by Nick Oldham
‘He could be in there, then,’ McClure said. ‘In which case we could do with an armed back-up.’
‘He won’t be there,’ Donaldson said with certainty. ‘And anyway, you gotta gun. Don’t be a cissy.’
McClure paused, then made a decision. He nodded and turned to the manager. ‘Give us a pass key to the room, please.’
The corridor was quiet and empty. A laundry basket on wheels was part-way along it, the room itself three quarters of the way down. The two detectives edged slowly along. McClure held his gun in his hand. Sweat beads began to form on his head.
Donaldson grinned. ‘You ever used that thing in anger?’
‘Never even drawn it outside a range,’ McClure whispered.
‘Thought as much.’
The men stood on either side of the door. They eyed each other for a moment.
Donaldson knocked loudly and shouted, ‘Good morning. Maid service.’
There was no response.
Donaldson inserted the pass key, pulled the handle down and pushed. The door swung gently open. There was nothing to see. ‘Armed police! Come on out with your hands up,’ McClure barked.
Nothing. He repeated the order. Still nothing.
In one swift movement, gun held in the classic two-handed shooting grip, he twisted into the short hallway, low, fast, his breathing controlled, but heart beating like a demented drum machine. Keeping low, he almost danced to where the short hallway widened out into the bedroom proper - where he exposed himself fully for the first time.
He expected a bullet in the head. It never came. The room was empty. He beckoned Donaldson in.
The American sauntered up behind him. ‘Very good. You move well.’
‘Thank you. Let’s check out the bathroom before we get too cocky,’ said McClure shakily.
It was empty.
‘He booked in and fucked off when he saw us, I guess,’ Donaldson mused.
McClure reholstered his weapon. ‘I’ll tell the manager to seal off this room until we can get Scenes of Crime to do it.’
Thirty minutes later they accosted Karen Wilde in the lift at Preston police station.
As they followed her down the corridor to her office, Donaldson said, ‘What a bitch,’ under his breath.
McClure merely raised his eyebrows.
‘I’d like to fuck her though,’ he added without moving his lips, eyes glued to her rear.
‘Join the queue,’ McClure retorted.
‘Right, what’ve you got for me?’ Karen said when they reached her office. She sat at the desk.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector McClure from Greater Manchester’s Serious Crime Squad and-’
‘I’m Special Agent Donaldson, Karl Donaldson, FBI, based in Miami, Florida, in the United States of America.’
‘I’m fully aware of the location of Florida. It’s where Mickey Mouse lives, I believe.’
Both men shook her hand, Donaldson with a grave, piss-taking formality. ‘And may I add what a pleasure it is to meet ya’ll, ma’am?’
‘You can add what you damn well like. Just get on with it - I’m busy.’
McClure opened his mouth but Donaldson cut in. ‘Allow me ... I’ll try and sum it up in a nutshell.’
‘Do try,’ said Karen thinly, resting her chin on her thumb and forefinger.
‘I work in the Organised Crime Department of the FBI and for the last five years me and my partner have been trying to nail a mobster called Corelli. Very rich guy, into anything illegal you care to mention - drugs, prostitution, fraud... Anyway, we’ve been pretty unsuccessful.
‘This guy Corelli has loads of business partners. One of them is a young punk called Danny Carver. Carver has been linked to Corelli for about three years. Suspected of being involved in some major stuff. I mean mega-shit - gun-running, drugs, massive commodity frauds, the whole caboodle. Eventually, Carver gets pissed because he does a lot of legwork but only gets a small percentage of the profit. So what does he do?’
‘Do tell,’ said Karen.
‘Cuts loose and starts doin’ deals himself without the boss but using his contacts. Cheeky, huh? Corelli ain’t happy but he lives with it until Carver schmoozes into a deal that Corelli himself is actually tryin’ to put together with a drug baron in Manchester, guy called Brown. Corelli is that far’ - here Donaldson laid his palms together - ‘from doin’ business when Carver steps in and pulls the rug out from under him then sets up the same deal with Brown but with bigger percentages all round.’
