Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  ‘And I’m trying to get my head round it. He is my friend, you know and if he’s in danger, I want to help.’

  ‘You’re just a guest at the moment, so don’t get uninvited … I need to think.’

  Donaldson was undeterred, but for the moment he decided that silence was the best course of action.

  They marched on down the corridor, following the coloured lines on the floor to the ICU, eventually arriving there.

  Two uniformed constables hovered outside the entrance, accompanied by Dave Anger, the officer in charge of FMIT, who turned and watched them arrive.

  ‘Andrea,’ he said formally. He pointed at the American. ‘Karl Donaldson, right?’ They had met before and clashed and Anger knew of his relationship with Henry. ‘What are you …?

  ‘Where are we up to?’ Andrea said firmly, hurriedly, no time to enter any debate as to why Donaldson was here.

  Anger’s eyes came back to her and Donaldson could see he was smitten by her as his face softened – although hers just became harder. ‘It’s not looking good.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In there.’ He jerked his head at the double swing doors leading to the ICU.

  ‘Let’s look.’

  The uniforms stood aside to allow the detectives through. The ICU was divided into several cubicles on either side of the unit. Anger led them to the nearest one and drew back the curtain.

  The sight made Andrea recoil.

  Donaldson stifled a gasp, too.

  Troy Costain was a terrible, terrible mess. His swollen face, one side of it ballooning out horribly, was unrecognizable. Banks of monitors, IV drips and oxygen tanks, all attached, clipped on or inserted as necessary, surrounded him. His lips were cut, gashed, skewed out of shape. His breathing was shallow and difficult.

  ‘Hell fire!’ Andrea said, shocked. ‘Has he regained consciousness at all?’

  Anger shook his head. ‘He’s going into theatre in minutes. It’s touch and go,’ he said dramatically. ‘This could soon be a murder investigation.’

  A team of porters, nurses and doctors came in moments later, shooing the detectives aside as they wheeled Costain out to theatre, leaving an empty space where the bed once was.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Anger said to Andrea, glancing at Donaldson who clearly got the message.

  ‘I want to be part of this,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Anger said.

  The two men traded looks. Anger’s eyes were magnified behind his round glasses.

  ‘There’s no time for this,’ Andrea cut across the male posturing. ‘Karl’s an experienced law enforcement officer, and a good one as you damn well know, and that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Look at me as being on secondment,’ Donaldson suggested.

  Anger gave a snort, but he did know about Donaldson and, inwardly, had an immense, albeit grudging, respect for him. He nodded reluctantly and Donaldson guessed he was only assenting to his presence in the hope that in the near future Andrea Makin’s lips would be wrapped around Anger’s cock.

  ‘Let’s get coffee and talk,’ she said.

  Words which were honey to Donaldson, whose mouth was bone dry from the alcohol.

  They found a drinks dispenser in a corridor and grouped around it, the money going in and hot black liquid coming out. To describe it as coffee, though, was an insult to all coffee bean growers the world over. However, it did the trick for Donaldson, grim though it was.

  Andrea cleared her throat, began a summary.

  ‘Henry texted me earlier,’ she began, realizing the ball was very definitely in her court, ‘as a result of which two bodies were found in a hotel room in Stratford-upon-Avon. Then you contacted me, Dave’ – she nodded at Anger – ‘telling me that Troy Costain had been found in a ditch, beaten, left for dead. You’re aware of the role Costain played in the operation Henry is engaged in.’ Anger nodded. ‘Now I cannot contact Henry and, to put it in a nutshell, I’m frantic with worry,’ she admitted. ‘If Costain’s beating had something to do with his involvement in this operation, which is the hypothesis I would like to continue with, then I can only assume that Henry might have been compromised.’ Bleakly, she said, ‘Add to that the bodies in the hotel, and I do know Henry was down in Stratford with Mitch Percy, earlier today … I have a very bad feeling about it all.’

