by Nick Oldham
‘ So what are you going to do about tonight?’
‘ Nothing.’
‘ What? You can’t do nothing! He raped you and beat up on you!’
‘ Can you see me going into the local copshop and telling them their Chief Constable’s just raped me and given me a slapping? Get real, Karl. There’s nothing I can do.’
‘ Well, there’s something I can do — kill the fucker or at least make him eat shit.’
Karen shook her head slowly, a sad smile on her face. ‘No, you’ll do nothing of the sort, Karl. I decide what happens here. It’s my body he violated, my mind he twisted, my face he punched.’
‘ At least go for a prosecution,’ Donaldson pleaded.
‘ And what good would that do? He’d more than likely be acquitted. It would come out that we were having an affair. It’d just soil reputations for no good end result. I’d just be stirring it for the sake of vindictiveness…’
The shrill ring of the phone interrupted the words. Donaldson picked it up without thinking and said, ‘Hello.’
‘ Is that Agent Donaldson?’
‘ Yes, who’s that?’
‘ Chief Superintendent Fanshaw-Bayley. My, my, fancy you being there. May I speak to Miss Wilde, please — that is, if she’s not too breathless. ‘
‘ Fuck you,’ said Donaldson. He handed the phone across to Karen.
‘ It’s that creep Fanshaw-Bayley.’
Karen took a deep breath and said in her best telephone voice, ‘Yes sir, can I help you?’
‘ I suppose this is a stupid question now, but is the Chief there?’
‘ No.’
‘ Has he been there?’
‘ Yes — about two hours ago.’
‘ You have been busy… Oh, by the way, we’ve caught your man. Goodbye.’ He hung up.
Karen handed the phone back to Donaldson.
‘ What the hell did he want?’
‘ Just to rub it in,’ she said unhappily. ‘They’ve caught Hinksman.’
‘ Damn!’ Donaldson hung his head. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘ Nothing. Get through this discipline thing then take some time off, go on holiday. Forget about promotion. Try and wangle a Chief Inspector’s post in a quiet town out in the sticks somewhere, then maybe think about the future, once I’ve got my head back on line.’
‘ You shouldn’t let it rest. It’s wrong that he won’t suffer one way or the other. He needs knocking off his perch… and I’d love to be the one to do the knocking. But if you’ve made your decision…’
‘ I have, Karl. Thanks for your concern.’ She held out a hand and he took it. Her skin was soft and smooth. She smelled wonderful. He looked at her lovely face, now all swollen, longing to tell her how much in love he was, but this was neither the right time nor the right place.
After he’d rung home, Henry hobbled stiffly into the hospital snack bar and sat down next to FB. He felt slightly better, the painkillers beginning to take effect.
‘ Just what the hell is all this about?’ Henry demanded of him. ‘The M6 bomb, today’s stuff… What’s going on, boss?
‘ I’m not all that sure,’ FB admitted. ‘For reasons you don’t have to know about, I’m a little out of touch with this investigation, but I intend to put that right from now on. Oh, did you know Jack Crosby died today too?’
‘ Yes, I’d heard.’
‘ One of the old school,’ FB said reminiscently.
Thank God he’s gone then, Henry thought to himself.
‘ Anyway,’ said FB, slapping the table top and bringing his thoughts back to the present, ‘I know that bitch Wilde told you to take a hike, but I want you back as of now, OK? I’ll sort it with your DCI. And forget about that complaint made by the BBC–I’ll fettle that for you too. As far as I’m concerned, that bastard deserved to get thrown into the river.’
Henry nodded. ‘Thanks, boss. I would like to apologise to him at some stage, though.’
‘ Whatever. ‘
‘ So, do I get the opportunity to interview Hinksman?’
