Substantial Threat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘It would be better to get her before she makes a written statement,’ Miller said, thinking hard. ‘Then no matter what, there’s nothing they can use in court.’

  ‘Good speech,’ said Ray.

  ‘They won’t have started formally interviewing her yet. They’ll be softening her up, offering her inducements, but they’ll get into her ribs tomorrow, I’d guess.’

  ‘So we don’t have much time?’

  Miller shook his head.

  ‘I want her taken out before she makes a statement.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’ Crazy sniffed.

  ‘Think I don’t know that?’ Ray snapped.

  ‘Is there any way your informer in the intelligence unit could find out where they’re keeping her?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Doubt it. She’s just a bloody admin clerk.’

  Miller scratched his head, then had an idea. ‘Got it! What is the name of the cop involved in it?’

  ‘Henry Christie.’

  ‘That twat!’ Crazy spat.

  ‘He’s the key to this,’ Miller said thoughtfully. ‘He can lead us to her. We follow him, he takes us there. Just follow him from home.’

  ‘We don’t know where he lives.’

  ‘Couldn’t your admin clerk find out?’ Miller asked.

  ‘She doesn’t have access to personal records. I’ve asked before.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Miller said. ‘I know how to find his address.’ He turned to Crazy, winked, then said to Ray, ‘This will cost you big bucks, Ray. This will not be easy.’

  ‘Tell you what – afterwards, when you find Dix, because I still want that to happen – you two split the money. Hundred and forty grand each, give or take a bob or two. How’s about that? Worth it to me.’

  Miller and Crazy nodded. It sounded very good.

  Henry lounged against the wall on one side of the corridor, Dean stood opposite. Henry regarded him coldly. He knew Rik was an excellent detective, but Henry also knew he had done something very stupid. Dean’s face was mainly floorward, his eyes occasionally rising to meet Henry’s, but only fleetingly.

  Dean sighed heavily. He shook his head with disgust. ‘I’ve been a fool,’ he admitted, and said no more.

  ‘Tell me.’ Henry’s voice was tough.

  Dean’s head continued to shake. ‘You know I took that statement from Jack Burrows regarding the young girl who was murdered in one of her flats?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Shit.’ He screwed his eyes up, finding it hard to continue. ‘I slept with her. There! Said it. I slept with her.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ Henry said in a clipped tone. ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing much.’

  ‘Pillow talk,’ said Henry. ‘Did you keep her up to date with the investigation?’ Dean nodded. ‘Did you know she was involved with the Cragg brothers?’

  ‘Er . . . no.’ It was an unsure answer.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Rik.’

  ‘I had an idea.’ He winced.

  ‘Was the fuck worth it?’ Henry asked.

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Oh, what was it like? Was it love?’ he asked harshly. ‘So during your post-coital chats you told her how things were going on with the investigation? Yeah?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Dean said miserably.

  ‘And the fact that her boyfriend could have been a prime suspect didn’t enter your idiotic bonce?’

  ‘I didn’t actually know he was her boyfriend, did I?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Rik, because what you did was jeopardize a whole murder enquiry. Why the hell do you think she let you sleep with her? Because you’re a good shag? It was the woman who owned the flat where the girl was murdered, for God’s sake. Why? Ahh! Even she’s a fuckin’ suspect, Rik.’ Henry could have screamed. He threw his hands up. ‘Once this is sorted, I’ll deal with you,’ he said, bringing the conversation to a close. ‘And don’t think for a moment you’re going to get off lightly – you’re not!’

  Miller had left the flat, gone to his own place and returned about half an hour later with a laptop computer. He flashed a CD-ROM. ‘Let’s have a look at this.’

  Miller opened the laptop, plugged it in and booted it up. He perched it on his knees and the other two men got into a position where they could see the screen. They were intrigued. He opened the CD drive and inserted the disc.

  ‘What’s the cop’s name again?’

  ‘Henry Christie.’

  ‘And where do you think he lives?’

