Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘No reason,’ Henry said, remembering how he had blasted a huge hole in Verner’s shoulder that had almost removed the top right-hand quarter of his torso. He leaned back. ‘What have you got for me, master detective?’

  ‘Listen, I know you nicked my gun off me, an’ all, but I want you to know I been through a lot of pain to get this gen, talked to a lot of heavy dudes who were very suspicious of me, so before I tell you, I want some guaranteed dosh. A ton’ll do.’

  Henry almost choked on his Stella.

  ‘You are in no position to bargain, Troy. That gun and those tabs are enough to send you down, lad, so don’t fuck with me.’

  ‘OK, just thought I’d give it a go,’ he admitted through his misshapen teeth.

  ‘Twat,’ sighed Henry, though not surprised. ‘Come on, speak.’

  Costain looked up to the sky, amassing his thoughts and putting them in order. ‘Andy Turner disappeared just over two years ago, hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘On the day he disappeared he half-killed a dealer called Goldy who was trespassing on his patch. The only other thing I could find out was that on that same day he had a meet with a guy to discuss a deal.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘He was a Spaniard, apparently some big shot on the international scene. Supposedly Turner had big plans to expand.’

  ‘Who was the guy?’ Henry persisted.

  ‘Henry, I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue, OK, other than he might’ve been called Lopez? But that’s all any fucker knows. All I know for certain is that Turner really hurt this dealer in Crumpsall – check your records, I’m sure you’ll find out who and when – and then he got dropped off at some Indian restaurant in Rusholme . . . then was never seen again.’

  ‘You’ve been a big help,’ Henry said sarcastically. ‘You spoke to heavy dudes to get this information, did you?’

  ‘Yeah, I did actually,’ snarled Costain. ‘Now I’ve done my bit . . . what about my merchandise?’

  ‘The gun and the drugs?’ Costain stayed tight-lipped. ‘Got rid of them for you. Nasty, nasty things.’

  ‘You got rid of ’em? You mean you haven’t got ’em any more?’ Henry shook his head. ‘I might as well have not told you anything,’ Costain protested. ‘I got all that information thinking I was being blackmailed and you’d already dumped the gear?’

  ‘Cruel world, innit, Troy?’

  Costain was glad to get out of Henry’s company and head back to his seedy haunts in Blackpool. Henry was happy to see him go, leaving him alone in the pub to mull over what had been said. The big question in his mind was: how many Spaniards were operating in Britain? Henry knew there were a few, but they were pretty rare commodities. So who was the Spaniard that Andy Turner had met on that night, two years earlier by the name of Lopez?

  What Costain’s meagre information did do was confirm to Henry that Jo Coniston and her partner had latched on to Turner in Rusholme and that their disappearance was definitely connected to this.

  He walked back into the pub and ordered an espresso. He was feeling cold and needed a shot of something hot and black. He took the drink outside, shivering slightly. Using his mobile – a new one, with a new battery – he called Karl Donaldson on his mobile down in London.

  ‘Henry – how are you?’

  ‘I guess you have a pretty good idea how I am if you’re still in contact with the cops up here.’

  ‘Yeah, true. You had a rough time again.’

  ‘Goes with the territory. Karl, can I be cheeky?’

  ‘Cheeky? Why yes, pal. Why change the habit of a life time?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  It was just before seven o’clock the following evening in Henry’s home. He and Kate were sitting at the dining table, all the dinner things between them, each fingering the stem of a wine glass. They had just eaten with both daughters, a rare but pleasant occurrence, who had both vamoosed to leave the washing-up to their parents. Thank heavens for the dishwasher, Henry thought.

  ‘That was good, the whole family,’ Henry observed. He had made the meal and they had all said how much they enjoyed it.

  ‘We should do it more often.’

  ‘We’d have to chain the girls down.’ They smiled at each other. ‘I love you, y’know,’ he told her, then shook his head as he thought bitterly of the bad times he had put her through over the years. And yet, here they were, still together. Nothing short of a miracle, he thought. She had stayed with him through thick ’n’ thin, all his idiotic times, and though she had wavered once or twice (only to be expected), she’d clung on and been there for him, even through the divorce.

