by Nick Oldham
In short, he had been a complete arsehole.
‘Well now, how are you feeling, young man?’ the consultant asked, checking the notes.
‘How would you fucking well feel if you’d had one of your bollocks kicked off?’
‘Not terribly well, I imagine. Having said that, I’d probably be much less of a pain in the arse to everyone.’
Shane sneered up at him, folded his arms and looked away, his lips muttering silently, his face in a sulk.
‘Let’s have a look then.’
A nurse drew the curtains around the bed, pulled back the bedclothes and removed the dressing.
‘Like what you see?’ Shane sniggered, trying to cover his embarrassment in a show of bravado.
The nurse took a deep breath, looked coldly at him and said, ‘I don’t like anything about you.’
‘Twat,’ he hissed.
The consultant bent over and inspected the shaved and swollen genital area. He probed around more harshly than necessary. Shane let out a yelp of pain and a tear formed in his eye.
‘Sorry,’ said the consultant.
‘Like fuck you are.’
‘You’re fit to go. Make an appointment at Out Patients for Friday. A couple of weeks and you’ll be as right as rain. It won’t affect your manly functions in any way.’
‘Good. An’ I want you to be a witness against the cops for me. I’ll be seein’ me solicitor as soon as I get out of here and I’m gonna sue those bastards for every penny they’ve got.’
‘I shall do what I have to,’ the consultant said. He wrote something on the notes and hung them back over the end of the bed. ‘Though I deplore what happened to you, I would make the observation that you probably deserved what you got.’
At 10.30 a.m. they were in an unmarked CID car heading east out of Blackpool along the M55. Henry was driving; Lucy Crane was passenger. ‘What do we know about this guy?’ Henry asked.
He actually knew as much as Lucy, having discussed the man at length in the bar the night before, but wanted to hear it all again.
Lucy riffled through the papers on her knees and extracted a photocopied entry from Who’s Who. She read out a few salient points, ad-libbing occasionally, about Sir Harry McNamara, multi-millionaire businessman.
‘Educated Lancaster Grammar,’ she was saying, ‘then Oxford. . . blah blah. . . owns a big transport company, worldwide business. . . went into politics mid-80s. . . became an MP in ‘83, but retired in ‘87 to pursue his business interests. Supposedly donated lots of money to the Tories and is a good friend of the former Prime Minister, who visits him privately from time to time. Lives in Lancashire. Has homes in London and the Channel Islands.’
‘Rich bastard in other words,’ commented Henry. ‘Not that I’m envious, you understand.’
‘Nor me.’ She turned up some newspaper cuttings and skimmed through them. ‘Second wife an ex–model ... been linked with a couple of glamour pusses - and prostitutes. Weathered a storm a couple of years back linking him with a hooker. Wife stood by him and they declared their undying love for each other ... how touching. . . arrested in Blackburn last year for kerb crawling and drink driving.’ The last piece of information came from police reports.
‘The Marie Cullen connection. . . makes you wonder,’ sighed Henry.
‘Doesn’t make him a killer,’ Lucy warned him.
‘Makes him a good starting point.’
They came off the M6 and headed towards Blackburn.
After having kicked it around the office for a while, Henry and Lucy had decided on the direct approach, to treat McNamara as if he was nobody special, just another member of the public who knew the murdered girl.
Henry had considered making an appointment to see him, but chose not to. Like all witnesses, he wanted to catch him unprepared. Judging by what little he knew of the man, the element of surprise would probably be short-lived anyway. McNamara was no one’s fool and he would recover quickly - in seconds, probably. Henry wanted to savour that tiny stretch of time before McNamara became the overbearing, obnoxious sod he apparently was when dealing with ‘lesser’ people.
Prior to setting off Henry had phoned Blackburn police and by pure luck managed to speak to the officer in the plain-clothes department who had arrested McNamara.
The officer recalled the incident vividly.
McNamara had been one of the most difficult prisoners he had ever dealt with. He had demanded to speak to the Chief Constable, belittled the officer, threatened legal action and refused to be searched. He stalled, demanded every right - which he got - spoke to some high-flying Manchester solicitor who gave him ‘certain advice’. Then he played the system. He claimed himself to be unable to give a specimen of breath because of a lung infection, unable to give blood because of a medically documented fear of needles and unable to give a specimen of urine because of a bladder infection. He vehemently denied the kerb crawling, stating he was having car trouble.
Eventually he was charged and bailed with both offences.
In court he was represented by a barrister who specialised in drink driving legislation; he produced two doctors who testified as to his medical conditions and a motor mechanic who swore blind that McNamara’s Bentley was having mechanical problems that night - something to do with a fuel-line blockage.
Rent-a-witness.
The charges were dismissed by Magistrates who did not believe a word but had no choice other than to accept the expert opinions.
McNamara then instituted civil proceedings against the police for a variety of matters, ranging from malicious prosecution to assault and a myriad of other things. As civil claims tend to, it was still going on.