  ‘Somewhere in Blackpool, I guess. Definitely Lancashire,’ said Ray. ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘It’s a CD-ROM which contains the names and addresses of every person in the UK who is on a voters’ list.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Very useful for tracking people down. Got it free with a computer magazine.’ He tapped a few keys and the disk set off on its memory search, whirring as it spun. Moments later all the people with the surname of Christie who lived in Lancashire were displayed. There was only one Henry James Christie. He tabbed down to it and pressed enter. Henry’s address appeared on the screen.

  ‘How about that, then? Not bad for a free gift, eh?’

  Another corridor, another conversation. This time Henry and Jane Roscoe.

  ‘Chat to her and use this.’ He handed her Donaldson’s tape recorder. ‘Rik will go and get you a change of clothing and I’ll be back first thing. You okay with that?’

  She nodded. She was exhausted.

  ‘Good lass.’

  ‘Henry! Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She turned away and walked down the corridor. Henry watched, strangely drawn to her, but knowing that ultimately he was doing the right thing for himself and his family, although it was damned hard. Jane went into the TV lounge where Burrows was sitting. Donaldson appeared by Henry’s elbow.

  ‘She really has the hots for you, that one. I knew that when I met her last year. Plain as the day is long.’

  ‘I’m a new man now, though. In my formative years I would have done something very silly, but now, at my tender age, I know better.’ Henry smiled. ‘I just fuck ’em and leave ’em now.’

  ‘Hey, you’re growing up at last, Henry.’ Donaldson patted his back.

  ‘Yeah, Mister Mature, that’s me.’ Henry scowled and checked his watch. It was very late, or very early depending on viewpoint. ‘We can be at my house in under an hour if you like?’

  ‘I need to be back at the airport by seven thirty, but I would like to see Kate and the girls, however fleetingly.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I have a confession to make to you.’

  ‘I’m a cop, so you can tell me anything.’

  ‘I overheard your conversation with DS Dean.’

  ‘Silly, silly man. Him, not you.’

  ‘People make mistakes. They often don’t realize they’re doing it at the time, but it has made me think of something.’

  ‘You’ve slept with someone you shouldn’t have?’

  ‘Not recently . . . but I have a feeling I know someone who has.’

  They left Crazy’s bike near the flat in South Shore and Miller drove them both to a housing estate on the outskirts of Blackpool, not too far from the motorway junction at Marton Circle. They drove past Henry Christie’s house just once, and returned to South Shore to pick up the motorbike. Ten minutes later they were parked up separately near the detective’s house, keeping in touch with each other by radio. Miller settled himself at the top of the avenue on which Henry’s house was situated, with a clear view of the house and driveway. He settled down low in his seat, reclined it and relaxed.

  At 4 a.m. he was roused from a sort of sleep by a car driving past him. He sank further into the seat and watched it park on the Christies’ driveway. Two men got out.

  ‘He’s landed back,’ Miller said to Crazy over the radio.

  ‘In that Vectra?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Mi
ller watched the two men enter the house. He assumed the driver was Christie, not having seen or met him before. Both men were big and handy-looking and for the first time in a long time, Miller had an uneasy feeling inside him.

  Sixteen

  It was Kate who roused them. Henry in the same bed as her and Donaldson in the spare bedroom. They threw coffee and juice down their throats and said a quick goodbye to Kate, but not the girls, because they were still in the Land of Nod.

  It was 6.15 a.m. when they reached the motorway and Henry knew that barring accidents or other travel delays, he would have his friend at the airport well in time for the shuttle.

  ‘Have I slept?’ said the bleary-eyed American.

  ‘Not really.’ Henry yawned once, then could not stop from yawning.

  At least the day was fine and pleasant as the night gave way to dawn. The sky was lightly clouded with hints of blue beyond.

  Miller and Crazy were following, Miller in his Granada and Crazy on the motorbike, each hanging back, occasionally one passing the other. The following was easy because Christie was driving fast and it is far easier to follow a quickly moving vehicle, not least because the driver is usually more concerned about what is going on in front of him rather than behind. At 90 mph, this was very much the case with Henry.