‘ No. That would be bad practice. I’ve already assigned a team for that. What I want from you is background, so that they can go into the interview fully briefed. I need to know exactly what’s going on as soon as possible. I believe there’s some Mob connection here. I suggest you liaise with a guy called Karl Donaldson. He’s an FBI agent who was working here with Ken McClure on a related matter. Get a background to Hinksman, everything you can about him. You know what I mean. From birth onwards. I don’t have to spell it out for you. I want a report on my desk by four p.m. tomorrow. Don’t worry’ — he put up a hand to reassure Henry — ‘just a brief summary for starters; after that I want you to go into some depth. OK, Henry?’
‘ Yeah, sure,’ said Henry.
‘ Actually you don’t sound too sure. Problem?’
‘ I was going to report sick.’
‘ Get the fuck out of here! Don’t be a Nancy boy. You’re a detective, aren’t you? We don’t go sick, or didn’t you know? Beside which, I want you at headquarters at seven a.m. sharp tomorrow. Live interviews for local radio and Breakfast TV.’
‘ You are fuckin’ joking, boss.’
‘ Nope. Best bib and tucker. And be there. That’s an order. You’re a national hero, my boy.’
Just before 4 p.m. the following day, Henry Christie placed his initial summary, as requested, on FB’s desk.
‘ Sir’ (he had written), ‘I have liaised with Agent Donaldson at your suggestion, as well as detectives from the Serious Crime Squad in Manchester, and I have compiled this quick report which I hope goes some way to explaining the events of the past few days. All it is, really, is a jotting down of the things I’ve learned today, plus some of my own thoughts, in no particular order. I think it makes interesting and disturbing reading.
1) The reason Agent Donaldson was in this country and working with Ken McClure (the Serious Crime Squad, Greater Manchester Police) is that he was building up a file of evidence against Danny Carver (victim of the M6 bomb). Carver was a big underworld player from Florida who had connections with a very big Mafia boss called Tony Corelli. It appears that Carver used to work for Corelli, but decided to go his own way and double-cross him by pulling off a drugs deal with a Manchester criminal called Jason Brown. Apparently Corelli had already been in negotiation with Brown, but had failed to reach agreement. Carver had seen the opportunity and done a deal himself (conservative estimate?I0 million EACH!). Donaldson’s idea was to catch Carver bang at it and use this as a lever on Carver to grass on Corelli, who he has been after for many years.
2) Corelli was upset that Carver had done the deal and there was already a rumour picked up that a contract had been put out on Carver. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to guess that if this is true, then he may have also put out a contract on Brown.
3) Hinksman is believed (now) to be the chosen hit man.
4) Hinksman is ex-Army and spent some time with the Delta Force, the US equivalent of the SAS. He is therefore highly trained in the art of killing, use of explosives, firearms, etc and is very dangerous. He has no previous convictions as such. (He was thrown out of the Army because of his liking for beating up prostitutes and was also suspected of raping and murdering a woman officer, but nothing was ever proved.) He may have been recruited by Corelli about four years ago. Now that his I.D. is known, the FBI can link him (via fingerprints and forensic) to eight other Mafia-related murders across the US involving bombs triggered by timers from pet-food dispensers. He’s one bad bastard. He can also be tied in with several murders of women (mainly prostitutes). He therefore likes killing as a profession and a hobby. He seems to have been kept very secret by Corelli, with good reason. He’s an elite killer, not your normal run-of-the-mill mobster-cum-gunman. If we can get him to talk, he will be very valuable to the FBI.
5) So Carver was the real target of the M6 bombing. It is also believed that Brown, too, may have been a target. He
should have been in the car with Carver.
6) Brown, as we now know, is the one who got shot in the alley by Hinksman. He was the target. Everyone else was just in the way. I don’t yet know much about Brown, but the SCS in Manchester do. He was a big player, into many legit things such as pubs, clubs and gambling joints. He was also well into drugs and had very good connections in Manchester (where he was based), particularly in Moss Side. The deal he pulled with Carver was supposed to be for the importation of crack. But what was he doing in Blackpool? I don’t know, but I’d lay odds he’d got legit businesses there too, fronting his drugs-pushing activities. (Amusement arcades are ideal.)
