by Dave Lacey
While he was hugely proud of his achievements and his current position of authority, General Waldron couldn’t help but think things had been far simpler when he had been just a grunt on his first tour of duty. He had landed in Vietnam aged just eighteen, and had begun life there terrified of both his surroundings and his compatriots. He left Vietnam after his third tour ended in 1975. Not long after, the war drew to its natural, some would say unnatural, conclusion. For the next few years he travelled to numerous parts of the globe on behalf of the US Army, lending assistance to US allies, in all corners of the globe, before it was time for him to act on behalf of his own government.
In 1982 he was sent into Beirut along with a contingency of US Marines, and the following year he was moved to Grenada along with a thousand other American troops to help quash the violent power struggle which had developed. After this was suppressed, he was once again moved back to Beirut, where the bombing of a Marine barracks had left two hundred and forty-one dead, to handle the withdrawal. Mounting political pressure at home meant that the Reagan administration had to back-track from its initial defiance. By the time the USA had completely withdrawn from Beirut, Waldron was a master sergeant and destined for bigger and better things. He was, unusually, given the opportunity to obtain a degree, allowing him to become a commissioned officer.
So, between the end of Beirut and the beginning of the Panama invasion to oust Manuel Noriega, Burt Waldron studied, and managed to get a first. He was then commissioned as a captain. After Panama, of course, came the first Gulf conflict. Once again, Waldron excelled in the theatre of war, and proved himself worthy of the faith placed in him by his superior officers. He spent most of the next ten years, the entire duration of the conflict, in the Gulf. His 40th birthday came and went, and, by the time the end of the war approached in 2001, he had reached the rank of colonel. Remarkably, even after this litany of hostilities, there was yet more work to be done. As the Gulf War ended, so, almost immediately, the War on Terror began.
Ensconced in a war that, privately at least, he did not believe could be won, he reached his 50th birthday as a Major General. By the time he reached this rank, he had had enough. Enough of foreign lands, enough of foreign dictators, enough of destruction, and more than enough of death. He was considering his retirement when, out of the blue, came a call from the Secretary of Defence. Waldron was not a political animal, he was a soldier’s soldier, and when the Secretary spoke of the NSA role, he had baulked. It was not for him. The Secretary had maintained that this was precisely why he was the man for the job: because he did not want it, because he was not an ambitious politician. He had talked to his wife about it, and they had decided together that he should give it a shot.
He was recommended by the Secretary of Defence, and then nominated by the President. Though he could not understand why (he had no affiliations with anybody within the political arena), he was confirmed with a majority by the Senate. Irene had been right, they did need somebody like him after all. He had loved his wife very much. He had met her during his hiatus in the 1980s when he was studying for his degree. He was relatively late to married life in the forces, being in his thirties, when they had wed. It had been a no brainer for him. She was beautiful and smart, funny too. She was the perfect companion for a military man, and she proved to be a shrewd tactician. How many times had they sat up late into the night discussing whichever situation he was heading back into at the end of his leave? She really was amazing.
She had also borne him two beautiful kids, Sandy and Huck. He genuinely could not have hoped for a happier marriage. Then came the accident. He was on a visit to Europe in an advisory role to the President when he received a call telling him that his wife had been killed in a road traffic accident while returning home after visiting her sister. He had struggled to take it all in. He had only talked to her a couple of hours before. He had returned home immediately to take care of the funeral arrangements and the kids. For a long time he had considered quitting his job, but, once his mind had cleared, he realised this would be the worst thing he could do. How would he fill his time?
He had buried himself in his work, rarely arriving home before midnight, and that was on those occasions he went home. He had fallen into the habit of sleeping at the office, and had done so for the first year after Irene’s passing, her parents filling in the parental gap in his absence. Eventually, Burt realised this behaviour must look strange to his staff, and so he had re-established a more normal routine. Still working long hours, he had almost no time for a social life. Then he had met Barbara Miller.
Senator Barbara Miller was quite something. She, like Waldron, was a non-political politician who spoke her mind and had a keen ability for sniffing out a bullshitter. She was popular with both sides of the House, and was notorious for her opposition of the war in Iraq. Burt had met her at the White House, during a briefing on the current conditions in Iraq, during which a force depletion figure was given for the US forces over the coming three years. When the Secretary of Defence had announced his estimate, Miller had snorted in derision and asked him how he had arrived at his total.
They had bickered for the next few minutes until Waldron had cut in, agreeing with the senator’s equation, but advising that maybe they should take the discussion offline. He had lost a friend in the new Secretary, but had noted the appraising look from Ms Miller. They had started seeing each other almost immediately, and, for the second time in his life, relationship-wise, Burt Waldron had landed on his feet.
In time, he introduced her to his son and daughter, and although stand-offish to begin with, they soon came round. She was hard not to like. Barbara was divorced, and had three children from her marriage who had all met Waldron. They had discussed the idea of marriage, but neither of them felt the need to make the relationship as formal as that. They felt lucky to have found each other, and it felt like nothing could come along to burst their bubble.
