Big City Jacks

Twelve

For the next fifty-four hours Henry Christie felt as though he hardly took a breath. The time shot by in a spiral of activity and images and it was only at eleven a.m., two days after the initial briefing to his team of detectives, that he found the opportunity to sit down, catch up, review and properly document everything that had transpired.

In days gone by, when Henry had been a pasty-faced rookie, naive enough to think he could even get away with wearing yellow socks with his uniform, the cops in the Valley had been supervised by a superintendent, a chief inspector and a whole rake of inspectors, one for each town in the Valley and more besides. Now there was one inspector covering the whole lot and it was in this man’s office that Henry secreted himself for half an hour to reflect — with a mug of coffee — on the progress, or otherwise, of the investigation.

The inspector was busy up the road in Bacup and Henry knew there was little chance of being interrupted.

Then he began.

The first briefing had gone well. He had revelled in it, despite his nerves, finding himself playing up to the assembled team, which had swelled to include Dave Anger and DI Carradine, the man who saw Henry as a blocker to his career. Even if he said it himself, Henry had performed brilliantly and his gut feeling was that the murder inquiry had got off to a splendid start.

Even the very begrudging Anger commented on Henry’s performance with a curt nod and a ‘well done’. The atmosphere of feeling good did not last long, though, when Anger announced that both Jane Roscoe and Carradine would be attached to the investigation. Henry accepted the two members of staff with good grace and immediately allocated them the shared role of office manager. Their faces told their own stories. Not happy teddies.

Next up was the media, which had descended in all forms on Rawtenstall police station, clamouring to be fed.

Henry dealt easily with them, feeling more relaxed than ever under the spotlight. He gave them a typical holding statement and promised he would hold press briefings regularly as the investigation continued. He took the opportunity to make a quick appeal for witnesses at that point.

By the time he had finished that first evening it was nearly midnight.

He winced when he remembered he had brought Jane Roscoe with him and that he would have to take her back to headquarters so she could pick up her own car before he could head home. That deflated him somewhat, but when she said that Anger would do the honours instead, Henry nearly jumped for joy. He was home and in bed for one a.m., snuggled up tight to a very hot ex-wife who awoke feeling horny. Their love-making was quick, urgent and fulfilling. Two people who knew each other’s bodies, who knew just how to satisfy the other fast or slow. They fell asleep, back pressed to back.

By seven thirty a.m. Henry was forty miles from Blackpool, sitting at Rawtenstall police station a full hour before the second briefing was due.

Everyone was bouncing, ready to rock, motivation and anticipation at a high level.

Early days, Henry thought, knowing that if there was not a significant breakthrough by the end of the next day, spirits would start to flag. At the very least the body needed to be identified, but Henry was confident this would happen sooner rather than later. The nature of the man’s death would see to that. No innocent, law-abiding person would get two bullets in the back and then get bonfired; whoever he was, Henry convinced himself, he would have a string of convictions and would have had his DNA taken, which would be on the national database. He would have bet his next pay cheque on that. Even so, it would have been nice to get a breakthrough before that information came through; a good witness, a vehicle type or number, something to really focus the investigation. It was a hell of a shame the dead guy’s fingers had been burned off.

Overall, he had a good feeling about it.

That whole next day was hectic and, following the evening debrief at nine p.m., Henry lurched home, knackered, was in bed by ten thirty p.m., only to be up and operating at Rawtenstall by seven thirty a.m. next day. At least the journey was nearly all motorway, so he didn’t have to concentrate on driving too much.

He swivelled round in the inspector’s desk chair and squinted through the narrow floor-to-ceiling window out to the public car park in front of the police station and beyond to the entrance to the shopping centre.

‘Have I covered everything?’ he asked himself out loud. ‘Have I done as much as I possibly could in the circumstances?’

He thought deeply about the questions, his mind tumbling, revising it all again.

He supped the last of his coffee, now gone cold.

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘I bloody have. Come and scrutinize me, Mr Anger, if you dare.’ But he sighed deeply as he got to his feet, collected his paperwork and prepared to leave the office as he had found it. ‘A little breakthrough would be nice, though. .’

Which was very much the thought that Rufus Sweetman was having at that moment in time, as he glared angrily at Tony Cromer and Teddy Bear Jackman. They had spent the last two days heaving their considerable and justified reputations around the city of Manchester in an effort to unearth information which would reveal to them who had stolen the property belonging to their boss.

It had not been a pretty sight.

Blood had been spilled and left in their wake. Snot, vomit too. Shit and piss also, and burnt flesh. They had visited many people, most of whom had been more than willing to divulge what little they knew. Some folks, however, had been truculent and not a little belligerent. Foolish people.

Jackman and Cromer were at the top of their game, a game which they loved and revelled in. One seemed to know what the other was thinking and they acted with the precision, if not the grace, of ballet dancers. And, whenever possible, they took turns, because there was great satisfaction in hearing someone scream when a steam iron, on its hottest setting, was placed on their skin as though they were branding a calf. It was an unworldly sound, but music to their ears.

‘Nothing, you say?’ Sweetman said.

‘Fuck all,’ Jackman confirmed to the boss.

Sweetman looked at Cromer, who also confirmed, ‘Fuck all.’

‘I don’t fucking believe it!’ roared Sweetman. ‘You are telling me that you’ve been out and about and no one has heard a damn thing? There’s millions of quids worth of cocaine been stolen, twenty dagos have snuffed it, and no cunt’s heard a thing? No names, sod all?’

‘Sorry, boss.’

Sweetman smashed a fist into the wall of his apartment and strutted across to the huge floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Lowry Museum on Salford Quays. He kicked the window, but it was made of thick, bulletproof glass and did not even tremble.

‘Bollocks,’ he uttered, spun fiercely on his heels and faced his two rather sheepish men, who both recoiled miserably. As tough and as hard as they were, they still feared the wrath of Sweetman. He left them standing when it came to violence.

‘There is a whisper, though.’

Sweetman became very still, waited for Cromer to continue.

