Psycho Alley (28 page)

One thing Henry did know for sure, though, was that Donaldson was a handsome swine. Women went gooey-eyed in his presence, and the fact he hardly seemed to notice women swooning all around grated Henry. Even now, in the Tram and Tower, every woman in the place was giving him sidelongs, making Henry green with envy.

‘Yep – incendiary devices,' Donaldson confirmed. Since he had expressed an interest in them, Henry had sent him further details of them, as described in depth by an explosives expert from the forensic science lab.

‘Why are they of interest to you?'

‘Might have a link for you from across the pond,' Donaldson said, referring to the Atlantic Ocean and that big chunk of land three thousand miles away. Henry waited, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his pint glass which was against his lips. ‘I spend my time looking at crime reports from around the globe,' he explained, ‘but one in particular has been with me up here,' – he tapped his temple – ‘for a while now; the murder of a Miami PD detective called Mark Tapperman.'

Henry took his drink away from his mouth. ‘Tapperman? That name rings a bell.' His mind began the Rolodex shuffle.

‘Let me save you time: Danny Furness.'

Immediately Henry remembered and as he did so, his mind recalled Danny Furness … Danielle Louise Furness … someone Henry hadn't consciously thought about for a long time now, but who he would never forget.

Danny Furness had been a wonderful cop and Henry had been happy to have her on his team when, several years earlier he had been involved in the hunt for a man called Louis Vernon Trent. Trent had escaped from prison in a most murderous and terrifying way and had returned to his old roost of Blackpool, determined to wreak revenge on all the people responsible for getting him sent to jail in the first place. Danny was the officer who had originally arrested Trent for a series of serious and escalating assaults on young children and got him sent down. Trent's skewed mind had determined that one of the people who would suffer for his incarceration was Danny.

Danny had been part of Henry's team which eventually tracked down and rearrested Trent, but not before he had murdered several people, including a uniformed cop who'd had him cornered. Trent had subsequently escaped from police custody and had never been heard of since.

During the investigation to arrest Trent following his initial escape from prison, Danny had visited Florida on a related matter concerning a missing girl. There she had encountered Mark Tapperman.

Subsequent to all of this, Henry and Danny had embarked on a serious affair, which had ended when Danny had tragically died on Spanish soil.

‘You OK, pal?' Donaldson waved at Henry, who had slipped into a trance of reminiscence.

‘Yep,' he said, snapping out of his reverie. ‘Just thinking about Danny.' He sipped his beer.

Donaldson eyed his friend sympathetically. ‘Don't go there,' he warned.

‘I won't,' he promised. ‘But I do remember Danny talking about Mark Tapperman. He helped her out over there. Big guy, I believe. Built like a shithouse wall. I never met him.' Henry's eyes narrowed. ‘You say he was murdered?'

‘A few years ago … the day before the Twin Towers came down.'

‘The tenth of September, then?'

‘Yeah. He was investigating a homicide and, uh, he was murdered.'

‘As a consequence of the murder investigation?'

Donaldson shrugged, frowned. ‘Who can say? But there are some similarities between Mark's murder and your guy, Uren?'

‘How similar?'

‘Until we do a full scientific comparison, I'm only going off what I've read. Mark's body was found in a trailer park, a real trash trailer park, near Fort Lauderdale.'

‘Uren's body was found in a bedsit.'

‘Mark had been stabbed repeatedly and his throat had been cut open, his head almost severed.' Henry saw that the words were difficult for Donaldson to say, that he seemed to be choking on them. The American saw Henry's curious look. ‘Mark was a good friend,' he explained. Henry nodded, understanding. Donaldson went on: ‘So, stabbed, throat cut – and set on fire.' He paused for effect then added, ‘Yeah?' to Henry's unasked question. ‘Incendiary devices.'

‘Bugger,' was all Henry could think of to say.

‘From what I've seen, the devices look similar to the ones you found here in Blackpool.' Donaldson sat up, making Henry draw back instinctively. ‘In fact, they look so similar I got Miami PD to send me one from the scene of Mark's death via the diplomatic pouch. It's in the back of the Jeep. Maybe tomorrow we could get a comparison?'

