by Nick Oldham
Santana nodded formally. ‘I apologise.’
‘Forget it. When did you say she was found?’
‘Ten, yesterday morning.’
‘So there’s a good chance her hotel room will still be vacant,’ Donaldson said. ‘Can we go and have a look round it? And could you give me her belongings? I need to take them back.’
Santana nodded. ‘No problem.’ But behind those two words Donaldson detected there was - and that he, Donaldson, was becoming a pain in the ass all of a sudden.
Well, so be it.
The hotel room had been cleaned from top to bottom. New guests were arriving in the morning. From the crime-scene point of view, therefore, it had nothing to offer.
Donaldson was very annoyed. ‘This should have been left untouched until I had the chance to go through it,’ he said.
‘It was checked by my people and there was nothing of interest, and certainly nothing to support your obvious belief that a crime has been committed here.’ Santana was abrupt. Then his voice softened. ‘She died by accident and there’s nothing more to it. No one to blame, no one to arrest. You should accept that, my friend. Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you thought.’
Donaldson gave that short shrift.
‘Can I see your scenes-of-crime photographs?’
Santana’s mouth drew to a tight line.
‘You haven’t taken any, have you?’ Donaldson said with disbelief.
A short shake of Santana’s head confirmed this.
Donaldson’s eyes closed despairingly. He demanded to speak to the chambermaid.
She understood English well. And had little to offer. Yes, she had found the body in the bath. It had frightened her. She had called the manager who had taken over and informed the police. The brooding presence of Santana hovering over her shoulder did little to help matters. He seemed to intimidate her. Donaldson would have preferred to talk to her alone, but there was little chance of that happening.
The autopsy did not help much either.
Donaldson prepared himself for this stage by buying a compact 35mm camera and two colour films from a shop in Funchal. Hardly ideal, but the best he could do under the circumstances.
While the pathologist waited impatiently, he took photographs of Sam’s body before the knife went in. Once again he felt like an intruder and whilst he did it, his mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. Had there been another way, or another person to do it, he would happily have handed the task over.
He took several shots of her head, trying to get a good close one of the cuts on the hairline. And shots of her shoulders and thighs, just above the knees where he had seen some slight bruising.
When he was satisfied, the pathologist moved in.
The procedure was carried out competently enough by the doctor who was from the new hospital, Cruz de Carvalho, in Funchal. He was accompanied by an assistant who recorded his observations in writing. The doctor spoke in Portuguese and then translated for Donaldson’s benefit.
Sam’s head injury and the bruising on her body was duly noted and recorded.
At the FBI agent’s insistence the doctor took scrapings from under Sam’s fingernails and bagged them.
Then he placed the dissecting knife in the soft flesh at her throat and sliced easily into the skin. Donaldson turned away. Within moments there was a perfectly straight incision right the way down the middle of her slim body to the pubis.
Donaldson forced himself to watch. He was aware that, if not careful, the last memory he would have of her would be as a hollow cadaver, all organs removed, skull hacked off, brain sliced up on a table.
Eventually the chest cavity was opened, the ribcage removed, the heart and lungs cut out. The lungs were heavy and needed two hands to lift them across to the dissecting table. Here they were sliced open, revealing the foam consistent with drowning. Typical post mortem appearance.
Water was also found in the stomach and trachea.
After two and a half hours’ work the doctor had finished.
He washed off after he’d sewn her roughly back up. Donaldson pestered him with questions.
‘She drowned,’ the doctor insisted. ‘The head injury you talk about is consistent with banging her head on the edge of a door. It did not kill her, but may possibly have stunned her for a few moments.’
‘But what about those bruises on her shoulder and legs? Are they consistent with someone grabbing her and holding her down?’
The doctor, ‘Ummed . . .’ and considered it. He dried his hands. ‘There is that argument, I suppose,’ he concluded, ‘but without supporting evidence. . .’ He shrugged. ‘She was here on a walking holiday, I believe,’ he continued. ‘These are bruises she could easily have got doing that.’
