Substantial Threat (25 page)

‘Just give me a break,' Jack Burrows pleaded. Ray had been questioning her incessantly for over an hour, insisting she tell him exactly what Marty had been up to on the side to get himself into so much trouble and debt. ‘I don't know, okay?'

‘You were fucking him.'

‘No, I was not,' she said. ‘We were friends, that's all. I'm with you, Ray. You're my partner, not him. He never was, we just talked.'

‘Just talked? Just fucked, more like.'

Ray was beginning to steam up now. Burrows could see him starting to bubble and she knew she needed him calm. Otherwise she would be facing another beating and she wasn't strong enough to maintain her lies. If he laid into her again, she would be unable to keep going and she was frightened that if she blabbed the truth about her and Marty she would end up as dead as him.

‘We never fucked,' she said. ‘Never.'

An hour later and Henry still had not received any reply from London. Not that he expected a result but an acknowledgement that the faxed papers had been received would have been nice. He had spent the hour reviewing paperwork, so it had not been wasted, but he was eager to hear from his American chum because it would mean that something was actually being done to identify the unknown male. Henry knew that unless he could put a name to a face, this murder investigation might stall at the first bend. He needed to know quickly who the guy was. He almost picked up the phone to castigate the Yank, but thought better of it.

Instead he plumped for a trip to the canteen, although he was slightly reluctant to leave the quiet office he had discovered just in case he lost squatter's rights.

Donaldson shook hands with the Metropolitan Police Commander, who had been a major player in the meeting which concerned Yardie activities linked to a Colombian drug cartel, linked to organized crime in Miami – hence the American involvement – and showed him to the elevator. Once he stepped in and was on his way down, Donaldson returned to Bottram's office.

She was leaning back in her chair, waiting for him, tapping her pen on her desk top. Her breasts were pushed up tight against her blouse.

‘Worthwhile?' she asked as he took his seat.

‘Certainly promising,' Donaldson concurred. ‘We'll all come out of it smelling of roses, I'd guess.'

‘Mm.' She eyed him less than professionally. ‘Can you stay in the city tonight, Karl?'

His eyes grew wide.

‘Business,' she said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Need you to meet the new Foreign Secretary. There's a bit of a bash at number 10 Downing Street and I'm invited, plus guest. It would probably be in your interests,' she said with an undercurrent to her voice. She didn't have to add it might be professional suicide to refuse. But Donaldson was not daunted.

‘Too short notice – babysitting duties tonight.' He tried to look sad, but there was no way in which he was going to end up alone with her in the big bad city.

‘I see,' she said shortly, an icy disappointment on her face. ‘I'll have to find someone else, then.'

He did not respond to that, but raised the cheeks of his bottom off his chair in a ‘Can I go now?' gesture.

‘Heard anything from Zeke yet?'

He sat back heavily. ‘Nothing.'

‘You'd better do something about it, don't you think?' She was immediately starting to exert her authority over him because of his refusal to socialize.

‘I am,' he said curtly. He rose and left the room without a further word, quickly getting back to his office, grabbing the sheets off the fax and slamming them down on his desk. ‘Bitch,' he muttered.

He looked down at the sheaves of paper in front of him. There seemed to be reams of the stuff. He was tempted to bin it all then claim technical failure, but when he calmed down, he began to leaf through the received documents carefully. Most were from America, one from Paris. Routine stuff, but important nonetheless. Eventually he made it to the papers Henry Christie had sent him from Lancashire. He almost did not look at these, just considered handing them to an admin clerk to do the business. Curiosity rather than professionalism made him turn over the fax front sheet.

The second page contained a slightly blurred black and white photograph of the deceased.

Donaldson blinked. His lips popped open and a curious taste entered his mouth. The taste of fear.

He stood up slowly, reading the supporting paperwork Henry had sent through, including a description of how the man had met his untimely death. Transfixed, Donaldson walked numbly down the corridor back to Bottram's office. He walked through her secretary's office.

‘Sorry, Karl, she's in a meeting already,' the secretary said.

