Big City Jacks (29 page)

‘We need to go,' Jackman hissed quietly to Cromer. ‘Boss needs us to make it to Manchester airport.'

Cromer nodded. To Ali, he said, ‘One last chance, pal.'

Ali raised his head, then shook it, no sound coming from his mouth.

‘OK then.' Cromer lit the match. It flared up. He flicked it across to Ali, who screamed as it tumbled towards him. Then it touched him and went out with a damp
Phtt
noise.

‘Ever tried to light diesel with a match?' shrugged Cromer. ‘Virtually fucking impossible. C'mon, pal,' he said to Jackman.

The obscene screams from Rafiq Ali which accompanied their departure only served to make the partners in crime howl with hysterical laughter.

H
enry Christie had worked in, been in, many CID offices over the years. No matter where they were, there were always certain similarities between them as, after all, an office is an office: desks, chairs, computers, paperwork, baskets, coffee cups and mugs.

But yet, each office has its own tangible atmosphere, its own way of speaking, telling you how well the people in it were doing their work, how they interacted, whether they achieved or not. It did not depend on tidiness. Even the most untidy offices could be places where the staff delivered a consistently high quality of work. Nor did it depend on the age of the furniture, or whether there were posters on the walls declaring how fantastic it was to have a positive attitude. The people made the atmosphere, whether they were sitting at their desks or not. And Henry thought he could tell when he was entering a good CID office . . . or not.

Sitting in the CID office of the Arena police station just on the outskirts of Manchester city centre, he was trying to get a feel for this particular room and its denizens. But he could not quite get a handle on it.

It seemed tidy enough, the few people in the large, wide-open room had their heads down, beavering away; a coffee machine gurgled in the corner, a nice aroma filtering through the air. Yet something unsettled him slightly, making a knitting pattern of his furrowed brow. He felt strangely uncomfortable. As his eyes criss-crossed the room, they paused briefly on what was obviously a home-produced poster which said simply,
Invincibles!
Nothing else, just that word in striking red letters. His eyes moved on.

He exhaled, looked out of the window. Not far away was the Manchester Arena, where he had recently been to see the Rolling Stones on their world tour. Behind that was Victoria railway station and beyond that was the city itself, Deansgate, the Arndale Centre, etc. In the other direction was Manchester Prison, formerly Strangeways, and wonderfully, nearby, was Boddington's Brewery, which made one of the few bitter beers Henry could drink to excess. He was more of a lager man.

He and FB had travelled together to Manchester. During their journey from Rawtenstall, the chief had revealed why he did not want to miss the opportunity.

‘The nick we're going to . . .?' he began.

Henry nodded. He was driving.

‘It's the one where the detective superintendent is based who I'm – we're – going to be investigating. The one involved in the cock-up trial at Lancaster.'

‘I thought there'd be an ulterior motive. It wasn't just that you'd been missing the cut and thrust of being a detective at the sharp end, was it?'

‘That as well . . . a bit . . . but it just seemed to be a good chance to get a sneak preview of the bastards, when they're not expecting us. Always an eye-opener to drop in on folk when they've just got off the toilet, if you know what I mean.'

Henry knew. Good tactic.

‘The whole Sweetman investigation was conducted from there.'

‘Supposing he isn't in?'

FB shrugged. ‘In that case, I'll just have a nosy round with you.'

‘I take it that you have a bit of a plan in your head.'

‘Oh yes.' FB tapped his slightly bulbous nose, which Henry thought was getting slowly fatter and redder . . . probably because of the wine. ‘I speak to the superintendent whilst you chat to the troops – ostensibly about Keith Snell – but if you can also manage to drop a few innocent but loaded questions about Sweetman and get some reactions, that would be good.'

Henry did not respond to this half-baked approach. He had no great desire to get involved in the Sweetman job until the Snell murder was out of the way. The fact that the two inquiries had some common ground only muddied the water for him. He would have liked to keep them separate and he hoped there was no true connection, but he also knew he would have to keep his antenna tuned in for any.

