by Nick Oldham
…’
‘Did you say a billion?’ someone asked.
‘Yeah, you heard right, a billion and, depending on the exchange rate, about eight to nine hundred million pounds — ish — every year. They are phenomenally rich and well organized.’
‘So what was Petrone doing in Blackpool?’
‘He was in hiding following a particularly brutal fallout between clans, as a result of which it’s believed about thirty people have been murdered in the last three years. Certainly a dozen have, and the figure may be as high as fifty. Lots of people just disappear and are often never found. Some have fled, like Petrone, others are encased in concrete or rotting on rubbish dumps… whatever.’
Henry Christie, watching and listening to all this at the back of the MIR, felt his arse twitch with excitement again. He loved it. Loved being in murder room briefings, loved setting off on the hunt for a killer. He knew it was the sort of thing he did well and the thought of having to hand it over to someone just because he was going on a short break made him sweat with frustration. Damn the holiday, he cursed inwardly.
‘Let me take you back about three years,’ Jerry Tope was saying at the front of the room. ‘To a tale of jealousy, revenge and murder
… and garbage.’
‘I should apologize for my earlier forwardness,’ she said. ‘I was a little tipsy and a little annoyed, I suppose.’
‘Annoyed?’ Donaldson said. He and his neighbour were out on his balcony, sitting alongside each other on loungers. He was sipping a small beer from the minibar and she had a gin and tonic from the same source. Donaldson’s supplies were sparse now.
‘My boyfriend. He was supposed to be joining me but,’ she shrugged, ‘pressure of work, or so he says.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In Sweden… probably being laid by the twenty-year-old tramp I caught him texting last week,’ Vanessa said fiercely. She took a long drink of the G amp;T. ‘So I was annoyed and I made a bit of a fool of myself because of my rocky relationship.’
‘Ah, rocky. I know that.’ Donaldson raised his glass to salute that intangible phrase.
‘So I am sorry.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘But.’ She turned to him and despite his best intentions he could not keep his eyes off her cleavage. ‘I would still like to fuck you
… you know, now that we have ironed out our misunderstandings. I know you are an FBI agent, not a pervert. You know I was a bit mad, but I’ve had some sleep since then and my head is clear.’
Donaldson averted his eyes and squinted across the harbour. Even in the extended trough that his relationship with his wife was foundering, he had never been unfaithful to her. He’d had the opportunity. Women at work. A very sexy female Cypriot detective he’d met — and that had been a very close run thing — but he’d always held back, hoping things would improve with Karen. A forlorn hope. Even though both had tried, it was a struggle.
His head turned.
Seconds later they had dragged each other through to the bedroom, wrestled each other out of what little clothing they wore and passionately attacked each other. But as Donaldson finally clambered above her, the fingernails of her left hand digging hard into his muscled backside, the fingers of her right curled around his hard cock, easing back the foreskin, and he was about to commit adultery, there was a loud, incessant knocking on the door.
‘Jesus, not now,’ she hissed.
The knocking persisted. A woman called his name.
‘Shit,’ he said, rolling off the bed and grabbing a hand towel that he could have hung on his full-to-bursting penis, holding it in front of him. He padded to the door and peered through the spyhole. The fisheye lens distorted the view, but he could still work out that two people were in the corridor, a man and a woman, in the uniform of the Maltese cops.
‘Yes?’ he shouted through the door.
‘Mr Donaldson.’ The woman leaned to the door. ‘Could you open up?’
He sighed impatiently and opened it on the security latch. ‘What is it?’
‘Please could you accompany us?’
‘Why, am I under arrest?’
‘No, nothing like that… we… we’ve found the body of our colleague. He’s been murdered.’
‘That was good.’ Henry congratulated Jerry Tope on his presentation. Tope nodded.
‘I did my best. Is that everything?’
‘For now, thanks, Jerry.’ Henry was in one of the tiny offices off the MIR, leafing through a paper copy of Tope’s PowerPoint. Tope gave Henry a nod and left.