‘Just a whisper, that’s all. . that a big player is on the streets, someone new, someone untouchable, but no names, nowt.’

‘And. .?’

‘Supposed to be targeting rich kids, university lot, young bankers, accountants, teachers, even. . no street dealing, just in good class pubs, clubs and offices and on the university campus.’

‘And. .?’ Sweetman insisted again.

‘Er. . that’s it,’ Cromer said inadequately.

‘That’s it? You two are a pair of wankers!’

They coloured up wretchedly.

‘I wish I was still inside,’ Sweetman blasted, shaking his head, his fists clenched. ‘Right, right, right. .’ He paced up and down the thick, cream carpet, thinking hard, pounding his head with his fists, trying to get his brain working. ‘It’s fucked my head up being in the slammer, can’t fuckin’ think straight, can’t get it right.’

He was still pacing when the solicitor, Bradley Grant, entered the room and gingerly took a seat, crossing his legs and raising eyebrows at Teddy Bear and Cromer, gesticulating a question with a shrug of his shoulders: ‘What’s going on?’

Teddy Bear began to speak. ‘We didn’t find anything. .’

‘What?’ shouted Sweetman, looking up abruptly, stopping in his tiger tracks, his thoughts interrupted. He seemed to notice Grant for the first time. ‘Did I say you could speak?’ he snarled at Jackman.

Teddy Bear shook his head like an admonished kid.

‘No I fucking didn’t. I’ve lost four or five million quid’s worth of coke that doesn’t belong to me and you make small talk. I’m tryina work out where it’s gone, who had the bottle to nick it. . I wanna get all the players in and I want to hang the twats out to dry until one of them spills his guts. . like in that film, y’know. . that one with Bob what’s-his-name. . the gangster thing. . c’mon, what’s it called?’ He clicked his fingers rapidly.

‘The Long Good Friday,’ Grant offered.

‘Yeah — that one. I think that’s what I’ll have to do, hang ’em upside down.’

Grant coughed nervously.

‘What’s that for?’ Sweetman demanded savagely.

‘Not a good idea, boss. Recriminations afterwards.’

Sweetman was on Grant before he knew what was happening. He spun fast and grabbed the solicitor’s face between the fingers of his right hand, squeezing the man’s face, digging his nails into the soft skin of his cheeks, puckering his mouth, distorting it and making him whimper fearfully, his eyes almost popping out of his skull.

‘Never, ever, question my decisions,’ he whispered into Grant’s face. He was almost nose to nose with the solicitor, his own eyes glaring and wide. He let go with a flick, stood up and started to pace the room again, trying to control his breathing. Grant rubbed his face, which now bore the deep, half-moon-shaped marks of five fingernails. ‘But maybe you’re right,’ Sweetman conceded. ‘It wouldn’t do to upset them all at once, would it?’ It was a rhetorical question, made even more so by the reluctance of anyone else in the room to answer it.

Having composed himself, Grant spoke hesitantly. ‘What about your thoughts on Superintendent Easton?’

Sweetman sneered derisively. ‘Hm, been giving it a bit of thought, yeah, but I don’t see a detective superintendent dealing a few million quid’s worth of coke, do you? Or robbing it in the first place? Naah,’ he dismissed the idea. ‘He got into my ribs as a coincidence, I reckon. Just got a downer on me.’

‘Enough to frame you for a murder you didn’t commit?’

‘Cops do shite like that. I’m a good target, they want me off the streets, yeah? Nothing else.’

‘OK, so who committed the murder you were framed for? That has to be answered, hasn’t it?’

‘Not my problem,’ said Sweetman. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t finished with Easton yet, I just don’t think he’s capable of being a drugs dealer, do you? Mr Big? I don’t think so.’

Grant shrugged.

‘I’m gonna back-shelf him for a while, come back to him later and get this sorted. My first priority is to find out who’s got my gear, because it’s mine and I want it back and if I don’t get it back, I’ll be under the hammer.’ Sweetman exhaled as though he had just gone ten rounds. He turned back to his two negotiators and influencers. ‘Do you think you’re up to this, or do I hire people in from the Smoke?’

They looked at each other, their professional pride dented. ‘We’re up for it,’ Cromer assured him. ‘Big style.’

‘OK,’ Sweetman said, accepting this. ‘I want to send out a big message, boys. I want to root out the do-badder, here. I want people to come out screaming, “It’s him, it’s him,” because they think they might be the next ones on your list. It’s time to stop treating people nicely and time to start cutting bollocks off.’

Henry was back at the scene of the murder. It was still sealed off tight as police officers, CSIs and forensics continued to comb it for clues. Not much of interest had been found, actually. A partial tyre track had been lifted and was now being analysed down at the forensic science lab near Chorley. Little else found seemed to be of much evidential use.

Being a fantastic detective, Henry guessed — not too smartly — that the body had been set on fire by someone dousing the victim with petrol from a can. No great intellectual leap there. Further to that, he speculated that, maybe, the can could well have been bought specifically for that purpose, so he already had detectives visiting petrol stations in the locality to see if any cans had been sold recently. A long shot, maybe, but one worth trying, especially as most garages were equipped with CCTVs and video-recording facilities.

He gazed around almost from the spot on which the body had been discovered.

‘Why here?’ he asked himself again. He narrowed his eyes into the sunshine as the cogs in his mind whirred and clicked. Deeply Vale was not that well known a place. Whoever brought the body here could not have done so by accident, Henry believed. So what was it that linked the killer to the victim and to this location? That was always the puzzle, those three elements in every murder: killer, victim, location. Always a connection, always a reason.

A support unit personnel carrier, windows darkened, riot grilles tilted back in place on the roof, was parked a hundred metres from where he was standing. It was the vehicle in which the support unit team doing the scene search had arrived. A number of officers in their blue overalls were gathered around the open back doors of the van, sipping tea from the urn they had brought along with them. Hm, Henry thought, and sauntered across. They parted as he reached them.

He nodded at a few faces he recognized and said, ‘Any chance of a wet?’

