Nightmare City

Chapter Nine

After four fitful hours’ sleep, Henry found himself standing in front of a large squad of police officers, cups of tea in their hands. It was 5.45a.m. and they were in the canteen at Accrington police station. The reason for meeting here was that five out of the six addresses they had uncovered in relation to Dundaven were in East Lancashire, and Accrington was central for them all. The sixth address was in Bury, just over the Greater Manchester border.

There were forty-eight officers, eight for each address. Four Support Unit, two CID and two firearms. The Support Unit were specialists in entering premises quickly and also in search techniques for buildings and persons. The plan that morning was to get in quick on the warrants Henry had sworn out the day before, take no crap, search thoroughly and if necessary, make arrests.

Henry cleared his throat and called for attention. The room fell immediately silent as all eyes turned to him.

He briefed the officers about what they should search for, reminded them of their powers and the law, begged them to cause as little damage as possible, try not to shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary, and wished them luck.

They separated into their various teams whilst Henry marvelled at the sheer size of some of the Support Unit officers. He was no pygmy himself, but some of them towered over him. Even the women. They all checked their equipment — door openers, dragon lights, extending mirrors, various tools, guns and CS sprays.

Within ten minutes they had all dispersed, leaving Henry and a Detective Sergeant sat in the canteen.

By 6.30 the teams were all in place. Five minutes later the first door went through.

It was a good feeling.

The Jacaranda da Funchal was one of the most pleasant complexes he had ever seen; if he hadn’t been there for some other reason, Karl Donaldson could easily have succumbed to the hard sell which was actually disguised as a soft message.

He had walked the two miles to it from his hotel: west out of Funchal, beyond the rather staid but magnificent Reid’s Hotel, and to an area known rather unoriginally as the Tourist Zone. It was a fairly unprepossessing part of town, much of which reminded Donaldson of a bomb site with many open tracts of wasteland, some with half-demolished buildings, others nothing but rubble and dust. Oh, and tourist hotels.

When he found the Jacaranda it was pure oasis. Set in about ten acres of gently shelving land, it had everything someone who wished to buy a timeshare could dream of: health club, tennis courts, two pools (one indoor, both heated), and the apartments themselves were luxuriously equipped to a very high standard.

Donaldson was very impressed. He stood there and surveyed the place, dressed in his best tourist shorts and shirt.

The sales patter made him want to sign up there and then — but he had been trained to resist brainwashing, tough though it was.

He could imagine Karen’s face to be told they now owned a timeshare in Madeira.

Eventually, begrudgingly, the salesman gave up on him and handed over his free gift — a flight bag — and turned his attention to other, more responsive clients.

Which gave Donaldson a chance to break off and wander round the complex alone.

He was armed with the compact camera which he’d bought to photograph Sam’s body. He made his way to the posh reception area where a pretty Madeiran lady was busy behind a large desk, inputting on a PC.

‘ Ajude-me, por favor,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Fala ingles?’

‘ Sim,’ she nodded. ‘I do.’

‘ Bom,’ he replied, relieved. ‘My name is Donaldson. I’m from the United States and I believe Scott Hamilton works here?’

‘ Yes, Mr Hamilton owns the Jacaranda.’

‘ Oh, great. We’re pals from way back when. I’m here on a kinda short visit and thought I’d drop by and say howdy.’

The direct approach. He was under no illusions this would work. He expected nothing, so was pleasantly surprised when the opposite happened.

The receptionist, Francesca, whose name was on a badge pinned to her blouse, immediately picked up the phone, punched in a short number and spoke very quickly. The name Hamilton came up several times, but Donaldson did not manage to catch much of the conversation. She put the phone down and smiled. She had pitch-black hair and her beautiful white teeth contrasted spectacularly to produce a very alluring effect which was not lost on Donaldson.

‘ He will come and see you,’ she said.

‘ Obrigado, Francesca.’ Donaldson noticed her eyes were a wonderful shade of brown which was in keeping with her lovely olive complexion.

‘ Please sit down.’ She pointed to a comfortable-looking sofa on the other side of reception. He obeyed, completely dominated by her — in his dreams. She returned to her console and began tapping away, occasionally glancing across at him.

