Hidden Witness

ELEVEN

‘ Yeah, yeah, I’m OK, Don.’ Karl Donaldson paced the hotel balcony, his phone to his ear as he spoke to Don Barber, his boss. ‘We musta surprised each other. I don’t think he was expecting me and I got lucky and managed to trap him behind the hotel room door… yeah, an empty room opposite… no problem for a professional to get into… hmm, he’s been a busy guy, first Fazil, then the cop, then me. I just got lucky, as I said.’ Donaldson paused and listened. ‘Yeah, the locals have got cops crawling everywhere, but I doubt if we’ll see him again. No, I didn’t get a look and no he didn’t utter a word…’ He looked out across the harbour, breathed in the warm night air. ‘There’s two cops outside in the corridor now, so I’ll be fine… Yeah, still returning to the UK tomorrow, at least that’s my plan… No, I’ll do it, don’t send anyone else. I’ll liaise with the SIO up there… Yeah, the witness to Petrone’s murder intrigues me. I’ve no doubt there’ll be some connection with what’s going on here… OK, Don, see ya pal.’ He ended the call, breathed out, massaged his temples and mentally worked thorough his injuries. His head still had a lump on it the size of an egg and it throbbed, but the skin wasn’t cut. His nose had stopped bleeding and wasn’t broken, thank God. Other than that, just minor cuts and grazes. It could have been far worse. He’d left sports fields with nastier injuries.

‘I need some of that.’ He spun quickly. A very pale and shaken neighbour was standing unsteadily on the adjacent balcony. ‘Something to ease the pressure.’ She rubbed her own temples. ‘You know what I mean?’

He gave a short laugh and realized that the incident had had quite the opposite effect on the woman than Donaldson had anticipated. Instead of wanting to get away from him, she needed comforting, to feel protected, to be wrapped up in someone’s arms.

Donaldson had been about to phone Karen, but decided he needed something more immediate than the voice of his wife a time zone away, as harsh as that might seem.

He nodded. ‘There’s a helluva big bath in my room,’ he said, ‘and I don’t know about you, but I need a long, hot soak, maybe accompanied by a glass of whisky. Maybe accompanied by you, too.’

Her eyes came alive.

He moved across and helped her to negotiate the frosted glass panel that divided the two balconies. She fell into his arms with a little squeak and a gasp as he caught her and pulled her to his chest. Her chin rested on his wide body and her eyes danced at him. She hugged him tight and his senses responded instantly with a surge of blood. She moaned as he bent to kiss her, then picked her up. She was light, easy to carry. He took her through to the bedroom and laid her gently on the unmade bed.

The soak, he thought, would have to wait. He tore off his tee shirt, and she unbuckled his belt skilfully and released him.

And in that different time zone, two hours behind Maltese time, Henry Christie, Senior Investigating Officer, was coordinating a third murder investigation with the help of the Force helicopter, Armed Response Vehicles, uniformed patrols, and trying to placate an irate wife.

‘Look, honey, I’m really, really, really sorry…’ The line went dead. He almost chucked the phone against the wall and he made a strangling motion with his hands, tightening on something.

‘Henry,’ came a commanding voice. At that moment Henry was facing the back wall of the office in the MIR. He spun to see the somewhat bedraggled figure of Lancashire Constabulary’s chief constable filling the door widthways. Bobby Big-nuts, no less.

Grim faced, Henry greeted him. ‘Boss.’

‘You lost the witness,’ FB accused him. His opening gambits were often confrontational and without preamble.

Henry could not stop himself glaring. ‘At least he’s still alive, and if he’s still alive we have a good chance of bottoming this mess.’

‘Mess being the operative word.’

Henry continued to glare.

‘It looks like time we brought in New Scotland Yard,’ FB teased him. The myth of bringing in ‘the Yard’ to help solve cases was just that. A myth perpetuated by second rate forties and fifties B-movies, but it cut like a dagger into Henry. ‘Maybe this thing’s beyond you,’ FB went on nastily.

‘Not long ago you were telling me I had to miss my holiday,’ Henry started to fume, the Scotland Yard jibe really annoying him.

‘That was before you got some poor bastard killed, even though the guy is no great loss to humanity.’

