Nightmare City

Chapter Twelve

Henry Christie’s ears were not burning. He was far too busy to even contemplate that others could be talking about him, as once again his sleep pattern had been very much interrupted. It was past midnight when he finally got into bed, having spent much of the evening cruising the streets, seedier pubs and guest-houses in Blackburn with Lucy Crane to try and find some of Marie Cullen’s colleagues who might be able to add a bit of background to the dead girl. It was a fruitless and frustrating night.

A uniformed cop knocking on his front door at 6.30 a.m. had been the precursor to another horrendous day in Blackpool.

Henry, in a deep, dreamless sleep, had been the only member of his family to hear the knocking, or at least the only one to respond to it. He dragged himself downstairs, feeling like the man in the toothpaste advert with halitosis-laden germs dancing a jig on his furred tongue.

When he opened the door his heart dropped. He thought he was about to be given bad news concerning Nina. He had phoned the hospital from home before going to bed and was told she had taken a turn for the worse: critical-likely to prove. Henry assumed the Police Constable was here to tell him the news personally. He steeled himself for the punch.

He expected an upper cut from the right.

The head-butt to the bridge of his nose caught him completely by surprise and toppled him over, figuratively speaking.

He had to make the PC repeat it three times because his brain refused to take it in.

Derek Luton dead? Found shot to death on his front doorstep? Looks like his brains have been blown out? Wife almost catatonic? Derek Luton?

Dead?

Henry couldn’t get his head round the enormity of it. Not enough sleep. Head’s a shed. Too much going on in too short a space of time.

Degsy Luton dead?

Henry finally raced upstairs, threw on yesterday’s gear, underwear included, then got into his car and drove directly to the scene, Luton’s house in Blackpool north shore, which had not yet been touched by scenes of crime.

Yep, Henry could confirm it. He had had his brains blown out. What a fucking mess. Henry had to steady himself as a flash of memory snapped into his mind’s eye — another world away, but still vivid and recurring — of a man who had had his brains shot out right in front of him.

He took a deep breath, pulled himself together and got to work — directing, delegating, informing those who had to be told, going into automatic crime-scene management. He was aware, again, that his acting rank meant that everyone was waiting for him and that as senior detective on the scene, he was in charge. It gave him a slight feeling of excitement and, if he’d been questioned about it, he would have admitted enjoying it. The role, that is. Not this particular situation.

Once everything was underway, he went next door to where Annie was being comforted by a policewoman and a neighbour. A GP had administered some calming drugs to her, with a prescription for more. The doctor was just leaving when Henry arrived.

He sat down next to Annie on the edge of the settee. Luton’s widow stared blankly ahead, her fingers twisted into tight fists. A mug of tea, untouched, was on the coffee table.

‘ Annie,’ he said softly. He placed an arm around her shoulder. She jumped as if she’d been pinched, looked at Henry and realised who he was. She turned into him, gripping him, burying her head into his chest. She released a wail-cum-scream which shook her whole being from head to toe and held on tighter to Henry as the tears began to pour out. Henry held on, too, making reassuring noises, stroking her hair and trying not to cry himself.

He spent much of the morning with her, not wishing to delegate this particular unenviable task to anyone else. Not that he was a great one for dealing with grief. Actually he was very poor at it.

In over six hours’ gentle coaxing, Annie did not say anything which was of any use to Henry. She was a bubbling wreck, unable to string two words together without bursting into tears. Henry did not push. That would have been counter-productive. By the same token it meant the police were getting nowhere at a fast rate of knots. And Annie was the only witness they had at that moment in time.

Whilst Henry was grappling with the problem of having to draw information out from a distressed witness, another problem which he had wrongly assumed might have gone away reared its head in the form of an ugly skinhead called Shane Mulcahy.

Since his discharge from hospital, Shane had spent the last remnants of his and his girlfriend’s dole money on a concoction of drink, drugs and a Chinese takeaway — this despite her protestations that they needed the money to buy food for them and the baby. He’d simply smacked her open-handed across the face, then given her a kick up the arse when she hit the floor. ‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me how to spend our money.’

For fourteen hours he had been in a state of inebriation coupled with the combined whizz-bang effect of amphets and the monosodium glutamate in the sweet-and-sour chicken. ‘Near total bliss’ would have been Shane’s poetic attempt to describe his condition; however, there was little that was poetic about Shane and he chose to describe it as, ‘Great, been outta my fuckin’ ‘ead.’

He awoke face down on the bare floorboards of the bedsit he shared with Jodie Flew and their offspring. His nose was pressed against the hard wood with dribble having collected in a pool around his cheeks. He wiped his face as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He felt rougher than a bear’s arse — a comparison he often used because it suited his sense of humour — and in his mouth there was a taste he could not quite place: somewhere between vomit and sugar. A pain bolted across his head behind his eyes, like a surge of electricity between two electrodes. He swore.

It did not occur to him to wonder why he was on the floor. It was a position he often awoke to.