  Henry opened his mouth to ask something very important, but the sound of the doorbell kept him silent.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Wearily he got to his feet.

  He was surprised to see Tara Wickson there. She looked almost back to normal, though on close inspection her eyes were tired and drawn underneath the make-up. She was wearing a hat, cocked at an angle, covering her shaved head.

  ‘Could I speak to you?’

  Henry looked beyond her. A Jaguar was parked up on the road. Charlotte was in the back seat. Behind the wheel was the man Henry had seen Tara meet at the Hilton Hotel. Her lover.

  ‘Yes, do you want to come in? What about . . . ?’ He pointed to the car.

  ‘They’ll wait.’

  ‘OK.’

  Henry led her into the house and introduced her to Kate, who greeted her warmly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Christie, but could I just have Henry’s ear for a few minutes?’

  ‘Be my guest. Can I get you anything?’

  Tara refused politely. Henry took her into the conservatory, pulling the patio door closed behind them. She sat on the settee, Henry opposite on a chair.

  ‘First of all I want to say I’m sorry for dragging you into this whole, sorry mess. I should never have asked you.’

  ‘What’s done is done. You weren’t to know how it would escalate.’

  She inspected her nails. Henry could tell she was far from recovered and that she was still close to the edge – a position he knew well, but one he had decided to avoid in future. ‘I suppose it’s only right that you know all the ins and outs of things, as far as I know them.’

  ‘I am curious. That’s the detective in me, but you don’t have to tell me anything you’d rather I did not know. I probably know more than you think, anyway.’

  ‘I think it’s only right and proper – after all, you nearly got killed twice,’ she said and took a deep, thoughtful breath. ‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘a potted history: John and I married young, too young, both of us pretty immature, even though we believed different.’

  ‘I can relate to that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she shrugged sadly, ‘he was just starting out in business and I wanted to be a homemaker. He spent all his waking hours dedicated to being a success. I was neglected day in, day out, or so it seemed. I fell into an affair with a man who made me feel good about myself, something John could never do. Unfortunately I got pregnant to him. I convinced John it was his, although how he fell for that I really don’t know. The marriage continued. Charlotte’s birth brought us closer together for a time, but then business took over again. I decided to make the best of a bad job . . . We had money, cars, houses, so I lived a material life and brought Charlotte up pretty much single-handed.’

  Tara sniffed back some tears, pulled herself together.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ Her voice was frail. ‘He never knew Charlotte wasn’t his. It was a well-kept secret.’

  ‘Until recently.’

  Tara nodded. ‘Our relationship was increasingly bad. I knew things weren’t right with the business, but I never took much notice of that side of things. What he did to make money didn’t actually interest me, that’s why I didn’t know what he was up to. I just knew that he was at his limit financially and he was desperate and now I know
he resorted to desperate measures to get back on line. I still don’t know the details, only that some very iffy-looking characters started turning up to see him.’

  ‘He was involved with the Mafia,’ Henry blurted, regretting it immediately.

  Tara’s face dropped. ‘My God,’ she uttered. ‘They bailed him out?’

  ‘Yeah – and then they had him by the short and curlies. He tried to break free, but they wouldn’t let him go. He was far too useful for them. His engineering import business was ideal for drugs trafficking – importing crushers, then building them here. Lots of places to secrete drugs in the crates. His fuel laundering gave big profits that they wanted a percentage of – and, above all, he was on the periphery of the regeneration of Blackpool. If it came to fruition, he could have made over fifty million. They wanted a piece of that, too.’

  ‘My God,’ she said again. ‘Anyway, it was obvious the whole thing was getting to him and to me and we argued and argued until, one day, during a ferocious row, I blurted it out about Charlotte . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Trouble was, she was listening in at the time.’

  ‘Ah,’ Henry said knowingly. Kids and ears and doors.