A few minutes later a man in his late twenties appeared from a door behind Francesca’s desk. He was dressed in a silk, cream-coloured, short-sleeved shirt with an open neck, blue chinos and black open-toed sandals, no socks. He wore plenty of jewellery, mainly gold. His hair was black, combed away from his face and his sideboards sloped and tapered past his ears. A minor goatee was stuck onto his chin like- a slug. He looked very slick.

And to Donaldson, very much like a player.

He approached Donaldson, a quizzical look on his face.

Donaldson stood up, not wishing to be disadvantaged. He held out his hand, which the man ignored.

‘ I don’t normally see salesmen,’ he said, ‘but you asked for me personally. I gotta say, you don’t look much like one.’

‘ I, er…’ Donaldson began. He glanced quickly at Francesca, who studiously avoided eye contact. He recovered quickly. ‘It’s always possible you wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been completely honest. You are Scott Hamilton, I take it?’

He nodded and rolled his tongue around his mouth with a slurping noise.

‘ I’m Karl Donaldson. I’m an FBI agent. You knew a colleague of mine, Samantha Dawber, now dead.’

Hamilton was totally unfazed. His bottom lip pouted while he considered the name. He shook his head. ‘Nope, I think not.’ Super fucking cool.

‘ She wrote your name down on a piece of paper before she died, and as she passed on in mysterious circumstances, I’m obviously investigating. I think she may well have visited the Jacaranda. She had some of your literature in her possession.’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Lotsa people visit the place. But I don’t know her anyway.’

‘ She obviously knew you. Otherwise why would she have written your name down?’

‘ I’m the manager of the place. My name’s on all the literature we produce. Not unusual. People write my name down.’

He hadn’t spoken too many words but Donaldson gave him a Brooklyn origin, tainted and watered down by some time in LA. He also gave him credit for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch. He had a desperate urge to grab the man’s goatee and rip it out of his chin and make him squeal like a kicked puppy. In fact, he promised it to himself.

‘ She put four exclamation marks after it. Why in hell would she do that, pal?’ Donaldson was on the edge of losing his own cool. ‘It seems damn odd she’s gotten your name down on a piece of paper and she’s ended up dead soon after.’

‘ What the fuck you implying?’

‘ Nuthin,’ said Donaldson innocently.

‘ I don’t much like your tone, mister..?’

‘ Donaldson. Karl Donaldson. FBI. London office.’

‘ And what exactly is your jurisdiction in Madeira?’

‘ I’m empowered worldwide to investigate offences committed against American citizens on foreign soil.’

‘ Well, here’s one you’d better start investigating then,’ said Hamilton, leaning towards him. ‘I’m an American citizen and I’m being harassed unlawfully by the FBI. Fucking investigate that!’

He got closer and closer to Donaldson as the words tumbled out of his mouth. The FBI agent remained impassive and said with a click, ‘Pal, you’ve just cooked your goose.’

‘ Get off this property.’ Hamilton turned to Francesca. ‘Call Security. I want this man removing.’

She scrabbled for the phone.

‘ I’m going,’ said Donaldson.

Hamilton turned away and stalked towards the door.

Donaldson called out, ‘Just one more thing.’

Hamilton spun back, an angry look on his face — which Donaldson captured for posterity with a flash of the camera.

Henry sat hunched at his desk at Blackpool Central police station. In true detective fashion he was easing the last crusts of a meat pie into his mouth with one hand, the other cupped underneath to catch anything that didn’t make it. Hot gravy dribbled painfully down his chin. He had nothing to wipe his mouth with, other than his hands. Then he had nothing to wipe his hands with, other than his desktop blotter.

‘ Acting Detective Inspector Christie, isn’t it?’

With a mouthful he turned and looked up, and tried to stand up when he saw who it was. ‘Yeah, it is… sorry.’ He swallowed.

‘ No, don’t get up.’ The man perched on the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton from the North-West Organised Crime Squad and this is WDC Robson, Siobhan Robson.’ He cocked a thumb at the officer, then held out his right hand.