Jodie was asleep on the mattress.

The baby gurgled happily in a cot in the corner of the room. Shane heard it fart.

He tried to stand up. When he moved he winced. His lower abdomen felt as though a scalpel had been left in by the surgeon. But in comparison to the previous day, the pain was ebbing.

He dressed himself in the jeans he’d worn for the last two months — he was proud of their unwashed state — found a crumpled T-shirt underneath the TV set and put his denim jacket and stolen Doc Marten boots on. Ready for the day ahead. He left the meagre living accommodation without bothering to disturb Jodie or the baby. He didn’t really want to have anything to do with either of them.

Next stop was his solicitor.

The stop after that was Blackpool Central police station.

It was busy at the enquiry desk. Lots of press and TV people seemed to have camped out there, covering the spectacular crime wave which was coursing through Blackpool that week.

Shane and his legal representative were kept waiting for twenty minutes. The skinhead became increasingly agitated. When at last the Civilian Public Enquiry assistant beckoned to him, he stalked across, leaned on the counter and put his aggressive face right up to hers. His red-raw eyes were wide and menacing, his features distorted into a snarl, examples of which had been captured by media photographs of skinheads many, many times over the years. ‘I want to make a complaint of assault against the police, luv,’ he said.

She recoiled in disgust from his pungent breath and body odour and the threat of violence. ‘I’ll get the Duty Inspector,’ she said. Her nose was screwed up because there was a bad smell under it.

‘ So that leaves Munrow,’ Conroy said. ‘I mean, what’s the fucking judicial system coming to these days? That bastard got nineteen years, f’fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t nineteen mean nineteen? The guy is a menace to society — and that’s a quote direct from the judge himself.’

‘ That’s what you paid him to say,’ interjected McNamara with a laugh. He was feeling better now that some action was going to be taken on his problem.

‘ Yeah, he did a good job, God rest his soul. Pity we didn’t have any influence on the prison board,’ whined Conroy. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Morton, ‘come on, Mister Problem-solver Extraordinaire — put your mind to this one.’

‘ He either needs to be brought into the fold, rather like Henry Christie, or possibly paid off — or eliminated,’ Morton responded, counting his fingers as he ticked off the choices.

‘ Well, I can’t talk to the man. He makes me wanna stick an iron bar around his head as soon as I see him, so the first one’s out of the question,’ Conroy replied, using his own fingers. ‘Secondly I don’t want to pay him one single chuffin’ cent, so you can forget that one.’ He held up three fingers. ‘I like the sound of the third option — kill the cunt.’

‘ But you’ve already said you haven’t got anyone capable of going up against him,’ McNamara pointed out.

‘ Doesn’t mean I don’t want the bastard rotting in hell,’ Conroy said sullenly.

Silence descended on the room and the three men watched each other thinking.

‘ He does need to be sorted,’ Morton said. ‘One way or the other, for the sake of credibility. No one’s going to do business with us if we can’t keep our house in order.’

They fell silent again.

McNamara lit another cigar. Morton poured a coffee. Conroy bit his nails and played with his pony tail.

‘ How about a professional?’ suggested McNamara.

‘ Be just my luck to hire an undercover cop. To be honest with you, boys, I don’t actually know any professionals, believe it or not. I know people you can pay as little as five hundred dabs to. They’re ten a penny in Salford, and any nigger in Moss Side’ll have a crack — but they’re all so fuckin’ unreliable. Munrow would probably drop them first. The only person I know who could do it properly, if he was wound up enough, would be John Rider. But he doesn’t want to get involved. He’s gone completely cuckoo. In his day I would’ve put him on a par with Munrow, maybe above for being a violent sod. Now he’s a bit of a wreck, really.’

‘ He saved your life,’ McNamara said.

‘ True, true.’

‘ If he had a reason to kill Munrow, do you think he would?’ Morton asked.

‘ What d’you mean?’ Conroy looked puzzled.

‘ What I’m saying is — give him a reason and he might just do the job for you. But give him a reason. Quick.’

‘ This is getting to be Nightmare City,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Fanshaw-Bayley. He and Henry were walking down the rear yard at Blackpool police station. ‘I appreciate you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment, Henry, but you need to pull out the stops and solve this one PDQ. The Chief Constable is going berserk. Seems to be an open season on cops in this town this week and she wants results, like yesterday. And she’s ordered two more ARVs into town to go high profile. I’m gonna bring Ronnie Veevers in to head this one.’

‘ You’d better throw resources at it,’ Henry said. He’d once been the victim of FB’s penny-pinching ways (or so he thought) and this time he didn’t want to start out at a disadvantage. ‘That’s the only way you’ll make progress on this one.’

‘ Is there any reason to think all these shootings are connected?’ asked FB. They entered the ground floor of the station and walked towards the lift.

