by Nick Oldham
In fact he had a million questions to ask, but wasn’t really sure whether turning up out of the blue on the guy’s doorstep would lead to any direct answers. All previous meetings had been in neutral territory – Holland, France – never in Spain itself and certainly never near Mendoza.
But desperation makes a man do foolish things.
The water came. It tasted good.
It was time to contact Mr Lopez.
Even before he knocked he could tell there was no one in. The flat was in darkness – only to be expected at this time of day – but there was something about the place which said to Lynch, Empty.
He put his shoulder to the front door, eased a bit of weight into it. It did not move. Standing back, he raised his foot and slammed it just under the Yale lock. The door moved. Twice more he flat-footed it and on the second blow the flimsy door broke and clattered open.
Lynch stepped into the darkened hallway, standing there, listening to the quiet.
Experience told him the place was devoid of life. His senses were not picking up the vibes emitted by human presence.
He went into the living room and switched on the light. He did not do this cautiously because he had nothing to fear.
The room was empty. As he looked round it, his mouth evolved into a sneer underneath his nose. Tatty second-hand furniture, a portable TV, fast-food wrappers tossed around, the stale reek of beer, cigarettes and chips. The room of a financially stretched middle-aged man who had made too many wrong decisions in life. Wrong wife. Wrong mortgage. Wrong everything . . . but a man ripe for the picking. A desperate man who needed money, whatever the source.
It looked as though he had not been back from the hospital.
So, a man on the run, maybe. A man who had made another bad decision. A man deep in trouble.
A man who would definitely die.
‘This is dangerous. This is not how we make contact. This is out of order.’ Lopez hissed the words down the phone into Donaldson’s ear. ‘I cannot speak.’
‘I need to see you,’ the American insisted.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Yes you can,’ Donaldson said. ‘You wouldn’t want Señor Mendoza to find out about our little relationship, would you?’
Heavy silence.
‘This is outrageous,’ Lopez said angrily.
‘You bet your ass,’ growled Donaldson.
‘Where are you?’
Donaldson told him.
‘Here? In Spain? You fool. Have you lost your head?’
‘Meet me in an hour,’ Donaldson said.
Lopez apologized profusely as he returned to the interior of the restaurant in Torrevieja. The business had closed for custom that night and now three people sat at a table in the centre of the room, picking at a range of tapas.
Mendoza was one of the three. He scowled at Lopez. ‘Who the hell was that?’
‘No one, no one,’ Lopez said, trying to display an air of nonchalance. He took the spare seat at the table, unable to maintain eye contact with Mendoza. His boss sniffed, annoyed, and turned his attention to the other two men seated with him.
One was an old Italian, white-haired, deeply lined face, his rugged, weather-beaten skin burned almost black by the Sicilian sunshine. He had hard, grit-grey eyes and a jaw set firm. He was not a big man, but his presence could be felt at all times. He exuded power and danger.
The other was a much younger man, his grandson. Maybe twenty-two years old, fresh-faced, but had obviously inherited the tough eyes of his older blood relative and just a little bit of his aura. That was something he would grow into, rather like an outsized sweater that would one day fit him perfectly.
The older man sat back and sipped the red wine, his face screwing up at the harsh taste. ‘How long have we been working together?’ he asked Mendoza.
‘A long time.’
‘We have done good business over the years.’
Mendoza nodded. ‘Very good.’ Lopez watched him closely, saw he was very nervous, as he should be. A visit from these men was a rare occurrence.
‘But lately things have not been good for you.’
Mendoza shrugged. ‘Nature of the business.’
The old man shook his head. ‘No, no, no. There is no such thing as the nature of the business, my friend, it is the nature of the man.’
Mendoza’s eyes hooded over defensively.
‘First there was the issue of the money owed to you by the man in England. He failed to pay his debt and because of that, you failed to pay your debt to us.’
‘But I dealt with him,’ Mendoza blurted. ‘And the debt has been transferred to his brother.’