‘Sure, boss,’ a PC responded, grabbing a polystyrene cup and filling it with hot, dark-brown liquid. ‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Just a drop of milk, thanks.’ Henry took the brew and sipped it. The metallic taste evoked many memories for Henry. Days and nights spent at the Toxteth riots on Merseyside in ’81, the Messenger dispute in Warrington and, of course, the famous miners’ strike in ’84. Milestones in Henry’s career in terms of massive social and industrial unrest. The tea always tasted the same. You’d throw it away at home, but somehow its appallingness was a comfort in these circumstances.

‘Your sergeant about?’ Henry asked the PC who had served him.

‘In the front seat.’

‘Ah, so she is.’ Henry spotted the officer sitting alone in the front of the carrier, head down, concentrating on something. Henry walked along the vehicle and tapped on the window. The sergeant looked up, startled. She had been completing the search logs which were spread out on her knees. A large-scale map of the area was on the seat next to her. She put the logs to one side, opened the door and swung her legs out.

‘Boss.’

‘Hello, Hannah,’ Henry said. He knew her reasonably well. She had been originally posted as a PC to Blackpool probably ten years before, promoted after about six years’ service. She had spent a short time on CID, which is where Henry knew her from. She preferred the uniform side, though, and as she was a bit of a tomboy, graduated to the rufty-tufty life on support unit, or the ‘bish-bash-bosh’ squad as they were often called, or even ‘Ninjas’ because of their skills in defensive tactics. ‘How’s the search going?’

‘OK — but nothing much has come of it.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘I think we’ll have finished later today, to be honest.’

Henry knew the support unit were meticulous in their approach to jobs like this, very proud of their professionalism, so he did not doubt her word. . but he had been part of search teams in the past and knew how easy it was to miss things. Even objects like knives and guns. ‘Will you do me a favour?’ he asked, because he hated searches which uncovered nothing. Hannah, the sergeant, nodded. ‘Redo the scene, say to a radius of fifty metres?’

She took it in her stride. ‘Sure.’

‘Thanks, appreciate it.’

The afternoon heat was stifling at Alicante Airport on the Costa Blanca. The asphalt on the roads and the concrete of the multi-storey car park burned to the touch. The hundreds of tourists disgorging from the terminal buildings seemed to put the heat even further up, but inside the structure itself the air conditioning actually made Lopez shiver.

He was standing at the bottom of the dog-leg concourse, down which arrivals walked in order to reach awaiting tour reps, buses, taxis and car-rental firms. He lounged idly behind the array of people who were meeting and greeting — friends, businessmen, reps. His eyes roved continuously, checking and rechecking every face, every movement, because you could never tell when it might come. The arrest or the bullet. He had to keep keen and vigilant.

A mass of bodies had just swarmed through the airport, having alighted a plane from Liverpool. They had been noisy, badly behaved Brits, all displaying the stereotypical lager-lout mentality — or so it seemed to Lopez — though in reality it was probably only a small minority who were chanting football songs.

The plane he was waiting for, from Rotterdam, had just landed. The passengers were due through shortly.

Lopez found himself thinking about Mendoza, his boss, and the predicament he was in at the moment.

Many people wrongly believe that top criminals are rolling in money. Sometimes it was true, but like other businesses in the legitimate arena, even crime has its ups and downs. Sometimes there was solvency, sometimes not. Sometimes there was loads of cash, other times it was tight. Sometimes you could loan, sometimes you needed to borrow. Sometimes business was good and sometimes it was muy mal. Feast or famine.

And just at that moment for Carlos Mendoza, life was looking rather grim. He had lent money — other people’s money — and failed to get it back. Case in point was the second-rate gangster from the north of England who had borrowed money from Mendoza to initiate criminal activity. The guy had been a loser, a no-hoper — the money never came back and Mendoza had resorted to having him wasted and had transferred the debt to his more successful brother. . who now languished in prison, unable to pay a bean, even if he had wanted to. The problem would have been manageable had Mendoza not compounded it by then borrowing a huge amount of money himself to purchase cocaine from a Colombian cartel for a deal he had set up in England. That massive consignment had now been stolen and Mendoza found himself in hock in excess of two million pounds sterling without any conceivable way of paying it off, because the majority of his wealth was tied up in building sites and half-built properties around the Costa.

It wasn’t as though the debt was with a respectable clearing bank, either. Not the Bank of Santander, not Telebanco.

But the Cosa Nostra. They were his financiers.

Lopez knew that interest payments were already overdue and no one, not even someone of Mendoza’s stature, would be allowed to welch.

Mendoza had already received a polite phone call from a ‘business partner’ in Sicily, enquiring as to how the deal was progressing and looking forward to the first instalment.

It was a call that Mendoza had reacted to with horror, making him recognize that, as big as he was in the world of organized crime, he was nowhere near the players who lounged around in the sun in Palermo. All he was, was another fairly minor cog in their engine and they had the power to change gear whenever they wanted.

The illegal-immigration side of Mendoza’s business was going well, but even the profits from that were not as great as the media claimed. So many people were involved in the chain of events who needed paying, that by the time Mendoza received his cut, whilst considerable, it was not as great as people imagined and nowhere near enough to clear his debts to the Mafia.

In short, Mendoza was in a critical condition and if he wanted to save himself, he needed to act swiftly, decisively and ruthlessly.

Which was why Lopez was at the airport.

He chuckled to himself as he stood there

The passengers from the Rotterdam flight filtered peacefully through the airport until there was just a dribble left.

Lopez grinned as the man he was waiting for appeared. They glanced at each other, nodded almost imperceptibly. Lopez turned and walked out ahead of him, stepping into the oppressive heat of the day, crossing the road and making for the multi-storey car park where he had parked the car he had arrived in, an unspectacular-looking Seat. A driver sat in it, waiting patiently. Lopez paused at the car and waited to greet the man who had discreetly followed him.

His face broke into a wide smile as they shook hands, embraced, and indulged in a lot of hearty back-patting. ‘Ramon, my friend, it is good to see you. Very good.’

‘And you, and you,’ Ramon responded ebulliently. ‘Como esta?’