‘ It shouldn’t be ruled out,’ Henry ruminated, ‘but so far I can’t see a link.’ The lift arrived eventually and they stepped into the small space. ‘The DS in the newsagents; I don’t know a great deal about it, but I’m pretty uncomfortable with what I know, but it’s not my pigeon, thank God. Then Nina getting shot by Dundaven… now Derek. What could be the link? The only one I can think of is the North-West Organised Crime Squad. The DS was on it, Nina was shot by someone who was one of their targets and Derek was working along with them. And let’s not forget the gorilla in the zoo which has generated more media interest than all three of those put together. Poor old Boris. Shot out of his tree.’

‘ Is the NWOCS linked to that one in some way?’ asked a mystified FB.

Henry gave a short laugh. ‘Not unless Boris was working undercover for them, too.’

‘ But other than Tony Morton’s crew, there’s really no connection — so far.’

‘ So far, no. Even the NWOCS’s connection is clutching at straws. There’s nothing to say that all three got shot because of their dealings with it. It just happens to be there, that’s all.’

The lift rose to a creaky halt. They got out and walked into the CID office which was abuzz with activity, subdued chatter and some tears. Luton would be sorely missed. His enthusiasm had been infectious.

They walked to Henry’s desk. He perched on the corner of it whilst he continued his conversation with FB.

‘ If we could make some connection it would be great, because then it would give us something to chip away at. But at the moment, they are three completely separate jobs. The DS in the newsagents, whatever the reason for him being there — and I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash — was in the wrong place at the wrong time; Nina got shot because she was being a good cop and shit like that happens occasionally, comes with the territory… but as for Derek, I am completely stumped, boss. Maybe it was a burglary gone wrong, or one of his previous prisoners bearing a grudge against him. Maybe mistaken identity. Dunno. We’ll have to look at all angles.’

He shook his head sadly. A wall of tears was building up inside behind his eyes when he thought of the wretched figure of Degsy Luton sprawled out in his hallway, head blown apart, brains, blood and bones on the carpet and up the wallpaper, all the way down into the kitchen. Grotesque and so very, very wrong.

‘ Basically no leads,’ said FB.

‘ No.’ Henry’s mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And as for Boris, I haven’t even started on that one. That’s gone well-cold. Fuck!’ he said angrily. ‘Anyway, perhaps when Annie comes down from her trauma she might be able to help — with Degsy, that is, not Boris.’

‘ Right,’ said FB. He drummed his fingers on his thighs. He tapped his feet, bit his bottom lip and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. FB’s decision-making process was in action. ‘Couple of things. Firstly, how far are you with Dundaven?’

‘ He should have been in Magistrates by now and remanded in custody. Nothing came of the raids, really. I personally think there’s a long way to go with it yet — but as far as Dundaven himself is concerned, it’s boxed off. He won’t see daylight except through bars for a long time now.’

‘ Do you want to continue with it? Will it be worth it?’

Henry nodded. Actually he didn’t have a clue if anything more would come of it, but he wasn’t about to admit that to FB. ‘I’d like to keep four detectives on it for a month and then reappraise it.’

FB considered this. Then, ‘You can use two.’

Thanks a bunch, Henry wanted to say. ‘And Derek?’

‘ Full team from this afternoon, unlimited overtime — within reason for up to two months. Authorised by the Chief.’

Wow! Henry almost choked, so impressed was he. Then he remembered the implications so far as he was concerned. Because Inspectors did not receive overtime payments, he would earn nothing extra financially, but experience all the other drawbacks. Long hours. No sleep. So what else was new?

However, he held back the urge to grovel in front of FB and plead to be dropped down a rank. He had to look on the positive side of things. It was all good promotion-board material. Juggling three plates at once, having the responsibility to keep them spinning. He hoped he had the ability to stop them from crashing around his ears. ‘Oh, jolly good,’ he said.

FB lowered his voice and moved slightly closer to Henry. ‘There is something else we need to discuss, and that’s the other murder — the prostitute on the beach.’

‘ Oh?’ said Henry guardedly. He had been expecting some repercussions, but even so he could not resist making one of those remarks which so often put him firmly in the bad books of his bosses. Mischievously he threw FB’s quote back in his face. ‘You mean the one who deserved what she got?’

The look on FB’s face told Henry he’d hit a bum note. FB’s eyes narrowed and he said, equally mischievously, ‘Just remember one thing, Henry, if you go for promotion this year, I’ll be on the other side of the desk, so don’t be so fucking cheeky.’

‘ Fair enough.’ Henry knew what side his bread was buttered on. ‘So, what about her?’

‘ Two things. Firstly, because of Derek’s murder I’m going to scale her enquiry down.’

There’s nothing to scale down, Henry thought. He made no reply but his body language told FB exactly what he thought of that one.

‘ Henry, you and I both know we haven’t got a million detectives to play with. It’s a question of priorities and she’s way down on the list.’

She’ll be glad to hear that, Henry thought, but kept his mouth closed again. He stopped his foot tapping which betrayed his annoyance.