‘So what’s your theory?’ Donaldson pumped him.
‘If she had been drinking’ - here he held up a blood sample taken from her - ‘and this will tell us for sure, then I think she got drunk, staggered into a door, banged her head. This may have sent her dizzy. She had filled a hot bath and when she climbed in, the combination of alcohol, the blow to the head and the hot water made her pass out. She drowned. Misadventure. Accident. Whatever you want to call it.’
‘But not murder?’
The doctor shook his head.
Santana, who had watched the autopsy and listened to the conversation, cut in at that point. ‘An unfortunate set of circumstances. No mystery as you imply, Karl. No one to blame. Very sad.’
Henry had eaten a rather large meal and was glaring accusingly at his empty plate when a file of papers dropped onto the canteen table in front of him.
The harassed, overweight form of Dave Seymour stood there. Tie askew, top shirt- button open, jacket flapping untidily. His eyes were red raw. He had spent the day interviewing Dundaven. It was 6.30 p.m.
‘He’s now got some smart-assed solicitor from Manchester acting for him,’ were the first words he said to Henry. ‘Some guy named Pratt of all things. But he isn’t.’
‘What d’you know about him?’
‘I phoned the RCS in Bolton and asked them. Just a sec ...’ Seymour left Henry and went to the serving hatch where he selected a meal and returned to the table. He sat down opposite. ‘Seems him and his firm are known for representing shite, from criminal dealings to property stuff. Very fuckin’ seedy by all accounts.’ He shovelled a large load of potato pie into his mouth. This didn’t prevent him from continuing to talk. ‘At least he got his client to tell us his name and date of birth.’ Seymour pointed with his knife to the name written on the file.
‘And what do we know about him?’
‘Not much yet. We think he’s involved in the drugs scene over in East Lancs, but not much more than that.’ A forkload of mushy peas disappeared down his throat. ‘Think he’s a pretty big player.’
‘Any pre-cons?’ Henry asked.
‘Yep, but they don’t tell us much. Petty stuff.’
‘Terrorist connections? Organised crime?’
‘Organised maybe. Nothing terrorist.’
‘And the passenger in the Range Rover - the flying man?’
‘A lowlife shitbag called McCrory. Junkie. Petty thief. Good shoplifter, as most druggies tend to be. On the periphery ofDundaven’s scene. Bit of a gofer, I’d say.’
‘And what’s Dundaven’s story?’
Seymour closed his eyes in despair. ‘You wouldn’t fucking believe it. The shitehawk’s trying to wrangle out of it and dump everything on his dead buddy. He says McCrory asked him to drive to Blackpool yesterday, cos he wanted to pick something up. Turns out to be guns - from a man in a pub, would ya credit?’
Henry sniggered. ‘Oh, the ubiquitous man in a pub; we’ll catch the bastard one day.’
‘Yeah, well, they pick up the guns, so the fairy tale goes. . . don’t know which pub it was, by the way. . . and Dundaven is horrified, bless his soul. He says he’s too frightened of McCrory to say anything - him being a real hard case, as he put it. Says McCrory produced two
shotguns and blasted Nina and dinged one off at Rik Dean’s car.’
‘McCrory did the shooting?’
‘That’s what Dundaven says. Next thing, McCrory’s holding a gun to Dundaven’s belly saying, “Let’s go”. Poor ole Dundaven has to do whatever he’s told, but being a law-abiding citizen, what he really wanted to do is hand himself over to us.’
‘So why did he ram us and shoot at us?’
‘Duress. Fear.’ Seymour shrugged. He swallowed more pie with a forkful of peas.
‘Bullshit,’ said Henry. ‘And the next bit? This should be worth hearing.’
‘It is,’ laughed Seymour, and recited: ‘So overcome with emotion and grief is McCrory that he puts a gun to his own head, opens the door and tops himself.’
Henry laughed out loud. ‘He expects us to believe that?’