‘What does this deal involve?’
‘Importing crack into the UK. Basically taking over the British market,’ intercut McClure. ‘Big money.’
‘Millions,’ affirmed Donaldson. ‘Money that Corelli wasn’t happy losing. The rumour is that Corelli put out a contract on Carver - but I stress it’s only a rumour.’
Karen checked her watch impatiently.
‘What we intended to do,’ Donaldson said hurriedly, ‘was to nail Carver, which wouldn’t have been too difficult because he’s a sloppy operator. Then we’d promise him immunity from prosecution, a new life, new I.D. - y’know, full-blown witness protection - in exchange for him testifying against Corelli. Might’ve worked,’ he mused.
‘Anyway,’ he concluded, ‘we fixed up this transatlantic cooperation exercise between the FBI and the Greater Manchester police - with the blessing from your Home Office. . . and it was all going well until yesterday. Carver was –’
‘What happened yesterday?’ Karen interrupted.
McClure took over. ‘We’d had Carver and Brown under obs for a couple of weeks. We knew they’d holed up in an hotel in Lancaster with a couple of call girls. It was our intention to pick up their tail yesterday morning, but we were late arriving at the hotel because we got snarled up in motorway roadworks. By then, both of them had gone.’
‘How careless,’ sneered Karen. ‘This is very interesting, but what has it got to do with me?’
‘According to the management,’ said Donaldson, ‘Carver had left in a Daimler with one of the hookers and Brown had gone off in a Beemer with the other girl.’
‘A Beemer - what’s that?’
‘Sorry - a BMW,’ explained Donaldson. ‘Next thing we know - BOOM! Carver has a bomb up his ass.’
‘Hang on. So you’re saying that the car that blew up causing the M6 tragedy, had Danny Carver in it - and you might know who killed him and why?’
‘Not exactly,’ Donaldson stressed. ‘I am saying that Carver was in the Daimler. I’m surmising that he was killed by a hit man who works for Corelli, because he’d usurped him on a big business deal.’
‘How can you be sure that this Danny Carver was in the Daimler? There’s nothing identifiable left in the car. It’s not even recognisably a Daimler. ‘
‘Just adding up the scores on the doors,’ said McClure.
‘Talk evidence,’ Karen insisted.
‘OK,’ said Donaldson. ‘Firstly we know that Carver was booked on a flight to Miami from Manchester yesterday. He didn’t get on it - we checked.
‘Secondly we have a video tape here from the hotel’ - he held up the cassette - ‘which shows Danny Carver getting into a Daimler with a girl and being driven away. We’ve watched your tapes of the explosion from the freeway camera and it looks like the same model of Daimler. I’ll bet when your forensic team get their results together they’ll find the remains of three bodies.’
‘I am definitely intrigued,’ said Karen, beginning to squirm a little with excitement.
Donaldson went on, ‘I saw a man in the hotel lobby yesterday who I recognise as having some Corelli connection - but the great thing is that the hotel video cameras pick him up arriving in a car, parking it, walking past Carver’s limo and bending down next to it.’
‘Really!’ exclaimed Karen, barely suppressing her glee. ‘Can you see exactly what he did?’
‘No, because the film is a bit blurred. It needs enhancing. However, we can see that his suitcase drops open next to
the car. He bends down to pick his clothes up and quickly reaches under the limo.’ This was said by McClure. ‘Good stuff, eh?’
Fucking bloody ace, Karen thought, but didn’t allow herself to smile.
‘Add to that the rumour about the contract,’ said Donaldson, ‘and I think we’re onto something, don’t you?’
‘Possibly,’ Karen said.
‘Once you get a Technical Support Unit to enhance the number plate from the motorway video we’ll know for sure if it was Carver’s Daimler or not.’
‘I already have the number,’ Karen said triumphantly, and read it out aloud from her notes.
