‘That’ll have to do, but at least it’s done. Though I’d love to be with you for the next phase – number three. Torture the shite a bit first. Let him know about all the years I’ve had to endure because of him and his kind.’
Quintel wasn’t totally surprised by this, but knew the client knew better. He reminded him for the need to keep well out of it, and by the sound of the dialling tone, he’d already taken care of this. He was itching to ask him where he was, but didn’t.
‘Aye, aye, I know you’re right, just thinking out loud. Not something I’ve been able to do much of over the years because of those bastards.’
He was off on another rant, time to go. ‘Sorry, I’ve run out of credit, have to go, I’ll update you when I have more,’ Quintel said, realising that by the time he’d finished his sentence, the client had gone. ‘And goodbye to you too, you ill-mannered bog-trotter,’ he said as he replaced the phone in its cradle. Time to eat and down a few beers.
*
Vinnie thought he’d seen most things in the fifteen years he been in the police, but professional assassinations were thankfully quite rare. Yes, he’d seen killings carried out for wages, be it by gun or knife, but nothing quite as shocking as this. The bypass where it had occurred was about seven miles outside Preston on a rural stretch about a mile past Lancashire Constabulary headquarters. It was on a section of dual-carriageway between two roundabouts; one at the village of Walmer Bridge and the second at the village of Much Hoole. Both places having delightful old-English names conjuring up leafy images of yesteryear. Both names would not look out of place on a map of the Cotswolds. But here he was seven miles from a modern northern city which still displayed its industrial heritage, between two rural spots that would be forever tarnished.
The whole stretch between the roundabouts, of about a mile, had been closed off. Heavy duty lighting was in place where the crashed 4x4 lay on its side by the road’s verge which was raised. CSIs were here in abundance, several of whom were busy erecting a sort of white canvas patio-style gazeebo over it. He pulled his Volvo over onto the opposite carriageway where all the emergency vehicles were parked to preserve the actual route used by the killers. He’d just finished putting his own white suit and over-shoes on when Harry approached.
‘It’s a mess. Body’s still in situ. They had to fax his fingerprints to the Home Office to confirm it was Carstair.’
Vinnie just nodded as he followed Harry to the crashed car. He could only see the underside of the vehicle and had to use a pair of step ladders to get enough elevation to look inside.
The driver’s window was gone and the body was still suspended in the driver’s seat by the seat belt. It was leaning with gravity over towards the passenger side, but Vinnie could see by the blood splattering that Carstair had clearly been shot from his driver’s side by a passing vehicle. But the head was gone, clean off at the shoulders save for a couple of inches of spine that stuck up above the collar line, giving the cadaver a sort of headless mannequin appearance. Without the head it just didn’t look human. Though Vinnie had conditioned himself many years ago to always strive to not see humanity in dead bodies. To try and view them as carcasses as it made them easier to deal with, but on this occasion it was different. As surreal as the corpse appeared, the spine seemed to accentuate the horror that this had indeed been a person not too long ago. He could see grey matter mixed with blood the consistency of jam porridge splattered everywhere to the body’s left, further confirming his initial thoughts. He climbed back down the ladder to face Harry. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘He’d have felt no pain, at least,’ Harry said.
‘True,’ Vinnie said as he composed himself. He was sure that he’d see that visage again when he didn’t want to. ‘Drive-by shooting, probably a shotgun looking at the spread of tissue. Point blank effectively.’
‘Agreed. I’ve already ordered a checkpoint here as soon as the scene is re-opened, and a press release for commuters to come forward. Someone must have seen which vehicle the murderers’ used, even if they don’t know it.’
Vinnie nodded, noting Harry’s use of the plural. There had to have been at least two involved. ‘What now?’ he asked, as he headed back to his motor to change his white suit. Having been so close to the body, he didn’t want to risk cross-contamination with anything he might stumble across which could turn out to be offender-related.
