Substantial Threat

Twelve

Professor Baines crossed one of his spindly legs over the other and smiled at Henry and Jane Roscoe. ‘As you know I am an expert in many fields where the dead body is concerned, and sometimes even living bodies.’ He looked from Henry to Jane and gave a knowing smile and a double raise of the eyebrows. Neither of the two allowed their expressions to change. There was a distinct chill between them that morning.

They were in Jane’s office — formerly Henry’s — discussing the post-mortem findings with Baines, who had been up much of the night pulling everything together. This, however, did not stop him being bright, bubbly and full of mischief. Even so, when the faces of the two detectives did not alter, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and crossed his legs in the opposite direction.

‘It’s the dead bodies we’re bothered about,’ Jane Roscoe said stonily.

‘Yes, well — so may I come to the unidentified body of the male?’

‘You may,’ said Henry.

‘Killed in exactly the same way as the unfortunate Mr Cragg. Massive brain damage being the cause of death — in layman’s terms, that is.’

Henry glanced down at a set of SOCO glossies of the dead man on the slab, taken before Baines had got to work on him. Henry thought the man had been fairly handsome in a Mediterranean kind of way and it was obvious from his physique that he had been a fairly fit guy in life. No extra fat on him, muscles well developed, even a six-pack gut.

‘I was fortunate enough to go to a pathologists’ convention in Miami at the tail-end of last year,’ Baines said enthusiastically.

‘Bet that was a hoot.’ Henry grinned.

‘It was — actually,’ Baines said, slighted slightly. ‘Anyway, there was a very interesting session on dental records, fascinating, actually.’ He gave Henry a quick smile.

‘Something to get your teeth into?’ Henry quipped. Even Jane smiled.

‘Part of the session,’ Baines proceeded, ignoring Henry, ‘was dentistry from around the world. It’s absolutely fascinating how much difference there is between countries and how stereotypical dental work can be in particular countries. They all have their own way of doing things. I had a very good look inside the mouth of our unknown victim and he’d had some bridgework done. I would say, from my bridgework spotter’s guide — yes, it does exist — that the work was done in America. That’s not to say he’s an American, though his appearance could be classed as Hispanic, but it could assist you in identifying him.’

‘Nice one, Prof,’ Henry said.

One of the problems in being a nomad investigator, going out to divisions all the time, was that you always had to find office space to make phone calls, or to get some sleep. It really was like being a nomad in some ways. Henry managed to find an empty office and slid in behind the desk into a big, comfy chair. He leafed through his pocket diary, found the number he needed, swung his ankles up on to the edge of the desk and picked up the phone. He punched in the number. And waited for the reply.

‘FBI Legal Attache Karl Donaldson speaking. How may I help you?’

‘I wish we could get our bloody employees to answer phones like that,’ Henry said.

Donaldson recognized the voice immediately. ‘Henry! You wearin’ your cloth cap and clogs?’

‘I am that, lad,’ he replied, dropping into his best broad Lancashire. ‘Eeh, look, I can see a red London bus drivin’ past and I can ’ear Big Ben chimin’ away — an’ look over yonder, it’s a London copper rockin’ up an’ dahn on his toes.’

Donaldson chuckled. ‘Actually I can see a London bus, but there are no coppers about these days.’

He and Henry had met several years earlier on a case Donaldson was dealing with in the north-west, when he was a field agent, concerning Mafia activities. Since then they had worked together on several occasions and had become very close friends, though they had not spoken to each other for a couple of months now. They exchanged a few pleasantries, gossiped about families and proposed holidays, then the American cut to the chase.

‘You only call me when you need me, H. What is it this time?’

Henry explained about the double murder with one unidentified victim with the mouthful of American-style dental work. ‘I was wondering. .’ he said hopefully.

‘Fast track? Sure, why not? What have you got?’

‘Description, photographs of dead person — not nice — fingerprints, dental observations. We’re waiting for a DNA profile.’

‘Fax ’em down and I’ll put them through our system as soon as I get ’em.’

‘Thanks, pal. They’re on their way.’ From his experience of life, Henry knew it wasn’t what you know but who you know that gets results.