They were wrong. Waldron’s mobile rang.
“Is this line secure?”
“It is.”
“You’ve been very silly, General. A man of your years and rank should really have known better. Do you really understand the implications?”
“I think I do, yes.”
“Really? Do you realise that we may have to erase all links in this chain of evidence? Not you of course, but all others…possibly.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The general ground his teeth in anger. It was a thinly veiled threat.
“It is not your decision to make, General.” The man almost spat the title at him.
“I’m aware of that, but I can make up for this. I can close the loop without any need for casualties.”
“It is already too late for that. Somebody was…taken care of last evening, and they were far enough from you to have created quite a stir among my team, General. They wonder how this person could possibly have known.”
Waldron was shocked. If he had been made aware of this, he would have done something.
“I assume from your silence that you are not close enough to the outer edge of the web to have heard about this?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then that in itself speaks volumes. This situation is already out of control. I will call you again soon. In the meantime, you need to be the very model of a modern major general.”
Waldron grimaced with distaste at the very thought that the man could make light of the situation. Inwardly he cursed himself once more for the indiscretion that had placed him here.
“You can count on it.”
“If that were the case, General, we would not be having this conversation.”
Before Waldron could respond, the man had hung up. He really had made a mess of things.
Chapter 4
Jack and Smithy had gone straight in to see the chief on their return from the crime scene.
“So, what happened then?” the chief asked.
“It’s all a bit fuzzy at t
he moment, chief. I'm still trying to piece it together myself,” Jack answered.
“And you?” the chief asked Smithy.
“I'm with him, I’ve no idea how this went down. But I’d very much like to know what happened to our friend in the BMW. I'm really pissed we didn’t even get the plate.” The chief grunted in response; he clearly felt the same way.
“Well it’s a bit of a fuck up all over isn’t it really?” was all the senior man could think of to say.
“Right, you’d better sod off and get some sleep. I’ll see you bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning, and I do mean morning,” – he looked meaningfully at Smithy – “to complete your paperwork.” The meeting was clearly over as he turned back to his computer and its closing down tune. The two detectives left the building together, then Jack bade Smithy farewell and made his way to his car.
He still lived on the outskirts of Liverpool, so he had thirty or so miles before he could hit the hay. He didn’t mind the drive so much, as he was the proud owner of an almost vintage Jaguar XK8. It was a fifteen year old V8 convertible, and he loved it. As he approached, he hit the button to drop the roof and climbed in behind the half wood steering wheel and started her up. It wasn’t long before he hit the M602 leaving Manchester, and then onto the M62 proper. The last six months had been turbulent for Jack.
Mulling things over in the car on his way home, he still couldn’t quite believe how sudden it had all been. It was still hard to believe that he was not going home to his wife and son. Without the support of Smithy and his family, he doubted he would have been able to cope. Silently he thanked them. In a strange way, a perverse sort of way, he quite liked living alone. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t sooner be at his marital home; he would. It was just that if he had to face an alternative, this was pretty good.
He parked his Jag in the underground garage, and took the lift to the top floor. He considered himself very lucky to have an uncle for a property developer, who was letting him live in a penthouse apartment for free. It also meant he could afford to pay support to Selena and Jack Junior, who was now approaching his fourth birthday. He opened the door and immediately noticed a flashing light on his landline receiver. A message. He picked up the handset and listened to the recording.
“Jack, it’s Selena. We need to have a chat. For some reason I thought you would be home tonight, but I guess you’re at work or maybe even out with friends. It’s nothing bad, I just thought maybe we should try to organise a few things. Okay, so, call me when you get a chance.” End of message. He stood at the windows, which stretched floor to ceiling along the entire outside wall of the apartment, staring into the darkness for a few seconds, then he made himself a decaf espresso, put on the news, and tried to relax. It worked: the low drone of the news anchor’s voice had a soporific effect, and he fell asleep in minutes.
***
He slept for six hours, woke at ten thirty in the morning, showered and got dressed. Then he called Smithy who’d been awake since nine and arranged to meet up at the office at eleven thirty. As Jack pulled into the car park, Smithy was just climbing out of his car.
“Hey!” he greeted Jack.
“Good morning, Tobias. You look rough.”
“I thought we were clear on the subject of my forename?”
Jack chuckled to himself.
“Indeed, but you know I can’t resist.”
“Enough, loser. Let’s see what our friends in forensics have for us.”
They took the steps at the back of the building two at a time, and bumped into the chief in the foyer. He was heading out the door.
“Guys, I don’t have time right now, but I want to catch up with you both when I get back. I’m off to court to give a deposition, I’ll be back around five. We have some news about last night, but I’ll let you find out for yourselves.” Before they knew it, he was out through the doors and gone. They looked at each, curious as to what the news might be.
