The Nothing Job

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Bugger,’ Jerry Tope said. He, Henry and Karl Donaldson were sitting in the DI’s office in the Intelligence Unit. Henry was behind the desk, the other two occupying the seats opposite. ‘I knew I was being chased. I thought I’d shook the bastards off.’

  ‘You almost did,’ Donaldson said with a tinge of admiration, ‘but you slipped up in a server in the Far East, apparently.’

  ‘Hong Kong,’ Tope said. ‘Shit!’ He looked pleadingly at Henry. ‘Am I in it?’

  Henry’s eyes flicked to Donaldson. ‘Over to you.’

  Donaldson paused, adding to the tension, then ruefully said, ‘Nah … but you’re on a major warning … and if you ever try it again …’

  Tope grinned. ‘If I try it again, sir,’ he said, ‘with all due respect, you won’t catch me next time.’

  ‘Jerry – don’t annoy him, he might change his mind.’

  Tope shrugged. ‘I was only doing it for you, sir, anyway. On your orders.’

  Henry’s eyes momentarily flickered past the two men in front of him, out through the glass window of the office, into the Intel Unit. Two female admin assistants were in a girlie huddle, giggling and taking sneaky peeks into the office. Henry bridled. They were not trying to get a look at him, but at the big Yank, who was good looking beyond belief, something Henry openly despised him for. Henry leapt up and ripped the door open. ‘Have you two got work to do, or not?’ he demanded. The women shot him looks that could have nailed him to the wall before slinking back to their workstations. He closed the door, returned to his chair, muttering something.

  ‘OK,’ Donaldson said, ‘let’s cut to the penis-bone here. Why, DC Tope, were you hacking into confidential FBI files? And why were you interested in Walter Corrigan?’

  ‘I’m afraid only my boss can answer that one. I was just doing his bidding, as is my lot in life.’

  Four eyes turned expectantly to the DCI.

  Knowing he had nowhere to go with this now, he came clean. ‘In a nutshell, this man’s house was being used by a criminal on the run from the UK, a guy called Paulo Scartarelli, who was wanted for murder over here. He turned up in Cyprus and I went over to pick him up.’

  ‘Without me,’ bleated Tope.

  ‘Without him … The police in Cyprus had info he was using a villa owned by a guy called Corrigan, who they thought was English. They couldn’t find anything about him on their systems, which is why I asked DC Tope to have a dig.’ Henry paused, looked at Tope. ‘And by the way, may I say you should get out more? You are a serious nerd, pal.’

  Tope puffed up. ‘Thanks,’ he said genuinely.

  Henry shook his head sadly and closed his eyes. He opened them and looked at Donaldson. ‘Over to you. That’s all I know. Scartarelli was arrested and that’s pretty much the end of it as far as I’m concerned. Didn’t really follow up the Corrigan angle.’

  Donaldson sat back. ‘Could you and I have a little chat?’

  ‘He’s Mob-funded.’

  ‘That’s why you’re being so lenient with Tope?’

  ‘It’s worth it for us to back off, so long as you share information with us about Corrigan.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘I’ll go back on my word. We’ll go for Tope and Lancashire Constabulary.’

  ‘We being the FBI?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Won’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I know that, but it’ll ruffle feathers and tighten assholes.’

  ‘He was just doing what I required of him – getting information.’

  ‘And he’s so good, we’re interested in having him for a big fat fee.’

  ‘Let’s keep that on the back burner, shall we?’

  ‘Out techies are very impressed with him.’

  ‘He’s mine, and I love him,’ Henry said petulantly. ‘Hands off.’

  ‘Corrigan,’ Donaldson said, bringing them back to the topic in question.

  ‘Mob-funded, apparently.’

  ‘Did you know there’s more money to be made trafficking people across Europe than bringing Mexicans across the border to the US? That’s a non-starter, these days. Old hat. Big business is over here. People, hookers and drugs. There’s a big mind-shift by the Mob. They see easy profit and they’re willing to chase it.’

  ‘Corrigan?’