‘Muy bien. . come, we need to get out of this heat. . you sit in the front next to Miguel. .’ He opened the door for Ramon, the guy who headed Mendoza’s operations at Zeebrugge. The chill from the air-conditioning system whipped up.

Ramon hesitated, almost stepped backwards. His smile dropped and he eyed Lopez suspiciously. ‘What is this?’

Lopez laughed, sensing quickly what Ramon was worried about. ‘Ahh, the front seat,’ he said knowingly. ‘The death seat. . the bullet in the back of the head seat. . do not worry, my friend. . it is nothing like that.’

Ramon was not convinced. He knew of too many people who had been foolish enough to be suckered into climbing into front passenger seats of cars for innocent journeys, only to have their brains blown out or their throats slit, or to be strangled with piano wire.

‘Are you sure?’

Lopez smiled, but was irritated. ‘Of course. We have urgent business. . but I have a laptop in the back seat, and papers which I need to work on. Come, my friend, have you heard of anyone being beaten to death by a laptop computer? No, I think not. . please. .’

Spinks was the name of the big man operating on the Rochdale side of Manchester. He owned pubs and clubs, controlled all the town-centre drugs trade via his bouncers on the doors. Control the doors, control the drugs. That was the saying. He lived a flash lifestyle with good cars, clothes and good-looking women. He was brazen and open and did not mind who knew just how wealthy he was, which was partly his downfall. The other ‘partly’ was that he had once called Rufus Sweetman a ‘no-good shit’ and threatened that one day he would ‘take everything he owned away from him’.

In those terms, Spinks was a good starting point for Sweetman.

Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer did not take long to latch on to Spinks. They cruised the streets of Rochdale for a while, wondering where best to find him, racking their brains for inspiration, when suddenly Jackman blurted, ‘Vic and Tom’s!’

Cromer smiled wickedly. ‘You’re bloody right.’ He was driving and executed a wild u-turn without warning or signals and accelerated in the direction of the town centre. He abandoned the car on double yellows outside the high-class hair salon known as ‘Vic and Tom’s’ on a crowded side street close to the location of the world’s first ever Co-op.

Side by side they muscled into the busy salon, a place frequented by the area’s richest and swankiest women, the side of the business run by Victoria. All eyes swivelled and watched the progress of the two heavies across the shop floor and out the other side through Wild-West-type saloon swing doors into Tom’s. This was a gent’s hair stylist designed to resemble a Victorian barber’s shop, all tiles and leather chairs. It was busy in here, too, a customer on every chair, several waiting, reading magazines.

Cromer and Jackman continued their relentless march towards the office at the far end of the salon, until one of the braver members of staff, tiny scissors in hand, stepped in front of them.

‘Can I help you gents? It’s appointment only, you know?’ he challenged nervously, eyes taking in the sheer bulk and animalism of the two men. . and rather liking what he saw.

‘We’ve come to see Tom,’ Cromer said.

The hairdresser shook his head. ‘Not in. Sorry. Can I take a message?’

‘Fuck off!’ Jackman growled.

The scissors wavered in the air. All eyes were now focused on the incident.

‘I’m sorry, he’s not in, honestly.’ His voice sounded weedy.

‘I’ll just check that out, if you don’t mind,’ Cromer said, leaning towards the young man, ‘by going in there’ — he pointed to the office — ‘and having a look.’

‘Staff only,’ he squeaked.

Cromer’s hands closed around the scissors and he eased them gently off the hairdresser’s thumb and finger. He held them like a knife. ‘Like my friend said — fuck off.’

Meekly the hairdresser stepped aside, slim shoulders drooping, his body deflated. Cromer and Jackman walked past as though nothing had happened. They barged into the office.

Tom looked up in surprise, as did his newest sixteen-year-old male employee, who was kneeling down in front of Tom.

‘Jesus Christ, I told you lot to. .’ Tom began, knocking the young man away with a slap and attempting to do up his trousers. ‘What the. .?’ he continued when he saw who was interrupting him, hopping around. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just a little word,’ Cromer smiled cruelly. He clicked the scissors. ‘You — out,’ he told the young lad, who scuttled out of the office, trying to rise from his knees as he went, leaving his boss to face two very evil-looking men.

The MIR at Rawtenstall police station was quiet when Henry arrived back from the revisit to the murder scene. The only person in was Jane Roscoe, who was deep in a review of actions taken and pending. All other officers were out, just as it should be, Henry thought. Out digging, overturning rocks, annoying the bugs which lived under them. One other person, though, should have been in the office.

Henry strolled across to Roscoe, his eyes taking in everything which had been plastered on the walls. Known details about the victim, the location, speculation about motives, timelines, photos of the scene and all manner of other items from the intelligence cell Henry had established, including where to buy the best sandwich in town.

Roscoe did not notice Henry’s approach. She looked up, startled, to see him hovering next to her.

‘Where’s my chum, Carradine?’

‘Lunch,’ Roscoe said shortly. ‘Gone with. .’ She checked herself abruptly.

‘With who?’ Henry asked.

Roscoe looked away, averting her eyes.

‘With who?’ Henry probed again, wondering why he even wanted to know, because he could not really care less who Carradine lunched with. It was just that Roscoe’s reaction had made him curious.

‘Mr Anger.’

‘Oh, right. . good mates, are they?’

‘Served in Merseyside together.’ Roscoe peered at Henry as he juggled this bit of information in his brain and could not stop from letting his face do the talking. So Carradine and Anger were old mates. Carradine had started his career in Liverpool, later transferring to Lancashire. That had been a good few years ago. Anger had served in Merseyside too, before his own, more recent, transfer across the border to the head of the SIO team. Shit. Old buddies. Anger promises he’ll look after Carradine, get him a job on the SIO team and instead gets lumbered with Henry Christie whom he cannot seem to offload. Henry was in the way of Anger doing Carradine a good turn. That explained Carradine’s behaviour and attitude towards Henry.

He allowed himself a short, mirthless laugh, and gave Roscoe a knowing look.

