by Nick Oldham
The more fundamental problem occurred with Tom Salter when he found his conscience, and that was something that had to be addressed by people further up the chain. Again, it was all good that Runcie ran the murder investigation, ironically having been at the scene of it when it occurred.
But all good things must come to an end. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before Runcie’s cop bosses started to interfere and demand answers.
Instead of a tactical withdrawal, Runcie’s response had been outrageous in the extreme. Even the Mafia don’t go around killing cops unless absolutely necessary; the fallout from such rash actions was never pretty.
Tullane himself wasn’t an excessively violent individual. If he had to, yes, but he was a scam artist, always ready to cut and run if things became too heated. He had already got other scams bubbling that would please his bosses, so he wasn’t too worried about severing ties with Runcie.
As he was driven along, he squirmed. He had heard enough, had enough. There was nothing to repair here, which is what he thought he had come to do. It was gone, and he wanted no further part in it.
All he wanted to do was get on a flight home – and already he’d pre-booked two flights out of the UK to America – on separate false passports from two different airports. He would be back on home turf in twelve hours.
First, there was a charade to play out.
He glanced in the mirror. The headlights were still there. Tommy Dawson had his back. Good, because Tullane thought he was about to descend into hell very shortly.
It was the luck element – not judgement – that ensured Donaldson dropped on to the taillight of the motorbike and, two hundred yards ahead of that, the Citroën.
The American eased back, hoping he had not been spotted. One-on-one following and surveillance was impossible to maintain for any length of time, especially if the target was only remotely surveillance-conscious. Donaldson knew that Dawson and Tullane would be. They would both be looking over their shoulders, because that’s how they lived their lives.
He tracked the two vehicles through Portsea, from the headland near the hotel through the dockland area, then a large retail park, and beyond that into a huge industrial estate where the traffic fell to almost nil and Donaldson had to pull in and stop or carry on following and completely give the game away.
Runcie drove through a maze of roads on the estate, firstly passing newly built and smart industrial and warehouse units and businesses, further and further in until it became much less salubrious and much more grim, with smaller units, more scrap cars, crushed metal stacked up behind walls and the occasional scrapyard dog with its snout pressed tight up to mesh grilles. She turned into a dead end and parked in a small yard in front of a steel-framed unit with a brickwork and metal-clad exterior with one roller door large enough to admit a good-sized vehicle and a personnel door next to that.
‘Bolt hole,’ Runcie declared, jarring to a halt. ‘Not overlooked, no nosy neighbours and very cheap. Free, actually.’
Tullane nodded. He did not want to know.
‘Let me show you.’ She switched off the engine and got out, beckoning Tullane to come with her. He climbed out with less enthusiasm just as the motorbike with Dawson on board entered the yard.
Runcie stopped abruptly, as did Saul, who had also got out of the Citroën.
‘Who the hell’s this?’ she demanded.
‘Someone you’ve met before,’ Tullane said.
Dawson dismounted and removed his helmet, exposing his face, a gesture not lost on Runcie. She knew who the man was and, in their previous meeting, he had always tried to keep his face from her, as difficult as that was, and the fact that he now did not seem bothered that she and Saul could see him troubled her.
She made a grunting gasp of fear.
But maybe she could make this all work when she displayed to Tullane that there were no problems here, that she was totally in charge – and, of course – that he could fuck her anywhere, anytime, anyhow. That, surely, was also a good incentive for him.
Inside the unit, she envisaged a particular scene in her head.
Her two lackeys – the now comparatively wealthy detective constables Silverthwaite and Hawkswood, who she thought of as numpties but useful, not too bright, easily led and influenced – stood looking reasonably tough, guarding Henry Christie and Diane Daniels, two people far from thick.
Runcie had hoped to be able to control the visiting detectives, but that had quickly gone to rat-shit, starting with Christie’s appearance at the clifftop suicide and subsequent post-mortem. Had Sowerbutts not been in the picture, Christie would not have had anything to go on. Instead, they had delved, stuck their noses in, and Runcie and her corrupt little team were on the back foot.
