Backlash

Twelve

After the short conversation with Karl Donaldson, Jane Roscoe had wandered through the corridors of Blackpool police station, going round and round, worrying about the enormity of the task that lay ahead of her. Despite the brave face for Donaldson, it made her feel quite ill because she did not know how she was going to tackle the murder inquiry.

In the canteen, now transformed into a rather plush dining room following the privatisation of the catering side of things, she found an empty table near a window overlooking the rear of Sea World on the promenade. She devoured three slices of hot buttered white toast and had a cappuccino (unheard of pre-privatisation).

Her thoughts turned to the American. Despite his glaringly obvious physical attributes, he had managed to irritate her by offering advice. And that quotation of his by who? Some bloody first-century writer no one on God’s earth had ever heard of fuelled her annoyance. Supercilious git, she thought, what does he know? An FBI legal attache — in other words some pen-pushing diplomat’s lackey. Not even a field agent. What really riled her was that he had been able to read her body language as easily as a book of ABC. If he had been able to, so had others.

The other thing that made her seethe was that the words of advice he had offered actually sounded like common sense: speak to Henry Christie, listen to what he has to say. Something she had failed to do when Henry had said his piece before leaving the pre-breakfast meeting with his tail between his legs. Foolishly, the only thing she had been thinking about then was the fierce confrontation she had left behind with her husband. It had been going round and round in her head and, for the first time, had contained the word ‘separation’. It had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Hence she had missed Henry’s little speech and to be truthful, the only time she had started concentrating was when FB had singled her out and said, ‘You can have Joey Costain.’

Yikes! He had chosen her as a DI and now he expected her to get results.

So an approach to Henry would be a sensible thing. After all, he had been the first officer on the scene along with PC Taylor. For very practical reasons, an in-depth chat was a must. Yet she did not want him to perceive it as a cry for help. She would have to be a bit clever in the way in which she tackled him. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel superior again.

It was 10 a.m. At eleven she had the first scheduled briefing for her murder team — if four detectives could be classed as a team. She needed something constructive to say to them. She unfolded a paper napkin and began to jot some ideas down.

Four Jacks. One DS, three DCs.

Roscoe smiled at her team. She knew the sergeant, Mark Evans, but not one of the DCs who had all been drafted in from other stations around the county. They all looked eager to get going. She unfolded the napkin and announced, ‘This is the plan of action.’ It raised a titter and a few smiles which died bit by bit as they all realised that Roscoe was telling them the truth: it really was the plan of action.

‘Bail refused.’

Kit Nevison did not bat an eyelid. He had been expecting this. The duty solicitor representing him did not even open his mouth to make any representation. To remain in custody had a certain inevitability about it.

Lugubriously the old sweat of a custody sergeant wrote the details of why bail had been refused on Nevison’s custody record, read them out and asked him if he understood.

‘Aye,’ said the big man.

‘Sign here.’ The custody sergeant pointed out the relevant spaces in the charge sheets where Nevison signed his name with a big black cross. The sergeant handed him a copy and the solicitor snatched it out of his client’s hands

‘I’ll have that, thanks.’ He folded it, slid it into his briefcase. ‘I presume Mr Nevison will be taken to the next available court — i.e. this afternoon?’

The sergeant turned to PC Standring, the lucky officer who had been given the job of dealing with Nevison, and raised his eyebrows.

‘Depends on how quickly I can get the file done,’ he said truthfully.

The solicitor peered at him haughtily. ‘Today would be nice.’

‘We’ll do us best,’ the custody sergeant said, coming to the young PC’s rescue. ‘Don’t make no promises, though.’

‘Fine,’ the solicitor conceded, adding again, ‘But today would be nice.’

Standring nodded. A remand file was actually quite a straightforward piece of paperwork. He knew he could have it done within an hour if pressed.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He smiled at the solicitor, who frowned back.

