by Nick Oldham
‘Who made the report, officer?’ Kovaks enquired politely.
‘Anonymous caller, sir - but obviously correct. I can smell alcohol on your breath, your eyes are glazed over and you have slurred some of your words. I therefore suspect you to be drinking and driving. I am therefore requesting you to provide a breath specimen for a breathalyser test.’
‘I don’t suppose it’ll make a difference if I tell you I’m a Federal Agent?’ he asked hopefully.
‘You don’t suppose right, sir.’
Kovaks closed his eyes in despair. Bubbled by the Mafia. The perfect end to a fucking perfect day.
Chapter Fifteen
The wide-bodied jet touched down smoothly at Manchester Airport, despite the strongly gusting cross-winds. As is the norm in many airports now, the arrival was not heralded by tannoy, but merely blipped up on the numerous TV monitors dotted around the terminus.
Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson watched the plane taxi to the gate and the motorised steps be driven, rather like small, controllable dinosaurs, to the front and rear doors of the plane. The doors were heaved open and after a pause the first of the passengers began to disembark.
Donaldson held his breath.
Henry noted his tension.
Then the American said, ‘That’s him,’ and pointed. ‘The guy in the suit. He’s brought one of his goons with him.’
Henry looked through his binoculars, focused them on Corelli as he clambered down the steps at the front of the plane.
‘So that’s what a Mafia godfather looks like. Looks more like a grandfather,’ commented Henry.
‘Don’t let looks deceive you. That’s one of his strengths. People are taken in by him.’
‘But I’m well pissed off with this,’ Henry moaned. ‘He just doesn’t fit my stereotype. Isn’t life complicated?’
‘Sure is, Henry,’ Donaldson muttered bleakly.
Henry gave Donaldson a sidelong glance and wondered what was on his mind. ‘Let’s get down to Customs,’ he said, ‘and make his entry into Limey as uncomfortable as possible.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Donaldson, pleased at the prospect. ‘Pity that the only way we can get at the bastard is by getting him stopped and searched. He should be on Death Row by rights.’
They began to make their way down from the public viewing gallery.
Donaldson thought about the rushed telephone call he’d received about two hours earlier from Joe Kovaks. He’d called from the cop shop in Miami where he’d been taken following his drink-drive arrest. He’d been released after giving a blood sample which would be analysed before any court proceedings, but they wouldn’t give him his car keys back until he provided them with a negative specimen of breath. So he’d been very unhappy.
Even though the situation had been pretty tragic for Kovaks, Donaldson could barely contain his mirth at the predicament and its irony; the bare-faced cheek of the Mafia and how one quick phone call had put Kovaks’ job on the line - because the FBI had a tough policy on lawbreakers within its own ranks. Drink-driving in particular was frowned upon. Several agents had been fired because of it. But Donaldson’s amusement had waned, then turned to anger and horror when Kovaks told him about Chrissy ... and then burst into tears down the phone.
The two lawmen had already introduced themselves to Customs and the airport police. They took up a position behind screens, together with one of the airport detectives and a Customs officer, from where they could see through one-way windows into the baggage reclaim hall and both Customs channels, green and red: Nothing To Declare and Goods To Declare.
By prior arrangement two armed cops - with revolvers and MP5s on open display - had been posted to the Customs area. Not that problems were expected. Corelli wasn’t stupid. They simply wanted the godfather to feel under pressure when the uniformed Customs officers singled him out from the other passengers in order to search his luggage.
It all went according to plan.
Corelli and his aide collected their bags from the conveyor belt.
Corelli had a small sports bag, his aide a large suitcase and flight bag. They placed them on a trolley and headed to the green channel.
The Customs officer with the detectives spoke quietly into his radio. The uniformed officers in the green channel nodded at their boss’s instructions which they received via their earpieces.
Corelli and his man came into view.
The two armed cops were clearly visible.