  ‘I’ve spent the last few months trying to keep her on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Hence the horses?’

  ‘She’s always been into them, but she started drifting . . . started doing rebellious teenage stuff, times two. The horses kept her normal, that’s why we started going for lessons again. It gave her focus. That’s how she met Leanne, who she adores by the way, and that’s how I met you.’

  ‘And then the horses started being mutilated?’

  ‘I even thought it could have been Charlotte doing it.’ Tara closed her eyes painfully and winced.

  ‘How’s the head?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Very, very sore. My brain’s still a bit woozy,’ she said. ‘On the night they burned down, I caught her coming back from the stables. She said she was just checking on Chopin. I’m still not sure if I believe her. Was she mutilating the horses in response to what was happening to her?’ Tara looked desperate for an answer.

  ‘No,’ said Henry firmly, remembering Verner’s boastful admission. ‘She wouldn’t hurt a horse. I saw her with one the day that Coulton threw me off your property. What it was,’ he said, ‘was the Mob putting pressure on John. You’ve read The Godfather, seen the film? They like hurting horses. Did John like horses?’

  ‘He was passionate about them. It was the only thing he cared about outside work. I wish he’d been half as passionate about me,’ Tara said wistfully.

  ‘They probably knew that. They hit people where it hurts them.’

  ‘And it was destroying Charlotte, too, finding horses mutilated. That and the discovery that the man she thought was her father wasn’t sent her into orbit. I feel like I’ve failed her very badly.’

  ‘I don’t think you have. You love her, she knows that and she’ll be fine,’ Henry said reassuringly. ‘Children are very resilient.’

  ‘Only because we adults oblige them to be.’

  It was a sentence spoken with passion and Henry had to agree. It was the actions of adults that dragged kids along in their wake. He should know. His stupidity in the past must have had deep and long-lasting effects on his two girls. He was intelligent enough to know that, even though they appeared to be straight-down-the-line kids now, there would be scars there somewhere.

  ‘But I do think we’ll be OK,’ Tara said resolutely. ‘I’ll make damn sure we will be.’

  ‘Good,’ Henry said.

  Tara chewed on her bottom lip, held Henry’s gaze and said, ‘Why did you lie for me, Henry?’

  He shifted. His neck reddened and his bottom tightened. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure myself.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. I would have faced what I did, answered to the law.’

  ‘I know . . . and my instincts as a police officer told me you should be punished for what you did, but I thought you’d suffered enough. Justice, to me, is a peculiar creature. It’s not black, it’s not white, it’s just a murky grey, and as far as I’m concerned, justice is done . . . and it’s something I’ll have to deal with, so don’t press me on it.’ He paused. ‘Not a particularly good explanation, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I won’t push you, then.’ She leaned forward and touched his cheek with her fingertips. ‘Thank you, Henry Christie. I believe you saved my life.’

  ‘I’d love to say it was a pleasure.’

  They both laughed and the moment lightened.

  ‘Immediate plans?’

  ‘Getting away from it all, just for a couple of weeks. I know we’ll have to come back to it, but I think we need a break. My friend has a villa on Lanzarote. We’ll chill out and burn brown, I reckon.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ He hesitated. ‘Is that guy in the car Charlotte’s father?’ Tara nodded. ‘Does she know?’

  ‘One thing at a time, Henry. If ever. At the moment he’s just a friend, OK?’

  At the door Henry waved them away. Charlotte looked back, waving madly at him until the Jaguar turned out of sight. As Henry closed the door, the house phone started to ring. It was answered by Kate.

  ‘For you,’ she said, holding the receiver out, a disapproving look on her face.

  ‘Henry? It’s me, your Chief Constable,’ FB’s voice machine-gunned down the line. ‘Seven a.m. – my office – headquarters – tomorrow morning, please.’

  ‘Seven . . . ?’

  ‘Yes – I start that early to keep the bastards on their toes. Be there.’ He hung up.

  Henry slowly replaced the phone on the hook with a feeling of horror. ‘Shithead,’ he said.