7) Apparently Brown was part of a loose criminal syndicate in Manchester. His demise could well have been orchestrated by Corelli and his own pals. (How did Hinksman find him in Blackpool — inside information?) But that’s pure conjecture on my part.
8) Just a word about Corelli. He’s a Mafia godfather (Yes, they do exist!) whose sphere of operations is mainly Florida and the Caribbean. He runs an extensive criminal organisation which consists of drugs, gun running, commodity fraud, tobacco smuggling, people smuggling, prostitution and gambling. These criminal activities are fronted by highly lucrative legit businesses ranging from hotels, fast-food joints, nightclubs, building and transport companies and other leisure businesses such as deep-sea fishing trips, etc. His personal net worth cannot be accurately estimated, but he is believed to be a billionaire.
9) Having said that, most of this is purely conjecture by the FBI as Corelli has no convictions whatsoever. He once faced a murder indictment, but walked. He is continually investigated by the tax authorities, but keeps his books spick ‘n’ span. Without doubt he is the driving force behind the mayhem of the last few days.
10) We don’t know the half of what’s going on, but this international cooperation between crims worries me.
11) I’ll bet we haven’t seen the last of Corelli.
12) I don’t think we’ll ever get to the bottom of this.
13) (Unlucky for some): Prepare yourself for a crack epidemic in the north of England.
14) I’ll bet the killing hasn’t ended yet.’
Henry signed his name.
Then he went down to his car and drove home and went straight to bed, exhausted and very sore.
Chapter Thirteen
Most of Henry’s predictions began to come true as he placed the summary down on FB’s desk.
A silver-grey Bentley Mulsanne pulled up smoothly at the International Arrivals door at Manchester Airport and collected two people, a man and a woman, who had just landed on a flight from Malta.
The man was called Lenny Dakin, the woman Cathy Diamond. Dakin settled himself back in the plush upholstery and said to the driver of the Bentley, ‘Is it all over?’
The driver nodded. He wore a peaked cap, like a chauffeur, which was slashed to hide his cruel eyes. Although he also wore a uniform, he looked very uncomfortable in it. He could only be one thing — a villain. But not as big a villain as Dakin.
‘ Yes, boss, it’s over,’ said the driver. ‘With a certain degree of complication. ‘
‘ Which is?’
‘ The American was arrested. Bad luck really, but he’s been locked up. Got shot in the process.’
‘ Badly?’
‘ No.’
‘ But the job was done? Carver’s dead and so is Brown?’
‘ Yup,’ the driver confirmed.
‘ So I’m free to trade?’
‘ Absolutely,’ said the driver.
Dakin turned to Cathy Diamond. His teeth were gritted in a smile.
‘ Yes,’ he hissed. She beamed at him, her eyes playing over his face. She slid a hand onto his thigh and squeezed.
‘ Darling,’ she said.
They embraced victoriously, all the while Dakin keeping an eye open to judge her reaction to the news.
‘ The way is clear now,’ he said, breaking off and kissing her.
‘ Partnerships are just so much fucking crap.’
He reached for the car phone — the one fitted for the rear passengers — jabbed a number in and looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be morning in the States,’ he said to himself. Whilst waiting for the connection he rocked impatiently, yet remained smiling and happy.
Once the call got through there was a further delay while Corelli came to the phone. Then he was there.
‘ It’s done,’ said Dakin excitedly. ‘Everything is clear. They’re both out of the game now. We can go ahead with the original deal.’
‘ Good, good,’ said Corelli.
‘ One hiccup though,’ said Dakin cautiously.
‘ What?’ snapped Corelli.
‘ Your man has been apprehended, so I’m led to believe.’
‘ So you’re led to believe?’ repeated Corelli incredulously. ‘What does that mean? Do you not know what’s going on in your organisation? Has he, or hasn’t he? Do you know — or NOT?’
