by Nick Oldham
‘ What d’you know about him?’
‘ I phoned the RCS in Bolton and asked them. Just a sec…’ Seymour left Henry and went to the serving hatch where he selected a meal and returned to the table. He sat down opposite. ‘Seems him and his firm are known for representing shite, from criminal dealings to property stuff. Very fuckin’ seedy by all accounts.’ He shovelled a large load of potato pie into his mouth. This didn’t prevent him from continuing to talk. ‘At least he got his client to tell us his name and date of birth.’ Seymour pointed with his knife to the name written on the file.
‘ And what do we know about him?’
‘ Not much yet. We think he’s involved in the drugs scene over in East Lancs, but not much more than that.’ A forkload of mushy peas disappeared down his throat. ‘Think he’s a pretty big player.’
‘ Any pre-cons?’ Henry asked.
‘ Yep, but they don’t tell us much. Petty stuff.’
‘ Terrorist connections? Organised crime?’
‘ Organised maybe. Nothing terrorist.’
‘ And the passenger in the Range Rover — the flying man?’
‘ A lowlife shitbag called McCrory. Junkie. Petty thief. Good shoplifter, as most druggies tend to be. On the periphery ofDundaven’s scene. Bit of a gofer, I’d say.’
‘ And what’s Dundaven’s story?’
Seymour closed his eyes in despair. ‘You wouldn’t fucking believe it. The shitehawk’s trying to wrangle out of it and dump everything on his dead buddy. He says McCrory asked him to drive to Blackpool yesterday, cos he wanted to pick something up. Turns out to be guns — from a man in a pub, would ya credit?’
Henry sniggered. ‘Oh, the ubiquitous man in a pub; we’ll catch the bastard one day.’
‘ Yeah, well, they pick up the guns, so the fairy tale goes… don’t know which pub it was, by the way… and Dundaven is horrified, bless his soul. He says he’s too frightened of McCrory to say anything — him being a real hard case, as he put it. Says McCrory produced two shotguns and blasted Nina and dinged one off at Rik Dean’s car.’
‘ McCrory did the shooting?’
‘ That’s what Dundaven says. Next thing, McCrory’s holding a gun to Dundaven’s belly saying, “Let’s go”. Poor ole Dundaven has to do whatever he’s told, but being a law-abiding citizen, what he really wanted to do is hand himself over to us.’
‘ So why did he ram us and shoot at us?’
‘ Duress. Fear.’ Seymour shrugged. He swallowed more pie with a forkful of peas.
‘ Bullshit,’ said Henry. ‘And the next bit? This should be worth hearing.’
‘ It is,’ laughed Seymour, and recited: ‘So overcome with emotion and grief is McCrory that he puts a gun to his own head, opens the door and tops himself.’
Henry laughed out loud. ‘He expects us to believe that?’
‘ Deadly serious about it.’
Henry stopped laughing. ‘And then?’
‘ Fear makes him continue the chase, ram the traffic car and take a pot shot at the helicopter.’
‘ So where do we stand with all this? What can we prove?’
Seymour had devoured his meal. He went and bought a pot of tea and two cups. He poured one for Henry.
‘ There are no direct witnesses to refute what he says, unless Nina pulls through. Rik Dean was sat in his car and couldn’t truthfully say who shot her, because the car is much lower than the Range Rover, and his view was obstructed by the spare tyre on the back. Same for us. We couldn’t actually see him waste McCrory, could we?’
Henry considered it for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be long before the first twenty-four-hours’ detention would be up. Then for an extra twelve he’d need the authority of a Superintendent to carry on questioning Dundaven without charge. He decided he would seek that authorisation and keep the pressure on Dundaven.
He told this to Seymour and added, ‘Even if you haven’t got any admissions from him, keep pushing him and then, as late as possible, charge him. Throw the book at him. Charge him with everything you can possibly think of, including the driving offences. If there’s enough shit, some of it’ll stick.’
Donaldson was booked into the Quinta da Penha de Franca. He had been allocated one of the sea view rooms in the new annexe. Very nice and comfortable, with a balcony overlooking the pool and the ocean beyond. The night was dark, tranquil and quite chilly.
