by Nick Oldham
It took five minutes to reach the drive, then creep to the front door, flattening himself against the wall, listening, sniffing, breathing shallowly. He moved stealthily to the door and pushed it with his toecap and stepped into the wide hallway.
Voices.
With a shake of the body he relaxed. It was Ray and Crazy talking in the kitchen. Miller kept his gun down by his side and walked to the kitchen door, which he pushed open.
Ray and Crazy turned to stare at him. They were standing back to back, their wrists still cuffed. Crazy had a bread knife in his hand and was attempting to saw through Ray’s plastic cuffs without slicing his boss up.
He stopped when he saw Miller.
‘Get these fucking things off me,’ Ray said to Miller, and twisted to show him the cuffs.
Miller laid his gun on the kitchen table, glad his senses had pre-warned him of something wrong at the house. ‘What’s gone on?’ he asked. He took the knife from Crazy’s hand and placed it on a work surface. He opened a drawer, found a pair of kitchen scissors and snipped the cuffs off. ‘Some perverted game gone wrong?’
Ray scowled and pushed past him, bounding up the stairs, calling out Burrows’ name, angry that she had not come down at his calling. He found her huddled in the cistern cupboard, wedged behind the tank, covered by several bath towels. It was a good hiding place.
Twelve
Professor Baines crossed one of his spindly legs over the other and smiled at Henry and Jane Roscoe. ‘As you know I am an expert in many fields where the dead body is concerned, and sometimes even living bodies.’ He looked from Henry to Jane and gave a knowing smile and a double raise of the eyebrows. Neither of the two allowed their expressions to change. There was a distinct chill between them that morning.
They were in Jane’s office – formerly Henry’s – discussing the post-mortem findings with Baines, who had been up much of the night pulling everything together. This, however, did not stop him being bright, bubbly and full of mischief. Even so, when the faces of the two detectives did not alter, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and crossed his legs in the opposite direction.
‘It’s the dead bodies we’re bothered about,’ Jane Roscoe said stonily.
‘Yes, well – so may I come to the unidentified body of the male?’
‘You may,’ said Henry.
‘Killed in exactly the same way as the unfortunate Mr Cragg. Massive brain damage being the cause of death – in layman’s terms, that is.’
Henry glanced down at a set of SOCO glossies of the dead man on the slab, taken before Baines had got to work on him. Henry thought the man had been fairly handsome in a Mediterranean kind of way and it was obvious from his physique that he had been a fairly fit guy in life. No extra fat on him, muscles well developed, even a six-pack gut.
‘I was fortunate enough to go to a pathologists’ convention in Miami at the tail-end of last year,’ Baines said enthusiastically.
‘Bet that was a hoot.’ Henry grinned.
‘It was – actually,’ Baines said, slighted slightly. ‘Anyway, there was a very interesting session on dental records, fascinating, actually.’ He gave Henry a quick smile.
‘Something to get your teeth into?’ Henry quipped. Even Jane smiled.
‘Part of the session,’ Baines proceeded, ignoring Henry, ‘was dentistry from around the world. It’s absolutely fascinating how much difference there is between countries and how stereotypical dental work can be in particular countries. They all have their own way of doing things. I had a very good look inside the mouth of our unknown victim and he’d had some bridgework done. I would say, from my bridgework spotter’s guide – yes, it does exist – that the work was done in America. That’s not to say he’s an American, though his appearance could be classed as Hispanic, but it could assist you in identifying him.’
‘Nice one, Prof,’ Henry said.
One of the problems in being a nomad investigator, going out to divisions all the time, was that you always had to find office space to make phone calls, or to get some sleep. It really was like being a nomad in some ways. Henry managed to find an empty office and slid in behind the desk into a big, comfy chair. He leafed through his pocket diary, found the number he needed, swung his ankles up on to the edge of the desk and picked up the phone. He punched in the number. And waited for the reply.