‘Anything new I need to know about?’ Henry inquired, bringing the whole thing back to a more professional footing. ‘DNA back? Firearms?’ She shook her head to both. ‘Chase ’em up, will you?’ Henry veered away and left the MIR, now understanding that he had obstructed a promised move. A rather wicked grin appeared on his face. Knowing that made him even more resolved to stick in there and show the bastards.

‘Don’t get me wrong, Ted, but I quite enjoyed that.’ Cromer made a snipping gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand. Both men erupted in laughter.

‘Which bit — getting hold of Tom’s knob?’

‘No — snipping off that little bit of foreskin.’

‘He screamed a bit, though.’

‘Yeah — but at least he told us where to find Spinksy.’

‘Should’ve told us when we first asked.’

‘Should’ve,’ agreed Cromer.

‘There was a lot of blood wasn’t there. .? I mean, for such a small cut.’

‘Gallons. . wouldn’t stop flowing.’

‘Bet it’s gonna sting.’

They were walking side by side across the moor-top golf course at Whitworth, a cold, damp, windswept course which had wonderful sweeping views away towards Rochdale and Manchester beyond. They had seen Spinks’s Bentley in the car park, so they knew he was here and the information passed so painfully by Tom through screams, gasps and penile blood flow was correct. He had told them that Spinks was at Whitworth Golf Club with his girlfriend, but if he wasn’t, he would be shagging her at his house.

Cromer and Jackman warned Tom not to contact Spinks, otherwise they would return and cut his dick off. He had promised them he would comply with that reasonable request as he dabbed at his bleeding genitalia with one of the salon’s towels.

Even though the day was pleasant, the wind was whipping around the moors. The sheep and cattle which roamed unchecked over the course, leaving their droppings and hoof prints all over the tees and greens, looked cold and miserable.

There were few players on the course. The pair easily spotted Spinks and his lady on the eighth, approaching the green, very concentrated on their game. They did not clock the two men until both balls were on the green and within putting distance of the hole. They were laughing and joking with each other in an intimate way.

Cromer and Jackman took up a position on the edge of the green, side by side, hands clasped around their backs, watching as though they were golf aficionados.

Spinks was lining up for a long putt, head down, taking a few practice swings. It was his girlfriend who saw the deadly duo first.

‘Johnny,’ she said, looking worriedly past Spinks.

‘Shh, I’m gonna hole this, babe.’

‘Johnny.’ Her voice became a little more urgent.

His head swivelled impatiently towards her, about to deliver short shrift for interrupting his concentration. He saw her expression, stood upright from his unplayed shot and turned in the direction of her stare.

Cromer gave him a friendly wave. ‘Go on, it’s OK, play your shot,’ he called pleasantly. ‘Don’t let us interrupt you.’

The steamy basement underneath the bar reeked of beer, cigarettes and rotting vegetables. But at that moment, the only thing Ramon’s sense of smell could distinguish was that of his own blood. . and that was difficult enough as his nose had been virtually obliterated, broken by an iron bar, smashed to a pulp. Both his eyes were blackened and swollen, huge now, puffed-up and closing a little more all the time. Not that he could see much anyway because his left eyeball had burst, was oozing blood and puss down his cheek. Below his flattened and bloody nose, his mouth was a mess. Lips split wide open, teeth missing or loose, although before the teeth had gone he had bitten part way through his tongue. His lower jaw was hanging loose, too. Again, a blow from the iron bar, rather like a double-handed tennis shot which, whilst breaking the jaw just below the joint, had sent powerful shock waves coursing through his cranium — almost, only almost, knocking him unconscious.

His head lolled forwards into his chest and nothing seemed to make sense any more. Pain seared through his torso following the beating he had received. His fingers had been broken one at a time, snapped back like twigs, making Ramon howl with screams he never knew he could voice. His kneecaps had also been the focus of a lot of attention from the iron bar, both having been smashed.

Snot and blood bubbled out of his distorted nose.

But the screaming was over. Although his body was in the most extreme agony, he did not have the reserves to even moan anymore. Every last bit of juice had been beaten out of him remorselessly.

All he wanted now was release. He either wanted to be allowed to die, or to be taken to a hospital and pumped full of morphine.

His head was yanked upright.

‘Can you hear me, Ramon?’ came the whisper in his ear.

Blood dribbled out of his mouth. He did not have the strength to respond.

‘Can you hear me?’

From somewhere, a muffled gasp escaped from his broken lips.

‘Tell us the truth, my friend. Tell us the names of the people you conspired with, the people you allowed to steal our property. Just tell us.’

His head was held upright.

‘Tell us the truth. You betrayed us, didn’t you? You sold us out, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ he managed to say.

‘Liar.’ His head was dropped, chin bouncing, the pain from the broken jaw arcing through his head like a million volts of electricity.

Lopez stood upright. He was stripped naked to the waist, sweat glistening on his pale, muscular body. ‘He’s a tough one,’ he said to Mendoza, wiping himself down with a towel, ‘which is why we recruited him in the first place.’ Mendoza was sitting astride a chair, leaning on it, watching the proceedings in a detached way. ‘One of his good traits,’ Lopez said.

‘He’s admitted nothing,’ Mendoza observed. He lit a cigarillo, blew lazy smoke rings.

‘I never expected him to,’ Lopez explained.

Mendoza regarded his second in command suspiciously for a long moment. A nerve twitched on Lopez’s face. Then he gave a nod, stood up and said, ‘Kill him — and then if we have to go on killing to get it back, so be it.’

He walked out of the basement, leaving Lopez and Ramon alone.

‘With pleasure,’ Lopez said under his breath. He picked up a 9mm pistol from the top of a nearby beer keg and placed the muzzle against Ramon’s temple. Something in the injured man made him stir, made him realize what was about to happen. He raised his head and twisted agonizingly to look through his blood-encrusted eyes at Lopez.

‘What?’ Lopez said. He leaned forwards so he was close to Ramon’s face.