Henry’s eyes went to the slides giving some background to Rosario Petrone, head of the Petrone clan. Born in Naples in 1934, making him seventy-five years old, he had spent his entire life in the gangs of the Camorra. His early years were mainly running protection rackets and drug dealing, even in those days. But as times moved on, people trafficking became profitable, as did running factories making fake designer goods and taking a stranglehold on the garbage disposal service in Naples. This latter business didn’t actually give a shit about how rubbish was disposed of. Often lethal chemicals were simply dumped by roadsides or burned, or tipped into streams causing dangerous water and land pollution. But the Camorra-run businesses did it cheaply and legitimate businesses were more than happy to use their services. Petrone’s empire flourished.
But there was always inter-clan rivalry. Shootings were common. Ruthless scare tactics were regular — such as cutting off victims’ genitals and stuffing them into their mouths, from which their tongues had already been cut. Petrone was believed to have either killed or ordered the assassination of forty rivals. Some were found with their heads blown off, others were burned with the garbage, others were never found. There were times when he was on the run from rival factions or the police or both, although he was never successfully prosecuted for any of the murders he was suspected of. The disappearance of vital witnesses was usually the reason for his acquittals. About six years ago, he was involved in a shooting incident in Naples when he took a bullet in his side and survived. He was sixty-nine at the time and the people believed to have winged him were found later, dunked in a vat of hydrochloric acid one of his companies was supposed to have disposed of.
About three years ago a very powerful rival clan, the Marinis, decided to move in on Petrone’s businesses. After a series of unsuccessful negotiations, followed by brutal beatings on either side, a Mafia war kicked off when Petrone, it was alleged, ordered the murder of a Marini clan leader in Majorca. He brought in an outside hit man to carry out the killing that also eliminated two other Marini members. Collateral damage.
That was the beginning of a terrible campaign.
Ten more people were dead within three months.
Henry shook his head. And he thought Blackpool had its problems.
Things got too hot for old man Petrone, who certainly could not realistically expect to survive another shooting, and he went to ground and, according to Tope’s research, had not been seen in Naples for over a year. Until he turned up dead on my patch, Henry thought, and a silly lad got caught in the crossfire.
So Petrone got what he deserved, probably. Murdered on the orders of the head of a rival gang, Henry guessed. But Rory Costain did not deserve to die in such a way. This was not the streets of Naples. A seething anger spread through Henry at the thought. His mouth dried up. How dare that old man bring his violence to Lancashire? Henry knew it was his job to fight for the dead and there and then he realized that this murder enquiry was about seeking justice for Rory Costain, not Rosario Petrone who would probably have died by the bullet anyway. Rory Costain was who Henry would be fighting for and he resolved to bring the killers to justice, not least because he owed the Costain family something, as bad as they were.
‘Hey.’
Henry looked up from the notes. ‘Hey,’ he said back to the individual who’d appeared at the office door. For a moment it felt like an exchange in an American sitcom where char
acters always seemed to greet each other with a cheery, ‘Hey.’
It was Detective Inspector Rik Dean, Henry’s old friend and prospective brother-in-law now that Rik and Henry’s will o’ the wisp sister Lisa were ‘an item’. Lisa had turned up like a prodigal a short while ago when their mother had been taken ill. She had ended up in bed with Rik, the serial seducer whose motto was, ‘Vulnerable is good’. At the time Lisa had been vulnerable to Rik’s undoubted charms, but the two seemed to have weathered that storm and were now firmly in love with each other. Wedding bells were possibly in the offing. But, Henry thought cynically, that step would be one giant leap for mankind.
Henry knew that Rik, who was a DI at Blackpool, had been away on holiday with Lisa.
‘How was Lanzarote?’
‘Nice. Warm. Sunny,’ Rik said entering the room.
‘I quite like its barrenness for some reason,’ Henry said. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Just landed back at work this evening.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Only just got the chance to come and see what was going on up here. Been going through all the crap, seeing what I have to do, etcetera.’
