Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Window dressing,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘All on the drip,’ Jane said.

  FB turned and gave her a disgusted stare as if to say, ‘Shut it, love.’ Jane shifted awkwardly on her seat, her gaze falling to her hands.

  ‘He’s stretched to his limit,’ Donaldson said. ‘We’ve been into his bank accounts, at least the ones we can find, and they tell a pretty rotten story. Bad management, bad forecasting . . . bad everything.’

  ‘And now he’s in debt to the Mafia?’ Henry ventured.

  ‘Let him finish before you start drawing conclusions like that,’ FB admonished him.

  Henry tapped the table with the end of his fork, wondering if he should plunge it into FB’s heart. If he had one. He speared a sausage instead and kept quiet.

  ‘He’s got a lot of businesses,’ Donaldson continued. ‘One involving the importation of stone-crushers, which he then assembles, and then sells them or further exports them to Europe. The goods involved originate from a company in the States. We have intelligence to suggest that Wickson has been importing these crushers from the States and is being paid handsomely by the Mafia to provide cover for the importation of drugs into the UK.’

  ‘Has he any previous criminal history?’ Henry asked.

  FB shook his head. ‘Just one assault in his late teens.’

  ‘So how have the Mafia got their hooks into him?’

  ‘We’re not altogether sure,’ Donaldson admitted. ‘But it is a well-known fact that la Cosa Nostra, the Mafia to you, are continually on the lookout for business opportunities . . . and I say the word “business” loosely. They have people working for them in every conceivable industry or service, feeding information to them. Most of it is never used, but some is.’

  ‘You believe someone in an American engineering company which makes these crushers has tipped them off about Wickson’s dire financial plight and they’ve muscled in on him?’ Henry worked out.

  ‘Could be, could be,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘Where does yesterday’s gunman episode fit into all this?’

  ‘Not absolutely sure about that one,’ Donaldson admitted.

  ‘And Mendoza?’

  Donaldson’s face creased into a very pained expression. He did not know exactly what to say to Henry.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Donaldson, Jane and FB interchanged looks. FB nodded.

  ‘OK. Your guys recovered the weaponry belonging to the shooter on the hillside. All very interesting. Two things in particular. Firstly the pistol he used when he kidnapped you . . . a STAR make, originating from Spain. Model 30PK, nine millimetre, holds fifteen rounds. The STAR is one of the few decent firearms made in Spain, actually, in an industry that has a pretty bad reputation.’

  FB stifled a yawn at all this technical stuff, then inserted a fried tomato into the hole that was his mouth. Donaldson pretended not to notice, going on to say, ‘I’m telling you this because we know what type of weapon was used to kill Zeke and Marty Cragg. A nine millimetre. I fast-tracked the gun through our ballistics department because we couldn’t jump the backlog of yours in Huntingdon. Early tests and comparisons show it is more than likely to be the same weapon used to kill Zeke and Cragg.’

  ‘You mean I’ve been fighting a professional hit man?’

  Donaldson nodded seriously. FB smirked. Jane looked very worried. Henry sat back, not remotely hungry any more. He pushed his plate away, the breakfast only half-eaten.

  ‘Not want that?’ FB asked in disbelief.

  Henry shook his head numbly. ‘Lost my appetite.’

  FB helped himself to the last sausage and dipped it in the egg yolk on Henry’s plate before scoffing it.

  ‘He killed Marty Cragg and I had the bastard . . . we had the bastard . . . andhe got away . . . ?’

  ‘And don’t forget he nailed two good cops before he scarpered,’ FB said through his food. ‘And on my first day as Chief Constable. How do you think that makes me look?’ he demanded. ‘I had to tell their families yesterday. It wasn’t nice. I’ve got the media and the police authority on my back now, pushing for a quick result. It’s shit I could have done without, thank you.’

  Henry wondered how FB had broken the news to the grieving families, but then he knew: FB would have done it well. As well as it could have been done. As brusque, unpleasant and politically incorrect as he was when he knew he could get away with it, he could be the caring, professional cop when he had to be. He was a master at playing the game to his advantage, otherwise he would never have made it to Chief. Henry knew FB was no fool.

