Thirty minutes later and Quintel was banging on Dempster’s front door. No reply. He stood back but could see no lights on, even though he was sure there had been some illumination edging from behind the closed upstairs curtains as he’d approached. Twat was hiding. He couldn’t be arsed buggering about while he half-shivered to death, so he took a step back and booted the door in. It flew open on the first kick and as Quintel entered he heard movement upstairs. He closed the door behind him and immediately started to feel the warmth of the house start to de-chill him. It would take a while until his bones felt warm again; and probably much longer to get used to the smell.
Seconds later, the person responsible for the foul emissions came racing down the stairs, but slowed to a halt near the bottom when he saw it was Quintel.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not the filth. You will still need a new front door; but I guess you are used to that.’
‘Mr Quintel, what’s happened to you?’
‘Shut up and find me some dry clothes, and they better be clean ones.’
Five minutes later, Quintel was wearing what he assumed was Dempster’s Sunday best – a clean silver shell suit. He felt like an oven ready meal, but it would do. The trainers were a size too small, but would have to do until he could buy some fresh kit tomorrow. Now he needed a gun, but before that he needed a car. He told Dempster to go and borrow a motor from one of his pond life friends, but told him not to nick one, he needed clean wheels. He’d pay Dempster for it via the usual on-line account to include a heathy bonus. Or so he told him.
As Dempster was about to set off, he made him leave his mobile phone behind and asked where the nearest phone box was? Dempster looked confused.
‘I need to make a secure call, and I don’t want you to make any calls,’ he explained, though the confused look on Dempster’s face didn’t alter. He then grabbed Dempster by the throat and pushed him up against the wall in the hall. ‘If it had been up to me, I’d have been tempted to “off you” in that garage in Leyland. But Jay vouched for you, so don’t let him down; or I will. Got it?’
Dempster nodded frantically and then asked, ‘Where is Jay?’
‘Just go,’ he said, and he did. Quintel hadn’t quite decided what to do with Dempster. Initially, he’d thought he’d take what he needed and then kill him, but he might still have his uses, for a while anyway. Once he brought the motor back Quintel would pay the shithead in Blackpool a revisit to re-arm. He considered asking Dempster to set up a meet with a local supplier, but he didn’t really trust Dempster not to fuck it up. Knowing his history he’d probably introduce him to another undercover cop. No, Blackpool would do, it was only twenty odd miles away and would probably prove a safer place to hole down in the short term, rather than be right under the local plod’s nose. It was certainly a more cosmopolitan town with its transient population. Though why anyone would want to holiday there was beyond him. It seemed full of gays, stags and hens to him.
As soon as Dempster had gone, Quintel found the phone box at the end of the street and texted the client the details as per his annoying security protocols. When the phone eventually rang, he answered it and spoke first, before rent-a-rant could get started. ‘There’s been a slight hitch.’
‘What the fook does that mean?’
A redundant question Quintel thought as he hadn’t yet given him a chance to explain, so he ignored it and carried on saying all that happened. When he had finished there was a surprising pause before the client responded.
‘What a total fuck up.’
‘Well, it was doing your little stocking-filler that brought it all on top.’
‘So it’s my fault is it? You cheeky twat.’
Anger was raging through Quintel now, but he knew he had to reign himself in; too much money was at stake. He paused, breathed and then spoke. ‘Sorry, it’s just been a trying day. But there are now no problems; I’m in the process of re-equipping myself through my embedded infrastructure,’ he started, thinking it put Dempster and the Blackpool shithead on a grander scale than they deserved. Adding, ‘And once I’m sorted out, which should be by tomorrow, I’ll be ready for your main target, whoever that is?’
‘I’m not paying you for removing the nosy reporter.’
‘She is dead. Mission accomplished. But when the full contract is completed and there have been no further problems, I’ll invite you to reconsider, but I won’t hold you to it if you still feel the same,’ Quintel said. After all, what was an extra ten grand when he was going to be getting a hundred grand now Jason’s half was his.
‘Too fooking true you won’t. Look, the main man won’t be easy to get at, are you sure you can complete it alone?’
Quintel knew it would be harder, but how hard could it be? Unless the target was some VIP, which he was sure it wasn’t. He told the client not to worry. The line then remained open for what seemed like an age before the client spoke again.
‘Look, sort yourself out but do nothing for the next twenty-four hours or until you hear from me again.’
As Quintel still didn’t know the identity of the main target, he could hardly do anything else, but resisted the temptation for sarcasm, and just said, ‘Ok.’
‘Where will you be when I want you?’ the client asked.
‘Blackpool, probably, unless I have to leave for an unexpected reason, apart from a quick trip to Manchester.’
‘What’s in Manchester?’
‘We hid the spare grenade when we left with the reporter; operational security, so I’ll need to retrieve it.’
‘Excellent,’ the client said before ending the call.
Quintel wondered about the delay while he walked back to Dempster’s house. He just hoped it was to do with the availability of the target or other logistics. But one thought troubled him; he hoped the client wasn’t thinking of sending him a replacement for Jason. That could potentially cost him fifty large ones.