‘ Yes, I know. Look, sir, I’m sorry but my hands’re a bit greasy at the moment. I’m not sure you’d appreciate me shaking yours — unless you wanted to lick it after.’

Morton gave a short laugh and the female detective giggled brightly. The DCS withdrew his hand with a shrug and a smile.

Henry leaned back to get a better view of his visitors.

‘ It’s Henry… am I right?’

‘ Yes, sir.’

‘ I believe you’re up to your eyeballs in major enquiries.’

‘ Pretty much. Can I help you in some way?’

‘ I was just curious about the Dundaven enquiry, how it’s progressing. We’ve been monitoring that man’s activities for a while and in one fell swoop you’ve got him slap bang to rights.’

‘ Mmm, at a cost, though.’

Morton did not understand for a moment. Then it clicked. ‘Ah yes, the policewoman. Very unfortunate.’

‘ Not to mention the guy whose brains he blew out,’ said Henry. ‘And the multi-vehicle pile-up on the motorway he caused by deliberately ramming a traffic car. I’m amazed no one died in that.’

‘ So, how goes the investigation then?’

‘ Very well,’ said Henry. He had no reason to be anything other than open with Morton, a man he greatly admired and whose squad he would gladly have worked on. ‘We hit a few addresses this morning, all connected with Dundaven, but found very little — which surprised me. But we’re not going to let it rest. I get the feeling he’s well connected and I’m going to keep chipping away at him. We haven’t found the origins of the guns yet and that needs to be bottomed. They’re all new and I’ll bet they’re from a warehouse somewhere. When we pinpoint that, it’ll give us another angle to dig at — and dig we will.’

‘ You seem very determined.’

‘ I am,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like people who shoot at coppers, nor do I like people who sell guns.’

‘ Very laudable,’ commented Morton. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult to be so thorough — the practicalities of the job, time constraints, pressures, especially working in local CID. I know the caseload is enormous.’

‘ Yeah, I agree… but I’ll do my best. I won’t let it rest until I’m completely satisfied I can’t go any further with it.’

‘ How will you know when you can’t go any further?’

‘ Intuition… brick walls… some dickie-bird’ll tell me.’

‘ Well, good luck, Henry. Stick at it.’ Morton turned to the female detective. ‘Ready?’ She nodded assent. ‘See ya, Henry.’

‘ Bye,’ Siobhan said, giving him a little wave and a smile.

He watched them leave and wondered what the hell that was all about.

Five hundred kilometres off the west coast of Africa, on the tiny island of Madeira, Karl Donaldson was back in his hotel room.

It was 6 p.m. Night had fallen quickly. With it came rain which lashed against the balcony doors of his room.

He had recently returned from making the final arrangements for Sam’s body to be on the same flight as himself to London next day. From Heathrow he would connect it with New York.

He was not looking forward to the journey, knowing she would be lying stiff, cold and desecrated in the hold below. He shivered at the thought.

Pangs of hunger growled in his stomach.

He had a quick shower, changed and walked from the sea view annexe where his room was situated through the rain across the metal footbridge which spanned high above the main road into Funchal, and up to the main part of the hotel, the Quinta. He went into Joe’s bar, had the dish of the day — which happened to be espada — and half a bottle of Atlantis Rose.

An hour later, after the meal, he moved the few metres across to the bar and settled down for a couple of beers whilst reflecting on the events of the day.

Just what the fuck was Scott Hamilton up to? And more to the point, who was he? Why did Sam write his name down? Did he have something to do with her death? Or was he, Donaldson, just clutching at straws?

It frustrated him that he might well be able to find out about Hamilton, but might not ever be in a position to answer any of the other questions. Even so, there was no way he would ever — EVER — accept that her death was misadventure or accident. He was convinced she had been murdered, but how the hell could he prove it?

Lost in thought, he did not notice the approach of the woman. She appeared from nowhere, and touched his shoulder gently. Donaldson twisted his head upwards.

It was the receptionist from the Jacaranda.

She was wearing a trenchcoat, but no headgear, and was soaking wet, her black hair plastered to her head and face. Her mascara had run from her eyes, making her look like she’d been crying. Maybe she had.

‘ Francesca,’ Donaldson said in surprise, remembering her name. He got to his feet.

