Substantial Threat

Nine

Henry Christie re-read through the photocopy of the custody records relating to Marty Cragg which had caught his interest previously. Every time a prisoner is brought into custody, they are allowed certain rights which can be delayed, but never totally withheld except under certain circumstances, for example, if the custody sergeant believes the prisoner is too drunk to understand what is being said, or is too violent, or both.

This had been the case on the night about six months earlier when Marty Cragg had been arrested for a fairly minor public order offence outside a Blackpool nightclub. According to the custody record, Cragg had been brought in and had been very drunk and abusive towards the arresting officers and also to the custody sergeant. Most detainees do not realize, particularly when under the influence of alcohol, that to be abusive to the sergeant is a bad move.

In Marty’s case, his behaviour resulted in him spending very little time chatting to the sergeant. He was forcibly restrained and searched and immediately heaved into a cell, the door slamming shut behind him, and he did not get his rights. He banged continually on the cell door and shouted verbal abuse for at least another hour. He urinated on the door, followed this by vomiting around the cell and then fell asleep. He had been arrested at 2.05 a.m. and was deemed to be fit enough to receive his rights, after mopping up his cell, some nine hours later at 11.15. The notes on the custody record said that he was compliant, quiet and apologetic. He was released an hour later following a written caution given by the sergeant. Because of the minor nature of the offence for which he was arrested, he did not have to provide fingerprints or a DNA sample.

Henry shook his head.

How things had changed, he pondered sadly. In his formative years as a young PC, everyone arrested would be charged and go to court and get fined at least. Not these days. Everybody got cautioned to death, or referred to some agency or other. Getting locked up meant little to people and a caution was just a piece of paper to blow your nose on. They only ended up in court for persistent offending.

And Marty Cragg had been fortunate. He had only been arrested once before for that particular offence, so he got cautioned and kicked out.

Henry’s face showed its displeasure. The criminal justice system, he thought bleakly, is fucked.

He re-read Marty’s list of previous convictions, which included several assaults. Henry decided he needed to know more about these, so he phoned down to the brainy people in the intelligence unit and asked the woman who answered to do a bit of research for him. She muttered about how busy they were, but Henry had no qualms in pulling rank for once, moaning bitch.

Then he returned to the custody record and the point at which Marty had been given his rights.

Then he had a thought and picked up his newly issued, state of the art, cancer-inducing (if reports were to be believed) TETRA radio. These new-fangled things enabled any officers in the force to talk to any other officer by simply dialling in their collar number. It did all sorts of other wonderful things, too, except tell you how to do the job. On the off chance that the officer who arrested Cragg was on duty, Henry dialled the number. He got an immediate reply.

‘Hi,’ said Henry affably and introduced himself. ‘Are you anywhere near the nick at the moment?’

‘Having breakfast upstairs.’

‘Can I come and see you?’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ the officer wanted to know.

‘No, no — just want a word with you about a job you dealt with a while back.’

Henry smiled. Bobbies always thought it was bad news when a senior officer wanted to talk to them. The thing was, he thought, that he felt exactly the same when a more senior officer beckoned him in, so things didn’t change, no matter what rank you got to, unless you got to the top — but then again, you got the police authority and Home Office on your back, so no escape.

Before leaving the office Henry dialled another number on the TETRA on the off chance and also got through. Wonders were never going to cease, he mused.

‘Rik, it’s me, Henry Christie — I need a chat about something.’

‘I’m up at Blackpool Victoria Hospital re the incident at McDonald’s at the moment,’ Rik Dean said. ‘I’ll be up here another hour at least, I reckon, boss.’

‘Okay. I might come up and see you if I get chance.’

Henry stood up, slung on his jacket and made his way to the canteen where he found PC Dave Watts tucking into a full, very unhealthy-looking breakfast. Henry knew him by sight. He paid for a mug of decaf coffee and joined him at the table.

‘Hello, sir,’ the PC said. He eyed Henry with suspicion and seemed to lose his appetite.

Henry hated being called ‘sir’, but he let it ride. Sometimes it was too much trouble to put folk right.

‘You’re not in any sort of bother,’ he reiterated.