‘All in all,’ the officer admitted to Henry, ‘it amounts to the fact he’s got money, power and influence. If you’re dealing with him for anything, watch out. He’s a slippery sod and he bears grudges.’
Henry thanked the officer. He and Lucy then began their trek across the county, intending to combine an on-spec visit to McNamara with a few enquiries around Blackburn about the dead girl.
They skirted Blackburn on the arterial road. Henry picked up the B6232 Grane Road, which would take them up onto the moors.
Five minutes later they pulled into the long driveway which led up to McNamara’s farmhouse. Henry said to Lucy, ‘Just so you know, I’m dropping the word "Acting" when I introduce myself. Plain “Detective Inspector” rolls off the tongue better and he has no reason to know I’m really just a Sergeant.’
‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘Delusions of grandeur, maybe, but OK.’
The bulky figure of Sir Harry McNamara, former MP for the South Blackburn and Darwen constituency, stood thoughtfully at the conservatory doors of his restored farmhouse on the moors overlooking Blackburn. It was another clear winter’s day, no cloud or mist, and he could see the Lancashire coastline some forty miles to the west and the little blip that was Blackpool Tower.
Usually days like these made him appreciate what a wonderful part of the country he lived in, with scenery to rival anywhere else in Britain, indeed the world. And he had seen much of both.
He placed the expensive, bulbous cigar between his fat lips and took a long draw, blowing the resultant smoke out into the atmosphere where it wisped away.
Today, however, he was not considering the countryside. He was thinking deeply about the conversation he’d had with a police Chief Inspector from Blackburn who had earwigged a phone conversation between the cop who arrested him last year and some detective from Blackpool. The police in Blackpool, it would appear, were investigating the murder of a prostitute and McNamara’s name had cropped up.
He stepped out of the conservatory and walked across the patio to the edge of the lawn. Even though the grass had not been mown since the onset of cold weather, it looked well. He dropped the cigar butt onto it and crushed it to death with the sole of his shoe.
Philippa, his second wife, who was twenty-two years younger than him at thirty-five, appeared in the conserva
tory. She had picked up his mood following the phone call and - as other minions did (and she was under no illusion that she was anything more than just another minion) - had withdrawn to a safe distance. She was wary of her husband’s temper, which could be violent at times. This time, however, there was something different in the air. He was angry, that much was obvious, but there was fear there too.
‘Harry,’ she called sweetly, ‘can I get you anything?’
He had his back to her and did not do her the courtesy of turning. Just shook his head, made no verbal response.
‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ she persisted gently.
He closed his eyes momentarily in a gesture of impatience. Still not turning he said, ‘No,’ firmly.
She left.
When he was sure she was out of earshot, he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a local number.
‘We need to have chats, soon,’ he said.
‘When?’
McNamara gave a time and date. No location because the venue was always the same. He ended the call abruptly.
He spent as little time as possible on mobiles. Handy though they were, they were also dangerous. He knew he could very easily be a target for journalists with scanners, particularly with his reputation. He preferred the old-fashioned landline where possible.
‘Harry,’ McNamara’s wife called from the conservatory door.
‘I said I don’t want anything!’ he barked.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but the police are here - two detectives. They want to see you about something. Harry, what is it?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
Brushing roughly past her, he mooched over to the house and went to the entrance hall where, indeed, two detectives were waiting to see him.
‘Sir Harry McNamara?’ the male detective said politely, a smile on his face. He held out a hand. McNamara shook it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, but we need to have a chat with you. Hope you don’t mind, hope it’s not inconvenient. Oh, by the way, this is DC Crane and I’m Detective Inspector Christie. We’re from Blackpool CID.’
‘Come into the study,’ McNamara said. ‘I hope this won’t take long. I’m rather busy and need to go out shortly to a business meeting.’ A lie, but these two cops wouldn’t know.
‘I can’t make any promises about how long it’ll take. Depends on what you tell us,’ Henry informed him.
McNamara nodded and led the detectives to the study which was off the hall. Henry caught sight of McNamara’s wife standing in the kitchen. It was only a brief glimpse of a tall, sad-looking woman, lonely and quite beautiful.
The officers were not asked to sit, nor were they offered refreshment. McNamara made it clear he was doing them a favour. It was an imposition for him.
‘What do you want?’
Lucy did the talking, Henry the watching.
‘We appreciate this might be quite delicate,’ she began. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman in Blackpool. We think you knew her and we’re obviously speaking to everyone we can find with connections to her. As a matter of routine.’
‘No, I don’t know her,’ McNamara said immediately. ‘I don’t know anyone in Blackpool.’
‘She’s not from Blackpool, she’s from Blackburn and her name is Marie Cullen.’
Henry watched McNamara’s face, which flushed like a toilet.
‘No. The name means nothing to me.’
‘She was a prostitute and was arrested for soliciting about a year ago in the King Street area of Blackburn. You were arrested at the same time for kerb crawling and drink driving. She was seen to get in your car.’
‘And as you two probably know, I was acquitted of the charges at court. The poor woman who was embroiled in the same incident was not known to me then, nor now. I did not, nor do not, know her. It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances for which the police will be paying dearly when it reaches civil court.’
