by Nick Oldham
‘ Henry,’ said FB patiently, ‘I’m not saying you should. Just watch him, that’s all. Do everything by the book. Record everything. Justify everything. Watch your back, in other words — that is, if you’re going to have any further dealings with him.’
‘ I will have,’ said Henry. He had made that decision because of what FB had just told him. It particularly annoyed him when people like McNamara started throwing their weight around after being justifiably and reasonably dealt with by the police. ‘In fact, I’m going to arrest him on suspicion of murder now because he’s really got my “mad” up.’
FB groaned inwardly. ‘C’mon, let’s grab a brew.’
Henry stood up, brushed his rumpled clothing down. He needed a shower and a change. His underpants were notably uncomfortable.
Without bothering to check his desk he followed FB towards the lift. A typist walking the other way then dumped a bundle of newly typed reports and files onto his blotter; on top of that the Admin Officer placed the remainder of the day’s other correspondence.
The meeting concluded at 1.15 p.m., no Minutes having been taken, but certain agreements having been made. All three men were ready for their treats which were waiting in the reception foyer of the club. A fifteen year-old boy — thin, wan and pathetic-looking — for Conroy; women for the other two. High-class hookers who were going to cost a lot of money.
Shadowed by the gunmen, the three wandered into Reception, their conversation much lighter and more relaxed than it had been. They talked about football and cars.
A man approached them.
Conroy’s guards stepped in between. Their hands slipped inside their jackets, a simple gesture which carried a menacing message. They didn’t seem to realise that had the man been a professional, they would all have been well dead by then.
But he wasn’t.
His name was Saltash and he was a pimp. He preferred to be referred to as a ‘procurer’. His business card stated I Procure the Needs of People on one side and Procurer to the Professionals on the other.
‘ It’s OK,’ Conroy said quickly, calming his jumpy bodyguards. His men became easy and drew aside. ‘What’ve you got for us today, Saltash, you slime-ball?’
Like an over-attentive, smarmy waiter, Saltash bowed courteously and led them to his ‘products’ — another misnomer he liked to use.
‘ For you,’ he said to Conroy. He indicated the young lad with the flourish of a magician. ‘This is Gary… Gary, stand up.’ Gary stood. He had a very spotty complexion and wore a sneer of contempt for Conroy. ‘Meet Mr Conroy.’
Conroy smiled. He liked them to have a bit of spunk about them (his little joke).
Saltash continued, ‘For you, Mr Morton, I’ve brought along Angela again — I know you like her and she adores you. Angela!’ Saltash motioned with his thumb.
Angela rose. Tall, leggy, dark, mysterious. Aged somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six. She was virtually lovely, but slightly raggy around the edges. She had a deep, grainy voice with a southern accent which made Morton’s hair tingle. And she spoke dirty, especially when drawing breath during oral sex. Morton adored her. She thought he was a fool.
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Baby… we need to fuck,’ she whispered.
‘ And for you, Mr McNamara… Gillian.’ Gillian was already on her feet. She was as tall as Angela but had much more of everything and she was black. She shook hands with McNamara whose face had already hardened into a cruel mask of lust.
Saltash’s experienced eyes saw that all was OK.
‘ Usual prices?’ Conroy asked. This was always his treat.
The procurer nodded.
‘ Usual services?’
Another nod of consent.
Conroy handed him an envelope. It was always a cash transaction. He looked at Gary who stood there looking bolshie. ‘Get up those fucking stairs,’ he hissed.
The defiant front wilted to one of passivity and acquiescence. Like a frightened dog, the boy did as he was told.
The other two men led their ladies upstairs.
As ever, three rooms had been put aside for their pleasure.
Saltash went into the restaurant and ordered a three-course meal with wine.
He thought he had a wonderful job.
The Duty Inspector hated what he was doing, taking a statement of complaint from a youth he knew to be a troublemaker, drug user and thief, with a string of convictions as long as a wet day in Fleetwood. It as a good test of the Inspector’s interpersonal skills that he didn’t get up, go round the table and complete the job Henry Christie had started a few days before, and rip Shane’s one remaining testicle from its moorings.