The young man breathed a sigh of relief, took a sip of his tea and pulled his plate back towards him.

‘About six months ago you arrested someone for a public order offence outside the Palace nightclub?’

Watts’ eyebrows knitted together. ‘Did I?’

‘Probably one of dozens you’ve arrested,’ Henry conceded. ‘His name was Marty Cragg.’

‘Yeah, I remember him. Very hard work, bit of a bastard. A hard nut.’

‘What were the circumstances of the arrest?’

‘He rolled out of the club arguing with a woman. Right in front of us, he was. We were stood outside the club. They walked away, still arguing, then suddenly he turned on her and knocked her to the ground and, started kicking her. We intervened and locked him up. He should’ve been done for assault, but she wouldn’t make a complaint, so we ended up doing him for public order.’

‘Do you know who Marty Cragg is?’

The officer nodded. ‘Big time. Unfortunately he’s got a small-time temperament.’

‘Who was the girl?’

‘Dunno, she refused to give us details. She spoke with a strange accent, bit like Russians do in James Bond films.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ Henry finished his decaf.

‘That it?’

‘That’s it,’ Henry said. ‘Cheers.’

Karl Donaldson had once been a brilliant FBI field agent, working mainly in Florida from the Miami Field Office. His investigations had resulted in numerous convictions of top-flight felons as well as serial killers, bombers and rapists. He had enjoyed pitting his wits and skills against such people. But for over four years, Donaldson had not officially been on the streets, other than for occasional forays into the front line. Instead he had been ensconced in the American embassy in Grosvenor Square in London where he worked on the Legal Attache Program, created to help foster good will and gain greater cooperation with international police partners. The FBI believes it is essential to station highly skilled special agents in countries other than America to help prevent terrorism and crime from reaching across borders and harming Americans in their homes and workplaces.

It was a wonderful job, very fulfilling and rewarding. Donaldson was settled, married to an English woman with two young children, and commuting every day into London from a little village in Hampshire called Hartley Wintney. He loved his work. He met many interesting people, got involved in many wide-ranging investigations which crossed international boundaries, but spent lots of time behind a desk, pushing paper.

In truth, he did miss working in the field. Sometimes he hankered for it so much it drove his wife, who was a police officer based at the Police Staff College in Bramshill, bananas.

So what he did to alleviate this hankering was get his hands dirty from time to time, though theoretically this was a no-no.

One of the tasks he had taken on, so as to keep himself as close as possible to the sharp end, was to coordinate the activities of undercover FBI field agents operating in Europe. The general public would have been surprised by the number of agents working across the continent, but following the terrible terrorist incidents in America, the FBI had become more pro-active in infiltrating terrorist organizations worldwide. But their work was not solely focused on the terrorist, they also had a number of agents in criminal gangs in Europe too.

Donaldson enjoyed his time briefing, debriefing and staying in contact with his agents. He thought they were fantastically brave people who, without exception, made light of the dangers they faced each and every day, without, of course, underestimating them.

There were currently four agents in organized criminal gangs and Donaldson had responsibility for all of them, including an agent whose code name was Zeke.

Donaldson was a big, burly guy. Six-three, fifteen stone but with not an ounce of excess fat on him. He kept himself fit by daily runs and gym visits three times a week, as well as expending an equal amount of energy chasing his two young sons round his garden and his wife round the bedroom.

He was standing by the window in his office, sipping water from a disposable conical paper cup, looking out across Grosvenor Square but his mind was not on the view.

He smiled absently at one of the secretaries who walked past him. She was a very pretty English lady, secretly crazy about Donaldson, but his mind was not on her swaying ass.

Although no longer a field agent, Donaldson prided himself on the fact that his sharp instincts had not been blunted by desk work and sexual harassment from the staff. He knew he was as keen as ever in the brain department. Which is why, as he tossed the paper cup into the waste bin, he knew something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Henry was doing his best to avoid bumping into Jane Roscoe, although he knew it was inevitable they would soon come face to face. He resolved to tell her that their fling was over and that from now on the relationship would be purely professional and platonic. Yeah, he could do that. After all, it was only words, wasn’t it? One of the best things that could happen to him was to be taken off the Blackpool jobs and given something else to deal with at the far end of the county which would consume him for about six months. A mass murder, or something. He found himself praying for something like this to happen on the Lancashire-Yorkshire border.