‘Take Mr Nevison down to the cells,’ the sergeant said to Standring. ‘I’ll order lunch for him.’

‘I still want the doctor,’ Nevison demanded weakly. ‘I’ll cold turkey if I don’t get a fix soon.’

‘I’ll give him a ring,’ the custody sergeant promised, ‘but don’t get your hopes up. The days of prescribing methadone willy-nilly have long gone.’

Nevison gave the sergeant a dagger of a look. ‘Just remember what I did last night,’ he warned.

‘That was under the influence of drink and drugs,’ the sergeant pointed out, unruffled by the veiled threat. He’d seen much worse than Nevison in his time. ‘I’ll ring the doctor, see what he says.’ He flicked his thumb in the direction of the cell corridor. ‘Trap number four.’

The ringing seemed distant at first. It came nearer, became louder, encroaching on the pitch blackness in which Henry Christie had been sleeping since his head hit the pillow. His eyes opened grittily. He was deep in the warm bed, the quilt drawn over his head, sleeping in the recovery position with one knee brought up. He slurped back the dribble from his cheek.

The ringing continued. Not the phone. The door bell. He closed his eyes, ignoring it. It persisted. Constantly. Continually.

Angrily he threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. 12.05 p.m. A grand three hours and three minutes of sleep.

He swallowed, almost choked and grabbed his dressing gown which he wrapped tightly around him. Scratching, yawning, rubbing his face and hair, he walked slothfully down the back steps to the flat door at the rear of the premises. The veterinary surgery was closed. Fiona was out making home visits.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Roscoe said as soon as he opened the door and before he could say anything. He dropped his hands to his side in a gesture of submission and edged back a step. ‘Come in.’ Already he had realised it would have been too much to hope that after such an eventful night he would be allowed to get an uninterrupted run of sleep. Roscoe stepped past him and went ahead up the narrow steps. He followed and showed her into the spacious and high-ceilinged lounge and offered her coffee.

‘If it’s no trouble. I’ll try not to keep you long.’

‘Not a problem,’ he lied. ‘I’ll put some clothes on.’

‘Not on my account,’ Roscoe was tempted to say, but held back. She had decided this needed to be a pretty focused, professional meeting and flirting was not on the agenda.

Henry shuffled into the bedroom, dragged on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, slid his feet into his granddad slippers and trotted into the kitchen to brew up.

‘Thanks,’ Roscoe said, taking the coffee. She was standing by the large bay window which had a view over one of Blackpool’s quieter, mainly residential side streets. She dropped down into an armchair, holding the mug tightly as though desperate for warmth. She glanced around the room.

‘Nice pad,’ she commented.

‘Rent’s cheap and it’s better than nothing.’ He sounded sad. ‘Anyway, if you don’t mind me saying, you look dead beat.’ It was not said unkindly.

‘Shattered. Three hours sleep is no good for anyone.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I need to speak to you about Joey Costain.’

Henry gave a light shrug. ‘Fire away.’

‘I’m heading the investigation into his murder.’

The news jolted Henry like a whip-crack. ‘Oh,’ he said coldly, shocked, then tried to cover up the way he was feeling with a bright, ‘Good luck.’

Fleetingly she was tempted to soften the blow to his fragile pride by going belly up, telling him how exposed and vulnerable she felt at being given the job, and pleading for any help and direction he could offer. No bloody chance. ‘With you having been first at the scene and knowing the background about the Costains and the Khans, it seemed appropriate for me to have a chat with you.’

‘Me? A mere uniformed inspector,’ he said bitterly. ‘How touching.’

‘Henry, you and I both know you shouldn’t be a uniformed inspector. You are a detective and this is merely a blip. You’ll soon be back in civvies because they can’t afford for you to be otherwise. Being a detective is what you’re good at — one of the best, according to Karl Donaldson.’

Henry guffawed. ‘What’s he been saying? I wouldn’t believe a word of it.’

