Big City Jacks

Fifteen

Henry Christie had worked in, been in, many CID offices over the years. No matter where they were, there were always certain similarities between them as, after all, an office is an office: desks, chairs, computers, paperwork, baskets, coffee cups and mugs.

But yet, each office has its own tangible atmosphere, its own way of speaking, telling you how well the people in it were doing their work, how they interacted, whether they achieved or not. It did not depend on tidiness. Even the most untidy offices could be places where the staff delivered a consistently high quality of work. Nor did it depend on the age of the furniture, or whether there were posters on the walls declaring how fantastic it was to have a positive attitude. The people made the atmosphere, whether they were sitting at their desks or not. And Henry thought he could tell when he was entering a good CID office. . or not.

Sitting in the CID office of the Arena police station just on the outskirts of Manchester city centre, he was trying to get a feel for this particular room and its denizens. But he could not quite get a handle on it.

It seemed tidy enough, the few people in the large, wide-open room had their heads down, beavering away; a coffee machine gurgled in the corner, a nice aroma filtering through the air. Yet something unsettled him slightly, making a knitting pattern of his furrowed brow. He felt strangely uncomfortable. As his eyes criss-crossed the room, they paused briefly on what was obviously a home-produced poster which said simply, Invincibles! Nothing else, just that word in striking red letters. His eyes moved on.

He exhaled, looked out of the window. Not far away was the Manchester Arena, where he had recently been to see the Rolling Stones on their world tour. Behind that was Victoria railway station and beyond that was the city itself, Deansgate, the Arndale Centre, etc. In the other direction was Manchester Prison, formerly Strangeways, and wonderfully, nearby, was Boddington’s Brewery, which made one of the few bitter beers Henry could drink to excess. He was more of a lager man.

He and FB had travelled together to Manchester. During their journey from Rawtenstall, the chief had revealed why he did not want to miss the opportunity.

‘The nick we’re going to. .?’ he began.

Henry nodded. He was driving.

‘It’s the one where the detective superintendent is based who I’m — we’re — going to be investigating. The one involved in the cock-up trial at Lancaster.’

‘I thought there’d be an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just that you’d been missing the cut and thrust of being a detective at the sharp end, was it?’

‘That as well. . a bit. . but it just seemed to be a good chance to get a sneak preview of the bastards, when they’re not expecting us. Always an eye-opener to drop in on folk when they’ve just got off the toilet, if you know what I mean.’

Henry knew. Good tactic.

‘The whole Sweetman investigation was conducted from there.’

‘Supposing he isn’t in?’

FB shrugged. ‘In that case, I’ll just have a nosy round with you.’

‘I take it that you have a bit of a plan in your head.’

‘Oh yes.’ FB tapped his slightly bulbous nose, which Henry thought was getting slowly fatter and redder. . probably because of the wine. ‘I speak to the superintendent whilst you chat to the troops — ostensibly about Keith Snell — but if you can also manage to drop a few innocent but loaded questions about Sweetman and get some reactions, that would be good.’

Henry did not respond to this half-baked approach. He had no great desire to get involved in the Sweetman job until the Snell murder was out of the way. The fact that the two inquiries had some common ground only muddied the water for him. He would have liked to keep them separate and he hoped there was no true connection, but he also knew he would have to keep his antenna tuned in for any.

And now, after what seemed like the millionth journey during his life down the M61, he was sitting in a CID office whilst FB was chinwagging with the detective superintendent (who was in). He speculated on a few things while waiting, his mind butterflying over the walls in his mind.

Keith Snell — low life — murdered. Why?

Tara Wickson, lovely, lovely, lovely body. . even sat there, Henry could still feel her fingers. He crossed his legs.

Kate Christie, ex-wife, to whom he wanted to remain faithful; he seemed to have a button in his brain more destructive than the US president’s nuclear one.

And Karl Donaldson — what the hell was he up to, buggering off to Spain?