Back in the office, he logged into his e-mail and found that the intelligence unit had sent him details of Marty Cragg’s convictions and the stories behind them. He printed them off and looked round, realizing that, in hindsight, it had been a mistake to share an office with Jane. He used his TETRA radio to contact Rik Dean to tell him he would be with him within quarter of an hour.

Henry left quickly to avoid meeting Jane. He was running scared.

Karl Donaldson had worked with Zeke before when both had been field agents in Miami. Zeke’s real name was Carlos Hiero. His parents had emigrated from Spain and settled in Florida in the early 1960s and had developed a fairly successful flower-selling business with about six shops dotted around the Miami/Fort Lauderdale area. They were not ultra-wealthy, but were well off and comfortable. On leaving university Zeke had become a lawyer, then joined the FBI at the age of twenty-six, when his Spanish origins meant he was used to great effect in combating Hispanic crime gangs.

He and Donaldson, although never working partners, had colluded closely on a number of cases with some good results.

Donaldson was back at his desk in the embassy, leafing through a mountain of paperwork which came with the job. His mind was not concentrating on what was in front of him. He checked his watch constantly and glanced at the mobile phone propped up on his desk. His eyes stopped at a photograph of his wife and two sons and he could not keep himself from grinning at them even though his mind was harbouring dark thoughts.

It was four days since he had heard from Zeke.

‘You know, sometimes you can’t please anybody,’ DS Rik Dean said to Henry. ‘I mean, we give ’em all the protection they can possible want, mollycoddle ’em and yet they still maintain they’ve nothing to tell us.’

The two men were standing outside Blackpool Victoria Hospital, near to the entrance to A amp;E. Henry had driven up from the police station and found Dean in a small private ward where the two shooting victims from McDonald’s were being guarded by armed cops. Both men were now out of danger, medically speaking, but neither seemed to have any great desire to talk to the police, not surprising as they were deep in the mire themselves anyway.

‘Doesn’t really matter, though,’ Dean was saying. ‘Witnesses put them down as the instigators of the shoot-out and they just came off worst.’ Dean shook his head. ‘Blackpool, what a bloody place!’

‘Yeah,’ said Henry thoughtfully, ‘in more ways than one.’ He took a breath. ‘One thing, though — keep them separated. Not only so they don’t have contact with each other, but also so that they’re not in the same place if anyone chooses to pay them a return match. It’ll make it more difficult if they’re apart from each other.’

‘Good point,’ said Dean. ‘I’ll sort that. For now they’re under guard and as soon as the quacks say they’re fit enough, we’ll haul their backsides down to the station and start kicking their wounds.’

Henry laughed. ‘Yeah, good.’ He had no qualms about Rik Dean, trusting him to take care of business professionally. ‘I’ve come about something else, actually.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘I told you I was investigating a cold case, reviewing the murder of that unidentified female in the flat in North Shore last year, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Nothing, nothing — you just don’t forget murders, do you?’

‘No, suppose not. Well, I’ve unearthed an interesting connection between that murder and the shooting down at King’s Cross, I think.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean drawled, his eyes narrowed, wondering why Henry was sharing this with him.

‘Thought I’d run it past you.’

‘I’m intrigued.’

‘You know there’s a good chance the Cragg brothers are involved in that, yeah? I’ve been trawling through all the stuff we have on them both. Very little on Ray, he’s a cool, very aware dude, but we’ve a bit more on Marty, much more volatile publicly, as you know. He got locked up for a bit of a fracas a few months ago outside the Palace.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Dean still had no idea where this was going.

‘Looking through the custody record I found an interesting connection, left there by mistake by Marty. I wondered if you had any observations on it.’

‘And the connection is?’

‘Jacqueline Burrows, aka Jack Burrows. You remember, the woman who owned the flats in which the girl was murdered?’ Henry watched Dean’s face carefully. Last time he had mentioned Burrows’ name to him, Dean had gone a white shade of pale. ‘You took a statement from her, remember?’