‘ Mr Donaldson,’ she said with a quaver in her voice.

‘ You’re soaked to the skin.’

‘ It’s OK, doesn’t matter.’ She unfastened her belt, the buttons of her coat and flapped it a couple of times to shake the excess rain off the gabardine material. Underneath she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. ‘May I sit down?’

‘ Sure, sure, help yourself.’

She sat.

‘ Drink? Coffee — wine — whatever?’

She shook her head. Donaldson eased himself back into his chair, eyeing her uncertainly, trying to judge what was about to happen.

She was obviously on edge; her body language screamed it. Her hands twitched nervously, could not keep still. She brushed wet strands of hair back away from her face with shaking fingers. She seemed hardly able to bring her eyes up to meet Donaldson’s.

‘ So, Francesca, what brings you here?’

‘ I want you to understand I enjoy my work,’ she said quickly after a few moments’ consideration. ‘I’m quite well paid and I’m lucky because I have no real qualifications. In did not work at the Jacaranda, I would probably be a waitress.’

Donaldson nodded. He decided not to say anything, let her fill in all the blanks, though he wasn’t sure what this all meant.

‘ I don’t want to lose my job. I support my mother. My father died two years ago…’ She shrugged, suddenly unable to continue. She glanced quickly towards the door and her mouth opened slightly as she appeared to see something. Donaldson peered round to look. No one was there. She was seeing ghosts.

‘ You are from the FBI?’ she asked meekly.

‘ Yep.’

‘ That lady — Samantha — she too?’

‘ Yep.’

Her eyes looked deeply into his for a couple of seconds, then tore away. She appeared to stifle a sob.

‘ Look, Francesca,’ Donaldson said, hoping he was going to hit the right note. ‘I think you’ve come to see me for a reason. Does it concern Samantha?’

‘ Yes.’ It was a hoarse whisper.

‘ So, what is it?’ he probed softly. His eyes found hers once more. ‘You can trust me,’ he added, thinking, Famous last words.

‘ Can I?’ Her eyes dropped again and stared at her hands which she was wringing tightly together, like drying them underneath a warm-air machine.

Donaldson reached across. He laid one of his hands over hers. They felt clammy and wet. ‘Yeah, you can.’

Slowly Francesca took control of herself and raised her face. Quietly she gasped, ‘I think she was murdered.’

Donaldson’s insides did a double-back somersault, but his exterior, he hoped, remained a vision of placidity.

‘ We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to my room. You can dry yourself off and we can talk privately. I’ll get some coffee sent up. Come on.’

He stood up and offered a hand, wiggling his fingers in a gesture of encouragement. She hesitated a moment before taking it and rising slowly from her seat.

The rain had not abated. If anything it was heavier than before, backed by an ever-increasing wind which had started to howl. Donaldson turned up his collar and hunched into his jacket. Francesca buttoned up her long coat and tied the belt into a loose knot.

With a hand laid on her back, Donaldson guided her through the gardens of the Quinta, out of the walled grounds and onto the steep cobbled road which led down to the gate which opened onto the footbridge.

When they actually stepped onto the bridge, Donaldson was slightly ahead of her, now leading the way. The rain and wind were particularly bad here, exposed to the elements. Below, the main road was busy with traffic. The combination of wind, rain and traffic noise deadened all senses, making hearing and seeing difficult.

Which was Donaldson’s single pathetic excuse for not being switched on properly at a time when he should have been turned on and tuned in. Her nervousness should have rubbed off onto him. The furtive glances towards the door. The NVCs. They should have given the game away.

Instead, his chin was tucked down into his chest, his mind tumbling with the possibilities of what she was about to reveal to him. And he almost ran headlong into the man who was standing at the opposite end of the bridge, next to the elevator which descended into the hotel annexe.

At the last moment Donaldson saw him and pulled up sharp.

‘ Desculpe: Donaldson said, pronouncing it ‘dishkoolper’, meaning excuse me.

The man stood his ground, barring the way to the elevator doors. He was a big bloke, unshaven, tough-looking, wearing heavy jeans and a reefer jacket, both hands in the pockets, thumbs snagged on the edges.

