by Nick Oldham
‘And it’s such a nice, English expression too, so quaint,’ said Donaldson who was always intrigued by the vernacular. ‘I’d put you down as more of a cunt.’
Miller and Crazy strolled innocently down the street past the house in Fleetwood they knew belonged to Debbie Goldman, Dix’s girlfriend. It was in darkness, as they had fully expected it to be. Crazy had a carrier bag in his hand. They walked to the end of the street and lit a cigarette each, two friends chatting in the early evening, certainly doing nothing remotely suspicious.
Miller drew deeply on the cigarette but exhaled the smoke without breathing it into his lungs. He was not a smoker, never had been, but it seemed appropriate tonight for the sake of cover.
‘Looks like no one’s home,’ Crazy said.
‘Didn’t expect there to be.’
‘You done much burgling in your time?’
‘Yeah, course,’ said Crazy, affronted. ‘Screwed my first house when I was eleven.’
‘Ah, late starter then?’
Crazy grinned. ‘Made up for it since.’
‘Ever broken in and left something behind?’
‘No, always taken what was rightly mine. I’m not Robin Hood, just Robbin’ Crazy.’
Miller smiled. ‘Let’s reverse the trend then. Did you see an alarm on the house?’
‘Negative, don’t think there is one.’
‘Me neither.’ Miller looked at the sky. Cloudy, overcast, dull – the usual. ‘Let’s break and enter.’
They ground out their cigarettes in the gutter.
Henry switched the lights on. They flickered and pinged and eventually lit the room brightly. Down one side were the refrigerators, over a dozen doors, each one with a body behind it.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Henry said, adopting a creaky, witch-like voice. ‘This is my kitchen and those are my freezers.’
Karl Donaldson was not amused.
‘Sorry,’ said Henry quickly, sensing his friend’s serious mood. ‘But just at the moment places like this are second homes to me.’
He walked along the fridge doors, reading the name cards as he went, until he found the one he was searching for.
He opened it and pulled the drawer out. It slid easily and noiselessly on its runners.
The body on the tray inside was wrapped like a ghost in a white muslin shroud. Henry hesitated.
‘Do it, please,’ Donaldson said.
Henry obliged and folded the material away from the face, revealing a grotesque mess, part of the left side of the face blown away.
‘Two more bullet wounds in the back of the head,’ Henry informed Donaldson.
The big American looked as close to tears as Henry had ever seen him.
‘It is Zeke,’ he whispered. ‘Real name Carlos Hiero, FBI field agent, expert in undercover work – a good man.’ Donaldson choked and cleared his throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said, knowing the words were inadequate.
‘How was he killed – exactly?’
‘He was shot in the back of the head. The pathologist believes that the first was to the base of the skull, the gun angled upwards a touch, so it would be a fatal wound. The other two to the back of the head were make-sures, not that they were needed because the first one did the job.’
Donaldson took the information in. ‘Calibre of weapon used?’
‘Nine mill. Two bullets have been found inside the brain and we can match them to a weapon if we ever find one – your thoughts?’ Henry asked. He could see Donaldson was pensive. The American had brought his attaché case with him. He hoisted it on to the edge of the drawer and flicked open the catches. He pulled out some glossy photos of a crime scene and handed them to Henry, who blinked when the images registered fully with his brain.
‘That’s another undercover agent, codename Barabas. He infiltrated Mendoza’s gang and was killed in exactly the same manner as Zeke.’
‘And Marty Cragg,’ Henry added.
‘And at least four other people in Spain and France. Same MO. What particularly worries me is the fact that two undercover agents have been shot dead within the space of a few months, two very experienced guys.’
‘Like I said in the car, you need to be asking who knew about them from your side. Maybe there’s a leak somewhere. Did you control both of them, Karl?’
Donaldson nodded reluctantly.
‘Who else knew – if it wasn’t you who leaked?’ Henry asked, striking a chord with the American.
‘That’s what worries me.’ Donaldson scratched his head, took back the photos from Henry and slid them into his briefcase.
