The Nothing Job

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Police business.’ He gave the attendant the look, hoping it would quake him in his tracks.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ The CD clicked on to the next track, one Henry did not recognize but had the words ‘Dead, dead, dead’ in it. ‘You know where he is. He hasn’t moved.’

  Henry tilted his head in thanks and indicated for Donaldson to follow.

  He slid out the drawer and as he snapped on the latex gloves, Donaldson folded back the muslin sheet covering Jonny Motta’s nicely chilled corpse.

  On seeing the bullet holes in his chest, he said, ‘Good shooting,’ admiringly, as Bill Robbins had done previously.

  Henry got to work on the fingers, twisting out the hands, selecting the digits and rolling them on the ready-inked strips, then transferring the prints on to the blank sheets as best he could manage in the circumstances. Motta wasn’t particularly compliant, but at least he wasn’t fighting, as some of the people Henry had taken prints from had been.

  At the far end of the mortuary, neither Henry nor Donaldson noticed that the attendant was watching their activity discreetly and making a call on his mobile phone.

  Henry completed his creepy task, then produced a digital camera from his pocket. He got Donaldson to lift up Motta’s chin whilst he took a couple of snaps of the marks on his neck. Then he took a shot of the inch-long injury on his right forearm which could have been caused when Henry hit him with a police radio. Henry then re-covered Motta with the sheet and slid him back into the fridge.

  Donaldson slammed the door into place as Henry put his gear away in the Asda bag, then peeled off his gloves. They walked out past the attendant, who gave them an uninterested wave and turned up the music.

  As the mortuary was on the lower ground floor it was a choice of going up the stairs or using the lift to take them to the ground floor. The lift won hands down and after pressing all the lift-call buttons they stood patiently at the doors of the three elevators that served the main spine of the hospital.

  Two lifts descended almost simultaneously, one slightly ahead of the other.

  The doors of the first one creaked open and the two men stepped into an empty lift just as the second one arrived and the doors opened slowly. As Henry pressed the button inside the lift to take them up a floor, a man stepped smartly out of the other lift and walked in the direction of the mortuary.

  As the doors closed, Henry did a double-take and managed to ease his foot between the doors to prevent them from shutting.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Donaldson said.

  Henry placed a forefinger to his lips. ‘I thought I recognized that guy … in fact, I do.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘C’mon,’ he said. He stepped out of the lift, closely followed by Donaldson, and ran to the double doors at the end of the corridor that led to the mortuary. He crouched down and, like a naughty schoolboy, peeped through the strengthened-glass panel in the door and watched the man turn into the mortuary. Henry scuttled after him, Donaldson in tow and mystified. They reached the mortuary doors and, peeking again, Henry saw the man from the lift talking earnestly to the mortuary assistant, who was gesticulating defensively as he responded.

  ‘Who is he?’ Donaldson whispered over Henry’s shoulder.

  ‘Paul Shafer, the Merseyside super I told you about.’

  ‘Ah,’ Donaldson said as the dime dropped.

  Shafer was pointing angrily at the attendant’s chest with his right forefinger and the attendant was backing off, clearly afraid. Although Shafer’s voice was raised, it was impossible to hear what he was saying because of the thick doors and the fact the CD player was still blasting out grim-reaper music. Then the tirade stopped, Shafer’s shoulders sagged and his hand went into his inner jacket pocket, extracted his wallet and eased a twenty-pound note out of it. He folded it into the assistant’s grubby hand.