*
Two hours later, Quintel was driving a shitty Nissan Primera that looked like some of Dempster’s relatives had been sleeping in it, but it would do, though he might have to get it valeted by one of those Kurdish run car washes that seemed to be everywhere nowadays.
He’d just had an interesting visit to the address off Central Drive where Jason and he had called at a few days earlier. This time the cocky little shithead couldn’t do enough to help – especially given that currently he only had one good hand - he gave Quintel a boxed unfired Glock 17 pistol and loads of ammunition for free. Quintel said he wouldn’t be bothering him again and he’d seemed relieved. The gun had come with two barrels; one of which had been cut at the end with a dye so a silencer could be screwed onto it. Or flash eliminator, as Jason would have called it. The cocky twerp had also thrown in a used silencer which fit.
Quintel tried the composite pieces out and found it remarkably easy to change the barrels and then fit the silencer. He had never used a silencer before but understood why they were called Flash Eliminators when he tried it out before he left. The flash was totally eliminated, as was the annoying cocky twat, whom neither he nor anyone else would ever be bothered by again.
Now it was time to find a hotel before it became too late. He didn’t fancy sleeping in the motor.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Vinnie had just about started to feel warm again by the time he and Harry had finished writing their witness statements covering the day’s events. It may be springtime but the temperature could still vary massively from one day to the next, especially as night time came. Harry had finished his deposition first and made a welcome brew. Vinnie finished his and sat back to take a sip.
‘I still can’t work out how or why Quintel and Jason came after Christine?’ Harry said.
‘I’ve been thinking about that too. At first I wondered whether it was something to do with the exposé she’d been working on, but I don’t see how?’
‘What was that again, exactly?’
Vinnie then briefed Harry as fully as he could.
‘Well, if she did piss someone off suggesting the Catholic Republicans are getting more than their fair share of the peace cake; one, it’s a bit extreme taking out a reporter, which you would think would only highlight the issue; and two, one hell of a coincidence that the disgruntled ex-IRA member concerned would hire Quintel and Jason to do it. Apart from anything else, they’ve got plenty of their own assassins or ex-assassins to use.’
‘Exactly, and you know I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Or fairies, I know. So what then?’
‘Dempster perhaps?’
Vinnie then told Harry how he’d asked Christine to do a random call on his behalf soon after Charlie had been murdered, and how they had discovered that Dempster had been the snout that introduced Charlie to Quintel and Jason.’
‘Still doesn’t add up,’ Harry said.
‘Nor to me. Look, I never got the chance to speak to Christine’s source, nor Christine for that matter. I’ll nip up and see her at the Royal Preston Hospital, give her this spare phone,’ Vinnie said, removing an old Nokia from the desktop charger in front of him, adding, ‘Have a quick chat and get Paul Bury’s number from her.’
Harry looked at his watch, which prompted Vinnie to do the same; 10.05 pm.
‘I’d come with you, but it’s getting late and Darlington is waiting in his office to see me, so give her my best and keep me updated,’ Harry said.
Vinnie said he’d ring him later, unless it got too late, and reached for his Volvo keys on his desk.
It only took ten minutes at this time of day to reach the vast hospital at the northern end of the city, and once he’d shown his warrant card he was soon walking down the main corridor of ward twenty. It was designed with bays containing four beds in each and he found Christine sat up by a window. She’d just finished using the trolley telephone and smiled as he approached. He sat down next to her bed and she spoke first.
‘What, no kiss this time? It was the sand musk thing after all.’
Vinnie stood up and kissed her gently on her cheek. ‘Better?’
‘I was only kidding, but if it works?’
Vinnie asked her how she was, and she told him she should be released the following day. X-rays confirmed no fractures, just a small scalp wound, which they’d fixed with butterfly stitches, and a nice bump; but the painkillers were doing their job. ‘It’ll be a while before I can visit the hairdresser again though,’ she added with a smile.
Vinnie gave her his spare phone and she thanked him. Her phone was in a million pieces back at Lesley’s. He told her that he’d given Lesley a quick call as soon as he’d reached the office in Preston, and Christine thanked him, saying she’d just spoken to her and she seemed remarkably ok. Vinnie looked around and even though all the occupants of the other three beds seemed asleep he suggested they should talk some more in the day room.
As expected it was empty, and Christine told Vinnie all that had been asked of her, and thought it must be something to do with Dempster. He told her that they’d checked Dempster’s address on their way back to the nick, just in case, though it would probably be the last place Quintel would go. ‘And if he had, I’m confident Dempster would have belled me,’ Vinnie said.
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. The house was all in darkness and there was no answer at the door. A neighbour confirmed he was out, had been all evening.
‘But I’ve had another thought, a darker one; what if it is to do with the feature you are working on? I mean, how sure are you about your source, Paul Bury?’
‘It would be a bit of a—’ Christine started to say.
‘Coincidence, I know,’ Vinnie said, finishing off the sentence.
‘And don’t forget, Quintel did ask me why I’d mentioned Dempster’s name?’
‘You may have just hit a nerve when you used his name, but in the absence of anything to the contrary, I think you’re right, so the threat’s over. But just to be on the safe side, why don’t we keep you under the radar?
