by Nick Oldham
‘Nice to see you again so soon.’ He had been bent over, but stood up and backed away from what he was doing, giving Henry his first proper view. A scenes of crime photographer snapped away for the family album. ‘Voilà!’ said Baines.
Henry folded his arms.
Two bodies, both male, face down on the ground, one lying across the other. Both with massive head wounds to the base of the skull. Henry pouted as his experienced eyes clinically took in the horrific tableau.
‘Both killed in the same manner. A gun placed to the base of the skull, angled upwards, shot through the brain, exit wounds through the forehead. Very effective and instantaneous. They wouln’t have suffered.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
A movement in the corner of his eye caused Henry to glance towards the car park. A hearse had been allowed to pull in. Two dark-suited individuals climbed out and chatted to a constable. They reclined on the long black vehicle, waiting for their turn in proceedings.
‘Both killed in situ,’ Baines said confidently.
‘Not killed elsewhere and dumped here?’
‘No – shot here.’
‘Time of death?’
Baines guffawed, then shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? You know as well as I do it would be an educated guess.’
‘Guess then,’ Henry prompted him.
‘They’ve been here about ten hours, give or take a couple either side.’
‘So anywhere between eight and twelve hours? Brilliant.’
‘Fuck off, Henry.’ Baines laughed. ‘Shall we have a look at what’s left of their faces?’
‘Why not?’
The policy was that undercover agents always made contact with their controllers, not the other way around, unless in extenuating circumstances. This was sound common sense as a poorly thought out phone call from a worried controller could easily compromise an agent. That was why Karl Donaldson was reluctant to pick up the phone and call Zeke. He dithered over his phone’s key pad, telling himself that there must be a very good reason for Zeke’s lack of contact and all that he would do by contacting him would be to compromise him.
But four days was a long time. Too long.
‘Right,’ he said to himself. He dialled Zeke’s number.
‘Get this on video, please,’ Baines instructed the SOCO. The officer prepared his camera, then nodded his readiness. Baines squatted down and took hold of the shoulder of the dead man who was lying on top of the other dead man. He supported the man’s shattered head, then checked to see if everyone was ready. Henry was, Fleming was, the local DI was. ‘Okay, I’m going to move this man now.’ Gently he eased the man’s shoulders back with one hand, held his head with the other and turned him slowly. The body rolled gently off and the face twisted up to the sky. The whole left side of the forehead had been blown away in a massive raggedy hole.
Henry breathed out, not realizing he had been holding on to a lungful of air.
‘What a mess,’ Fleming said for everyone. ‘Any idea who it is?’ he asked Henry and the local DI.
Both men peered to look.
‘No,’ said the DI
Henry froze. A mobile phone started to ring.
‘Where is that?’ the DI said.
‘It’s under this guy’s leg,’ Baines said. ‘Someone want to get it?’
The two detectives looked at each other. Henry bent down and lifted up the dead man’s leg and found the phone. He picked it up carefully. The display read, ‘Anonymous – answer?’ He pressed okay and said, ‘Hi?’
A voice he recognized immediately said, ‘Is that you?’
‘Yep,’ he said shortly.
There was a silent moment, then the line went dead as the call ended.
‘I wonder which one of these it belongs to?’ the DI asked.
Henry did not answer. He looked at the murdered face of the dead man that Baines was propping up. Part of the left eye was missing. The right eye was open, sightless and blank. His mouth gaped, coagulated blood congealed around it and around his nostrils. Even so, Henry was in no doubt.
‘Hello, Marty,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’
Donaldson let the phone ring out until the answering service cut in, then hung up without leaving a message. He tried the number of another phone to which he knew Zeke had access and got the same result.