He shivered, walked back into the room from the balcony, closed the door and drew the curtains. He stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head and mulled over his thoughts on Samantha Jane Dawber, whose devastated body was lying in a fridge with all its vital organs including the brain — thrown loosely into the torso and sewn up. Her cranium had been packed with newspaper and her facial skin stretched back into place and stitched so tightly that her features were stretched and distorted.
There was no respect in a morgue. Death was simply a business. A sausage factory.
Samantha Jane Dawber.
Sammy Jane.
Sam.
She had been posted to London six months earlier and easily fitted into the small team. She was recently divorced, but the break-up — without kids to worry about — did not seem to have affected her too deeply. She kept in regular touch with her ex, a Special Agent from the New York office.
Donaldson fell into an easy working relationship with her. When she subsequently met Karen, his wife, they too became friends.
It had been a good six months.
With her assistance (she had done most of the legwork) he had helped the police in Cornwall to crack a long-running fraud case. She was a good worker who took the job seriously, constantly updating herself on criminals who drifted around the international scene. One of her favourite games was to get the mugshot books out — which contained hundreds of photos — remove about fifty, cover their names, shuffle them and challenge Donaldson to name them. Usually he might recognise five or six. Without fail she could name every one, every time.
Sammy Jane. All-American girl. Whatever that meant.
Now dead in a way Donaldson didn’t like.
She ‘got into’ walking in a big way since coming to England. She often dragged the Donaldsons out all over mainland Britain to hike over hills. One memorable walk had taken place in the Lake District over a weekend when Henry and Kate Christie had been invited along. Donaldson and Henry had met and become friends on the same enquiry when he’d met Karen. It proved to be a tough walking weekend, both nights of which ended up in exhausted revelry in way-out pubs in the middle of nowhere. He and Henry had got extremely drunk and were watched with severe pity by the womenfolk.
Donaldson remembered the laughter of those two days. Sam’s giggles and wry outlook on life had been infectious.
Her visit to Madeira had been prompted by an urge to explore the levadas — footpaths running alongside irrigation channels — that crisscross the island. That was the plan.
Donaldson sat up and made himself not cry. He shook his head, breathed heavily and attempted to combat the sobs building up inside him.
He won. It was a close-run thing.
‘ Phew.’ He blew out his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and looked across at Sam’s luggage which he’d deposited on the spare bed. Maybe the reason for her death was amongst that lot. He hadn’t sorted through it yet.
In his heart he was convinced she hadn’t died a pathetic drunk in a bath. That was not Sam.
Reaching across to her suitcase, he flicked up the catches.
John Rider coughed long and hard. He managed to clear his chest and throat, picked up the King Edward cigar from the ashtray, put it between his lips and re-lit it with a ‘pa-pa-pa’ until the flame had taken properly.
He blew out a ring of smoke.
‘ You OK, John?’ Isa enquired, gently resting a hand in the centre of his back.
He squinted sideways at her and nodded. ‘Never better.’
‘ You should give up.’
‘ One of
life’s last few pleasures,’ he said to justify the habit.
Isa tried to hold his gaze a little longer, but he looked away and reached for his drink. She emitted a short, dissatisfied sigh and her mouth warped in frustration for an instant before returning to its normal self.
She took a step to the bar and leaned on it.
Jacko gave her a mineral water and she took her first sip of it, wishing she had the guts to tell Rider how she felt about him. It’s ridiculous! she told herself. A woman of your age and experience being unable to tell some two-bit ex — gangster that you love him. Her overriding fear was that it could spoil both their friendship and business partnership if he didn’t reciprocate.
The club was extremely quiet. Monday. January. Blackpool. Hardly worth opening. But Rider believed it might as well be open as shut right up to the refurbishments starting.
Rider, perched on a bar stool, hoped he had come back to emotional equilibrium. Yesterday had been a nightmare. That Henry Christie. Looked quietly ruthless. Looked like he knew about the zoo. Looked like he wouldn’t let it rest.
Then the news about the gorilla splashed all over the telly and the papers. That had really gutted Rider, the suffering of an animal.
