by Nick Oldham
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.’
‘ 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 ope
ned 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 working 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.
Donaldson was vaguely aware of a scream from Francesca and the sound of a scuffle behind him and a rasping male voice, shouting.
Donaldson’s attacker launched a big kick towards his exposed groin. He grabbed the foot just centimetres before it connected with his balls and clung desperately onto it whilst the man tried to shake him free, and pounded him repeatedly in the side with the chain. Fleetingly, Donaldson saw the traffic passing below, under the bridge. It was a long way down.
Donaldson bit into the big man’s leg, right on the calf muscle at the back of the shin. He sunk his teeth in as hard and nastily as he could, trying to bite through the oil-tasting denim, knowing he couldn’t, but trying anyway.
Bites work well in fights.
The man let out an agonised roar. With a superhuman effort he yanked his leg out of Donaldson’s grip and teetered backwards, holding the bitten area.
Donaldson was up onto all fours, shaking his head. His toes sought grip on the slippery wet metal surface and he tried to launch himself at the man. He didn’t connect as hard and accurately as he would have liked, but when his left shoulder rammed into the man’s lower belly, it forced all the wind out of him with a rushing groan. He pushed him off-balance. The man toppled over and landed on his back with Donaldson about to dive onto him.
Still with the chain in his hand, he swung it wildly at Donaldson, who ducked properly this time, feeling the whoosh of air as it sailed past his head. The man whipped it back in the opposite direction so quickly that this time he caught the side of Donaldson’s face, knocking him from his position of advantage, sending him sprawling against the railings again.
Donaldson was on his feet first, recovering well, despite feeling that his jaw had been broken by the impact of the chain across it. He hit the man hard, determined to finish it. Twice in the face, Donaldson’s fists bunched hard like iron blocks, right-handed, two blows to the side of the jaw. The impact of each jarred his knuckles, but it did the job. The big man, who was only halfway up to his feet, dissolved like a jelly.
Donaldson spun round, concerned for Francesca.
He was too late. The second man had her pinned up against the railings, a hand clamped around her throat, trying to push her over. She struggled, twisting, fighting and clawing like a cat, but the man was too strong. With one last great shove, she went over the railings; her legs came up, she screamed, then was gone into the void.
‘ Nooo!’ howled Donaldson, racing towards the second assailant, who simply turned and ran across the bridge into the rain and the darkness of night.
There was a screech of brakes below, a dull thudding noise, then the metallic crunch as cars collided. Donaldson stopped and looked over the railings. It was hard to make anything out properly. There was confusion on the road. He could just about see the figure of Francesca underneath the wheels of a car. A hand stuck out, seeming to be reaching for something. Then it stopped moving.
Donaldson’s jaw was not broken, although it had swollen to twice its normal size and was as hard as iron. A nasty-looking, raised red-raw wheal ran from his right eye down across his chin with indentations in it, into which the chain could have been fitted perfectly. It looked as if someone had driven some sort of wheeled kitchen implement across his face. His eye was swollen and black too.
The painkillers prescribed by the doctor at the hospital were not working. He didn’t want them to work. He wanted to
feel pain… because he was that way inclined at the moment.
He was listening to Detective George Santana who was talking about the attacker in custody. Donaldson was not liking what he was hearing.
‘ Romero is a well known tough-nut. Convictions for robbery and violence. He works as a team with another no-good local criminal. We are looking for that man now. It looks like robbery was the motive, and it went wrong. They have robbed tourists before.’
‘ So what you’re goddam trying to tell me is this incident has no connection with Sam Dawber’s death. It was purely coincidental, am I right?’
Santana shrugged. ‘What is the connection?’ he said evenly. ‘You tell me what it is and I’ll believe you and investigate it.’
‘ Francesca was going to give me information about Sam’s death. She’d already told me Sam had been murdered. We were going to my room so she could tell me everything she knew. There’s just too much of a coincidence, George.’ Donaldson counted on his fingers. ‘Sam writing Hamilton’s name down; my visit to the timeshare, his reaction to me; Francesca turning up to see me and then those bastards waiting for us on the bridge. It don’t take a genius to see it all, so go on, George, you tell me there’s no connection,’ he concluded, challenging Santana.
Santana nodded and conceded. ‘You are probably correct. But it is very circumstantial, even with the best intention in the world.’
Donaldson breathed a sigh of relief. Ally-fuckin’-looya, he thought.
‘ However,’ cautioned Santana, ‘unless Romero tells us something, there will be a problem making a connection.’
‘ What has he said so far?’
‘ Absolutely nothing. He’s an old hand. We may never crack him.’
‘ Fuck,’ uttered Donaldson. He was completely deflated, frustrated and pissed off. It was the powerlessness, the lack of control that was really irritating him. Being in a foreign country made it all a million times worse. Everyone else spoke a language he could just about say ‘Hello’ in, and their police force seemed either unable or unwilling to run with the ball. God, he wanted to scream. Unfortunately he could not open his mouth wide enough to do so. He would probably be on liquids for a week until the swelling went down.