‘To say he sang your praises is an understatement.’ Roscoe saw Henry actually blush. She wondered how far to take all this buttering up, but it was evident he needed it. He was in the pits professionally speaking and, looking round this flat, probably personally as well. Yet she did not want to go over the top and allow it to become patronising. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll make an admission, OK? I’m out of my depth here. I need someone to help me out, a mentor, whatever.’

‘No, you’re right,’ Henry maintained with frost, ‘it doesn’t make me feel better, so why don’t you just open your Murder Investigation Manual? That should tell you all you need to know.’

‘Whoa, hold on there, Henry. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Just because you’ve had a bad time of things, are you going to withdraw into your shell and waste all that knowledge and experience you have?’ Roscoe was getting impatient. ‘I’ve come here to ask for your help. OK, I didn’t want it to seem like I needed it, but I do and that’s a hard thing for me to say to you, Mr Perfect, the CID god who all the stupid, macho male detectives look up to like some sort of role model. Well, you might be a good detective, but that doesn’t stop you being an arsehole in the bargain.’ She banged her cup down on the coffee table, angered by the turn of the conversation. He had touched a raw nerve. ‘If you don’t want to help me, fine, I’ll handle it. Wallow in your self-pity. The only person who is going to suffer is you.’ On the last word she pointed accusingly at him.

‘I feel very resentful about the way in which I’ve been treated.’ His voice was like that of a spoiled child.

‘And I don’t blame you, but don’t blame me, either. We’re both in a situation neither of us made. Blame that ultra-tosser Fanshaw-Bayley — then show the bastard he’s made a great mistake. Being awkward will just confirm to him he did the right thing — don’t you see?’

‘Yeah, sure. Easier said than done.’ He stood up and stormed across to the bay window where he sulked. Roscoe sat back and exhaled with frustration. She gave him a few seconds.

‘Can we start again, Henry. Pretty please? I’ve got a job to do and I want you to help me. I’ve had a bad start to the day, including a barney with my bloke, so stop being a prima donna and start being the professional cop you’re supposed to be? Eh?’

Henry groaned in embarrassment. This was not his style and Roscoe was perfectly right. It had all just welled up in him when she had told him she was heading the Joey Costain job. ‘I’m being a prick, aren’t I?’ He came back to the settee and slumped down next to her.

‘A fully erect one.’ She smiled.

By the time the police surgeon got to him, Kit Nevison was in a mess. He was sweating profusely, shivering and shaking, pulling at his clothes and had started seeing serpents coming out of the cell walls, spitting fire and venom at him. He was pleading like a beggar for help. It was an easy option the surgeon should not really have taken, but the look in Nevison’s eyes said, ‘Danger,’ so she prescribed methadone, the heroin substitute in a linctus form, which PC Standring obtained from a local chemist.

Nevison eagerly drank two measured capfuls of the green liquid, gulped it down and desperately licked out the inside of the cap to get the last trace of it. The warmth from it was immediate and wonderful and serene. He then took a swig from the cup of tea thoughtfully provided by Standring. A hot drink, as the officer knew, speeded up the dissemination of the drug into the system.

Relief. Blessed, even. But short lived. Methadone was good, but not as good as the real thing which Nevison knew he would need very soon, otherwise he would really crack up.

‘Hell’s teeth, is that the time already?’ Roscoe jumped to her feet. ‘Got to get down to the murder scene, then go with the body to the mortuary.’

Henry rose rather more sedately. ‘So you come to me, saying you haven’t got a clue and then you reveal that you’re only just going to the murder scene?’

‘What are you saying — that I should’ve gone straight away? I had a DS controlling it and I didn’t want to get in the way of SOCO or forensics.’

‘Exactly. Most DIs I know could not have resisted going down to the scene and tramping their size tens all over it. What you’ve done is spot on.’

‘Thanks — more by luck than judgement.’