They stood back to allow Baines and the SOCO to carry out the necessary preliminary work on the body which had been lying under Marty Cragg. This gave Henry a little time to apply his mind to a crime scene assessment, consciously subjecting himself to a mental process of reconstructing what had happened. It was a disciplined process, concentrating on the various elements which constitute a crime scene – location, victim, offender, scene forensics, followed by post-mortem – and then considering the links between them. Though this was early in the enquiry, Henry knew he had to begin a good crime scene analysis because there was only ever one chance to do it.
He discussed the matter with the local DI and appointed him the Crime Scene Manager.
As Henry was telling the DI exactly what he wanted to happen, Baines looked up from his task and called, ‘You can come closer now.’
Henry finished what he was saying and walked over.
‘I’m going to turn this man over,’ he said and nodded to the SOCO, who was ready with the video camera for take two. Henry watched, wondering if he would recognize the second victim. But he did not. Nor did the DI, nor did Fleming.
‘They were both murdered here, I’m sure of that,’ the pathologist reconfirmed. ‘This man first’ – he indicated the body he had just turned over – ‘then this one.’ He jerked his thumb at Marty. ‘Both killed the same way, gun to the back of the neck, etcetera, etcetera.’
Although Henry was pleased that one of the victims had been identified quickly, giving him an immediate starting point, he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this shooting was intertwined, somehow, with recent events in Blackpool. There had to be a connection. It smacked of gangland. It stank of professionalism. It meant he would be working very long hours for the foreseeable future and it also meant, on a personal note, he would be going back to Blackpool and, ultimately, Jane Roscoe.
Fucking tangled web, he thought, then turned his mind to more pressing matters.
Why here? Why was one man killed before the other? Was there a reason for the order of their deaths?
‘DCI Christie!’ Someone was shouting his name from the car park – a uniformed PC who clearly did not want to approach the scene. He eagerly beckoned Henry to come to him. Henry obliged.
‘Sir, I’m PC Garry from Bamber Bridge.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Just been to a job at the Premier Lodge near to Sainsbury’s. I think it’s connected with this.’
‘I was, like, shell-shocked,’ the man said defensively. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘If you’d phoned the police at the time, they could have advised you one way or the other,’ Henry told the Premier Lodge night porter, deciding whether or not to let the man off the hook. As far as Henry was concerned, the man had not performed his duty by phoning the police immediately. If he had, he might have saved a life. ‘Four armed and masked men abduct one of your guests, then return twenty minutes later to revisit the room . . .’ Henry’s voice trailed off.
‘He wasn’t a guest,’ the night porter bleated, ‘he was visiting a couple who were in the room.’
‘You should have called us.’ Henry was going to lay it on thicker than butter, then thought better of it. It was plain that the night porter wasn’t the brightest star in the constellation and that he was petrified and very tired. Henry relented. ‘We need to speak to you in detail about what happened, before you go to bed, if possible.’
‘Why, has something else happened?’
‘Yes.’ Henry nodded, but did not elaborate. ‘I want details of the couple who were in the room.’ He glanced hopefully at the duty manager.
They were
crammed into a small office behind reception, Henry, PC Garry, the night porter and the duty manager, a Mr Bendix – who had been the one who had called the police on behalf of the reluctant night porter.
‘We only have details of the male guest. Here.’ Bendix handed Henry the reservation form filled in on arrival. He snorted when he saw the name, John Smith, and tutted when he read that it had been a cash transaction, and that no vehicle details were recorded.
‘Has the room been cleaned yet?’
‘No – I told the ladies to hang fire with that one.’
Henry turned to the PC. ‘Get up there now and don’t let anyone in. I’ll arrange for a team to come and dust the place.’
The PC stood up and left.
‘Okay,’ Henry said, rubbing his hands. ‘I need you to be interviewed and I’d also like to get a statement from the receptionist who booked the couple in. We’ll need a good description of them. They could be a key to this incident.’
‘Do you think this has anything to do with the bodies discovered near to the park?’ the manager asked.
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Radio Lancashire.’