‘You,’ the victim said, once, and managed to gob into Lopez’s face, a horrible, thick mixture of liquids. Lopez recoiled, wiping his face angrily. Then, without further hesitation, he shoved the gun into Ramon’s left ear and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, blowing away the opposite side of Ramon’s face as the bullets spun out of his skull.

Spinks never made the putt. If he had not been interrupted he would probably have knocked the ball into the hole, which would have made it a par on the eighth. Instead, when he saw the two men by the green and his brain registered who they were, he ran.

Unfortunately for Spinks, his lavish lifestyle did not include fitness training. Consequently he was overweight — not grossly so by any stretch of the imagination — but enough to ensure he did not have the speed or the stamina to outrun the interlopers.

Jackman’s lifestyle, as Cromer’s did, consisted of regular exercise. They trained daily at an exclusive gym in the heart of Manchester, meeting at six thirty a.m. for a three-quarter-hour’s workout, including aerobic and strength training. Each man was extremely fit, as they knew they had to be in their line of work. It kept them one step ahead of their competitors, who, more often than not, were about as fit as. . well, Spinks.

Spinks panicked. He threw down his putter and legged it.

Jackman, the faster of the pair, got to him as he leapt into the first bunker. For fun, he rugby tackled Spinks, driving into him like a steamroller, forcing all the breath out of him and landing on him in the sand, pushing Spinks’s face down into the neatly raked surface and making him eat a mouthful of it.

The girlfriend watched the proceedings in complete silence.

Cromer dealt with her. A few quiet words and she slotted her putter into her golf bag and walked away without even a backward glance.

Jackman dragged the disarrayed Spinks to his feet and, whilst holding him up by the scruff of the neck, brushed him down.

‘You fucking twats. .!’ Spinks started to yell, gasping for breath.

Jackman punched him hard in the lower belly and let go of the collar at the same time, letting Spinks double over on to his knees, every bit of air expelled from him.

When he had almost recovered, Jackman hit him twice more then he and Cromer led him towards the clubhouse car park, meek and mild, not an ounce of fight left in him.

‘That’s a good fella,’ Cromer cooed patronizingly as they eased him into the back seat of his Bentley. ‘Let’s have a nice ride.’

Henry seemed to have inherited the inspector’s office at Rawtenstall police station. He knew it was only a temporary state of affairs but even so it was useful to have a little bolt hole where he could retreat to and get his mind around things, not just in relation to the murder investigation.

Inwardly he seethed about Anger and Carradine. Old buddies, one looking out for the other. Promising things and then having the temerity to flounce around, sneering at Henry, going out for lunch, then returning together and asking him how things were progressing.

Henry could have punched Anger. He didn’t, remaining cool, calm and bubbling.

‘Twats,’ he muttered in the confines of the inspector’s office, then repeated the word for emphasis.

He sat back in the swivel chair again, staring out through the narrow window, watching the public go about their day-to-day business.

‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Brain in gear, please.’

SIOs do not exclusively run one investigation at a time. Quite often they are required to steer two or three murders at once, which can be difficult and stressful. At the moment, Henry was fortunate in having only the one, but he still had a watching brief to perform over the fatal accident at Blackpool. In truth he had let that slip a little, knowing that the DS to whom he had entrusted it was more than capable of cracking it without Henry’s assistance.

However, Henry needed to keep in touch.

Using an internal phone he called Rik Dean on spec and amazingly managed to get in touch.

‘Anything happening?’ he asked after the pleasantries.

‘Roy Costain has definitely gone to ground,’ Dean informed him. ‘We’ve had one or two sightings — he’s managed to evade us so far, but he’s definitely in town.’

‘Have the family helped at all?’

‘Bunch of shits — no they haven’t. Very obstructive, nothing coming from them at all. I put an FLO in with them, but they’re not having it. Still reckon they’re going to sue the cops.’

‘Not surprising. They don’t know right from wrong,’ Henry said wearily. ‘I definitely need to come and see Troy again. I said I would, but I got side-tracked.’

‘Actually I haven’t seen Troy for a day or two.’

‘Right, OK,’ Henry said, winding up the conversation. ‘If I get a chance I’ll be over later.’

Henry hung up.

Next job was to chase up the DNA results and the firearms analysis. The former should be done by now, the latter, he knew, could take longer. He got on the phone to Jane Roscoe in the MIR down the corridor to ask just exactly what had been done.

‘Seen that ad on telly?’ Tony Cromer asked Spinks. They were in the Bentley, Cromer at the wheel, Spinks in the rear. Jackman was following behind as they drove away from Whitworth down into the Rossendale Valley. Spinks sat hunched over, hurt and frightened. He knew better than to attempt anything with Cromer. Instead he responded miserably.

‘What ad would that be?’

‘Oh, God, it’s for some car or other. Anyway, this guy sees an advertising hoarding for this car. . I think it’s a Peugeot or something. . then he looks at his own car, which is a pile of shit. . gets in his car and starts bouncing it off walls, y’know, ramming it, reversing it, scraping it, until eventually it kinda takes on the shape of the Peugeot in the hoarding. . do you know which one I mean, now?’ He glanced over his shoulder.

‘Can’t say I do. . anyway, why’re you telling me this? What interest is it to me? I want to know what’s going on, what’re you two goons playing at?’

Henry was back in the MIR chatting to one of the detectives on the squad who was reporting in about the status of the actions he had been allocated. Roscoe and Carradine were huddled together at a desk, ostensibly discussing MIR management issues, though Henry believed they were gossiping about him. Not good. He definitely was becoming paranoid.

‘OK, good stuff,’ Henry said to the DC. He looked up as the support-unit sergeant came into the room, dressed in her search overalls and looking like a cat with a mouse. ‘Hello, Hannah,’ Henry said, noticing she had a small, clear plastic bag in her hand and a video cassette in the other.

‘Can I have a word?’ she said. Roscoe and Carradine’s eyes turned to her as they stopped their little scrum down. ‘Think I might’ve found something.’

They drove into an old mill yard in Stacksteads, a township situated on the long stretch of road in the valley bottom between Bacup and Rawtenstall.

Once there had been many mills in the area, now most had been demolished; those remaining were either derelict or had been converted into factory units. None produced cotton any more.

