by Nick Oldham
At a public payphone on the hospital, FB called the Chief Constable’s home number to give him the good news. Mrs August answered. The Chief wasn’t there. She’d expected him hours ago. FB thanked her and said he’d try later. He looked up another number in his Filofax and thought, I wonder. . .
Donaldson poured out two cups of instant coffee when he heard Karen coming down the stairs. She had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes and spent a further twenty in her bedroom.
Her eyes were puffed up and swollen; a combination of being slapped and crying.
Donaldson caught his breath when he saw her. Anger welled up in him and all he wanted to do was exact some form of revenge.
He handed one of the cups to her. She thanked him with a nod of the head and sat down on the sofa. The front room was warm, cosy and made her feel safe. Donaldson had drawn the curtains and put the gas fire on. Karen held the cup in one hand and rested it on the palm of the other, feeling the warmth of the liquid permeate through to her skin. She stared blankly at the gas flames which leapt up through imitation coals as though it was a real fire.
‘Do you want to talk?’ Donaldson asked. ‘I don’t mind listening,’ he said gently.
A tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. ‘You’ve turned out very sweet. I didn’t like you at first.’
‘The feeling was mutual,’ he admitted.
She sighed, took a sip of her coffee. ‘I have a very bad reputation, you know. People think I’m a slut and I suppose to some degree they’re right. But I’ve only ever been a slut as far as this job is concerned. I wanted to go as far as I possibly could, I wanted to get to ACPO rank, but I realised very quickly it was an uphill struggle in a man’s world and that I would simply have to take them on at their own game if I was going to get anywhere.
‘They talk about equal opportunity and equality of the sexes, but it’s all lip service. If you’re a woman it’s twice as hard because you’re always up against old-fashioned ideas and old-fashioned men - no matter how young or trendy they are. Ever heard of canteen culture? It rules the job here, don’t know what it’s like in America. This must be one of the most out-dated, slow organisations in existence, the police. D’you know how often I’ve had my bum smacked or my breasts tweaked? D’you know how often I’ve been told to get my pretty little backside up them stairs and put the kettle on?’ She shook her head in wonderment.
‘People will tell you that I’ve slept with whoever needed to be slept with to get where I am today. Those are the rumours. Ever heard of “Rumour Control”? It exists in the police. And do you know exactly how many people I’ve slept with, to get where I am today, Karl?’
‘No,’ he said patiently.
‘Not a one,’ she said. ‘I’ll admit I’ve schemed and manipulated and flirted and played people off against each other - but I haven’t slept with anyone. I’ve worked damn hard, studied damn hard and put myself out for the sake of advancement, but I haven’t slept with anyone ... with one exception. The man at the top. Dave August. Our beloved leader.’
She paused, tucked her dressing-gown tightly around her legs. ‘Dave August was different. I got my job as his Staff Officer fair and square. I had the qualifications: the degree, Bramshill, the Media Studies courses. . . It was only after that we fell in love. Or at least I fell in love with him.
‘He’s married. Wife’s a stunner for her age ... and he’s got two teenage sons. He said he’d leave her for me. I believed him. Same old stupid story, I suppose. Naive mistress. . . I’ve been married twice myself, no offspring though. Both marriages were a joke. Neither could hack being the husband of a career lady. I promised myself never to get involved again, but then along comes doe-eyed Dave August. He wanted to get on, I wanted to get on, so I decided to help him so that he could help me in return. Was that so wrong? Helping someone I loved?’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Donaldson.