‘I recall,’ Dean croaked. He was eyeing Henry suspiciously and once again had lost all colour. Henry could not fathom why. Dean tried to shrug off his discomfort. ‘So what’re you asking me?’

‘Well, it might be something and nothing. I’m just chasing shadows, maybe — it’s just that when Marty was arrested for the public order offence — which was for beating up a female, by the way — he was given his rights when he sobered up. .’ He did not complete what he was going to say. He did not know why, but he was playing Dean like a fish, for some reason.

‘And. .?’ Dean almost demanded.

‘When asked who he wished to be told of his arrest, he nominated Burrows.’ Dean looked perplexed.

‘An interesting connection, don’t you think?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘I wondered if you’d come across that connection when you took that statement from her?’

‘No.’

‘Because the other interesting thing is that Marty has convictions on his record for beating up women.’

‘Oh, right,’ Dean said, nodding wisely. ‘So if we’d known of the connection between him and her, he would’ve been worth a pull. Is that what you mean?’ Henry nodded. ‘No, never came up,’ said Dean.

‘Mm, okay. . anyway, he’s still worth a pull and when I get time, I’ll be doing the pulling.’ Henry drew his head back and looked down his nose at Dean, then leaned in close to him. ‘I want you to know one thing, Rik: any time you want, you can come and have a chat with me, in confidence, about anything, because I’ve been a cop long enough to know one thing.

‘What’s that?’

‘I know when there’s more going on than meets the eye.’ He tapped his nose and left it at that.

Karl Donaldson had never worked undercover. Never wanted to. It took a special kind of person to do it, one with many qualities Donaldson knew he did not possess. Being undercover is not a glamorous job. It is often exciting in a sphincter-curdling way and it is always dangerous because, every hour of every day, the life of an undercover agent is under threat. Donaldson, though a brave and courageous man, knew he could never live life like that. He did not mind putting in the necessary hours or days, but at the end of it he liked to be able to relax and forget about work.

An undercover agent could never do that because he or she could never be a hundred per cent certain they had not been grassed up or their cover blown. At any time they could receive that fatal visit from a disgruntled felon, angry at having been taken in, deceived and cheated, and therefore determined to track down the person responsible for his downfall.

Donaldson had nothing but admiration for undercover agents. But he never wanted to be one.

Four days, he was thinking. Had not heard from Zeke in four days.

Keep calm, he instructed himself. There are no hard and fast rules about contact, but it was just so out of character for Zeke. He made some sort of contact each day, either by phone or text message. To go so long with nothing worried Donaldson.

Particularly in view of the job Zeke was doing at that moment, because he had taken the place of an undercover FBI agent who had been murdered.

‘Are you harassing me? Do I need to call my solicitor? Or is this just a friendly, social visit?’

Jack Burrows stood resolutely at her front door, looking, Henry had to admit, very desirable indeed. She was dressed in a rather severe business suit, hair swept back into a tight ponytail, face made up expertly. She did not look as though she had ever been, or could be, an undertaker. She spoke lightly, with steel undertones.

‘If asking a few questions about a murder committed on one of your properties is deemed to be harassment, then yes, I’m harassing you.’ Henry smiled winningly.

She had been tense, but her shoulders relaxed.

‘Come in,’ she said, relenting, and led him into the lounge. ‘What can I do for you?’ She indicated for him to sit, which he did. She remained standing, affording Henry a great view of her long, tapering legs.

‘Couple of things. Firstly, I haven’t been able to trace Thomas Dinsdale yet, your ex-manager. I wonder if you could help?’ He actually hadn’t tried, but that wasn’t the point.

‘He left no forwarding address, but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I really do need to speak to him,’ Henry said, laying it on thick. ‘I reckon he’ll know more than he said. I’d like to sweat him a little.’

‘Is that allowed these days? Interrogation?’

‘I’ll do it in the nicest possible way.’ Henry’s face indicated otherwise, bringing a glimmer of a smile to Burrows’ lips.

‘What else?’

‘I’d like your permission to search the flat again.’