This particular mill had a long, proud history, but it was now deserted and falling to pieces. Rufus Sweetman had bought it at a knock-down price with the intention of converting it into classy apartments. It stood by the trickle of the River Irwell and may have had some development potential, but Sweetman had owned it for three years and had done nothing with it.

The yard at the rear of the mill was bounded on three sides by twenty-foot-high stone walls and on the fourth side by the mill itself. The entrance to it was by way of a gap in the walls which had once been a proper gate.

Cromer drove the Bentley into the yard, stopping in the middle, gawking up at the multi-storey mill which in its day had produced millions of yards of cotton material. Behind, Jackman parked up the second car at the entrance to the yard.

‘Ahh, some history here,’ Cromer said. He shook his head sadly. ‘All gone now. Everything produced by chinks and wogs these days. . sad. . what do you say, Spinksy?’

Spinks sat upright and tight in the back seat, mouth clamped shut, a premonition of horror to come shuddering through his veins. He could not speak.

Cromer patted the steering wheel. ‘This is a lovely bus, y’know? Really smooth. Can’t quite hear the clock ticking, though. . ahh, no wonder, it’s digital!’ He laughed at his joke, twisted his head and looked over his shoulder at his captive with an evil smile.

There was complete silence between the men, the only sound being the gentle, very muted rumble of the huge powerful engine under the bonnet.

‘What’s going on?’ Spinks squeaked, his mouth a dry cave.

‘Someone’s taken something that doesn’t belong to them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Something that belongs to me boss.’

‘Like what?’ Spinks asked desperately.

‘Like a lot. . I mean a lot. . of drugs.’

With that, Cromer snapped the automatic gearbox into drive. He rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The heavy car surged forward like a sports car half its weight, the front end lifting regally as power transferred to the wheels. Cromer held on tight, bracing himself.

Spinks let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream as he saw the mill-yard wall getting closer and closer as the car sped towards it.

‘Jesus fucking. .!’ he uttered. Something inside him did not believe that Cromer would do it. No one, no one, in their right mind would, whatever the reason, drive such a beautiful piece of machinery head first into a three-foot-thick stone wall. Surely.

Cromer did.

The car, still accelerating, hit the wall with a sickening thud, throwing Spinks out of his seat, sending him sprawling through the gap between the front seats. Before he could recover himself, Cromer selected reverse and the wheels were skidding as the car began a journey towards the opposite wall.

‘You idiot!’ screamed Spinks.

The Bentley connected.

Then Cromer was in drive again, but instead of going for another straight-on hit, he went for forty-five degrees, slamming the car into the wall so as to destroy the front offside headlights.

Then back in reverse.

‘This is my fucking car, you prick!’ Spinks shrieked.

To no effect.

Smack! The car hurtled into the wall behind again.

‘Jesus, this is fun!’ Cromer yelled with a whoop. ‘It’ll be a Peugeot when I’ve finished with it.’

‘You bastard!’

Cromer found drive again, but anger, fear, horror, self-preservation all combined in Spinks and he went for Cromer’s neck and head. He reached over the seat and his right forearm went under Cromer’s chin whilst his fingers went to gouge out Cromer’s eyes.

A grim smile came across Cromer’s distorted face. He twisted his head downwards and tried to evade Spinks’s probing fingers, trying to protect his eyes. The arm across his windpipe he could endure for a few moments, but he needed his vision. He pushed his right foot down and the car sped on, taking a swerving, tyre-squealing course across the mill yard until it rammed into the opposite wall again, smashing the radiator grille. The impact threw both men forward and Spinks lost his grip for a millisecond, just long enough for Cromer to twist and turn away from his attacker, shoulder open the driver’s door and roll out of the car.

He hauled open the rear door and snarled at Spinks. ‘Out.’

Spinks launched himself at Cromer, leaping out, arms like a pincer, going for the waist.

Cromer sidestepped easily. Spinks crashed to the ground, hurt, humiliated.

There was nothing clinical about what Cromer did next.

He knew it was childish, but even so he took great pleasure in it. With the highly curious eyes of both detective inspector foes on him, Henry ushered the support-unit sergeant out of the MIR, down the corridor into the inspector’s office. As he left the MIR, he could not resist a supercilious glance in Roscoe’s direction. Nor could he hold back a smirk at Carradine. He almost gave them both the swivel finger, but that would have been one step too far.

Hannah laid out the two items on the desk. ‘It’s a good job you made us search the scene again,’ she said gratefully. ‘We were all for packing up.’ Henry nodded as he listened, his heart hammering. ‘We did the whole area around the scene and found this about twenty-five feet away from where the body was found.’ She pointed to the clear plastic bag with a waterproof seal on it — a Lancashire Constabulary evidence bag. Inside it was a piece of crumpled paper which Henry recognized immediately as a sales receipt. ‘It’s for petrol.’ Hannah’s eyes caught Henry’s. ‘And for a petrol can,’ she added wonderfully. Henry uttered a short guffaw and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s for the purchase of petrol and a petrol can at a twenty-four-hour garage on Bury Road, timed and dated. I took the liberty of calling into the garage on the way back here and found they videoed the forecourt and the shop continuously with two cameras, giving a split screen. This is the video tape which covers the relevant period relating to the sales receipt. . paid for in cash, by the way. One of the lads is taking a statement from the garage owner and we’re trying to track down the cashier who was on duty at the time.’

‘Have you viewed the tape?’

She shook her head.

‘OK, let’s get both items booked into the system. Get the sales receipt off to fingerprints immediately — get a motorcyclist to do it — and then let’s you and me sit down and watch a video together. . well done, by the way.’

‘Thanks. . but down to you, Henry.’

He blushed.

‘But then again,’ she added, ‘it might be nothing.’

It would have been totally unprofessional of Henry to have kept the discovery of the tape to himself. Whilst it irked him, he invited his office managers into the refs room at the station and commandeered the TV and video for the first screening. Time and date were stamped on the bottom of the screen, so it was simple enough to fast forward to the right spot on the tape to link it in with the receipt.

