by Nick Oldham
Back in the office, he logged into his e-mail and found that the intelligence unit had sent him details of Marty Cragg’s convictions and the stories behind them. He printed them off and looked round, realizing that, in hindsight, it had been a mistake to share an office with Jane. He used his TETRA radio to contact Rik Dean to tell him he would be with him within quarter of an hour.
Henry left quickly to avoid meeting Jane. He was running scared.
Karl Donaldson had worked with Zeke before when both had been field agents in Miami. Zeke’s real name was Carlos Hiero. His parents had emigrated from Spain and settled in Florida in the early 1960s and had developed a fairly successful flower-selling business with about six shops dotted around the Miami/Fort Lauderdale area. They were not ultra-wealthy, but were well off and comfortable. On leaving university Zeke had become a lawyer, then joined the FBI at the age of twenty-six, when his Spanish origins meant he was used to great effect in combating Hispanic crime gangs.
He and Donaldson, although never working partners, had colluded closely on a number of cases with some good results.
Donaldson was back at his desk in the embassy, leafing through a mountain of paperwork which came with the job. His mind was not concentrating on what was in front of him. He checked his watch constantly and glanced at the mobile phone propped up on his desk. His eyes stopped at a photograph of his wife and two sons and he could not keep himself from grinning at them even though his mind was harbouring dark thoughts.
It was four days since he had heard from Zeke.
‘You know, sometimes you can’t please anybody,’ DS Rik Dean said to Henry. ‘I mean, we give ’em all the protection they can possible want, mollycoddle ’em and yet they still maintain they’ve nothing to tell us.’
The two men were standing outside Blackpool Victoria Hospital, near to the entrance to A&E. Henry had driven up from the police station and found Dean in a small private ward where the two shooting victims from McDonald’s were being guarded by armed cops. Both men were now out of danger, medically speaking, but neither seemed to have any great desire to talk to the police, not surprising as they were deep in the mire themselves anyway.
‘Doesn’t really matter, though,’ Dean was saying. ‘Witnesses put them down as the instigators of the shoot-out and they just came off worst.’ Dean shook his head. ‘Blackpool, what a bloody place!’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry thoughtfully, ‘in more ways than one.’ He took a breath. ‘One thing, though – keep them separated. Not only so they don’t have contact with each other, but also so that they’re not in the same place if anyone chooses to pay them a return match. It’ll make it more difficult if they’re apart from each other.’
‘Good point,’ said Dean. ‘I’ll sort that. For now they’re under guard and as soon as the quacks say they’re fit enough, we’ll haul their backsides down to the station and start kicking their wounds.’
Henry laughed. ‘Yeah, good.’ He had no qualms about Rik Dean, trusting him to take care of business professionally. ‘I’ve come about something else, actually.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘I told you I was investigating a cold case, reviewing the murder of that unidentified female in the flat in North Shore last year, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing – you just don’t forget murders, do you?’
‘No, suppose not. Well, I’ve unearthed an interesting connection between that murder and the shooting down at King’s Cross, I think.’
‘Yeah?’ Dean drawled, his eyes narrowed, wondering why Henry was sharing this with him.
‘Thought I’d run it past you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘You know there’s a good chance the Cragg brothers are involved in that, yeah? I’ve been trawling through all the stuff we have on them both. Very little on Ray, he’s a cool, very aware dude, but we’ve a bit more on Marty, much more volatile publicly, as you know. He got locked up for a bit of a fracas a few months ago outside the Palace.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Dean still had no idea where this was going.
‘Looking through the custody record I found an interesting connection, left there by mistake by Marty. I wondered if you had any observations on it.’
‘And the connection is?’
‘Jacqueline Burrows, aka Jack Burrows. You remember, the woman who owned the flats in which the girl was murdered?’ Henry watched Dean’s face carefully. Last time he had mentioned Burrows’ name to him, Dean had gone a white shade of pale. ‘You took a statement from her, remember?’
‘I recall,’ Dean croaked. He was eyeing Henry suspiciously and once again had lost all colour. Henry could not fathom why. Dean tried to shrug off his discomfort. ‘So what’re you asking me?’
‘Well, it might be something and nothing. I’m just chasing shadows, maybe – it’s just that when Marty was arrested for the public order offence – which was for beating up a female, by the way – he was given his rights when he sobered up . . .’ He did not complete what he was going to say. He did not know why, but he was playing Dean like a fish, for some reason.
‘And . . .?’ Dean almost demanded.
‘When asked who he wished to be told of his arrest, he nominated Burrows.’ Dean looked perplexed.
‘An interesting connection, don’t you think?’
‘Fascinating.’
‘I wondered if you’d come across that connection when you took that statement from her?’
‘No.’
‘Because the other interesting thing is that Marty has convictions on his record for beating up women.’
‘Oh, right,’ Dean said, nodding wisely. ‘So if we’d known of the connection between him and her, he would’ve been worth a pull. Is that what you mean?’ Henry nodded. ‘No, never came up,’ said Dean.