She knew she had lost control but refused to admit it, and the next few minutes would be crucial.
In her head, the word ‘cunt’ repeated itself continually as she walked into the unit ahead of Saul and her visitors – plus also a vision of a woollen garment unravelling thread by thread. This had to be where it all stopped and, if it meant more dead cops, then so be it.
She was confident she could cover it up.
That was until the moment she pushed through the door.
Christie and Daniels were there in the middle of the floor, their backs to the door, still taped to the chairs.
Silverthwaite and Hawkswood were nowhere to be seen.
Donaldson had lost them somewhere on the industrial estate – ‘good and proper’, as his friend Henry Christie might have commented. As in, ‘You’ve lost ’em good and proper.’ Donaldson smiled at the thought of the man who, though unlikely, had become one of his best friends.
Not wanting to reveal himself, Donaldson had pulled up at the entrance to the estate and thought through the scenario. He could either settle down and wait here, in the hope that they would reappear at some stage, though there was no guarantee they would even come back via this route, or go on the hunt, because this place looked as if there would be many exits and entrances – more than one way in and out.
Even if he was lucky enough to see them emerge, he would still have missed what was going down and he did not have the power to stop them. To do that, he would have to enlist the services of the local cops and, by the time he managed that little rigmarole, it would all be over. There would be nothing to find, he was sure.
What he had to do was plunge in and see what he came out with between his teeth.
He switched off the Jeep’s lights and crawled on to the industrial estate, going for a slow, steady cruise in the dark.
Runcie had her mobile phone to her ear, calling Silverthwaite. There was no reply. She called Hawkswood.
To her left, Tullane was standing with the young man she knew she had once picked up from Anglesey many months before, who had without hesitation killed Tom Salter. The two were talking in low tones.
Saul, meanwhile, was standing in front of Christie and Daniels with his arms folded across his chest, looking down at the two detectives with contempt.
Runcie noticed that neither Tullane nor the killer revealed themselves to Christie and Daniels.
The phone rang out, then went to voicemail. Hawkswood was not answering either.
It was only then that Runcie saw the two crumpled-up forensic suits on the floor and realized what she was looking at.
She ended the call and slid away her phone in her clutch bag, then stalked across the floor and stood next to Saul.
Henry Christie raised his battered face and scowled at her. Daniels’ chin remained sagging on her chest.
‘You look pretty,’ Henry croaked hoarsely. Even in his state, he could appreciate the irony of her standing there in her best outfit.
Saul reacted and smashed Henry across the face, flicking his head sideways. Henry knew that more teeth had come loose, but he almost felt indifferent to the blow because he was in so much pain anyway. He did his best to smile, but his head wobbled and, as much as he tried, he could n
ot do it. He was feeling more than disconnected now.
He glanced at Daniels. He thought she was unconscious and he was worried about her.
‘I’m not going to arse about talking to you, Henry. This is over, now, you are over …’ Runcie began.
‘Think you’ll find you’re the one that’s over,’ he corrected her.
‘Oh, get real …’
‘Check the video on my phone,’ he suggested. ‘Pretty pictures. You in Tom Salter’s office with some guy shooting him. Good old Tom Salter; he knew how dangerous you were and recorded it all on his phone.’
‘Yeah, he tried to,’ Runcie sneered, ‘but I got his phone off him and deleted it.’
‘He had two phones,’ Daniels said without lifting her head up.
Henry did smile now – with relief.
‘One was hidden in the wall, filming you,’ Daniels said, this time managing to raise her chin and look at Runcie, victory in her battered eyes.
‘And Lanky Man and Tight Fit have done a runner,’ Henry added.
‘Eh?’
‘Your two running mates – you know, those agricultural reps? They’ve gone, Jane, and, if you’ve any sense, you’ll do the same. Run. Run, now … because I’m coming after you. Hell, am I coming after you.’ Henry looked at Saul. ‘You too, but I know I’ll catch you first. You don’t look right fit.’