Seconds later Corelli had been drawn to one side and directed to a long table where another Customs officer awaited them with a smile. The table was directly in front of the screen which Henry and Donaldson were behind, giving them, as planned, an excellent view of the proceedings.
Corelli and his man were smiling, as though they expected this to happen. They were patient and courteous, and carried out the requests of the Customs officer without rancour. Not once did they show irritation or annoyance.
‘He’s fuckin’ enjoying this,’ hissed Donaldson. He was the one showing irritation and annoyance. ‘I just wanna put one on him. I really do.’
‘Obviously something he’d foreseen,’ said Henry, less bothered.
He studied both men through the one-way window.
Corelli was about fifty years old and overweight. He was short and rotund, but carried his poundage quite well. His face was wide and his skin dark, betraying his Mediterranean origin. He had eyes which were lit with humour and a beguiling smile which he flashed regularly as he shared a joke or two with the Customs officers. He reminded Henry more of an accountant or bank manager - or maybe a successful salesman. He looked ordinary, decent, law-abiding, middle-aged and fat. He wouldn’t have drawn a second glance in a street.
‘Know anything about the other guy?’ Henry asked Donaldson. ‘Lots. He’s Corelli’s main bodyguard, trusted right-hand man, but not a policy adviser or anything like that. He organises Corelli’s personal protection and anti-surveillance. Name of Jamie Stanton. An ex-cop, actually - did about five years with the NYPD before he went bad. Got busted for selling drugs to fellow officers, then moved into the security business, personal protection mainly. Worked with one or two controversial businessmen and union organisers before gravitating to Corelli. I think he’s probably very good - so good that he hasn’t been tested in any situation yet, and he’s made Corelli very surveillance-conscious. We’ve wired his home twice - both times sussed and he never uses his own phone to do business, unless he can’t help it because they’re nearly always tapped. He’s also a fitness freak. Jeez’ Donaldson shook his head, ‘if he came across, it’d be gold for us, but that’s just wishful thinking. He’s dedicated to Corelli and paid very, very well.’
Henry saw that Stanton was a tough-looking man in his mid-thirties who oozed violence coupled with intelligence. A dangerous combination. He was chunky, strong-looking, with shoulders like a swimmer. He did fit the stereotype, Henry thought with relief. His eyes were watchful. His movements were those of a man accustomed to reacting quickly should the need arise, but otherwise he conserved energy, a bit like a cat. Everything was held back for that vital thrust. Yet he too was smiling and cheerful, though on closer inspection his countenance wasn’t as convincing as Corelli’s. He’d been told how to react if stopped and didn’t really like acting the pleasant man. Henry made a mental note to watch him very carefully should their paths ever cross. He hoped they wouldn’t.
The baggage search was over, the clothing and toiletries - for that’s all there was - had been replaced.
Before moving away Corelli looked past the shoulder of the Customs officer at the one-way window behind which Henry and Donaldson lurked. He gave a cheerful wave of acknowledgement. Then he and Stanton - who scowled - walked towards the arrivals hall.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ Donaldson uttered, wringing his hands in frustration.
‘Suddenly I feel very small,’ said Henry. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I don’t now think this was a good idea, to have him searched
. ‘
‘Why the fuck not? It inconvenienced him, didn’t it?’
‘And brought us down to his level, Karl,’ Henry said like the critical parent. ‘We should be better than this. It’s not as though we were likely to find anything, was it? He’d hardly have had a case full of crack, would he?’
Grudgingly Donaldson said, ‘Suppose you’re right ... but I still enjoyed it.’
‘And that’s all that matters,’ Henry said sarkily. ‘C’mon, let’s see who he meets up with.’
Out in the bustling arrivals hall they were just in time to see Corelli and Stanton being led out of the building by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
They pushed through the crowd.
When they emerged outside, all they saw was the rear end of a large, plush saloon car pulling away from the kerb. A Rolls-Royce with personalised number plates.
Donaldson cursed and fumbled for his pen and a piece of paper, hoping to get a note of the number.
