by Nick Oldham
‘ All in all,’ the officer admitted to Henry, ‘it amounts to the fact he’s got money, power and influence. If you’re dealing with him for anything, watch out. He’s a slippery sod and he bears grudges.’
Henry thanked the officer. He and Lucy then began their trek across the county, intending to combine an on-spec visit to McNamara with a few enquiries around Blackburn about the dead girl.
They skirted Blackburn on the arterial road. Henry picked up the B6232 Grane Road, which would take them up onto the moors.
Five minutes later they pulled into the long driveway which led up to McNamara’s farmhouse. Henry said to Lucy, ‘Just so you know, I’m dropping the word "Acting" when I introduce myself. Plain “Detective Inspector” rolls off the tongue better and he has no reason to know I’m really just a Sergeant.’
‘ OK,’ she smiled. ‘Delusions of grandeur, maybe, but OK.’
The bulky figure of Sir Harry McNamara, former MP for the South Blackburn and Darwen constituency, stood thoughtfully at the conservatory doors of his restored farmhouse on the moors overlooking Blackburn. It was another clear winter’s day, no cloud or mist, and he could see the Lancashire coastline some forty miles to the west and the little blip that was Blackpool Tower.
Usually days like these made him appreciate what a wonderful part of the country he lived in, with scenery to rival anywhere else in Britain, indeed the world. And he had seen much of both.
He placed the expensive, bulbous cigar between his fat lips and took a long draw, blowing the resultant smoke out into the atmosphere where it wisped away.
Today, however, he was not considering the countryside. He was thinking deeply about the conversation he’d had with a police Chief Inspector from Blackburn who had earwigged a phone conversation between the cop who arrested him last year and some detective from Blackpool. The police in Blackpool, it would appear, were investigating the murder of a prostitute and McNamara’s name had cropped up.
He stepped out of the conservatory and walked across the patio to the edge of the lawn. Even though the grass had not been mown since the onset of cold weather, it looked well. He dropped the cigar butt onto it and crushed it to death with the sole of his shoe.
Philippa, his second wife, who was twenty-two years younger than him at thirty-five, appeared in the conservatory. She had picked up his mood following the phone call and — as other minions did (and she was under no illusion that she was anything more than just another minion) — had withdrawn to a safe distance. She was wary of her husband’s temper, which could be violent at times. This time, however, there was something different in the air. He was angry, that much was obvious, but there was fear there too.
‘ Harry,’ she called sweetly, ‘can I get you anything?’
He had his back to her and did not do her the courtesy of turning. Just shook his head, made no verbal response.
‘ Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ she persisted gently.
He closed his eyes momentarily in a gesture of impatience. Still not turning he said, ‘No,’ firmly.
She left.
When he was sure she was out of earshot, he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a local number.
‘ We need to have chats, soon,’ he said.
‘ When?’
McNamara gave a time and date. No location because the venue was always the same. He ended the call abruptly.
He spent as little time as possible on mobiles. Handy though they were, they were also dangerous. He knew he could very easily be a target for journalists with scanners, particularly with his reputation. He preferred the old-fashioned landline where possible.
‘ Harry,’ McNamara’s wife called from the conservatory door.
‘ I said I don’t want anything!’ he barked.
‘ I know,’ she said, ‘but the police are here — two detectives. They want to see you about something. Harry, what is it?’
‘ How the hell should I know?’
Brushing roughly past her, he mooched over to the house and went to the entrance hall where, indeed, two detectives were waiting to see him.
‘ Sir Harry McNamara?’ the male detective said politely, a smile on his face. He held out a hand. McNamara shook it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, but we need to have a chat with you. Hope you don’t mind, hope it’s not inconvenient. Oh, by the way, this is DC Crane and I’m Detective Inspector Christie. We’re from Blackpool CID.’
‘ Come into the study,’ McNamara said. ‘I hope this won’t take long. I’m rather busy and need to go out shortly to a business meeting.’ A lie, but these two cops wouldn’t know.
‘ I can’t make any promises about how long it’ll take. Depends on what you tell us,’ Henry informed him.
McNamara nodded and led the detectives to the study which was off the hall. Henry caught sight of McNamara’s wife standing in the kitchen. It was only a brief glimpse of a tall, sad-looking woman, lonely and quite beautiful.
The officers were not asked to sit, nor were they offered refreshment. McNamara made it clear he was doing them a favour. It was an imposition for him.
‘ What do you want?’
Lucy did the talking, Henry the watching.
‘ We appreciate this might be quite delicate,’ she began. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman in Blackpool. We think you knew her and we’re obviously speaking to everyone we can find with connections to her. As a matter of routine.’
‘ No, I don’t know her,’ McNamara said immediately. ‘I don’t know anyone in Blackpool.’
‘ She’s not from Blackpool, she’s from Blackburn and her name is Marie Cullen.’
Henry watched McNamara’s face, which flushed like a toilet.
‘ No. The name means nothing to me.’
‘ She was a prostitute and was arrested for soliciting about a year ago in the King Street area of Blackburn. You were arrested at the same time for kerb crawling and drink driving. She was seen to get in your car.’