Henry ground his teeth. He was feeling just a little bit delicate. He could feel his head starting to shake as he spoke. ‘Let me tell you what we’re dealing with here, Bob. A hit man, or men, have taken out a Mafia godfather who was lying low on our patch. These killers have then murdered someone who witnessed their crime, and now they’ve tried to do the same to a second witness and in the crossfire have killed an innocent man, great loss to humanity or not. At the same time they almost killed me, one of my officers and the second witness. I — we — are lucky to be alive.’ Henry’s whole being churned at the words. He shook as he spoke. ‘These are ruthless killers who will stop at nothing to remain free because they are frightened of being identified.’

‘You still want to go on holiday?’

‘Actually going on holiday sounds like a damned good option at this moment. And until some bastard took a pot shot at me, I would have gone away, believe me, Bob, I would’ve, whatever you said. But not now. Now it’s stepped up a notch… and if you’ll just excuse me.’ He stood up and barged past the astonished chief, rushed into the corridor and headed to the nearest gents, where the combination of fear and anger bubbled up and made him throw up into a washbasin.

‘Oh hell’s teeth,’ he said, looking at himself in the mirror over the washbasin after he’d emptied his guts. He washed away the vomit, then splashed his drained, exhausted face, and tried to get a measure of control over himself. He leaned on the basin with both hands and stared at his reflection, not liking what he saw. The harsh light in the gents made him look old and haggard. And afraid. He swore again.

The door opened behind him. Alex Bent stepped in.

‘Alex,’ Henry said.

‘Boss?’

‘You OK?’

‘I just did that in the ladies, couldn’t make it this far.’ The DS looked as pale and sickly as Henry. It was one thing to be dispatched to a murder scene, something else completely to be part of one, and both men were emotionally screwed by their near brush with death. They regarded each other wordlessly and blew out their cheeks, and then it was done. There was work to do, killers to catch, and to get into any touchy-feely navel-gazing would only be counterproductive at that moment.

‘Let’s get a coffee, have a chat,’ Henry said, ‘and do a bit of hypothesizing — if there’s such a word.’

‘Coffee’s filtering as we speak.’

They left the toilets and bumped into Rik Dean in the corridor, last seen taking a statement from the clothing store manager.

‘Guys,’ Rik said. He looked concerned. ‘How you doing?’

‘The bullets missed us, so we’re OK,’ Henry said bravely. ‘Billy Costain wasn’t so lucky.’

‘I’m only glad I didn’t go out with you,’ Rik said. ‘I’d no doubt be on a mortuary slab now. I take my life in my hands every time I go out on a job with you,’ he said to Henry. This referred to the unlucky run he’d had in the past when he’d been stabbed once and shot twice, whilst Henry remained more or less unscathed.

‘We’re heading for a coffee. Join us?’ Alex asked.

Rik waggled the sheets of paper he was holding. ‘Yeah, and I’ll go through the salient points of the shop manager’s statement if you like.’

The coffee was good, dark, rich. Henry had it black, no sugar, and it hit the spot. He settled himself down in a chair opposite Alex Bent’s desk in the main CID office and rotated his neck to ease the massive tension in his muscles. He felt like a block of steel and desperately needed to wind down, but doubted if that luxury was something he’d get to enjoy.

Alex was behind the desk and Rik had pulled up another chair alongside Henry. The rest of the office was deserted.

From inside his jacket pocket, Henry’s mobile vibrated as a text landed.

‘One sec,’ he said. Checking the phone he found the message was from Keira O’Connell. It read: ‘IM STILL UP. COMPANY?’ Henry’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed thoughtfully as he speculated whether or not the pathologist was a rabbit-killer. The prospect of ‘popping’ around to see her was still very appealing, especially after the argument he’d just had with Kate, but he would only want O’Connell for one thing and wondered if that would be enough for her. If it wasn’t, then he’d find himself with problems, not least having shagged a woman who knew how to dissect a human body with precision. He would also have to explain why she hadn’t been turned out for Billy Costain’s death. Henry had requested another pathologist be called instead. He deleted the message. ‘OK, Rik, just run through what you’ve got first.’

‘To be honest, not much. The shop was opened about twelve months ago, staff were taken on through a jobs agency and Mario Casarsa, as they knew him, was in charge. He did all the wholesale buying, telling staff it was all genuine stuff at knock down prices because he claimed he had “contacts”.’ Rik emphasized the last word. ‘No one questioned him, they did a good trade and he paid them slightly above the going rates. He was a good boss — apparently — but according to the manager, no one got close to him. And no one knew where he lived. His habit, usually, was to arrive mid morning and leave late. On the day he died, he did that and was still there when the staff left. The manager said he usually left around the nine o’clock mark, from what he knew. When he didn’t show the morning after he wasn’t too concerned, until he heard the radio later in the day and guessed it could have been Casarsa… Petrone.’