  ‘He’s an organizer and a good one. But I don’t necessarily want him, I want what’s behind him.’

  ‘And what’s behind him?’

  ‘Miami, Atlanta, New York, Detroit and LA. The Tantini family. Big, brutal and very rich. They stop at nothing in the pursuit of wealth and won’t leave any stone unturned to get to sources of wealth.’

  ‘Somebody tried to kill Scartarelli, by the way.’ Henry told him about the fun they’d had in trying to get the fugitive on board a plane.

  Donaldson considered this. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I nearly get my arse shot off and you call it interesting,’ Henry said. ‘Mm, anyway, that’s all pretty much in the past for me. I did my job, Scartarelli’s in custody and I have other plates to spin.’

  Donaldson shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘All we’re interested in doing is getting him charged with murder.’

  ‘I’d like to interview him.’

  Henry stifled a terrified chortle. He was more than familiar with Donaldson’s interview techniques and their effectiveness.

  ‘All above board,’ the American reassured him. ‘Intelligence-gathering. Just doing my job.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  But Henry’s mind wasn’t on Scartarelli. As soon as he had finished with Donaldson, having arranged to see him later in a social setting, Henry’s attention spun to his computer. He logged on to the Internet and typed the name Jonny Motta into Google and pressed Search. That was as far as his hacking skills went.

  From the results he entered the BBC News website and scanned the items relating to the police shooting of this man. His brief recounting of his own knowledge of the incident to FB seemed to fit very well with what was written in the news reports.

  Jonny Motta was a known gangster, an Italian with Albanian connections, who was supposedly involved in people-trafficking, particularly young women who would become prostitutes for him. He was known to be violent, carried weapons, and was suspected of carrying out a shooting in Liverpool where a man was callously gunned down outside a club in the city centre. The man was supposedly one of Motta’s rivals.

  The police raid, organized by a detective superintendent called Paul Shafer, seemed to have been executed by the book. It was only when Motta was challenged and responded by producing a handgun did he get two 9mm Glock bullets drilled into his chest. Every indication was that the firearms officer adhered to procedure, shouted several clear and unambiguous unheeded warnings and only then opened fire. The officer was now suspended from firearms duties as per normal procedure, but was carrying out an admin role in some back-room office somewhere. This suspension was pending the result of the investigation, inquest and any CPS recommendations, but it seemed that, from what Henry read, the officer had nothing to fear – except the thought that he’d killed a man and that would be with him for all his life.

  He spent about an hour tabbing through a lot of fairly repetitive reports, then after checking for any news updates on the Rolling Stones he logged out and sat back.

  Straight up, he thought … then his brow furrowed as an image kicked into his brain. He logged back in, found a grainy image of Motta and felt as though he was vaguely familiar. Then again, maybe not. He logged out and sat back for a moment before picking up the internal phone and dialling the chief constable’s number.

  Jane Roscoe intercepted the call. ‘Chief Constable’s Staff Officer, Chief Inspector Roscoe … can I help?’

  ‘It’s me, Henry.’

  ‘Henry who?’

  ‘Henry Christie.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Can I help?’

  ‘Can I speak to the chief, please?’

  �
�About …?’

  ‘The investigation he’s asked me to do.’

  ‘I’ll see if he’s free.’ She sounded cold and distant. The phone clicked and MOR music started playing softly in his ear. Then she came back on the line. ‘I’m afraid he’s busy right now.’

  ‘Can you ask him to give me a bell?’

  ‘Will do – bye.’ She hung up. No chit-chat.

  Henry hung up slowly. Their relationship was well over and he had no desire to rekindle something that could have been terribly destructive. It was also a long time since he had had any contact with her, but he still felt annoyed that she had curtailed the call so abruptly. But who could blame her?

  His thoughts were cut short by the phone ringing. This time it was his mobile, which had a Rolling Stones tune as a ring tone. Previously it had been ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’, now it was ‘Satisfaction’ – that thing Henry didn’t seem to get much of. The call was from a withheld number.

  ‘Henry Christie.’