The old man shook his head again. ‘A debt which now rests with a man who is in prison awaiting trial for murder. What are the chances of recovery?’ he asked cynically.
Mendoza reddened, squirmed on his seat, said nothing.
‘And then the issue of our operative, Mr Verner . . . a man who was rather good at killing. He was on loan to you and he, too, is now dead.’
Mendoza started to say something. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His eyes looked as though he was being hunted.
‘Someone, somewhere, knew he was about to deal with an issue for us and, as I understand it, they were lying in wait for his appearance and they killed him.’
‘But not before he had carried out his task,’ Mendoza argued weakly.
The old man held out his hands, palms forward, a calming gesture. ‘The issue is, Carlos, that he was ambushed. That someone knew where he would be at a certain time and place. He was not killed by accident or coincidence . . . do you see what I’m getting at? Do you visualize the picture I am attempting to paint?’
Suddenly Mendoza’s mouth dried up as a fear crept up on him, the like of which he had never experienced in his whole existence. Not even looking down the barrel of a gun in a back street in Madrid had invoked such terror. Not even being kidnapped and tortured by a rival gang. But looking and listening to this old man and his grandson was churning his insides, shredding his guts.
‘And now, somehow, you lose what, four million pounds worth of goods and twenty illegal immigrants. Fortunately those people paid up front,’ the old man said with a dismissive wave, ‘but we have financed the drugs and now – poof!’ His hands made an exploding gesture. ‘Someone has relieved you of them.’ He stopped speaking abruptly. His face became expressionless, but his eyes, which bored into Mendoza’s, were like tungsten. ‘We had faith in you, but something has gone seriously wrong. Maybe you’re too enmeshed in it to see what is happening? I don’t know, but your organization is, as I imagine your bowels are at this moment, loose.’
‘I already know that and I have taken action to plug the holes,’ he said, not realizing that his choice of words would have been comical in other circumstances.
‘Good.’ The old man’s eyes moved slowly to Lopez, who felt a shiver of apprehension slide down his spine. Then his attention returned to Mendoza. ‘Good, because we are losing faith with you and there will be no more business, no more loans, no more support, unless you make amends very quickly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pay back your debt in full, otherwise this business relationship is terminated.’
‘You can’t do that!’ The palms of Mendoza’s hands slammed down on the table, the action jerking a reaction in the old man’s grandson. Throughout the conversation he had remained silent, did not appear to be taking much heed, but always there was a brooding, sunken-eyed presence. His face rose and his eyes locked into Mendoza’s, who saw the look and slowly withdrew his hands from the table. Chastened without a word being said, such was the young man’s power. ‘You know I cannot pay the whole debt.’
‘Then what can you offer?’
‘I will recover the drugs, then they will go through the original channels of distribution and then the money will start to filter back.’
The old man nodd
ed sagely as he mulled this through.
‘Not enough.’
Mendoza was exasperated. ‘What then?’
‘You own four building sites on which the houses are almost complete . . . as a good-will gesture, they must be signed over to us.’
Mendoza’s mouth popped open. There was something like forty million pounds worth of property – potentially – on them, once sales picked up. He felt his insides crumble.
The old man raised his glass of wine. ‘My lawyer will meet with yours first thing to arrange the necessities . . . and one more thing.’ Mendoza waited for another bombshell. ‘Clean up your organization – quickly.’
Fourteen
Henry knew that at some stage in the game, the chief constable would turn up and poke his nose into things which did not concern him – such as this investigation. Obviously and ultimately, everything that went on in that organization called Lancashire Constabulary concerned the chief, but even so, he could have done quite happily without the man’s appearance – especially on the day on which the victim was finally identified through DNA.