Henry scratched his head as he listened to Rik’s exposition. ‘So, it looks like he locked up and started to make his way home on foot. Two lads who wanted to rob him then accosted him?’ Henry looked from one detective to the other. ‘Yeah? Possibly? Which could account for Rory’s hair on the walking stick. Y’know, get back you little rascals, or I’ll whack you, and then he did? And then he got run over and shot in front of them.’

‘What I don’t get,’ Alex said, ‘is why these guys are so intent on plugging witnesses.’

‘Fear of identification,’ Rik said,

‘OK, I kind of get that, but even if Rory and Mark actually saw the killers, it was night-time, street lighting was pretty crap, there could have been obstructions, lots of movement, bad weather. Even the best witnesses would struggle in court, R. v. Turnbull and all that,’ Alex said, referring to a stated case regarding the identification of suspects. ‘Any good defence barrister would tear that evidence apart, and, and,’ he went on excitedly, ‘if the killers are Camorra hit men, surely all they need to do is disappear back to Naples and the chances are we’ll never find them.’

Silence. All three detectives considered this.

‘But supposing Rory and Mark got something better than just a view?’ Alex suggested. ‘Mobile phone? Digital camera?’

‘Yeah, maybe they got photos or even a video of the murder,’ Henry said. ‘But no phone or camera was found on Rory, nor at the scene of his death, and Mark Carter, unless he’s changed, which he may have done, was the only kid I know who didn’t have a mobile.’

‘But the two people who were robbed both had mobile phones stolen, so the lads could have used one or both of them,’ Rik said.

‘And that’s why they’re after the remaining witness,’ Alex declared. ‘Must be.’

Henry rubbed his very tired, unshaven face. His stubble felt like sandpaper. ‘They want the phone and the witness.’

‘And so do we,’ Alex said.

‘Something else bothers me,’ Henry said. ‘How did they know we’d be up on Shoreside, going to pick up Mark Carter? How did they know? They couldn’t have just been cruising on the off-chance and got lucky, surely.’

‘Channel scanning?’ Alex suggested. ‘There was a lot of stuff over the PR’s about it. Comms not having anyone to send. What the job was. There was nothing guarded about our transmissions.’

‘And why should they have been? These radios — ’ Henry picked up his PR and waggled it — ‘are newfangled, state of the art, and we are assured that people can’t listen in like they used to. I could listen to police transmissions on my dad’s radio, once over. Now everything’s supposed to be encrypted. The technology side of this worries me a bit.’

‘What are you getting at, Henry?’ Rik asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted, ‘but if Petrone got whacked by a rival gang, are they organized and resourced enough to have scanners capable of listening to police radios in the UK?’ He looked at his colleagues’ fatigued faces. Neither man had any response to give, their brains now severely addled. ‘Just something to think about, or maybe they did just get lucky.’ He shrugged and wiped his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Best thing we can do now is get some sleep. I think we’ve got most things covered for the moment, haven’t we?’ He looked expectantly at Alex Bent.

‘Yeah — I’ve arranged for uniform to hit Mark Carter’s house at four; British Transport Police have been contacted to keep an eye out for him at Blackpool railway station. All patrols have his details. The crime scene’s been covered and secured. CSI and scientific support will be back at daybreak. Motorway patrols in the north-west are pulling every Volvo estate they spot. I have a couple of DCs coming on at six to kick things off. Think that’s about it.’

‘Right, let’s get some sleep.’ He checked his watch. ‘And be back for a briefing at nine thirty, by which time we should have a team firing on all cylinders. Thanks for your effort, guys.’

Henry drove through the streets of the resort. They were litter strewn and a stiff breeze whipped around the alleyways, blowing torn newspapers and discarded burger packaging out into the main thoroughfares. He stopped at a junction, no others cars on the roads as yet, and looked at his mobile phone. He wished he hadn’t deleted O’Connell’s text now. Idiot, he chided himself for even thinking that he should have kept it. How could he possibly want to sleep with a pathologist? The thought of where her hands had been and what they’d done should have made him shiver with revulsion. But it did not. He turned left.