‘Without getting too elaborate, we could keep you out of the public eye and put out a press release saying a body has been found where you were…,’ Vinnie said, not wanting to use the word “buried”.
‘It’s ok, you can say it. No, I’m cool with that; in fact you don’t have to say anything straight away.’
‘True; it can take us a couple of days to “find you”,’ Vinnie said, adding, ‘and even then we can say that the body is unidentified. Should buy us plenty of time to make sure the threat is over and that it was all Dempster related.’
Strategy agreed, Vinnie asked Christine for Bury’s phone number, which thankfully she’d noted down in her diary. She told him that Bury had agreed to meet Vinnie so a call from him shouldn’t spook him.
‘What if he asks about me?’ she added.
‘I’ll say I can’t reach you, use that as a need to see him urgently. But first I think we both need a good night’s sleep.’
Vinnie walked Christine back to her bed but stopped her while they were still alone, in the corridor.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
So he told her. He was wracked with guilt that this horrendous ordeal which she and Lesley had been through was all because he’d asked her to knock on Dempster’s door. He said he would never forgive himself.
Typical Christine, she said that they couldn’t possibly have guessed these unintended consequences, even if there was a link. And in any event, it all ended ok thanks to Vinnie; so he’d made good by any fault he was wrongly feeling.
He smiled, and thanked her for her words. He then felt a deep connection between them in the short pause that followed, but then broke it by saying that she should ring him as soon as she was discharged and he’d come and get her. He’d ring Paul Bury in the morning and hopefully set a meet for the afternoon. He pecked her other cheek, and said, ‘Don’t worry, Christine, I promise you I’ll catch Quintel.’
‘We’ll catch Quintel together. I’m signed up all the way after what he did.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
Quintel checked the regional news channels over his fried breakfast, but they weren’t giving much away. Spoke of a fatal shooting the night before, of a suspect who had already opened fire on a police officer. The chief constable of Lancashire, Brian Darlington, had said that the incident had been automatically referred to the Independent Police Complaints Commission to investigate. There would be a full press conference at twelve noon. There was no mention of finding the kidnapped TV reporter. Jason must have buried her well, bless him. In fact the bulletin he watched had made no link between the two incidents, which the recovered motor would no doubt provide. The filth were obviously keeping that little gem back for now. He could understand why, though. If they mentioned that the recovered car was the one believed used in the earlier kidnapping of one of the media’s own, they’d be ragging Darlington non-stop.
Quintel smiled. There was a chance that plod wouldn’t find her body at all. They might know the car was the one used, but they had no one to ask about it. It was probably as well that Jason hadn’t survived.
After breakfast, Quintel went shopping in Blackpool and bought a holdall and some fresh clothes, the sooner he could get out of Dempster’s favourite tin foil suit, the better. He’d already drawn too many sideway glances since booking into this four star hotel in Blackpool’s South Shore district. Clothes sorted, he soon found a car wash place and had the motor cleaned up, the smell of Scandinavian Pine effectively masked the musk of whichever dirty bastard Dempster borrowed it from.
He then hit the M55 motorway which led to the M6 and then to the M61where he headed south towards Manchester until he came off at the Bolton West services. He had to walk over the bridge to the northbound side to retrieve the hand grenade Jason had stashed behind a tree the previous day. He was glad he’d got Jason to show him, in case they ever became split up; he was always thinking.
He was then going to head back to Blackpool, when he
had a change of mind. He couldn’t do anything until the client told him who the main target was, so he had a better idea. He’d head to Birmingham and go and see Jason’s ex-army mate. He didn’t have his phone number but felt sure he could remember how to get to the house. He’d met him with Jason, so there shouldn’t be any problems. He fancied a further grenade and could do with a back-up gun. The only one worth having from the cocky twat he’d seen in Blackpool was now under the spare wheel in the boot of the Nissan.
It was late afternoon before Quintel arrived back at his hotel, all sorted. The Birmingham man had asked where Jason was, and Quintel wasn’t sure he quite believed the load of fanny he’d given him as an excuse, but he’d still sorted him out.
He was now the proud owner of a second grenade, and a second Glock, and loads of ammo. He’d leave all the hardware in the boot of the car, safe in the knowledge that no one would want to nick that shit heap. But to be on the safe side he parked it on the hotel car park under a lamppost, where he could see it from his room. Then he headed to the hotel bar.
Three beers later and the client was texting him. Quintel had noticed a pay phone booth in the hotel lobby, so texted the details to the client, who told him to ring ‘A’. The client picked up on the first ring.
‘Did you get your logistics sorted today?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, all good, including some extra help,’ Quintel said.
‘Extra help? Who the fook are you involving now?’
‘No one. I mean extra-hardware type-help. But why would it matter who or how many people I use?
‘Where are you?’
‘Why?’ Quintel asked without answering, the client was seriously trying his patience.
‘‘Cause you sound like you’re in a public place.’
‘That’s where public phones are,’ Quintel said, no longer being able to resist some sarcasm.
‘Nar, you clever twat, I mean I can hear a lot of background noise.’
Quintel explained where he was.
‘Right, well, be careful you’re not overheard.’
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