‘Mm, okay . . . anyway, he’s still worth a pull and when I get time, I’ll be doing the pulling.’ Henry drew his head back and looked down his nose at Dean, then leaned in close to him. ‘I want you to know one thing, Rik: any time you want, you can come and have a chat with me, in confidence, about anything, because I’ve been a cop long enough to know one thing.
‘What’s that?’
‘I know when there’s more going on than meets the eye.’ He tapped his nose and left it at that.
Karl Donaldson had never worked undercover. Never wanted to. It took a special kind of person to do it, one with many qualities Donaldson knew he did not possess. Being undercover is not a glamorous job. It is often exciting in a sphincter-curdling way and it is always dangerous because, every hour of every day, the life of an undercover agent is under threat. Donaldson, though a brave and courageous man, knew he could never live life like that. He did not mind putting in the necessary hours or days, but at the end of it he liked to be able to relax and forget about work.
An undercover agent could never do that because he or she could never be a hundred per cent certain they had not been grassed up or their cover blown. At any time they could receive that fatal visit from a disgruntled felon, angry at having been taken in, deceived and cheated, and therefore determined to track down the person responsible for his downfall.
Donaldson had nothing but admiration for undercover agents. But he never wanted to be one.
Four days, he was thinking. Had not heard from Zeke in four days.
Keep calm, he instructed himself. There are no hard and fast rules about contact, but it was just so out of character for Zeke. He made some sort of contact each day, either by phone or text message. To go so long with nothing worried Donaldson.
Particularly in view of the job Zeke was doing at that moment, because he had taken the place of an undercover FBI agent who had been murdered.
‘Are you harassing me? Do I need to call my solicitor? Or is this just a friendly, social visit?’
Jack Burrows stood resolutely at her front door, looking, Henry had to admit, very desirab
le indeed. She was dressed in a rather severe business suit, hair swept back into a tight ponytail, face made up expertly. She did not look as though she had ever been, or could be, an undertaker. She spoke lightly, with steel undertones.
‘If asking a few questions about a murder committed on one of your properties is deemed to be harassment, then yes, I’m harassing you.’ Henry smiled winningly.
She had been tense, but her shoulders relaxed.
‘Come in,’ she said, relenting, and led him into the lounge. ‘What can I do for you?’ She indicated for him to sit, which he did. She remained standing, affording Henry a great view of her long, tapering legs.
‘Couple of things. Firstly, I haven’t been able to trace Thomas Dinsdale yet, your ex-manager. I wonder if you could help?’ He actually hadn’t tried, but that wasn’t the point.
‘He left no forwarding address, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I really do need to speak to him,’ Henry said, laying it on thick. ‘I reckon he’ll know more than he said. I’d like to sweat him a little.’
‘Is that allowed these days? Interrogation?’
‘I’ll do it in the nicest possible way.’ Henry’s face indicated otherwise, bringing a glimmer of a smile to Burrows’ lips.
‘What else?’
‘I’d like your permission to search the flat again.’
‘Wasn’t that done at the time?’ Henry nodded. ‘Surely there won’t be anything to find – it’s been so long. There can’t be any value in another search.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said haughtily. ‘I think it would be worth it, so I take it your permission is granted?’
She nodded, but not happily.
‘Thanks. That’s about it.’ Henry stood up and headed for the door. Burrows followed him. He paused, turned and did his impression of Columbo. ‘There is one more thing . . .’
‘And that is?’
‘What’s your relationship with Marty Cragg?’ he asked bluntly, going straight for the jugular. She shifted slightly as the question hit her, but stayed casual. Henry was impressed by her composure.
‘I don’t know any Marty Cragg.’
‘How come he phoned you when he was in custody last year?’
She shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken.’
Henry took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. He read a telephone number out. ‘That’s yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Her face became tight and unpleasant.
‘That was the number on the custody record with your name next to it. One hell of a mistake, wouldn’t you say? Marty dictated the number to the custody sergeant.’
She remained silent and shook her head, shrugging innocently. Henry waited impassively, his hand resting on the inner door handle. He enjoyed these difficult silences and rarely broke them. He raised his eyebrows. Again she shook her head and would not be drawn to say anything. Henry admired her fortitude under pressure, but wondered why she was denying this relationship. For a split second it looked like she was about to say something, then she checked herself, coughed and said, ‘No further comment.’
‘Okay.’ Henry relented, but only for that one word. ‘Maybe next time we’ll be talking into a tape recorder, eh?’
‘I doubt it,’ she responded crisply.
Henry turned the door handle as the pager on his belt bleeped. He pulled it off and read the scrolling display, then re-read it.
‘Another murder?’ Burrows asked brightly.
‘No, just my wife telling me my dinner’ll be in the oven.’ He opened the door. ‘Oh, key for the flat?’
‘The house manager has one. You can get it from the office in Hornby Road. I’ll make sure he knows you’re coming for it sometime. As far as I know, the flat is unoccupied at the moment.’
‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said, reverting to the lowest form of wit. ‘No doubt we’ll meet again soon.’
‘Can’t wait.’ She closed the door behind him, then leaned on to it to stop herself falling over. ‘Shit,’ she breathed through clenched teeth.
In the Vectra, Henry switched his mobile phone on and called into the force control room as instructed by his pager message.
Burrows watched Henry surreptitiously through the living-room window, then picked up her phone and called a number. It rang on, and on, until eventually that nice metallic lady on the answerphone service interrupted. Burrows ended the call and threw the cordless phone across the room, smashing it against the wall.
Karl Donaldson sat opposite his steely-eyed boss, Philippa Bottram, who headed the legation in London. He told her of his concerns about Zeke. She listened intently, very much aware that for Karl to be so bothered about anything meant that it was deadly serious.
She liked having him in her office. She was single, having divorced last year, living in a flat in London and she wished Donaldson would respond to her less than subtle approaches. So far he had been a brick wall, but never took umbrage at her passes. She thought this was because such things like women throwing themselves at him was such an integral part of his life, him being such a goddam handsome SOB. Bottram despised Donaldson’s wife and was madly jealous of her.
For his part, Donaldson was very wary of getting involved with his boss, even if he had been single and free. He had heard that Bottram batted for both sides and if he got involved with any woman, he wanted her to be all for him and none for her, as it were.
‘I find it unusual and unsettling,’ he was saying. ‘Zeke is very good, very punctual and always makes back-up contact if he misses for any reason.’
‘It’s not rocket science, Karl. There could be any number of reasons for non-contact.’
‘Yeah, it’s just . . .’
‘Gut instinct?’
‘Something like that. I know it sounds a bit weak.’
‘No, not where you’re concerned.’ She smiled seductively, something that was lost on Donaldson, who was far too deeply engrossed thinking about his undercover agent. He checked his watch. It was approaching midday. ‘I’ll give him another hour, then I make contact.’
It was a relief to Henry to be leaving the environs of Blackpool. It was as though he was leaving behind a world of chaos of which he had been the instigator. He was desperately trying not to get embroiled in another personal mess, but the thought of Jane Roscoe was starting to overpower him.
He wondered if he just liked falling in love. Was that what it was all about? The euphoric feeling of first love combined with lust? The feeling that disappeared with the solid routine of marriage?
He headed east along the M55, south on the M6 and came off at junction 29, the Bamber Bridge exit. At the first set of traffic lights he did a left towards Euxton and less than quarter of a mile down the road went under a motorway bridge and turned left into a car park; from here the Cuerden Valley Park could be accessed by cycle and on foot. He could not drive on to the car park because it had been cordoned off. He had to reverse back on to the road and find somewhere to park about quarter of a mile away. He did not mind the inconvenience.
It showed him that as much of the scene as possible was being preserved and it gave him the opportunity to saunter up, using his eyes, ears and nose to get a real sense of the place. The entrance to the car park was being strictly controlled by two uniformed PCs who logged every arrival and departure. Henry showed his ID and signed in. He was directed to another PC who was in charge of paper clothing. He doled out a paper suit and slip-over shoes to Henry, which he pulled on over his suit. He signed for these items.
Snazzily dressed, he looked across the car park to a cycleway which led to a footbridge spanning the M6, then into Cuerden Valley Park proper. Most of the police activity centred on the cycleway, just before the bridge. A support unit team was searching the car park itself, moving in a line, halting when something of interest was found, or when one of the officers cracked a joke and they all needed to laugh.
A route to the scene had been marked by co
rdon tape.
Henry began to walk along it slowly.
All he knew was that there had been a double murder. A shooting. Two bodies. Nothing more. He was happy with that because it gave him the opportunity to consider the scene without any preconceptions, although he had already begun to form ideas as soon as he began the walk to the centre of police activity.
Already he was assuming that the dead people had arrived by some sort of vehicular transport at the car park and from there been dumped on the path. Had they been killed here, or somewhere else?
‘Morning, Henry – sorry, afternoon.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Bernie Fleming broke away from a cluster of four local detectives and welcomed the newcomer.
‘Hi, Bernie, what’s the crack?’
A screen had been erected around the corpses, preventing onlookers from getting an eyeful and allowing the experts to work without interruption.
‘Two dead men, both in their twenties, both shot in the back of the head.’
‘Executed?’
‘You could say that.’
Fleming belched, then broke wind. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘too much of everything last night.’
‘Any identification?’
Fleming shook his head. ‘Not yet. Looks like an out of town job. Professional hit. We may struggle with this one.’
Henry opened his eyes wide in surprise. He made it a rule never to kick off a murder investigation by thinking he would have to struggle with it. If you think it, you do it, he believed.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Be my guest.’ Fleming made a sweeping gesture and Henry approached the screen, which reminded him of a beach windbreak. Behind it there was some concentrated activity going on, including the presence of the Home Office pathologist, Professor Baines, who looked up from his grisly task and smiled with great pleasure at Henry.