‘Wasn’t that done at the time?’ Henry nodded. ‘Surely there won’t be anything to find — it’s been so long. There can’t be any value in another search.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said haughtily. ‘I think it would be worth it, so I take it your permission is granted?’

She nodded, but not happily.

‘Thanks. That’s about it.’ Henry stood up and headed for the door. Burrows followed him. He paused, turned and did his impression of Columbo. ‘There is one more thing. .’

‘And that is?’

‘What’s your relationship with Marty Cragg?’ he asked bluntly, going straight for the jugular. She shifted slightly as the question hit her, but stayed casual. Henry was impressed by her composure.

‘I don’t know any Marty Cragg.’

‘How come he phoned you when he was in custody last year?’

She shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken.’

Henry took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. He read a telephone number out. ‘That’s yours, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Her face became tight and unpleasant.

‘That was the number on the custody record with your name next to it. One hell of a mistake, wouldn’t you say? Marty dictated the number to the custody sergeant.’

She remained silent and shook her head, shrugging innocently. Henry waited impassively, his hand resting on the inner door handle. He enjoyed these difficult silences and rarely broke them. He raised his eyebrows. Again she shook her head and would not be drawn to say anything. Henry admired her fortitude under pressure, but wondered why she was denying this relationship. For a split second it looked like she was about to say something, then she checked herself, coughed and said, ‘No further comment.’

‘Okay.’ Henry relented, but only for that one word. ‘Maybe next time we’ll be talking into a tape recorder, eh?’

‘I doubt it,’ she responded crisply.

Henry turned the door handle as the pager on his belt bleeped. He pulled it off and read the scrolling display, then re-read it.

‘Another murder?’ Burrows asked brightly.

‘No, just my wife telling me my dinner’ll be in the oven.’ He opened the door. ‘Oh, key for the flat?’

‘The house manager has one. You can get it from the office in Hornby Road. I’ll make sure he knows you’re coming for it sometime. As far as I know, the flat is unoccupied at the moment.’

‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said, reverting to the lowest form of wit. ‘No doubt we’ll meet again soon.’

‘Can’t wait.’ She closed the door behind him, then leaned on to it to stop herself falling over. ‘Shit,’ she breathed through clenched teeth.

In the Vectra, Henry switched his mobile phone on and called into the force control room as instructed by his pager message.

Burrows watched Henry surreptitiously through the living-room window, then picked up her phone and called a number. It rang on, and on, until eventually that nice metallic lady on the answerphone service interrupted. Burrows ended the call and threw the cordless phone across the room, smashing it against the wall.

Karl Donaldson sat opposite his steely-eyed boss, Philippa Bottram, who headed the legation in London. He told her of his concerns about Zeke. She listened intently, very much aware that for Karl to be so bothered about anything meant that it was deadly serious.

She liked having him in her office. She was single, having divorced last year, living in a flat in London and she wished Donaldson would respond to her less than subtle approaches. So far he had been a brick wall, but never took umbrage at her passes. She thought this was because such things like women throwing themselves at him was such an integral part of his life, him being such a goddam handsome SOB. Bottram despised Donaldson’s wife and was madly jealous of her.

For his part, Donaldson was very wary of getting involved with his boss, even if he had been single and free. He had heard that Bottram batted for both sides and if he got involved with any woman, he wanted her to be all for him and none for her, as it were.

‘I find it unusual and unsettling,’ he was saying. ‘Zeke is very good, very punctual and always makes back-up contact if he misses for any reason.’

‘It’s not rocket science, Karl. There could be any number of reasons for non-contact.’

‘Yeah, it’s just. .’

‘Gut instinct?’

‘Something like that. I know it sounds a bit weak.’

‘No, not where you’re concerned.’ She smiled seductively, something that was lost on Donaldson, who was far too deeply engrossed thinking about his undercover agent. He checked his watch. It was approaching midday. ‘I’ll give him another hour, then I make contact.’

It was a relief to Henry to be leaving the environs of Blackpool. It was as though he was leaving behind a world of chaos of which he had been the instigator. He was desperately trying not to get embroiled in another personal mess, but the thought of Jane Roscoe was starting to overpower him.