‘That’s the one!’ McClure confirmed. ‘If TSU can do the same for the hotel video and lift the registered number from this guy’s car, we could be well on our way.’
‘And all I have to do is catch him,’ Karen said. She looked expectantly at Donaldson. ‘So, what’s the guy’s name?’
‘That’s the problem. I don’t know. There is another problem too. I believe he’s only fulfilled part of his contract. If we don’t get him quick, he’ll kill again.’
In spite of her tardy entrance to an already delayed briefing, Karen Wilde handled the start of her first murder investigation with the assurance of a seasoned professional.
She stepped onto a raised platform at one end of the gym and called for quiet.
Within minutes she had them eating out of her hand. The irritability of the officers soon evaporated as she directed her considerable public-speaking skills at them. She concluded by naming the pairings of detectives and asking them to see the Allocator for their tasks in half an hour.
The investigation was underway at last.
Before leaving the platform she said, ‘Is DS Christie here?’
‘Yes, ma’ am,’ he said from the back of the room.
‘My office - ten minutes,’ she clipped and stepped down.
‘Lucky you,’ someone said to Henry.
‘Why?’
‘Spanking.’
Henry chuckled.
He knocked on the office door and entered. Karen was sitting behind her desk reading the initial pathology and forensic reports.
‘Sit down,’ she said, briefly looking up then returning her attention to the paperwork.
He sat on a chair opposite her and waited, wondering what job he was going to be given. He speculated. Must be interesting if she was giving it to him personally.
Eventually she stacked the papers neatly in front of her and looked at Henry.
‘DS Christie,’ she said at length.
‘Yes.’
‘How are you? You look awful, if you don’t mind me saying.’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t feel too bad, just sore. Can’t wait to get going with this, though.’
She frowned. ‘Hm,’ she said.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong here.
There was a pause, then: ‘Can you tell me how it is that within the space of a few minutes yesterday you performed an action which reflected great credit on the force, followed by one which has brought us equal public disgrace?’
Henry’s mouth sagged open. He clamped it shut with a clash of his teeth.
‘Your action at the scene of the bombing in trying to rescue those children was commendable. Shortly afterwards, in an incident which was broadcast on nationwide TV, you threw a reporter down the riverbank. What do you have to say?’
Flabbergasted, Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well, I can tell you that an official complaint has been made by the BBC. It alleges assault, abuse of authority, discreditable conduct and such-like. Here. . .’ She handed him a form.
It was the notorious Form 14, a Discipline and Complaints form. On it were set out the allegations in detail.
Karen cautioned Henry and asked him if he had anything to say. He shook his head sadly, on the verge of tears.
‘D and C will be looking into it,’ Karen said. ‘In the meantime you can return to your normal duty.’
‘I’m not on the investigation then?’
‘No - you’re too personally involved. It wouldn’t be right, for your sake. Before you go, though, would you write out a detailed statement about what happened yesterday and submit it to the statement reader. OK, that’s all.’
Chapter Five
Hinksman drove his hired Mondeo east across the county to Rossendale, an area of high moorland, deep valleys and towns clinging precariously to the hillsides like clusters of weather-beaten barnacles. He was making for a remote farmhouse situated high above Bacup which had fantastic panoramic views across the Tops towards the ugly sprawl of Greater Manchester in the south.
The house had been renovated and modernised and owed little to its agricultural origins. Now it was the type of house a wealthy accountant or stockbroker might have bought as a place in the country: private, exclusive, yet within commuting distance of work.
Hinksman looked around admiringly as he drove up the steep, winding track to the house.
He’d been there only four days previously. He’d hoped that a return would be unnecessary but ... such is life.
He stopped at the large wrought-iron gates and pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Yes?’ came a metallic voice.
‘We met last week,’ Hinksman said. He glanced up whilst talking and waved at the camera discreetly lodged in the branches of a tall tree. ‘You sold me some almonds.’ The word ‘almonds’ referred to the smell given off by Semtex.
‘I thought we’d finished our business.’