  ‘He’s coming out,’ Henry ducked back sharply and stood on Donaldson’s foot. He gave a muted howl of agony and began hopping about on one leg. Henry dragged him down the corridor, almost at a run, through the next set of double doors, which they dropped down behind. Both men saw Shafer emerge from the mortuary and stalk away in the opposite direction to the lifts. Henry and Donaldson stood upright from their hiding place.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Donaldson asked. He was still hopping a little.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Good plan … Do we follow him, or not?’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘So that’s a good plan, too,’ Henry said sarcastically. Glancing to his right he saw a set of stairs which he moved towards, saying, ‘But it’s a plan I like. Let’s see if we can beat him to the car park.’ Henry took the steps two at a time. He emerged slightly breathless on the ground floor and trotted towards the exit, only realizing he would have to pay for car parking before getting to his car. He searched his pockets for change as he reached the pay station just outside the main entry doors, ahead of Shafer he hoped. He slotted in a couple of coins, which fell straight through and out into the change dispenser with a metallic clatter. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Donaldson commented drily. ‘He’ll be in the queue behind us if you don’t pay soon.’

  Henry’s thick fingers fumbled for the change again which he stuck in his mouth to douse with saliva in the hope the money wouldn’t just drop through again. The first coin registered … and so did the second. Henry grabbed the ticket and both men ran hard to the Rover.

  By quickly re-parking and getting a better view of the hospital entrance, they were able to watch Shafer join the short queue at the pay station then walk across to his car, which was parked dangerously near to Henry’s. They ducked low. Shafer didn’t even glance up. He was deep in thought as he unlocked and then drove off in his BMW.

  The small amount of alcohol had now left Henry’s system. He was clear-headed, even if the inside of his mouth tasted like the bottom of an oven.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said out loud – and with the instinct bred of almost thirty years of being suspicious of everyone and their motives, never trusting a damn soul, Henry followed Shafer out of the car park in the direction of Southport town centre.

  Donaldson remained enigmatically silent, thinking, until he said, ‘Something’s going on.’

  With a scowl of derision, Henry looked sideways at him. ‘The great G-man has spoken,’ he said with mock-reverence. ‘Americans can sleep safe in their beds knowing guys like you are protecting them.’

  Donaldson punched Henry very hard on the shoulder, numbing his arm.

  Henry gritted his teeth and held his arm tightly to prevent it from spasming. For a further few minutes he followed Shafer driving with one hand.

  Shafer drove along Lord Street, Southport’s main shopping street, which at that time of night was buzzing with good-natured revellers. He drew into the car park of a large Victorian-style hotel and Henry drove on, parking a hundred metres north on Lord Street itself.

  ‘That explained why he managed to turn up so quickly … if he was here.’

  ‘And if the creepy mortuary attendant called him,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘I’d make that assumption.’

  ‘You know what happens when you assume?’

  ‘All right, hypothesize then!’

  ‘Anyway, I’m still not sure what we’re doing here,’ Donaldson said. He checked his watch. ‘Time’s winged chariot and all that.’

  ‘It’s just …’ Henry’s fingers tensed as though he was strangling somebody. ‘Just … like you said, G-man, something’s not right.’

  ‘I said something’s going on.’

  ‘Yeah, but what?’

  ‘The Merseyside cops are twitchy because a real detective’s investigating them and maybe their procedures were lax or something and they managed to fox the other investigator …’

  ‘It’s a theory … and thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘Aw, shucks, y’all know I did
n’t really mean it,’ Donaldson drawled.

  ‘Whatever,’ Henry said, his mind now somewhere else. ‘Why don’t you sneak into the hotel and see if you can find out what’s going on in there. Might be nothing, who knows?’

  Donaldson sighed heavily. ‘OK.’ He smacked the dashboard with the flat of his hands. Something sounded loose inside it.

  ‘I’ll stay here, for obvious reasons.’

  The bulky American rolled out of the Rover, pulled his jacket around himself and set off swiftly back to the hotel, passing Shafer’s parked car and trotting up the steps into the spacious foyer, off which were several doors and a wide, sweeping staircase dead ahead.

  Donaldson peered into a large restaurant, in which a few people were still at tables. No sign of Shafer. Next he checked a large lounge fitted with a variety of comfy chairs and Chesterfields; still no sign of Shafer. As expected, Donaldson found him in the bar. He was alone, being served. Donaldson glanced around the room. There was no obvious companion for Shafer, but he looked like a man who didn’t drink alone. Donaldson crossed to the bar as Shafer paid for two shorts and mixers. He collected the drinks in his hands and retreated to chairs and a table in an alcove.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ the bartender asked.