Today, thankfully, had been peaceful. A couple of detectives, not including Christie, had visited and searched the flat which might have been the dead girl’s. They had found nothing but might possibly have got an ID from her property and fingerprints on a glass. Rider gave them a short statement.
And that was that. Back to square one. Normality. Or so he hoped.
There were very few customers in the club. A few lonely souls. A few canoodling couples ensconced in the alcoves. Later, when the pubs closed and the disco cranked up, it would get busier. Not much. It would close at 12.30 a.m.
Rider couldn’t wait to get stuck into the place. Get the builders in, ripping the guts out of it, giving it a full body transplant. Transforming it into a ritzy, glitzy entertainment spot. If the planning application was successful, the builders would be in within six weeks. Four months after that, barring accidents, the doors would re-open just in time for the summer trade.
He shivered in anticipation. His eyes drifted around the floors, walls and unsafe ceiling, seeing it all. His baby.
Two young men at the far end of the bar caught his attention. Initially they had been sitting in one of the booths and Rider thought they might be gay. They had sauntered up to the bar, leaned on it and rudely rapped bottles on it to attract Jacko’s attention.
Rider’s bowels gave a sudden flutter.
He knew the sort. Not too far removed from the two who had appeared in the zoo, but maybe not as far down the road as them, being slightly younger.
Jacko served them each with a bottle of Foster’s Ice. Both drank from the bottle, their teeth showing as they swallowed each mouthful, almost as if it was painful. The ‘in’ way to drink.
Rider beckoned Jacko over. ‘Know ‘em?’
Jacko knew most locals.
‘ No. Blackburn lads,’ he said. Over the years of working behind bars in Blackpool, Jacko had learned to identify regional accents, quite specifically in many cases. He could tell easily whereabouts in Lancashire a person came from and his other regional specialities were the West Midlands, Scotland and London. He was rarely wrong. The Blackburn accent was a common one in Blackpool.
‘ You happy with them?’
‘ They’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘ Yet.’
‘ Yet,’ agreed Jacko.
Rider glanced down at them. One eyed the other and nodded. He held out his bottle at arms’ length and smashed it onto the floor. It shattered spectacularly.
‘ Yet,’ said Rider again under his breath. He lowered himself from the stool. Before he could get to them, the other one swept his left arm across the bar top, catching half a dozen newly-washed pint glasses, sending them crashing to the floor. As though he was throwing a knife at a target, he lobbed his bottle of Foster’s into the optics behind the bar. A large bottle of Bell’s and a few glasses exploded.
‘ This is a shit-awful place,’ the young man roared.
‘ Oi oi oi,’ shouted Jacko, running down the bar.
‘ Hold it, Jacko!’ Rider screamed.
The two youths turned to face Jacko and Rider, adopting the threatening pose so beloved of the British hooligan/hard case: legs apart, fingers gesturing to come forwards, eyes bulging in their sockets, rocking on the balls of their feet.
‘ C’mon then, y’ cunts,’ one sneered.
Normally Rider would have been happy to wade into troublemakers, but something held him back here; that nod given by one to the other which meant premeditation, not simply drink. He was wary.
‘ Hang back, Jacko,’ Rider hissed through the side of his mouth. He was aware of Isa hovering by his shoulder and the eyes of every other punter focused on the scene, something witnessed all the time in bars throughout the world. ‘OK lads, we don’t want any trouble here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but you’ve had some fun. So now get out.’
‘ Or what, pal?’
‘ Look, if you want me to call the cops, I will. But we can call it a draw now, you can leave, nobody’s suffered and we’ll all put it down to experience.’
‘ Boss,’ Jacko began. ‘The damage…’
Rider held his hand up to silence him.
‘ What if we don’t wanna leave?’
‘ Yeah, pal, what you gonna do?’ they taunted.
Rider became controllably angry. Not afraid. Still cautious.
He pointed a finger at them. ‘If you don’t get out of here, boys, you’ll face the consequences, one way or another. If you think me and Jacko here can’t handle you, then you’re very much mistaken. We’ll lay you both out until we’re satisfied — then we’ll call the cops. It’s that simple. If you want hassle and aggro, fair enough, the choice is yours. You can call it quits or end up in a police cell with matching injuries.’