Henry shook his head and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. Waited, watched, thought, worried.

His mobile phone blurted out that Stones riff, the one that had annoyed FB. The one he would therefore be keeping. The display told him it was from Karl Donaldson’s home number. Ahh, he thought, the coincidence of life.

‘Hi, Karl, back already?’

There was a faltering silence on the line, then, ‘No, Henry, it’s me, Karen.’

‘Karen. . hi,’ he said warily, responding to the tone of voice of Karl Donaldson’s wife. She sounded upset. Henry knew her well. She had once been a police officer in Lancashire, where Donaldson had met her. They had fallen in love, married, had kids, all that palaver. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and now headed their training centre at Hendon. Once, Henry had severely disliked her, but now they were good friends. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Karl,’ she said.

Immediately, Henry’s insides went empty. This sounded like bad news. ‘What about him?’

‘I just haven’t heard from him. Do you know where he is?’

‘I spoke to him last night. . he said he was in Spain. .’

‘Spain?’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean, Spain?’

‘Spain. . y’know, the country, Spain. He said he was there regarding you know who.’ Henry did not want to say the name Mendoza, but also felt rather silly saying, ‘You know who.’ He stood up and crossed to the window, feeling he would be less likely to be overheard there.

‘He told me he was going to see you,’ Karen said accusingly.

‘Oh.’

‘So do you know where he really is?’ she demanded, obviously thinking Henry was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

‘No. I spoke to him on the phone last night and he said he was in Spain. Are you saying he hasn’t told you?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Have you spoken to anyone at the Legat in the American Embassy?’

‘Yes. Nobody knows where he is.’

Henry felt a kind of creeping-crawling sensation cover his skin, contracting it tight. Could it be that Karl was on a non-authorized job? And what was worse, had it gone wrong somehow? He coughed mentally in order to make his next words sound upbeat. ‘I wouldn’t be worried, Karen. He’s probably trying to find a phone charger right now.’

‘But he always phones. He always tells me where he is, where he’s going. But not this time. I thought something was wrong with him. He hasn’t been acting normal, really distracted, really not with it. His mind somewhere else. Jesus. . do you think he’s having an affair?’

‘Nope,’ Henry said without hesitation.

‘Then what? They have public phones in Spain, don’t they? It’s not like a third-world country.’ She was gradually losing it, becoming hysterical.

‘I’m sure everything’s fine. . now, come on, Karen’ — he didn’t dare call her ‘love’ because she was a superintendent — ‘he’ll be fine.’

‘But what if he’s got into trouble? No one knows where he is,’ she said.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Henry said firmly. ‘This is Karl Donaldson you’re talking about.’

‘I know, I know,’ she cried. ‘It’s just that. . I’m at my wits’ end, OK?’

‘Karen, look, I’m in Manchester at the moment on a job. Just keep annoying the embassy and get them to talk to you. You know what they’re like. . secret squirrels and all that. If you need someone to talk to, Kate’s at home today, give her a ring. I’ll get back to you when I can. I’m sure he’ll be fine. . no one gets the better of Karl, the good-looking bastard.’ That ending brought a little laugh from Karen.

‘Right, right,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up, leaving Henry with a dead phone in his mitt. He slowly folded it over and dropped it back into his pocket, thinking that if there was one thing Donaldson did, it was keep in contact with Karen — unlike Henry, who was poor at calling in to Kate. Donaldson was smitten with Karen and, because of this, the lack of contact made Henry suspicious.

Turning away from the window, Henry saw FB and two detectives he did not know enter the office. The three of them made their way towards him.

Henry — the cop from the sticks — took this brief chance to size up the two Manchester detectives.

To say they were spick ’n’ span was an understatement. Both were impeccably dressed, class suits, matching ties and hankies folded into breast pockets. Their creases were as sharp as knife blades, their brogues shiny and creaking as they walked confidently and cockily, rolling their shoulders. Both put the rather shabbily dressed FB to shame — FB the hick cop from a hick force with his hick running mate, Henry.