  ‘DCI Christie? May I introduce myself? I’m Detective Superintendent Paul Shafer from Merseyside Police.’

  For a second, Henry did not recognize the name – but then he remembered. He smiled when he said, ‘Hello there, can I help you?’

  Shafer sounded pleasant, youngish and efficient. ‘Just thought I’d touch base with you. I believe you’re taking on the Motta shooting, just tying it up et cetera?’

  Henry hesitated. ‘I’m taking it over, yeah.’

  ‘Well, I think you’ll find it’s pretty much done and dusted by the IPCC. I just want to say that we’re waiting for your arrival and you can count on us to be as helpful and open as we can be, though there won’t be much investigating for you to do. As I understand it, it’s just a read-through and recommendations.’

  ‘You know more than me, sir.’

  ‘I should do.’

  ‘Could I enquire how you found out I’d be taking over? I only found out myself a short while ago.’

  Shafer chuckled amiably. ‘Jungle drums.’

  Henry’s mouth tightened sardonically. His disquiet was that he immediately suspected Dave Anger to be the drummer in question – and how professional was that, to ring up his old mates and warn them of Henry’s impending arrival?

  ‘When can we expect to see you down here?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow, I expect,’ Henry lied. He’d planned for tomorrow but didn’t feel inclined to share that with Shafer, pleasant as he might be.

  ‘Look forward to meeting you in person.’

  ‘You too.’

  Henry didn’t have time to consider the meaning of the phone call before the desk phone rang again.

  ‘FB – you were after me, Henry,’ came the brusque, no-shit voice Henry love-hated so well.

  ‘Quick question – this shooting enquiry? Can I take a couple of people down with me?’

  ‘Anyone you like.’

  ‘And if I feel it necessary, can I start from scratch with it, or at the very least do some digging? I don’t want to take everything at face value, you know me.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned you can do anything you want with it. If you’re happy to close it down with what’s already there, then OK; if you’re not happy, dig away.’

  ‘Just the news I wanted to hear.’

  TWELVE

  Although not technically a murder investigation (even if someone had been shot to death), as far as Henry was concerned he would be running the enquiry into Jonny Motta’s demise as if he had been put in charge of one that hadn’t been completed or solved. He believed it would be remiss of him not to be thorough and professional in his approach, make sure he didn’t accept anything at face value and, basically, do the job FB expected of him as an SIO and maybe wind up Dave Anger into the bargain.

  He decided that his approach would be to spend time reviewing the case as it stood, seeing if there were any obvious gaps that needed plugging and revisiting witnesses where necessary. In other words, do all the things he would have done on a genuine murder enquiry. He knew that by following the accepted model, the first stage being ‘Think murder until the investigation proves otherwise’ and sticking to the problem-solving formula of ‘Why + When + Where + How = Who’, he couldn’t go too far wrong. He knew he had the ‘Who’ bit – the poor sod who’d pulled the trigger twice and was now working in an office somewhere – but unless the file showed that he had all the other bits, then there was still somewhere to go with the job.

  The rain lashed across the River Mersey as the famous Liver Building came into sight and Henry negotiated his way across several lanes of traffic as he drove along Dock Road, Liverpool, and towards the Albert Dock, passing some of the great historic buildings that made the city famous.

  Henry had not been to Liverpool all that often. Work had rarely taken him there, but he’d had occasional family jaunts and found the city vibrant and lively with a lot of attitude, mostly positive.

  He was driving a Ford Mondeo from the police pool. He glanced to his left and then over his shoulder at the two people in the car with him – his team.

  ‘So that’s the plan, guys. Any gaps in it you can see?’ he asked. ‘Jerry? Bill?’

  Jerry Tope shrugged indifferently. ‘Sounds OK to me.’

  In the back seat, Bill Robbins also shrugged, too. ‘Whatever.’

  Henry shook his head in disbelief at the hot enthusiasm of his crack investigative team. Bill had been brought along for his firearms experience and Jerry for his attention to detail, both of which would be crucial if this job was to be done right.