‘ Excuse me,’ Donaldson said again, hoping he had read the situation wrong, because the man and his code of dress did not really shout hotel guest.

The man shook his head.

Fuck, a set-up, were the next words which leapt through the American’s mind. She s led me out here and I came like a fool and now I’m gonna get what Sam got. Goddam dickbrain!

Then he heard her say, ‘Behind.’

He looked, expecting her to be holding a gun or something, but no. Even in the rain, he could see her face was a mask of complete terror, as beyond her, walking slowly towards them across the narrow bridge, was another guy. Of similar proportion to the other — big and brutal-looking. Donaldson’s legs gave him a twinge of fear.

He had not been set up.

One of the drawbacks of working on foreign soil was that his authority to carry a firearm was withdrawn. He understood why, but it was one of those little things he had been unable to grow accustomed to. The instinct to reach for a gun was still there and his fingers literally twitched. In the past this lack of a weapon had been a problem of life and death magnitude. He was pretty sure he was about to discover that once again.

He and Francesca, who was now visibly cowering, were trapped. Hemmed in, one man either side of them. There was no escape across a bridge not wide enough for three people to stand abreast and a forty-foot drop either side, splat onto the road.

Because it was expected of him as an FBI employee, Donaldson kept himself fit and agile by means of regular workouts and daily runs. Before moving to the London office that had been a necessity; working in the field always carried the possibility of ending up in conflict situations where fitness could be a life-saver.

Since taking up the less strenuous appointment at the Legat, fitness had become more of a habit of pride than a operational necessity. He never truly believed he would find himself in such a position again — facing potential attackers. Nowadays he dealt with liaison, processing information, intelligence gathering, speaking to people on the phone — basically sitting on his ass in a smart office, pushing a pen and letting other people get into hairy situations.

But now he was glad that fitness was a part of his day-to-day life. He knew he was going to need the reserves it had given him.

FBI recruits are taught, wherever possible in conflict situations, to use their brains and mouths first; if that fails, switch to defensive tactics.

The last resort was deadly force.

Donaldson guessed he was about to skip the first two and go straight to the third option.

He squared up to the man by the elevator, who must have known exactly what he was thinking.

The man moved fast. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and, with his right, swung something in a wide arc towards Donaldson’s head.

He saw it coming, ducked low, put his left arm up to protect himself and took the full force on the forearm of what turned out to be a double motorcycle chain, welded together for extra weight and power. It wrapped itself around his arm like a python, cutting into the skin despite the protection of his jacket sleeve. He screamed in pain and staggered into the railings. The man drew back the chain with a flourish, as if he was demonstrating a bull-whip, and moved in. His big left fist rocketed into Donaldson’s throat, driving him back harder against the railings, from where he slumped to the hard metal surface.

Donaldson was vaguely aware of a scream from Francesca and the sound of a scuffle behind him and a rasping male voice, shouting.

Donaldson’s attacker launched a big kick towards his exposed groin. He grabbed the foot just centimetres before it connected with his balls and clung desperately onto it whilst the man tried to shake him free, and pounded him repeatedly in the side with the chain. Fleetingly, Donaldson saw the traffic passing below, under the bridge. It was a long way down.

Donaldson bit into the big man’s leg, right on the calf muscle at the back of the shin. He sunk his teeth in as hard and nastily as he could, trying to bite through the oil-tasting denim, knowing he couldn’t, but trying anyway.

Bites work well in fights.

The man let out an agonised roar. With a superhuman effort he yanked his leg out of Donaldson’s grip and teetered backwards, holding the bitten area.

Donaldson was up onto all fours, shaking his head. His toes sought grip on the slippery wet metal surface and he tried to launch himself at the man. He didn’t connect as hard and accurately as he would have liked, but when his left shoulder rammed into the man’s lower belly, it forced all the wind out of him with a rushing groan. He pushed him off-balance. The man toppled over and landed on his back with Donaldson about to dive onto him.

Still with the chain in his hand, he swung it wildly at Donaldson, who ducked properly this time, feeling the whoosh of air as it sailed past his head. The man whipped it back in the opposite direction so quickly that this time he caught the side of Donaldson’s face, knocking him from his position of advantage, sending him sprawling against the railings again.