These two Manchester City detectives were the epitome of the big city jack. Sharp, sassy, cocksure and very arrogant.

For a moment Henry felt a shade underdressed in his Burton’s off-the-rack.

‘I’d like you to meet DCI Henry Christie,’ FB was saying. The older of the two jacks reached forward and gave Henry’s right paw a quick tug. ‘This is Superintendent Easton.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Henry said. The skin of Easton’s hand was smooth and dry. Henry could smell aftershave on him.

‘Henry’s here for two reasons,’ said FB. ‘He’s investigating the murder of a guy called. .?’ FB’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s he called, Henry?’

‘Keith Snell.’

‘That’s it. . one of your local denizens. His body was found just over the border in Lancs a few days ago. . you probably heard about it. The one who was shot and burned? Just got the ID through.’

‘Yeah,’ said Easton. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell, though.’ Easton scratched his head. Henry caught the nervous gesture and instinctively knew Easton was lying. ‘OK.’ Easton turned to the other detective, a younger man, standing on the balls of his feet, rocking. He tossed a thumb in his direction. ‘Phil here will give you a hand with that. He can be your SPOC.’

Henry squinted. ‘SPOC?’

The younger detective guffawed. He reached out a hand and shook with Henry, giving Henry’s hand a squeeze too much. ‘Single Point of Contact,’ he said patronizingly.

Only a minor thing, but one-up for the big city jacks.

‘Phil’s a DS in the office,’ Easton said. ‘He knows most of the local crims.’

‘Yeah, not a bright bunch, I have to say,’ said Phil. ‘The gene pool around these parts isn’t very deep.’

‘You know Keith Snell then?’

‘Yeah — a little.’

‘Good, that’ll be helpful. We really need to fill in his background.’

Easton turned to FB. ‘You said Henry was here for two reasons.’

FB nodded. ‘He’ll be helping me with the Sweetman inquiry.’

‘Right.’ The faces of both detectives darkened considerably. As expected, this would be a very touchy area and Henry had a bit of sympathy for them. It’s not nice being investigated.

‘But I’m sure there’ll be nothing to worry about,’ FB said brightly. ‘I intend to be in and out.’ He tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘And everything we do will be transparent. . so could you and me have a little sit down now,’ he said to Easton, ‘and I’ll tell you what I need to know.’

‘Sure,’ Easton said magnanimously. He and FB left the office. Henry and his SPOC — as Henry had now and forever christened the man in his mind — regarded each other.

‘Come down to my office. Let’s have a brew and a chat, see what I can do for you.’ He led Henry out of the main CID room, down a short corridor and into his cubbyhole of an office, just about big enough for a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. ‘It’s not much, but I call it hovel,’ laughed SPOC. ‘Grab a seat.’ They sat on opposite sides of the desk. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Christie?’

‘I want to know about Keith Snell.’

‘Bloody murdered, eh? Fancy that. . one less for our books, I suppose.’ SPOC paused, ruminating. ‘Can’t say I know too much about Snell, actually. A fairly regular customer, but no one I came across often. One of the run-of-the-mill volume offenders and addicts who cause havoc with our crime figures. His antics were getting more and more violent, though, the more addicted he became.’

‘Gravitated to armed robbery, I believe?’

‘Singularly unsuccessfully.’ SPOC shook his head sadly.

‘Family?’

Another shake of the head. ‘The state was Snell’s family. Care home after care home, followed by the Benefits Agency and various prisons.’

‘Associates? Girlfriends?’

‘Knocked around with the group of people you’d expect him to knock around with. Not sure he had a girl.’

‘I’d like to see everything you have on him, all the intel please.’

‘OK,’ SPOC said brightly. ‘Can you give me an hour?’

Henry blinked, refraining from saying, A fucking hour? Instead he nodded and thought, The one-upmanship of the SPOC who also happens to be a BCJ — Big City Jack.