‘ I shall pass these details onto the relevant people,’ he explained to Shane at the conclusion. ‘I shall tell our Scenes of Crime Department to come and visit you later today to get a photograph of your… um… operation scar and you will hear very shortly from the Discipline and Complaints Department, I expect.’
The Inspector then bit his lip as he handed Shane a leaflet about how to complain against the police and how complaints are subsequently investigated. He showed him out of the police station — together with his legal adviser — as though he was a valued customer who would receive the most favourable attention. Please do call again.
What riled the Inspector was that was exactly how the D amp; C Department would perceive Shane: a client.
It made him sick to his stomach.
But, that said, Henry had obviously gone too far.
All the enthusiasm had drained out of Henry when, twenty minutes after having been told — informally — of Shane’s complaint against him, he sat down heavily at his desk. On top of everything else he was dealing with, the news had rocked him like a body blow.
He felt deflated and threatened.
The horrible spectre of a Crown Court appearance loomed ahead, with all its attendant publicity. As he sat there, head in hands, he decided that if he did end up facing a judge and jury, there were only two words he would say: ‘Not Guilty.’
All he wanted to do was sit and cry, he was so depressed. The workload, long hours and lack of sleep over the last few days had taken their toll; today’s additional weights — the violent death of Derek Luton, news that McNamara was making noises in high places, and the complaint from Mulcahy — were not far off being the last straw. The one that broke the detective’s back.
‘ Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this into perspective.’
Firstly, a court appearance was the worst thing that could possibly happen. Most complaints filed against the police fizzled out and came to nothing. This one could be the same. Henry believed he had used ‘reasonable force’ in order to subdue Shane who had, after all, attacked him with a knife. It was more than likely that when the file of evidence was submitted it would come back with No Further Action Recommended. It was his word against Shane’s. The only thing going against Henry was his stupidity in not filling in the custody record.
Secondly, McNamara did not intimidate him. In fact, Henry relished the prospect of taking on people in high places.
Thirdly, Degsy’s killer had to be found and a Detective Inspector with his mind on other matters would not achieve this.
And fourthly, long hours and hard work killed no one. Or so it was said.
‘ Right,’ he said again. ‘Get a grip and deal with everything as it happens.’
However, it was with slothful reluctance that he took the top piece of paper from the pile on his desk and read it. Correspondence waits for no man. Failure to deal with it simply means more. It doesn’t stop coming just because there are other things to do.
He began to deal.
The procurer drove his three products back to Blackburn later that afternoon. He delivered them to various locations. Gary asked to be dropped off near to the railway station. Angel was left outside a motel on the edge of town where Saltash had another client waiting for her. Gillian wanted to be take
n home.
The whole journey had been unusually quiet. Normally the two girls were full of laughter and mischief whilst Gary, for his age, had a very inventive sense of humour. Today was different. They were all withdrawn, sullen and somewhat tense. Saltash was quite happy that there was no chatter. He was over two thousand pounds to the good — tax-free, of course — and each of his products had pocketed two-fifty plus whatever tips they had been given. That was their business.
Gillian was the last of the three to be dropped off. She had seemed unusually distracted; it was her mood that had rubbed off on the others.
Saltash stopped near to her council flat in Shadsworth on the outskirts of town.
‘ Here we go,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll pick you up here at ten tomorrow. Busy day, lots of dosh to earn.’
She was sitting in one corner of the back seat, her long legs drawn up underneath her, coat tucked in, staring blankly out of the window. The snow in Blackburn had turned into wet, sleety rain. Very unpleasant.
‘ Come on, Gillian, I want to get home,’ he snapped when she did not get out straight away. He twisted round and cast his eyes back at her. Slowly her head turned away from the window and she looked into her pimp’s eyes.