‘No need,’ said Henry, laying a hand on Donaldson’s arm. ‘I know who owns it - a guy called Lenny Dakin. RCS have run surveillance on him a few times but got nowhere.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Now I know what Jason Brown was doing in Blackpool. Dakin has some business interests there. Looks like they could’ve been working together, maybe. Looks like Dakin could have set up Brown for the hit, maybe. Looks like Dakin and Corelli are now business partners...’
‘Maybe,’ the two men said in unison.
The charge of murder in English law is a very simple charge.
At 10 p.m., after a full day of interviews, a detective brought Hinksman, who was on his crutches, before the custody officer. Also present was Hinksman’s solicitor.
‘Just listen to what the officer has to say to you,’ the custody officer told Hinksman.
The detective began to speak, reading from the charge forms. ‘You are charged with the offence shown below. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. You are charged that at Blackpool in the County of Lancashire, you did murder Jason Brown. This is contrary to common law.’ The detective looked up at Hinksman. ‘Do you wish to make any reply to the charge?’
Hinksman, who had simply stared at the wall as the charge was read out, continued to do that. He acknowledged no one and refused to take his copy of the charge.
‘You’re not getting bail,’ the custody officer said, ‘because I have reasonable grounds to believe you’ll fail to appear, or that you’ll interfere with the administration of justice by intimidating witnesses if you’re released. You’ll be appearing at court tomorrow when there’ll be an application for a three-day remand in police custody to allow us to question you about many other matters. Do you understand?’
No response.
The custody officer beckoned two gaolers. ‘Take him back to his cell.’
They led him down the corridor and ushered him into a cell, slamming the door shut behind him, but leaving the inspection flap open. One of the gaolers sat down on a chair in the corridor outside the cell as it is normal procedure in Lancashire to keep all persons charged with murder under constant supervision.
In the cell Hinksman propped his crutches up and lay down on the bench-bed. The mattress was thin and covered with tough, thick plastic. He pulled a rough blanket over himself and stared at the ceiling. Two thoughts circled around in his head: escape and revenge.
Henry and Donaldson drove back to Blackpool. The American had checked out of his Manchester hotel and moved into one in the resort while he continued to work with Henry on the Hinksman case.
On the journey Henry told him all he knew about Dakin, which was precious little. He’d actually heard nothing about the man for some time and would have to check with the RCS office in Bolton about the current state of play. He seemed to have slipped quietly out of the limelight.
They arrived at Blackpool Central police station just before I0.30 p.m.
After checking the custody office to find out whether Hinksman had been charged or not, Henry invited Donaldson up to the social club which was on the top floor of the station. Donaldson accepted. Both men were eager for a drink.
They sat at the quiet bar. Henry drank lager with a whisky chaser whilst the American contented himself drinking straight out of a bottle of Bud.
Conversation drifted from topic to topic as the drinks went down. Cops all over the world find it easy to talk to each other. They discussed their careers and enjoyed exchanging a few war stories. Eventually the subject turned somehow to Chief Inspector Karen Wilde. Henry was speechless when he was told about her treatment and then her rape.
‘But you must not tell anyone,’ Donaldson insisted. ‘She wants it that way, wants to try and forget it and get on with her life.’
Henry whistled softly. ‘I see her in a whole new light now,’ he confessed. ‘I completely hated her, to be honest, but I never really considered things from her perspective. You seem to know an awful lot about her in such a short time. You soft on her?’
Donaldson coloured up and squirmed. He took a sip of his beer. ‘You could say that,’ he said with a slight trace of bitterness. ‘I’ve fallen in love with her, I think. But she doesn’t want to know - which, I suppose, is fair enough at the moment.’
‘Why have you told me all this, Karl?’ Henry asked.
‘Dunno,’ Donaldson shrugged, looking at the bubbles in his beer.
‘So much has happened over the last few days, and although it might sound a little soppy, I just needed to get some of it off my chest. I just wanna talk to somebody and you’re the nearest ... and you seem a pretty decent guy.’