That brought another blow from Saul, knocking Henry’s head in the opposite direction. This time his vision and hearing swam and he felt like he was in the bottom of a fish tank.
Runcie looked behind Henry and Daniels.
‘We need to talk,’ Henry heard someone say. He had not realized that other people were in the unit. He’d thought it was just Runcie and Saul.
Runcie gave Saul a gesture – stay here – then walked out of Henry’s line of sight. He twisted his head slightly, trying to listen, but could hear nothing other than the drumming of his own blood through his head.
Tullane said, ‘These guys are more cops?’ in disbelief to Runcie.
She did not answer.
‘It has to stop, now,’ he warned her.
‘It will, with these two. Once they’re gone, it’s over.’
Tullane shook his head. ‘You’re right, it is over.’ He nodded quickly to Dawson, who was standing just behind them and, at the same time, Tullane grabbed Runcie.
With the same speed and lack of hesitation he had shown when killing Tom Salter, Dawson stepped forwards, pulling out the small revolver he had tucked in the waistband of his motorbike leather. He brought it up and stood behind and between Henry and Daniels.
He fired four rounds of the six that the gun held into Saul’s head and chest. The man crumpled as his face imploded.
Henry watched Saul collapse, unable to comprehend what had just happened for a moment. The sound of gunfire at the side of his head disorientated him even more.
Dawson stepped back and Tullane hurled Runcie at him. He caught her easily, spun her into him, one hand across her mouth, and he dragged her around so he was in front of Henry and Daniels, where he forced Runcie down on to her knees and held her easily, even as she struggled.
Had he not been strapped to the chair, Henry would have leapt with shock when he felt a hand grip his shoulder.
Tullane was standing behind him, a hand on Henry and one on Daniels.
He said, ‘This is over now, and you need to know that this will be your fate should you ever come after me.’
He nodded at Dawson.
Now, instead of a gun, there was a knife in his hand.
Again, without hesitation, Dawson jerked Runcie’s head back and stuck the knife into her neck with a hard, twisting motion, the blade severing her carotid artery instantly, sending a spume of blood sideways like water from a hosepipe as Dawson carried on remorselessly, a hacking and sawing motion, cutting her windpipe. She made a terrible gurgling sound and her eyes seemed to plead with Henry as her mouth opened and blood gushed out, but then Dawson withdrew the knife and, with a gentle push, Runcie toppled over.
Donaldson knew he had lost them for good and he thumped the steering wheel in frustration as he crawled slowly through the side roads of this immense industrial park.
He was annoyed, but also philosophical about it, and thought that perhaps the best course of action would now be to make his way back to the Metropole Hotel and resume his dinner, maybe reorder his T-bone and wait to see if Tullane returned. There was every chance the man would do just that once his business here was concluded.
If he didn’t, at least Donaldson would have some valuable intelligence to submit.
His lights were still off, but with this change of mind, he turned on the main beam and jammed his foot on to the gas pedal.
Tullane and Dawson left the unit swiftly but not in panic. They were experienced in situations like these.
They went straight to Dawson’s motorbike, which had been stolen by pre-order and picked up in Manchester, along with the firearm he had just used on Saul and the knife on Runcie. Dawson refitted his helmet and straddled the bike as he rocked it off its stand. There was a spare helmet for Tullane in the pannier, which Dawson handed to him as he fired up the powerful engine. Tullane mounted the bike behind him as he fiddled with the helmet.
Dawson paused, but Tullane tapped him on the shoulder to go, even though he hadn’t fitted the helmet. He was fiddling with the strap as Dawson swung the bike around and applied power with a huge roar, engaged first gear and released the clutch.