‘ He was Marie’s main customer, wasn’t he?’ She wrung her hands.
Saltash’s eyes dropped momentarily. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘ He killed her, didn’t he?’
‘ I don’t know. Anyone could’ve killed the silly bitch. She was wild and stupid and probably got her come-uppence. But I’ll tell you one thing, Gillian; if you go mouthing off what you’ve just said to me, I’ll kill you. Understand?’ He licked his lips.
A tear rolled down her cheeks. ‘He degraded me today,’ she said with a choked sob. ‘And he talked about Marie when he did.’
‘ Listen, you brainless tart, you degrade yourself every fucking day by what you do. Hasn’t that sunk in yet? You make good money pandering to the whims of pathetic, rich men, so don’t knock it, babe. In five years you’ll have enough to pack it in — but if you want to go now and work for tuppence ha’penny at a supermarket check out, then fine, fuck off and do it. But don’t moan to me because a customer’s a bit kinky. Goes with the show, girl.’ He pointed animatedly at her as he spoke.
‘ And Marie? Does that go-with the show? Ending up dead on a beach?’
‘ Maybe,’ he said cruelly.
‘ I thought you were supposed to protect us?’ she cried.
He had no answer.
‘ Oh fuck you!’ she yelled into his face, opened the car door and emerged into the sleet.
Walking across the pavement she could still feel the sore places on her ankles and wrists where he’d tied the ropes to pin her to the bed. That she could handle. Many did that. It gave them a sense of dominance. What she found impossible to deal with was the cold knife-blade which McNamara had touched against the lips of her vagina and threatened to ram in.
Just like he’d done with that other poor bitch.
The phone rang. Henry grabbed it, delighted by the distraction.
‘ Henry, you old son of a b,’ came the ebullient American accent down the line.
He brightened up immediately. ‘Karl, how ya doin’?
‘ Nice-ish,’ said the FBI agent. ‘I guess you heard about Sam.’
‘ Karen phoned Kate the other night and mentioned it. Sorry to hear about it. She was a nice person.’ Henry had met her the once on that weekend trip to the Lake District.
‘ Murdered.’
‘ Really?’
‘ Yep. Can’t prove it, but I’ll try. You know me.’
‘ Certainly do. Anyway, pal, business or pleasure?’
‘ Well, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Henry,’ the American said genuinely.
‘ Karl… you’re making me blush. Now cut the crap.’
‘ OK. Been reading a routine circulation of yours re the seizure of some firearms after a shooting up on your manor… manor — is that the right phrase, bud?’
‘ More a Metropolitan term, but it’ll do. So, what about these firearms?’
‘ They’re part of a haul from a break and enter at a warehouse in Florida, just outside Miami. Two months ago. One heck of a haul too: machine guns, rifles, pistols, bazookas, SAM’s… you name it, plus the ammo to go. Several million dollars’ worth. Enough to equip a small army.’
‘ From Florida?’ Henry said, astounded. ‘What the hell are they doing in Lancashire then?’
‘ Who knows?’
‘ You coming up here then, Karl?’
‘ Naw, not for a while anyways, but I’ll do my best from down here to help you with information, as and when — or if — I get it. For the time being I’ll fax you all the details of the haul. Maybe you should have another word with your suspect? Then I’ll speak to the Miami Field Office to see what else they can tell me about it.’
They chatted on for a few more minutes before concluding the call. Henry, cheered by the news and the conversation, picked up the last piece of correspondence and found himself humming Starfucker. The tune stopped abruptly when he saw the post-it sticker slap bang in the middle of his blotter. He ripped it off and read it.
In the precise way Derek always operated, the note was timed — 10.15p.m. — and dated.
It read, H. Need to speak to you urgently. Found something well odd. It was signed Degsy. Then a P.S. I’ll be at home. Whatever time you get back, call me or come round, WHATEVER TIME!! It’s urgent. D.
Within seconds, Henry was hurtling down the stairs.