‘ Look, I’ve been out of the country for a few days. I thought it best. I’ve only just been given the news. I’ll look into it, OK?’
‘ I want him to have the best legal representation available. Do not spare expense. You will fund it.’
‘ No problem,’ said Dakin. ‘So when are we likely to meet?’
‘ I have heard the sad news that one of my relatives has recently died quite tragically in Blackpool. He will be buried in about four days’ time. I will be coming for the funeral. Maybe then… I will try, but I have some business to attend to over here first.’
‘ Until then.’
Corelli hung up. Dakin was left holding a dead phone to his ear for a few seconds before he realised there was no one else at the other end. ‘We are on a roll, honey,’ he said enthusiastically to Cathy.
‘ Sweetie,’ she purred.
‘ Don’t spare the horses, James,’ Dakin instructed his driver.
The Bentley slid onto the motorway and its speed soon hovered around the 100 mph mark.
Lenny Dakin was forty years old. He was a Scot, born and raised in the slums of Glasgow. Right from the start he had gone into crime, establishing a gang of young hoodlums who terrorised the neighbourhood, putting old people and shopkeepers in fear of their lives and property.
In his teenage days he had had two run-ins with the Scottish police which resulted in prosecutions; one was for petty theft for which he was convicted and the other was for a robbery where he got off at court. He was fifteen then and hired one of the best, and most bent, criminal lawyers in Scotland, showing how successful he was, even then. He was arrested on numerous other occasions, but with no end result.
By the time he was twenty, Lenny had become one of those self-styled gangland bosses for which Glasgow is famous. For a good eight or nine years he was very much the king of his wing of the castle. He was into everything in a small-time way: bribery, extortion, prostitution, burglary, theft and handling stolen goods. It was all pretty unsubtle stuff. He controlled his part of town very nicely thank you, but he didn’t reckon on the big boys moving in. Which they did in ruthless style.
There was a bitter underworld feud between Dakin’s gang and two others who had come together to oust him. It was the time of the ‘Clyde Murders’, as the press liked to call them. Eight people were found dismembered throughout Scotland, all villains, and not one murderer caught, but each body linked to Dakin and his sordid war.
In the end it got too much for him. He had a lot of muscle, but not as much as the other two gangs put together. Dakin knew when he was beaten. He held a summit meeting in secret with the other two gang leaders and came to an agreement — namely, that he would give up the struggle, put his men under their control, cut his own losses and split. Alive.
He’d realised he was close to becoming another one of the Clyde bodies.
He moved south to Manchester where his sphere and scale of operations expanded dramatically.
In a loose partnership with Brown, whom he’d met previously
(the criminal underworld is a small underworld), he embarked on a series of violent armed robberies throughout the north-west of England, mainly with Securicor vans as targets. It was very big stuff, as Dakin intended it to be, netting them more than two million pounds in a period of less than nine months.
This was to be the financial bedrock of their empire.
Dakin had previously decided where the true fortunes were to be made in crime — drug dealing. And he set about achieving his goals with a vengeance.
He and Brown made several journeys to Australia and the Far East where they established contacts, couriers and routes. After some initial blunders, mainly as a result of not bribing the right officials, business began to boom. Their first ever deal grossed them a profit of over one million pounds. By the end of their first two years in operation they had amassed over five million pounds each.
This time Dakin planned everything carefully.
He was never in a position where he could be compromised, and if he ever felt he was in any danger he dropped the deal or made a killing. Three doubtful couriers who knew too much and talked too loudly got bullets in the back of the head.
He also invested wisely in legitimate businesses with real profits, real management structures and good accountants who were paid excellent money to launder drugs profits through these businesses and offshore companies that existed in name only. He owned a small chain of supermarkets, six chemists, a dozen newsagents, several specialist wine importers, four pubs and a discotheque.