Terminal 2, Manchester Airport. Heaving with holiday traffic, so much so that the figures of Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer did not fit in. Chalk and cheese. But even so, nobody really paid them much heed, all being busy with disorderly families, suitcases and flight delays.

They had parked on the short-stay multi-storey and moseyed as casually as possible down to the arrivals hall. Being early, they split up for a while. Jackman strolled to a cafe and ordered a cappuccino, baulking at the expense of it at the till. Cromer browsed through WH Smith’s, looking through the true-crime section in the books. He liked to read fact as opposed to fiction, but though he leafed through a couple of enticing books, he did not buy. Instead he joined his partner with a pot of tea.

‘The prices here are criminal,’ Jackman moaned.

Cromer nodded. ‘Think there’s much surveillance here?’

‘Shitloads.’

‘Not a good place for us, really.’

‘Naah — but a plane’s got to land somewhere, so we’re stuck with it.’

‘Not keen on spending too much time here.’

‘Me neither.’

Both were slightly spooked being in an environment where they could get caught on camera. Their natural instinct was to hide their faces, pull up their collars and look mean, but to do that here, to act furtively in any way, would be to draw attention to themselves. And the police round here were armed with big guns. Something to bear in mind, especially in this day and age when, because of the threat of terrorism, they were not averse to using their weapons.

‘What does all this mean?’ Jackman asked.

‘That. . er. . lots of people are going on holiday or coming back from holiday,’ Cromer ventured.

‘No, y’prat. Why we’re here. Who we’re picking up.’

Cromer shrugged. ‘It’s obviously time for the big players to get involved. I think some major shit is about to happen. Someone, somewhere, has deeply upset Rufus, and I honestly don’t think it’s one of the big Manchester bosses. If it was, he’d have had a name by now. I’m sure of that.’

‘Think so?’

‘Poz.’ He leaned nearer to Jackman. ‘Wanna know what I think?’

‘Your mind always intrigues me.’

‘I think me and you are wasting our time doing what we’re doing. I don’t think any one of them we’ll be visiting knows anything. I think that somewhere out there’ — he made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm — ‘is someone muscling in on us and who is lookin’ to make a very big name for himself, or herself. You never know in this day and age. And know what? I don’t think anyone knows who it is.’ He grinned. ‘Those are my thoughts.’

‘Thanks for sharing them with me. I must say, you do an awful lot of thinking.’

Cromer tapped his head. ‘I think, therefore I fucking am.’

They looked up at the nearby arrivals screen and stood up simultaneously as they saw that the flight they were due to meet had landed.

It was a very thin file. Not that he expected it to be as fat as a Bible, but he had thought there would be more.

‘Thanks.’ Henry looked at his watch. An hour and fifteen.

‘Not much, but that’s all we have on Snell.’

‘It’s a great start.’

‘You’re welcome. I need to get out and about, but here’s my mobile number if you need it.’ He handed a business card to Henry, then left him with the file. Picking it up between finger and thumb, he weighed it. There wasn’t much at all, but having said that, whilst Snell may have been a regular offender, he was nothing more than cannon fodder. He was easy to arrest and no doubt the young, keen officers tested their wings on him. He was not important, just an irritant, just a loser. . and yet something gnawed at Henry.

He leafed through the few pages of the intelligence file, scratching his head as he did so, feeling more uncomfortable as he read it. For someone who was so prolific an offender, there was a dearth of Intel on him. Henry sat back and thought about the many criminals he knew who were similar to Snell.

Always being locked up.

Always in the eyes of the law.

Always visible on the streets and in the dives.

Always knocking around with other crims and low lifes.

Always generating some sort of Intel.

And then graduating up to more serious offences — rather like a flasher moving up to be a rapist — they were always of interest to the day-to-day cops who policed the front line.

There was very little about Snell’s promotion to armed robber.