‘There is one thing, though. Take your time when you get there. Don’t let anyone rush you. You only get one chance at a crime scene and once something’s lost, it’s lost forever.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can’t say I’m enthralled by the prospect of the post-mortem.’

‘Lots of valuable evidence to pick up there. Plus all the insights the pathologist might offer. Anyway,’ Henry joked, ‘the PM might not take too long. He’s already been prepared, hasn’t he?’ Roscoe went pale at the thought. ‘Who is the pathologist?’

‘Baines — he’s down at the scene now.’

‘Oh, he’s good. Give him my regards, we go way back.’

‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’

Henry winked enigmatically.

‘Anyway, must go.’ Roscoe brushed her skirt down and walked towards the living-room door. ‘So you reckon the Khans aren’t suspects?’

‘Suspects, yes. They definitely need to be questioned. But offenders? I doubt it. They’re pretty handy with knives and if I’d found Joey with his throat cut from ear to ear, I’d go straight for them. But the way he was left. . you’ll see for yourself.’ He shrugged. ‘The Khans do business first, then they might be killers, but to butcher someone like that takes a certain deranged mindset. But I could be wrong although it’s never happened before, though.’

They both laughed. Henry went down the back steps behind Roscoe into the hall. Roscoe put her hand round the door knob.

‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Pleasure. I’m sorry I was such a fool earlier. Just me getting in touch with my feminine side, I guess.’

Roscoe smiled tenderly. She hesitated, then reached out to touch his cheek with her fingertip.

‘I wanted to dislike you so much,’ she said softly.

‘Ditto,’ Henry responded, almost choking on the word. In a flash of memory he was taken back in time to a different hallway, a different doorway, where he had once stood with a different woman in a similar situation. One which had led ultimately to his affair with Danny, a plethora of lies and deceit to his then wife and a very complex life which he had hated. Now he was a free agent, able to do whatever he pleased, but he was wary, though excited, by Roscoe’s touch. This time it was the woman who was married, but the issues would be the same: lies, deceit, deception, betrayal. He did not want it to happen again.

They gazed at each other, suspended in time, her warm fingers on his face. Neither really wanted to break the moment.

‘Go back to bed,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Neither moved until Roscoe very slowly and deliberately leaned forward, went up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek, sending the equivalent of a thousand volts searing through him. At the same time she was thinking what a God-awful mess she might be getting into.

Before they could pull away from each other with any degree of conviction, the back door opened.

‘It’s OK,’ a voice was saying, ‘I’ll let you in to see him — Oh!’

Roscoe jumped away from Henry as though she had been stung by a bee.

‘Well,’ said Fiona. Behind her in the back yard stood Karl Donaldson. Fiona’s face was set as though in concrete. Donaldson was expressionless.

‘I’ll see you later, Henry. Excuse me.’ Roscoe ducked out between the door and Fiona and threaded her way past Donaldson.

Fiona remained rigid. ‘This man wants to see you,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll speak to you after I’ve castrated a bulldog.’ She pushed Henry out of the way and walked regally into the back of the surgery.

Donaldson contemplated his friend.

‘Got a problem, Yank?’

‘Nope.’

‘You’d better come in.’ Henry went back up the stairs, the word, ‘Fuck’ stuck silently on his lips.

Henry and Donaldson had met several years earlier when both found themselves on the trail of a psychotic Mafia hit man operating in the north of England. Subsequently they had become close personal friends and ever since the two had snaked in and out of each other’s personal and professional lives. Donaldson had non-judgementally supported Henry throughout the trauma of divorce without actually taking sides and alienating Kate, who was also a good friend. This was the first time they had spoken on a one-to-one basis for a while.

‘How’s it going?’ The big American gazed around the huge living room.

‘Oh — bouncing back, I think. Probably at a quicker pace than I’d intended, but that’s down to our mutual chum, FB, putting me into uniform.’

‘Yeah, I was surprised to see you dressed like that. It kinda suits you. I didn’t know about the transfer from the detective branch.’ Donaldson’s last sentence was slightly accusatory.