‘This is important.' Donaldson's voice was strained.

The secretary nodded and backed down.

He went through and found Bottram talking to another woman he did not recognize. They were sitting on the sofa, very close to each other, curiously intimate. Both looked round guiltily when he came through the door. They were obviously deep in conversation.

‘Karl! Can't you see I'm busy,' Bottram said.

Before she could finish, Donaldson thrust Christie's faxes in front of her face. She took them from him and glanced at them.

The other woman looked on quietly, sipping tea, an amused expression on her face.

‘Yes – so?' said Bottram. ‘Why interrupt?'

‘Look at the photo again.'

Even Donaldson had to admit the fax transmission was less than clear, but it was clear enough. Bottram studied it intently, brow lined, then suddenly she realized what she was looking at.

‘Oh my God!' she said.

The three men convened at an innocent-looking car wash which operated on an industrial estate close to Marton Circle on the outskirts of Blackpool. It was one of those businesses apparently operated by several enterprising young men who looked more likely to steal cars than wash them, but they did a good job of washing and polishing.

The business was actually a front for part of Ray Cragg's drug dealing activities, and a profitable one at that. Customers could come and go within seconds and, together with the legitimate monies made from the soap suds, the venture turned over about five thousand each week, all profit. Ray Cragg had ten such businesses spread across Lancashire which sold a range of drugs for the discerning buyer, from cannabis to crack cocaine. They were like little drug supermarkets, but far more profitable than a chemist's shop.

There was an office in a large portacabin on the site at the rear of the car wash where Ray, Miller and Crazy gathered for their conflab. They were joined by two other men, trusted by Ray. Their names were Grice and Raven and both had turned up with flash motors which were being valeted by the lads at the car wash. Grice had been the driver of the van which had ferried Ray, Marty and Crazy from place to place before and after the King's Cross shootings. Raven had arranged disposal of the clothing and equipment they used.

They sat huddled round a small table in the office. There was only one window with horizontal blinds covering it, drawn at such an angle that it was easy to see out but difficult to see in.

Outside, the day had turned murky. Business was fairly brisk and most of the customers passing through at that time of day were legit.

‘Any sign of anything yet, Crazy?' Ray asked.

‘Nothing obvious,' Crazy said. He had just been out to do a recce of the surrounding area and had found nothing untoward.

‘They will come for us at some stage, you can bet,' Ray warned everyone. ‘Don't think they won't, so be ready. Don't argue, go in peace, tell 'em nothing and you'll be okay – trust me. The brief is on standby, so stay cool, don't panic and there's nothing that can stick to us.'

They all nodded at this reassurance.

‘So, the cops are nothing to worry about. We have far more pressing matters to consider than a bunch of dumb jacks trying to get us to talk.'

Henry was still doing his best to avoid bumping into Jane. It was proving to be more and more difficult as the crimes they were investigating became increasingly intertwined. He was only trying to keep away from her because he knew he was weak and he was trying to be strong for once in his life. He had far too much to lose by becoming involved with her and his materialistic streak, thin though it was, was preying on his mind. He was far too old, he thought, to let his heart rule his head. Go for comfort and security, he tried to convince himself. Be Mr Sensible. Don't do it. Don't fall in love again. God, his head hurt.

As he was waiting for the return call from Donaldson, he decided to sneak out of the station and have a stroll around town.

The day was now dark and dull and chilly. He hunched in his jacket and headed swiftly for the town centre shops.

It was fairly quiet, low season, mid-week. Not much happening from a tourist point of view.

Once out of the wind, he slowed down and window-shopped for a while, before going into Waterstone's to browse the shelves. He began to feel guilty about not being at the station, so decided to head back, then make his way to the MIR which had been set up at Bamber Bridge. Tearing himself away from the bookshelves he left the shop and almost immediately his mobile phone chirped up. He fumbled it out of his pocket and answered it.

‘It's me, Karl.'

‘Hi – got something for me?'