It was good to have such a direct and personal connection into American law enforcement. It gave Henry access to FBI computers, albeit unofficially. His relationship with Donaldson, though well known in the higher ranks of Lancashire Constabulary, was not something he boasted about. He kept it to himself, knowledge being power.

He sat back and literally twiddled his thumbs, impatient already for a result from the information he had sent to Donaldson. ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself. ‘Even a fast track will take time.’

He riffled through his pockets and found a folded piece of paper from a jotting pad. He opened it and flattened it out. It was his ‘To Do’ list written with the splendid assistance of Mr Jack Daniels. One thing that sprang out that he could have done before was the item ‘four in a car’. The suspicious motor he had seen near to Ray Cragg’s home with four people on board. He dialled the PNC bureau and requested a check on the number he had committed to memory. The reply came back within seconds. Henry closed his eyes in despair. He sighed and kicked himself.

The car had been stolen from London two days earlier. The cop in him was extremely pissed off at having missed the opportunity to make an arrest. But more than that was the question burning in his mind: what was it doing there, within yards of one of the country’s biggest drug dealers? With four shady characters on board? What were they up to? Did it have anything to do with Marty Cragg’s untimely demise?

As soon as he had finished the call from Henry, the internal phone on Donaldson’s desk rang and he was summoned into Philippa Bottram’s office to discuss the progress of a case being run jointly with the Metropolitan Police. As the American left his office he heard his fax machine start up and much as he would have liked to wait for it to spew out the stuff from Henry Christie, he did not wish to incur his boss’s ire. With a ‘Damn’ under his breath he closed the door behind him and strode to her office down the corridor for what he knew would be a long meeting.

‘Just give me a break,’ Jack Burrows pleaded. Ray had been questioning her incessantly for over an hour, insisting she tell him exactly what Marty had been up to on the side to get himself into so much trouble and debt. ‘I don’t know, okay?’

‘You were fucking him.’

‘No, I was not,’ she said. ‘We were friends, that’s all. I’m with you, Ray. You’re my partner, not him. He never was, we just talked.’

‘Just talked? Just fucked, more like.’

Ray was beginning to steam up now. Burrows could see him starting to bubble and she knew she needed him calm. Otherwise she would be facing another beating and she wasn’t strong enough to maintain her lies. If he laid into her again, she would be unable to keep going and she was frightened that if she blabbed the truth about her and Marty she would end up as dead as him.

‘We never fucked,’ she said. ‘Never.’

An hour later and Henry still had not received any reply from London. Not that he expected a result but an acknowledgement that the faxed papers had been received would have been nice. He had spent the hour reviewing paperwork, so it had not been wasted, but he was eager to hear from his American chum because it would mean that something was actually being done to identify the unknown male. Henry knew that unless he could put a name to a face, this murder investigation might stall at the first bend. He needed to know quickly who the guy was. He almost picked up the phone to castigate the Yank, but thought better of it.

Instead he plumped for a trip to the canteen, although he was slightly reluctant to leave the quiet office he had discovered just in case he lost squatter’s rights.

Donaldson shook hands with the Metropolitan Police Commander, who had been a major player in the meeting which concerned Yardie activities linked to a Colombian drug cartel, linked to organized crime in Miami — hence the American involvement — and showed him to the elevator. Once he stepped in and was on his way down, Donaldson returned to Bottram’s office.

She was leaning back in her chair, waiting for him, tapping her pen on her desk top. Her breasts were pushed up tight against her blouse.

‘Worthwhile?’ she asked as he took his seat.

‘Certainly promising,’ Donaldson concurred. ‘We’ll all come out of it smelling of roses, I’d guess.’

‘Mm.’ She eyed him less than professionally. ‘Can you stay in the city tonight, Karl?’

His eyes grew wide.

‘Business,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Need you to meet the new Foreign Secretary. There’s a bit of a bash at number 10 Downing Street and I’m invited, plus guest. It would probably be in your interests,’ she said with an undercurrent to her voice. She didn’t have to add it might be professional suicide to refuse. But Donaldson was not daunted.

‘Too short notice — babysitting duties tonight.’ He tried to look sad, but there was no way in which he was going to end up alone with her in the big bad city.