  Henry made it to the airport for 7 a.m., dropping Donaldson off at Terminal 3. Traffic was busy around the airport roads and Henry knew he could not stop long. Donaldson leaned back through the nearside door.

  ‘Thanks, Henry. At least I know what’s happened to Zeke. I’ll inform his family as soon as I get back to London and start making arrangements to get his body back to the States. How soon do you think we’ll be able to have him?’

  ‘As soon as I can arrange it,’ Henry promised. ‘It might be that we’ll have to arrange an independent post-mortem to be carried out before the coroner will release him, but I’ll get on to it today.’

  Henry leaned across and they shook hands.

  ‘Much appreciated,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘Take care,’ called Henry as Donaldson slammed the door and stood back to watch Henry drive off. His eyes narrowed when he saw a black-suited motorcyclist pull away and slot in behind Henry’s Vectra. He did not know why it made him feel uncomfortable. It just did. Fed instinct. He shook it off and strode into the terminal.

  The traffic had built up considerably by the time Henry got to the M6, but even so he was driving into the back yard at Ormskirk police station about forty minutes later. He called Rik Dean on the radio and he came down to let Henry into the police station, which had not opened for public business yet. Dean looked as tired as Henry felt.

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No,’ said Dean.

  Henry held his tongue, wanting to make a quip about Dean and Burrows because he was still very annoyed about it. Instead he said, ‘Is the witness okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They went up to the first floor and found Jane and Jack Burrows eating toast and drinking coffee in the dining room. Jane had obviously showered and was in her change of clothing. She looked fresh and beautiful and Henry’s insides did a quick whirl, making him think, ‘If she does this to me every time I see her, should I really be dumping her?’ He was getting confused again. He shelved his feelings and turned his attention to Jack Burrows. She needed a shower and a change of clothing, but that could not detract from the fact that she looked as stunning as ever. On one level Henry could not blame Dean for his indiscretion, but on another, a professional one, he condemned the guy totally.

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ Henry said.

  He got a grunt from both of them.

  ‘A word, Jane.’ He tipped his head to indicate she should follow him out on to the landing. ‘How has it gone?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Good. We talked until about five thirty, then decided to get some shut-eye.’

  ‘Did you record your conversation?’

  ‘Yeah, if the tape recorder’s working.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Very, very, very interesting.’

  ‘Gimme a flavour,’ Henry said enthusiastically.

  ‘Let me make you a brew first. You look like you need some sustenance. It’s a long story.’

  Ormskirk police station is situated on a main road leading into the town on a corner plot just outside the shopping centre by a set of traffic lights. It is a relatively new building, constructed in the 1980s. It has a cell complex, a few offices and a first-floor hostel. Apart from the hostel, the police station is very underused. Spiralling policing costs mean that the station is open to the public for a restricted number of hours only and that all but very short-term prisoners are taken to the cells down the road in Skelmersdale. It has a large enclosed car park at the rear, with only one way in and one way out.

  This meant that, whatever happened, Henry Christie could only drive out in one direction and if he had his protected witness with him, they would be an easy target.

  Miller smirked. Trapped like rats, he thought, as he surveyed the red-brick police station and its environs.

  If she is in there, that is.

  Henry and Jane sat in the lounge area while he ate some toast and drank the tea she had made for him. It was too busy to talk confidentially because of the number of sleepy hostel residents wandering in and out in various stages of undress. Henry wondered if he had missed something by never living in a police hostel in his younger, single days. The lifestyle had some appeal to it.

  ‘Let’s go to the room I slept in,’ Jane suggested when Henry had finished his toast. ‘Better to talk,’ she added. Each with a drink in hand they went into her room. The bed was made, there was no mess; her clothes from yesterday were hung up neatly on a hanger. Henry could smell that she had been there. Her aroma made him slightly dizzy as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  Jane sat at the desk, keeping some distance between them, and placed Donaldson’s hand-held tape recorder on it.