Before Donaldson could answer, the ring tones on the phone announced he had received a text message. Then it did it again, telling him he had received another.

‘Sorry, Karl, messages coming in thick and fast.'

‘In reply to your question, the answer is yes, I do have something for you.'

‘Brilliant – go on,' said Henry intrigued, but also noticing a strained tone in Donaldson's vocal chords.

‘Not over the phone, H. I'm booked on the shuttle this afternoon. I should be in Manchester by three thirty. Can you meet me, or arrange for me to be met?'

Henry blew out his cheeks, taken aback, but not about to question his friend. He did some quick mental calculations. ‘I can be there.'

‘I'll see you there, then. Terminal 3 of course.'

They concluded the call. Henry looked at the display on his mobile phone and scrolled down to the ‘message read' option. The first text was from the DI in Blackburn whom he had liaised with over the murder of Jennifer Walkden and the subsequent arrest and charge of her boyfriend, Joe Sherridan. The message asked for Henry to contact the DI as soon as.

The second text read, ‘H, RU avoiding me again? Luv JR.'

Henry stared at it for a long time before deleting it.

Crazy and Miller sat side by side in the portacabin at the car wash. They said nothing to each other, simply stared out through the blinds at the weather, darkening by the minute. Miller sighed. Crazy sighed. Everyone else had gone, leaving them to sort out matters themselves.

Crazy scratched his head. ‘Fifty grand,' he said into the air.

‘Apiece.'

‘Then a bonus on top of that.'

‘Yep,' said Miller. ‘Fifty grand and a bonus.'

‘There's a lot to do.'

‘That's an understatement,' said Miller.

‘What's an understatement?'

‘It's like a vest,' replied Miller.

‘Oh.' Crazy's eyebrows knitted together. He shook his head.

A quietness descended between them, each man lost in his thoughts. Rain began to hammer down, smacking on to the portacabin.

‘Are you capable of doing it?' Miller questioned him.

Crazy nodded. ‘How about you?'

‘Oh aye,' he said confidently. ‘But is it worth fifty grand and a bonus, I ask myself?'

Their heads turned and they looked at each other. At first their expressions were serious, but then they started to grin.

‘You bet it's fuckin' worth it,' said Crazy. ‘You in or not?'

Miller held out his right hand and they shook.

‘Where do we start?' Crazy asked.

‘Simple and local. Then we progress on to the more difficult stuff.'

‘I'll have that,' said Crazy.

Henry juggled a number of phone calls when he got back to the police station and fended off Bernie Fleming, who, for some reason, was prowling the building, hustling Henry.

He made it back to the office he had occupied before without bumping into Jane Roscoe, but found that the true occupant had returned. He moved cautiously round the building until he found another office which appeared to be vacant and unused at that moment. He moved into the empty seat and began phoning.

The first call he made was to the DI at Blackburn and Henry loved what he heard the man say, scribbling down notes on a scrap of paper. He thanked the DI profusely, promised to keep in touch with developments, then hung up. Next he called Risley Remand Centre near Warrington and did some smooth talking, after which he called Kate and told her it looked like it would be another late one, but could she put up the spare bed for Karl Donaldson?

The mention of the American's name immediately calmed her down. Henry could tell she was beginning to simmer a little and could hear a trace of suspicion in her voice. He knew she was wondering if he was straying from the straight and narrow again. He was wondering the same.

As he cradled the landline, his mobile rang again. The noise it made hit some nerve inside him and he squirmed.

It was Roscoe. ‘Henry, where are you?'

‘Blackpool police station,' he said vaguely.

‘Whereabouts?'

He stifled an irritated sigh. ‘Coming up to the incident room. Be there in a couple of minutes.'

‘I'll see you there,' she said, her voice having the quality of best granite.

Henry dropped the mobile on to the desk. There was never any peace with one of them in your pocket, he thought. You are always contactable, never quite able to leave people behind. He was starting to hate the damned thing, yet he had no option but to carry it around with him, switched on and charged up. He swore and stood up. He had no intention of going to the incident room now.