by Nick Oldham
‘Yes, Mr Hamilton owns the Jacaranda.’
‘Oh, great. We’re pals from way back when. I’m here on a kinda short visit and thought I’d drop by and say howdy.’
The direct approach. He was under no illusions this would work. He expected nothing, so was pleasantly surprised when the opposite happened.
The receptionist, Francesca, whose name was on a badge pinned to her blouse, immediately picked up the phone, punched in a short number and spoke very quickly. The name Hamilton came up several times, but Donaldson did not manage to catch much of the conversation. She put the phone down and smiled. She had pitch-black hair and her beautiful white teeth contrasted spectacularly to produce a very alluring effect which was not lost on Donaldson.
‘He will come and see you,’ she said.
‘Obrigado, Francesca.’ Donaldson noticed her eyes were a wonderful shade of brown which was in keeping with her lovely olive complexion.
‘Please sit down.’ She pointed to a comfortable-looking sofa on the other side of reception. He obeyed, completely dominated by her - in his dreams. She returned to her console and began tapping away, occasionally glancing across at him.
A few minutes later a man in his late twenties appeared from a door behind Francesca’s desk. He was dressed in a silk, cream-coloured, short-sleeved shirt with an open neck, blue chinos and black open-toed sandals, no socks. He wore plenty of jewellery, mainly gold. His hair was black, combed away from his face and his sideboards sloped and tapered past his ears. A minor goatee was stuck onto his chin like- a slug. He looked very slick.
And to Donaldson, very much like a player.
He approached Donaldson, a quizzical look on his face.
Donaldson stood up, not wishing to be disadvantaged. He held out his hand, which the man ignored.
‘I don’t normally see salesmen,’ he said, ‘but you asked for me personally. I gotta say, you don’t look much like one.’
‘I, er...’ Donaldson began. He glanced quickly at Francesca, who studiously avoided eye contact. He recovered quickly. ‘It’s always possible you wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been completely honest. You are Scott Hamilton, I take it?’
He nodded and rolled his tongue around his mouth with a slurping noise.
‘I’m Karl Donaldson. I’m an FBI agent. You knew a colleague of mine, Samantha Dawber, now dead.’
Hamilton was totally unfazed. His bottom lip pouted while he considered the name. He shook his head. ‘Nope, I think not.’ Super fucking cool.
‘She wrote your name down on a piece of paper before she died, and as she passed on in mysterious circumstances, I’m obviously investigating. I think she may well have visited the Jacaranda. She had some of your literature in her possession.’
Hamilton shrugged. ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Lotsa people visit the place. But I don’t know her anyway.’
‘She obviously knew you. Otherwise why would she have written your name down?’
‘I’m the manager of the place. My name’s on all the literature we produce. Not unusual. People write my name down.’
He hadn’t spoken too many words but Donaldson gave him a Brooklyn origin, tainted and watered down by some time in LA. He also gave him credit for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch. He had a desperate urge to grab the man’s goatee and rip it out of his chin and make him squeal like a kicked puppy. In fact, he promised it to himself.
‘She put four exclamation marks after it. Why in hell would she do that, pal?’ Donaldson was on the edge of losing his own cool. ‘It seems damn odd she’s gotten your name down on a piece of paper and she’s ended up dead soon after.’
‘What the fuck you implying?’
‘Nuthin,’ said Donaldson innocently.
‘I don’t much like your tone, mister ..?’
‘Donaldson. Karl Donaldson. FBI. London office.’
‘And what exactly is your jurisdiction in Madeira?’
‘I’m empowered worldwide to investigate offences committed against American citizens on foreign soil.’
‘Well, here’s one you’d better start investigating then,’ said Hamilton, leaning towards him. ‘I’m an American citizen and I’m being harassed unlawfully by the FBI. Fucking investigate that!’
He got closer and closer to Donaldson as the words tumbled out of his mouth. The FBI agent remained impassive and said with a click, ‘Pal, you’ve just cooked your goose.’