‘ And as you two probably know, I was acquitted of the charges at court. The poor woman who was embroiled in the same incident was not known to me then, nor now. I did not, nor do not, know her. It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances for which the police will be paying dearly when it reaches civil court.’
‘ You’re saying you don’t know Marie Cullen?’ Lucy asked.
‘ Yes. That is what I’m saying, so I suggest we stop at this point. I have never seen the woman since that night and if you even begin to make out that I have done, I’ll sue you. Now I’m asking you to leave.’
They were ushered out and moments later were climbing silently into the CID car. Henry started the engine.
Then they looked at each other. Simultaneously they both said the same word and burst out laughing.
The word was ‘Guilty’.
Once on the road, Henry said, ‘I think he knew we were coming, Luce, which I find pretty worrying. Let’s bob into Blackburn police station and have a nose around, maybe speak to the officer who dealt with him again.’
‘ Good idea.’
The top ten worst moments of my life, thought Karl Donaldson. I’m not exactly sure which one this has replaced, but I think it’s definitely sneaked into the top five.
He was certain the number one spot would never be breached — the time when he’d held the dying body of a friend and colleague who’d been cruelly gunned down by a mafia hit man. That had been a hell of a bad moment, which still hurt two years later.
But this was pretty damned bad too.
The casket containing the post mortem mutilated body of FBI operative Samantha Jane Dawber was taken from the hold of the GB Airlines plane which had just touched down at Heathrow from Madeira. It was transferred under Donaldson’s watchful eye onto the back of a small flat back truck with big tyres, an amber flashing light and a curious sounding horn, across the apron on what seemed like an interminable journey to the British Airways New York flight.
He w
atched it while it was loaded into the belly of the huge jet, amongst all the other luggage.
Donaldson desperately wanted to be on that flight too, in order to accompany her all the way home and hand her over to her Mom and Pop. To be able to tell them everything he knew about her life and death; tell them what a fantastic person she was, a wonderful caring friend, a dedicated professional. And tell them he’d arranged for another autopsy to take place because he wasn’t remotely satisfied with the one already done.
The hold was locked.
Donaldson said, ‘Bye, Sam, look after yourself.’
It was hard to hold back a tear and a sob, but he did. He was sad that he would miss the subsequent funeral, but he knew Sam would understand because something told him he would be busy at this end, unearthing stuff about Scott Hamilton and maybe getting to grips with the real reason for Sam’s death. And, of course, the other death he felt totally responsible for — Francesca’s.
Karen met him at the other end of Customs.
When he melted into her arms he allowed himself that tear. Karen too had obviously been in a state of denial. They cried silently for a few moments, holding each other tight, oblivious of the gawping stares of everyone else.
Eventually they let go. Time to look at each other properly.
‘ Your face is a terrible mess,’ she said, looking at the dirty chain-mark and black eye.
‘ It’ll heal.’
‘ And you look completely whacked.’
‘ And you look completely gorgeous.’ He glanced down at her stomach, which was just beginning to show signs of expansion. He touched it and said, ‘How’s your belly?’
‘ Full of arms and legs,’ she smiled, ‘but fine.’
‘ Long hot bath and a good night’s sleep is what I need,’ he said, taking her hand and walking towards the exit.
She looked at him critically. ‘Hope that’s not all you want. I mean, there is absolutely no way I can get pregnant now. We should take advantage of that sort of situation, don’t you think?’
‘ Then I suggest we get home as soon as possible.’
Detective Constable Derek Luton was extremely proud of himself.
He had been a police officer for only six years, spending five on uniformed patrol duties at Blackpool. During those years he had dedicated himself to becoming a detective and he had achieved his aim far sooner than he had anticipated.
From his appointment onto the branch, he had been working on Henry Christie’s team and had set himself to learn everything he could from Henry who, it was quietly considered, was a cracking detective.
Not because he broke the rules (though it was rumoured he had once given a prisoner cocaine in return for information); nor was he oppressive to prisoners, nor was he a maverick, but because he was thorough, occasionally a genius, occasionally very brave… and he had a bit of a reputation too, which added to his general aura.
Henry himself would have cringed at this last bit. Eighteen months earlier, he had stupidly become involved with a young policewoman. His marriage to Kate had only just survived it and Henry had learned a salutary lesson: keep your dick in your pants. He didn’t like to be reminded what an ass he’d been.
But Luton worshipped Henry, who had taken him willingly under his wing. He knew he had a lot to learn from Henry’s vast wealth of experience. And now Henry had let him get involved in Blackpool’s biggest-ever murder case. Five civilians, one dead cop.
Brilliant.
‘ The Lottery Killings’, as the media had dubbed it.
Not only that, by pure chance Luton had been paired up with a seasoned detective from the North-West Organised Crime Squad.
Bliss!
Luton had aspirations of being much more than a local CID officer. In the fullness of time he wanted to move to the Drugs Squad, then Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, la creme de la creme, the NWOCS, the gangbusters. Fuckin’ magic, they were, he thought enthusiastically.