Eight o’clock next morning, Henry was at Manchester Airport to be the one who greeted Karl Donaldson. He sipped a strong Americano from a polystyrene cup and waited underneath the meeting-point board at terminal two, whilst keeping an eye on the flight arrivals monitor. The scrolling information told him the flight from Malta had landed and that passengers were now collecting their luggage. They began to filter out through the exit, suntanned individuals and couples. Eventually, the big Yank he proudly called his friend, even though he was totally envious of his looks, emerged with just hand luggage and a beaming smile, drawing secret looks from each and every woman in the vicinity.

Good-looking bastard, Henry thought uncharitably, standing his ground and allowing Donaldson’s eyes to find him, which they did almost instantly. He approached Henry with a crooked smile, which Henry was certain was a rip-off of his own boyish grin, designed to weaken all female barriers. Not that Donaldson needed such ammunition. His all-American good looks, stature and general aura of naivety around woman were enough to lower the knickers off nuns. Only thing was, he didn’t know he had it, that magical sex-factor.

‘Henry, you son of a gun,’ he smiled. ‘I thought I was getting the monkey, not the organ grinder.’

‘You have got the monkey — Bobby Big-nuts couldn’t make it,’ Henry joshed and the two men embraced in a manly way, of course. ‘Let me take that.’ Henry took Donaldson’s hand luggage from him and the weight almost dislocated Henry’s shoulder. ‘Hell, what you got in here?’

‘Just man stuff — and a laptop.’

Henry frowned at him as he noticed the American’s battered appearance. ‘You been in the wars?’

‘Sort of… tell you later.’

They walked out of the airport side by side. Henry was a reasonably big man, six-two with the poundage to match, but Donaldson was at least two inches taller, wider at the shoulders, narrowing to a slim waist. Henry felt like the weedy younger brother and couldn’t wait to get him into the car.

Henry had parked on the short-stay car park opposite the terminal, and after getting out and negotiating the increasingly complex series of roundabouts at the airport, he hit the motorway and relaxed a little.

He glanced at his friend who had now developed a frown that brought his eyebrows together.

‘Something up, mate?’

‘Mm.’ Donaldson’s mouth twisted.

‘What?’

He was on the verge of saying something, but held back and shook his head. ‘Nah, nothing.’

‘I’ve fixed up for you to use Jenny’s room,’ Henry said, referring to the bedroom once inhabited by his eldest daughter. It was now a guest room with a double bed and new furniture. ‘Karen’s coming up, I gather.’

Donaldson gulped. ‘Yeah, thanks, matey,’ he said, affecting an English accent for the last word and trying to sound jolly. Henry could see something behind the eyes.

‘You two still going through a rocky patch?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Not serious, though?’ Henry probed. He’d known Karl and Karen for many years. Mostly their marriage had been solid, happy. Two point four kids. Nice house within commuting distance of London. Good jobs, probably the best part of two hundred grand coming in. But the cracks had started to show when Donaldson became obsessed with hunting down the terrorist who almost killed him and Karen began to doubt his commitment to the family. Ultimatums had been made. On the face of it, they seemed to have got their act together, but Henry knew they weren’t completely OK.

‘Thing is,’ Donaldson blurted. ‘I’ve cheated on Karen.’

Henry almost collided with the central reservation.

Coffee again, this time from Costa situated inside the motorway services at Charnock Richard on the M6. Two medium Americanos carried carefully by Henry out to Donaldson, who sat on the litter-strewn terrace overlooking the car park. Henry had pulled in because he thought it was important to show a bit of empathy to his friend. And, using the power of rank, he’d called Alex Bent and told him to delay the morning briefing, get everyone a brew and a bacon butty, then get them out on the road, knocking on doors.

Donaldson eased the lid off the coffee and emptied two mini-milk cartons into it, stirring with the wooden stick.

‘Strangers in the fucking night,’ he said, whirring the coffee around and around. ‘Fucking a stranger in the night,’ he amended the song title.

Henry sat down opposite.

‘You know me, Henry,’ Donaldson said plaintively. ‘I’m a one-girl guy. I’m loyal, like a freakin’ puppy. I don’t do infidelity.’

Henry muttered encouragingly. ‘Mnhuh.’

‘But I just couldn’t help myself. Things are not exactly hunky-dory at home. I don’t think we’ve had sex for over a month now

…’ Henry squirmed at the revelation and was about to interrupt, but Donaldson held up a hand. ‘That’s a hell of a long time, believe me. We’re a once a night couple, me and Karen, seven nights a week, at it like hot knives.’ Henry squirmed even more and winced at the image of his friends doing it. ‘So when we don’t do it, something’s wrong. Problem is,’ Donaldson concluded, ‘I loved it doing it with a hot Scandinavian babe.’

