by Nick Oldham
‘By Jove I think he’s got it,’ Morton chortled patronisingly. ‘But that’s enough of the speculation. You don’t need to know anything further, other than you were beginning to worry some people and they needed to be ... reassured. Remember when you said a little dickie bird would tell you when you’d gone as far as you could with those enquiries? Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep. It’s me. I am that bird.’
‘You bastard!’ Henry had a sense of being trapped in a cage.
‘You should know that certain people want you dead, Henry. I saved your life. You should be thankful to me, not call me names.’
‘Big deal. What’s to stop me walking out of that door, going straight to my Chief Constable and blowing the whistle on you?’
‘You still don’t get it, do you? Your life will be worse than hell. We will drag you through the mire. We’ll come up smelling of roses and you’ll just smell like cowshit. You’ll lose. We won’t. Simple as that. We’ve had problems like this before and dealt with them accordingly.’
Henry stood up without warning.
Morton drew back defensively. Gallagher braced himself and Tattersall was half off his seat.
He walked to the window and stared out blankly through the rain.
He had nothing on these people. They had everything on him, twisted and perverse though it was. And they were prepared to use it, should Henry make a stand.
They had power and organisation. He could not even begin to guess the scope of their activities.
Standing there he was isolated - and beaten.
He turned slowly from the window, a look of defeat on his face. ‘So what’s the score?’
‘I’ll lay it on the line, Henry, then you know exactly what is required of you. Firstly, you must ensure that to the best of your abilities those two investigations get nowhere.’
‘That may not be within my power. Other people work on them.’
‘In which case you must keep me informed of any progress, you must destroy or contaminate evidence without drawing attention to yourself, and you must pull your weight in terms of making enquiries hit dead ends. Otherwise you’ll suffer.’
‘And secondly?’
‘Keep a watching brief on the Derek Luton case and let me know how that goes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m interested. And thirdly, before you go back to your normal duties, we may have something else for you to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘All in good time, Henry.’
‘So you’ve got me by the bollocks.’
‘Only if you value your life and how you lead it.’
‘Is that it?’
‘No,’ said Gallagher sharply. ‘You were given some documents by Annie Luton last night, I believe.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Telephone. Hand them over to us now.’
‘I left them at home,’ Henry said quickly. ‘I’ll bring them in this afternoon.’
‘Make sure you do.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, you can. Go away and reflect on things. Consider your position very carefully, but realise one thing: you now belong to us and basically you’ve no way out of that.’
Tight-lipped, Henry strode angrily to the door and wrenched it open. He stopped for an instant, turned quickly and uttered the word ‘Cunts!’ before storming out, slamming the door behind him with a ferocity which nearly brought it off its hinges.
Morton regarded the other three with raised eyebrows.
‘I don’t trust him,’ Siobhan said.
‘Nor do I,’ Gallagher agreed.
Tattersall said nothing.
‘Me neither. Make sure he’s followed. We really don’t want him to do anything stupid, do we? Jim?’ Morton looked towards Tattersall.
‘I’ll see to it, boss.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The weather over the whole of the country was appalling.
Karl Donaldson, with Karen sitting by his side, drove their Jeep Cherokee through driving snow around London, sleet and icy hailstones all the way up the MI, five minutes of clear weather around Birmingham on the M6, then bucketing rain the rest of the way up to Blackpool.
The journey took nearly five hours at an average speed of 50 m.p.h., headlights blazing all the way.
As ever they made the trip more pleasurable by singing along with each other. A Beatles session, followed by Motown, a little opera and finally some good ole country music onto which Donaldson had successfully weaned Karen. Dwight Yoakam, the O’Kanes and Lacy J. Dalton were no longer a mystery to the girl who’d been born in Oswaldtwistle, Lancashire, not Nashville, Tennessee.
It made the time fly and helped Donaldson concentrate.
They arrived at Henry’s house about twenty minutes before he did.
Kate greeted them warmly. They had become good friends and often made excuses out of nothing to visit each other, even if it meant a two-hundred-mile hike. The two women had an extra dimension to their relationship now and talk turned immediately to babies, pregnancy and childbirth. Kate began to feel broody again.
When Henry came in like a bull with a wasp stinging its arse, it was immediately obvious to all three that he was fuming with anger.
He refused to say anything about what was bugging him, but his body language put them all on tenterhooks.
Kate coerced him into the kitchen and said sternly, ‘Henry, they’ve come all the way from London to see you, you could try to be just a little bit polite.’
He nodded and breathed down his nose. ‘You’re right.’
They had a light, but hot lunch, and Henry made an effort. They exchanged stories about their injuries - Henry’s chest and ear, Donaldson’s face. Over coffee Henry said to Karl, ‘What can I do for you, pal? I know this is a work-related visit first and foremost.’
‘Henry!’ Kate said in a warning way, ‘Don’t be so rude.’ She looked apologetically at the other couple. ‘He’s had a long week.’
‘Kate - you don’t know the damned half of it.’ Henry’s voice was hard and unyielding. ‘And don’t talk about me like I’m not here.’