‘ Secondly, we’ve had a very irate ex-MP on the blower to Headquarters, shouting and bawling, demanding to speak to the Chief.. no, she didn’t… threatening to sue the living shit out of us. He actually got to speak to the ACC, Brian Warner, and told him you’d been harassing him, making false claims, suggesting he was the one who murdered the girl.’

‘ Never actually got to that stage.’

‘ Even so, that ex-Mp, and you know who I mean, is one very powerful and influential person with friends in very high places. He needs careful handling.’

Henry cut in angrily. ‘I won’t compromise the search for a killer just so I don’t upset some rich bastard who chums around with the great and the good.’ He folded his arms haughtily.

‘ Henry,’ said FB patiently, ‘I’m not saying you should. Just watch him, that’s all. Do everything by the book. Record everything. Justify everything. Watch your back, in other words — that is, if you’re going to have any further dealings with him.’

‘ I will have,’ said Henry. He had made that decision because of what FB had just told him. It particularly annoyed him when people like McNamara started throwing their weight around after being justifiably and reasonably dealt with by the police. ‘In fact, I’m going to arrest him on suspicion of murder now because he’s really got my “mad” up.’

FB groaned inwardly. ‘C’mon, let’s grab a brew.’

Henry stood up, brushed his rumpled clothing down. He needed a shower and a change. His underpants were notably uncomfortable.

Without bothering to check his desk he followed FB towards the lift. A typist walking the other way then dumped a bundle of newly typed reports and files onto his blotter; on top of that the Admin Officer placed the remainder of the day’s other correspondence.

The meeting concluded at 1.15 p.m., no Minutes having been taken, but certain agreements having been made. All three men were ready for their treats which were waiting in the reception foyer of the club. A fifteen year-old boy — thin, wan and pathetic-looking — for Conroy; women for the other two. High-class hookers who were going to cost a lot of money.

Shadowed by the gunmen, the three wandered into Reception, their conversation much lighter and more relaxed than it had been. They talked about football and cars.

A man approached them.

Conroy’s guards stepped in between. Their hands slipped inside their jackets, a simple gesture which carried a menacing message. They didn’t seem to realise that had the man been a professional, they would all have been well dead by then.

But he wasn’t.

His name was Saltash and he was a pimp. He preferred to be referred to as a ‘procurer’. His business card stated I Procure the Needs of People on one side and Procurer to the Professionals on the other.

‘ It’s OK,’ Conroy said quickly, calming his jumpy bodyguards. His men became easy and drew aside. ‘What’ve you got for us today, Saltash, you slime-ball?’

Like an over-attentive, smarmy waiter, Saltash bowed courteously and led them to his ‘products’ — another misnomer he liked to use.

‘ For you,’ he said to Conroy. He indicated the young lad with the flourish of a magician. ‘This is Gary… Gary, stand up.’ Gary stood. He had a very spotty complexion and wore a sneer of contempt for Conroy. ‘Meet Mr Conroy.’

Conroy smiled. He liked them to have a bit of spunk about them (his little joke).

Saltash continued, ‘For you, Mr Morton, I’ve brought along Angela again — I know you like her and she adores you. Angela!’ Saltash motioned with his thumb.

Angela rose. Tall, leggy, dark, mysterious. Aged somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six. She was virtually lovely, but slightly raggy around the edges. She had a deep, grainy voice with a southern accent which made Morton’s hair tingle. And she spoke dirty, especially when drawing breath during oral sex. Morton adored her. She thought he was a fool.

She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Baby… we need to fuck,’ she whispered.

‘ And for you, Mr McNamara… Gillian.’ Gillian was already on her feet. She was as tall as Angela but had much more of everything and she was black. She shook hands with McNamara whose face had already hardened into a cruel mask of lust.

Saltash’s experienced eyes saw that all was OK.

‘ Usual prices?’ Conroy asked. This was always his treat.

The procurer nodded.

‘ Usual services?’

Another nod of consent.

Conroy handed him an envelope. It was always a cash transaction. He looked at Gary who stood there looking bolshie. ‘Get up those fucking stairs,’ he hissed.

The defiant front wilted to one of passivity and acquiescence. Like a frightened dog, the boy did as he was told.

The other two men led their ladies upstairs.

As ever, three rooms had been put aside for their pleasure.

Saltash went into the restaurant and ordered a three-course meal with wine.

He thought he had a wonderful job.

The Duty Inspector hated what he was doing, taking a statement of complaint from a youth he knew to be a troublemaker, drug user and thief, with a string of convictions as long as a wet day in Fleetwood. It as a good test of the Inspector’s interpersonal skills that he didn’t get up, go round the table and complete the job Henry Christie had started a few days before, and rip Shane’s one remaining testicle from its moorings.

‘ I shall pass these details onto the relevant people,’ he explained to Shane at the conclusion. ‘I shall tell our Scenes of Crime Department to come and visit you later today to get a photograph of your… um… operation scar and you will hear very shortly from the Discipline and Complaints Department, I expect.’