‘FBI Legal Attaché Karl Donaldson speaking. How may I help you?’
‘I wish we could get our bloody employees to answer phones like that,’ Henry said.
Donaldson recognized the voice immediately. ‘Henry! You wearin’ your cloth cap and clogs?’
‘I am that, lad,’ he replied, dropping into his best broad Lancashire. ‘Eeh, look, I can see a red London bus drivin’ past and I can ’ear Big Ben chimin’ away – an’ look over yonder, it’s a London copper rockin’ up an’ dahn on his toes.’
Donaldson chuckled. ‘Actually I can see a London bus, but there are no coppers about these days.’
He and Henry had met several years earlier on a case Donaldson was dealing with in the north-west, when he was a field agent, concerning Mafia activities. Since then they had worked together on several occasions and had become very close friends, though they had not spoken to each other for a couple of months now. They exchanged a few pleasantries, gossiped about families and proposed holidays, then the American cut to the chase.
‘You only call me when you need me, H. What is it this time?’
Henry explained about the double murder with one unidentified victim with the mouthful of American-style dental work. ‘I was wondering . . .’ he said hopefully.
‘Fast track? Sure, why not? What have you got?’
‘Description, photographs of dead person – not nice – fingerprints, dental observations. We’re waiting for a DNA profile.’
‘Fax ’em down and I’ll put them through our system as soon as I get ’em.’
‘Thanks, pal. They’re on their way.’ From his experience of life, Henry knew it wasn’t what you know but who you know that gets results.
It was good to have such a direct and personal connection into American law enforcement. It gave Henry access to FBI computers, albeit unofficially. His relationship with Donaldson, though well known in the higher ranks of Lancashire Constabulary, was not something he boasted about. He kept it to himself, knowledge being power.
He sat back and literally twiddled his thumbs, impatient already for a result from the information he had sent to Donaldson. ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself. ‘Even a fast track will take time.’
He riffled through his pockets and found a folded piece of paper from a jotting pad. He opened it and flattened it out. It was his ‘To Do’ list written with the splendid assistance of Mr Jack Daniels. One thing that sprang out that he could have done before was the item ‘four in a car’. The suspicious motor he had seen near to Ray Cragg’s home with four people on board. He dialled the PNC bureau and requested a check on the number he had committed to memory. The reply came back within seconds. Henry closed his eyes in despair. He sighed and kicked himself.
The car had been stolen from London two days earlier. The cop in him was extremely pissed off at having missed the opportunity to make an arrest. But more than that was the question burning in his mind: what was it doing there, within yards of one of the country’s biggest drug dealers? With four shady characters on board? What were they up to? Did it have anything to do with Marty Cragg’s untimely demise?
As soon as he had finished the call from Henry, the internal phone on Donaldson’s desk rang and he was summoned into Philippa Bottram’s office to discuss the progress of a case being run jointly with the Metropolitan Police. As the American left his office he heard his fax machine start up and much as he would have liked to wait for it to spew out the stuff from Henry Christie, he did not wish to incur his boss’s ire. With a ‘Damn’ under his breath he closed the door behind him and strode to her office down the corridor for what he knew would be a long me
eting.
‘Just give me a break,’ Jack Burrows pleaded. Ray had been questioning her incessantly for over an hour, insisting she tell him exactly what Marty had been up to on the side to get himself into so much trouble and debt. ‘I don’t know, okay?’
‘You were fucking him.’
‘No, I was not,’ she said. ‘We were friends, that’s all. I’m with you, Ray. You’re my partner, not him. He never was, we just talked.’
‘Just talked? Just fucked, more like.’
Ray was beginning to steam up now. Burrows could see him starting to bubble and she knew she needed him calm. Otherwise she would be facing another beating and she wasn’t strong enough to maintain her lies. If he laid into her again, she would be unable to keep going and she was frightened that if she blabbed the truth about her and Marty she would end up as dead as him.