  Donaldson ordered a mineral water, leaned on the bar and picked at a bowl of nuts, able to keep an eye on Shafer in the mirror behind the bar.

  The Liverpool detective looked ill at ease, constantly readjusting his seating position, fiddling with the crease in his trousers.

  A well-kept middle-aged lady sidled up to the bar next to Donaldson and gave him a dry smile. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ma’am,’ he said respectfully, bowing slightly.

  ‘Ooh, an American,’ she giggled delightedly.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, broadening his accent and making her quiver visibly. She seemed suddenly out of breath, especially when Donaldson flashed his white teeth and raised his square chin so she could see his handsome profile better. She placed the palm of her hand across her ample bosom, her eyes a-twinkle. ‘May I buy you a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be most … Martini,’ she gasped.

  Donaldson crooked a finger at the barman and whilst he ordered, kept a watchful eye on the uncomfortable Shafer via the mirror.

  ‘That’ll be four-twenty,’ the barman said, placing the single drink in front of the lady, who must have thought that all her Christmases had come at once. Donaldson pulled out a fiver – then two things happened almost simultaneously.

  A man appeared behind the woman, glaring angrily at her and Donaldson.

  ‘Esther, what the hell are you playing at?’ This was the husband, Donaldson guessed, groaning inwardly.

  ‘Why, darling, I don’t know what you mean,’ Esther flushed guiltily.

  ‘I mean fucking flirting with strangers.’ The husband squared aggressively to Donaldson. ‘She’s a fuckin’ married woman, pal.’

  Donaldson noted that Shafer, as well as everyone else in the bar, was now looking in the direction of the incident. He flicked the fiver on the bar and said, ‘No harm done,’ and started to turn away from the couple. That was when he caught sight of another man entering the bar. A man he recognized and who he knew would be able to recognize him.

  He was about to spin away and scuttle out of the bar, head down, vainly hoping he hadn’t been spotted, but his planned exit was rudely curtailed when the angry husband grabbed his right bicep and tried to hook him round.

  In a swift, blurred move, Donaldson twisted to the man, who was probably ten years older than the American, and though well built was no match for him in any respect. Donaldson pinned him discreetly to the bar and jerked him tight, causing pain to appear in the man’s face. Donaldson peered into his eyes, his breathing shallow.

  ‘Don’t,’ Donaldson said quietly, and nothing else. He released the man, who for some unaccountable reason had to hold himself upright on the bar, maybe because Donaldson’s forefinger had touched a point somewhere behind his ear and caused some sort of shock wave to course through him. Donaldson then exited as speedily as possible, leaving the flirty wife to assist her husband remain upright on rubbery legs.

  He hoped he managed to succeed to get out without being spotted, as out of the corner of his eye he saw Shafer rise and greet the man who had entered the bar, then shake hands.

  So concerned was he about getting out unseen, he almost rammed face-to-face into another guy who was striding in the direction of the bar. At the last possible moment, Donaldson sidestepped with a muted apology, managed to avoid a collision and missed the man by a matter of inches.

  For Donaldson that would have been the final insult. To have crashed in the hotel foyer whilst doing his level best to remain invisible.

  He scurried out of the hotel and ran up to Henry’s car, slotting in beside his friend.

  ‘That was quick.’ Henry looked at him. ‘What happened?’

  Donaldson eased out a long sigh, then gave Henry a worried look. ‘I got hit on by a sex-starved woman.’

  ‘That’s a bad thing?’

  ‘But her husband intervened.’

  ‘That’s a bad thing.’

  ‘I did spot Shafer. He was alone in the bar until someone joined him.’ A beat. ‘Brace yourself … Dave Anger. He didn’t see me, incidentally.’