Their desks were positioned such that they had their backs turned to each other. On the plus side they were no more than three feet away at any time while seated. There was a Post It note stuck to Smithy’s monitor. It bore the name Helen, plus forensics ext 2546. Without delay, he called the number.
“Helen Atkins.”
“Hi, it’s Smithy from CID. What do you have for me? Aside from an aching desire that is.”
Jack cringed at the ham fisted effort his friend had made to ensnare his latest squeeze.
“Smooth,” he muttered. There was quite a long delay before Smithy spoke again; Helen had plenty to say.
“Yes, I agree, I am very pushy. No, I won’t continue with this line of enquiry. Yes, you’re absolutely correct, very childish.” Jack barely suppressed a snigger. “Could I ask that we move on to the matter at hand then?”
Two or three minutes more passed before Smithy hung up the phone and leaned forward to put his head into his hands. “Oh dear. Oh sweet baby Jesus.” Jack couldn’t look directly at Smithy at this point, he had a hand over his mouth and was fighting the urge to laugh. His friend was relentless, though not usually successful, in his pursuit of the opposite sex.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“That, my friend,” Jack replied, “is the start of a conversation you’re not equipped to have.”
“It’s like I can see the car coming toward me, but I can’t get out of its way!”
“What did she have to tell us, aside from your shortcomings?”
“Okay. They did get a partial footprint from the area near the wall where we saw the watcher. It wasn’t either of ours thankfully. It matches a print that was also taken from the silt that was on the right hand side of Alphonse’s body. So we know that, at worst, at some point the watcher was near where Alphonse died.”
“Hmm.” Jack considered this for a few moments. “When will they do the post mortem do you think?”
“If we chivvy them along, maybe tomorrow?”
“Okay. But I have the feeling we’re only going to confirm that our guy was helped on his way.” Jack looked thoughtful. He could do without the complication of this case at the moment. At the same time, it was a distraction.
“One other thing,” Smithy announced with a lop-sided smirk. “The cigarette stub. We know what it was.”
“Yes?”
“It was a Gauloises.”
“The funny smelling French ones?”
“Yes, redolent of camel shit.”
“I wonder how many places in Manchester sell those particular cigarettes?”
“Can’t be too many, but I bet you can also buy them online and you can bring them across the Channel. So I can’t imagine we will find anything out that way.”
“Maybe not, but it’ll be worth finding out where they sell them and then following up with a little footwork. Even if the watcher, as you continually refer to him, was not the cause of death, we still need to speak to him. The whole thing makes me feel uneasy.”
“Yeah, but you’re easily spooked. If Alphonse didn’t accidentally kill himself, then I’d bet money he was assisted by one of his nefarious friends. He was a bad boy who got on the wrong side of another bad boy. Simple as.”
“Maybe, maybe. Either way, it’ll be our responsibility to find out what happened to him.”
It didn’t seem right. Alphonse was no angel, but to be snuffed out at such a young age was madness. Whatever had happened, this was going to be a complex case to get to the bottom of. And, Jack had to admit, they didn’t really know where to start.
Chapter 5
Two days later, they had the results of the autopsy. As they had feared, the deceased had not died accidentally. Alphonse Ngwenye had died from a broken neck. There were no contusions on his head that might have indicated a fall, nor were there any abrasions on his hands, knees or elbows. His neck and chin, on the other hand, showed signs of compression, as if he had been held around the throat. With this news, the case took on an even greater significance than it had before. The only c
lues they had to go on at the moment were the dark BMW, a French-cigarette stub and two shoe imprints. Even worse, the CCTV cameras didn’t cover the area where the murder had taken place.
“Christ, this is annoying,” Smithy said.
“I know, but something will give, it always does.” Jack tried to toe the party line.
“That’s as may be, but it doesn’t help right now does it? I mean, how can the CCTV coverage be so shit as to provide nothing? You can’t normally have a piss without someone watching you do it, but then when you really need it...” He paused.
“Yes, I agree, but there’s no point getting wound up about it is there? We need to focus on what we do have and try to get the best out of it.”
“We both know we have to find something soon though. The longer it takes, the colder the trail gets. And though I was no great fan of Alphonse, I really loathe the idea that someone could just off him and get away with it.”
“Me too, but sitting here and getting pissy won’t make any difference at all will it?” Jack was getting wound up now, which would do neither of them any good.
“This is getting us nowhere, let’s calm down a bit and get on with what we’re here for.” Smithy muttered something unintelligible and they both went back to what they were doing.
The chief was out for the morning, so Jack had commandeered his office for a little peace and quiet. He sat facing the window and went over what they knew. They knew Alphonse was involved in many things, mainly narcotics. He had a number of guys working for him to manage each area of his mini empire. He wasn’t a major player in the underworld, but given time he probably would have done quite well in those circles. He was a smart boy, ambitious and fearless too. Maybe that was the problem – maybe he had shown too much ambition and his wings had been clipped. Another thing that Jack knew had been an issue for Alphonse was the fact that he had been gay.