‘Yup,’ Henry said, wanting to get his head back round to Petrone.
‘Been doing some paperwork — dealing with a few street robberies from last night that need following up. Had a bit of a chat with the victims on the phone.’
‘Right, good,’ Henry said, failing miserably in his attempt to feign interest. Rik was a good detective and he was angling to get him transferred on to FMIT, but it wasn’t as easy as clicking fingers, even if you were a superintendent. Only the Chief Constable could do that, bless him.
‘Quite interesting, actually,’ Rik said mysteriously. ‘I’ve also been down as second jockey on a preliminary interview with a guy who tried to abduct a young lad earlier today. He was posing as a school truant officer, fake ID, the business, then luring kids away for naughties.’
‘I think I saw him being locked up.’ Henry shuffled his papers, hoping that the great detective in front of him picked up on the bit of a clue to get lost.
‘Two things,’ Rik went on, grinning slyly, seeing Henry’s growing impatience.
Henry regarded him stonily.
‘Even earlier, the paedo-guy got a face full of hot tea from one of the teenagers he tried to bullshit into going with him for a wanking session. The description of that lad fits the description of one of the offenders from last night’s two robberies. One took place in town, one just outside the nick on Bonny Street.’
‘Rik, as interesting as this is, I’m kind of bogged down with a double murder.’
Rik grinned even wider and said, ‘Connections, Henry. You’re always bleating on about connections.’
‘What is your fucking point?’ Henry said.
‘My point, sir,’ he said mockingly, ‘is that when Lisa and I got back from Lanza-grotty, we were still technically on holiday. So we decided to go out for a quick jar across at the Pump and Truncheon.’
‘You really know how to treat a lady.’
‘I do, actually… but the point is we only had an hour in there and we had a bit of a barney, and we were knackered from flying, so we left about nine-ish, and who should I spot strolling past the pub down Bonny Street as we came out arguing with each other?’
The hairs on Henry’s nape moved. ‘Go on.’
‘None other than Rory Costain.’
Henry didn’t speak. Just waited for Rik to come good.
‘Obviously, I didn’t really think about it then, but he must have gone down the road and literally bumped into his robbery victim…’
‘A teenage girl,’ Henry stated.
‘And if I’m not mistaken, you had some dealings with her in the front office yesterday evening.’
‘And another — a Goth.’
‘Yup — two robbery victims, both attacked by the same lads I would say, from the offender descriptions, that is.’
Henry’s mind flipped it all over. ‘You said the description the paedo-guy gave you fitted the description of one of the offenders from last night? When did he get tea chucked at him?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘And you said you saw two lads walking past the Pump?’
‘Yep.’
‘Rik, very soon I’m going to pull rank and whup your sorry arse if you don’t tell me everything, like now.’
‘I saw Rory Costain.’
‘And who else, dammit?’
‘Your mate — Mark Carter.’
Henry was already rising to his feet. In his mind he heard the recording of the call made to alert the police to the body behind the shops. He thought he recognized it and now he could put a name to the voice. ‘Grab your coat,’ he said to Rik.
The body had been discovered by a strolling holiday maker, rolling to and fro in the gentle surf of Mellieha Bay, Malta’s longest stretch of beach. Since the discovery some well-meaning civilians had dragged it from the water’s edge before the police arrived.
Donaldson ducked under the cordon tape and went along the plastic walkway that had been unrolled to the body to ensure that everybody who had to, went on the same route there and back.
Lighting had been erected and the body was now hidden from view by windbreaks pushed into the sand. He was relatively impressed by the scene protection, but he doubted much would come from it.
He was allowed to view the body and recognized the corpse as the gaoler from the police station cells in Valletta. The one who had accompanied him on his visits to Fazil and who had now paid the price of corruption and collaboration. He had been shot to death, two to the head, two to the chest.
Donaldson did not need to spend long looking. He came quickly to his own conclusions about motive. Obviously, this simple man had colluded, had his palms crossed with silver, and then paid the price.
Witnesses were always better off dead.