‘First things first, eh? See what you think.’

They’d reached Blackpool after a longish heart to heart about cheating, wives, lovers, relationships and adultery, both men finding it hard to express their feelings and were relieved to get back on the road.

At Henry’s suggestion, the first task on the agenda was for Donaldson to have a look at a dead body on a slab, which meant going directly to the mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital.

On entering, Henry spotted Keira O’Connell in the office. She saw him and rose from the desk, a confrontational look on her face.

Donaldson picked up on this and hissed, ‘Not you too?’

‘You know me so well. But no, not this time. I resisted temptation.’

‘And that’s what she’s fuming at?’

‘Probably.’

The two men approached her. Henry introduced Donaldson to her and they shook hands perfunctorily. ‘He’s come to have a look at Petrone’s body.’

‘Fine… Henry, can I see you? Inside? Alone? It’s important.’

Henry followed her meekly into the office. She turned to him, arms folded under her bosom.

‘Two things,’ she began frostily. ‘First off — another murder? You didn’t call me out and yet it’s more than likely to be connected to the other two. Why not? What about the chain of evidence? One pathologist carrying out all the related post-mortems would surely make evidential sense.’

‘I thought it better to let you get some rest. I was just thinking of you. You’re going to do Rory’s PM today and I wanted you to be firing on all cylinders. The pathologist who turned out was more than capable.’

‘As I said, I’m talking continuity of evidence here — and I think I should be the judge of whether or not I’m fit enough to do my job, don’t you?’

‘Point taken,’ Henry conceded. ‘I would like you to do the PM on Billy Costain, though.’

‘And secondly,’ she said as though she hadn’t heard him, ‘I sent you a text. I expected you to come around on a personal basis.’ She arched her finely plucked eyebrows.

‘I’m sorry. I’m very flattered. Old bloke like me, and all that, but I’m happily married, so it’s not going to happen.’ He pointed at her, then himself to make his point and shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

She nodded begrudgingly.

Henry slid out the drawer on which the old man’s body was lying, post-mortem. Donaldson inspected the face, then the old bullet wound. ‘That’s him — Rosario Petrone, one of Italy’s most murderous Mafia dons.’ He gazed over the body at Henry.

‘You know, one thing’s for certain pal,’ Henry said. ‘If Karen ever finds out you’ve been unfaithful to her, you can wave goodbye to your bollocks. She must never find out.’ He waved an admonishing finger at his friend and said, ‘No, no, no, no, no. No.’

Henry, Donaldson, Rik Dean and Alex Bent had commandeered the TV lounge adjacent to the top floor dining room at Blackpool police station. Out of the meagre FMIT budget (FMIT being one of those departments that expected divisions to fund their expenditure wherever possible) Henry had ordered more coffee, bacon sandwiches and toast, and the three English detectives gathered around to listen to what Donaldson had to say.

‘We had an undercover agent, deep undercover, in the Marini clan of the Camorra Mafia who was basically killed on orders from Petrone at the beginning of a very violent dispute between two clans…’ The door opened and a tray bearing wonderful smelling food and drink was wheeled in by one of the canteen staff. The detectives descended on the free food like hyenas on a dead wildebeest. ‘The short story is that I was assigned to the task of trying to track down the hit man Petrone brought in for the kill, someone we know only as the American. Unfortunately…’ Donaldson bit into a toasted sandwich and made a pleasurable grunt, ‘I got shot doing something else, which kinda blocked my enquiries… however, I got better, but discovered no one else had got anywhere with tracking this guy down, so I got back on the case little by little. In the meantime, Petrone went to ground, no one knew where, but there was a lot of killing going on. Next, I got information about the arrest of the guy suspected of providing the weapon for the American, a guy called Fazil. I went to Malta to interview him but before I could persuade him to come across, he got blown away in his cell, as did a Maltese sergeant and a constable. At the same time I heard Petrone had been found here — a bit unwell.’

‘What are your conclusions, Karl?’ Henry asked him.

He shrugged. ‘That a rival gang has a hit squad operating and that they’ve taken out Fazil and Petrone and your witness. These guys don’t give a shit about human life, they’ll kill you as soon as look at you.’