  At 6.50 a.m. next morning Headquarters was quiet, it being a place where, generally, nobody started work before eight. He had no trouble parking Kate’s car at the front of the building, having been allowed access on to the campus through the security barriers with no fuss whatsoever, which surprised him somewhat. That had felt rather good, like old times. He looked across the playing fields to the new major-crime unit building – known as the Pavilion as it had been constructed on the site of the old cricket pavilion – behind which was the block that housed the SIO team. Henry’s heart juddered as he thought he would dearly have liked to have a job in either of the buildings. Fat chance of that, he thought.

  He went into HQ, was given a visitor’s badge to pin on, and made his way up to the Chief Constable’s office on the quiet middle floor. He knocked on the outer door and entered the secretary’s office, as it was impossible walk straight into the Chief’s office from the corridor these days. In times gone by, not very long ago, each chief officer had their secretary and that was it. Now there were desks for an assorted bunch of people as the police service desperately tried to modernize. The Chief now had a secretary, a staff officer, an assistant to the staff officer and an assortment of administrative staff. A clan of people ministering to his every whim.

  The Chief’s staff officer, a chief inspector called Ray Collier, who Henry knew reasonably well, was already at his desk, obviously already cute to the new bosses’ working arrangements. He looked up when Henry came in and gave him a pleasant nod. ‘Go straight in, Henry,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Cheers, Ray.’ How could anyone who worked directly for FB seem so happy? Henry wondered.

  Henry bore left to the Chief’s office, finding the door propped open and FB inside behind his desk. He knocked and stood on the threshold.

  FB did not look up from his paperwork. ‘Come in, shut the door, grab a coffee and siddown.’

  Not surprised by this manner, Henry did as bid, taking a seat opposite the wide, leather-topped desk, more suited to a Victorian industrialist than a 21st-century police chief. He had poured himself a coffee from the filter machine, no milk. He sipped it, his hand shaking ever so slightly, either from nerves or the alcohol he had imbibed the night before. He could not be sure.

  FB continued to read some important document or other and H
enry almost chuckled. FB’s psychological games continue, he thought.

  Git.

  Finally he looked up as though Henry’s presence was a surprise.

  ‘Good news or bad news?’ he said.

  ‘Er . . .’ Henry hesitated.

  ‘I’ll start with the good news,’ FB decided for him. ‘As from Monday you’re officially reinstated and disciplinary proceedings have been dispensed with.’

  Henry was gobsmacked. He quickly put the coffee down on FB’s desk before he spilled it.

  ‘Pick that up,’ FB said, glaring. ‘It’ll mark the wood.’

  ‘S . . . sorry,’ Henry was bewildered. He picked up the mug and held it with both hands. ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve spent the last two days, pretty much, reviewing the case as I promised and got to the bottom of it. I’ve spoken to several people at length, not least Detective Chief Superintendent Bernie flaming Fleming, who I put the screws on.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Basically he stitched you up to save his own sorry hide, didn’t he?’

  ‘I would say that – but I’m biased.’

  ‘And so would I, actually, having looked at the balance of probabilities. I weedled it out of the miserable little toad that you had requested a full-blown firearms operation and he turned it down. That’s why you did what you did, isn’t it?’

  Henry nodded, but kept quiet. He was not one to look a gift horse in the gob.

  ‘Anyway, big sods, little sods, you’re back on Monday and he’s decided to retire.’ FB gave him a leerful smile.

  ‘So he really is going to suffer?’ Henry could not help but blurt sarcastically, thinking that a chief super’s pension was worth about twenty-five grand a year with a lump sum of about £150,000.

  ‘Just be thankful I’m batting for you, Henry. You just don’t appreciate me, do you? Anyway – but – and it is a big BUT, I don’t have any sway at all in the trial and inquest that’re coming up, so expect a very rough ride there, Henry. You were suspended because you disobeyed a lawful order and your judgement was called to account, so don’t expect any defence lawyers to give you an easy time.’