‘Nor did I until last Thursday.’

‘So fast?’

‘Yeah — this organisation can pin its ears back and make things happen when it wants to.’

‘And what’s the position romantically speaking? Is that homely DI Roscoe next in line for the famous Henry Christie chopper?’

Henry giggled. He was glad the slight air of tension had gone out of their conversation and pleased that his friend lacked so much subtlety that he could broach such a potentially delicate subject head on.

‘No,’ Henry replied firmly. ‘She’s got my sodding job so how could I possibly want to screw her, unless it puts her on maternity leave? I’d more likely be plotting a nasty death for her. I despise her, obviously.’

‘Yeah, obviously. Goes without saying.’ Donaldson smirked.

‘Actually she is quite nice in a sisterly sort of way, but that’s as far as it goes,’ Henry said, trying to convince himself. ‘As you probably gathered, I’m seeing Fiona, the vet from downstairs, but after that little bout of foot stomping we could be on shaky ground. Not that I’d be too concerned if it fizzled out. .I don’t feel comfortable with her, she’s far too intellectual for me.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

‘And Kate?’ Donaldson asked delicately.

The question stopped Henry dead, as it was designed to do. He inspected the carpet, scuffed it with his slippers. ‘Mmm, Kate,’ he said thoughtfully, sadly. A heavy silence descended like a shroud. ‘Dunno,’ he admitted. ‘Haven’t seen or spoken to her or the girls for almost two months.’

‘Miss her?’

Henry cringed and nodded. Like he’d had his heart cut out.

‘Still love her?’

‘Fuck! You don’t half ask some tough questions.’

‘Part of my job. I suppose you know she speaks regularly to Karen?’ Karen was Donaldson’s wife, an ex-Lancashire policewoman, now a chief superintendent with the Metropolitan Police.

‘I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.’

‘I pick up that she still loves you, y’know. Despite you being the biggest jerk this side of Birmingham. I think she regrets the hastiness of the divorce.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ Henry sighed, a melancholy mist beginning to envelope him. ‘But it’s over now. Separate lives and all that. She has a new boyfriend.’ The last word was said with a sneer of contempt.

‘Had a new boyfriend,’ Donaldson corrected him. ‘Ditched him.’

Henry digested this titbit.

‘Look, H, I gotta lay it on the line and hope you won’t be offended by this.’ Donaldson cleared his throat. ‘I’m here to see you for two reasons: one is professional and I’ll come to that soon; the other is personal. When Kate learned I was coming north she specifically asked for me to deliver a message to you, one for you to think about.’

Henry’s throat constricted and went very dry. His stomach churned, and it wasn’t with wind.

‘She wants you to ring her, see her, contact her somehow — but make contact.’

‘To what end?’

‘She wants to talk things through, sort things out,’ Donaldson said quietly. ‘She misses you, the girls miss you. Their lives are all upside down without you. . maybe there’s a way ahead.’

Henry swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘I’ve given her too much to forgive.’

‘Speak to her, Henry,’ the American urged, ‘can you say you’re happy here?’ Donaldson flashed his hands around the room. ‘I mean it’s — ’ He struggled to find adequate words. ‘OK but not exactly home from home.’

‘Yeah, I get the picture.’ Henry stopped him.

‘And if you still have any feelings left for Kate, if there’s any chink of light there for her, you owe it to yourself and her to talk. Just talk — you never know what might come of it.’ Donaldson slapped his thighs and sat upright. ‘Here endeth the lesson. I now wish to turn to more pressing, professional matters.’

The heavy key clunked in the lock on the cell door and turned the bolt back.

Kit Nevison, laid out on the plastic mattress on the bench-bed, opened his eyes and sat up, wiping his face on the rough blanket.

‘OK, Kit, how’re you feeling?’ PC Standring asked.