Henry now scratched his chin thoughtfully. The information he had so far been able to get on Snell was factual stuff from PNC. The crimes he had committed, where and when he had received convictions. There had been a lot of stuff recorded. Henry would have expected the local Intel to match it in some way. It didn’t.

‘Mm,’ he said, thinking he had only said it in his brain, but realized he had actually spoken out loud. He thought about asking his SPOC about this imbalance, but only for a moment. He pushed himself up and went to the office door, peering down the corridor.

Henry loved field intelligence officers. In the old days they were called collators, but things had moved on in the ’90s and the twenty-first century as the whole of the police service moved into intelligence-led policing. The old-style collator disappeared to be replaced by full-blooded intelligence units. The beauty was, though, that people who would have been collators in the old days had become FIOs and they were a wonderful source of information. They knew everything about everybody, made it their business to poke their noses into criminals’ businesses.

Henry found the Intel unit on the third floor of the building and collared the detective sergeant, a grizzled old lag by the name of Ball, who reminded Henry of Shrek.

‘Glad to help,’ he said when Henry introduced himself and told him the nature of his enquiry. ‘An inevitable death, I suppose,’ Ball said, referring to Snell.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Marked for it. You know. . the circle of a low life. . eventually I think he would have overdosed and killed himself anyway. . but two bullets in the back and being set on fire. . musta really upset someone.’

‘Any idea who?’ Henry asked hopefully.

‘Take your pick. Low-level drug barons are ten-a-penny in this neck of the woods.’

‘What do you know about him, then?’

‘Into heroin and anything else he could lay his hands on. Petty thieving to pay for his habit. . God knows how he got into guns. Probably thought it would make stealing easier.’

‘Never does.’

‘No.’ Ball looked thoughtful, then down at the file Henry had in his hand. ‘You’ve got his file, I see. I copied it a few days before for Phil, the DS upstairs.’

‘My SPOC? Did you now?’ Henry waved the file. ‘Seems a bit thin on the ground.’ The corners of Ball’s mouth turned down and so did his large ears. To Henry, Ball looked as though he had seen too many scrum-downs in his time. Ball took the file and flicked through it, his face perplexed and not a little fearful.

‘Strange. . looks like the edited version,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t given you everything here.’

‘Can you give me everything?’ Henry asked, trying to make the question sound unimportant, though he had seen the look in Ball’s eyes which asked the question: why the trimmed-down file?

‘I don’t see why not. .’ He breathed out through his nose, torn a little. ‘There was nothing contentious in the file, as far as I know.’

‘Phil said he knew Snell quite well,’ Henry said, fibbing, but wanting to test the water.

‘Yeah, he did. Always locking him up — on a whim usually. In fact Snell was in custody last week. . we always get an “in custody” shot from the computer system. Locked up on suspicion of armed robbery, but not charged. Given police bail, I recall.’ Ball had walked across to a filing cabinet, was rifling through files, his hand emerging with one about half an inch thick. ‘Here we are. . Keith Snell. . no longer of this parish, nor this world. I’ll have to deal with it appropriately.’

Henry took the file from him. ‘It’s essential I have this copied fully.’

Ball nodded. ‘No probs. I’ll do it here and now.’ He pointed to the photocopier in the corner.

Henry liked Ball more and more. He took the file back from Henry and placed it on the machine. Without looking at its contents, Henry could tell it was more like he had anticipated. Lots of bits of stuff which would provide useful leads for the inquiry team back in Rawtenstall. Nuggets of gold which, Henry was certain, would lead to the killer.

As Ball handed the copied file back over, he said, ‘Between you and me, I think Phil used Snell as a source. . unofficial, like.’ He shrugged as if to say, Do with that what you will.

Henry thanked him and ten minutes later he was in the canteen, the file in front of him, skim-reading, picking up salient points, facts. The address of Snell’s current girlfriend, his best friend, his associates. . including one which made Henry gasp.