And now, after what seemed like the millionth journey during his life down the M61, he was sitting in a CID office whilst FB was chinwagging with the detective superintendent (who
was
in). He speculated on a few things while waiting, his mind butterflying over the walls in his mind.

Keith Snell – low life – murdered. Why?

Tara Wickson, lovely, lovely, lovely body . . . even sat there, Henry could still feel her fingers. He crossed his legs.

Kate Christie, ex-wife, to whom he wanted to remain faithful; he seemed to have a button in his brain more destructive than the US president's nuclear one.

And Karl Donaldson – what the hell was he up to, buggering off to Spain?

Henry shook his head and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. Waited, watched, thought, worried.

His mobile phone blurted out that Stones riff, the one that had annoyed FB. The one he would therefore be keeping. The display told him it was from Karl Donaldson's home number. Ahh, he thought, the coincidence of life.

‘Hi, Karl, back already?'

There was a faltering silence on the line, then, ‘No, Henry, it's me, Karen.'

‘Karen . . . hi,' he said warily, responding to the tone of voice of Karl Donaldson's wife. She sounded upset. Henry knew her well. She had once been a police officer in Lancashire, where Donaldson had met her. They had fallen in love, married, had kids, all that palaver. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and now headed their training centre at Hendon. Once, Henry had severely disliked her, but now they were good friends. ‘What's the matter?'

‘It's Karl,' she said.

Immediately, Henry's insides went empty. This sounded like bad news. ‘What about him?'

‘I just haven't heard from him. Do you know where he is?'

‘I spoke to him last night . . . he said he was in Spain . . .'

‘Spain?' she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean, Spain?'

‘Spain . . . y'know, the country, Spain. He said he was there regarding you know who.' Henry did not want to say the name Mendoza, but also felt rather silly saying, ‘You know who.' He stood up and crossed to the window, feeling he would be less likely to be overheard there.

‘He told me he was going to see you,' Karen said accusingly.

‘Oh.'

‘So do you know where he really is?' she demanded, obviously thinking Henry was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

‘No. I spoke to him on the phone last night and he said he was in Spain. Are you saying he hasn't told you?'

‘No,' she whispered.

‘Have you spoken to anyone at the Legat in the American Embassy?'

‘Yes. Nobody knows where he is.'

Henry felt a kind of creeping-crawling sensation cover his skin, contracting it tight. Could it be that Karl was on a non-authorized job? And what was worse, had it gone wrong somehow? He coughed mentally in order to make his next words sound upbeat. ‘I wouldn't be worried, Karen. He's probably trying to find a phone charger right now.'

‘But he always phones. He always tells me where he is, where he's going. But not this time. I thought something was wrong with him. He hasn't been acting normal, really distracted, really not with it. His mind somewhere else. Jesus . . . do you think he's having an affair?'

‘Nope,' Henry said without hesitation.

‘Then what? They have public phones in Spain, don't they? It's not like a third-world country.' She was gradually losing it, becoming hysterical.

‘I'm sure everything's fine . . . now, come on, Karen' – he didn't dare call her ‘love' because she was a superintendent – ‘he'll be fine.'

‘But what if he's got into trouble? No one knows where he is,' she said.

‘He'll be fine,' Henry said firmly. ‘This is Karl Donaldson you're talking about.'

‘I know, I know,' she cried. ‘It's just that . . . I'm at my wits' end, OK?'

‘Karen, look, I'm in Manchester at the moment on a job. Just keep annoying the embassy and get them to talk to you. You know what they're like . . . secret squirrels and all that. If you need someone to talk to, Kate's at home today, give her a ring. I'll get back to you when I can. I'm sure he'll be fine . . . no one gets the better of Karl, the good-looking bastard.' That ending brought a little laugh from Karen.

‘Right, right,' she said, pulling herself together. ‘I'll speak to you later.' She hung up, leaving Henry with a dead phone in his mitt. He slowly folded it over and dropped it back into his pocket, thinking that if there was one thing Donaldson did, it was keep in contact with Karen – unlike Henry, who was poor at calling in to Kate. Donaldson was smitten with Karen and, because of this, the lack of contact made Henry suspicious.