He wondered if he just liked falling in love. Was that what it was all about? The euphoric feeling of first love combined with lust? The feeling that disappeared with the solid routine of marriage?

He headed east along the M55, south on the M6 and came off at junction 29, the Bamber Bridge exit. At the first set of traffic lights he did a left towards Euxton and less than quarter of a mile down the road went under a motorway bridge and turned left into a car park; from here the Cuerden Valley Park could be accessed by cycle and on foot. He could not drive on to the car park because it had been cordoned off. He had to reverse back on to the road and find somewhere to park about quarter of a mile away. He did not mind the inconvenience.

It showed him that as much of the scene as possible was being preserved and it gave him the opportunity to saunter up, using his eyes, ears and nose to get a real sense of the place. The entrance to the car park was being strictly controlled by two uniformed PCs who logged every arrival and departure. Henry showed his ID and signed in. He was directed to another PC who was in charge of paper clothing. He doled out a paper suit and slip-over shoes to Henry, which he pulled on over his suit. He signed for these items.

Snazzily dressed, he looked across the car park to a cycleway which led to a footbridge spanning the M6, then into Cuerden Valley Park proper. Most of the police activity centred on the cycleway, just before the bridge. A support unit team was searching the car park itself, moving in a line, halting when something of interest was found, or when one of the officers cracked a joke and they all needed to laugh.

A route to the scene had been marked by cordon tape.

Henry began to walk along it slowly.

All he knew was that there had been a double murder. A shooting. Two bodies. Nothing more. He was happy with that because it gave him the opportunity to consider the scene without any preconceptions, although he had already begun to form ideas as soon as he began the walk to the centre of police activity.

Already he was assuming that the dead people had arrived by some sort of vehicular transport at the car park and from there been dumped on the path. Had they been killed here, or somewhere else?

‘Morning, Henry — sorry, afternoon.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Bernie Fleming broke away from a cluster of four local detectives and welcomed the newcomer.

‘Hi, Bernie, what’s the crack?’

A screen had been erected around the corpses, preventing onlookers from getting an eyeful and allowing the experts to work without interruption.

‘Two dead men, both in their twenties, both shot in the back of the head.’

‘Executed?’

‘You could say that.’

Fleming belched, then broke wind. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘too much of everything last night.’

‘Any identification?’

Fleming shook his head. ‘Not yet. Looks like an out of town job. Professional hit. We may struggle with this one.’

Henry opened his eyes wide in surprise. He made it a rule never to kick off a murder investigation by thinking he would have to struggle with it. If you think it, you do it, he believed.

‘Can I have a look?’

‘Be my guest.’ Fleming made a sweeping gesture and Henry approached the screen, which reminded him of a beach windbreak. Behind it there was some concentrated activity going on, including the presence of the Home Office pathologist, Professor Baines, who looked up from his grisly task and smiled with great pleasure at Henry.

‘Nice to see you again so soon.’ He had been bent over, but stood up and backed away from what he was doing, giving Henry his first proper view. A scenes of crime photographer snapped away for the family album. ‘Voila!’ said Baines.

Henry folded his arms.

Two bodies, both male, face down on the ground, one lying across the other. Both with massive head wounds to the base of the skull. Henry pouted as his experienced eyes clinically took in the horrific tableau.

‘Both killed in the same manner. A gun placed to the base of the skull, angled upwards, shot through the brain, exit wounds through the forehead. Very effective and instantaneous. They wouln’t have suffered.’

‘That’s reassuring.’

A movement in the corner of his eye caused Henry to glance towards the car park. A hearse had been allowed to pull in. Two dark-suited individuals climbed out and chatted to a constable. They reclined on the long black vehicle, waiting for their turn in proceedings.

‘Both killed in situ,’ Baines said confidently.

‘Not killed elsewhere and dumped here?’

‘No — shot here.’

‘Time of death?’

Baines guffawed, then shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? You know as well as I do it would be an educated guess.’

‘Guess then,’ Henry prompted him.

‘They’ve been here about ten hours, give or take a couple either side.’

‘So anywhere between eight and twelve hours? Brilliant.’

‘Fuck off, Henry.’ Baines laughed. ‘Shall we have a look at what’s left of their faces?’