‘I groomed him to be good on TV. The camera loves him now, you know. He’s had more TV exposure than any other Chief Constable outside the Met. All down to me . . . and I’ll be honest, I did use my personal influence on him to get me on this investigation. I thought I’d stuff one up the CID. They still operate the “Token Woman” syndrome, though they’d deny it. An empire run by dinosaurs and I thought I could take it on. I should have known they’d close ranks on me in the end. God, it would have been wonderful ... and we were so close to cracking it, too. Then it all went wrong. Jack Crosby dying, FB hating me, believing all those lies about me . . . those poor policemen dying, Ken McClure - Christ, I’m so sorry about him - and then Dave believing all that poison from FB. All the men clubbing together like a wagon train in a circle, protecting themselves from the evil woman. . . and suddenly I’m the villain and Dave thinks he’s been manipulated by me, that I’ve used him. In truth, he’s the one who used me; used my skills, fucked me when he should have been at home with his wife. . . No doubt he’ll still get his Inspectorate post and I’ll be left in his wake. Oh God, it’s all so complicated.’
‘So what are you going to do about tonight?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What? You can’t do nothing! He raped you and beat up on you!’
‘Can you see me going into the local copshop and telling them their Chief Constable’s just raped me and given me a slapping? Get real, Karl. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Well, there’s something I can do - kill the fucker or at least make him eat shit.’
Karen shook her head slowly, a sad smile on her face. ‘No, you’ll do nothing of the sort, Karl. I decide what happens here. It’s my body he violated, my mind he twisted, my face he punched.’
‘At least go for a prosecution,’ Donaldson pleaded.
‘And what good would that do? He’d more than likely be acquitted. It would come out that we were having an affair. It’d just soil reputations for no good end result. I’d just be stirring it for the sake of vindictiveness. . .’
The shrill ring of the phone interrupted the words. Donaldson picked it up without thinking and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Is that Agent Donaldson?’
‘Yes, who’s that?’
‘Chief Superintendent Fanshaw-Bayley. My, my, fancy you being there. May I speak to Miss Wilde, please - that is, if she’s not too breathless. ‘
‘Fuck you,’ said Donaldson. He handed the phone across to Karen.
‘It’s that creep Fanshaw-Bayley.’
Karen took a deep breath and said in her best telephone voice, ‘Yes sir, can I help you?’
‘I suppose this is a stupid question now, but is the Chief there?’
‘No.’
‘Has he been there?’
‘Yes - about two hours ago.’
‘You have been busy. . . Oh, by the way, we’ve caught your man. Goodbye.’ He hung up.
Karen handed the phone back to Donaldson.
‘What the hell did he want?’
‘Just to rub it in,’ she said unhappily. ‘They’ve caught Hinksman.’
‘Damn!’ Donaldson hung his head. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Nothing. Get through this discipline thing then take some time off, go on holiday. Forget about promotion. Try and wangle a Chief Inspector’s post in a quiet town out in the sticks somewhere, then maybe think about the future, once I’ve got my head back on line.’
‘You shouldn’t let it rest. It’s wrong that he won’t suffer one way or the other. He needs knocking off his perch ... and I’d love to be the one to do the knocking. But if you’ve made your decision. . .’
‘I have, Karl. Thanks for your concern.’ She held out a hand and he took it. Her skin was soft and smooth. She smelled wonderful. He looked at her lovely face, now all swollen, longing to tell her how much in love he was, but this was neither the right time nor the right place.
After he’d rung home, Henry hobbled stiffly into the hospital snack bar and sat down next to FB. He felt slightly better, the pai
nkillers beginning to take effect.
‘Just what the hell is all this about?’ Henry demanded of him. ‘The M6 bomb, today’s stuff. . . What’s going on, boss?
‘I’m not all that sure,’ FB admitted. ‘For reasons you don’t have to know about, I’m a little out of touch with this investigation, but I intend to put that right from now on. Oh, did you know Jack Crosby died today too?’
‘Yes, I’d heard.’
‘One of the old school,’ FB said reminiscently.
Thank God he’s gone then, Henry thought to himself.
‘Anyway,’ said FB, slapping the table top and bringing his thoughts back to the present, ‘I know that bitch Wilde told you to take a hike, but I want you back as of now, OK? I’ll sort it with your DCI. And forget about that complaint made by the BBC - I’ll fettle that for you too. As far as I’m concerned, that bastard deserved to get thrown into the river.’
Henry nodded. ‘Thanks, boss. I would like to apologise to him at some stage, though.’
