Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  Ever expecting Mitch to tear the toilet door from its hinges, followed by his head from his shoulders, Henry dialled Andrea Makin’s number from memory again. The phone rang, but there was no reply and it went straight to voicemail.

  Henry chunnered a curse, then composed a short text which named the hotel and room number in Stratford and added, ‘Protect and preserve the scene’. Then he sent it, deleted all traces of it and his unsuccessful phone call before strapping the mobile back between his legs.

  Mitch was still eating, hadn’t moved from the table.

  Henry sat down, still pale as a sick ghost. ‘You seem pretty relaxed about all this.’ His hands flew around in exasperated gestures.

  ‘I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Henry eyed him, shocked.

  Mitch shrugged. ‘They deserved to die, thieving bastards.’

  ‘Look, Mitch, I’m a businessmen, not a killer. I don’t do killing.’

  ‘You do now. You’re one of us – or didn’t Ingram make that clear? I think he did, yeah.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I’m a bits ’n’ bats man.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get your head round it, pal. You’re in with us, big style, even down to the blood on your sleeve. Good link to a crime scene, I’d say.’ Mitch winked evilly.

  Henry glanced at his cuff.

  Mitch pushed himself away from the table, stood up, wiping his greasy hands on a napkin. Henry had a fleeting hope that the grease he had just consumed would enter his bloodstream immediately and slam his ventricles shut with a deadly clang.

  No such luck.

  ‘Don’t do anything silly, Frank. Just go with the flow and you’ll be OK. Promise.’ He leaned forward and patted Henry on the cheek. ‘I wonder how the boss is doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t I mention?’

  ‘Mention what?’

  ‘He’s paying a visit to the guy you owe all that cash to, to end the debt. What’s his name?’

  ‘Costain.’

  ‘That’s the fella. Yes, he’s going to sort out your debt, which, incidentally, he doesn’t intend to pay.’ Mitch tapped his nose. ‘Need a dump.’ He walked to the toilets.

  Henry stared after him.

  ‘It’s good of you to stay.’

  Kate Christie and Karl Donaldson were walking arm in arm along the pavement, having decided that a nice trip to the Tram and Tower would be a splendid idea for two people in their situations. They were also good friends and the arm linkage had no sexual connotation to it.

  ‘I had nowhere else, if you want the truth.’

  ‘I know, but even so.’

  ‘Free board and lodgings, gorgeous landlady … pure gold for a separated man, never to be refused.’

  ‘But that isn’t the reason you stayed, or turned up in the first place?’

  Donaldson shook his head. ‘Nah, complicated …’

  They reached the front door of the pub, stopped and turned to talk. ‘It’s between Henry and me,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Something happened, I know. He wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Something major. We need to clear the air.’ He sounded unsure. ‘I hope we can. I’m sorry he had to go to work.’

  ‘Is this “something” linked to what’s happened with you and Karen, too?’

  ‘It has connections, I guess.’

  ‘Mm.’ Kate pursed her lips. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  Mitch and Frank Jagger were back at Ingram’s unit near the Trafford Centre by 10.30 p.m., Mitch driving the Sonata in and parking next to the Peugeot.

  ‘What now?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Get changed and wait for Ingram to call or show up.’

  ‘OK.’

  Henry got out and retrieved the bag containing his own clothing from the Peugeot, whilst Mitch opened the boot of the Sonata and heaved the two holdalls out and carried them to an office in the corner of the unit. Henry waited until he had disappeared before quickly stripping and changing into his own clothing. As he pulled his own jeans on, he heard Mitch’s mobile ring, reminding him that his own was still on the dash of the Peugeot.

  Henry reached in and grabbed it, pocketed it, just as Mitch emerged from the office, doing a sort of disco jig and singing, ‘Celebrate good times, come on, doo doo doo doo doo dah dah dah …’ His whole body wobbled obscenely as he danced towards Henry as though he thought he was an exotic dancer.

  ‘Happy today,’ Henry remarked, as opposed to ‘Happy Michelin Man’, which was the phrase on his lips.