The line was very bad. Donaldson had to listen very intently through the static to hear the voice at the other end. It didn’t help that the person was speaking in a Portuguese accent and was calling from Madeira.
‘ Special Agent Donaldson?’
‘ Yeah. Sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I can hardly hear you.’
‘ It is me, George Santana, speaking from Funchal.’
‘ Oh, hello,’ said Donaldson slightly more formally. He rated the Maderain detective very low on the Richter Scale following his experiences in that country, but was obviously very interested in why he should be ringing. He was the last person Donaldson expected to hear from, and quite honestly had grave doubts about the man’s professional ability. He’d concluded, from very little evidence, that either the guy was not a ‘real’ detective, with no feel for a case, or he was on the take. Or both.
With a startlingly loud crackle which nearly burst his eardrum, the line cleared. Then they could have been conversing in adjacent rooms.
‘ Ahh, that’s better.’
‘ Yes, I can hear you well, also,’ said Santana. ‘I have some news for you about the person who was arrested for the assault upon you.’
‘ Uh-hu, Romero,’ nodded Donaldson. His fingers automatically touched the chain-track across his cheek. He expected the worst: he’d escaped, or been released without charge, been given a pardon. Something along those lines.
The news stunned him.
‘ He’s dead. He was found hanging in his cell in the prison where he was being held pending court. It was very suspicious.’
That’s handy, Donaldson thought cynically. Another possible witness found dead, unable to testify.
‘ That is not all,’ Santana continued. He sounded out of breath. ‘The one we believed to be Romero’s partner in crime is dead also. He was found floating in the harbour near to the ferry. Throat cut from ear to ear. Of course we do not actually know if he worked with Romero when you were attacked-’
‘ Yes we do, George,’ the American snarled.
‘ OK, OK, we do,’ Santana submitted.
‘ Why tell me all this, George?’
‘ Because I have been obliged to think long and hard about this. I admit I was very unconvinced about Agent Dawber’s death being of a suspicious nature. However, following the other girl’s death, then the man in the harbour, then Romero — who we are not convinced hanged
himself, I believe there is more to this than meets the eye.’
‘ Hooray,’ Donaldson could not resist saying. He held back from blasting out that it had taken two more deaths for it all to be taken seriously.
‘ There is also more,’ Santana said. From the tone of voice, Donaldson could visualise the sheepish look on his face. He waited for it.
‘ The samples taken from under Agent Dawber’s fingernails?’
Donaldson’s gut wrenched. ‘Yes?’
‘ Human tissue. It looks like she scratched somebody’s face.’
Donaldson closed his eyes and fist in celebration. Thank: God he made the pathologist take the samples!
‘ We are unable to match with DNA from here, regrettably.’
‘ Send me the sample. I’ll get it done.’
‘ We’ve yet to find any hard evidence against anyone at this stage. The result of the analysis of Agent Dawber’s blood shows a high alcohol content — which doesn’t help you, I’m afraid.’
‘ Take a good long look at Scott Hamilton at the Jacaranda. He’s the connection.’
‘ Exactly what we are doing. He is now under twenty-four-hour surveillance.’
Annie was deeply distressed. It manifested itself in different ways. She moved from almost violent hysteria to a silent, trance-like state in a flash. Tears flowed, dried up, burst again. One moment she was on her feet, the next sat down, head buried in a cushion, trying to deal with the enormity of the situation.
She had returned to the house, in spite of others urging her to stay out. She wanted to remain in situ, in the home she and Derek had created in the six months of their wonderful marriage. To stay with memories which, with the exception of the final one, were good ones. She wanted to touch the things they had owned, bought and paid for together with their hard earned cash.
The hallway was being inspected by a forensic team. Two scientists clad in white plastic suits were crawling about, lifting fibres, scraping up blood; a scenes of crime officer was daubing excessive amounts of grey fingerprint powder all over shiny surfaces, leaving dirty marks that would be hell to clean later. They were finding little. It had been a very clean kill.