Exasperated, Henry stood up and pointed at the night porter. ‘You stay here. Someone’ll be along very soon to speak to you. If you need a kip, use one of the rooms.’
Only when he was satisfied that everything had been done correctly at the scene did Henry finally allow the two bodies to be conveyed to the mortuary at Chorley. He followed the hearse and its body-bagged contents all the way so as to ensure continuity of evidence. He was already thinking of the possible future court case, even at this early stage. All bases had to be covered from the word go because he knew that defence lawyers would systematically try to tear the prosecution evidence to pieces. It was his job, as SIO, to put together a case which was built on solid foundations, which included the simple things that are often forgotten in the aftermath of a spectacular death and which are often the chink in the armour of a good case.
The bodies went to the mortuary at Chorley hospital, deposited side by side on metal trolleys. Henry stayed while all their clothing was removed, listed and bagged up by a local DC.
Marty Cragg had some ID on him: a driving licence and credit card; his wallet contained £135 in assorted notes. Henry included the mobile phone in Marty’s property. It was an Orange, pay-as-you-go type. Henry checked it carefully to see what the last ten calls made and received were. It revealed nothing, nor did its phone book, which was empty. Henry was not surprised.
Once the corpse had been stripped, Henry inspected Marty for anything more unusual than gunshot wounds. All he could see was an old scald mark on his right forearm. He thought nothing of this and slid him into a fridge.
Henry supervised the stripping of the second, unknown man. He had nothing on him to ID him, which Henry found peculiar. It was as though the man travelled incognito, unless he had been made to hand over all forms of identity before being blasted.
Once stripped, the unknown man was fingerprinted and photographed, then slid into the fridge alongside Marty.
The post-mortems were scheduled to start at seven that evening and Henry wanted to be there for them if possible. First, he had to do some more mundane things, such as contact the coroner, arrange resources – if any – and get a murder investigation up and running. And there was something else he wanted to do, too.
Ten
Henry was back in Blackpool within the hour, pushing the police Vectra hard and fast, braking dramatically at each roadside speed camera, crawling through at the required speed and then hitting the gas once he was beyond the white markers. It was an advantage being a cop who travelled around the whole of the county: you got to know where each and every speed trap was.
He hurried to Jane’s office, knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. She was going through some paperwork with Rik Dean.
‘Need to speak,’ Henry said briskly, noting her big smile on seeing him.
‘Okay, Rik, we’ll finish this later.’ She handed the detective a binder. He stood up and left, nodding warily to Henry as the two men passed one another. Henry closed the office door. Jane stayed seated at the desk, resting her chin on her forefinger. ‘Have you been trying to avoid me, Henry?’ she asked reproachfully.
‘Naah.’ He dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand. ‘Just dead busy.’
‘Right,’ she said, drawing out the word. ‘Okay.’ She was not satisfied but realized from the tone of his voice that the subject was going no further . . . yet. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice had an icy edge to it now.
Henry sat down opposite and explained what he had actually been doing that day. Roscoe listened intently, the personal baggage stored away for the time being.
He kept the juicy news until the very last.
‘Whuh!’ she said. ‘Marty Cragg? You sure?’
He nodded. ‘I’m good at identifying dead bodies.’
‘So Marty Cragg is dead? We were just beginning to think that he and his brother, Ray, were responsible for the King’s Cross shootings, weren’t we? Are we into some turf war, or something?’
‘Could be.’ Henry squinted at the thought of it. The only thing that did not sit straight with him about this possibility was the incident at the Premier Lodge. What was all that about? And who was the unknown body? What was that connection?
‘I think it is a turf war,’ Jane said forcefully, ‘because something else has turned up which is pretty interesting – that’s why Rik was in here. The shooting incident at McDonald’s?’ Henry nodded he knew what she was talking about. ‘The two guys in the hospital are running partners with another couple of Manchester low-lifes who were found shotgun blasted in a flooded quarry just over the border. The two in hospital could have come looking for retribution. Maybe they had something to do with Marty’s death?’