  ‘Party time,’ Mitch announced. He stopped dancing and began to divest his clothes in front of Henry, who turned away for the sake of modesty and disgust.

  ‘Party – why’s that?’

  ‘Good day’s work, good night’s play,’ Mitch answered, jeans falling. ‘We’re off to Marco’s,’ he said. ‘Ingram wants to see us there, pat on the back time – you in particular,’ he said.

  Marco’s was in Manchester on the edge of Chinatown. It was close to a club where Henry, as a rookie cop on a course held in GMP, had once been given the eye by a beautiful transvestite. If he had not been held back by a more savvy colleague, he would have made an error of judgement that would have scarred him for life. That had been almost thirty years ago. And still, he thought bitterly, his judgement was not as honed as it could be.

  Mitch walked straight to the head of the queue at Marco’s and was immediately waved in by the bouncers.

  ‘Does Ingram have something to do with this place?’

  ‘He’s made himself a sleeping partner.’ Mitch had to shout as the doors opened and a blast of music slammed into both of them.

  Henry guessed this meant he’d made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  They dropped down a dog-leg set of stairs into the club in the basement of the building. It was tight, compact, hot, sweaty and overpoweringly noisy. It had no appeal for Henry whatsoever.

  He followed Mitch as the big man boogied his way around a tiny, packed dance floor towards a raised area by one of the bars. This was roped off and guarded by a bouncer, but as soon as Mitch was spotted – which was immediately, because he couldn’t be missed – the bouncer unlatched the rope and allowed him and Henry through to a tiny seating area reserved for the great and bad, from which there was a good view across the club. Mitch slumped on to a wide, low chair. Henry sat on a low leather one, which revolved.

  ‘He’s a partner?’ Henry shouted into Mitch’s ear.

  ‘Yep – first step in Manchester. Good one, too.’

  A bartender came and took their drinks order. Henry sat back and surveyed the dancing throng and the people crushed up to the bar, wondering how little the police actually knew about Ingram and the scale of his operation. Maybe they did and weren’t letting on to Henry, which was fine because it was up to Ingram to reveal stuff to him. But he got the impression that Andrea Makin hardly knew anything at all. He guessed she didn’t know about Marco’s. And if she didn’t know very much, it meant that Ingram was more canny and careful than she could ever have imagined.

  Henry’s lager arrived. Mitch had ordered a cocktail of some sort, a green and orange concoction with a little umbrella and a parrot on a stick that looked ridiculous in his hands. Henry would have expected him to have ordered a pint of beer, not a girlie cocktail.

  He watched Mitch surreptitiously, hoping the contempt he showed for him did not show on his face, then quickly ran through his predicament and made some crucial decisions.

  Firstly, he would not allow the U/C charade to go on much longer. The further removed Mitch was from the scene of the double murder in terms of time and distance the weaker the case against him was, evidentially.

  Henry also wondered where he had hidden the gun he’d used. He guessed it was in the industrial unit with the drugs.

  Secondly, he somehow needed to implicate Ingram in the murder by getting him to admit his ‘managerial’ role in it. But if that didn’t happen tonight, tough shit. Henry woul
d get them both arrested and do it the hard way … not that any method used against these two gangsters would be easy, but if he could just get Ingram to say something silly, it would make the whole thing much smoother.

  And thirdly, he was getting far too old for this shit, as the elderly cop often said in films.

  Witnessing the murders had shaken him to the core.

  The stress of being U/C was taking its toll on him and his family. Ten years ago, it was fine, and he realized now that jumping at the chance to get out from behind his desk had been another error of judgement …

  He shook his head involuntarily.

  ‘Still thinking about it?’ Mitch said.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Get some booze down your gullet.’

  Henry nodded, his face strained. He swigged his beer and it tasted sour. He pulled his face and feigned illness. ‘I got to go to the bog, feel sick.’