‘I see,’ she said shortly, an icy disappointment on her face. ‘I’ll have to find someone else, then.’

He did not respond to that, but raised the cheeks of his bottom off his chair in a ‘Can I go now?’ gesture.

‘Heard anything from Zeke yet?’

He sat back heavily. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’d better do something about it, don’t you think?’ She was immediately starting to exert her authority over him because of his refusal to socialize.

‘I am,’ he said curtly. He rose and left the room without a further word, quickly getting back to his office, grabbing the sheets off the fax and slamming them down on his desk. ‘Bitch,’ he muttered.

He looked down at the sheaves of paper in front of him. There seemed to be reams of the stuff. He was tempted to bin it all then claim technical failure, but when he calmed down, he began to leaf through the received documents carefully. Most were from America, one from Paris. Routine stuff, but important nonetheless. Eventually he made it to the papers Henry Christie had sent him from Lancashire. He almost did not look at these, just considered handing them to an admin clerk to do the business. Curiosity rather than professionalism made him turn over the fax front sheet.

The second page contained a slightly blurred black and white photograph of the deceased.

Donaldson blinked. His lips popped open and a curious taste entered his mouth. The taste of fear.

He stood up slowly, reading the supporting paperwork Henry had sent through, including a description of how the man had met his untimely death. Transfixed, Donaldson walked numbly down the corridor back to Bottram’s office. He walked through her secretary’s office.

‘Sorry, Karl, she’s in a meeting already,’ the secretary said.

‘This is important.’ Donaldson’s voice was strained.

The secretary nodded and backed down.

He went through and found Bottram talking to another woman he did not recognize. They were sitting on the sofa, very close to each other, curiously intimate. Both looked round guiltily when he came through the door. They were obviously deep in conversation.

‘Karl! Can’t you see I’m busy,’ Bottram said.

Before she could finish, Donaldson thrust Christie’s faxes in front of her face. She took them from him and glanced at them.

The other woman looked on quietly, sipping tea, an amused expression on her face.

‘Yes — so?’ said Bottram. ‘Why interrupt?’

‘Look at the photo again.’

Even Donaldson had to admit the fax transmission was less than clear, but it was clear enough. Bottram studied it intently, brow lined, then suddenly she realized what she was looking at.

‘Oh my God!’ she said.

The three men convened at an innocent-looking car wash which operated on an industrial estate close to Marton Circle on the outskirts of Blackpool. It was one of those businesses apparently operated by several enterprising young men who looked more likely to steal cars than wash them, but they did a good job of washing and polishing.

The business was actually a front for part of Ray Cragg’s drug dealing activities, and a profitable one at that. Customers could come and go within seconds and, together with the legitimate monies made from the soap suds, the venture turned over about five thousand each week, all profit. Ray Cragg had ten such businesses spread across Lancashire which sold a range of drugs for the discerning buyer, from cannabis to crack cocaine. They were like little drug supermarkets, but far more profitable than a chemist’s shop.

There was an office in a large portacabin on the site at the rear of the car wash where Ray, Miller and Crazy gathered for their conflab. They were joined by two other men, trusted by Ray. Their names were Grice and Raven and both had turned up with flash motors which were being valeted by the lads at the car wash. Grice had been the driver of the van which had ferried Ray, Marty and Crazy from place to place before and after the King’s Cross shootings. Raven had arranged disposal of the clothing and equipment they used.

They sat huddled round a small table in the office. There was only one window with horizontal blinds covering it, drawn at such an angle that it was easy to see out but difficult to see in.

Outside, the day had turned murky. Business was fairly brisk and most of the customers passing through at that time of day were legit.

‘Any sign of anything yet, Crazy?’ Ray asked.

‘Nothing obvious,’ Crazy said. He had just been out to do a recce of the surrounding area and had found nothing untoward.

‘They will come for us at some stage, you can bet,’ Ray warned everyone. ‘Don’t think they won’t, so be ready. Don’t argue, go in peace, tell ’em nothing and you’ll be okay — trust me. The brief is on standby, so stay cool, don’t panic and there’s nothing that can stick to us.’