Donaldson did not have a chance, even though he would bet money on the speed of his reactions in most circumstances. One moment he was travelling along at twenty mph, passing the opening to the yard of an industrial unit. Next there was a huge flash to his left, the sound of a screaming engine and the bike carrying Dawson and Tullane emerged from that yard, Dawson twisting the throttle as Tullane was just about to fit the helmet.
Under normal circumstances, the bike (which was a Suzuki) could have reached sixty mph in about three seconds.
It had been travelling, and accelerating, for one-point-five seconds when it smashed into the passenger door of Donaldson’s Jeep.
In the way of these things, physics took over.
A speeding object hitting what, in effect, was a brick wall.
Dawson was flung over the roof of the Jeep, flying like a drunken acrobat, twirling several times and landing head first in the road. Tullane, who had not yet fitted his helmet at that point, did not take the same trajectory. He surged forward, straight over the handlebars, and his head smashed through the passenger window.
Just for that briefest of moments, Donaldson could not compute what had happened. He’d been sideswiped, that he knew, but other than that it took a few seconds for him to put it all together.
Then he looked to his left and saw the crumpled door and Tullane’s head and shoulders sticking through the smashed window. He reached across and felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. There was none.
Next, he glanced right and saw the sprawled-out figure of Tommy Dawson on the opposite side of the road, his head skewed at an unnatural angle, unmoving.
Donaldson had to barge his shoulder against his door to open it as the impact had twisted the whole of the Jeep’s body out of shape. He climbed out and stood there a moment, just checking himself and brushing off the tiny chunks of broken glass that he’d been showered with when Tullane’s head had smashed the window.
He knew he was unhurt, just slightly shaken.
He crossed to Dawson, squatted next to him and felt for a neck pulse under the helmet. There was none.
Donaldson stood up, looked at his precious car and wondered just how difficult and evasive the insurance company was going to be about this. Extracting a forty-grand payout would not be easy, he thought.
He walked around the car, looking at the bike and Tullane’s body lying across the top of it, then walked into the yard of the unit, past the parked Citroën and went inside, wondering what shit he was going to fi
nd in there.
TWENTY-ONE
One month later, the unravelling had still only really just begun.
On Fanshaw-Bayley’s instructions, the whole investigation had been taken over by Lancashire Constabulary and Rik Dean was put in charge of something with the potential to last for a very long time. Rik moved an FMIT team across the Pennines en masse, including Jerry Tope as the chief intelligence analyst, and took over the offices of the Serious Crime Team at Portsea police station, very much to the chagrin of the local CID, and there was a lot of ill-feeling in the air as well as, Rik thought, relief. Although no one had yet admitted it, many knew about Runcie and her team’s corrupt practices, if not the detail and scale of them.
It also took the best part of that month to track down Silverthwaite and Hawkswood.
Both had gone to ground, but it was only a matter of time before they had to run. Two teams of determined Lancashire detectives were constantly on their trail, closing in every day.
Silverthwaite was picked up boarding a cross-channel ferry at Dover, using a false passport and carrying just short of 30,000 euros. Hawkswood was heading in the opposite direction and was arrested in Heysham, Lancashire, about to get on a ferry to Belfast. He, too, had a large stash of money with him.
They were lodged in cells in Blackburn, as it was thought wise not to bring them back to Portsea where they might still have influence.
Both were very hard to crack initially, but persistent and skilled questioning soon had them both offering to tell their sides of a very sorry story. The same was true of the custody sergeant, Anna Calder, who, in her attempts to wriggle off the hook, told a grim tale of bullying, intimidation and a fear of Runcie, who had coerced her to falsify custody records and act totally out of character – none of which washed with the interviewing officers.
During that period, Henry and Daniels recovered from their ordeals but saw little of each other. Both were off sick, and Daniels sought the protection and warmth of her family. She talked occasionally to Henry by phone and met him for a coffee a couple of times.
Henry could see she had been traumatized by the nightmare, and could understand it. What both of them had gone through in a very short space of time had been devastating. She was having counselling that the force provided, but Henry could see that progress was slow.