‘Get off this property.’ Hamilton turned to Francesca. ‘Call Security. I want this man removing.’
She scrabbled for the phone.
‘I’m going,’ said Donaldson.
Hamilton turned away and stalked towards the door.
Donaldson called out, ‘Just one more thing.’
Hamilton spun back, an angry look on his face - which Donaldson captured for posterity with a flash of the camera.
Henry sat hunched at his desk at Blackpool Central police station. In true detective fashion he was easing the last crusts of a meat pie into his mouth with one hand, the other cupped underneath to catch anything that didn’t make it. Hot gravy dribbled painfully down his chin. He had nothing to wipe his mouth with, other than his hands. Then he had nothing to wipe his hands with, other than his desktop blotter.
‘Acting Detective Inspector Christie, isn’t it?’
With a mouthful he turned and looked up, and tried to stand up when he saw who it was. ‘Yeah, it is . . . sorry.’ He swallowed.
‘No, don’t get up.’ The man perched on the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton from the North-West Organised Crime Squad and this is WDC Robson, Siobhan Robson.’ He cocked a thumb at the officer, then held out his right hand.
‘Yes, I know. Look, sir, I’m sorry but my hands’re a bit greasy at the moment. I’m not sure you’d appreciate me shaking yours - unless you wanted to lick it after.’
Morton gave a short laugh and the female detective giggled brightly. The DCS withdrew his hand with a shrug and a smile.
Henry leaned back to get a better view of his visitors.
‘It’s Henry ... am I right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I believe you’re up to your eyeballs in major enquiries.’
‘Pretty much. Can I help you in some way?’
‘I was just curious about the Dundaven enquiry, how it’s progressing. We’ve been monitoring that man’s activities for a while and in one fell swoop you’ve got him slap bang to rights.’
‘Mmm, at a cost, though.’
Morton did not understand for a moment. Then it clicked. ‘Ah yes, the policewoman. Very unfortunate.’
‘Not to mention the guy whose brains he blew out,’ said Henry. ‘And the multi-vehicle pile-up on the motorway he caused by deliberately ramming a traffic car. I’m amazed no one died in that.’
‘So, how goes the investigation then?’
‘Very well,’ said Henry. He had no reason to be anything other than open with Morton, a man he greatly admired and whose squad he would gladly have worked on. ‘We hit a few addresses this morning, all connected with Dundaven, but found very little - which surprised me. But we’re not going to let it rest. I get the feeling he’s well connected and I’m going to keep chipping away at him. We haven’t found the origins of the guns yet and that needs to be bottomed. They’re all new and I’ll bet they’re from a warehouse somewhere. When we pinpoint that, it’ll give us another angle to dig at - and dig we will.’
‘You seem very determined.’
‘I am,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like people who shoot at coppers, nor do I like people who sell guns.’
‘Very laudable,’ commented Morton. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult to be so thorough - the practicalities of the job, time constraints, pressures, especially working in local CID. I know the caseload is enormous.’
‘Yeah, I agree. . . but I’ll do my best. I won’t let it rest until I’m completely satisfied I can’t go any further with it.�
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‘How will you know when you can’t go any further?’
‘Intuition. . . brick walls. . . some dickie-bird’ll tell me.’
‘Well, good luck, Henry. Stick at it.’ Morton turned to the female detective. ‘Ready?’ She nodded assent. ‘See ya, Henry.’
‘Bye,’ Siobhan said, giving him a little wave and a smile.
He watched them leave and wondered what the hell that was all about.
Five hundred kilometres off the west coast of Africa, on the tiny island of Madeira, Karl Donaldson was back in his hotel room.
It was 6 p.m. Night had fallen quickly. With it came rain which lashed against the balcony doors of his room.
He had recently returned from making the final arrangements for Sam’s body to be on the same flight as himself to London next day. From Heathrow he would connect it with New York.
He was not looking forward to the journey, knowing she would be lying stiff, cold and desecrated in the hold below. He shivered at the thought.
Pangs of hunger growled in his stomach.