Henry’s mobile rang. He stepped away from the body on the tray and answered it while Donaldson stared sadly down at his shrouded colleague. It was Rik Dean speaking from the Major Incident Room at Blackpool.
‘Sir, I’ve been speaking to Jack Burrows. She wants to talk to you and not only that – she wants to look at Marty Cragg’s body. Here’s her number.’ Dean read it out while Henry, with his phone lodged between ear and shoulder, wrote it down on the back of his hand.
‘Is that it, Rik?’
‘Er . . . yeah, that’s it.’ He sounded doubtful.
Henry immediately telephoned the number, not being one to miss an opportunity. She answered quickly.
‘Thanks, thanks for ringing – I need to see you.’ Her voice wavered.
‘I’m at the mortuary at Chorley hospital. I think you know where that is, if you want to make your way.’
‘I’m about half an hour away. Can you wait?’
‘Yes.’ Henry thumbed the button to end the call. ‘Interesting,’ he frowned. ‘Mind staying for a little while longer? Call me an old-fashioned detective, Karl, but I think we might have some sort of breakthrough here.’
For two men of their undoubted calibre, the task of breaking into Debbie Goldman’s house was very easy. They went in via the back yard, forced the kitchen window causing little visible damage and climbed quickly in. They used fine, penlight torches to find their way around. Crazy went to the front door, while Miller stayed at the back.
What they intended to do was simple and straightforward.
Crazy lifted the doormat out of the slight recess in which it lay and inserted what looked like a wafer thin, black, square metal plate, then replaced the mat on top. He returned to Miller in the kitchen, who was having a slightly more complicated time. He had to ease up the linoleum flooring by the back door before placing a similar black plate underneath it, about eighteen inches away from the door. He pushed the flooring back into place, flattening it with his shoe.
‘Need somewhere to put this,’ he said. He took a small black box out of the plastic bag they had brought along with them. It was about 6″ by 3″ by 1″ with a small aerial on the side which Miller extended to its full length of six inches. There was an on/off slide switch on it. ‘I don’t think we need to be too cute about hiding this,’ he said. ‘She’ll be in a rush, won’t be hanging about, won’t be looking for suspicious things.’
‘You certain she’ll come back?’
‘As eggs is eggs. She’s a woman. She’ll have to get her totty things. It’s just the way they are. You’ll understand one day when you start shaving.’
‘Doubt it. As long as I can get me knob sucked from time to time, I’m a happy guy.’
‘Right. Here’ll do,’ said Miller. He had walked into the living room. He slid the box behind the video recorder, which was near to the window. ‘Should get a good enough signal from here.’ He pulled another box out of the carrier bag. This one looked like a hand-held transistor radio, which in some respects, it was. He turned a switch. ‘Stand on the mat,’ he told Crazy.
‘What – just step on it?’
‘That’s the idea.’
Crazy went into the hall and stood on the mat. Immediately the box in Miller’s hand came to life. ‘Alarm Code Echo, Alarm Code Echo,’ it repeated through its small speaker.
‘It’s working,’ Miller said. He pressed a
re-set button and it shut up. ‘Let’s try the one at the back door.’
Crazy did as bid with the same positive result.
‘Hey, that’s good,’ Crazy said with admiration.
‘It’s just a radio alarm. Cops use them all the time. Easy to get hold of, easy to install. Now let’s get out of here.’
Henry met Burrows in the car park. She turned up in her yellow Mercedes, so it was easy to spot, even in the dark. She parked in a vacant spot next to Henry’s Vectra, paused for a while to collect her thoughts, then got out.
‘What can I do for you?’ Henry asked.
‘I’d like to see Marty.’ Her voice was flat. ‘I didn’t get to see him when I was here before.’
The car park was one which was ‘secured by design’ which meant it had features built into it and around it which tended to make criminals think twice about robbing or stealing cars. One of the things it had was good, bright lighting. When Jack spoke she lifted her face up to Henry and he got a good look at her. He saw the cuts, the bruising and the swelling.