  He stood up and received a hefty pat on the back from Mitch, sending him staggering out of the seating area in the direction of the toilets. He threaded his way through the dancers, his eyes catching several pairs of heaving young bosoms and rotating backsides, none of which made him feel any better at all.

  Inside the toilets he found himself alone, the music from the club muted. He washed his face and considered using one of the mobile phones now in his possession, but decided it would be too dangerous. He’d already taken a chance on the motorway services and he needed his luck to hold, at least for the next few hours.

  They had a nice, companionable evening in the pub, Kate listening mostly to Karl Donaldson as he gradually opened up, his verbosity fuelled by an intake of lager and a whisky chaser. He did not drink much and it did not take too much to affect him, so whilst he was nowhere near as inebriated as he had been when he’d drunkenly called Henry in the middle of the night, he was very loose-tongued.

  He told Kate some of the things that Henry had never divulged to her. Some of it was deeply shocking, too.

  He gave a fairly long, rambling explanation, fuelled by emotion, sometimes cold and matter-of-fact. He ended up by bringing Kate up to speed with himself and Karen.

  ‘An’ I gotta admit, I was tempted by the lady from Facilities,’ Donaldson admitted. ‘I was lying there, all alone, with my cell phone in my hand and my thumb hovering over the call button. She has the hots for me, y’know? Just one press and I’d’ve committed adultery …’ His slurred voice trailed off wistfully.

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Kate said.

  ‘Nah.’ He rubbed his face. He was exhausted. His insides were hurting along the track of the bullet and his brain was scrambled from his emotional turmoil. ‘I love her an’ I’ve never come close to cheating on her.’

  ‘Other than with your job,’ Kate suggested.

  Donaldson sniffed up, considered her remark. ‘You’re right. I lost sight of what was important.’

  ‘Work–life balance.’

  ‘Hm,’ he muttered darkly, ‘not much balance there.’

  They drank and had a few moments of silent contemplation.

  ‘And it’s destroyed my friendship with Henry, too,’ he admitted. ‘I got so focused on something and y’know, it was screw him or what he thinks, and I think I lost a pal, too.’

  ‘I don’t think you have,’ Kate said. ‘He can be as brick-headed as you.’

  ‘That’s a fact.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘But I want to right the wrong I did to him, if I can.’

  ‘You don’t really need to. He’ll come around.’

  ‘Oh yes I do, and, I dunno, something in me says that by doing it, it’ll be the start of getting the rest of my life back on track, a sort of building block: sort out Henry, then sort out Karen and me. Put work where it should be, maybe even think about early retirement.’

  ‘You! Retire?’

  ‘It’s an approaching option. I’ve had an offer from the private sector already … bit of a shady one, but an offer nevertheless. I’ve been doing this FBI shit for twenty-five years now.’

  ‘What’s the offer?’ Kate was intrigued.

  ‘Private security.’

  ‘Maybe you should set up with Henry. I’m hoping he’ll retire when he can, which is soon.’

  Donaldson laughed at the thought. ‘DC Investigations.’ He pouted. ‘Who knows?’ But it wasn’t a serious thought. He stretched and yawned.

  ‘How about a night cap?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Back at your place?’

  She gave him a dirty smile. ‘Where else?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to be good?’

  ‘In that you’ll be sleeping in Leanne’s bed, you mean?’

  ‘Yup.’ He stood up and helped Kate to her feet. Outside the pub they linked arms again and began the half-mile stroll back to the house. ‘So when are you and Henry tying the knot again?’

  That brought a guffaw from her. ‘Sometimes I think he’s about to ask me, then he bottles out … but I’m not so fussed, really. If he asks, I’ll say yes, but I’m not going to push the issue.’

  ‘I like being married,’ Donaldson proclaimed. Then, sadly, added, ‘I don’t want to lose it.’

  Kate pulled herself tighter to him. ‘I’m sure Karen doesn’t want to, either.’

  ‘Mm.’ It was a doubtful noise.

  They walked on in silence, both deep in thought.