‘Just bag and seal that,’ Harry said, as he started to change at the back of his vehicle from the sanctuary of the opposite carriageway.
‘I know that, Harry.’
‘No, I mean don’t bother with a fresh suit. Darlington has arrived back from London, and is in his office waiting for us.’
Chapter Eighteen
Fifteen minutes later Harry and Vinnie were sat back on the Lancs chief’s easy chairs. His staff officer, whose name Vinnie remembered was Russell Sharpe, had been sent home, albeit unwillingly.
‘He’s usually pulling at the leash to get off, obviously today’s events are a bit more salacious,’ were Darlington’s opening comments.
Neither Vinnie nor Harry said anything.
Darlington joined them at the easy chairs as all three sat at right angles to the other. ‘Initial thoughts?’ he asked.
Harry filled him in, and Darlington nodded, before carrying on.
‘I want you to oversee this Harry, and before you say anything, hear me out.’
Vinnie could see Harry’s mouth open and then close more slowly, as Darlington continued.
‘I’m going to appoint a Lancashire detective superintendent to run the investigation into Carstair’s murder, but I want you, Harry, to take a strategic overview, even though you are the same rank, the Lancs super will report to you, and he’ll be told why on a “need-to-know contract” with threat of castration. You’ll allow him to run it as he would otherwise, as God knows he’ll be under enough scrutiny, especially by the press, but you’ll need to have a daily handle on how the investigation is progressing.’
‘I’m guessing there is an operational reason, sir?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, I’ve had two little chats with DCC Jim Reedly on the phone today.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Same treatment you received. He tried to mushroom me. I had to remind him that he is only a deputy chief constable, even if he is pissing in a bigger pond than me.’
Vinnie enjoyed listening to Darlington swear. Very rare to hear a chief speak like this, well for an inspector anyway, he felt like he was peering through a very private window which would be normally shuttered to the likes of him.
‘Did he open up?’ Harry asked.
‘No, he didn’t. But he forgets I’ve known him over a number of years. We did our Senior Command Course together when we were both superintendents. I remember getting pissed with him one evening when he was bragging about some secret work he’d done for the home secretary’s office some years earlier.’
‘I’m guessing that was for Carstair,’ Vinnie said, speaking for the first time.
‘Indeed, though he never elucidated as to exactly what. I got the impression he was trying to say that he’s done several different types of things on and off over the years. I took no notice at the time, as it wasn’t unusual for senior officers to do various reports on things for the home sec from a strategic point of view, I just wrote it off as a braggart trying to make more of it at the time.’
‘Bigging himself up?’ Harry asked.
‘It happens at all ranks, as you two no doubt know. Just because a bull-shitter reaches the chief level ranks doesn’t mean they stop being a bull-shitter. But when Carstair was killed, I thought it too much of a coincidence.’
‘A man after my own heart, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so?’ Vinnie said, continuing, ‘I don’t believe in fairies or coincidences.’
Vinnie wasn’t sure whether his remark would be deemed as levity but he need not have worried, as Darlington laughed out loud.
‘Exact
ly,’ he said, adding, ‘you’ve got a good deputy here, Harry.’
‘I hope so,’ Harry said, and all three grinned.
Darlington then swore them all to secrecy before he continued; Vinnie could tell that as open as he was being with them, it still didn’t come easy talking negatively about a fellow senior officer, albeit from a different force.
‘My first chat with Reedly was on my way to London, and I’d decided to have a face to face with him on my return. That was before poor Mr Carstair was killed. My second chat was about an hour ago, he’d seen something on regional TV in Manchester, God knows how they picked it up so quickly. It was Christine Jones who reported it – should have been a cop, that one. Do you know her?’
Vinnie and Harry both nodded, expressionless.