‘Deadly serious about it.’
Henry stopped laughing. ‘And then?’
‘Fear makes him continue the chase, ram the traffic car and take a pot shot at the helicopter.’
‘So where do we stand with all this? What can we prove?’
Seymour had devoured his meal. He went and bought a pot of tea and two cups. He poured one for Henry.
‘There are no direct witnesses to refute what he says, unless Nina pulls through. Rik Dean was sat in his car and couldn’t truthfully say who shot her, because the car is much lower than the Range Rover, and his view was obstructed by the spare tyre on the back. Same for us. We couldn’t actually see him waste McCrory, could we?’
Henry considered it for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be long before the first twenty-four-hours’ detention would be up. Then for an extra twelve he’d need the authority of a Superintendent to carry on questioning Dundaven without charge. He decided he would seek that authorisation and keep the pressure on Dundaven.
He told this to Seymour and added, ‘Even if you haven’t got any admissions from him, keep pushing him and then, as late as possible, charge him. Throw the book at him. Charge him with everything you can possibly think of, including the driving offences. If there’s enough shit, some of it’ll stick.’
Donaldson was booked into the Quinta da Penha de Franca. He had been allocated one of the sea view rooms in the new annexe. Very nice and comfortable, with a balcony overlooking the pool and the ocean beyond. The night was dark, tranquil and quite chilly.
He shivered, walked back into the room from the balcony, closed the door and drew the curtains. He stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head and mulled over his thoughts on Samantha Jane Dawber, whose devastated body was lying in a fridge with all its vital organs including the brain - thrown loosely into the torso and sewn up. Her cranium had been packed with newspaper and her facial skin stretched back into place and stitched so tightly that her features were stretched and distorted.
There was no respect in a morgue. Death was simply a business. A sausage factory.
Samantha Jane Dawber.
Sammy Jane.
Sam.
She had been posted to London six months earlier and easily fitted into the small team. She was recently divorced, but the break-up - without kids to worry about - did not seem to have affected her too deeply. She kept in regular touch with her ex, a Special Agent from the New York office.
Donaldson fell into an easy working relationship with her. When she subsequently met Karen, his wife, they too became friends.
It had been a good six months.
With her assistance (she had done most of the legwork) he had helped the police in Cornwall to crack a long-running fraud case. She was a good worker who took the job seriously, constantly updating herself on criminals who drifted around the international scene. One of her favourite games was to get the mugshot books out - which contained hundreds of photos - remove about fifty, cover their names, shuffle them and challenge Donaldson to name them. Usually he might recognise five or six. Without fail she could name every one, every time.
Sammy Jane. All-American girl. Whatever that meant.
Now dead in a way Donaldson didn’t like.
She ‘got into’ walking in a big way since coming to England. She often dragged the Donaldsons out all over mainland Britain to hike over hills. One memorable walk had taken place in the Lake District over a weekend when Henry and Kate Christie had been invited along. Donaldson and Henry had met and become friends on the same enquiry when he’d met Karen. It proved to be a tough walking weekend, both nights of which ended up in exhausted revelry in way-out pubs in the middle of nowhere. He and Henry had got extremely drunk and were watched with severe pity by the womenfolk.
Donaldson remembered the laughter of those two days. Sam’s giggles and wry outlook on life had been infectious.
Her visit to Madeira had been prompted by an urge to explore the levadas - footpaths running alongside irrigation channels - that crisscross the island. That was the plan.
Donaldson sat up and made himself not cry. He shook his head, breathed heavily and attempted to combat the sobs building up inside him.
He won. It was a close-run thing.
‘Phew.’ He blew out his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and looked across at Sam’s luggage which he’d deposited on the spare bed. Maybe the reason for her death was amongst that lot. He hadn’t sorted through it yet.
In his heart he was convinced she hadn’t died a pathetic drunk in a bath. That was not Sam.
Reaching across to her suitcase, he flicked up the catches.