They all nodded at this reassurance.

‘So, the cops are nothing to worry about. We have far more pressing matters to consider than a bunch of dumb jacks trying to get us to talk.’

Henry was still doing his best to avoid bumping into Jane. It was proving to be more and more difficult as the crimes they were investigating became increasingly intertwined. He was only trying to keep away from her because he knew he was weak and he was trying to be strong for once in his life. He had far too much to lose by becoming involved with her and his materialistic streak, thin though it was, was preying on his mind. He was far too old, he thought, to let his heart rule his head. Go for comfort and security, he tried to convince himself. Be Mr Sensible. Don’t do it. Don’t fall in love again. God, his head hurt.

As he was waiting for the return call from Donaldson, he decided to sneak out of the station and have a stroll around town.

The day was now dark and dull and chilly. He hunched in his jacket and headed swiftly for the town centre shops.

It was fairly quiet, low season, mid-week. Not much happening from a tourist point of view.

Once out of the wind, he slowed down and window-shopped for a while, before going into Waterstone’s to browse the shelves. He began to feel guilty about not being at the station, so decided to head back, then make his way to the MIR which had been set up at Bamber Bridge. Tearing himself away from the bookshelves he left the shop and almost immediately his mobile phone chirped up. He fumbled it out of his pocket and answered it.

‘It’s me, Karl.’

‘Hi — got something for me?’

Before Donaldson could answer, the ring tones on the phone announced he had received a text message. Then it did it again, telling him he had received another.

‘Sorry, Karl, messages coming in thick and fast.’

‘In reply to your question, the answer is yes, I do have something for you.’

‘Brilliant — go on,’ said Henry intrigued, but also noticing a strained tone in Donaldson’s vocal chords.

‘Not over the phone, H. I’m booked on the shuttle this afternoon. I should be in Manchester by three thirty. Can you meet me, or arrange for me to be met?’

Henry blew out his cheeks, taken aback, but not about to question his friend. He did some quick mental calculations. ‘I can be there.’

‘I’ll see you there, then. Terminal 3 of course.’

They concluded the call. Henry looked at the display on his mobile phone and scrolled down to the ‘message read’ option. The first text was from the DI in Blackburn whom he had liaised with over the murder of Jennifer Walkden and the subsequent arrest and charge of her boyfriend, Joe Sherridan. The message asked for Henry to contact the DI as soon as.

The second text read, ‘H, RU avoiding me again? Luv JR.’

Henry stared at it for a long time before deleting it.

Crazy and Miller sat side by side in the portacabin at the car wash. They said nothing to each other, simply stared out through the blinds at the weather, darkening by the minute. Miller sighed. Crazy sighed. Everyone else had gone, leaving them to sort out matters themselves.

Crazy scratched his head. ‘Fifty grand,’ he said into the air.

‘Apiece.’

‘Then a bonus on top of that.’

‘Yep,’ said Miller. ‘Fifty grand and a bonus.’

‘There’s a lot to do.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ said Miller.

‘What’s an understatement?’

‘It’s like a vest,’ replied Miller.

‘Oh.’ Crazy’s eyebrows knitted together. He shook his head.

A quietness descended between them, each man lost in his thoughts. Rain began to hammer down, smacking on to the portacabin.

‘Are you capable of doing it?’ Miller questioned him.

Crazy nodded. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh aye,’ he said confidently. ‘But is it worth fifty grand and a bonus, I ask myself?’

Their heads turned and they looked at each other. At first their expressions were serious, but then they started to grin.

‘You bet it’s fuckin’ worth it,’ said Crazy. ‘You in or not?’

Miller held out his right hand and they shook.

‘Where do we start?’ Crazy asked.

‘Simple and local. Then we progress on to the more difficult stuff.’

‘I’ll have that,’ said Crazy.

Henry juggled a number of phone calls when he got back to the police station and fended off Bernie Fleming, who, for some reason, was prowling the building, hustling Henry.

He made it back to the office he had occupied before without bumping into Jane Roscoe, but found that the true occupant had returned. He moved cautiously round the building until he found another office which appeared to be vacant and unused at that moment. He moved into the empty seat and began phoning.