‘Anyway, let me tell you, Reedly sounds a worried man. Say’s he might have one or two pointers to help us, jobs he’s worked on in the past. He made no connection to Carstair other than to say he’d seen the news and to ask what had happened. It was my turn to stonewall him. I’m going to keep some space from Reedly now, and I have already recorded all my dealings with him. I intend to keep a dignified distance, just in case you turn anything up on him that’s dirty, Vinnie,’ Darlington said, looking at Vinnie and using his first name for the first time.
‘Me, sir?
‘Yes, Harry’s told me he’s had you under the radar so to speak, and I want you to carry on that way. You will report to Harry, who apart from having the investigation of Charlie’s murder and the conspiracy to murder Reedly to SIO, will also have the overview role into the investigation of Carstair’s killing as I’ve said, just in case they are, as we suspect, linked.’
‘No problem sir, but what about resources?’
‘None official, Vinnie, but use whatever you and Harry agree on. But your first task is tomorrow. I want you to drop in unannounced on Reedly, who is currently on gardening leave at an address in Manchester. So if that’s all for now?’
Vinnie and Harry both nodded and all three stood up in unison.
Ten minutes later Vinnie pulled his Volvo over to drop Harry back at his motor, and turned to face him before he got out. ‘What do you reckon to all that?’
‘I think he suspects Reedly of something, so he’s playing it safe, but I think we can trust Darlington.’
‘Agreed.’
Vinnie bade Harry goodnight and said he’d make contact with him tomorrow, and Harry left. Vinnie was just about to drive off when he remembered he still had his phone set to silent-running from the meeting with Darlington. As he turned the ringer back on it immediately rang, and the screen said, “Christine Calling”. He took the call.
‘Vinnie, you’re harder to track down than my cameraman.’
He apologised and explained before she went on to mention the killing of Carstair.
‘You’re not involved in the investigation of that as well, are you?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Yeah, look, I might need your help again. I’ll be back in Manchester tomorrow, can I give you a bell to meet up, after I’ve seen someone?’
‘Sure, how could I refuse?’
Vinnie smiled as he finished the call, and set off for home.
Chapter Nineteen
As it was Sunday, Christine allowed herself a later start and didn’t arrive at Salford Quays until gone ten. The media city that existed there now was second to none. A huge modern expanse of various film and TV offices and studios, which had helped see in a rise in northern generated material. In TV drama alone there was emerging what was being called “Northern Noir” and many authors were writing thrillers to feed this growing market. TV documentaries were generally more cosmopolitan but her current exposé had elements of both. Life in Northern Ireland post the peace agreement and the official ending of the armed struggle would have both national, regional, and hopefully international interest, or so her producers hoped.
They had made her one promise though, one she hoped they would keep; if the investigation failed to deliver, they wouldn’t throw what they had together to make a programme come-what-may, as was often the case. “Non-programmes” she termed such diatribe, and she’d seen too many good reporters and broadcasters lose standing by fronting crocks of shit. But after her little chat with Paul Bury, she was confident they would end up with far more that they had hoped to find when they set off.
Reluctantly, she’d provided emergency cover for the breaking news that was Carstair’s death the evening before, but her boss had agreed to take her off the air when she claimed it might spook her new contact. The less noticeable she remained, the safer he would feel. Not that she’d had much of a problem hitherto being recognised off-camera, which always surprised her, but for now she was glad. There were plenty of colleagues with fragile egos who were bothered by such lack of recognition, but she was not one. She’d always said that her job was to report the news, not to be it.
The office was mainly empty and she didn’t want to hang around long after speaking to her editor on the phone to agree her strategy going forward. Next she briefed the reporter who would be taking over from her in covering all the events in Preston, and then she had some groceries to collect before waiting to tie-up with Vinnie. She hoped it would be over lunch. If she’d not heard from him by twelve, she’d give him a bell, and a hint.
She was just about to walk out the office when she heard her text alert tone go off, She thought it was Vinnie, but when she looked she saw that it had come from a number which wasn’t in her phone’s memory. It was a 0161 prefix though – Manchester. She read the message to herself, “Same place as the other night. Noon, regards from the smelly coat man”. Paul Bury. There goes her possible lunch date with Vinnie, but it sounded worth it.