He had a quick shower, changed and walked from the sea view annexe where his room was situated through the rain across the metal footbridge which spanned high above the main road into Funchal, and up to the main part of the hotel, the Quinta. He went into Joe’s bar, had the dish of the day - which happened to be espada - and half a bottle of Atlantis Rose.
An hour later, after the meal, he moved the few metres across to the bar and settled down for a couple of beers whilst reflecting on the events of the day.
Just what the fuck was Scott Hamilton up to? And more to the point, who was he? Why did Sam write his name down? Did he have something to do with her death? Or was he, Donaldson, just clutching at straws?
It frustrated him that he might well be able to find out about Hamilton, but might not ever be in a position to answer any of the other questions. Even so, there was no way he would ever - EVER - accept that her death was misadventure or accident. He was convinced she had been murdered, but how the hell could he prove it?
Lost in thought, he did not notice the approach of the woman. She appeared from nowhere, and touched his shoulder gently. Donaldson twisted his head upwards.
It was the receptionist from the Jacaranda.
She was wearing a trenchcoat, but no headgear, and was soaking wet, her black hair plastered to her head and face. Her mascara had run from her eyes, making her look like she’d been crying. Maybe she had.
‘Francesca,’ Donaldson said in surprise, remembering her name. He got to his feet.
‘Mr Donaldson,’ she said with a quaver in her voice.
‘You’re soaked to the skin.’
‘It’s OK, doesn’t matter.’ She unfastened her belt, the buttons of her coat and flapped it a couple of times to shake the excess rain off the gabardine material. Underneath she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Sure, sure, help yourself.’
She sat.
‘Drink? Coffee - wine - whatever?’
She shook her head. Donaldson eased himself back into his chair, eyeing her uncertainly, trying to judge what was about to happen.
She was obviously on edge; her body language screamed it. Her hands twitched nervously, could not keep still. She brushed wet strands of hair back away from her face with shaking fingers. She seemed hardly able to bring her eyes up to meet Donaldson’s.
‘So, Francesca, what brings you here?’
‘I want you to understand I enjoy my work,’ she said quickly after a few moments’ consideration. ‘I’m quite well paid and I’m lucky because I have no real qualifications. In did not work at the Jacaranda, I would probably be a waitress.’
Donaldson nodded. He decided not to say anything, let her fill in all the blanks, though he wasn’t sure what this all meant.
‘I don’t want to lose my job. I support my mother. My father died two years ago. . .’ She shrugged, suddenly unable to continue. She glanced quickly towards the door and her mouth opened slightly as she appeared to see something. Donaldson peered round to look. No one was there. She was seeing ghosts.
‘You are from the FBI?’ she asked meekly.
‘Yep.’
‘That lady - Samantha - she too?’
‘Yep.’
Her eyes looked deeply into his for a couple of seconds, then tore away. She appeared to stifle a sob.
‘Look, Francesca,’ Donaldson said, hoping he was going to hit the right note. ‘I think you’ve come to see me for a reason. Does it concern Samantha?’
‘Yes.’ It was a hoarse whisper.
‘So, what is it?’ he probed softly. His eyes found hers once more. ‘You can trust me,’ he added, thinking, Famous last words.
‘Can I?’ Her eyes dropped again and stared at her hands which she was wringing tightly together, like drying them underneath a warm-air machine.
Donaldson reached across. He laid one of his hands over hers. They felt clammy and wet. ‘Yeah, you can.’
Slowly Francesca took control of herself and raised her face. Quietly she gasped, ‘I think she was murdered.’
Donaldson’s insides did a double-back somersault, but his exterior, he hoped, remained a vision of placidity.
‘We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to my room. You can dry yourself off and we can talk privately. I’ll get some coffee sent up. Come on.’
He stood up and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers in a gesture of encouragement. She hesitated a moment before taking it and rising slowly from her seat.
The rain had not abated. If anything it was heavier than before, backed by an ever-increasing wind which had started to howl. Donaldson turned up his collar and hunched into his jacket. Francesca buttoned up her long coat and tied the belt into a loose knot.