‘We never fucked,’ she said. ‘Never.’
An hour later and Henry still had not received any reply from London. Not that he expected a result but an acknowledgement that the faxed papers had been received would have been nice. He had spent the hour reviewing paperwork, so it had not been wasted, but he was eager to hear from his American chum because it would mean that something was actually being done to identify the unknown male. Henry knew that unless he could put a name to a face, this murder investigation might stall at the first bend. He needed to know quickly who the guy was. He almost picked up the phone to castigate the Yank, but thought better of it.
Instead he plumped for a trip to the canteen, although he was slightly reluctant to leave the quiet office he had discovered just in case he lost squatter’s rights.
Donaldson shook hands with the Metropolitan Police Commander, who had been a major player in the meeting which concerned Yardie activities linked to a Colombian drug cartel, linked to organized crime in Miami – hence the American involvement – and showed him to the elevator. Once he stepped in and was on his way down, Donaldson returned to Bottram’s office.
She was leaning back in her chair, waiting for him, tapping her pen on her desk top. Her breasts were pushed up tight against her blouse.
‘Worthwhile?’ she asked as he took his seat.
‘Certainly promising,’ Donaldson concurred. ‘We’ll all come out of it smelling of roses, I’d guess.’
‘Mm.’ She eyed him less than professionally. ‘Can you stay in the city tonight, Karl?’
His eyes grew wide.
‘Business,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Need you to meet the new Foreign Secretary. There’s a bit of a bash at number 10 Downing Street and I’m invited, plus guest. It would probably be in your interests,’ she said with an undercurrent to her voice. She didn’t have to add it might be professional suicide to refuse. But Donaldson was not daunted.
‘Too short notice – babysitting duties tonight.’ He tried to look sad, but there was no way in which he was going to end up alone with her in the big bad city.
‘I see,’ she said shortly, an icy disappointment on her face. ‘I’ll have to find someone else, then.’
He did not respond to that, but raised the cheeks of his bottom off his chair in a ‘Can I go now?’ gesture.
‘Heard anything from Zeke yet?’
He sat back heavily. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’d better do something about it, don’t you think?’ She was immediately starting to exert her authority over him because of his refusal to socialize.
‘I am,’ he said curtly. He rose and left the room without a further word, quickly getting back to his office, grabbing the sheets off the fax and slamming them down on his desk. ‘Bitch,’ he muttered.
He looked down at the sheaves of paper in front of him. There seemed to be reams of the stuff. He was tempted to bin it all then claim technical failure, but when he calmed down, he began to leaf through the received documents carefully. Most were from America, one from Paris. Routine stuff, but important nonetheless. Eventually he made it to the papers Henry Christie had sent him from Lancashire. He almost did not look at these, just considered handing them to an admin clerk to do the business. Curiosity rather than professionalism made him turn over the fax front sheet.
The second page contained a slightly blurred black and white photograph of the deceased.
Donaldson blinked. His lips popped open and a curious taste entered his mouth. The taste of fear.
He stood up slowly, reading the supporting paperwork Henry had sent through, including a description of how the man had met his untimely death. Transfixed, Donaldson walked numbly down the corridor back to Bottram’s office. He walked through her secretary’s office.
‘Sorry, Karl, she’s in a meeting already,’ the secretary said.
‘This is important.’ Donaldson’s voice was strained.
The secretary nodded and backed down.
He went through and found Bottram talking to another woman he did not recognize. They were sitting on the sofa, very close to each other, curiously intimate. Both looked round guiltily when he came through the door. They were obviously deep in conversation.
‘Karl! Can’t you see I’m busy,’ Bottram said.
Before she could finish, Donaldson thrust Christie’s faxes in front of her face. She took them from him and glanced at them.
The other woman looked on quietly, sipping tea, an amused expression on her face.
‘Yes – so?’ said Bottram. ‘Why interrupt?’
‘Look at the photo again.’