The temporary DCI – as DI Carradine continually and snidely referred to him, just to wind him up – arrived at Rawtenstall police station at seven thirty-five a.m. the following morning. He’d had a poor night’s sleep; thoughts of Tara Wickson, images of bullets being gouged out of dead bodies, tumbling through his brain all night long; thoughts of his latest infidelity, too. Bastard, he called himself many times throughout the night. Prime bastard. That’s me. Henry, the changed man. Hardly. Exhausted, he eventually dropped into a fitful sleep at three a.m., awoken by the alarm at six thirty.
Kate had rolled close to him during the night and he could not disguise the huge erection he had woken up displaying. She reached for him, but guilt made him extract himself from her gentle grip, saying he needed a wee.
He did not return to bed, but showered quickly, got dressed and was ready to roll at six fifty.
The morning briefing went well, a buzz of excitement rippling through the assembled detectives at the new information. Lines of enquiry were opening up for people and they eagerly grabbed new actions to follow up.
As they parted, the chief was revealed at the back of the room. Short, squat, rounded, putting on weight, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley grinned at and approached Henry.
They had known each other for a long time. ‘FB’, as he was commonly known, had been a detective in Lancashire for most of his service, rising steadily but not spectacularly through the ranks. He had been an assistant chief constable before transferring to Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary for a short time before returning as Lancashire’s chief only a matter of weeks before.
Henry had worked for FB in various capacities throughout the years and had usually been ruthlessly used by the higher-ranking officer. The two men could not be said to have been in love with each other, but they had a grudging mutual respect and Henry could get away with saying things to FB that not even a deputy chief constable would dare say. FB had most recently used Henry in the Tara Wickson debacle, but on the other hand had secured Henry’s return to work and a position on the SIO team. FB had said Henry would actually be working directly to him on a ‘special job’, but nothing had transpired about that. Henry put it down as bullshit.
Henry did not know whether to be pleased or worried about FB’s unannounced appearance. He squinted thoughtfully at FB as he got nearer.
‘How goes it?’ FB asked. ‘Solved it yet? That’s what you’re paid for, y’know. How many days is it now? Four? Three days and then murder inquiries go to rat shit, don’t they?’ He fired the questions at Henry like his mouth was a Gatling gun.
Henry decided to come back with cheek. ‘You should know, boss. Not many of your inquiries got solved within six weeks, as I recall.’ It wasn’t true. FB had headed numerous major investigations and every one had been solved sooner or later.
‘Touché,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Time to talk?’ Henry nodded. FB touched him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s hit the caff on the main drag, then.’ Henry walked ahead of FB out of the MIR, just catching sight of Dave Anger coming in through the door at the far end of the room. It was only a brief glimpse, but enough to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing Anger halt quickly and his face go like millstone grit.
The café FB referred to was near the bus station. It served the most outstanding latte Henry had ever tasted. Not that he knew what a true latte should taste like, but, whatever, it was quite wonderful.
‘Making progress then – at last,’ FB said, adding the last two words sardonically. Henry nodded, a moustache of coffee foam on his top lip. ‘It was a good briefing, Henry. Everyone still seems to be well up for it.’
‘They seem to be a good bunch.’ Henry wiped his lip.
‘Rossendale lads.’ FB winked.
‘Used to be a punishment posting.’
‘Still is.’ FB had ordered a double espresso which he sipped, then winced.
‘I hope – fingers crossed – that the DNA will be back today. I just can’t see how anyone with two slugs in his back wouldn’t be on record. This is the bit we’re struggling with, not identifying the guy. No one coming forward to claim a missing relative. Nothing’s come from the media shots at all.’
‘That’s the way it goes. I remember the handless corpse job in the late ’70s,’ FB reminisced. ‘A definite gangland killing. No ID, then suddenly a bird walks into a police station and says it’s her boyfriend. Just like that. Kicked off a massive international job.’
‘I remember it well,’ Henry said. As a PC in uniform way back then he had been fascinated by the case, which involved the international drugs trade, millions of pounds, unpaid debts, loose women, fast cars. It had been one hell of a story.
