by Nick Oldham
Hamilton’s main claim to fame was that he had trained as an accountant, had then been briefly jailed for skimming his employer’s profits, and moved on to handle the financial matters of a well-known New York hood — i.e. laundering money for him. The Feds and the DEA had blown the racket sky high. The hood had been jailed (and since escaped), but Hamilton evaded incarceration by the skin of his teeth.
He branched out into some classy white-collar crime, defrauding people who should have known better. Currency and commodity frauds were his favourites.
He had been caught for a tobacco scam which backfired when the buyers turned out to be Fibbies. In particular, one Samantha Jane Dawber.
So that was how she knew him, Donaldson thought.
Hamilton got eight months for that.
He was not considered big time, as in mafia terms, but he was wealthy and worth watching as his activities sometimes straddled state and international boundaries.
He also had a violent streak and was suspected of dealing with a rival in a fatal manner. Nothing was ever proven. He was also believed to be a fixer, arranging things for third parties such as burglaries. Again, this was only intelligence, not hard evidence.
Since his prison release for the tobacco scam, he had dropped out of sight. There was nothing on file for almost two years.
Except the FBI now knew where he was — Madeira, running a timeshare. Donaldson wondered what type of criminal activity the Jacaranda was fronting. He knew one thing for certain — it was going to be investigated ruthlessly.
He cast his eyes over the rap sheet for the cigarette fraud. Sam’s name was down as Case Officer. It was a good bust. One to be proud of.
She probably couldn’t believe her eyes when she spotted Hamilton on sleepy Madeira.
So why had she died?
Accident? Donaldson was convinced this was not right. More likely revenge for the jail sentence. Or had she stumbled across something more? And would he ever know? Probably fucking not.
The phone rang. He closed the file and answered it.
In days of yore, Rider would have known exactly where to take Munrow for a little chat.
Times change. He had no contacts to speak of any more, owned no suitable properties of his own, so was therefore forced to play it by ear.
After half an hour’s driving he was heading up a steep winding road against merciless snow, out of the border town of Todmorden towards Bacup.
Halfway up the hill he turned off the road onto a farm track, where he pulled up out of sight of the main road. There was no sound coming from the boot. He prayed that Munrow hadn’t died of hypothermia or inhaling exhaust fumes.
Jacko drew the Transit in behind.
Rider climbed out of the Granada and opened the boot. A shivering, numb Munrow lay curled up in the foetal position, arms folded tightly around his knees which were drawn up to his chest. He looked up at Rider, full of hate.
Rider produced the gun. He reached for Munrow’s arm and heaved him out. He pushed the naked man roughly towards the back of the Transit, opened the doors and forced him in, climbing in behind, squatting on his haunches, gun held loosely. With immense satisfaction Rider saw that the huge throbbing erection had shrivelled to sub-acorn size. Now Rider didn’t feel quite so threatened.
‘ Get out, pal,’ Rider ordered Jacko. ‘Go sit in the car.’
There was no need to tell him twice. He was gone in a flash, leaving Rider and Munrow alone.
Munrow’s whole body was shaking with the cold. His skin had turned ice-blue. His teeth chattered audibly.
‘ I’ve brought you here for two reasons,’ Rider said, giving the impression this was a pre-planned halt. In truth, he was winging it.
‘ Which are?’ his captive managed to stutter.
‘ So you are obliged to listen to what I say and know I’m not bullshitting.’
‘ Why the fuck should I listen to you?’
‘ Your own interests, Charlie boy. I mean to make a point and doing it this way is the only way you’ll take it seriously.’
‘ Get fucking talking then.’
‘ OK. I don’t give a monkey’s ass about what’s going on between you and Conroy. I’m not involved, never was, never will be. Your guys saw me with him because he wanted something from me, not because we’re in business together. Understand?’
‘ You shot one of ‘em.’
‘ Self-defence,’ Rider said quietly.
‘ Don’t believe you.’
‘ Your choice, Charlie. But think about this. If I was with Conroy, do you honestly think we’d be having this conversation right now, especially after your two goons beat the shite out of me the other night? Your head would be in pieces and they wouldn’t find you until the snow melted… would they?’
Rider raised his eyebrows.
Rider wasn’t sure whether he succeeded with Munrow. The other man could merely have been conning him just to get out of an awkward situation.
In the end, Rider had two choices — to kill him, or let him go and see what happened.
Rider always knew he would choose the latter. Just to make a point and ensure that Munrow realised Rider was no soft touch, he threw the Granada ignition key into a field adjacent to the lane where it disappeared in a snowdrift. He left Munrow standing there stark naked in the middle of nowhere, mouthing obscenities at him as Jacko reversed the van out of the lane, back onto the main road.
The man who only hours before had orchestrated vicious attacks on three nightclubs, now found himself helpless and freezing, scrambling over a dry stone wall into the field to search for his key.
A humiliation he would never forget for as long as he lived.
Henry’s heart went cold because he recognised the voice on the other end of the telephone line immediately.
Superintendent Guthrie. Discipline and Complaints.
Allegedly the most ruthless bastard they had in that department. A man, it was said, who dedicated his life to prosecuting police officers, who investigated each complaint with fervour. A cop who loved screwing other coppers.