  ‘Anything on the weapon that killed the officers?’ Henry asked. He knew it had been quickly established that their own weapons had not been used against them.

  ‘.22 calibre bullets, nothing more yet,’ Jane said.

  ‘I do have a thought about that – and that’s the second thing,’ Donaldson said. He pondered for a moment. ‘I might be wrong, but I think I know how he might have let your lads keep a gun on him.’

  Henry picked up on this immediately. ‘Something that was a gun, but didn’t look like one?’

  ‘Right! I’ll bet they thought he had a mobile phone on him.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ FB exclaimed, stopping just short of his mouth with a forkful of food.

  ‘It’ll be something like that,’ Donaldson said. ‘French cops seized two mobile phones earlier this year, except they weren’t, they were guns capable of firing four bullets. The digital touch pads are used as triggers. They look pretty much identical to normal cell phones on the outside, but they come apart in the middle to reveal a four-chamber secret compartment for .22 calibre bullets which are shot out of the end. Lethal up to about ten metres. They were found during a raid on a gangster’s house in Rouen, a gangster who, incidentally, is connected to Mendoza. They’re made in Eastern Europe and actually surfaced in Belgium in 2001.’

  The information did not stop FB from eating.

  ‘But it’s only a theory,’ Donaldson said. ‘We may never know.’

  Silence descended on the table whilst FB digested his breakfast and the other two digested the news.

  Henry exhaled. His coffee cup was empty. ‘Are you buying more drinks, boss?’

  ‘Jane – refills,’ FB ordered the DI. ‘There’s a love.’

  Henry saw her reaction. Red spread from her neck upwards. She visibly bristled. Henry waited to see if she would say anything. He knew she would. She leaned on the table to FB. ‘Don’t ever call me “love” again – sir – or you might regret it.’ She pushed herself up. ‘Coffees all round?’ she enquired pleasantly.

  Henry closed his eyes momentarily and thought about the complexity of the relationships around the table. Him and FB; FB and Donaldson; Jane and FB; him and Donaldson; him and Jane. It made him weary. Maybe he could do without this, wherever ‘this’ was going. Maybe he would just go home and be suspended. Accept whatever came his way, then coast up to retirement in some backwater job, like Best Value or something.

  But that wasn’t him at all. He might think it, but he couldn’t do it.

  ‘Where do I come into this?’ he found himself asking.

  Jane returned with four mugs of milky coffee. Henry scraped the skin off his with the handle of his fork, then took a sip. It was hot and slightly sweet, reminding him of the coffee he used to drink as a youngster. This café was the only place he knew could recreate it and for a moment he was back with his mother in their little house in a hilltop village in East Lancashire where he had been born and bred and brought up until he was ten. His mother was now dead, had been for about eight years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he missed her. Milky coffee had been her speciality.

  He shook himself out of that fast, wondering where it had come from. He had not thought about his mother for a long time and felt guilty.

  ‘You OK, Henry?’ Donaldson said, noticing his friend’s momentarily spaced-out behaviour.

  ‘Yeah, sorta déjà-vu for a split second.’

&nb
sp; FB sat back, replete, and slapped his tummy. He had certainly put on weight since gravitating into the highest echelons of the police service. Too much money, too much good living. He reminded Henry of a Pot-bellied Pig. ‘Where do you come into this?’ he echoed Henry’s question. ‘Let me lay this on the line, Henry. I actually don’t want you involved in this in any way. You’re suspended and it makes things very complicated if you get involved in anything to do with police work. There is no precedent for it.’

  ‘What am I doing here, then?’

  FB’s eyes narrowed to slits. He looked sideways and distastefully at Donaldson. ‘We are under some pressure to solve the Marty Cragg murder. It’s been going on for too long and yes, that is a criticism of the SIO team. In my books they should have got it bottomed by now.’

  Easier said than done, Henry thought, especially given the complexity of the job. People like Mendoza and professional hit men are not easy people to bring to justice.