The split screen was very grainy, hazy and in black and white. A cheap system, but better than nothing at all. As he reached the right place on the tape, he slowed it down to normal speed, waiting with anticipation.

The left half of the screen was the forecourt, the right the interior of the shop.

A car drove on and stopped at a pump. A man got out, filled the car. Not the one they were interested in, but even so Henry was slightly disappointed because it was impossible to read the registered number of the vehicle. He frowned. Make and model, yes. Colour would have to be guessed at. But number, no.

The man approached the cashier’s window and then disappeared out of shot, before reappearing a few moments later, getting in his car and driving away.

‘The shop’s locked at midnight, apparently,’ Hannah said. ‘Everyone pays at the window up to eight a.m.’

‘And the camera picks people up on the forecourt, but not at the payment window,’ Carradine said. ‘Not well sited,’ he added.

Then, on the periphery of the screen, another car drove on to the forecourt, but did not stop at the pumps. Other than a shot of the wheels as it crossed the far side of the forecourt, there was nothing.

‘Wonder if this is the one?’ Roscoe asked.

The time stamp on the screen said three fifty-five a.m.

The detectives waited. The split screens stayed empty.

Henry mussed his face with his hands, impatient.

A man walked into shot on the right side of the screen, walking down the aisle in the shop, reaching up to a shelf for something, then walking back holding a petrol can.

‘The cashier,’ Henry said.

He disappeared off screen, probably taking up his position behind the counter.

A figure of a man then appeared on the left half of the screen, walking towards the pumps, his back to the camera, holding the petrol can.

‘This is the guy who bought the can,’ Henry said.

All four cops hunched closer to the screen, watching as the man went to a pump and filled up the can, all the while keeping his back to the lens.

‘He knows he’s being filmed,’ Roscoe said.

Unknowingly, all four of them were holding their breaths, collectively waiting for the man to turn and walk back to the window.

The figure on the screen stood up, slotted the petrol-pump nozzle on to its holder and screwed the cap on the can. He picked up the can and then walked away from the camera, across the forecourt, and out of shot.

‘Cheeky bastard. He paid for it before he served himself.’

They continued to watch the screen for a few moments before Henry fast-forwarded it, but there was nothing else to see.

‘Shit,’ breathed Carradine. ‘Doesn’t give us much.’

‘Gives us something,’ Henry said. ‘If this is our man, and there’s a good likelihood it is, we’ve got height, build, clothing, gait. . good stuff. . breakthrough. Let’s get it copied,’ he said to Carradine and Roscoe, ‘then I want it sent to technical support to see if they can do anything with the images. I know we only get the bottom edge of a car, but we need to put a make to it, if possible. . OK, back on your heads,’ he said, pushing himself out of his seat, ejecting the video from the player and handing it to Roscoe.

‘Well done,’ he said to Hannah. ‘My gut feeling is that we’ve just had our first glimpse of a murderer.’

The support-unit sergeant left the room feeling very pleased with herself.

Roscoe looked at Henry as though he were pathetic. ‘Another of your conquests, Henry? She looked all gooey-eyed. . is it the overalls that do it for you?’

Henry exited without comment.

Roads and tracks of varying quality criss-cross the bleak moorland which rises between Bacup and Todmorden, a town nestling just within the boundary of West Yorkshire. Other than the A road which straps across the gap between the two towns, these other roads are not ones on which a Bentley, which when new cost somewhere in the region of?140,000, should be driven. However, the Bentley driven by Tony Cromer was the exception. He purposely picked rough tracks, bouncing the battered luxury car over and into pot-holes and ditches, bottoming it, tearing the ultra-expensive exhaust from its mountings. He spent a good ten minutes enjoying a kind of off-road experience. Eventually he met up with Teddy Bear Jackman, who was waiting patiently in their own car near to the small, hilltop hamlet of Sharneyford.

Cromer pulled in, climbed out and stood back to admire his handiwork.

The Bentley had been trashed, but he was impressed by the way in which it kept going. It was undoubtedly a fantastic car and it hurt Cromer to have had to do what he had to do. But business was business.

He walked around to the boot, which he had to force open.

Inside, curled up in a foetal ball, was the equally battered Spinks, who had also just enjoyed an off-road experience. He peered up with eyes surrounded by a face pulped and disfigured and broken by Cromer’s merciless beating. He cowered and whined, terrified.

‘Got good suspension, your motor.’

Spinks nodded, then coughed blood.

‘Well? Change of heart?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ he said weakly.

Cromer nodded. He tossed the Bentley keys into the boot, then leaned in close. ‘You have any thoughts about a follow-up, a return match, and you’re dead — understand?’

Spinks nodded.

Cromer slammed down the boot and climbed into the waiting car, next to his colleague. ‘One down, nine to go.’

It was the end of a long day. Some progress had been made — such as the video from the petrol station. The cashier had been located and was being interviewed, later to be visited by the e-fit expert. It was a good lead and there would be some good actions from it. In the morning Henry fully expected the DNA results to be through, one way or the other, and maybe something from the firearms people at Huntingdon.

But now he was shattered. The nine o’clock debrief had gone well and everyone involved was still very much up for it. The following day’s actions had all been allocated and Henry decided to skip a morning briefing so everyone could get working early.

After the debrief, Henry spent half an hour making up the policy log and then, confident he was hitting all bases, he got ready to hit the trail home. The thought of an hour in the car did not fill him with glee, but his bed was calling, and cancelling the morning briefing meant he could laze in it until eight a.m. A lie in!

He stepped out of the police station at nine forty-five p.m.

The evening was cool and fresh, in contrast to his body, which was stale and sweaty. His car was in the small yard at the back of the station and he walked round to it.

His mobile phone rang.

‘Henry — it’s me, Tara.’

The voice and name smote a wave of horror through him. Tara Wickson.

‘Hi,’ he said, trying to disguise the note of hysteria in his voice, vividly recalling the other night at the Imperial Hotel in Blackpool. A memory he had tried to bury over the last few days.