‘You were wrong,’ said Hinksman.
He took his finger off the button and returned to the Mondeo. He’d left the engine running.
After a short delay the gates swung silently open. He nosed the car up the drive, and came to a halt on the gravel at the front of the house. He got out and leaned on the bonnet of the car for a moment, admiring the view and the other two cars parked there, a Bentley and a Ferrari. I’ll treat myself to a Ferrari one day, he thought. It’s a real good idea. Me and Donny blasting down the Keys together. Sure thing! The picture in his mind’s eye made him smile again.
Footsteps crunched behind him. The man who was walking towards him from the house was about fifty, six feet tall and upright like the ex-soldier he was. Hinksman knew him only as Gaskell. He was an arms dealer, legit and properly registered with the local cops.
‘You shouldn’t have come here again,’ said Gaskell, clearly worried. ‘It’s far too risky, and as far as I’m concerned, my business with you is concluded. I did a favour for Corelli because he’d done one for me many years ago; now we’re even. I don’t particularly want to be associated with someone who indiscriminately kills women and children.’
‘But you are associated, buddy,’ replied Hinksman. ‘You gave me the explosive and the detonator. You’re in it just as deep as I am – if I choose to make it that way.’
Gaskell looked hard at Hinksman, who returned the stare with the glimmer of a smile.
‘But all those people!’ Gaskell said, pained.
‘Unfortunate, but it happens. Casualties of war.’ Hinksman shrugged. He did not care.
Gaskell shook his head bitterly. ‘I knew you were an evil bastard when I first saw you.’
‘I do a job, that’s all.’
‘What do you want this time?’ Gaskell asked after a pause, resigned to his fate. He knew he was trapped.
‘Handgun. And ammunition.’
Gaskell sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’
He led Hinksman through the house to a study on the ground floor at the rear. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. A plush desk with an inlaid leather top was situated in the bay window; on it was a PC - keyboard, monitor and printer, very state of the art. It hummed quietly. On one of the book-shelves was a TV which gave a split screen recording from cameras which protected the house. There were views of the front and rear. A VCR whirred dully underneath the TV.
Hinksman hadn’t been
here before. Their last transaction had taken place outside.
‘Very nice,’ he admitted.
Gaskell made no reply. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a set of keys. He indicated for Hinksman to follow him.
Gaskell opened a door in the kitchen and went down a flight of steps. There was another door in the basement, this of steel construction with high quality locks. In one corner of the door was a stamp from one of the country’s leading safe manufacturers.
Gaskell unlocked it and pushed it silently open. He reached inside and flicked a light switch.
Twenty metres away two soldiers with rifles appeared out of the gloom, charging noiselessly towards them.
Hinksman was impressed. ‘Your very own firing range.’
‘Yes,’ said Gaskell. ‘Inspected and certified by the Army and police. I test a lot of small-arms down here. I have a bigger range at the warehouse.’
He smacked a button on the wall. The targets at the end of the range clattered out of sight. The soldiers were charging no more.
Hinksman wandered down the range as Gaskell opened a steel cabinet in the safe area, behind the firing line.
He took another key out of this cabinet and bent down to pull back the carpet in the corner of the range, revealing a floor-safe. This he opened and heaved the lid off like removing a manhole cover. He drew out a heavy holdall which he placed with a thud on a table. He unzipped it. Inside was a collection of handguns - revolvers and pistols.
By this time Hinksman had returned from his stroll down the firing range.
‘Everything in here is untraceable,’ Gaskell told him. ‘And nothing has been used in a crime before.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Gaskell pulled out four guns, two revolvers, two pistols, and laid them side by side on the table for Hinksman to inspect. ‘All cleaned and oiled. Here’ - he offered Hinksman a pair of plastic disposable gloves from a box.
Hinksman shook his head, declining.
‘I like to feel a gun,’ he said.
He picked up a model 469 9mm Smith & Wesson autoloading pistol with a 12-shot magazine which he slid out. Empty.