‘Jesus, what happened?’
Her mouth tightened and she winced. Her right eye was purple and puffed-up, her cheek too, her top lip cut. Her eyes fell away. She turned back to her car and reached for the door handle.
‘I thought you wanted to see Marty?’
Her fingers hovered by the handle. ‘I do,’ she said meekly. She kept looking away from Henry as though she was embarrassed.
‘But why?’ Henry asked. ‘Why do want to see the body of someone you claimed not to know initially? Are you just a morbid thrill seeker, or is there a professional interest there, you being an undertaker and all that?’
‘You know why I want to see him.’
‘Tell me.’
Her face flickered round to him again. This time the car park lights caught the tears streaming down her face. ‘Because I love him,’ she sobbed.
Henry was hard faced. ‘So? You’re not a relative and I don’t have to let anyone see him but relatives. Even his mum hasn’t been to see him yet.’
‘She’s too distraught, can’t get out of bed.’
‘Ah well.’ Henry shrugged. ‘Then you’d better give me a good reason why I should let you see him. I could get into trouble for allowing you to.’
‘I said I love him. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No, not in my book, Jack.’ Henry was actually on the verge of cracking and letting her have her way. Her tears and emotion were getting to him, despite his rock-like expression. He could never stay hard for long. He was too nice.
She stood in front of him, a vicious debate going on inside her.
‘Come on, Jack, I haven’t got all night.’
‘Okay.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘Let me see him and I’ll give you Ray Cragg on a plate.’
Fourteen
Crazy returned with a take-away, handing Miller his chips and pie covered in a curry sauce. He had a doner kebab for himself, everything thrown on, and a portion of chips. They were in a pub car park about quarter of a mile away from Debbie’s house with the alarm receiver on the dashboard of Miller’s second car, a rather battered Ford Granada. Crazy pulled off his crash helmet and sat in the car next to Miller. They had decided it might be wise to have two vehicles at their disposal and when Crazy told Miller he owned a 750cc Honda which travelled faster than light, it seemed to be the right thing to use.
Earlier in the afternoon, Miller had taken Crazy to visit one of his contacts in Blackpool, a guy who was a radio technician, once actually having worked for the police, but who now made his money from house alarms, person-to-person radios and other such useful items.
He had provided Miller with the footpad alarm for £100 and had also fitted a radio into Miller’s car for free and one on Crazy’s bike plus an earpiece in his helmet for an extra £150.
Crazy had been impressed. He folded open the paper surrounding his kebab. Miller folded a curry-coated chip into his mouth.
Donaldson, again, observed what was going on without interrupting. Henry stood back while Burrows looked at the body of Marty Cragg on the tray sticking out of the fridge.
‘Marty, oh Marty,’ she said sadly.
His face was a terrible mess, blown apart, skull splintered, brains oozing out, left eye completely missing. She sighed and touched his cheek tenderly. ‘I don’t know why I love you,’ she said. ‘I just do, I just do.’ She looked over her shoulder at Henry. ‘All Ray’s bothered about is his money. He didn’t care about Marty getting hurt, it didn’t bother him at all. I hate him for that. His own flesh and blood – and I hate him for what he did to me.’ Her shoulders shook as a sob made her convulse.
Henry did not reach out and touch her. He wanted to know what the hell she was talking about. What money? What was all this about? He clamped his teeth together, not wanting to say anything, trying to judge how best to take this forward, because he knew that if he said anything out of place, he could jeopardize the possibility of catching Ray Cragg.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘flesh and blood.’
She ran her fingers down Marty’s face and ice-cold neck, then touched his distorted lips with her fingertips. ‘I loved him kissing me,’ she said.
Henry held back the urge to shove two fingers down his throat. The idea of Marty, dead or alive, kissing anyone repulsed him. Burrows faced him again and Henry only just about managed to get his face back into sympathetic mode. Not that easy a thing to do quickly and he thought that Burrows may actually have seen him ready to hurl.