‘ Henry. Need to come and see you. Have a bit of a chat. Think you know what it’s about,’ Guthrie said affably in the clipped way he spoke.
‘ Shane Mulcahy?’
‘ Spot on. You working Saturday — say three-thirty p.m.?’
No, I’ll be in South America by then, Henry wanted to say. ‘Yes,’ he replied meekly.
‘ Good. See you in your office then. Bye.’
‘ Bye, sir,’ croaked Henry. He replaced the receiver. A bead of sweat trickled irritatingly down his forehead. His hands trembled ever so slightly. The investigation process had begun.
He refocused his mind. There was a busy day ahead.
The team investigating Derek Luton’s death were parading on at ten. Ronnie Veevers, the Detective Superintendent assigned to run the case, would not be arriving until noon. Henry was required to kick-start the job.
After this he wanted to see how the officers dealing with Marie Cullen’s murder were progressing and to warn them about McNamara making smells at a higher level. Henry dearly wanted to arrest the man but knew that, at the moment, there was nothing to connect him to her murder, other than gut feeling. Which would not stand up in court.
Then he needed to know the current position of other enquiries. Dundaven was in the cells on a three-day lie-down and needed to be interviewed with a purpose.
And maybe, if he could find time, he’d look into the shooting of Boris, the gorilla, and dig deeper into John Rider, see what he could unearth.
Lots to do. Not much time to do it in.
Firstly he called the hospital.
Nina had pulled through after a fraught night when they thought they were going to lose her. She had not regained consciousness, but showed slight improvement. She would undergo another operation today.
The news made Henry feel better and put his own problems into perspective.
The zoo told him Boris was much better t
oo. But still in a real bad mood.
A cup of coffee was placed down on his desk. Henry spun round in his chair to see two smiling Chief Superintendents — FB and Tony Morton. They both looked smug, pleased with themselves — rather as if they were in co-hoots.
‘ Morning, Henry,’ they said.
‘ Sirs.’
‘ Got some good news and some good news for you. Which do you want first?’ Morton asked, beaming.
‘ I’ll start with the good news.’
Chapter Fifteen
Detective Constable Dave Seymour was a raving homophobic. He could not countenance the thought of men ‘doing it together’. Despite Equal Opportunity training, which sought to raise his awareness in such matters, gay men left him cold. ‘Shit-shovellers’ he called them.
The thought of lesbians was a completely different matter. When he visualised two women rolling around naked, frigging each other off, he was quite turned on. To him, a lesbian was just a woman who hadn’t found the right man yet, whereas gays were dangerous, perverted individuals who should be put to death.
Which was why he wasn’t too concerned to be taken off the Dundaven enquiry at short notice and drafted onto the Marie Cullen murder case, where he was teamed up with Lucy Crane. Lucy was a lesbian — a well known fact because she had openly ‘come out’, and Seymour felt that, although married, he could be the right man for her.
‘ Once you’ve tasted the real stuff, you’ll never go back,’ he told her. ‘A quality piece of meat is a million times better than any dildo.’
Lucy was driving; he was passenger. And ever since they had set off from Blackpool to go to Blackburn, he had never once let up with his sexual banter. By the time they hit the M6, she was heartily sick of it.
‘ Dave, shut up, will you?’ she ordered him. ‘You’re getting on my tits.’ As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was the wrong phrase to use.
‘ If only I was,’ he cut in with a sly grin.
‘ And if you don’t keep quiet I’ll make a complaint against you for sexual harassment.’
‘ You’d never prove it,’ he said smugly. ‘My word against yours.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Guess what, Dave? I’ve got a voice-activated tape recorder in my pocket and I’ve recorded your nonstop innuendo, requests for sexual favours and digs about my sexuality ever since we set off — and I’ll use it if you don’t shut your effing mouth. Yes, I’m a lesbian, I’m open about it and quite happy. No, I don’t want to suck your cock. End of story. Let’s get on with the job, shall we?’
Seymour had nothing to say. He glared nastily at her, grated his teeth for a moment and then mouthed the word, ‘Bitch.’
He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about the tape recorder. He wouldn’t take any chances until he knew for sure.
The journey continued in silence, the atmosphere between them as thick as fog.
They were en-route to see if they could find some more of Marie Cullen’s colleagues in the profession of prostitution.
Prostitutes! Seymour hated ‘em.
The infrastructure of the British police service is riddled with bureaucracy. It has a slow, mechanistic structure within which it can take an eon for decisions to be made and then acted on. The militaristic lines on which the service is operated are being slowly whittled away as the police respond positively to the ever-changing society they serve; certain ranks have been abolished and the management structure has been flattened. But it is still slow, painfully so.
Except on the occasions when it wants to move quickly.
Particularly when high-ranking officers want to make things happen.
Which is why lowly Henry Christie felt he was in a world of unreality when Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton and his old bosom-buddy Bob Fanshaw-Bayley beckoned him into an empty office, sat him down and revealed the good news.
‘ Henry,’ Morton began. ‘As you already know I’ve earmarked you as a possible future member of the NWOCS. As such I’ve had a word with FB here to sound him out about it.’