The Inspector then bit his lip as he handed Shane a leaflet about how to complain against the police and how complaints are subsequently investigated. He showed him out of the police station — together with his legal adviser — as though he was a valued customer who would receive the most favourable attention. Please do call again.

What riled the Inspector was that was exactly how the D amp; C Department would perceive Shane: a client.

It made him sick to his stomach.

But, that said, Henry had obviously gone too far.

All the enthusiasm had drained out of Henry when, twenty minutes after having been told — informally — of Shane’s complaint against him, he sat down heavily at his desk. On top of everything else he was dealing with, the news had rocked him like a body blow.

He felt deflated and threatened.

The horrible spectre of a Crown Court appearance loomed ahead, with all its attendant publicity. As he sat there, head in hands, he decided that if he did end up facing a judge and jury, there were only two words he would say: ‘Not Guilty.’

All he wanted to do was sit and cry, he was so depressed. The workload, long hours and lack of sleep over the last few days had taken their toll; today’s additional weights — the violent death of Derek Luton, news that McNamara was making noises in high places, and the complaint from Mulcahy — were not far off being the last straw. The one that broke the detective’s back.

‘ Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this into perspective.’

Firstly, a court appearance was the worst thing that could possibly happen. Most complaints filed against the police fizzled out and came to nothing. This one could be the same. Henry believed he had used ‘reasonable force’ in order to subdue Shane who had, after all, attacked him with a knife. It was more than likely that when the file of evidence was submitted it would come back with No Further Action Recommended. It was his word against Shane’s. The only thing going against Henry was his stupidity in not filling in the custody record.

Secondly, McNamara did not intimidate him. In fact, Henry relished the prospect of taking on people in high places.

Thirdly, Degsy’s killer had to be found and a Detective Inspector with his mind on other matters would not achieve this.

And fourthly, long hours and hard work killed no one. Or so it was said.

‘ Right,’ he said again. ‘Get a grip and deal with everything as it happens.’

However, it was with slothful reluctance that he took the top piece of paper from the pile on his desk and read it. Correspondence waits for no man. Failure to deal with it simply means more. It doesn’t stop coming just because there are other things to do.

He began to deal.

The procurer drove his three products back to Blackburn later that afternoon. He delivered them to various locations. Gary asked to be dropped off near to the railway station. Angel was left outside a motel on the edge of town where Saltash had another client waiting for her. Gillian wanted to be taken home.

The whole journey had been unusually quiet. Normally the two girls were full of laughter and mischief whilst Gary, for his age, had a very inventive sense of humour. Today was different. They were all withdrawn, sullen and somewhat tense. Saltash was quite happy that there was no chatter. He was over two thousand pounds to the good — tax-free, of course — and each of his products had pocketed two-fifty plus whatever tips they had been given. That was their business.

Gillian was the last of the three to be dropped off. She had seemed unusually distracted; it was her mood that had rubbed off on the others.

Saltash stopped near to her council flat in Shadsworth on the outskirts of town.

‘ Here we go,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll pick you up here at ten tomorrow. Busy day, lots of dosh to earn.’

She was sitting in one corner of the back seat, her long legs drawn up underneath her, coat tucked in, staring blankly out of the window. The snow in Blackburn had turned into wet, sleety rain. Very unpleasant.

‘ Come on, Gillian, I want to get home,’ he snapped when she did not get out straight away. He twisted round and cast his eyes back at her. Slowly her head turned away from the window and she looked into her pimp’s eyes.

‘ He was Marie’s main customer, wasn’t he?’ She wrung her hands.

Saltash’s eyes dropped momentarily. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘ He killed her, didn’t he?’

‘ I don’t know. Anyone could’ve killed the silly bitch. She was wild and stupid and probably got her come-uppence. But I’ll tell you one thing, Gillian; if you go mouthing off what you’ve just said to me, I’ll kill you. Understand?’ He licked his lips.

A tear rolled down her cheeks. ‘He degraded me today,’ she said with a choked sob. ‘And he talked about Marie when he did.’

‘ Listen, you brainless tart, you degrade yourself every fucking day by what you do. Hasn’t that sunk in yet? You make good money pandering to the whims of pathetic, rich men, so don’t knock it, babe. In five years you’ll have enough to pack it in — but if you want to go now and work for tuppence ha’penny at a supermarket check out, then fine, fuck off and do it. But don’t moan to me because a customer’s a bit kinky. Goes with the show, girl.’ He pointed animatedly at her as he spoke.

‘ And Marie? Does that go-with the show? Ending up dead on a beach?’

‘ Maybe,’ he said cruelly.

‘ I thought you were supposed to protect us?’ she cried.

He had no answer.

‘ Oh fuck you!’ she yelled into his face, opened the car door and emerged into the sleet.