  The name hit Henry like a demolition ball, but then he thought quickly, So what? Two old mates having a drink. He expressed that thought.

  ‘Well, up to that point I might’ve agreed. Maybe your suspicious mind is seeing conspiracies where there are none.’ Donaldson kept Henry’s gaze, a serious expression on his ruggedly handsome features.

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘The man I almost bulldozed into the ground as I left the bar in a hurry …’

  Henry waited for the punchline, not even able to hazard a guess who he was talking about.

  ‘Walter Corrigan.’

  Henry then blinked. ‘As in the Mafia fix-it guy?’

  Donaldson nodded.

  Stunned, confused, Henry’s head tilted back and hit the head-rest, only to jerk forwards again before he spun around as the rear passenger door was yanked open and an uninvited guest dropped into the seat with a cheery, ‘Hi, guys.’

  FIFTEEN

  Georgia Papakostas immediately realized that there would be no quick solution to the murder of an innocent policeman on the steps of an aeroplane. But she also knew, as did all detectives, that the first seventy-two hours of any murder investigation are crucial. Maybe ninety-six hours in the case of a murdered cop … but the fact remained that if a breakthrough wasn’t made within either of those times, then the likelihood of solving the crime would lessen considerably.

  That is why she did not allow the grass to grow under her feet and, exhausted though she was, as soon as the plane taking Henry Christie, Bill Robbins and Paulo Scartarelli rose into the air from Pafos airport, she got down to the business of tracing a killer.

  The last thing she needed, or so she thought at the time, was the appearance at her elbow of DI Tekke, her former lover and, for the moment, her current supervisor.

  She had set up an Incident Room at Pafos police station and was pulling together a murder team. She was very much aware that the crime was one of the worst in living memory on the island and had been reported internationally and there was every chance she would quickly be sidelined or even ousted from the job once the big guns shouldered their way into it.

  That much she accepted. After all, despite her record, she was still just a lowly detective sergeant, albeit on the brink of promotion. But she was conscientious and knew things had got to be moving quickly. Contacts had to be spoken to, favours had to be called in and at the very least she could do some real initial groundwork for the investigation before the rug was pulled from under her. Sadly she believed that the police in Cyprus were not really up to the task of running such a high-profile murder enquiry, especially once the high-rankers moved in.

  Follo
wing her hunch about a sniper possibly being a hired gun from the Turkish side of the island, the first thing she had to arrange were checkpoints on all the main roads north, particularly at the border in Nicosia which was a route used regularly by the underworld. Then she needed to alert every detective on the island to get into the ribs of their informants and get an information flow coming in. Then she needed to do some personal phoning – at the same time as setting up a properly functioning Incident Room.

  If she could achieve these things before she was booted, she would be, if not happy, at least satisfied she’d done the best she could.

  She was on the phone cajoling some action out of a particularly lazy detective in the capital when Tekke trudged into the office she was using. He looked hangdog and very dishevelled.

  Georgia’s heart missed a few beats as she resisted the temptation to tell him to fuck off out of her life – in Greek, of course.

  She concentrated on the phone call, aware of Tekke’s brooding presence. ‘Yes, I know you’ve got some superb contacts,’ she smarmed up to the lazy Nicosian detective. ‘Yeah … really interested in gunmen, riflemen …’ She continued to schmooze him and got him to promise some action. All the while Tekke hovered, hands thrust deeply into pockets, continually sighing. Eventually Georgia replaced the phone and turned her attention to him. She was cold-faced and certainly did not want this complication.

  ‘What?’ she demanded, rubbing her eyes wearily.

  ‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry,’ he began falteringly. His eyes were stuck to the floor, but then he raised them. ‘It was silly to accuse you about that English detective …’

  ‘That was the least of our problems.’

  ‘I want us back together.’

  She snorted and shook her head. ‘Won’t work. Especially now that I’ll be taking over your role. Too much friction, too much … bah! You just can’t stand me being a good detective, can you?’