*
Christine went home via her local supermarket as planned and changed into jeans and a T shirt, which was not what she’d planned. She’d had in mind a nice flowery summer dress and a thin cardigan to cover her shoulders. It was a lovely sunny day, but still early spring. That outfit would keep. She decided not to head off too early this time, so arrived at the pub at five to twelve. She half expected Bury to be there ahead of her, but he wasn’t. The whole dynamic of the pub had changed from the other evening, full of Sunday lunchtime drinkers, and the front snug was half-full she noticed as she passed. She approached the main bar and was about to order when her phone text alert went off. “Beer garden. I’ve got you one in” the message read. She instinctively looked towards the rear of the pub and saw that a fire door which had been closed the other day was now propped open. She walked through it into what was not much more than a large back yard, with a smokers’ corner off to one side with a few tables and chairs opposite. Paul Bury was sat at the end one, in the corner with his back to the adjoining six-foot brick walls, giving him a panoramic view.
Christine sat opposite him and thanked him for the drink, before taking a sip from the large glass of chilled Chardonnay. ‘You are observant,’ she said as she took a second sip.
‘Force of habit,’ he replied.
‘Now you’ve retired don’t you switch off a bit?’
‘I’ve been to too many funerals of those who did.’
Now she was starting to wonder what exactly he had been up to during the troubles that he still felt the need for such vigilance. ‘Well at least you’ve left the coat behind.’
‘Gave it back to the same tramp and you suppose what he said?’
She shook her head.
‘I can only give you twenty pounds back. And folks say humanity is dead.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Gave him another thirty, so I did.’
‘Your humanity is certainly not dead. Anyway, Paul, your text sounded urgent.’
‘It is. I may have some proof soon. I can’t name names just yet but the one I suspect of being at the top is over here in the UK at the moment. He’s on business and is travelling all over the country, during which he will
be giving press conferences from time to time.’
‘He sounds important.’
‘He is, but not as much as he thinks he is.’
‘And you were thinking what, exactly?’ Christine asked, though she thought she knew what was coming.
‘How would you fancy ambushing him at one of his press conferences?’
‘Wow, you don’t want a gal to do much, do you? This could be career suicide.’
‘I thought you said you were in the other night? Remember, I’m the one taking the chances.’
‘I know, Paul, trust me I know, and I’m in alright.’
‘I can feel a but coming.’
‘But, it would depend of the strength of what you would have me ambush him with, the strength of its provenance in particular, and of course, who exactly it is?’
‘The last bit will have to wait, but it could be a great opportunity. And I wouldn’t ask you to do something I couldn’t back up.’
‘Would this fit into the programme, or be an aside?’ she asked.
‘Oh, it’s definitely on track.’
‘I would need to get approval from my editor and the programme’s exec, and I wouldn’t get that without answers to the questions.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bury said, taking a gulp of his pint of Guinness, before continuing, ‘So long as you are up for it in principle, with whatever you need to have in place ready, I’ll have the answers, and if I don’t, then we abort.’
‘Sounds like a fair compromise, Paul, but what’s the rush?’
‘It’s just that when this guy is on home soil, as in back in the Province, you wouldn’t get a fart between him and his cronies, and press conferences are rare, but while he is here he will have limited security with him, of which, being that you’re press, you’ll be allowed past anyway.’
Christine took another gulp of wine, as she considered what Paul was saying. Her imagination was going into hyperspace.“Who was the man? Was he a noted business man? Or was he a current police chief?” She pondered on the latter; it would hardly endear her relationship with the local plod if he was a police chief, but if it was to do with corruption and with positive discrimination against non-Catholic officers, what a coup. “It’s definitely on track,” he’d said.
The Badge & the Pen Thrillers Page 34