CCTV covering the relevant times, for what that was worth, but someone would have to check them over, they may be on record at an unguarded moment. Not that it would lead them any closer to them.
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.
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?’