The first call he made was to the DI at Blackburn and Henry loved what he heard the man say, scribbling down notes on a scrap of paper. He thanked the DI profusely, promised to keep in touch with developments, then hung up. Next he called Risley Remand Centre near Warrington and did some smooth talking, after which he called Kate and told her it looked like it would be another late one, but could she put up the spare bed for Karl Donaldson?

The mention of the American’s name immediately calmed her down. Henry could tell she was beginning to simmer a little and could hear a trace of suspicion in her voice. He knew she was wondering if he was straying from the straight and narrow again. He was wondering the same.

As he cradled the landline, his mobile rang again. The noise it made hit some nerve inside him and he squirmed.

It was Roscoe. ‘Henry, where are you?’

‘Blackpool police station,’ he said vaguely.

‘Whereabouts?’

He stifled an irritated sigh. ‘Coming up to the incident room. Be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘I’ll see you there,’ she said, her voice having the quality of best granite.

Henry dropped the mobile on to the desk. There was never any peace with one of them in your pocket, he thought. You are always contactable, never quite able to leave people behind. He was starting to hate the damned thing, yet he had no option but to carry it around with him, switched on and charged up. He swore and stood up. He had no intention of going to the incident room now.

He trotted down the back steps to the lower-ground floor. He crept along the corridor which went past the custody office gate and emerged in brief daylight before going back under the cover of the car park. He drove out, approaching the shutter doors which opened automatically. As he went through, he glanced in his mirror and caught sight of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him, waving her arms.

He pretended not to notice. In fact, he accelerated away.

There were two doctors walking down the corridor. Green skull caps, long coats, clip boards, stethoscopes, surgical masks covering their faces. They were deep in conversation about some patient or other. Their manner was relaxed, but it was apparent they were in disagreement over the benefits of a particular surgical procedure.

The policeman by the door of the private room did not take much notice of them. Doctors scurried past all day long. He’d seen enough doctors for a lifetime. He was sitting on a chair, browsing with little interest through a magazine for middle-aged women. He was wearing a ballistic vest, had a Glock 9mm strapped to his side and an MP5 slung high across his chest. He was guarding the patient inside the room. Stationed inside was another officer, similarly equipped and bored. They conversed with each other by means of a ‘talk group’ on their personal radios with earpieces in. They had not spoken to each other for ten minutes and the cop in the corridor half believed that his mate had nodded off. Typical.

The discussing doctors stopped about five feet away from him. Their talk was quite heated, but still amicable.

‘I say he’s got to have the lower part of his bowel removed,’ the younger-looking doctor said.

‘That’s a typical stance of the younger surgeon these days. Cut ’em open and chop it out. That’s your answer to everything.’

‘In this case it is. The patient will die otherwise. His condition is too far gone.’

The older doctor guffawed. ‘You’re wrong. Give the fucker an aspirin and I’m sure he’ll get better.’

The cop on the door had only been half listening, but the remarks made by the older doctor made him lift his head.

‘Just kidding,’ the doctor said to the policemen. ‘Come,’ he said to his junior colleague, ‘the bowel it is.’

At which point the hand of the younger doctor withdrew from underneath his long coat. Before the cop could react, he had pushed the barrel of the gun into the unwary cop’s ear. The older doctor moved quickly. He drew the officer’s Glock out of its holster and used a scalpel to cut through the strap of the MP5 and remove it from round his neck.

‘Bulletproof vest is no good if you get shot in the head,’ Crazy whispered. ‘Now get up and go into the room using the same procedure you always do. Nothing outrageous, or you’re a very dead cop. Are you with that scenario? Behave and you live, okay?’

The officer nodded.

He pressed the button on the side of his radio. ‘Bob, coming in in. . Yeah, no probs.’ His frightened eyes moved from one false doctor to another. He was annoyed at being caught out.

‘Stand up and lead the way,’ said Miller. He was armed with the MP5, having pocketed the Glock.

The officer stood on quaking legs. This should not be happening, he thought. Bad guys are not so foolish as to do things like this. His own bowels reacted in a way which made him think he should perhaps have them removed. He opened the door and walked in ahead of Crazy, whose gun was now held at his neck, ready to blow his head off.