He stood up without a further word and left them. Donaldson found him in the conservatory, sitting on the bamboo sofa. Rain streamed down the windows. The garden was waterlogged and there seemed nowhere for it to drain away.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Help yourself.’
Karl placed himself next to Henry and gave a little shiver. ‘That’s the trouble with these places. They look darned good, but they’re too cold in winter, too damned hot in summer.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Can you talk to me, H.? Kate’s really upset in there.’
Henry leaned back. He stared up at the glass roof and shook his head. ‘Big problems, Karl. But mine at the moment. I need to think them through.’
‘OK.’
Henry sat up. ‘What’ve you come up for, Karl? It’s a hell of a day to travel. Must be pretty important.’
‘That occurrence in Madeira with Sam - I think she was murdered by a guy she’d seen out there, name of Scott Hamilton, or at least murdered on his orders. I have an idea on that score, but that’s another story. Anyway, the cops in Madeira were eventually interested enough to put a tail on this guy. He hopped on a plane to Manchester yesterday.’
‘And you want some help tracking him up here?’
‘Naw. I got on to MI5 to help me out. They’re so under-employed these days they’ll jump at the chance to do anything. So I asked ‘em to pick up Hamilton’s tail in Manchester, stick with him, take some mug-shots and stay within eyeball until he got back on the plane home. Which is what they did. Real pros, they are. Pity they don’t know what the hell their role is any longer. I got the surveillance photos pushed through my door late last night - and that’s why I’m here. Take a look at these.’
Donaldson had brought a briefcase with him which he placed on his knees and opened. ‘I had problems identifying the man Ham
ilton met until Karen looked over my shoulder and said, "Ooh, I know him. He was in one of my classes once".’
Henry looked sharply at his FBI colleague.
Donaldson handed him an eight-by-ten black and white photograph taken on the steps of some grand-looking house. The time and date were imprinted in the bottom right-hand corner.
It showed four men standing, talking to each other. Their faces were clearly visible, even though it was apparent the camera was some distance away.
‘This is the only one of them all together and the photographer had to be dam quick to get this. They appeared literally for an instant and then split, as if they didn’t want to be seen together.’
Donaldson pointed to one of the men. ‘Scott Hamilton.’ His finger moved to another man. ‘He’s-’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton, Head of the North-West Organised Crime Squad.’
‘Hey, you know him?’
‘You could say that. The guy next to him is Sir Harry McNamara, ex-MP.’
‘But we can’t get a make on the last one of the group.’
‘I know who he is. He’s called Ronnie Conroy. Into everything that makes money illegally. Once ran a surveillance on him about four years ago when I was on RCS ... it got nowhere. Just seemed he knew everything we were going to do.’
Henry looked up, his eyes suddenly alert.
‘He was suspected of dealing in guns, selling them to the London underworld and also out of the country - to Africa, I think. Now I know why we got no result!’ His eyes met Donaldson’s. ‘Corruption. The best fucking police unit in the country is corrupt and it does deals with criminals. It protects them with information about police operations, and fuck knows what else it gets up to. Karl, I have something to tell you which may go some way to explaining why I’ve been such a bad-tempered git.’
‘What about Kate? Perhaps you should tell her.’ That was Donaldson’s suggestion after he had listened to Henry’s story - which included everything that had happened - and they had discussed it for a while. The American was clearly shocked by what he had heard.
It was an idea that did not go down well with Henry.
‘No. It’d be the final straw for her. I just feel that I need to fight this without her knowing.’
‘Does she have to be told all the gory details?’ Karl said delicately. ‘You may need her support with this. She’s not a fool, Henry. It might be a rough ride, but you’d make it. You two are very strong now.’
‘No.’ Henry was adamant.
‘Fine ... but what do we do now?’
‘We?’
Donaldson nodded. ‘Yes, we. I’m involved in this from the Sam Dawber point of view. Karen can help out, too. She won’t tell Kate anything - it’d be cop business. But I do know something, Henry old pal - you can’t handle this alone. No way. You need help if you’re going to fight it.’
Henry gazed at his fingernails, wondering where he should begin.
‘Hang on a sec!’ he said to Donaldson, remembering something. He leapt from the sofa and rushed through the house and out to his car, from which he grabbed the package Annie Luton had given him. He ran back to Donaldson.
‘They want this lot for some reason,’ he told the American. ‘They even went as far as searching Derek Luton’s house but failed to find it. Maybe there’s something useful here.’ He wasn’t particularly hopeful but nevertheless tipped the contents out onto the coffee table.
There was a lot of dross which he quickly sorted through and discarded. ‘Degsy left me a note the night he was murdered, asking me to come and see him. I didn’t get it till too late. I wonder if...’ He found four statements which had been crumpled up and straightened out. They were photocopies, not originals. Henry ran his hand over them to flatten them. ‘These are recent,’ he said, noticing the dates. ‘Last Sunday.’