John Rider coughed long and hard. He managed to clear his chest and throat, picked up the King Edward cigar from the ashtray, put it between his lips and re-lit it with a ‘pa-pa-pa’ until the flame had taken properly.
He blew out a ring of smoke.
‘You OK, John?’ Isa enquired, gently resting a hand in the centre of his back.
He squinted sideways at her and nodded. ‘Never better.’
‘You should give up.’
‘One of life’s last few pleasures,’ he said to justify the habit.
Isa tried to hold his gaze a little longer, but he looked away and reached for his drink. She emitted a short, dissatisfied sigh and her mouth warped in frustration for an instant before returning to its normal self.
She took a step to the bar and leaned on it.
Jacko gave her a mineral water and she took her first sip of it, wishing she had the guts to tell Rider how she felt about him. It’s ridiculous! she told herself. A woman of your age and experience being unable to tell some two-bit ex -gangster that you love him. Her overriding fear was that it could spoil both their friendship and business partnership if he didn’t reciprocate.
The club was extremely quiet. Monday. January. Blackpool. Hardly worth opening. But Rider believed it might as well be open as shut right up to the refurbishments starting.
Rider, perched on a bar stool, hoped he had come back to emotional equilibrium. Yesterday had been a nightmare. That Henry Christie. Looked quietly ruthless. Looked like he knew about the zoo. Looked like he wouldn’t let it rest.
Then the news about the gorilla splashed all over the telly and the papers. That had really gutted Rider, the suffering of an animal.
Today, thankfully, had been peaceful. A couple of detectives, not including Christie, had visited and searched the flat which might have been the dead girl’s. They had found nothing but might possibly have got an ID from her property and fingerprints on a glass. Rider gave them a short statement.
And that was that. Back to square one. Normality. Or so he hoped.
There were very few customers in the club. A few lonely souls. A few canoodling couples ensconced in the alcoves. Later, when the pubs closed and the disco cranked up, it would get busier. Not much. It would close at 12.30 a.m.
Rider couldn’t wait to get stuck into the place. Get the builders in, ripping the guts out of it, giving it a full body transplant. Transforming it into a ritzy, glitzy entertainment spot. If the planning application was successful, the builders would be in within si
x weeks. Four months after that, barring accidents, the doors would re-open just in time for the summer trade.
He shivered in anticipation. His eyes drifted around the floors, walls and unsafe ceiling, seeing it all. His baby.
Two young men at the far end of the bar caught his attention. Initially they had been sitting in one of the booths and Rider thought they might be gay. They had sauntered up to the bar, leaned on it and rudely rapped bottles on it to attract Jacko’s attention.
Rider’s bowels gave a sudden flutter.
He knew the sort. Not too far removed from the two who had appeared in the zoo, but maybe not as far down the road as them, being slightly younger.
Jacko served them each with a bottle of Foster’s Ice. Both drank from the bottle, their teeth showing as they swallowed each mouthful, almost as if it was painful. The ‘in’ way to drink.
Rider beckoned Jacko over. ‘Know ‘em?’
Jacko knew most locals.
‘No. Blackburn lads,’ he said. Over the years of working behind bars in Blackpool, Jacko had learned to identify regional accents, quite specifically in many cases. He could tell easily whereabouts in Lancashire a person came from and his other regional specialities were the West Midlands, Scotland and London. He was rarely wrong. The Blackburn accent was a common one in Blackpool.
‘You happy with them?’
‘They’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Yet.’
‘Yet,’ agreed Jacko.
Rider glanced down at them. One eyed the other and nodded. He held out his bottle at arms’ length and smashed it onto the floor. It shattered spectacularly.
‘Yet,’ said Rider again under his breath. He lowered himself from the stool. Before he could get to them, the other one swept his left arm across the bar top, catching half a dozen newly-washed pint glasses, sending them crashing to the floor. As though he was throwing a knife at a target, he lobbed his bottle of Foster’s into the optics behind the bar. A large bottle of Bell’s and a few glasses exploded.