‘You’re saying you don’t know Marie Cullen?’ Lucy asked.
‘Yes. That is what I’m saying, so I suggest we stop at this point. I have never seen the woman since that night and if you even begin to make out that I have done, I’ll sue you. Now I’m asking you to leave.’
They were ushered out and moments later were climbing silently into the CID car. Henry started the engine.
Then they looked at each other. Simultaneously they both said the same word and burst out laughing.
The word was ‘Guilty’.
Once on the road, Henry said, ‘I think he knew we were coming, Luce, which I find pretty worrying. Let’s bob into Blackburn police station and have a nose around, maybe speak to the officer who dealt with him again.’
‘Good idea.’
The top ten worst moments of my life, thought Karl Donaldson. I’m not exactly sure which one this has replaced, but I think it’s definitely sneaked into the top five.
He was certain the number one spot would never be breached - the time when he’d held the dying body of a friend and colleague who’d been cruelly gunned down by a mafia hit man. That had been a hell of a bad moment, which still hurt two years later.
But this was pretty damned bad too.
The casket containing the post mortem mutilated body of FBI operative Samantha Jane Dawber was taken from the hold of the GB Airlines plane which had just touched down at Heathrow from Madeira. It was transferred under Donaldson’s watchful eye onto the back of a small flat back truck with big tyres, an amber flashing light and a curious sounding horn, across the apron on what seemed like an interminable journey to the British Airways New York flight.
He watched it while it was loaded into the belly of the huge jet, amongst all the other luggage.
Donaldson desperately wanted to be on that flight too, in order to accompany her all the way home and hand her over to her Mom and Pop. To be able to tell them everything he knew about her life and death; tell them what a fantastic person she was, a wonderful caring friend, a dedicated professional. And tell them he’d arranged for another autopsy to take place because he wasn’t remotely satisfied with the one already done.
The hold was locked.
Donaldson said, ‘Bye, Sam, look after yourself.’
It was hard to hold back a tear and a sob, but he did. He was sad that he would miss the subsequent funeral, but he knew Sam would understand because something told him he would be busy at this end, unearthing stuff about Scott Hamilton and maybe getting to grips with the real reason for Sam’s death. And, of course, the other death he felt totally responsible for - Francesca’s.
Karen met him at the other end of Customs.
When he melted into her arms he allowed himself that tear. Karen too had obviously been in a state of denial. They cried silently for a few moments, holding each other tight, oblivious of the gawping stares of everyone else.
Eventually they let go. Time to look at each other properly.
‘Your face is a terrible mess,’ she said, looking at the dirty chain-mark and black eye.
‘It’ll heal.’
‘And you look completely whacked.’
‘And you look completely gorgeous.’ He glanced down at her stomach, which was just beginning to show signs of expansion. He touched it and said, ‘How’s your belly?’
‘Full of arms and legs,’ she smiled, ‘but fine.’
‘Long hot bath and a good night’s sleep is what I need,’ he said, taking her hand and walking towards the exit.
She looked at him critically. ‘Hope that’s not all you want. I mean, there is absolutely no way I can get pregnant now. We should take advantage of that sort of situation, don’t you think?’
‘Then I suggest we get home as soon as possible.’
Detective Constable Derek Luton was extremely proud of himself.
He had been a police officer for only six years, spending five on uniformed patrol duties at Blackpool. During those years he had dedicated himself to becoming a detective and he had achieved h
is aim far sooner than he had anticipated.
From his appointment onto the branch, he had been working on Henry Christie’s team and had set himself to learn everything he could from Henry who, it was quietly considered, was a cracking detective.
Not because he broke the rules (though it was rumoured he had once given a prisoner cocaine in return for information); nor was he oppressive to prisoners, nor was he a maverick, but because he was thorough, occasionally a genius, occasionally very brave ... and he had a bit of a reputation too, which added to his general aura.
Henry himself would have cringed at this last bit. Eighteen months earlier, he had stupidly become involved with a young policewoman. His marriage to Kate had only just survived it and Henry had learned a salutary lesson: keep your dick in your pants. He didn’t like to be reminded what an ass he’d been.
But Luton worshipped Henry, who had taken him willingly under his wing. He knew he had a lot to learn from Henry’s vast wealth of experience. And now Henry had let him get involved in Blackpool’s biggest-ever murder case. Five civilians, one dead cop.
Brilliant.
‘The Lottery Killings’, as the media had dubbed it.
Not only that, by pure chance Luton had been paired up with a seasoned detective from the North-West Organised Crime Squad.
Bliss!
Luton had aspirations of being much more than a local CID officer. In the fullness of time he wanted to move to the Drugs Squad, then Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, la crème de la crème, the NWOCS, the gangbusters. Fuckin’ magic, they were, he thought enthusiastically.
The murder investigation - which NWOCS had bulldozed their way into and taken over - would, Luton hoped, provide some sort of insight as to how they operated. Maybe even get him noticed as a potential future recruit.