He turned and walked slowly back to the police car that had brought him, glad as hell he hadn’t had sex with a woman he didn’t even know. It had seemed a good idea at the time, as most hare-brained things usually do, but he was relieved he hadn’t gone all the way. Integrity intact — almost, he thought. He would sneak silently back to his room so as not to disturb her. He knew for certain the only woman for him was Karen, the only woman he wanted to make love to. He pulled out his mobile phone and as he sat in the back of the police car, he called her just to tell her how much he loved her.
Unfortunately, the call went straight through to answerphone.
NINE
Henry and Rik helped themselves to a set of keys for one of the CID cars and hurried down to the garage. Henry’s Mondeo was still causing a potential obstruction so, ever the gent, he moved it somewhere less obstructive, then jumped into the battered Focus Rik was waiting in, revving an engine that pumped out clouds of unhealthy-looking blue smoke. Henry’s intended jump into the passenger seat was interrupted by the necessity to scoop the scrunched up chip papers and an empty coke can into the footwell, before sitting down gingerly on stained upholstery that he hoped was drier than it appeared.
Despite the best intentions of everyone concerned, it was an impossible task to keep the interior of runabout cop cars clean. Their lifestyle just did not allow for it. Henry didn’t comment, but his face showed displeasure.
Rik drove out of the car park on to the wild streets of the resort and Henry’s excitement was not diminished despite the car’s grotty interior. This was a major breakthrough in the investigation. A crucial witness.
He thought about Mark Carter, who he knew pretty well since being the detective who’d investigated the death of Mark’s sister from an OD. A concoction of drugs traced back to the dealer — Mark’s older brother, Jack. It had been a messy investigation and Henry had used Mark as a snout, an informant, along the way. The poor lad had ended up witnessing the murder of another young lad on the same piece of no-man’s-land between the back of the shops and
Song Thrush Way, aka Psycho Alley. A case of history repeating itself, Henry mused.
Henry knew Mark was a good lad, someone with dreams and ambitions and the intelligence to make something of his life, which then begged the question — what the hell was he doing hanging around with Rory Costain? And did he commit two quite violent robberies with him? And did he witness the old man’s death and then Rory’s?
‘You sure it was Mark Carter?’ Henry asked Rik, who threw the danny around a corner causing a plastic Fanta bottle to roll off the dashboard.
‘I am.’
‘And you think Mark and Rory committed two robberies?’
‘Description fits with what I saw and what the victims say. Another thing might help prove it. The Goth had an imprint of a shoe on his face, y’know, in his make-up? I know you’ve got Rory’s footwear, so it might be worth comparing the soles with the CSI photos of the Goth’s face. From what the lad says, it’s the one who fits Rory’s description that stomped on him, even though the other one gave him a good whacking, too.’
Henry sighed. He looked out through the grubby window, smeared by hand prints, and watched the town whizz by. ‘I expected better from Mark Carter.’
‘I expected nothing else,’ Rik said pragmatically. ‘His mum’s a drunk and a slapper, his brother’s banged up for drug trafficking and his sister’s a junkie corpse. Who can blame the little shit?’
Henry went hollow at Rik’s words of reality. It was such a shame a lad of Mark’s potential should hit the skids like this. And if he was witness to another two murders, the future looked very bleak psychologically for him, too. Henry could not even begin to imagine what the lad was going through. As well as the horror of reliving the events, he could be terrified he was next on the list.
‘Why the hell hasn’t he come forwards?’ Henry demanded.
Rik sniggered. ‘Because they don’t. People like that don’t. He might be shit scared, his shed might well have collapsed, but we’re still the enemy. He won’t trust us lot one iota.’
‘No,’ Henry said sullenly. And he, Henry Christie, had given Mark no reason to trust the cops. He’d used, then abandoned him after making some promises that were never kept. It was no wonder Mark would think twice about coming to the police. He’d been let down badly by them once. Henry went silent, his eyes defocusing as his mind turned inwards. He remained in that semi-catatonic state until Rik pulled on to Shoreside.