  Anger released a long breath. He pursed his lips. ‘There’s something else, too, which may or may not be connected … a young girl was abducted in Poulton-le-Fylde earlier this evening, quite close to Out Rawcliffe. Straight off the street into the back of a van. I know that Ingram is suspected of crimes similar to this and if he has been in the area and assaulted Costain, then he could be tied in with this. My colleagues on FMIT are dealing with the abduction.’ He looked at them. ‘I’m not one for coincidences, so I’d rather treat these things as a whole rather than separately until we know otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll go with that,’ Donaldson seconded him.

  Andrea nodded.

  ‘I’m going to pull together a linked investigation team as regards Costain and the missing girl … re. the job in Stratford, I’ll get someone down there within the next three hours to liaise. On top of that, let’s locate Henry. Much as we do not get along, his safety is paramount and at the very least he knows something about the murders …’

  ‘I just hope he’s alive, that’s all,’ Andrea said gravely.

  And indeed, Henry Christie was very much alive and kicking, sitting in the back of an old Ford Granada, Ingram and Mitch up front, passenger and driver respectively. They were both quiet as Mitch drove the old car out of Manchester, out towards Rochdale. Henry tried to keep track of his whereabouts, knowing the area reasonably well, but he did lose track of the route for a brief period when they reached Rochdale. As they began to rise out of the town, he realized they were on the A680 which cut across the moors between that town and Rossendale. The knowledge made him feel a little more comfortable, as did the feel of the mobile phone strapped to his inner thigh, a bit like having a derringer tucked away for emergencies, even though he did have his own phone in his pocket.

  Mitch drove well, racing quickly on to the moors. It was hard to believe he had shot two people dead only hours before. Henry knew this was the difference between most members of the public and bad bastards: conscience.

  ‘What’s the crack?’ Henry asked. He leaned forwards between the front seats. ‘Where are we going? Where the hell are we, in fact?’ he asked, playing dumb.

  Suddenly a smack of heavy rain battered down, drenching the car. Mitch flicked on the wipers.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Ingram said.

  Henry sat back, feeling that the mood of celebration seemed to have dissipated.

  Two miles farther on, Mitch slowed, peering through the downpour, then turned right on to a farm track which, pitted and rutted though it was, did not cause any problems for the car, even in the bad weather.

  ‘Where are we?’ Henry asked brightly.

  Neither one replied.

  Henry’s right hand reached slyly to the door handle, which he tried and found, with a rushing feeling rising inside him, to be child-locked.

  The track continued up the moor. The car bounced down a particularly deep rut that threw Henry up and across the seat.

  ‘Jeez!’

  He strained to see into the dark. He twisted around and saw the lights of Rochdale in the distance.

  Mitch turned in through some stone gates and drove up to a farmhouse, security lights coming on as the car stopped. From what Henry could see, it looked as though it was no longer a real farmhouse, but had been converted into a des res with a wide gravel drive.

  ‘Looks nice, this,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘My new pad,’ Ingram said. ‘Ops centre.’

  The rain lashed down as they climbed out of the car, Mitch opening the door for Henry, and dashed to the front door, Ingram ahead.

  Henry took in as much as possible, noticing a sc
ruffy white van parked to one side of the drive, no other vehicles. They had left the Peugeot in Manchester.

  Then they were in, the lights on, out of the rain. Even as Henry stood in the entrance hall and removed his jacket, he saw the place had been superbly modernized.

  ‘Nice, nice,’ he said. There was a grandfather clock in the entrance hall which looked like a genuine antique, which struck two, making Henry jump and realize he was in the middle of nowhere with a man who was a murderer and another who, possibly, was far worse. And no one knew where he was.

  His anus contracted.

  Donaldson’s mobile rang: it was Kate Christie.

  ‘What’s happening, Karl?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘Nothing concrete yet.’

  ‘Do you think Henry’s in trouble?’

  He sighed, impatient with his own lack of knowledge. ‘Knowing Henry, he’ll be fine,’ he said, pulling himself together for Kate’s sake.

  ‘I trust you,’ Kate said simply. She did not need to add anything more and terminated the call.

  Donaldson looked squarely at Andrea Makin.