‘You probably won’t believe this,’ she said, ‘but Marty was good to me. We had a great time, had fantastic plans for the future.’ She could not tear her eyes away from her dead lover and she looked longingly at him again. Then she did something that almost made Henry spew for real. She kissed Marty’s lips, a soft, tender brushing of mouth to mouth. She hovered over his face and said, ‘I can make you beautiful again. I’ll put you back together so that no one will know how bad you’ve been. I’ll make you look like Marty again. Handsome . . . gorgeous . . .’
And a woman beater and maybe, Henry thought, a woman killer too. Why did women like bastards like him? he wondered.
Burrows stood upright. She inhaled deeply, pulled herself together. ‘When the body is released, I want to do the work on him,’ she stipulated. ‘That is a condition of me telling you everything.’
‘Fine by me,’ Henry said.
‘Right, I think I want to become a protected witness now, if you don’t mind.’
As far as Henry was concerned, there was no time to waste.
‘Sorry about this,’ he whispered hurriedly to Donaldson, ‘but I need to get things moving here. A bit of a twist I didn’t anticipate.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll go along for the ride at the moment.’
‘Cheers.’ He punched Donaldson on the shoulder then cowered away when the big man made to return the gesture. ‘Can you take her car to police headquarters at Hutton? Do you know the way from here?’
‘I’ll find it, I’ve visited it often enough.’
‘Good. Park it somewhere well out of sight of the road and I’ll arrange to have you picked up at the sports and social club, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure.’
They were standing in the car park outside the mortuary. Burrows was leaning on her car, sobbing. Henry’s mind was working fast. He strode over to her, followed by Donaldson.
‘Give him your car keys,’ he told her.
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re going to look after it for you. For a start it’s a very obvious car, turns heads, and if you get seen in it, it might turn the wrong heads.’
She delved into her shoulder bag and came out with her keys which she gave to Donaldson. He peeled the car key off the fob and gave her the remainder back. Henry pulled her away from the door to allow Donaldson space to get in. His big frame squeezed uncomfortably into the sports car and he fired it up and opened the window.
‘Got your mobile ph
one?’
‘Yep.’
‘Keep it on . . . I’ll be in touch soon.’
Donaldson nodded, reversed and was gone. Henry quickly dialled headquarters control room from his phone and told them that Donaldson was on his way to HQ and for them to tell the security people at the gatehouse to let him in. He noticed that the battery on his phone was running low and he did not have a car charger.
‘Right, Jack, first things first. Where does Ray think you are now?’
‘At home, I suppose.’
‘Will he be trying to contact you?’
She fished her own mobile phone out of her bag and said, ‘He hasn’t done yet.’
‘He doesn’t know you were planning to come here?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’ His mind whirred. ‘I’m going to drive you to your house now. Because of what you are going to tell me, I think there’s a pretty substantial threat against you, so I want to get you to a place of safety as soon as possible tonight. I don’t know just where, yet, but it probably won’t be very comfortable tonight, okay?’
She nodded understandingly. Henry thought how unlike she was now from when he had first met her a few days ago, when she had been cocky and confident. Now she was low and pliant. Love, he thought. And a beating. Amazing.
‘You are going to tell me everything, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘That includes about Marty, too.’
Again she nodded.
‘Okay, let’s get going.’
He led her round to the passenger door of his car and seated her firmly before getting in himself. A minute later he was driving towards the motorway, trying to keep to speed limits, but finding it hard because his fast-beating heart made him want to step on the gas.
He looked at the battery meter on his phone which told him how low it was. He needed to phone someone and hoped it would not pack up, though he could have used Burrows’ phone, he supposed. He dialled a number.
‘Henry? Where the hell have you been? It’s bloody chaos up here,’ came the panicky voice of Jane Roscoe.
‘Just listen, Jane,’ he said urgently. ‘In one hour I want you to meet me at . . . er . . . let’s think . . . Kirkham police station.’