Walking across the pavement she could still feel the sore places on her ankles and wrists where he’d tied the ropes to pin her to the bed. That she could handle. Many did that. It gave them a sense of dominance. What she found impossible to deal with was the cold knife-blade which McNamara had touched against the lips of her vagina and threatened to ram in.

Just like he’d done with that other poor bitch.

The phone rang. Henry grabbed it, delighted by the distraction.

‘ Henry, you old son of a b,’ came the ebullient American accent down the line.

He brightened up immediately. ‘Karl, how ya doin’?

‘ Nice-ish,’ said the FBI agent. ‘I guess you heard about Sam.’

‘ Karen phoned Kate the other night and mentioned it. Sorry to hear about it. She was a nice person.’ Henry had met her the once on that weekend trip to the Lake District.

‘ Murdered.’

‘ Really?’

‘ Yep. Can’t prove it, but I’ll try. You know me.’

‘ Certainly do. Anyway, pal, business or pleasure?’

‘ Well, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Henry,’ the American said genuinely.

‘ Karl… you’re making me blush. Now cut the crap.’

‘ OK. Been reading a routine circulation of yours re the seizure of some firearms after a shooting up on your manor… manor — is that the right phrase, bud?’

‘ More a Metropolitan term, but it’ll do. So, what about these firearms?’

‘ They’re part of a haul from a break and enter at a warehouse in Florida, just outside Miami. Two months ago. One heck of a haul too: machine guns, rifles, pistols, bazookas, SAM’s… you name it, plus the ammo to go. Several million dollars’ worth. Enough to equip a small army.’

‘ From Florida?’ Henry said, astounded. ‘What the hell are they doing in Lancashire then?’

‘ Who knows?’

‘ You coming up here then, Karl?’

‘ Naw, not for a while anyways, but I’ll do my best from down here to help you with information, as and when — or if — I get it. For the time being I’ll fax you all the details of the haul. Maybe you should have another word with your suspect? Then I’ll speak to the Miami Field Office to see what else they can tell me about it.’

They chatted on for a few more minutes before concluding the call. Henry, cheered by the news and the conversation, picked up the last piece of correspondence and found himself humming Starfucker. The tune stopped abruptly when he saw the post-it sticker slap bang in the middle of his blotter. He ripped it off and read it.

In the precise way Derek always operated, the note was timed — 10.15p.m. — and dated.

It read, H. Need to speak to you urgently. Found something well odd. It was signed Degsy. Then a P.S. I’ll be at home. Whatever time you get back, call me or come round, WHATEVER TIME!! It’s urgent. D.

Within seconds, Henry was hurtling down the stairs.

The line was very bad. Donaldson had to listen very intently through the static to hear the voice at the other end. It didn’t help that the person was speaking in a Portuguese accent and was calling from Madeira.

‘ Special Agent Donaldson?’

‘ Yeah. Sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I can hardly hear you.’

‘ It is me, George Santana, speaking from Funchal.’

‘ Oh, hello,’ said Donaldson slightly more formally. He rated the Maderain detective very low on the Richter Scale following his experiences in that country, but was obviously very interested in why he should be ringing. He was the last person Donaldson expected to hear from, and quite honestly had grave doubts about the man’s professional ability. He’d concluded, from very little evidence, that either the guy was not a ‘real’ detective, with no feel for a case, or he was on the take. Or both.

With a startlingly loud crackle which nearly burst his eardrum, the line cleared. Then they could have been conversing in adjacent rooms.

‘ Ahh, that’s better.’

‘ Yes, I can hear you well, also,’ said Santana. ‘I have some news for you about the person who was arrested for the assault upon you.’

‘ Uh-hu, Romero,’ nodded Donaldson. His fingers automatically touched the chain-track across his cheek. He expected the worst: he’d escaped, or been released without charge, been given a pardon. Something along those lines.

The news stunned him.

‘ He’s dead. He was found hanging in his cell in the prison where he was being held pending court. It was very suspicious.’

That’s handy, Donaldson thought cynically. Another possible witness found dead, unable to testify.

‘ That is not all,’ Santana continued. He sounded out of breath. ‘The one we believed to be Romero’s partner in crime is dead also. He was found floating in the harbour near to the ferry. Throat cut from ear to ear. Of course we do not actually know if he worked with Romero when you were attacked-’

‘ Yes we do, George,’ the American snarled.

‘ OK, OK, we do,’ Santana submitted.

‘ Why tell me all this, George?’

‘ Because I have been obliged to think long and hard about this. I admit I was very unconvinced about Agent Dawber’s death being of a suspicious nature. However, following the other girl’s death, then the man in the harbour, then Romero — who we are not convinced hanged himself, I believe there is more to this than meets the eye.’

‘ Hooray,’ Donaldson could not resist saying. He held back from blasting out that it had taken two more deaths for it all to be taken seriously.

‘ There is also more,’ Santana said. From the tone of voice, Donaldson could visualise the sheepish look on his face. He waited for it.

‘ The samples taken from under Agent Dawber’s fingernails?’