‘Whatever. ‘
‘So, do I get the opportunity to interview Hinksman?’
‘No. That would be bad practice. I’ve already assigned a team for that. What I want from you is background, so that they can go into the interview fully briefed. I need to know exactly what’s going on as soon as possible. I believe there’s some Mob connection here. I suggest you liaise with a guy called Karl Donaldson. He’s an FBI agent who was working here with Ken McClure on a related matter. Get a background to Hinksman, everything you can about him. You know what I mean. From birth onwards. I don’t have to spell it out for you. I want a report on my desk by four p.m. tomorrow. Don’t worry’ - he put up a hand to reassure Henry - ‘just a brief summary for starters; after that I want you to go into some depth. OK, Henry?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Henry.
‘Actually you don’t sound too sure. Problem?’
‘I was going to report sick.’
‘Get the fuck out of here! Don’t be a Nancy boy. You’re a detective, aren’t you? We don’t go sick, or didn’t you know? Beside which, I want you at headquarters at seven a.m. sharp tomorrow. Live interviews for local radio and Breakfast TV.’
‘You are fuckin’ joking, boss.’
‘Nope. Best bib and tucker. And be there. That’s an order. You’re a national hero, my boy.’
Just before 4 p.m. the following day, Henry Christie placed his initial summary, as requested, on FB’s desk.
‘Sir’ (he had written), ‘I have liaised with Agent Donaldson at your suggestion, as well as detectives from the Serious Crime Squad in Manchester, and I have compiled this quick report which I hope goes some way to explaining the events of the past few days. All it is, really, is a jotting down of the things I’ve learned today, plus some of my own thoughts, in no particular order. I think it makes interesting and disturbing reading.
1) The reason Agent Donaldson was in this country and working with Ken McClure (the Serious Crime Squad, Greater Manchester Police) is that he was building up a file of evidence against Danny Carver (victim of the M6 bomb). Carver was a big underworld player from Florida who had connections with a very big Mafia boss called Tony Corelli. It appears that Carver used to work for Corelli, but decided to go his own way and double-cross him by pulling off a drugs deal with a Manchester criminal called Jason Brown. Apparently Corelli had already been in negotiation with Brown, but had failed to reach agreement. Carver had seen the opportunity and done a deal himself (conservative estimate £I0 million EACH!). Donaldson’s idea was to catch Carver bang at it and use this as a lever on Carver to grass on Corelli, who he has been after for many years.
2) Corelli was upset that Carver had done the deal and there was already a rumour picked up that a contract had been put out on Carver. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to guess that if this is true, then he may have also put out a contract on Brown.
3) Hinksman is believed (now) to be the chosen hit man.
4) Hinksman is ex-Army and spent some time with the Delta Force, the US equivalent of the SAS. He is therefore highly trained in the art of killing, use of explosives, firearms, etc and is very dangerous. He has no previous convictions as such. (He was thrown out of the Army because of his liking for beating up prostitutes and was also suspected of raping and murdering a woman officer, but nothing was ever proved.) He may have been recruited by Corelli about four years ago. Now that his I.D. is known, the FBI can link him (via fingerprints and forensic) to eight other Mafia-related murders across the US involving bombs triggered by timers from pet-food dispensers. He’s one bad bastard. He can also be tied in with several murders of women (mainly prostitutes). He therefore likes killing as a profession and a hobby. He seems to have been kept very secret by Corelli, with good reason. He’s an elite killer, not your normal run-of-the-mill mobster-cum-gunman. If we can get him to talk, he will be very valuable to the FBI.
5) So Carver was the real target of the M6 bombing. It is also believed that Brown, too, may have been a target. He should have been in the car with Carver.
6) Brown, as we now know, is the one who got shot in the alley by Hinksman. He was the target. Everyone else was just in the way. I don’t yet know much about Brown, but the SCS in Manchester do. He was a big player, into many legit things such as pubs, clubs and gambling joints. He was also well into drugs and had very good connections in Manchester (where he was based), particularly in Moss Side. The deal he pulled with Carver was supposed to be for the importation of crack. But what was he doing in Blackpool? I don’t know, but I’d lay odds he’d got legit businesses there too, fronting his drugs-pushing activities. (Amusement arcades are ideal.)