Nevison had been asleep. It had been short, deep and untroubled, made all the better by the methadone which was now well into his blood stream. He was dithery, and feeling weak, but otherwise on a fairly even keel. He twitched his shoulders in response to the officer’s question, unable to get his brain to engage his mouth to speak.

‘Time for court.’

Nevison grunted something and swung his legs off the bed.

‘Can you fold the blanket, please?’

Nevison complied. As he carried out the instruction he was able to utter a sentence, ‘What d’you think’ll happen to me?’

Standring grinned wickedly. ‘Put it this way, Kit — you assaulted some poor guy in a club with a broken glass, you slashed open a cop’s face and you held a solicitor hostage. You are obviously a danger to society, so what d’you think’ll happen?’

‘’Aven’t got much chance, have I?’

‘No, probably not,’ said Standring. ‘Still, stranger things have happened.’

The conversation had moved on, but what Donaldson had said to Henry about Kate lingered in his mind. He had to concentrate hard on what the American was saying to keep his thoughts from drifting back to her.

‘I didn’t get a chance to talk to you in as much detail as I would have liked,’ Donaldson explained to Henry. He laid a briefcase on his lap, clicked open the catches but did not lift the lid. ‘I told you about the bomber operating across the States, if you recall.’

‘New Offender Model Terrorist,’ Henry nodded.

‘You were listening,’ Donaldson said, impressed.

‘I’ve read about him in the papers — big spread in the Sunday Times recently. I’ve got my plans to distribute photos and some warning posters to the gay bars tonight.’

‘Yeah — that’s good. One of the things I wanted to share with you was the up-to-date intelligence on this guy, but I was told not to by FB in case of panic — but I’m gonna tell you anyway because I think you should know. I trust you not to blab.’

Henry sat up. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It is,’ Donaldson said wearily, ‘and you’ll probably understand why we really want people to be on their guard this week. One thing the newspapers haven’t yet picked up is that the bombs used for the four bombings in Europe in the last two months were all built by the same person. It’s pretty hot news and we’ve only just put it together.

‘All the bombings are claimed by right-wing groups. Two in Germany, one in France and one in Spain. All were targeted at minority communities and all took place either immediately before or during major political conferences. It’s only now that the scientific side of things has been linked together that it shows that the bomb-maker is the guy from the States.’

‘You’re saying your man has gone international? He’s offering or selling his services to right-wing organisations across the world?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, though he’s probably doing it for free or at cost price. These organisations don’t have a lot of money to spend on freelance assassins.’ Donaldson opened his briefcase and removed a large envelope. ‘Here are some photos of the damage and injury he’s caused.’ Granite-faced he handed the package across to Henry who shuffled the photographs out onto the coffee table. They were vivid images of bomb scenes across America. Full-colour death and destruction.

The devastation was incredible. As ever, Henry was astounded by the extent of damage that such small amounts of explosive could bring about. Whole building fronts had been blown out and destroyed, the insides of buildings ripped out. The horror was unthinkable. Henry shook his head in disbelief.

One series of photographs showed CCTV footage of an explosion. First there was a still of the street in question going about its normal, day-to-day business. The time in one corner of the frame showed 18.03.30. Next there was a massive fireball bursting out of a bar frontage. Time: 18.03.30. Then a raging fire and dense smoke filling the street: 18.03.31. Then just black smoke and devastation: 18.03.32.

‘Two people died in that one,’ Donaldson pointed out. ‘Eight injured.’

Two deaths, two seconds, Henry thought.

The next pictures were of bomb victims. Henry did not want to see these because they chilled his blood, yet at the same time he found them fascinating and revolting. He sifted slowly through them, a testament to a calculating murderer. The devastation that could be caused to a human body was awful in the extreme.

‘Not nice,’ he said in understatement. ‘Who’s claimed responsibility?’

‘No one, which is where the lone terrorist theory comes in. However, all the right-wing terrorist groups thoroughly approve.’