Donaldson was on his feet first, recovering well, despite feeling that his jaw had been broken by the impact of the chain across it. He hit the man hard, determined to finish it. Twice in the face, Donaldson’s fists bunched hard like iron blocks, right-handed, two blows to the side of the jaw. The impact of each jarred his knuckles, but it did the job. The big man, who was only halfway up to his feet, dissolved like a jelly.

Donaldson spun round, concerned for Francesca.

He was too late. The second man had her pinned up against the railings, a hand clamped around her throat, trying to push her over. She struggled, twisting, fighting and clawing like a cat, but the man was too strong. With one last great shove, she went over the railings; her legs came up, she screamed, then was gone into the void.

‘ Nooo!’ howled Donaldson, racing towards the second assailant, who simply turned and ran across the bridge into the rain and the darkness of night.

There was a screech of brakes below, a dull thudding noise, then the metallic crunch as cars collided. Donaldson stopped and looked over the railings. It was hard to make anything out properly. There was confusion on the road. He could just about see the figure of Francesca underneath the wheels of a car. A hand stuck out, seeming to be reaching for something. Then it stopped moving.

Donaldson’s jaw was not broken, although it had swollen to twice its normal size and was as hard as iron. A nasty-looking, raised red-raw wheal ran from his right eye down across his chin with indentations in it, into which the chain could have been fitted perfectly. It looked as if someone had driven some sort of wheeled kitchen implement across his face. His eye was swollen and black too.

The painkillers prescribed by the doctor at the hospital were not working. He didn’t want them to work. He wanted to feel pain… because he was that way inclined at the moment.

He was listening to Detective George Santana who was talking about the attacker in custody. Donaldson was not liking what he was hearing.

‘ Romero is a well known tough-nut. Convictions for robbery and violence. He works as a team with another no-good local criminal. We are looking for that man now. It looks like robbery was the motive, and it went wrong. They have robbed tourists before.’

‘ So what you’re goddam trying to tell me is this incident has no connection with Sam Dawber’s death. It was purely coincidental, am I right?’

Santana shrugged. ‘What is the connection?’ he said evenly. ‘You tell me what it is and I’ll believe you and investigate it.’

‘ Francesca was going to give me information about Sam’s death. She’d already told me Sam had been murdered. We were going to my room so she could tell me everything she knew. There’s just too much of a coincidence, George.’ Donaldson counted on his fingers. ‘Sam writing Hamilton’s name down; my visit to the timeshare, his reaction to me; Francesca turning up to see me and then those bastards waiting for us on the bridge. It don’t take a genius to see it all, so go on, George, you tell me there’s no connection,’ he concluded, challenging Santana.

Santana nodded and conceded. ‘You are probably correct. But it is very circumstantial, even with the best intention in the world.’

Donaldson breathed a sigh of relief. Ally-fuckin’-looya, he thought.

‘ However,’ cautioned Santana, ‘unless Romero tells us something, there will be a problem making a connection.’

‘ What has he said so far?’

‘ Absolutely nothing. He’s an old hand. We may never crack him.’

‘ Fuck,’ uttered Donaldson. He was completely deflated, frustrated and pissed off. It was the powerlessness, the lack of control that was really irritating him. Being in a foreign country made it all a million times worse. Everyone else spoke a language he could just about say ‘Hello’ in, and their police force seemed either unable or unwilling to run with the ball. God, he wanted to scream. Unfortunately he could not open his mouth wide enough to do so. He would probably be on liquids for a week until the swelling went down.

‘ OK George, I know you ain’t impressed by my gut feelings about this, but I ask you, implore you, to keep an open mind about it. Keep your ear to the ground — don’t just forget it once me and Sam get on board that silver bird tomorrow. I’m sure Sam was onto something and it obviously involved Hamilton. And if you do find anything out, let me know soonest… and really give that Romero some pain.’

Santana nodded. He laid a hand on Donaldson’s shoulder. ‘I will, my friend. Trust me.’