  As Kate inserted her key into the front door, she said, ‘I’ll be opening the Glenfiddich for you.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  He was standing behind her. He glanced over his shoulder. The estate was quiet, but then he heard the sound of a car being driven fast, the noise increasing. Then it screamed around the corner and accelerated in their direction.

  ‘Get in,’ Donaldson said, his senses suddenly sharp. He reached inside his jacket – a conditioned reflex from all those years as an agent – but there was no firearm there.

  The car raced down the avenue and skidded to a halt at the end of the driveway.

  Donaldson relaxed slightly when he saw the driver was a female who jumped out and quickly strode up the drive.

  ‘Kate Christie?’ the woman asked sharply.

  Donaldson recognized her now, but she had not even looked at him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Makin.’ She flashed her warrant card.

  ‘Hello, Andrea. Remember me?’ Donaldson cut in.

  Recognition dawned on her face. ‘FBI Agent Karl Donaldson … nice to meet you again.’ Her eyes flicked once over his features, but her attention turned back to Kate. ‘Kate,’ she said worriedly, ‘I need to know … have you heard anything from Henry in the last couple of hours?’

  When Henry returned from the toilets, Ingram had arrived at the club. He was sitting with Mitch in the raised area, speaking into Mitch’s ear, a serious expression on the fat man’s face which Henry did not like very much.

  He rejoined them, Ingram nodding at him.

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Been in the wars?’

  ‘Something like that … I may look cool, but I’m freaked out.’

  ‘Don’t be, it’ll be fine … hey, what say we get some booze in and head off for a bit of a celebration?’

  ‘Celebrating what?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, I’ve taken care of your debt, so that’s a weight off your shoulders.’

  Henry squinted at him.

  ‘Now you owe me,’ he added.

  ‘So I’m still in debt?’

  ‘Kinda, yes, but in a good way. I’ll sell on your goods, then you won’t owe a thing, mate, but you’ll work for me.’

  ‘OK – what else is there to celebrate?’

  ‘You were there, you should know.’

  ‘That’s a cause for celebration?’

  ‘Is from where I’m sitting,’ Ingram said.

  ‘They must have really been screwing you.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it … let’s get some booze a
nd get out of here.’

  Fourteen

  His face was battered to beyond a pulp. His eyes were purple and swollen, his cheekbones crushed, jaw broken, mangled and distorted, as was his nose. Both forearms had been stamped on and shattered, his knees smashed and his lower right leg broken. His ribs had multiple fractures, one of them had split and ruptured a lung and there was other, extensive internal damage not yet fully assessed. He was going for a brain scan because his skull had probably been fractured and it was possible there was a blood clot on the brain.

  He had been left for dead.

  But he was still alive.

  Just.

  ‘If he hadn’t been found, he would be dead.’

  Andrea Makin spoke these words to Karl Donaldson whilst striding through the corridors of Blackpool Victoria Hospital towards the intensive care unit.

  She had taken a lot of convincing to open up to Donaldson, but had finally relented because she knew him of old.

  ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘Roadside ditch, near a place called Out Rawcliffe, out in the sticks. He’d obviously been dumped from a car or van and rolled into a rat-piss-infested dyke.’ Andrea turned to him and gave him a ‘you dare’ look which prevented any smart remark. He just raised his eyebrows. ‘He may have swallowed the ditch water.’

  ‘Weil’s Disease, y’mean?’

  She raised her eyebrows, impressed by his knowledge. ‘It’s something that needs to be checked out.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Passing motorist stopping for a pee, ironically.’

  They carried on walking, Andrea purposeful in her stride.

  ‘Tell me about Henry’s last message again?’

  She reached into her shoulder bag, thumbed through her mobile phone and handed it to Donaldson, who, as the excitement of the moment rushed through him, seemed to have purged all traces of alcohol from his system and replaced it with adrenalin.

  ‘A hotel and room number?’

  ‘With two dead bodies in it.’

  ‘Identified?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Suspicions?’

  ‘Dealers from London,’ she said, snatching the phone back. ‘Look, I’ve told you all this, Karl.’