  He reached the dual carriageway alongside Albert Dock, opposite which was Merseyside Police headquarters. Rather than trying to get a space in the small car park there, he turned in to the large one next to the dock and paid for a day instead.

  The three of them trudged across and entered the building. It was nothing fancier than an office block, nothing special other than the signs singling it out as police premises.

  They couldn’t get any further than the reception desk, where they signed in and were given visitors’ badges, then were told to wait and someone would come to collect them.

  Bill looked extremely bored. He preferred being on a shooting range or part of a team bursting into houses, brandishing weapons and trying not to shoot innocent members of the public. The thought of checking statements appalled him, but at least it was another jolly and saved him from having to go out and patrol a division.

  Jerry Tope hummed and tapped his fingers on his laptop. He actually liked reading statements and analysing data in whatever form. He was eager to get going, although he was still annoyed about not being able to go to Cyprus.

  Henry paced the foyer, his mind clicking over, wondering what lay in store for his band of merry men.

  A young crew-cutted man strode through the security doors. He was expensively suited and booted, an air of efficiency surrounding him. Henry came upright, alert and pegged him instantly.

  ‘DCI Christie?’

  Henry extended his hand. ‘You must be Detective Superintendent Shafer?’

  They shook. Henry turned to his mini-team and quickly introduced them. Shafer’s sharp grey eyes took them in and assessed them, as they had done Henry – and found he did not like what he saw, particularly in Henry’s case. He beckoned them to follow him, and using his fingerprint and number combination on the keypad opened the big glass doors leading into the HQ building. Uncharitably, Henry thought they were stepping into the lions’ den.

  Shafer herded them into the lift.

  ‘A day early,’ Shafer said, looking down his nose at Henry. ‘I was expecting something like this,’ he smirked as the doors hissed shut and the lift jerked upwards. ‘Henry Christie,’ he said, ‘we meet at last. Your reputation precedes you.’

  Henry narrowed his eyes suspiciously and like Clint Eastwood once said in a film he could not recall the title of, said, ‘What reputation is that?’ Henry was sure that Eastwood had received a reply that summed up his ha
rd-boiled, flawed character, but Shafer wasn’t playing the game. Instead he just shook his head and continued smirking, sending a shiver of annoyance through Henry’s backbone. He already wanted to swipe it off his face.

  As the lift jolted to a halt on floor eight, and before the doors opened, Shafer answered, ‘Nothing to write home about,’ then, his timing perfect, he stepped out of the lift into the corridor before Henry could collar him and demand to know exactly what he meant. He glanced quickly at Bill and Tope and they dropped their eyes quickly, embarrassed for him.

  ‘This way,’ Shafer said brightly.

  Henry gritted his teeth, already seething, his nostrils flaring so widely he could have fitted king marbles up them.

  They followed the brisk be-suited superintendent along the corridor, left-turned and stopped outside a door which had no markings or number on it. Shafer produced a key and slid it into the lock.

  ‘This is the office we provided for the IPCC to conduct their investigation. They’ve also got a small room at Southport nick, Southport being where the incident took place, as you’ll know,’ Shafer explained, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  ‘Ahh, the broom cupboard,’ Henry said glancing into the tiny, dim office which seemed to have no natural light coming into it. Inside two small desks were crammed in, back to back, and three plastic chairs.

  ‘Office space is always at a premium,’ Shafer said. He stepped in, then let Henry and his team filter past him. Henry appraised the room and found it wanting. There was a half-sized filing cabinet which looked as though it could have been jemmied open at some time in its life, and nothing else other than a Formica-topped table tucked in one corner. There was a kettle, two mugs and some milk in a bottle on this table. By its looks, the milk could have already become cheese.

  A box file sat on the back-to-back desks.

  ‘This is where the IPCC investigator worked from and that’s his stuff.’ Shafer indicated the box. ‘Everything he collected is in here. And this is his key – the only one for the room, apart from the master.’ He handed the key with which he’d opened the door to Henry. ‘OK? I’m sure you’ll want to get started.’ He turned away.