Rider held his breath. The two youths looked at each other and nodded reluctantly after weighing up the odds.
It was all too easy, but Rider’s relief clouded his judgement. Perhaps after all they were not the sort of people he believed them to be. Maybe they were just kids flexing their muscles.
Angrily they shouldered their way to the exit, accompanied by Rider and Jacko. They left peaceably.
‘ What about the damage?’ Jacko said into Rider’s ear again.
‘ Chalk it up to experience.’ Rider held up a finger when Jacko began to say more. Jacko shook his head disgustedly and made some under-the-breath remark about ‘every Tom Dick and Harry thinking they can get away with it from now on.’
Rider ignored him.
When he was sure they’d gone, Jacko returned to the bar. Rider stood alone at the club doors. He lit a cigarette, noticing his hands were shaking. Whether it was drink or nerves he wasn’t sure.
Puzzled, he tried to figure out what that had all been about. At least they’d gone without a fight. He blew out a lungful of smoke and turned back into the club.
Karl Donaldson walked slowly along the sea-front in Funchal, the port on his right, towards the marina and restaurants. The night was cool and fresh, pleasant for walking.
He was dissatisfied by the way things had gone. Sam had died tragically — accidentally — and he could not prove otherwise.
Hard to accept.
What he really wanted to do was bring in a team and get a real investigation going with real detectives. He knew it was an irrational desire and that he’d never get the go-ahead for it. What he was trying to do, as Santana had rightly hinted, was blame someone for her death, just like a grieving relative.
But there was no one to blame. Sam had died accidentally and that was an end to it. It hurt him to think he hadn’t known her as well as he thought. She could well have been a secret drinker, an alcoholic
… and yet somehow that wasn’t Sam.
All that remained for him to do
was arrange for the body to be flown back to the States, tidy up the loose ends here paperwork-wise, and fly home to London and his wife. He missed her like mad.
‘ You speak English?’ a female voice said to him.
‘ Yes, I do,’ he replied without thinking.
‘ You’re American,’ she said, picking up on the accent immediately.
Donaldson held back a swearword. He’d been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts, he’d walked straight into it without realising. The timeshare tout. That dreaded disease, now a worldwide plague which had even reached the tiny island of Madeira.
‘ Yes — and I’m not interested, thanks.’
‘ I’m not selling anything,’ she persisted pleasantly, smiling.
‘ Of course not.’
‘ Please,’ she said as he began to outpace her. ‘Give me a minute of your time.’
Fuck, what did it matter. He was going home tomorrow. And ever the sucker for the pretty face — which the girl did have, along with other attributes — he gave in. Within five minutes he had promised to visit a timeshare development (although the words ‘time’ and ‘share’ never reared their ugly heads), had been given some literature, and was on his way.
He turned down onto the marina and wandered past the series of restaurants there, finally plumping for one where he received least hassle from the salesmen-cum-waiters. He ate a good meal. Tomato soup and onions with a poached egg floating in it, followed by espada, the island’s very own fish which looked like a creature from a horror movie, and a bottle of Vinho Verde.
Ninety minutes later he emerged full, light-headed and completely resigned to Sam’s fate to be branded a closet drinker.
He was back in his room fifteen minutes later, emptying his pockets and undressing with not much coordination. The wine had had more effect on him than he’d imagined. His eyes managed to focus very briefly on the leaflet the timeshare tout had foisted on him. He was about to screw it up and bin it when he stopped, laid the paper out on the bedside cabinet and thought for a moment, difficult though this was.
Out of curiosity, he went over to where Sam’s belongings had been piled up and dug out a flight bag; he unzipped it and pulled out a money pouch, the type worn around the waist. He remembered Sam wearing it on the Lake District trip. Inside was all the money she had left in her possession — about five hundred pounds in sterling travellers’ cheques and six thousand escudos. There were other bits of paper folded up: restaurant and bank receipts, a receipt for a coach tour of the island — for tomorrow — and the thing Donaldson had been looking for… the same timeshare information leaflet he had been given.