‘Consider it done,' Henry said excitedly.

Donaldson relaxed. ‘Last time I was in here with you, I got – as you so quaintly put it – bladdered.' Donaldson was collecting and using what he called ‘quaint English terms', because he found them highly amusing.

‘Pissed as a fart, I'd say.' So bad that he and Kate had had to put Donaldson to bed. ‘And?'

‘It won't happen again tonight, but I've had my fill of mineral water and as I'm not driving, I'll have a pint of Stella and a JD chaser. Your round, I reckon.'

‘Big jump.'

‘Big revelation coming … when you get back from the bar, I'll intrigue you further.'

Henry bought himself a pint, no chaser, two being his absolute maximum when driving, even though he realized that, as a cop, that figure should be nil. He carried the drinks back to their table where Henry saw that Donaldson was engaged in conversation with a woman, one of Henry's neighbours, who ‘happened' to be passing the table on her way to the ladies, which were actually on the other side of the bar. She smiled at Henry, gave Donaldson a lascivious leer, then bounced off.

‘She fancies you,' Donaldson said.

‘As if.' He pushed the drinks across. ‘You know, you could have any woman you wanted, couldn't you?'

‘Guess so.' It wasn't an egotistical answer. ‘Problem bein' I got a wife who'd kill me, and a wife who I also love.'

‘Romantic fool.' Henry's face crunched up disgustedly. ‘What's the revelation?'

Donaldson drank the beer deeply, said, ‘Ahh,' then took a sip of the JD. ‘The murder Mark was investigatin' … was the murder of a nine-year-old girl, found stabbed to death in the back of a car and the car had been found burned out after … guess what?' He was clearly revelling in the old saying that knowledge is power.

‘What?' Henry said eagerly.

‘Before being found abandoned, the car in question had been pulled over by a highway patrol who had been mown down by the driver. Does that scenario ring any bells?'

‘Jesus,' Henry said, remembering playing tig with the Astra in Fleetwood. ‘How's the officer?'

‘Died after being in a coma for six months.'

‘I might just have that JD chaser … be rude not to, wouldn't it? We can always catch a cab home.'

‘The murder investigation got nowhere?'

‘Nah … it stalled with Mark's death. Some thought it could've been connected with the murder of a guy who owned a sex club, but only because Mark had been sniffin' round seedy clubs in Lauderdale after the girl's body had been found … prob'ly not connected.' Donaldson was starting to truncate and slur his words now, a sure sign that his second lager and accompanying chaser were having an adverse effect on his brain. The landlord had called time, and most of the clientele had drifted out.

The landlord called time again.

‘We could have a lock-in,' Henry said. Somehow his weariness had evaporated under the influence of alcohol. He felt quite sprightly. ‘The guy who owns the place knows me.'

‘I could test another JD,' Donaldson said.

‘Consider it done.' Henry, slightly ahead of his friend in the drinks stakes, wobbled towards the bar and returned bearing glasses.

Donaldson leaned forwards. ‘Re our earlier chat, it's just come to me, the name of the person Mark Tapperman might have visited before his untimely death was John Stoke. We don't know anything more than that, never traced anyone of that name. Miami PD got that from Mark's wife. He'd been talking to her about it, but hadn't passed it on to his colleagues. He was a bit of a loner, Mark.'

‘Oh, right,' Henry said, not really taking the information in; a distraction had arrived in the form of a text message on his mobile.

‘What is it?' Donaldson noted the expression on Henry's face. Henry handed the phone across. It read,
u n me again, H. ull nvr ctch me.

‘Time to go,' Henry declared, feeling uneasy. The number from which the text had come was not the same as the one from which the earlier texts had been sent. ‘C'mon Karl, let's be having you.' He turned to the bar. ‘Ken, can you bell a taxi for us?'

As ever after Donaldson had been drinking, it took a lot of manoeuvring to get him out of the pub. Rain lashed down outside, but as Henry stepped into the porch at the front of the pub ahead of Donaldson, he hardly had time to take in the weather.

Two hooded men came at him, wielding the think ends of sawn-off pool cues.