Turning away from the window, Henry saw FB and two detectives he did not know enter the office. The three of them made their way towards him.

Henry – the cop from the sticks – took this brief chance to size up the two Manchester detectives.

To say they were spick 'n' span was an understatement. Both were impeccably dressed, class suits, matching ties and hankies folded into breast pockets. Their creases were as sharp as knife blades, their brogues shiny and creaking as they walked confidently and cockily, rolling their shoulders. Both put the rather shabbily dressed FB to shame – FB the hick cop from a hick force with his hick running mate, Henry.

These two Manchester City detectives were the epitome of the big city jack. Sharp, sassy, cocksure and very arrogant.

For a moment Henry felt a shade underdressed in his Burton's off-the-rack.

‘I'd like you to meet DCI Henry Christie,' FB was saying. The older of the two jacks reached forward and gave Henry's right paw a quick tug. ‘This is Superintendent Easton.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' Henry said. The skin of Easton's hand was smooth and dry. Henry could smell aftershave on him.

‘Henry's here for two reasons,' said FB. ‘He's investigating the murder of a guy called . . .?' FB's brow furrowed. ‘What's he called, Henry?'

‘Keith Snell.'

‘That's it . . . one of your local denizens. His body was found just over the border in Lancs a few days ago . . . you probably heard about it. The one who was shot and burned? Just got the ID through.'

‘Yeah,' said Easton. ‘Name doesn't ring a bell, though.' Easton scratched his head. Henry caught the nervous gesture and instinctively knew Easton was lying. ‘OK.' Easton turned to the other detective, a younger man, standing on the balls of his feet, rocking. He tossed a thumb in his direction. ‘Phil here will give you a hand with that. He can be your SPOC.'

Henry squinted. ‘SPOC?'

The younger detective guffawed. He reached out a hand and shook with Henry, giving Henry's hand a squeeze too much. ‘Single Point of Contact,' he said patronizingly.

Only a minor thing, but one-up for the big city jacks.

‘Phil's a DS in the office,' Easton said. ‘He knows most of the local crims.'

‘Yeah, not a bright bunch, I have to say,' said Phil. ‘The gene pool around these parts isn't very deep.'

‘You know Keith Snell then?'

‘Yeah – a little.'

‘Good, that'll be helpful. We really need to fill in his background.'

Easton turned to FB. ‘You said Henry was here for two reasons.'

FB nodded. ‘He'll be helping me with the Sweetman inquiry.'

‘Right.' The faces of both detectives darkened considerably. As expected, this would be a very touchy area and Henry had a bit of sympathy for them. It's not nice being investigated.

‘But I'm sure there'll be nothing to worry about,' FB said brightly. ‘I intend to be in and out.' He tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘And everything we do will be transparent . . . so could you and me have a little sit down now,' he said to Easton, ‘and I'll tell you what I need to know.'

‘Sure,' Easton said magnanimously. He and FB left the office. Henry and his SPOC – as Henry had now and forever christened the man in his mind – regarded each other.

‘Come down to my office. Let's have a brew and a chat, see what I can do for you.' He led Henry out of the main CID room, down a short corridor and into his cubbyhole of an office, just about big enough for a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. ‘It's not much, but I call it hovel,' laughed SPOC. ‘Grab a seat.' They sat on opposite sides of the desk. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Christie?'

‘I want to know about Keith Snell.'

‘Bloody murdered, eh? Fancy that . . . one less for our books, I suppose.' SPOC paused, ruminating. ‘Can't say I know too much about Snell, actually. A fairly regular customer, but no one I came across often. One of the run-of-the-mill volume offenders and addicts who cause havoc with our crime figures. His antics were getting more and more violent, though, the more addicted he became.'

‘Gravitated to armed robbery, I believe?'

‘Singularly unsuccessfully.' SPOC shook his head sadly.

‘Family?'

Another shake of the head. ‘The state was Snell's family. Care home after care home, followed by the Benefits Agency and various prisons.'

‘Associates? Girlfriends?'

‘Knocked around with the group of people you'd expect him to knock around with. Not sure he had a girl.'