Henry waited. Both senior officers were smiling.
‘ I know about your reputation and now I’m interested to see how you work first-hand,’ Morton continued. ‘So I went down on bended knee to Bob’ — here the two high-rankers exchanged a glance — ‘and begged him to let me borrow you for a few days to give us a chuck-up with this newsagents job.’
‘ And I agreed,’ declared FB ‘Depending on your feelings, that is. We’re not pushing you.’
Henry thought about it. He winced sadly. ‘I’ve got too much on my plate at the moment. Otherwise I’d jump at the chance. It’s happening a bit quick.’
‘ Henry, I like you. You know that. If you come and help us out now, then I can fix up a further six-month secondment, starting in April. That could possibly become permanent. Not possibly — definitely. I’ll ensure it.’
‘ I’d like to, but there’s Marie Cullen’s murder, Dundaven… Derek Luton… I feel responsible. I couldn’t really leave them in mid-air.’
‘ I understand that,’ said Morton empathetically, ‘but we’re close to cracking the newsagents job. I’d like to see you working alongside my men just for the next few days, by which time we’ll have a result. Then you can go back to your own stuff. Apart from anything else, this’ll give you a chance to be in at the kill, as it were. And give me a chance to assess your suitability for the squad.’
‘ You’ll only be absent for a few days,’ FB pointed out. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your work, make sure it doesn’t dry up.’
Henry leaned back. It sounded good.
‘ Think about it, Henry,’ Morton said.
He didn’t need to. A grin cracked across his face.
Morton held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the squad, the cream of the crop.’ His grip was firm and dry and he had the look of an angler who’d just netted a black marlin.
Completely bemused, Henry made his way back to his desk, chuffed to hell and back.
And yet… slightly disconcerted. Steamrollered was a word which sprang to mind.
Think this through, he told himself. What are the implications, professionally and personally?
Professionally, going on the squad would probably affect his chances of promotion. But he had always been in two minds about going for Inspector anyway as it would take him one rung further up the ladder away from ‘real’ policework. He’d have to talk management issues and strategies, all that crap. Stuff like that bored him shitless. He liked being operational, hands on, arresting people.
Going onto the squad would give him the opportunity to stay at this level and yet deal with high-class criminals. And maybe it would give him the time and space to delve into Dundaven and try to find the remainder of those firearms, the details of which Karl had sent him.
Personally… well, Kate should be told immediately, but he didn’t dare pick up the phone. She would go ape. Henry decided to keep it until he went home that night so he could break it gently to her, face to face. That would be better than a phone call.
‘ DS Christie?’
Shaken out of his reverie, Henry jumped up at the mention of his name by DC Robson, the female detective on the squad whom he had briefly met before.
Henry had never been in a position to inspect her from close quarters. With her standing next to him, he had to admit that she was stunning. Black hair in a well-cut bob, shining brown eyes, small nose and a wide, soft mouth which needed to be kissed forcefully. He was aware that her complexion was porcelain perfect, dabbed with only the hint of make-up which made her high cheekbones stand out even more prominently. She was wearing a practical work suit — jacket, blouse and skirt — but it was nicely tailored and expensive.
The jacket swung open near to her shoulder and inadvertently his eyes crossed her lovely breasts and registered they were secured in a white, frilly bra which he could see through her blouse. She reminded him of a younger version of Kate. His heart gave a pathetic flutter.
; Her intoxicating perfume almost overpowered him into a swoon.
‘ Hello. Siobhan, isn’t it?’
‘ Yes. Well-remembered.’ She smiled easily at him. Her tongue ran onto her top lip in a gesture that was thoughtful rather than erotic. Even so, it made Henry’s guts jump.
He swallowed. ‘What can I do for you?’
She held out her hand to be shaken and said those three memorable words.
‘ I’m your partner.’
‘ Is this it?’ Seymour peered through the windscreen as the wipers, on double speed, worked overtime in an effort to clear the heavy rain which was bucketing down.
Lucy Crane pulled into the side of the road. She wound her window down and looked across at the high-rise development of council flats. She checked the note in her hand. ‘Think so.’ She rolled the window closed. ‘You coming?’ she asked Seymour.
‘ Suppose so,’ he said with great reluctance. Their relationship had not improved and they spoke only when necessary.
They had got a list of all the women in Blackburn who had come to the attention of the cops in connection with prostitution in the last eighteen months. It was a fairly short list and quite repetitive. This was their third visit of the morning. It was a dull and tedious task trying to find someone who knew Marie Cullen and could maybe fill in some background for them. Two dead ends so far.
Also on the list were the names of two convicted pimps who operated in the area. Once they’d finished with the workers, they’d be moving onto the managers.
By the time they ran over the road and reached the entrance to the flats, they were both drenched.
‘ He had such an enjoyable time, he wants you again this afternoon,’ Saltash said with a wicked smile on his face. ‘So c’mon, get your well-fucked black arse into gear and let’s get going. There’s good money to be made in this for us both.’
‘ No, I’m not going. I don’t like him, I don’t like what he does and I can’t stand the thought of going with someone who might have murdered Marie.’