Henry took a sip of even more coffee. ‘How do you think they found out about Fazil being in custody and were able to operate so quickly?’

‘That I don’t know. We, the FBI, found out pretty quickly via Interpol, and I was there talking to Fazil within hours of the arrest.’

‘They must have good communication and intelligence channels,’ Alex volunteered.

Henry considered what Donaldson had said, feeling a great disquiet about it all. ‘Just how good are those channels?’ he posed.

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’ Donaldson said.

‘Well,’ he pursed his lips. ‘Somehow they get to know about Fazil almost as quickly as you, which suggests their strategic comms must be of the highest order. Secondly, the more I think about it the less I’m convinced it was a coincidence that they turned up at the exact spot where one of my witnesses had been found. That means their tactical comms are also of the highest order. Does that sound like the Mafia to you?’

‘They are very sophisticated,’ Donaldson said. ‘But I see where you’re coming from.’

‘I don’t,’ Alex said.

‘Nor do I,’ Rik seconded.

‘What I’m saying is this: supposing we’re not dealing with the Mafia, at least where Petrone and Fazil are concerned. Suppose we’re dealing with an entirely different animal.’

‘Such as?’ Donaldson asked.

Henry gazed levelly at him. ‘Long shot,’ he admitted, ‘but the baddies out there are pretty desperate to wipe out witnesses. I know the Mafia are too… but maybe we’re actually dealing with someone, some people, some… body, who have a great deal to lose if they’re identified.’ Henry suddenly thought he sounded very lame and unconvincing. ‘I don’t know, but I aim to make sure we keep a very open mind on this. If we get tunnel vision and only look on Petrone’s death as a gangland murder, then we could end up showing our arses.’

It was Donaldson’s turn to regard Henry thoughtfully as they munched their bacon sandwiches.

‘But our operational priority this morning is to find Mark Carter and that will be the thrust of the day,’ Henry said. ‘He could be the key to this and I don’t want to lose him again. He must be found.’

Then, Henry became very tired. He checked his watch and thought back a few hours to the decision he’d made in the early hours as he drove through the streets of Blackpool — to go home instead of seeking solace and wallowing in self-pity between the breasts of a woman who wasn’t his wife. It had been a very close run thing and he almost found himself banging down Keira O’Connell’s front door. Instead he’d driven home and sneaked into the house. He’d needed to get a few hours’ sleep for the day ahead and had hoped to use one of his daughters’ rooms.

But Kate had heard him and, clad in a silky dressing gown, was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Henry half expected to see curlers, a hair net and a rolling pin in her hand.

But as he looked up he saw the beautiful, understanding woman he’d been with for most of his adult life. She was slightly younger than him, but the gap could easily have been ten years. She still had a small frame, no excess fat on her, boobs he had often died and gone to heaven for. The landing light backlit her and Henry could make out her shapely outline through the thin material of her gown. He caught something in his throat as she came downstairs, the big, fluffy slippers making her look slightly comical. She stayed on the bottom step and almost came up to his height.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Me too.’ He took her in his arms and they embraced warmly. Henry could smell her soap and scent, could feel the outline of her body against his, soft yet firm, making him realize how musty he reeked. He pushed her slightly away and looked into her eyes. ‘Look, I know it’s crap, but someone took a pot shot at me tonight, nearly killed two others and did kill the guy I’d been standing next to.’ Kate nodded as he spoke, her eyes rimmed with moisture. ‘I need to catch these guys and I don’t want to have to hand it over to anyone else. I promise

…’

His uttering was cut short by the placement of Kate’s index finger on his lips. ‘Shush.’

‘And I need to be at Manchester airport at eight to pick up Karl.’

‘I know. Karen rang. She’s going to try and make it later.’

‘I will make it up to you. Prom-’

Once again, the finger. ‘You need a quick shower, then some sleep.’ She took his hand and led him upstairs, her bottom coming level with his face on the way up. He couldn’t resist — never could — placing his hands on her arse. ‘And just to help you sleep, I’ll fuck your brains out first, if that’s OK?’

Her faced angled coquettishly towards him.

‘It’s the only way I will get some sleep.’

He grinned stupidly at the memory, his mind returning to the present.

The internal telephone next to the TV rang. Alex Bent picked it up impatiently. He listened, said a few yes’s and his face began to go pale. He hung up slowly. All eyes were on him. ‘That was comms. Patrols are at Mark Carter’s home address…’