Yeah, thought the American. What you’re really sayin’ is, ‘Get off my island and leave me in peace, you Yankee busybody.’ Once I’ve gone, you won’t give me a second thought, will you — and whoever killed Sam’ll get away with it.

A jolt of pain leapt through his jaw. He cupped his face gently in his hands and his thoughts turned to Francesca. The words he’d said to her stuck in his craw and tried to choke him.

You can trust me.

Liar.

‘ Right, people,’ said Henry, addressing the small team of officers who were dealing with the Dundaven enquiry. It was 10.30 p.m. They were all raring to race off for a drink; Henry was ready to go home and sink into bed, but not before he’d said one or two things.

‘ First of all, well done re today’s work. We’ve started making some inroads into this man Dundaven and I’m sure that if we stick at it, we’ll turn up some real dirt and it’ll snowball… if you see what I mean. But there’s still a lot of questions need answering. What was he really doing in Blackpool? What were his intentions if he hadn’t got pulled? What was he going to do with the guns? Where have they come from, where are they going to? Who is the bastard answerable to? In other words, who is his boss?

‘ From tomorrow I think the important thing is to get the prosecution papers sorted out, get the file right, ensure there’s no loopholes anywhere. In that respect each of you review the file critically and then get me, then CPS to do the same. Let’s make it watertight.’

There was a general nod and murmur of consensus.

Henry saw the female detective, Siobhan Robson from NWOCS at the back of the room listening. She had a smile playing nicely on her lips. Henry acknowledged her with a quick nod.

‘ At the moment, Nina is alive and making some progress, but still critical. They’ve operated on her again today and she was in surgery for four hours. The doctors say it was a success, but there’s more to come. She’s young, strong and brave and there’s every chance she’ll pull through.’ One or two of the detectives showed by their faces they were relieved to hear the news. ‘So, tomorrow, first thing, we’ll charge him with Attempted Murder on her… but if she doesn’t pull through, we’ll simply amend it to Murder. He’s been charged with McCrory’s murder already.

‘ We need to start rooting around into McCrory’s background too, which might be easier than Dundaven’s. So far we’ve only found his mum, bless her soul. She thought he was an angel.’

‘ He is now,’ chirped one voice. There was a titter of laughter.

Henry smiled too. ‘Let’s find out about his connection with Dundaven. That could maybe open some chinks… So what I’m saying is there’s a bloody long way to go with this yet. This is just the start, OK? Right, thanks again, everybody. See you all in the morning… unless there’s any questions?’

‘ How’s Guy the gorilla?’

‘ Doc says he’s doin’ just fine.’

They had all been standing around the office. They shuffled slowly out past the figure of Siobhan Robson, who looked at Henry, gave him another smile, then left herself.

Henry watched her go with interest. She was very, very nice indeed

… but he was above those sorts of thoughts. He sat down heavily.

Whatever happens, mass murder, terrorist attack, suicide bombing, I will not be coming into work one single minute before nine tomorrow, he thought. Wild horses won’t even be able to drag me out of my pit before 8.15.

He’d thrown his pager into a drawer and was thinking of the delights of his duvet when one of the DCs who had been working on the murder of Marie Cullen came into the office.

Her name was Lucy Crane. ‘Hi, Luce.’

‘ Boss,’ she said, chewing gum. She was a no-nonsense detective with an air of toughness about her which belied her five-and-a-half foot frame. She was also a lesbian. ‘Summat pretty interestin’,’ she said in her broad Lancs accent. ‘Could be summat, could be nowt.’

She threw a piece of paper down in front of him with a name scrawled across it.

‘ Locked up one year ago for kerb crawlin’ in Blackburn. The prostitute who was showing her fanny for him was Marie Cullen, arrested at the same time.’

‘ Very interesting,’ said Henry. He reread the name just to make sure he hadn’t misread it. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. ‘Any up-to-date connection between the two?’

‘ Haven’t got that far yet.’

‘ Who else knows about this?’

‘ Just me.’

‘ Keep it that way for the time being.’

‘ Reet, boss.’ She was unfazed but she’d had longer to get used to the idea than Henry, who now found he wanted a drink.

‘ C’mon, let me buy you a pint,’ he said. Kate and his bed would have to wait just a little while longer.