Henry gave him the photographs back. ‘You think this guy might be in town?’

‘There’s no firm intelligence,’ Donaldson admitted, ‘but if you look at the MO of the last four bombings in Europe — high-level government conferences and an attack on a minority group — it’s a worrying possibility. If nothing happens, great. Let’s all breathe a sigh of relief.’

‘Well, thanks for that. .’ Henry stretched. He needed to get back into his pit. ‘It has been good to see you, pal.’

Donaldson hesitated. ‘There is one more thing.’ He slid the photographs back into his briefcase and took another envelope out. ‘If this guy is in the country and he does hit us, I want to catch the bastard if I can.’ There was venom in his voice. He tapped another set of photos out of the envelope and offered them to Henry.

Henry looked at the top one, then quickly up at Donaldson.

‘I want him bad, because he killed an old friend of mine.’

Another blood-soaked Technicolor photograph of two bodies. Both male, lying side by side in a pool of deep, almost black, blood. Both had massive gunshot wounds. Henry was transfixed by the image.

Donaldson went on, ‘For this one he had a major change of MO. He hit a gay bar in downtown Miami, usual style. Then he exploded a bomb underneath the FBI RV point, killing three agents. Next he kills the two agents who found him on a nearby rooftop.’

‘Why the change of tactics?’

Donaldson shrugged. ‘Anybody’s guess. Maybe to show us who’s boss. . I just don’t know. How do these guys’ minds operate?’

‘How did he manage to plant a bomb at the RV point?’ Henry asked curiously, trying to get his head round the scenario. ‘Surely the RV point would have been established after the bomb had gone off in the gay bar?’

‘It was planted in a drain before the RV point was set up.’

Henry scratched his head. ‘He definitely didn’t have the opportunity to sneak it in?’

‘Nope.’

‘How did he know where the RV point would be set up?’ Henry’s tired mind cleared of its fuzziness as he worked through this one, the photo of the two dead law enforcement officers and the RV point bomb being the catalysts.

‘Good question: knowledge of FBI tactics at the scene of such devices, plus a thorough recce of the area which would have given him a good idea where we would be likely to set up. It’s possible he planted bombs at other possible RV points, we don’t know.’

‘Maybe he’s trying to send you a message.’ Donaldson looked quizzically at Henry as he twisted the photograph round in his fingers, tilting his head sideways.

‘The one on the left is my pal, Col Briscoe. We were partners for a while when I worked the Miami Field Office. He was a close personal friend and a damned good agent. I’m still shocked how he got caught like that. He left a wife, two kids, one grandchild. Fucking tragedy. Amazingly he was still alive when our guys got to him. Died minutes later in the ambulance, but couldn’t talk or communicate anything before he died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry mumbled. His attention was fixed firmly on the photograph. ‘I hate to suggest this, but have you and your colleagues considered that the perpetrator, as you call ’em, could be a rogue agent? Or an ex-agent, fired, maybe with a grudge.’

‘Considered: dismissed,’ Donaldson said crisply.

‘Really?’ Henry sounded surprised. ‘Not some disaffected ex-agent, or serving agent with a downer on the organisation and minorities; someone recently fired or under investigation or disciplined?’

Donaldson said no. He sounded a little annoyed at Henry’s persistence.

‘Stick with me here, Karl. Have you ever seen a word puzzle which, when you first see the word, looks just like a few disjointed blocks, shaded grey. Then someone says to you what the word is and you go, “Hell, yes, I see it now!”’

‘Can’t say I have.’ Donaldson’s brow creased.

‘The one I’ve seen is where the word is “TIE”, written in capital letters. All you see at first on the paper are a few square, grey shaded blocks, then when your mind fills in the lines for you, the word becomes obvious. It’s all about perception and some people will never be able to see the word, even when it’s blindingly obvious to other folk. You’ll definitely have seen that famous one that looks like a Grecian urn one minute, then two faces staring at each other the next. Or the old woman/young woman one — yeah? It’s a matter of a bit of mind adjustment.’