Closing the file, he knew he had two things to do urgently.

First he had to see Snell’s girlfriend. She was vital, if not as a witness, then at least as someone who could point the murder team in the right direction regarding Snell’s family and friends.

Second, he wanted to get back into Lancashire. Someone who lived there was someone he desperately needed to see.

There were some delays with passengers disembarking from the Alicante flight, something connected with a baggage-handler dispute. Jackman and Cromer waited patiently under the meeting point, discussing life, death and the universe as they so often did. They thought of themselves as philosophers and because of this, their favourite movie was Pulp Fiction, which they often revisited together.

Eventually passengers emerged.

Cromer edged his way to the barrier at the end of the customs run and unfolded an A4 piece of paper on which he had scrawled Sweetman, because he had never yet met or seen any of the two men he had been detailed to collect.

The SPOC eyed the file with apprehension, which he tried to cover with a show of bravado. Henry watched his eyes, his reaction to the fact that it had quadrupled in size. SPOC’s Adam’s apple rose and fell a few times. Henry said nothing about wandering down to the Intel unit and chatting to the FIO, nor did he challenge SPOC on the obvious lies he had spun to Henry. That would come later, Henry was positive on that point, even though he was inclined to grab SPOC’s finely tailored lapels and bang him back against a wall. There had to be a good reason for the deception, but Henry knew this was not the time or place to go for it. At the moment Henry was still on the back foot, trying to get a handle on things, and he needed to be on an even keel before lurching forwards. He wanted it to be cold and sweet, like all good revenge should be.

‘You’ve been more than helpful, Phil.’

‘Pleasure.’ His voice sounded strained.

‘I’m sure you’ll be hearing more from the murder team, and me, in the very near future. Your local knowledge will be crucial to this, I reckon.’

SPOC nodded. ‘Happy to help.’

‘I’ll bet the trail leads back here,’ Henry said.

‘Meaning?’

‘It’ll be a Manchester crim who killed Snell,’ Henry speculated.

‘Oh yeah, yeah,’ said SPOC.

Henry held out a hand. SPOC took it, they shook. This time there was a difference from the time when they had shaken earlier. SPOC’s hand had become damp and lettuce-like, a far cry from the cool skin he had felt before. Henry kept looking into SPOC’s eyes, but they did not waver from his scrutiny. They still had the same smugness and arrogance in them.

‘See you again.’

‘And you.’

Henry gave him a wide smile, whilst behind his own eyes he wondered what the hell was going on.

‘Starving,’ FB moaned dreadfully, holding his generous stomach. ‘My belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

Wishful thinking, Henry thought. ‘Why don’t we grab a burger at the Arena? There’s a McDonald’s in the foyer. It’s only just round the corner, walking distance.’

‘Well, I don’t really do fast food,’ the chief said, ‘but I’ll make an exception this time. I’m ravenous.’

They trotted out of the police station, crossed the road and headed towards Manchester Arena.

Just before they turned the corner out of sight of the station, Henry glanced back, his eyes rising quickly to the third floor, where he glimpsed two people at the window he had stood at whilst taking the frantic mobile call from Karen Donaldson. He recognized the two as Detective Superintendent Easton and SPOC.

‘We need to talk,’ he said urgently once they were out of sight.

Easton turned to the detective sergeant, his face grim and worried.

‘Country bumpkins my backside,’ Easton said. ‘We should never, ever have taken on that pillock, Snell. You said he’d be trustworthy.’

‘Thought he would be.’

‘Proved wrong, weren’t you?’ Easton growled. ‘We may be in trouble here. . Snell just complicates matters so much. It wouldn’t be so bad if it’d just been the inquiry, but Snell as well. It would have helped if he’d been dumped in Greater Manchester, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ the sergeant said, chastened.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘Think of something.’

‘Mmm, like I said,’ Easton muttered, ‘as if we haven’t got enough shit to deal with.’