Donaldson’s gut wrenched. ‘Yes?’

‘ Human tissue. It looks like she scratched somebody’s face.’

Donaldson closed his eyes and fist in celebration. Thank: God he made the pathologist take the samples!

‘ We are unable to match with DNA from here, regrettably.’

‘ Send me the sample. I’ll get it done.’

‘ We’ve yet to find any hard evidence against anyone at this stage. The result of the analysis of Agent Dawber’s blood shows a high alcohol content — which doesn’t help you, I’m afraid.’

‘ Take a good long look at Scott Hamilton at the Jacaranda. He’s the connection.’

‘ Exactly what we are doing. He is now under twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

Annie was deeply distressed. It manifested itself in different ways. She moved from almost violent hysteria to a silent, trance-like state in a flash. Tears flowed, dried up, burst again. One moment she was on her feet, the next sat down, head buried in a cushion, trying to deal with the enormity of the situation.

She had returned to the house, in spite of others urging her to stay out. She wanted to remain in situ, in the home she and Derek had created in the six months of their wonderful marriage. To stay with memories which, with the exception of the final one, were good ones. She wanted to touch the things they had owned, bought and paid for together with their hard earned cash.

The hallway was being inspected by a forensic team. Two scientists clad in white plastic suits were crawling about, lifting fibres, scraping up blood; a scenes of crime officer was daubing excessive amounts of grey fingerprint powder all over shiny surfaces, leaving dirty marks that would be hell to clean later. They were finding little. It had been a very clean kill.

The house would never be the same again, physically or spiritually.

Annie was in the lounge with her mother and a male police officer who had replaced the policewoman. Both seemed to have no clue what to say or how to deal with her.

She was in the middle of one of her trance-like states. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the gas-fire from her position on the settee. Heavy rain lashed against the window. Snow doesn’t last long in Blackpool. Henry sat next to her.

‘ Annie? I need to ask you some questions. Important questions. Things we need to know quickly. Annie?’ He found it hard to tell if he was getting through to her. ‘Annie, do you hear what I’m saying?’

No response.

He laid a hand softly on her shoulder. She shivered and came back from wherever she’d been, blinked at him for the first time in the half-hour he’d been there. He kept her gaze locked into his. ‘Annie, we need to talk.’

She swallowed, nodded and ran the back of her hand across her nostrils and sniffed up.

‘ What did Derek say when he got home from work last night?’

She screwed up her pretty face and tried to concentrate. Her brain was making this difficult. She put a hand on his and squeezed it, then collapsed against him. Deep sobs shook her whole being, like a monster struggling to free itself from inside her. Henry put his arms around her. She crushed her face into his chest and cried.

In twenty minutes she’d cried herself out.

For the moment.

Henry’s shirt and tie were soaking wet, a mix of tears, snot and saliva.

Annie sat upright. Henry handed her a paper handkerchief. She wiped her face with it and blew her nose.

‘ Questions,’ she stated. In answer to his look, she said, ‘Ask them now, Henry, while you’ve got the chance. I’m in control of myself at the moment. Not sure how long it’ll last.’

‘ What did he say when he got home last night?’

‘ Very little.’

‘ Did he seem his normal self?’

‘ No… odd, distracted.’

‘ He must have said something, Annie.’

‘ Kept muttering about a statement, how he couldn’t believe it. He’d been there, yet it was different, changed… something like that, anyway. He was waiting for you to call. He was sure you would. I didn’t know what he was on about.’

‘ He’d left a note on my desk, but I went straight home last night. I didn’t go into the office.’ Like maybe I should have done, Henry thought agonised. Then: Fuck that for a thought. What’s done is done. ‘And what happened after that?’

‘ We went to bed round about midnight. He read for a while, then he was tossing and turning, going to the loo. I was aware of it, but I was asleep. D’you know what I mean, Henry?’

He nodded.

Annie stopped talking. He hoped she wasn’t about to weep again.

‘ I don’t remember anything else,’ she said faintly.

‘ Think, Annie,’ he encouraged her softly. ‘It could be important.’

She stood up and crossed to the window, staring at the rain. There were two police cars and a van outside. The whole of the garden had been taped off. Officers from the Support Unit were on their hands and knees, searching for evidence in what was quickly becoming a quagmire.

‘ There is something,’ she said eventually. ‘He got up. I mean, obviously he got up or he wouldn’t be dead now. Hang on, hang on, let me get a grip.’ She put her head into her hands and pummelled her forehead with the base of her hands, wracking her brain, shimmering with frustration. She turned to Henry again. ‘Yes, that’s it. He got up. Someone was knocking on the door. He went to the window. He said it was two o’clock. Then he went downstairs. I turned over and went back to sleep.’ Her eyes rested accusingly on Henry. ‘He thought it was you at the door. He thought you’d come to see him… only it wasn’t.’

Her face creased like a screwed-up ball of paper.