  Their eyes interlocked until they could no longer look at each other.

  ‘How do we take this forward?’ Donaldson asked.

  She shrugged helplessly.

  ‘You know the number Henry called from, the new mobile number, don’t you?’

  Andrea nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s get in a position to track the signal if the mobile comes back on … we can be ready for that, can’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Donaldson and Andrea were still at BVH. Costain was under the knife and the drill. The police in Poulton were searching the area for a lost child. The cops in Stratford were working on a murder scene. Henry Christie had not been heard of for hours.

  ‘Do it,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘OK.’ She punched a number in her phone and called Dave Anger. He was the one who could get the necessary authorization to locate mobile phone signals. She turned away from Donaldson as she made her request to Anger.

  Donaldson paced the corridor, waiting for her to finish.

  ‘Done,’ she said, closing her phone.

  They regarded each other again.

  ‘If Costain was attacked by Ingram, or by his cronies, and he did blab, then Henry could well be dead,’ Andrea said. ‘Ingram doesn’t take prisoners.’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘So what the fuck do we do?’

  ‘Has anyone checked Ingram’s address?’

  ‘He’s been living in a Travelodge in Manchester. He checked out last evening.’

  ‘No other addresses?’

  Andrea looked blankly at him. ‘He’s only recently come north and kept a very low profile … started from scratch, covering his tracks all the way.’

  ‘What about associates?’

  Andrea told him about Mitch Percy and that he, too, had come north with Ingram and started from scratch.

  ‘What about their mobile phones? Do you have their numbers, their service providers?’

  ‘They use and dispose of pay-as-you-go ones all the time. Impossible to keep track of.’

  ‘Basically, you don’t know very much about Ingram.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So we’re fucked?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  The lounge was spacious and high-ceilinged, beautifully furnished, big screen TV, wooden beams, the whole Lancashire Life touch.

  Henry lounged in one of the leather armchairs, sinking into its soft cushions, whisky glass in hand, a shot of Grouse in it which he had watered down. Ingram was on the settee, Mitch tight in another armchair, both with drinks in their hands.

  A pornographic DVD was playing on the TV, which was affixed to the chimney breast, like a cinema screen. Its images and dialogue were just background and Henry had no trouble ignoring it. Mitch was riveted, engrossed, and Henry hoped to hell he didn’t feel the need to whip out his cock and start masturbating.

  ‘Mitch said you did good today,’ Ingram told Henry.

  ‘More by luck than judgement,’ Henry agreed reluctantly. ‘My first double murder, you know.’

  ‘It needed doing.’

  ‘I would’ve appreciated some warning.’

  ‘Best to go in at the deep end.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I prefer short, simple steps.’

  ‘Mitch mentioned property management to you?’

  ‘In passing.’ Henry was astonished by the subject change, as though the murder of two men was just another business thing. But that, terrifyingly, was exactly how these men were. Killing meant nothing. Just another tool in their day-to-day life. Something that ‘needed doing’.

  Henry felt nauseous. He sipped his drink, sensing something in the atmosphere, something dark and scary. He knew he needed to keep his wits about him. He glanced at Mitch, who moved uncomfortably in the chair, pushing his hand down over his crotch as he watched the DVD.

  ‘I’ll have a lot of property soon. It’ll need looking after. I need someone trustworthy to run it.’

  ‘And that’s me?’

  ‘Very definitely.’

  ‘So you went to see Troy Costain today.’

  ‘Uh-huh – debt taken care of.’

  ‘You paid him?’

  ‘You could say that … now all you need to worry about is me, but there’ll be plenty of ways to repay me.’

  Mitch was now kneading his cock, which, thankfully, was still inside his trousers.

  Ingram said, ‘Do you like the house?’

  ‘Very smart.’

  ‘Knock-down price, real bargain. The previous owner was only too glad to sell to me.’

  Henry shivered wondering what that meant.

  ‘It’s mostly renovated, but there’s barns and outbuildings not yet touched. Lots of possibilities. Want to see them?’

  ‘Now?’ Outside, the rain continued to hammer remorselessly.