There were yellow highlight lines over certain areas in all the statements. A quick glance confirmed to Henry that they were all statements taken in connection with the armed robbery in Fleetwood which had preceded the massacre in the newsagents. The highlighted areas included the time of the robbery, and descriptions of the people involved. Question marks, also in highlighter, had been placed in the margins. Henry noted that the officer taking the statement was DS Tattersall, accompanied by DC Luton.
The two detectives perused the statements.
‘Henry, I don’t know what this means,’ the American admitted.
The Detective Sergeant’s brow was deeply furrowed. ‘Nor me. These are photocopies of the original handwritten statements. They would have been subsequently typed up.’ Henry was thinking out loud. His eyes went to the statements again. Then something clicked. ‘When I was at the scene of the murder last Saturday night, Derek told me that the gang had pulled an earlier robbery in Fleetwood. He mentioned a time.’ Henry willed himself to recall the conversation. It came to him. ‘Seven-ten, seven-fifteen.’
‘And these statements highlight those times,’ Donaldson observed.
‘Yeah, but why?’
Donaldson shrugged and pursed his lips.
‘And why the question marks in the margins?’ Henry nagged.
‘Maybe your dead pal found something out,’ Karl suggested. ‘Such as these statements having been altered at some stage. These are probably his highlights, marking the areas which’ve been changed.’
‘And Derek got caught finding this out.’
‘And it worried someone bad enough to put a bullet through his head.’
‘No,’ said Henry firmly. ‘I can’t believe this. I don’t want to believe it.’
‘Henry, buddy, from what you’ve told me, and from what I can gather, we are dealing with ruthless people here. They will do anything to stop those who get in their way.’
‘Even murder a cop?’
‘What about the cop in the newsagents? How come he died?’
‘Rogue. Loner. Guy thought he was Dirty Harry...’ Henry’s thoughts turned to Siobhan and her assertion that Geoff Driffield had come on duty alone and disappeared alone. Yet the books he had seen at the NWOCS - the duty states, the radio book and the firearms book - showed he had come on with four other people. The four Henry had encountered not very long ago.
‘Or did he get set up too?’ Donaldson said presciently.
Silence. The words hung in the conservatory air.
‘Let’s apply some creative thinking here, Henry,’ the FBI man said assertively. ‘I know it could be well off the mark, but have a listen to this: Geoff Driffield thought he was going on a stake-out to catch a gang of armed robbers. He found himself alone in a shop, having been told that the gang would strike there that night. He was kitted out and tooled up. Maybe it wasn’t unusual for him to be alone, and so he suspected nothing. Meanwhile, his four colleagues dress up as this gang and hit the shop and kill Geoff Driffield and any other poor son of a bitch who happens to be there. What they don’t plan for is the real gang robbing a shop in Fleetwood eight miles north, and they’ve gotta do some real fancy footwork to make it look like the gang did both jobs. It was their intention to frame this gang anyway, to blame them for Driffield’s murder. . . I’m just thinking out loud, you understand.’
‘No, can’t be.’
‘Sit back, think it through. Even on the night of the shootings, as you told me, you were sceptical about the two crimes having been committed by the same gang. Even then, you had doubts. Now does it seem that, maybe, just maybe, your first reaction was the right one?’
Henry acknowledged this with a reluctant, ‘Yes.’
‘You’re dealing with a very violent, nasty cabal here who have gone out of control and who will do anything necessary to achieve their own aims.’
Henry stared into space. ‘And not only that,’ he said, ‘I think that Fanshaw-Bayley and Guthrie are involved too.’ Henry couldn’t shake the memory of FB and Morton together, colluding, conspiring to set him up. He felt physically sick. ‘Which means that the top detective in this force is
corrupt. Where does it end, Karl?’ he asked plaintively. ‘Where do I go from here?’
‘I have an idea,’ Donaldson said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was approaching 3.30 p.m. by the time Henry returned to work. Technically his lunch-break should have been only three-quarters of an hour long, but he couldn’t care less about that. Being caught out for taking a long lunch was way down on his worry list.
He found a tight space for his car in the almost overflowing car park at the rear of the police station.
Hoping that none of the NWOCS spotted him, he jogged down the rear yard with the carrier bag Annie Luton had given him in his hand. Once inside he opted for the stairs in preference to the lift and climbed them slowly, emerging on the floor where the murder incident room was situated.
This was the problem area.
He needed to get into the incident room unseen, find the typed statements and photocopy them. He also had to make copies of the written statements in the carrier bag.
He pushed the stairs door open wide enough to allow him to peep through the crack into the corridor.
Empty.
He stuck his head out and looked both ways. Clear.
All the while he expected Gallagher or Morton to appear. If they caught him before he completed his task, he was finished.
He stepped into the corridor.
Morton’s office was around the corner. The door to the incident room was directly ahead. Three strides saw him inside.
Two HOLMES operators were working at their computers. Neither looked up. No one else was in the room.
First things first.
Whistling tunelessly, he walked confidently to the copier. He almost screamed when it sensed his approach, clicked on and the message on the control panel told him he had to wait five minutes for the warm-up. A wave of frustration jittered through him. Five minutes is a long time to stand next to a machine, looking guilty.