‘ Did he bring anything home with him?’ Henry asked quickly.

‘ I don’t know.’ Her bottom lip, her whole chin quivered. She was trying vainly to keep control, but was slowly losing the struggle.

‘ Annie, we need to have a look through his things. There could be something to help us. May we?’

‘ Yes, sure, but someone’s already done that.’

‘ What?’ said Henry, perplexed. ‘Who?’

Annie didn’t know.

Henry turned to the policeman. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

‘ Two detectives from that lot in Blackburn.’

‘ The Organised Crime Squad?’

‘ Yeah, them.’

‘ We couldn’t find anything, boss,’ Siobhan Robson said to her Detective Chief Superintendent.

‘ What sort of a search did you do?’

She sighed with frustration verging on anger. ‘Cursory — that’s all we could do. We couldn’t very well tear the place apart, could we? It would have looked a bit too suspicious.’

‘ Maybe he didn’t have anything with him.’ This was a suggestion made by a Detective Inspector called Gallagher, who had been with her during the search.

‘ Oh he did, I’m sure of it. Copies of the original statements at least. That’s what the little bastard did — made copies, as we have seen from his locker. So where the hell are they? We need to find them — soon. And my bet is that they’re in his house — somewhere.’

Henry stormed into the murder incident room. Two policewomen were inputting details into the HOLMES terminals. DC Robson and DI Gallagher were in deep, muted conversation with Tony Morton. As Henry closed in on them, they looked up and stopped talking. A smile appeared on Morton’s face.

‘ Henry, good to see you. I’ve been looking for you.’

Henry liked and admired Morton. He thought he was a good cop who got results. But at that moment in time, Henry was enraged and when something annoyed him, his mouth had a nasty habit of speaking quicker than his instincts for self-preservation.

Without courtesy, he launched into a tirade of invective which stopped all activity at the HOLMES terminals. ‘What the fuck right do you have to go rummaging about in Derek Luton’s belongings for? Not only have you been heavy-handed about it and upset his widow, you could easily have tainted valuable evidence. You had no right, no fucking right.’

Morton’s false smile fell from his face instantaneously. His expression hardened.

‘ And you, DS Christie, have no right, no fucking right whatsoever, to talk to a senior officer like that. I’ve a good mind to slap you on paper, but from what I gather, discipline enquiries are not unknown to you.’

‘ I personally don’t give a flying fuck what you do, Mr Morton. You and your elite squad of wankers are bang out of order. We’ll probably never know what damage you’ve done. What the hell were you looking for that was so important anyway?’

Gallagher, the DI, who had silently witnessed the exchange, cut in. ‘I can answer that, boss. After all, it was me who went to the house with DC Robson here. We thought he’d gone home with some important documents that we needed for this investigation. Some house-to-house logs he’d been doing.’

‘ House-to-house logs?’ said Henry incredulously. ‘What the hell was he doing on house-to-house? That’s for numpties!’

‘ He was assigned to my murder squad, and how I use my officers is my business, not yours,’ Morton said stiffly. ‘Now, Henry,’ he went on placatingly, ‘if we’ve trodden on your toes, we apologise, but we needed to find what he had. We did it carefully and with consideration and compassion for Mrs Luton’s feelings. There’s no chance we spoiled any evidence and if you feel Craig and Siobhan here were heavy-handed, I’ll go round and see Mrs Luton and apologise. How’s that?’

Shut up Henry, he told himself. Take a breath. Count to ten. This man’s a Chief Super. He can knee-cap you if he wants.

‘ All right,’ Henry accepted. ‘Did you find the logs?’

‘ No,’ said Gallagher. ‘We’ll simply have to revisit all those homes again.’

‘ Unlucky,’ Henry could not resist saying.

There was a moment of strained silence. Gallagher’s eyes narrowed slightly as he weighed Henry up.

The smile that was originally on Morton’s face reappeared. To his two officers he said, ‘Leave us,’ and flicked them away with a wave of his hand. Gallagher nodded. He picked up a pile of papers, his eyes never leaving Henry’s. Siobhan smiled nicely at him. Then they both went.

The two HOLMES operators resumed their tasks.

‘ Now then Henry,’ said Morton. ‘Come and sit over here.’

He guided Henry to two chairs next to a table on which was a coffee filtering machine. Henry smelled the rich aroma of a newly brewed pot and his body demanded a cup. Fortunately Morton poured one for him. He handed him the cup and both men sat down.

‘ I’ll come straight to the point, lad. As you know, life goes on in this job of ours. When a vacancy arises, it gets filled, however it occurred. And sadly we now have a vacancy on this squad.’

‘ You mean Geoff Driffield — your guy in the newsagents?’

Morton nodded. ‘We need people of a high calibre, as you well know. We have an enviable reputation of crime-busting to maintain and only the best will do for us.’

He regarded Henry with meaning.

‘ You mean me?’

Morton nodded. ‘You fit the bill. I want you on the squad.’