The murder investigation — which NWOCS had bulldozed their way into and taken over — would, Luton hoped, provide some sort of insight as to how they operated. Maybe even get him noticed as a potential future recruit.
Initially he was very impressed.
Taking witness statements was a skill most police officers, whatever the department, get good at. Luton considered himself to be above average, as was expected of a CID officer — but the statements taken by the guy Tattersall from the NWOCS he was working with were superb — packed full of detail, and reading like a story.
Tattersall even got the witnesses to sign some blank statement forms so that there would be no need to revisit when they were eventually typed up. Not usual practice, but a time-saver.
The statements had been taken from four witnesses who had seen the first robbery at the newsagents in Fleetwood, the one the gang had done before heading south to massacre the people in Blackpool. They were all very similar.
In fact, the statements were so good that when he got the chance, Luton took a quick photocopy of the originals for future reference. Copying material he judged to be good quality was a habit he had acquired early in his service. He kept everything in a binder and often referred back for guidance, though as his experience grew he went back less and less and the binder was relegated to his locker.
A couple of days into the investigation, Luton began to have vague, nagging doubts about the NWOCS.
He raised some of the questions which Henry had posed on the night of the shooting, that fatal Saturday, because he felt they weren’t being addressed. Or he wasn’t aware of them being addressed.
Questions such as: How did the robbers get from one shop to the other so quickly?
It was possible they could have done it — but only if traffic was virtually non-existent on the roads.
When he put it to them, he was fobbed off with, ‘In their fucking car, how d’you think?’
Questions like: Why should the gang suddenly revert to murder? They were violent, yes, probably capable of murder. But killing six people? Luton was patronised.
‘ Drugs,’ he was told. ‘We believe they were on speed.’
Then he asked if the possibility of two separate gangs operating had been considered.
That really got their backs up. Luton found himself shut out completely, ending up with a lame duck job doing house-to-house enquiries along the supposed route of the gang from one shop to the other. A job for uniforms.
And he couldn’t understand why.
He didn’t specifically link it to the nooky questions he’d been asking.
No one said anything to him, so when he asked he was told it was to give him experience of all aspects of a murder enquiry, which he had to accept. At the back of his mind he had a nasty feeling he’d upset somebody, but didn’t know who, how or why.
Late that Tuesday evening, three days after the shootings, Luton was alone in the murder incident room at Blackpool police station. The usual 9 p.m. debrief of the day’s activities had been done and everyone involved in the job had either gone for a drink or gone home. Moodily, Luton had stayed behind, kicking his heels, drifting aimlessly around the silent room, pissed off with proceedings.
He was pretty sure the NWOCS had a lead on the gang and that only their officers were following it up, keeping it very much to themselves. He was annoyed that he wasn’t being allowed to do anything in that direction.
In one of the baskets next to a HOLMES terminal, having already been inputted, was a thick stack of witness statements. They were all now neatly typed.
Absently, he picked up the top one and glanced at it. He recognised the name of the witness as one of the people he and Tattersall had interviewed about the Fleetwood robbery. Luton’s eyes zigzagged down the page, not specifically reading it closely, until something jarred him into concentration.
He had been present when the statement had been taken and he remembered it quite clearly. This particular witness had been very precise in his recollection of events and had given a qua
lity statement.
Holding the statement in two hands, Luton sat down on a typist’s chair and with a very puzzled brow, began to read it through again — very carefully this time. He hadn’t realised that he had been holding his breath until at the end he exhaled long and unsteadily.
Then he read it again. Just to make sure.
After that he flicked through the statement tray to see if he could find the original. It wasn’t there.
He knew where he could find a copy.
Leaving the typed statement on the desk next to the computer terminal, he got up and walked out of the room. He ignored the lift — too slow — and shot down the stairs three at a time until he reached the CID floor where his locker was situated.
With a cold expression, Jim Tattersall had been watching Luton’s activities from the door of the incident room. As the young detective stood up, he twisted quickly out of sight into a darkened office, from where he saw Luton almost run to the stairs.
When the stairs door closed, Tattersall walked swiftly into the incident room and went to the seat Luton had been using.
He saw the typed statement on the desk.
Tattersall’s face hardened as he realised that Derek Luton had discovered something he should not have done.
The photocopy Luton had made of the original statement was in a binder at the bottom of his locker. He unhooked the binder and pulled it out, together with the three other statements he had witnessed being given. He hurried straight back upstairs, arriving there breathless.
The incident room was still empty. Good.
He crossed quickly to the desk where he’d left the statement, sat down and compared it with his photocopy of the original.
He nearly choked. It was different! Somewhere in the translation from longhand to type it had been changed, only slight changes, but crucial ones.
Suddenly the room seemed airless and hot. He could not believe what his eyes were telling him.
Statements had been doctored.
He ran a hand over his face. Once again he compared them. In the original, the time of the robbery in Fleetwood had been written as 7.10 p.m. The typed copy stated 7.01 p.m. Luton could easily have forgiven this as a typing error and maybe it was. Pretty bloody elementary, though.