  ‘Yeah, now.’ Ingram glanced at his henchman. ‘Oi, let go of it, will you? Time for a guided tour.’

  Mitch reluctantly removed his hand.

  On the big screen a sexual act was taking place between two men and a little girl who, to Henry, looked no more than twelve years old.

  ‘I need to be getting home,’ Henry whined.

  ‘Nah – tour first, then I’ll call you a taxi,’ Ingram said.

  ‘No, really, I need to get gone.’

  ‘No, like I said: tour first.’

  Andrea and Donaldson had moved to the hastily commandeered incident room at Poulton Police Station. She pinched the bridge of her nose, a severe headache cutting through her skull like an axe. Donaldson, still fighting the residue of earlier alcohol, watched her, feeling helpless and foolish.

  ‘There’s nothing to say that Troy Costain was assaulted by Ingram, nor that he abducted the girl,’ Donaldson said.

  Andrea just shook her head.

  The room they were in was nothing more than a former games room where there had once been a three-quarter size snooker table, now removed. A dartboard hung lonely on the wall, two darts shoved into the bull, their feathered flights broken. The third dart was nowhere to be seen.

  The hanging lights that had once lit up the baize illuminated an old desk that stood where the snooker table had once been.

  It was not a good incident room.

  In the morning they would transfer to the newly built incident room at Blackpool.

  ‘I hate undercover work,’ Andrea admitted.

  Donaldson nodded. He knew she had once lost an undercover cop. He had also lost agents and it was a terrible experience.

  ‘Henry knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine,’ Donaldson said.

  Her face twisted desperately. ‘God, I hope so.’

  The door opened and Dave Anger came into the room. They raised their faces expectantly; however, he did not exude confidence in his manner.

  ‘Nothing from the hospital yet,’ he reported. ‘Nothing on the missi
ng girl and nothing from the mobile phone company.’

  ‘The guy who owned this was into cars, doing them up, restoring them,’ Ingram explained. They had toured the residential area of the farm – six bedrooms, three bathrooms, etc. – and Ingram had sounded like an estate agent. Now they had stepped outside into the wild night, a blast of cold moorland air and rain hitting then hard.

  Henry checked his watch. It was going on three, not a time to be being shown around anyone’s property, he thought. They stood at the front door and looked across at the outbuildings, a series of low barns and middens and one stand-alone building with a sliding door.

  He wondered why Ingram was feeling the need to show him around. The boasting criminal?

  However, something felt terribly wrong.

  ‘Hell,’ Ingram hissed at the weather.

  ‘You want to give this a miss, boss?’ Henry said.

  ‘Hey, I like that. You called me boss.’

  ‘That’s what you are, isn’t it?’ Henry said, buttering him up.

  ‘Yeah, suppose I am … let me just show you something across in that building.’ He pointed to the one with the sliding door. ‘It used to be the owner’s garage and workshop. Won’t take long. It’s brill.’ He put his head down and trudged against the weather across the yard.

  Mitch gave Henry a shove, propelling him on.

  After a moment of fumbling with the big lock, Ingram slid back the ten-foot-high door, reached in for the light switch, found it, then stepped into the garage. Henry and Mitch clustered in behind him, glad to get somewhere dry. Even the short dash across the yard had drenched them.

  It was a huge building, probably had once been a hay barn. Steps up one side led on to a separate, suspended first floor which was fitted like a gallery, reminding Henry of a duplex apartment.

  ‘Impressive,’ Henry said, though the thought of a workshop/garage didn’t appeal to him. God wouldn’t have given the world mechanics if he’d meant us to fix our own cars, he’d once pointed out to Kate. He wasn’t a practical man in that sense … now maybe if this had been a home cinema …

  ‘Come here,’ Ingram said, crooking a finger for Henry to follow. He led Henry across the concrete floor towards a big, rectangular sheet of metal that covered a vehicle inspection pit. This was hinged on one side, with a steel handle on the other and was secured to the floor by a heavy padlock. It was like the doorway to hell … a few moments later Henry realized it was the pit of hell.