‘Not them personally, because the time frame doesn’t fit. They were definitely in hospital, under guard, when Marty got whacked, but their other connections could have done Marty and the unidentified guy. We need to get close with Greater Manchester on this, I suspect.’ Henry checked his watch. ‘I need to get a move on. The PMs will start soon. How are you fixed to deliver a death message?’
Evening was fast approaching as Henry and Jane drove out to see Ray Cragg at his detached house in Poulton-le-Fylde. It was going to be a cold night and a bitter wind gusted over the incoming tide.
They rode silently, but there was a palpable and electric tension between them. Henry could tell she wanted to talk. She could tell he wanted to avoid it. Eventually she could stand it no more.
‘Are we going to discuss us?’ she blurted.
Us? Oh shit! Henry thought. ‘I’m lost for words,’ he said.
‘I’m not. Just tell me if what we did was a big mistake. If it was I’ll pull up my bloomers and get on with things. If it wasn’t a mistake, I’d like to know.’
Henry’s heart thudded noisily, his mouth went dry.
‘Er, I enjoyed it . . . no regrets there,’ he said feebly.
Roscoe’s eyes burned like lasers into his temple. He really could feel their heat.
‘Right,’ she said, tearing them away and folding her arms. ‘I get the message. How many people have you bragged to that you’ve shagged me?’
‘Hey, look,’ he began to protest just as he caught sight of a car with four dark shapes on board, pulled into the kerbside. They were just a couple of turnings away from the avenue in Poulton on which Ray resided. ‘Interesting,’ he said, smoothly changing the subject. He slowed and clocked the registration number.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Roscoe.
‘No – that car,’ he said.
She saw it too and it aroused her cop instincts. ‘Four up,’ she noted.
Moments later they were outside Ray’s house. Henry pulled his nearside wheels on to the grass verge which formed part of Ray’s front garden. Lights were on in the house, the curtains drawn.
‘Look
s like a normal house,’ remarked Roscoe.
‘Mmm, not much protection evident – double bluff. C’mon, let’s see if his lordship is in.’
They were in luck. Ray himself answered the door, beer in hand, looking slovenly. Henry shoved his warrant card and badge up into his face and introduced himself and asked to come in. He stepped over the threshold.
‘Get the fuck back,’ Cragg said, holding the door. ‘If you’ve got a warrant, you can come in, otherwise we do business here. This is my family home.’
‘Ray, this is a personal matter, best dealt with inside,’ Henry cooed. ‘I promise not to go through any of your drawers, but you really should let us in.’ Henry peered past Ray’s shoulder and saw someone in the kitchen. ‘We need a heart to heart – seriously.’
Ray relented. ‘Make it quick.’
He led Henry through to the lounge. There was a huge TV in one corner, surrounded by equally huge speakers. The cartoon channel was on, that very famous canine detective Hong Kong Phooey was strutting his stuff. One person was watching TV. Henry recognized him immediately as Julian Brindle, otherwise known as Crazy or JCB. Crazy shifted uncomfortably.
‘What is it? Do I need my brief?’ Ray wanted to know.
‘You people – now why should you need a solicitor?’ Jane Roscoe said. ‘Been a bad boy?’
Crazy sat upright, a cautious expression on his face. Henry saw him swallowing repeatedly, a nervous gesture.
Ray licked his lips.
Henry found himself in a quandary. He felt an urge to do some verbal jousting with Cragg, just to get a feel for the man, to sound him out and play with him, and to get him worried. On the other hand his brother was lying on a mortuary slab with a bullet having entered and exited his brain and probably a couple of others still in there. Henry’s main concern should have been to deliver the message and deal with Ray as a grieving relative. Against all his natural instinct, Henry plumped for the latter approach. He guessed it would not be long before he was doing the former anyway – glaring at each other across an interview room table with a tape recorder between them.