‘Something’ll turn up, is what I’m saying,’ FB said. ‘So . . . how’s things with you?’
‘OK,’ Henry said hesitantly.
‘Dave Anger making life uncomfortable?’
‘You know, then?’
‘I hear things. Don’t worry about him . . . things’ll level out, I’m sure . . . especially when you pull this one out of the bag.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘How’re other things?’
‘Can’t wait for the Wickson inquest,’ Henry lied.
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine, too.’
Henry wasn’t so sure, but he said nothing about his doubts. ‘I hear you’re down to investigate that cock-up at Lancaster Crown, that GMP job that went shit-shape.’
‘Mm.’ FB looked along his nose at Henry. ‘Partly why I’ve come to see you.’ Henry waited. ‘I’m putting a small team together to look at the allegations. I’d like you to head it.’
The revelation took Henry aback. ‘I’d relish it,’ he admitted, feeling himself swell at little, ‘but I’d be struggling at the moment. This job’s taking all my time. I don’t see much slack ahead, not enough for a job like that, anyway.’
‘Whatever, I’ll be wanting you to head the inquiry team,’ FB said as though he hadn’t heard Henry’s position. ‘You’ll have to make the time – one way or the other.’
Henry found his teeth were grinding, something they did quite often in FB’s company. His swell had also deflated. ‘OK,’ he said unsurely.
‘You need to be up and ready first thing next week – that’s when I’ll be in a position to get going fully. That OK?’
‘Have to be, won’t it?’
FB smiled and downed the last dregs of espresso. Henry finished the latte and they set off back for the nick. As they walked side by side along Bacup Road, Henry towering over the rotund figure of the chief, Henry’s mobile rang.
‘What the hell is that ring tone?’ FB demanded.
‘“Jumpin’ Jack Flash”.’
‘Is it a work phone?’
‘Yep.’ Henry extracted it from his jacket pocket.
‘In that case get something more appropriate.’
‘What? Scooby Doo?’ The phone wen
t to his ear. ‘Henry Christie . . . yep . . . yep . . . email me now . . . Good . . . thanks.’ He ended the call and bunched his fists triumphantly. ‘Forensic submissions, the little darlings. The DNA has come up trumps. Positive ID.’
Two other people up and about early that morning were Teddy Bear Jackman and Tony Cromer. They were at their local gym by six thirty a.m., working out for an intense half hour before hitting the road at seven fifteen a.m. They wanted to make a call on someone. A surprise call.
Rafiq Ali was an Asian gentleman who owned a dozen corner shop convenience stores in the Bolton area, all opening from six in the morning to midnight. They were all profitable businesses in their own right, but not as profitable as the drug empire he ran on the same lines – small and local – nor the prostitution business in which he specialized in providing young, very beautiful Asian girls and boys to clients with big wallets and small consciences.
Rufus Sweetman had paid Ali little attention over the years because their markets were in different areas. Ali concentrated on Asian kids, where the drug addiction rate was phenomenal, whereas Sweetman – who was an out and out racist anyway – dealt mainly with the white population. Sweetman had a feeling, though, that Ali was expanding his turf and that an early visit by his two negotiators and influencers would not go amiss.
Ali lived in luxury in a row of terraced houses in Bolton which he had converted into one huge abode. Jackman and Cromer knew he wasn’t to be found there that morning. They had been told he had been gambling in Manchester and had holed up for the night in one of Manchester’s top hotels. It was there they headed that morning.
Their idea was to pin him down in his suite, but as they drove into the underground car park below the hotel, they spotted Ali walking quickly across the concrete towards his motor, a Porsche.
‘Wonder if some bastard tipped him off,’ Jackman mused.
‘Who cares – he’s ours,’ said Cromer.
Always ready and adaptable, accepting change as it came their way, they went for him.
Actually the first inkling that Ali got that something was amiss was the revving engine, the squeal of tyres and the approach of a car travelling far too fast for the circumstances.