He didn't even see them properly. They were just a blur in the rain. He felt the first blow across his right shoulder and immediately sagged down to his knees. He covered his head with his hands, instinctively expecting a flurry of blows.

But something miraculous happened.

Karl Donaldson seemed to sober up in an instant. Maybe it was the conditioning his training had drummed into him, maybe it was the instinct of defending a friend, but unlike Henry, he instantaneously computed what was happening and with a roar Samson Agonistes would have been proud of, went into action.

Like an American football player (Donaldson did not understand the ‘rugby' nonsense) – he powered into the attacker who had smacked Henry down. He drove his shoulder into the guy's guts and lifted him off his feet, depositing him on his back six feet away from where he was originally standing. With that player out of the game, Donaldson twisted and, like a Trans-Am express train, charged the other attacker, who was about to drive a cue down across the back of Henry's head. Donaldson roared as he ran, closing the distance in a split second and repeating his first move. This time the man was slightly quicker than his mate and managed to whack Donaldson across the back, a blow which had no discernible effect on the American, other than to get his ‘mad up'.

Donaldson's shoulder went in low, driving a groan of pain and expelled air out of the man as Donaldson lifted and deposited him across the bonnet of a parked car, smashing the back of the man's head against the windscreen.

With the second man dumped, Donaldson turned to the slowly arising Henry.

The attackers did not need a second hint. The first one picked himself up off the ground, the second rolled off the car, and both fled into the night.

‘Henry, pal.' Donaldson swayed slightly as the alcohol came back into play. ‘You OK, buddy?'

Henry rose creakily, grateful to his friend who had saved him from another battering. He tested his body and found he'd been particularly lucky: nothing was injured.

‘I'm not so bad,' he grunted, even though he was doubled over, hands on knees, snot dripping out of his nose, looking up at his concerned American cousin, who staggered slightly.

‘Amateurs,' Donaldson said dismissively. Then he staggered backwards, lost his balance, caught his leg on the low wall of the porch and tipped over spectacularly into the small, neatly- tended garden, landing on his backside in a bed of flowers. He stared up, unable to keep his head steady, a ridiculous grin on his face.

In the shadows by bushes at the far end of the car park, a man hidden in blackness snorted and breathed in frustration, then melted away into the night.

B
oth men had banging headaches the following morning, but there was no time to brood over hangovers. They were up at six thirty a.m., staggering around like zombies, until they emerged from Henry's house like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to face the onslaught of the day.

Deciding to collect Henry's car from the Tram and Tower after the morning briefing, they jumped into Donaldson's Jeep. The American drove them to the police station accompanied by the heart-tugging refrain of country music, making Henry feel inclined to suicide. He was relieved to arrive at the nick without a rope around his neck.

He briefed the team at eight a.m., and by eight thirty everyone was on the road, the whole investigation having gone up a notch. Once the MIR had quietened down, Henry and Donaldson scuttled to the canteen for black coffee and bacon sandwiches, that well-known cure for crapulence.

‘Almost alive,' Henry said.

Donaldson's eyes were drooping, but he nodded. ‘You're a bad influence.'

Henry shrugged. It was still nice to be considered such at his age. ‘I try,' he said modestly. He folded the last of his toasted sandwich into his mouth and washed it down. ‘Need to collect my car, then we need to get looking at a link between Uren's murder and Mark Tapperman's. Ironic, innit?' Henry snuffled a laugh. ‘I can get a joint investigation up and running with the FBI, yet I can't get SIO's from surrounding forces to ring back with the possibility of putting a cross-border job together? It's obviously not what you know …'

The two men regarded each other.

‘I drank far too much last night,' Donaldson admitted.

‘Hm hum. Let's go and get the incendiary from the car and hand it to Scientific Support.' He drank the last of his coffee. ‘Any leads on it?'

‘Could be linked to a white supremacy group in the southern states,' Donaldson began. ‘They've been active over ten years, here and there.'

Henry's mobile squawked and a text landed. He read it with trepidation.
Ull nvr ctch
me. She ded. It had come from the same number as last night's taunting text.