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.
‘Trust me, Christine,’ Paul said next, adding, ‘it’ll be a scoop.’
She wished he hadn’t used that word, but she was in.
Chapter Twenty
This wasn’t how he liked to spend his Sunday mornings, but once the work was over Quintel planned to disappear somewhere warm and not work again. That said, this current job would be very good on his CV. He had renewed faith in Jason’s abilities and he could see other high profile, and high paying jobs, coming his way. At least he’d be able to pick and choose. After all, you couldn’t just go onto the Dark Web and search for assassins; well, you could, but you were increasingly likely to attract a cop if you did.
He shouldn’t complain though, he’d just finished a late full English breakfast, whereas Jason had been out since early on. In fact, he’d awoken Quintel on his way out, should have got separate rooms. He was about to head back to his when his phone rang. It was Jason. He noted the time was noon as he took the call. ‘Any problems?’
‘No, I’ve got the perfect place,’ Jason said, before giving Quintel the local address and instructions from where he should walk to after a short cab ride.
‘I sort of meant with the package?’ Quintel said.
‘None.’
Quintel ended the call, and rang down to reception to arrange a taxi.
Twenty minutes later, he’d been dropped off at the edge of a local rundown housing estate on the outskirts of Leyland, which was a small industrial-come-market town a few miles south of Preston, but the whole area just seemed to be one big urban expanse to Quintel, with nothing to discern where Preston the city ended, and the surrounding towns began.
He checked the instructions h
e’d written down before ripping them up and pushing the paper down the nearest grid. After a hundred metres he turned down a wide rear entry which led to a large concreted area big enough for vehicles to enter and turn around. To one side were a row of seven or eight disused garages, with a field behind. All the doors were either missing or rusted and broken open showing that the contents were nothing but rubbish. Two had discarded sofas in, and one had a grim looking stain-covered mattress in it. The last one was the only one which still had a door on it, or a pair of doors to be exact, old wooden ones with paint peeling from them, but intact nonetheless.
Quintel noted grass growing in front of the garage through the cracked concrete; no vehicles had been round here for a long time. He knocked three times on one of the doors and then waited before doing it again.
Seconds later, one of the doors opened a couple of inches and Quintel could see Jason’s face. He grinned, before opening the door wider so that he could quickly enter. ‘How did you find this place?’
‘An old mate of mine used to use it to store stuff, he just wasn’t sure if the padlock would still be on it, or if it was, whether the key would still be where he’d left it.’
‘And was it?’ Quintel asked, as Jason quickly closed the door.
‘No probs at all, took me a couple of minutes to loosen the lock, but its free now, so at least we can secure the place and come and go as we please.’
‘Excellent.’
‘There’s even an old paraffin lamp, as you can see, that still works.’
As Quintel let his eyes adjust from the changing from daylight to paraffin light, he looked into the darker recesses at the rear of the windowless garage, and saw an old kitchen chair propped up by the rear wall. Sat on it bound and gagged was their guest - his uncovered eyes bright with fear in the wavering light.
*
It took Vinnie ages to park his Volvo anywhere near the address, which was a resident’s only parking place. Even on a Sunday the centre of Manchester was a nightmare. He eventually gave up and parked it where he could, and put the two-penny coin on his dashboard again, hoping for the best. He hadn’t seen a parking attendant but he knew they would be here somewhere.
The flat was modern and looked spacious from outside, situated in one of these new, urban trendy locations. It had obviously once been an old mill or factory of some kind, with exposed rustic brickwork to give it that new but old look. There were four floors and number twenty-one was on the top. He banged on the door three or four times but received no response. He checked his watch, 12.15; he could be out for lunch. Vinnie then realised he was getting peckish himself. He tried again, and this time he heard noises from within.
Jim Reedly looked quite shocked when he opened the door to see Vinnie stood there.
‘Inspector, I thought I told Delany—’ Reedly started.
‘It’s detective inspector, but you can call me Vinnie. And I know what you told Harry Delany, which is why I’m here at Brian Darlington’s behest.’
‘That’s Chief Constable Brian Darlington to you,’ Reedly said.
Vinnie knew this wasn’t the best start to the conversation, but he hadn’t expected Reedly to be gushing in hospitality regardless, and Darlington had given him backing to be as however he saw fit. It wasn’t every day one got to be rude to a deputy chief constable. He walked into the flat uninvited, and turned to face a shocked Reedly and said, ‘This way to the lounge, is it?’ pointing at the only interior doorway.
In the front room Vinnie chose a red leather armchair and sat down opposite a two-seater settee of the same suite. Reedly sat on it and turned to face him, and was unexpectedly quiet. Vinnie had assumed he’d explode. But after a brief stand-off he spoke.
‘I am still your DCC; even if you are on this regional unit – which, make no mistake about – you can be recalled from.’
That’s better, Vinnie thought before speaking next. He ignored Reedly’s comment, ‘Look Mr Reedly, it’s abundantly clear that you have not told the truth. If not telling us the truth has in any way led to, or been a contributing factor in either Charlie’s death or that of your old mate Reggie Carstair, then Laurel leaves and pips or no laurel leaves and pips, I’ll shove your rank up your arse, just before I arrest you and throw you in a cell.’ That should do it, he thought, as he sat back into the comfy chair. He hoped the “your mate” bit might jar Reedly.