  ‘The investigation is under strain,’ FB reiterated, ‘and the Home Office and the Police Authority have revealed their disquiet.’

  ‘And my bosses want progress too,’ Donaldson said. ‘Mendoza has killed two of our guys now. We want him, as you might say quaintly, “fettling”. We are keen to pursue any line we can. The Wickson connection has only just come to light and by pure chance you’re already involved in the family for another reason.

  ‘We would like you to stay in there, purely from the point of view of information and intelligence-gathering, nothing else. Mrs Wickson invited you in to dig around on some horse mutilation that’s been going on at the stables – which could be connected – so we want you to carry on with that, get as close into the family as you can and see what dirt lies under the rock that hides the Wicksons – and get a direct line to Mendoza, if poss.’

  ‘But I’m suspended. I have no police powers,’ Henry persisted.

  ‘Like I said, there’s no precedent for this,’ FB said. ‘So yes, you would be acting purely as a civilian, nothing more.’

  ‘No back-up? No resources?’

  ‘Nowt.’

  Henry shot a hard glance at Jane, then Karl Donaldson. ‘Do you support this, Karl?’

  ‘It was his fucking idea,’ FB blurted, almost choking. ‘He seems to think you might do a good job. And, may I remind you, you might be suspended from duty, but you are on full pay.’

  ‘And you think that obliges me to do this for you?’

  FB nodded. Yes, he did.

  Henry’s mind clicked and whirred. He did want to get involved, but it had to be on his terms with his own safeguards in place.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ he said and held eye contact with FB.

  ‘Do you know, I couldn’t fucking believe my eyes.’ FB and Henry were on the beach close to the White Café. The other two were sat on a picnic bench outside the café whilst Henry and the Chief strolled side by side in the sand. ‘On my first day I decide to start off in the control room and the first thing I see is the helicopter download of you being bloody hijacked.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t know about your suspension then. Can’t say I’m surprised though. You sail close to the wind . . . but this lack of judgement thing . . . ? Disobeying a lawful order?’ FB shook his head in disbelief as though he could not get his thoughts round it. ‘A witness shot and severely injured, a cop shot too?’

  ‘Neither have died.’

  ‘Hardly the point, Henry.’

  ‘True, but I’m not to blame for it happening. I went through the correct procedure to get a firearms operation authorized and it got kicked out . . . I still had a vulnerable witness on my hands who needed moving urgently.’

  ‘I reviewed the case last night.’ FB stopped, picked up a flat pebble and skimmed it across the surface of a large rock pool. ‘You never went through the correct procedure at all, just went ahead off your own bat and it went pear-shaped. You’re a loose cannon, always have been, Henry, and now you’re about to get your comeuppance.’

  ‘My request for a firearms operation was turned down.’

  ‘It says in the report that you never made the request.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what it says, what, in fact, a highly respected detective chief superintendent says.’

  ‘In that case I’m completely fucked, because I know you’ll believe him and not me. That’s how it works, isn’t it? The organization looks after its chiefs and the Indians can just go and screw themselves?’

  ‘The discipline hearing is in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You could be getting your P45.’

  Henry said nothing for a few moments, then: ‘In that case I’m not interested in this Wickson business. I don’t feel inclined to do anything for the Constabulary.’ He sounded sad, broken. ‘Shit,’ he murmured, picked up a palm-sized pebble and lobbed it across the beach. A tear formed on his lower eyelid.

  ‘I can understand that, except for one thing . . . I actually believe your story. I mean, you are a loose cannon, no doubt. You fly by the seat of your pants, but you’ve got great instinct and you’ve always come through for the organization in spite of the way it’s treated you.

  ‘The Wickson thing is very big, Henry. I knew about it before I came back to the force and I’m keen to get something done about it, especially now that two officers are down and that nurse. I want to catch that killer and I believe that Wickson could well lead us to him and Mendoza, maybe, and some bigger sharks. You could help. You might not discover anything, but so what? At least you’d have helped. You asked me what’s in it for you?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Don’t try to blackmail me emotionally about the greater good and all that,’ Henry warned him.