At McDonald’s there were hordes of young kids knocking about, early arrivals for a later concert by Busted, the in-vogue band of the moment. Henry’s youngest daughter had been hassling him to get tickets for the concert, but Henry had left it too late and they had sold out when he rang. She still had not completely forgiven him yet. . might never do so.

The expression fixed on FB’s face was something to behold. His discomfort and distaste were both clearly visible from the way in which his mouth was twisted down at both corners as he manoeuvred his way through the kids, hissing through his teeth.

They found a couple of spare chairs and pulled them up to a messed-up table full of discarded food wrappers and plastic cups. They stripped their burgers as though they were uncovering the crown jewels, as opposed to greasy burgers on sloppy sesame buns.

‘How did you get on?’ Henry was first to put a question in.

FB bit hesitantly into his purchase, found it tasted better than anticipated, chomping happily as he replied. ‘Told Easton what my plan was, told him we’d be here next week, told him we’d be thorough but fair, told him not to worry.’

Henry raised his eyebrows and bit into his own burger.

‘But I was lying,’ said FB coldly. He eyed Henry and cocked his own eyebrows. ‘I wanted to get a feel of things, the lie of the land, lull him a bit.’ Henry saw a glint in FB’s eyes, a bit like a hawk homing in on a rat. ‘And first thing I want to do is reopen the investigation into Jackson Hazell’s death, the guy Sweetman is supposed to have murdered.’

‘Good.’ Henry slurped his Fanta Orange. ‘Because I’m certainly not impressed by what I’ve seen so far, and how I’ve been treated. I got given a doctored Intel report on Keith Snell.’

‘Doctored?’

‘Sexed-down, you might say.’

‘Explain.’

‘My SPOC went to the Intel unit for me to dig out Snell’s file — allegedly. When I looked through it, something didn’t seem to gel. We have more Intel on town-centre drunks than they had on Snell, who was a high-volume offender. When I got a chance I snuck down to see an FIO who rooted out Snell’s file for me — which is this.’ He pointed to the paperwork on the messy table. ‘No comparison to what I was given originally. Apparently Mr SPOC was digging around in Snell’s file a few days ago. Don’t exactly know when, but from the sounds of it, it was after his body had been found but before he was identified, i.e. today. Coincidence?’ Henry finished. His face showed grave doubt.

‘Why doctor an Intel file?’

Henry shook his head, swigged his juice. ‘Who knows? I can only speculate at this stage, but I feel queasy about it.’

‘What’s your next move?’

‘I thought you were the chief?’

‘And you’re one of the fuckin’ Indians — don’t forget that.’

‘OK — two things. Firstly I’d like to go round and grab Snell’s current bit of stuff. She doesn’t live that far from here. I’d like to break the news to her that her loved one’s dead — if she doesn’t already know, that is. Then I want to pin some tough questions on her, but not round here. Somewhere where I feel safe and secure, because I think we need to start thinking safety first from now.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not that I want to be over-dramatic, you understand.’

‘No, I agree,’ FB said.

‘And then I want to get to Blackpool. There’s someone there I need to talk to urgently. . so,’ he went on hesitantly, ‘if you’ve got the time, I’d like to do both this evening and then I want an emergency briefing at eight tomorrow because I think things are going to go skywards from now on.’

‘Well, you’re driving, Henry, so I’m in your capable hands.’

Sweetman and Mendoza embraced, kissed cheeks, but there was no warmth in the greeting, even when they held each other at arm’s length and regarded each other with smiles. They were the brittle expressions of two men under pressure, two men who did not totally trust each other, but needed each other.

Lopez stood back, just behind his boss, whilst Grant, Sweetman’s solicitor, assumed a similar position at Sweetman’s shoulder. Jackman and Cromer hovered by the door of the hotel suite, watching the meet with unease.

Informalities over, Mendoza said, ‘You and I need to speak — privately.’