‘Cheers,’ said Henry doubtfully.
Two ladies who’d been sitting at the far end of the room near the snooker tables came to the bar to buy drinks as the last orders were called. Whilst waiting, one of them turned to Henry. He looked at her and smiled, vaguely recognising her. She was very good-looking and oh, so young. About twenty. She smelled delicious.
‘You’re Henry Christie, aren’t you?’
‘Yes I am,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’
‘Police Constable Natalie Atkinson and this is Alex,’ she said, thumbing at her friend. ‘She’s a PC too. We’ve just started here from training school.’
‘Oh, very nice,’ said Henry. ‘I hope you have a good career.’
‘That’s a very nasty cut on your head,’ she said. She laid a cool finger on his forehead.
‘It is,’ he agreed. His stomach leapt at the touch.
‘You’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you?’ she asked. Her eyes were wide and bright and moist as she gazed up at him. ‘And you’ve shot a man, haven’t you?’
‘No to the first; yes to the second,’ he said modestly. Who would be corrupting whom, he wondered idly, if this went any further. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I’m not proud I shot anyone.’
‘My friend and I are going on to a nightclub. Would you and your friend like to come along?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Henry, flattered. He checked his watch. ‘What about you, Karl?’
Donaldson had picked up the gaze from Alex. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I’d like to let my hair down for an hour or two, especially after the events of the last few days.’
‘You’re an American!’ blurted Alex, sidling over to him.
Donaldson nodded. ‘He’s an FBI agent,’ Henry said.
‘Wow,’ Alex said, truly impressed.
‘So, you coming along then, or what?’ Natalie asked. ‘We’re going to the loo. It’ll give you a minute or two to make up your minds.’ The ladies excused themselves.
Henry and Donaldson eyed each other uncertainly for a fleeting moment. Both men’s faces cracked into smiles.
Henry, slightly affected by drink already, slapped his left hand onto his right bicep and jacked up his fist.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked a perplexe
d Donaldson.
‘It means I could give her one,’ said Henry dirtily.
‘You mean ...?’
‘Fuck her, I believe is the international term,’ said Henry.
‘Doesn’t mean that in the States. It means “Up Yours”.’
‘Same thing,’ laughed Henry.
‘You English, there’s no hope for y’all.’
They finished their drinks and stood up as the ladies came back from grooming themselves. Henry felt light-headed and dizzy and a little out of his depth, but what the hell! A bit of a razz wouldn’t do anyone any harm, would it?
‘You game for a laugh?’ he asked. ‘Sure thing,’ affirmed Donaldson.
In the lift Natalie slid her arm through the crook of Henry’s. She inspected him minutely with big seductive eyes. Then she smiled. ‘Can I kiss you?’ she asked politely, turning to face him properly and snaking her arms around his neck, completely ignoring the other two in the lift. Henry took in her scent again. Its vapours intermingled intoxicatingly with the liquor which already clouded his brain and therefore his judgement. He knew he shouldn’t. ‘I’ve never kissed a hero before,’ she said, drawing his face towards hers, his mouth towards hers.
His arms went round her waist. She felt so slim. He pulled her eagerly towards him. She responded, grinding her hips into his.
They kissed.
Two hours of negotiation, planning details, finance, profits, routes and couriers had passed before Corelli leaned back in his chair, stretched and yawned. In the grate a fire burned and spat ferociously. On a rug in front of it lay Dakin’s two Dobermans, sleeping soundly.
Dakin smiled. ‘Care for another drink?’ he asked Corelli.
‘A small bourbon,’ said Corelli. He stood up and went to the window, looking out into the darkness that was the Ribble Valley. Light from the moon made the river itself look silver in the bottom of the valley.
Dakin handed him a glass. ‘Do you like my house?’
‘I do,’ said Corelli, ‘and your hospitality and your business ability.’ ‘Good, I’m glad.’