The patient was asleep. Drips fed nourishment into his body. A monitor blipped by his side.

The cop in the room was on a chair next to the bed. He was not dozing as suspected, but, like his comrade in arms, he was reading a magazine. He did not look up initially when the door opened, so blase was he. He only sensed something amiss when his buddy squeaked, ‘Bob?’

Bob raised his eyes, then closed them.

‘We’re not here to harm you,’ Miller said from behind his mask, pointing the commandeered MP5 at Bob, ‘but if you don’t do what we say, you’ll both be dead and that’s fact.’ His voice was cool, controlled and he came across as being very much in charge. His matter of fact tones were steeped in the menace of certain death. ‘Drop your weapons, Bob, and don’t even think of being a hero. There’s too many cops on the roll of honour. Don’t join them.’

Bob nodded. He was no fool. He unslung his MP5 and placed it carefully on the floor. Next he unfastened his holster and drew out the Glock. Miller stiffened and prepared to waste him, but Bob put the gun on the floor and sat upright.

‘Each of you take out your handcuffs.’

They complied with the order, knowing what was coming. They could see Miller’s eyebrows rise as he smiled behind his surgical mask. ‘Now, Bob, I think you’ve guessed. Please handcuff your mate here, hands behind his back. You’ — Miller turned to the first officer — ‘what’s your name?’

‘Ted.’

‘Oh, Bob and Ted. Okay, Ted, kneel down, hands behind your back and let Bob fasten those nasty handcuffs on you.’

‘Shite,’ said Ted. He dropped to his knees and, his face angry and annoyed at being hoodwinked so easily, put his hands behind himself, wrist to wrist.

‘C’mon, Bob, do the business.’

Bob secured his colleague’s wrists with rigid handcuffs and without having to be told, sank down to his knees and allowed Crazy to cuff him next to Ted.

‘Now then, lads, just shuffle on your knees up to the wall and press your faces right up to the plasterboard,’ Miller directed them.

They did as told, Crazy covering them and urging them on with an occasional poke of a gun and a tap of the foot. Crazy was having trouble stopping himself from giggling. When they got to where Crazy wanted them, he ripped out their radio wires.

‘Let’s see if we can waken sleeping beauty,’ said Miller, turning to the patient on the bed. He was propped up at 45°by nice clean white pillows and had not stirred during the confrontation. ‘He can talk, can he?’ Miller asked the kneeling officers. Neither ventured an answer. ‘Bob? Speak to me?’

With a deep, pissed-off sigh, Bob said, ‘He can talk all right, he’s just a big groggy with sedatives.’

‘I’ll soon wake him up,’ said Miller. He recognized the prisoner as the one Crazy had blasted in the groin. Miller slapped his hand over the man’s nose and mouth, constricting all airflow. It took a moment or two before his body reacted. He woke with a panicky start. Miller removed his hand and replaced it with the muzzle of Ted’s Glock, which he jammed hard into the guy’s mouth.

‘Nice man,’ Miller cooed. ‘Keep very cool, keep calm.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘Talk to me, tell me what I want to know. Just whisper it to me and things’ll be just fine — okay?’

He gave the man enough leeway for him to nod his head.

‘Now then, one simple question. Who set up the raid on the counting house? I’m going to remove this gun from your mouth and give you three seconds to answer. If you don’t respond within that timescale, I’ll shove it back in and kill you.’

Slowly he eased the gun out.

‘One,’ he breathed, ‘two. .’

The man uttered a name just loud enough for him to hear.

‘Three.’ Miller forced the gun back between the man’s teeth, breaking several teeth in the process and pulled the trigger. He left the Glock dangling out of his mouth because he had no further use for it but he kept hold of the MP5 because he thought it could be a useful tool.

Henry fully expected his mobile phone to ring, so it was no surprise that it did even before he reached the motorway.

‘Yes,’ he answered abruptly.

‘Den Craven, Scientific Support. Is that DCI Christie?’

‘Yes, Den, sorry about the snappy answer, I’m driving,’ he said lamely. He wondered what Craven wanted. Henry knew he was an expert in footwear.