7) Apparently Brown was part of a loose criminal syndicate in Manchester. His demise could well have been orchestrated by Corelli and his own pals. (How did Hinksman find him in Blackpool - inside information?) But that’s pure conjecture on my part.
8) Just a word about Corelli. He’s a Mafia godfather (Yes, they do exist!) whose sphere of operations is mainly Florida and the Caribbean. He runs an extensive criminal organisation which consists of drugs, gun running, commodity fraud, tobacco smuggling, people smuggling, prostitution and gambling. These criminal activities are fronted by highly lucrative legit businesses ranging from hotels, fast-food joints, nightclubs, building and transport companies and other leisure businesses such as deep-sea fishing trips, etc. His personal net worth cannot be accurately estimated, but he is believed to be a billionaire.
9) Having said that, most of this is purely conjecture by the FBI as Corelli has no convictions whatsoever. He once faced a murder indictment, but walked. He is continually investigated by the tax authorities, but keeps his books spick ‘n’ span. Without doubt he is the driving force behind the mayhem of the last few days.
10) We don’t know the half of what’s going on, but this international cooperation between crims worries me.
11) I’ll bet we haven’t seen the last of Corelli.
12) I don’t think we’ll ever get to the bottom of this.
13) (Unlucky for some): Prepare yourself for a crack epidemic in the north of England.
14) I’ll bet the killing hasn’t ended yet.’
Henry signed his name.
Then he went down to his car and drove home and went straight to bed, exhausted and very sore.
Chapter Thirteen
Most of Henry’s predictions began to come true as he placed the summary down on FB’s desk.
A silver-grey Bentley Mulsanne pulled up smoothly at the International Arrivals door at Manchester Airport and collected two people, a man and a woman, who had just landed on a flight from Malta.
The man was called Lenny Dakin, the woman Cathy Diamond. Dakin settled himself back in the plush upholstery and said to the driver of the Bentley, ‘Is it all over?’
The driver nodded. He wore a peaked cap, like a chauffeur, which was slashed to hide his cruel eyes. Although he also wore a uniform, he looked very uncomfortable in it. He could
only be one thing - a villain. But not as big a villain as Dakin.
‘Yes, boss, it’s over,’ said the driver. ‘With a certain degree of complication. ‘
‘Which is?’
‘The American was arrested. Bad luck really, but he’s been locked up. Got shot in the process.’
‘Badly?’
‘No.’
‘But the job was done? Carver’s dead and so is Brown?’
‘Yup,’ the driver confirmed.
‘So I’m free to trade?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the driver.
Dakin turned to Cathy Diamond. His teeth were gritted in a smile.
‘Yes,’ he hissed. She beamed at him, her eyes playing over his face. She slid a hand onto his thigh and squeezed.
‘Darling,’ she said.
They embraced victoriously, all the while Dakin keeping an eye open to judge her reaction to the news.
‘The way is clear now,’ he said, breaking off and kissing her.
‘Partnerships are just so much fucking crap.’
He reached for the car phone - the one fitted for the rear passengers - jabbed a number in and looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be morning in the States,’ he said to himself. Whilst waiting for the connection he rocked impatiently, yet remained smiling and happy.
Once the call got through there was a further delay while Corelli came to the phone. Then he was there.
‘It’s done,’ said Dakin excitedly. ‘Everything is clear. They’re both out of the game now. We can go ahead with the original deal.’
‘Good, good,’ said Corelli.
‘One hiccup though,’ said Dakin cautiously.
‘What?’ snapped Corelli.
‘Your man has been apprehended, so I’m led to believe.’
‘So you’re led to believe?’ repeated Corelli incredulously. ‘What does that mean? Do you not know what’s going on in your organisation? Has he, or hasn’t he? Do you know - or NOT?’