‘Urgently,’ Sweetman agreed. He glanced at his three employees and jerked his thumb. Mendoza nodded at Lopez, who acknowledged the implicit order to leave with a smart click of his heels and an OTT nod of his own. The four men withdrew, leaving the main men to their business.

‘Do you wish to freshen up from the flight?’ Sweetman asked cordially. ‘Best hotel in Manchester, this — Jacuzzi, power shower — your choice.’

‘A two-hour flight is nothing.’ Mendoza gestured to the tray of food and drinks on the table. ‘This will suffice. We need to get talking. I feel that time is running out and we need to act quickly.’

Grant and Lopez moved together out of the room and along the corridor, trotting down the stairs to the hotel bar. They remained silent, aware of the presence of Jackman and Cromer, who were following them. Once in the bar, Grant bought a bottle of red wine and the two of them retreated to a table in the corner. Passing Jackman and Cromer, Grant said, ‘You need to keep on your toes, boys. . those two guys upstairs need good protection.’ He winked, clicked his tongue, then walked on before either could respond.

The expressions on the faces of Grant and Lopez remained impassive, serious, non-committal. They spoke only a few sentences, their eyes constantly on guard for Jackman and Cromer. They did not have to wait long, actually, before the professional instincts of the two men kicked in and they quit the bar.

‘At last,’ gasped Grant.

Lopez took a long swig of his wine, wiped his mouth and smiled. ‘Much better than the shit grown by Mendoza,’ he said.

‘Things are moving on,’ Grant said.

‘Si.’

‘The question is, my friend, how do we manage everything from now on?’

Lopez shrugged. ‘We will find a way.’ He touched his glass on to Grant’s, making a nice, ringing chink. ‘One thing for sure is that our two glorious bosses are now in very deep. . what? Shite, you say in the north of England.’

‘Exactly — shite.’

‘And our time is about to come.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sweetman paced the suite. ‘My best men have been out investigating in the only way they know how, and they have uncovered nothing. No one knows anything.’

‘Soon the drugs will begin to seep into the market, then we might start getting names,’ Mendoza said. ‘But,’ he went on dourly, ‘that is no good for you.’ His words hung in the air. ‘That will be too late and it will be impossible to recover the drugs, even though you may be able to exact some revenge.’

‘We need to help each other, here,’ Sweetman said.

‘Up to a point.’ Mendoza’s words held danger. There were no circumstances in which he would ever truly reveal his own financial predicament. ‘I am the wholesaler, you are the retailer, we are in business and we need to support each other to achieve profitability. That is how we survive. I want you to recover the drugs, truly I do. Because if you don’t, you are a dead man.’

Henry Christie and Robert Fanshaw-Bayley concluded their McDonald’s delicacies with a large coffee each, which both found good and strong and which gave them each an injection of energy. They threaded their way out through the increasing mass of kids at the Arena and walked back to the police station to collect the car.

They chatted almost amiably.

‘What’s it like being chief constable, then?’

‘Not so bad, really. Lot of dealing with bullshit politicians; the people from the Home Office are a particular set of twats, and I seem to be sitting on a hundred national working groups, never seem to get enough time in force, but I’m going to change that. I’m going to pull out of some of the groups, particularly those dealing with sexism and racism, because they bore the crap out of me. Equality this, equality that — fuck!’

Henry chuckled. He knew FB was a racist and a sexist deep down, but had the wonderful ability to disguise both traits when necessary, though he had recently been taken to an employment tribunal from a sexism case going back over seven years. He had emerged unscathed, poohing of roses.

‘Do you really miss being a hands-on jack?’

‘Sometimes, but I do get the odd occasion when I can get a grip again, such as this investigation, so I haven’t lost it completely.’

Settling back into the front seats of Henry’s Mondeo, they set off, driving out under the raised barrier of the police-station car park. Both men glanced up at the building.

‘Shenanigans,’ Henry said.

FB nodded. ‘Shenanigans.’