‘Why not?’

The policy was that undercover agents always made contact with their controllers, not the other way around, unless in extenuating circumstances. This was sound common sense as a poorly thought out phone call from a worried controller could easily compromise an agent. That was why Karl Donaldson was reluctant to pick up the phone and call Zeke. He dithered over his phone’s key pad, telling himself that there must be a very good reason for Zeke’s lack of contact and all that he would do by contacting him would be to compromise him.

But four days was a long time. Too long.

‘Right,’ he said to himself. He dialled Zeke’s number.

‘Get this on video, please,’ Baines instructed the SOCO. The officer prepared his camera, then nodded his readiness. Baines squatted down and took hold of the shoulder of the dead man who was lying on top of the other dead man. He supported the man’s shattered head, then checked to see if everyone was ready. Henry was, Fleming was, the local DI was. ‘Okay, I’m going to move this man now.’ Gently he eased the man’s shoulders back with one hand, held his head with the other and turned him slowly. The body rolled gently off and the face twisted up to the sky. The whole left side of the forehead had been blown away in a massive raggedy hole.

Henry breathed out, not realizing he had been holding on to a lungful of air.

‘What a mess,’ Fleming said for everyone. ‘Any idea who it is?’ he asked Henry and the local DI.

Both men peered to look.

‘No,’ said the DI

Henry froze. A mobile phone started to ring.

‘Where is that?’ the DI said.

‘It’s under this guy’s leg,’ Baines said. ‘Someone want to get it?’

The two detectives looked at each other. Henry bent down and lifted up the dead man’s leg and found the phone. He picked it up carefully. The display read, ‘Anonymous — answer?’ He pressed okay and said, ‘Hi?’

A voice he recognized immediately said, ‘Is that you?’

‘Yep,’ he said shortly.

There was a silent moment, then the line went dead as the call ended.

‘I wonder which one of these it belongs to?’ the DI asked.

Henry did not answer. He looked at the murdered face of the dead man that Baines was propping up. Part of the left eye was missing. The right eye was open, sightless and blank. His mouth gaped, coagulated blood congealed around it and around his nostrils. Even so, Henry was in no doubt.

‘Hello, Marty,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’

Donaldson let the phone ring out until the answering service cut in, then hung up without leaving a message. He tried the number of another phone to which he knew Zeke had access and got the same result.

They stood back to allow Baines and the SOCO to carry out the necessary preliminary work on the body which had been lying under Marty Cragg. This gave Henry a little time to apply his mind to a crime scene assessment, consciously subjecting himself to a mental process of reconstructing what had happened. It was a disciplined process, concentrating on the various elements which constitute a crime scene — location, victim, offender, scene forensics, followed by post-mortem — and then considering the links between them. Though this was early in the enquiry, Henry knew he had to begin a good crime scene analysis because there was only ever one chance to do it.

He discussed the matter with the local DI and appointed him the Crime Scene Manager.

As Henry was telling the DI exactly what he wanted to happen, Baines looked up from his task and called, ‘You can come closer now.’

Henry finished what he was saying and walked over.

‘I’m going to turn this man over,’ he said and nodded to the SOCO, who was ready with the video camera for take two. Henry watched, wondering if he would recognize the second victim. But he did not. Nor did the DI, nor did Fleming.

‘They were both murdered here, I’m sure of that,’ the pathologist reconfirmed. ‘This man first’ — he indicated the body he had just turned over — ‘then this one.’ He jerked his thumb at Marty. ‘Both killed the same way, gun to the back of the neck, etcetera, etcetera.’

Although Henry was pleased that one of the victims had been identified quickly, giving him an immediate starting point, he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this shooting was intertwined, somehow, with recent events in Blackpool. There had to be a connection. It smacked of gangland. It stank of professionalism. It meant he would be working very long hours for the foreseeable future and it also meant, on a personal note, he would be going back to Blackpool and, ultimately, Jane Roscoe.

Fucking tangled web, he thought, then turned his mind to more pressing matters.

Why here? Why was one man killed before the other? Was there a reason for the order of their deaths?