‘No, it’s all right. I just wanted to let you know something about the death of Carrie Dancing.’

Henry perked up. It seemed so long ago. ‘Go on.’

‘I looked at the marks on the side of her head at the request of the pathologist and I’m a hundred per cent certain that it is an impression from a shoe, a trainer to be exact, and a right foot. Beyond that, I’d estimate a size nine. I am sure, however, that the make is Nike, the model is the Air Max Specter — they have an unusual and easily recognizable pattern on the sole, so it was easy to match it. Made in China. Not very much wear on the sole, so quite new I’d say, but there is a mark across one of the ridges, just a single line, which makes it quite identifiable. If you arrest someone wearing these shoes, we’ll go a long way to get a conviction. Oh, and I checked the shoes Johnny Jacques was wearing — they don’t match.’

‘Brilliant, Den, thanks very, very much,’ Henry said. He wanted to ask, ‘Do you get out much?’ but refrained because this was a major breakthrough and people like Den were worth their weight in jewels. ‘Can you fax me those details to the MIR at Blackpool?’

‘Will do.’

‘Thanks again.’

Henry punched the air. Okay, it wasn’t a name, but it was bloody good. He pushed the car up to eighty, smiling, then not smiling any more as his phone announced a text message had landed. The noise set his teeth on edge. He read it as he drove along in the fast lane.

‘Shit,’ he said and pressed harder on the gas, taking the Vectra up to the ton and trying not to throw the damned phone out of the window.

He arrived too early at Manchester Airport, but was quite happy to kick his heels for half an hour while waiting for the shuttle to arrive. He stowed his very hot car in the short-term multi-storey and sauntered into Terminal 3, which dealt exclusively with domestic arrivals and departures. He went to the cafe/bar and paid an extortionate price for a straight coffee, which he drank while propping up the counter. He would have liked something stronger, lots of something stronger, but that blow-out would have to wait.

Standing there like a seasoned international traveller, he mulled over everything he was presently involved in. Professionally he had just bottomed a domestic murder in Blackburn; had been handed a cold-case review; was involved in the suspicious deaths of JJ and Carrie Dancing, the latter most definitely a murder. Then he found himself running a triple fatal shooting, drugs related, which, somewhere along the line, tied in with a gangland execution and maybe a shooting incident at McDonald’s.

Violent Britain, he thought. Why the hell do I live here? It rains a lot, it’s always cold, the roads are jam-packed, the infrastructure is crumbling, the health service is a joke, the government is as corrupt as a Third World country’s and the police have lost all control. The justice system was weak and ineffective, biased towards the accused and not the victim and he still owed a fortune on his mortgage with the probability that the endowments wouldn’t pay out enough to cover it.

He knew why he stayed. He loved catching villains. He loved being pitted against very bad people and beating them, even if the courts were lenient with the bastards. It was his life and death was his trade. He just loved it.

His thoughts moved on to more personal matters. Love. Affairs. Deceptions.

He took a deep breath to stop himself having a panic attack. His personal life was a mess — again — but he knew he had the power to do something about it and end this foolishness with Jane Roscoe before it got on a roll and people really got hurt. He could stay with Kate and make something of his life with her, he knew. It would be a good life, too. Safe, secure, comfortable — yet, some reckless inner demon seemed to push him to self-destruct.

He finished his coffee and checked the arrivals screen to see that the Heathrow shuttle had just touched down. He strolled over to the arrivals hall and waited for Karl Donaldson.

Miller and Crazy could not speak to each other. Miller paced around the small bedsit they had chosen as a base for their operations. Both men had washed and showered since the shooting at the hospital and changed clothes completely, down to underwear and socks, bagging everything up for disposal.

‘Not good,’ Miller said eventually.

‘Understatement,’ said Crazy.

‘What’s one of them?’

‘It’s like a pair of knickers.’

Miller stopped his pacing. ‘We have to tell him.’

‘I know.’

‘Toss you for the honour. Heads you tell him, tails I don’t.’

Crazy sighed. ‘I’ve known him longer, I’ll do it.’

‘Good luck.’