  ‘I won’t, but what I will do is closely review the discipline case immediately.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Henry, I believe what you’re telling me. I’ll get to the truth of the matter, trust me. I scare the shit out of people, as you know.’ There was a glint of steel in his eyes. ‘But don’t misunderstand me . . . if you don’t take on the Wickson job, I won’t help you at all. Even if you do take it on, you’re on your own. Like you said, no resources, no back-up. You’ll be operating totally independently and if anyone asks me, I’ll deny these conversations. I cannot officially condone you getting involved in this and that’s the public line I’ll take. The only thing I will offer is for DI Roscoe to be an unofficial point of contact for you. You two can work that as you see fit. She’s pretty busy because I’ve put her in charge of the inquiry into the deaths at the hospital, which will link into the Cragg inquiry, so you’ll have to balance it out somehow. That’s the deal.’

  ‘Does Jane know about this yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Henry guffawed and wazzed another large pebble, speechless at the way FB operated. If anyone was the loose cannon, it was he. Compared to him, Henry was a boring, by-the-book, regulation poodle.

  ‘What’s your answer?’

  ‘What if Mrs Wickson doesn’t want me back?’

  ‘Then we’re back to scenario one: you’re suspended and about to lose your job and most of a big, fat pension.’

  ‘How very persuasive you are in your arguments, FB,’ Henry shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

  Seven

  Henry needed another shot of caffeine. He could have done with something stronger but it was too early and he had made it a point to steer clear of the bottle throughout the stressor of suspension and wasn’t going to start now, even though his stress levels were pretty high on the Richter scale. He felt he had somehow backed himself into a trap, accidentally maybe, but here he was, as his favourite rock band the Rolling Stones put it, ‘Between a Rock and a Hard Place.’

  He was alone in the White Café now. He had declined the offer of a lift from FB. He needed some time to get his thoughts together and though it was a good six-mile journey home, he told them he would find
his own way there.

  This time he ordered a black coffee, strong and filtered. He’d had enough of the milky stuff. It had taken him to a place he did not want to go to. He leaned his elbows on the glass-topped table, his hands supporting his chin as he looked out across the sand dunes to the distant sea.

  He breathed in deep. Exhaled slowly.

  Trapped by accident, he thought. Not my fault. Wrong time, wrong place. But he was under no illusions that he did not have any choice in the matter now. FB was a totally ruthless operator and Henry knew that without him on his side he would be completely stuffed at the discipline hearing. FB could make or break him and if he, Henry, did not help out, he would be snapped like a twig in a forest, a twig that no one would hear breaking.

  What niggled him was that Karl Donaldson had put the idea into FB’s noggin. FB had obviously tweaked it and then used it for his own ends. Karl would not have seen that side of things. It was something that Henry felt he would have to address with his American friend. Henry gave a short, inner laugh. Despite Donaldson’s undoubted ability as an FBI field agent and crime-fighter, he was a little naïve in the ways of the world sometimes. Maybe that was a trait of all Americans.

  In the meantime, Henry had to work out how to get back into the Wickson family home fairly unobtrusively at the same time as a massive policing operation was intruding on them in a big way. One thing Henry knew for sure was that he did not want to know where the cops were up to with their inquiries. His experience as an undercover cop was that it was imperative not to know, then it was impossible to trip yourself up by revealing a snippet of information which you had no right to know, one which might alert a switched-on subject. He had to distance himself from the police, otherwise his credibility with the Wicksons could be jeopardized.

  He speculated about how best to go about his assignment. The thoughts made him wonder what it would be like to be a private investigator, acting alone all the time. Henry was used to having an organization of 5,000 people behind him. A Human Resources Department (or ‘Human Remains’ as cops often referred to it), an intelligence unit, cops with guns, dogs and lots of equipment, a Training Centre, numerous support departments – a bloody big, complex piece of human machinery to back him up, or to roll on without him. It worked both ways.