Vinnie kept his expression plain as he waited. Reedly looked at him with a mixture of shock and horror. This was replaced with a regained composure as he felt Reedly assessing what had really happened. The deadlock extended into an uncomfortable standoff. But years of doing interviews with criminals had taught him never to be dragged into the void. Let the other person speak first. Reedly did.
‘How much do you know, or should I say, how much do you think you know?’
Clever; Reedly was trying to illicit information from Vinnie now, rate what he had, so he knew how much to give. ‘Enough to suspect you of being in the wrong uniform.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Perhaps yours should have “Inmate of Her Majesty’s Prison Service” written on it.’
Now Reedly did explode. Vinnie just sat there and let him rant, not so much about his impertinence but the suggestion that Reedly was bent. When he eventually calmed a little and Vinnie had refused several orders to leave, Vinnie held his courage until Reedly had fallen fully silent.
‘We need to know why you and Carstair were targeted. We need to know who you upset when you worked for Carstair. I’m sorry for accusing you of corruption, but I had to get a steer on you, had to open you up, sir,’ Vinnie said, trying to kiss and make up a little. ‘We don’t know who else is on this hit list.’
‘I can assure you Palmer, I am not bent, and in any other circumstances I would have your badge for the way you’ve just spoken to me, just wait until I speak to Darlington.’
‘He won’t take you calls, sir. Try if you don’t believe me. I’m it, and I’m not officially on “it”.’
Reedly sat in obvious contemplation for what seemed like an age before he next spoke.
‘I’ve worked on several top secret initiatives as a senior officer, but if the threat is linked to Carstair, then we are going back to the nineties or into the early zeros.’
‘Can you be any more specific?’
‘I can’t, but now I know Carstair is dead, I can focus my thoughts a little.’
Vinnie wasn’t sure whether Reedly was becoming intentionally vague again with some renewed composure, but at least the strategy seemed to be working. Before he could ask, Reedly carried on.
‘Look, I’m not messing you about now, I genuinely don’t know, but I will be doing my damnedest to find out. I had just hoped you’d find this Quintel and the other one before now.’
Vinnie decided he’d pushed his luck enough for now; at least he’d been able to cut through Reedly’s default bullshit position, and apparently had him onside now, so he apologised for his direct approach and wrote down his mobile number for Reedly before getting up to leave.
‘How wide is this? Reedly asked, as he followed Vinnie towards the front door.
‘Just Darlington, Harry and me.’
‘Ok, I can live with that,’ Reedly said, before opening the door for Vinnie.
Vinnie blew out a huge sigh of relief as he walked down the stairs. His approach had been high-risk but seemed to have worked, though he’d reserve judgement on Reedly’s culpability until he actually knew why, and who, was behind all of it.
He left the front of the building more upbeat than he’d approached it. He’d been bricking himself if he was honest, but his renewed enthusiasm disappeared as he reached the Volvo and saw the parking violation envelope stuck under the windscreen wiper.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Has he said much? Quintel asked.
‘Not a lot apart from the expected denials, though I’ve not had too long with him.’
Quintel could hear t
he man making muffled noises from behind the gaffer tape across his mouth, and looked at him as Jason gave him a severe backhand which nearly knocked him to the floor.
‘Shut up until you are spoken to,’ Jason said.
Quintel told Jason to remove the tape from his mouth, which he did in one fluid movement. The man stifled any exclamation of pain into a sort of squeak. ‘Good, now if you make any more noise, other than to answer our questions, then you will feel pain, and trust me, Jason is an expert. If you lie to us, you will feel pain, and believe me, pain when you are gagged is worse. I’ve often wondered why, but it is. The act of being able to let out a scream somehow reduces the agony, a little anyway. Do you understand?
If the man looked terrified before, he appeared near petrified now as he stuttered an answer.
‘Yes, yes, sir.’
‘First question, Dempster; why did you blow us out to the filth?’
‘I promise I never did that, I promise sir, I wouldn’t,’ Dempster answered.
‘Gag,’ Quintel ordered, and enjoyed seeing Dempster’s eyes register even greater fear, as Jason re-attached fresh gaffer tape. ‘Left ear,’ he said.
He watched as Jason then took a firm hold of Dempster’s left ear and in one mighty downward action, he ripped the top half of Dempster’s ear clean off his head. Dempster let out a stifled scream, which sounded as if he was under water, as blood poured from the wound down his cheek. Quintel waited a couple of minutes for Dempster to calm a little before telling Jason to remove the tape, which he did after throwing the severed cartilage in Dempster’s lap.
‘I believe this is yours, and I suggest you keep your ears out for the next question,’ Jason said.
‘I would add that you need to be all ears, but you’ve only got one left,’ Quintel said, joining in Jason’s attempt at black humour.
‘Honest, I’m telling you the truth,’ Dempster gasped. ‘I’m no hero, I can’t stand pain, I’m telling you the truth. It must be either Charlie who went to the filth, or he told someone else who did.’
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