‘I know ’em. They’re very well-known ones, always cropping up in training — but haven’t you lost the plot here, pal?’

‘Possibly.’ Henry gave the photo back. ‘Have a look at the blood next to your friend’s body, hold the photo the right way up to start with.’

Donaldson peered closely, then held it further away from his face. ‘Looks like he slipped and slid in it, tried to stand up, maybe.’

‘Could well be,’ Henry admitted. ‘Now start to turn it round very slowly — you said this guy was a good agent?’

‘One of the best.’ Donaldson rotated the photograph as instructed, tilting his head too.

‘Keep your head still.’

‘Naw. . nothing.’

‘Well, maybe it is nothing, perhaps my exhausted brain going into overload, y’know, the one with three hours sleep, now a blubbering jelly. Give it here,’ Henry took the photograph back and laid it on the coffee table. ‘But, I’ll lay a pound to a pinch of shit — an old, northern saying,’ he said in answer to Donaldson’s expression of incomprehension, ‘meaning I’ll give you good odds, that no one has looked with a really critical eye at the pattern of the blood, but if you look at it and tell yourself it’s not blood you’re looking at, it’s ink, what do you see?’

‘I think I’m being dim here.’

‘No, you just need to open your mind a bit.’ Henry placed his fingertip on the photograph. ‘I know it’s rough and I could be wrong, but I’d say your old pal wasn’t a good agent — he was an exceptional one right up to the end.’

Henry traced a shape in the blood with his finger. Then another.

‘Anything yet?’

Suddenly Donaldson gasped and sat bolt upright. ‘Jesus — unbelievable.’

‘The very last efforts of a dying man to identify his killer, maybe,’ Henry finished cautiously.

‘Once you see it, it’s so obvious!’

‘He probably couldn’t finish it off — fatally injured, shot in the head, that’s not a surprise.’

Donaldson could not stop shaking his head in disbelief. Now he could clearly see the letters ‘F’ and ‘B’ written in blood next to Col Briscoe’s body.

‘Unless he’s saying that ACC Fanshaw-Bayley is the killer — which would be fantastic because I’d love to lock the twat up — could he have been trying to write FBI? And if so, why?’

Kit Nevison stood in the dock of court number one at Blackpool Magistrates Court, hardly even listening to the heated exchange between prosecution and defence. It meant nothing to him. Words. Garbage. Either he’d get bail or he wouldn’t. Eventually the magistrates retired to have a private conflab, returning about fifteen minutes later.

‘Stand in court,’ the cloaked usher said loudly.

Everyone rose, including Nevison. He was flanked by security guards from Group 4.

‘Mr Nevison,’ the chief magistrate addressed him. ‘We have reached a decision concerning the matter of your bail.’ Nevison swayed slightly. ‘You will be released on bail on the condition that you report daily to Blackpool Police Station at 10 a.m. and 7 p.m. prior to the next hearing on the fourth of next month.’

‘Eh?’ Nevison replied dumbly, scratching his head.

‘In other words, once you have signed the bail forms, Mr Nevison,’ the magistrate said testily, ‘you are free to go.’

Two minutes later, Nevison staggered unsteadily from the court having had his property returned to him. He stood at the top of the flight of steps outside the court building and with dithering fingers rolled himself a ciggie. He lit it and sucked deeply. He patted his pockets in the forlorn hope of finding something. They were empty. Shit. He needed to score. But without money and feeling incapable of even robbing a granny, things were pretty desperate. Then he had an idea: he would go and see his friend. Yeah, that was it. Davey was always a soft touch. ‘And,’ Nevison thought, ‘I have a key to his flat somewhere — where the fuck did I put it?’ His eyes narrowed. If he could find it, he could let himself into his friend’s flat and help himself. Davey was always leaving shit lying around.