With a hand laid on her back, Donaldson guided her through the gardens of the Quinta, out of the walled grounds and onto the steep cobbled road which led down to the gate which opened onto the footbridge.
When they actually stepped onto the bridge, Donaldson was slightly ahead of her, now leading the way. The rain and wind were particularly bad here, exposed to the elements. Below, the main road was busy with traffic. The combination of wind, rain and traffic noise deadened all senses, making hearing and seeing difficult.
Which was Donaldson’s single pathetic excuse for not being switched on properly at a time when he should have been turned on and tuned in. Her nervousness should have rubbed off onto him. The furtive glances towards the door. The NVCs. They should have given the game away.
Instead, his chin was tucked down into his chest, his mind tumbling with the possibilities of what she was about to reveal to him. And he almost ran headlong into the man who was standing at the opposite end of the bridge, next to the elevator which descended into the hotel annexe.
At the last moment Donaldson saw him and pulled up sharp.
‘Desculpe: Donaldson said, pronouncing it ‘dishkoolper’, meaning excuse me.
The man stood his ground, barring the way to the elevator doors. He was a big bloke, unshaven, tough-looking, wearing heavy jeans and a reefer jacket, both hands in the pockets, thumbs snagged on the edges.
‘Excuse me,’ Donaldson said again, hoping he had read the situation wrong, because the man and his code of dress did not really shout hotel guest.
The man shook his head.
Fuck, a set-up, were the next words which leapt through the American’s mind. She s led me out here and I came like a fool and now I’m gonna get what Sam got. Goddam dickbrain!
Then he heard her say, ‘Behind.’
He looked, expecting her to be holding a gun or something, but no. Even in the rain, he could see her face was a mask of complete terror, as beyond her, walking slowly towards them across the narrow bridge, was another guy. Of similar proportion to the other - big and brutal-looking. Donaldson’s legs gave him a twinge of fear.
He had not been set up.
One of the drawbacks of worki
ng on foreign soil was that his authority to carry a firearm was withdrawn. He understood why, but it was one of those little things he had been unable to grow accustomed to. The instinct to reach for a gun was still there and his fingers literally twitched. In the past this lack of a weapon had been a problem of life and death magnitude. He was pretty sure he was about to discover that once again.
He and Francesca, who was now visibly cowering, were trapped. Hemmed in, one man either side of them. There was no escape across a bridge not wide enough for three people to stand abreast and a forty-foot drop either side, splat onto the road.
Because it was expected of him as an FBI employee, Donaldson kept himself fit and agile by means of regular workouts and daily runs. Before moving to the London office that had been a necessity; working in the field always carried the possibility of ending up in conflict situations where fitness could be a life-saver.
Since taking up the less strenuous appointment at the Legat, fitness had become more of a habit of pride than a operational necessity. He never truly believed he would find himself in such a position again – facing potential attackers. Nowadays he dealt with liaison, processing information, intelligence gathering, speaking to people on the phone - basically sitting on his ass in a smart office, pushing a pen and letting other people get into hairy situations.
But now he was glad that fitness was a part of his day-to-day life. He knew he was going to need the reserves it had given him.
FBI recruits are taught, wherever possible in conflict situations, to use their brains and mouths first; if that fails, switch to defensive tactics.
The last resort was deadly force.
Donaldson guessed he was about to skip the first two and go straight to the third option.
He squared up to the man by the elevator, who must have known exactly what he was thinking.
The man moved fast. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and, with his right, swung something in a wide arc towards Donaldson’s head.
He saw it coming, ducked low, put his left arm up to protect himself and took the full force on the forearm of what turned out to be a double motorcycle chain, welded together for extra weight and power. It wrapped itself around his arm like a python, cutting into the skin despite the protection of his jacket sleeve. He screamed in pain and staggered into the railings. The man drew back the chain with a flourish, as if he was demonstrating a bull-whip, and moved in. His big left fist rocketed into Donaldson’s throat, driving him back harder against the railings, from where he slumped to the hard metal surface.