  ‘Summary,’ Henry said. ‘Detail later.’

  ‘Okay . . . Jack Burrows is the only daughter of the well-known transport boss and haulier, Bill Burrows, who has depots all over England and the continent. She had an undertaker’s business which she sold and went into property. I think you know some of this?’

  Henry nodded. ‘But go on, it’s worth hearing again.’

  ‘By her account, she was always a bit of a wild child and when she met Ray Cragg, his lifestyle appealed to her for some unknown reason. Money. Excitement. All that sort of stuff, I suppose,’ said Jane dismissively. ‘Anyway, she got in with him and they became an item, but all he was doing was using her as an accessory, she says. Bit of posh totty. He didn’t really care about her, treated her like shit. Anyway, because of this she falls for the delectable Marty, Ray’s younger, stupider, half-brother, who, totally out of character, treats her like a lady.’

  ‘First time for everything,’ Henry commented.

  ‘Unless he was using her as well,’ said Roscoe. ‘It seems Marty was always trying to emulate and better Ray, but never quite succeeded. He was never quite as tough, never quite as hard, never quite as successful. He got bitter and twisted and decided to screw Ray as much as possible, including screwing his girlfriend, which is why he treated her well, I think, because Ray didn’t. There may be another reason why Marty treated her so well, too.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ interjected Henry. ‘The transport business.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Just brilliant, I suppose.’ He licked a finger and marked the air.

  ‘Apparently Ray does a lot of pimping, controls a lot of prostitutes. He saw the potential for bringing asylum-seeking girls in from Eastern Europe. He made contacts with some gangs on the Continent, but never quite pulled anything substantial off, though he had plans to expand in that direction. During this time, Marty met a guy called Mendoza who headed a Spanish gang which specializes in providing girls for prostitution to UK criminals. Marty decided to go into business
with them without telling Ray. At the same time he proposed to bring in loads of paying asylum seekers by using Burrows Transport.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Jack is well in with a number of bent drivers.’

  ‘Thought as much. So he’s been importing people in general and prostitutes in particular? The people get dumped and the hookers end up working in grotty flats – am I on the right track?’

  ‘More or less, except that Marty being Marty, nothing was quite so easy. He needed a lot of start-up money, apparently, which he didn’t have, so he took out loans from the Spaniards. Trouble was, Marty was terrible with money. He couldn’t add up, but he managed to subtract a lot into his own wallet and lost a lot through gambling: horses, casinos, the lot. The loan repayments kept being extended until such time as they were called in and Marty found himself repaying to a deadline, which he could not meet. In a panic, Marty skimmed from Ray, but could not accumulate enough and blamed others⎯’

  ‘Such as JJ?’

  ‘Yes. Then he had the big idea to get all the money together in one fell swoop.’

  Henry was puzzled.

  ‘Apparently Ray counts his weekly takings in a little terraced house in Rawtenstall. Marty simply arranged to rob him. Hired four dimbos from Manchester to do the business, but Marty being Marty, it all went wrong. Two of them got whacked, two got away and one of Ray’s trusted men got greedy and did a runner with all the takings in the confusion. About two-fifty, two-eighty grand, supposedly.’

  Henry whistled. ‘Marty gets left with nothing other than debt and gets executed by a very pissed-off bullfighter. Things are slotting into place now. So Ray doesn’t show any feelings about Marty’s death, he accuses Jack of sleeping with him and beats her up, so Jack is really pissed off with him and decides to drop him in it.’

  ‘The money is still on the run and Ray wants it back because it’s his and because – and get this for a kind of rough justice – the Spaniard has threatened Ray and told him he now carries the debt incurred by his brother.’

  Henry laughed. ‘What goes around comes around.’

  ‘Ray’s got two goons trailing the man who stole Ray’s money as we speak. A guy called Miller and that one who was at Ray’s when we went round.’