Even Donaldson had to admit the fax transmission was less than clear, but it was clear enough. Bottram studied it intently, brow lined, then suddenly she realized what she was looking at.
‘Oh my God!’ she said.
The three men convened at an innocent-looking car wash which operated on an industrial estate close to Marton Circle on the outskirts of Blackpool. It was one of those businesses apparently operated by several enterprising young men who looked more likely to steal cars than wash them, but they did a good job of washing and polishing.
The business was actually a front for part of Ray Cragg’s drug dealing activities, and a profitable one at that. Customers could come and go within seconds and, together with the legitimate monies made from the soap suds, the venture turned over about five thousand each week, all profit. Ray Cragg had ten such businesses spread across Lancashire which sold a range of drugs for the discerning buyer, from cannabis to crack cocaine. They were like little drug supermarkets, but far more profitable than a chemist’s shop.
There was an office in a large portacabin on the site at the rear of the car wash where Ray, Miller and Crazy gathered for their conflab. They were joined by two other men, trusted by Ray. Their names were Grice and Raven and both had turned up with flash motors which were being valeted by the lads at the car wash. Grice had been the driver of the van which had ferried Ray, Marty and Crazy from place to place before and after the King’s Cross shootings. Raven had arranged disposal of the clothing and equipment they used.
They sat huddled round a small table in the office. There was only one window with horizontal blinds covering it, drawn at such an angle that it was easy to see out but difficult to see in.
Outside, the day had turned murky. Business was fairly brisk and most of the customers passing through at that time of day were legit.
‘Any sign of anything yet, Crazy?’ Ray asked.
‘Nothing obvious,’ Crazy said. He had just been out to do a recce of the surrounding area and had found nothing untoward.
‘They will come for us at some stage, you can bet,’ Ray warned everyone. ‘Don’t think they won’t, so be ready. Don’t argue, go in peace, tell ’em nothing and you’ll be okay – trust me. The brief is on standby, so stay cool, don’t panic and there’s nothing that can stick to us.’
They all nodded at this reassurance.
‘So, the cops are nothing to worry about. We have far more pressing matters to consider than a bunch of dumb jacks trying to get us to talk.’
Henry was still
doing his best to avoid bumping into Jane. It was proving to be more and more difficult as the crimes they were investigating became increasingly intertwined. He was only trying to keep away from her because he knew he was weak and he was trying to be strong for once in his life. He had far too much to lose by becoming involved with her and his materialistic streak, thin though it was, was preying on his mind. He was far too old, he thought, to let his heart rule his head. Go for comfort and security, he tried to convince himself. Be Mr Sensible. Don’t do it. Don’t fall in love again. God, his head hurt.
As he was waiting for the return call from Donaldson, he decided to sneak out of the station and have a stroll around town.
The day was now dark and dull and chilly. He hunched in his jacket and headed swiftly for the town centre shops.
It was fairly quiet, low season, mid-week. Not much happening from a tourist point of view.
Once out of the wind, he slowed down and window-shopped for a while, before going into Waterstone’s to browse the shelves. He began to feel guilty about not being at the station, so decided to head back, then make his way to the MIR which had been set up at Bamber Bridge. Tearing himself away from the bookshelves he left the shop and almost immediately his mobile phone chirped up. He fumbled it out of his pocket and answered it.
‘It’s me, Karl.’
‘Hi – got something for me?’
Before Donaldson could answer, the ring tones on the phone announced he had received a text message. Then it did it again, telling him he had received another.
‘Sorry, Karl, messages coming in thick and fast.’
‘In reply to your question, the answer is yes, I do have something for you.’
‘Brilliant – go on,’ said Henry intrigued, but also noticing a strained tone in Donaldson’s vocal chords.
‘Not over the phone, H. I’m booked on the shuttle this afternoon. I should be in Manchester by three thirty. Can you meet me, or arrange for me to be met?’