‘DCI Christie!’ Someone was shouting his name from the car park — a uniformed PC who clearly did not want to approach the scene. He eagerly beckoned Henry to come to him. Henry obliged.

‘Sir, I’m PC Garry from Bamber Bridge.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just been to a job at the Premier Lodge near to Sainsbury’s. I think it’s connected with this.’

‘I was, like, shell-shocked,’ the man said defensively. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘If you’d phoned the police at the time, they could have advised you one way or the other,’ Henry told the Premier Lodge night porter, deciding whether or not to let the man off the hook. As far as Henry was concerned, the man had not performed his duty by phoning the police immediately. If he had, he might have saved a life. ‘Four armed and masked men abduct one of your guests, then return twenty minutes later to revisit the room. .’ Henry’s voice trailed off.

‘He wasn’t a guest,’ the night porter bleated, ‘he was visiting a couple who were in the room.’

‘You should have called us.’ Henry was going to lay it on thicker than butter, then thought better of it. It was plain that the night porter wasn’t the brightest star in the constellation and that he was petrified and very tired. Henry relented. ‘We need to speak to you in detail about what happened, before you go to bed, if possible.’

‘Why, has something else happened?’

‘Yes.’ Henry nodded, but did not elaborate. ‘I want details of the couple who were in the room.’ He glanced hopefully at the duty manager.

They were crammed into a small office behind reception, Henry, PC Garry, the night porter and the duty manager, a Mr Bendix — who had been the one who had called the police on behalf of the reluctant night porter.

‘We only have details of the male guest. Here.’ Bendix handed Henry the reservation form filled in on arrival. He snorted when he saw the name, John Smith, and tutted when he read that it had been a cash transaction, and that no vehicle details were recorded.

‘Has the room been cleaned yet?’

‘No — I told the ladies to hang fire with that one.’

Henry turned to the PC. ‘Get up there now and don’t let anyone in. I’ll arrange for a team to come and dust the place.’

The PC stood up and left.

‘Okay,’ Henry said, rubbing his hands. ‘I need you to be interviewed and I’d also like to get a statement from the receptionist who booked the couple in. We’ll need a good description of them. They could be a key to this incident.’

‘Do you think this has anything to do with the bodies discovered near to the park?’ the manager asked.

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Radio Lancashire.’

Exasperated, Henry stood up and pointed at the night porter. ‘You stay here. Someone’ll be along very soon to speak to you. If you need a kip, use one of the rooms.’

Only when he was satisfied that everything had been done correctly at the scene did Henry finally allow the two bodies to be conveyed to the mortuary at Chorley. He followed the hearse and its body-bagged contents all the way so as to ensure continuity of evidence. He was already thinking of the possible future court case, even at this early stage. All bases had to be covered from the word go because he knew that defence lawyers would systematically try to tear the prosecution evidence to pieces. It was his job, as SIO, to put together a case which was built on solid foundations, which included the simple things that are often forgotten in the aftermath of a spectacular death and which are often the chink in the armour of a good case.

The bodies went to the mortuary at Chorley hospital, deposited side by side on metal trolleys. Henry stayed while all their clothing was removed, listed and bagged up by a local DC.

Marty Cragg had some ID on him: a driving licence and credit card; his wallet contained?135 in assorted notes. Henry included the mobile phone in Marty’s property. It was an Orange, pay-as-you-go type. Henry checked it carefully to see what the last ten calls made and received were. It revealed nothing, nor did its phone book, which was empty. Henry was not surprised.

Once the corpse had been stripped, Henry inspected Marty for anything more unusual than gunshot wounds. All he could see was an old scald mark on his right forearm. He thought nothing of this and slid him into a fridge.

Henry supervised the stripping of the second, unknown man. He had nothing on him to ID him, which Henry found peculiar. It was as though the man travelled incognito, unless he had been made to hand over all forms of identity before being blasted.

Once stripped, the unknown man was fingerprinted and photographed, then slid into the fridge alongside Marty.

The post-mortems were scheduled to start at seven that evening and Henry wanted to be there for them if possible. First, he had to do some more mundane things, such as contact the coroner, arrange resources — if any — and get a murder investigation up and running. And there was something else he wanted to do, too.