Backlash hc-5, page 29
part #5 of Henry Christie Series
‘Sure.’
The PM indicated the phone and that Donaldson should move closer to it. ‘It’s the President of the United States for you,’ he said casually.
Everyone in the room became rigid.
‘Mister President, this is Karl Donaldson speaking.’
‘Hi, Karl, how the hell are ya?’ he asked like he was an old buddy.
‘Better for hearin’ y’all, sir,’ Donaldson said, drawing a short laugh from the most powerful man in the world.
‘Good. Karl, to business. The bomber, this terrorist.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I won’t beat about the bush. I am very concerned that one of our citizens is causing havoc across the pond. I want him stopped. I want him caught. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Donaldson said.
‘I am authorising you to work alongside the British authorities and bring this bastard to justice. I’ve already spoken to your boss in London and this has been cleared. Give it a hundred and ten per cent, Karl. Go for it. I don’t want to put you under any pressure, but this guy needs stopping and if anybody can do it, you can.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the American snapped smartly. Henry thought Donaldson was about to jump up and salute.
‘Richard?’ the President asked.
‘Yes, Bob?’ the PM responded.
‘Speak to you soon.’
‘Bye.’
The call ended. The PM pressed a button on his phone and sat back.
‘Thank you, people — that is all. My bed is calling, because even a prime minister has to sleep.’
Dismissed, they shuffled out of the suite, dumbstruck and more than amazed that they had had an audience with the British Prime Minister and been patched through to the President of the United States all in one go.
‘Shit — pinch me,’ Donaldson breathed once they had cleared the room. ‘He doesn’t want to put me under pressure? Is the man mad? Jeez, I did not say that. The President of the United States is not mad, understand, not mad. Guys, did that really just happen?’
They stopped at the top of a flight of stairs.
‘Yes it did,’ Kramer said cruelly. His veneer of pleasantness so beloved by the public and the media had vanished. Underneath was the harsh, ruthless man with massive ambition. ‘And, let me make this clear on behalf of the prime minister that just because he did not come out and state that the pressure is on all of you, it is. ACC, I expect to be kept fully informed of all developments as I will be briefing the PM regularly.’
FB nodded unhappily. He did not seem to like Kramer as much as he had done forty-eight hours earlier. FB led them down the steps, Henry being the last in line. Before he could step down, Kramer took hold of his arm. ‘Chat, please, inspector, if you don’t mind.’ Kramer’s eyes were grey, tinged with steel, laced with snake venom.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘We all have choices.’ He steered Henry across the corridor and drew him into a room, very similar to the prime minister’s.
‘What’s this? The big warning?’
‘You could say that.’ Kramer’s voice reflected the message in his eyes. ‘I hope you have no ambition left in your job, Inspector. Because if you do, you’ve just fucked it up by laying your hand on me. Nobody denies me, Inspector, not in any aspect of my life, least of all a low-ranking dickhead like you — no one.’
‘Your ambitions must be rather warped then, if you can only achieve them by intimidation.’ Henry sniffed.
Kramer raised a hand to strike Henry in a flash of violent temper. Henry did not flinch. The hand remained raised, ready to strike.
‘If you hit me,’ Henry said, ‘I promise your reputation will never recover.’
‘It would be my word against the word of a police officer who had a past which, to say the least, is littered with complaints, violence and mental instability — who do you think would be believed?’
‘It seems I have nothing to worry about, then, does it? As I have no job prospects, which is what you intimate.’ Henry smiled dangerously. ‘But I’ll leave it at this: if you lay one uninvited finger on Andrea Makin again, I’ll have you. Above board and bang to rights — promise.’
‘What’s this then?’ FB said scornfully, a trace of jealousy as Henry joined them in the hotel foyer. ‘Hob-nobbing with government spin doctors?’
‘That’s me, sir, a real high-flyer, but now I’m back to earth with a bump and I’d like to get on with the job I get paid for.’ Henry’s tone brokered no argument, even from FB, who sensed something not quite right.
‘Good,’ said FB. ‘And remember,’ he looked around at all three with a wicked grin, ‘no pressure, absolutely no pressure.’
Twenty
Henry and Donaldson drove in a CID car to South Shore and onto Winston Road where Joey’s flat was situated. They prowled slowly up the street looking out for signs of life in houses or flats with the intention of disturbing the occupants to ascertain if anyone knew of a ‘military type’ in the area.
Unusually for Blackpool, a town close to operating twenty-four hours a day, there was only one light to be seen in the whole street and no one responded to the knocking of the two law enforcement officers.
‘Damn,’ Donaldson said.
They were standing on the front steps of the house with the light on. Their breath steamed in the cold night air and they rubbed their hands to keep warm while they chatted.
‘Already this is beginning to frustrate the hell out of me,’ Donaldson complained. ‘Everything is, like, coming into it so halfway.’ He turned to Henry and with a pleading tone said, ‘How do I catch a bomber who has evaded the FBI for the last six years, despite all those resources being thrown at him? Who’s to say he’s still here anyway? He might have done his job and gone by now. I have absolutely no leads to go on here.’
‘We could start with lodgings, rented property, I suppose,’ Henry thought out loud. ‘Where would a guy like that stay?’
Donaldson pondered. ‘Somewhere quiet where he could work, assemble his devices, somewhere he’s unlikely to be disturbed. So, not a hotel — maybe a rented cottage in the sticks?’
‘We can get that rolling in the morning, get someone to contact all local letting companies to start with, then expand it as necessary.’
Just for the hell of it, Henry whacked the door once more. As he turned he saw a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the corner of the window. That reminded him of something he had not done. He still got no answer at the door, though.
‘But you’re right, pal,’ he said to Donaldson. They trotted back towards the CID car. ‘We’ve come into this whole thing part way. We need a good new starting point.’
Henry opened the driver’s door, dropped in and started the engine, flicking the heater on to full. A frustrated Donaldson plonked miserably down next to him and turned the heater down. ‘I can’t believe it. Just my luck, the president telling me to get a result on a job I don’t have an earthly chance of solving, as much as I personally want to nail the bastard.’
They sat in the car. Above them, the sky was beginning to lighten, becoming less black as the first hint of dawn crept in. Each man was deep in thought at how best to unravel the whole mess.
Simultaneously, their heads swivelled. They looked at each other jubilantly.
‘We need to go right back to the beginning of all this,’ Henry said.
‘Yeah.’
‘We need to go and rattle a cage or two, poke some sticks at the wild animals therein. We need to get to grips with Hellfire Dawn, for cryin’ out loud. I even said it to the PM, maybe not in so many words, but that’s it — we get into their ribs, find their weak link and snap it.’ Henry tried to twist the steering wheel as he spoke.
‘Great minds think alike.’
‘Let’s do it, then,’ Henry said enthusiastically.
Henry held out his hand. Donaldson shook it.
Moments later they were en route back to the police station having been called back urgently by Andrea Makin.
Makin was at the door of the communications room, a message pad in her hand. She had circulated details of Joey’s murder to all forces, asking if anyone had anything similar on their patch recently. Because of the time of day she had not realistically expected anything back before mid-morning.
Two forces had surprised her. Surrey had responded that they had something similar about six months before but would be unable to give further details until later in the day. Cheshire police gave an even better response. A sleepy control room inspector at their Chester headquarters, on reading the message had immediately recognised the similarity with a double murder in Wilmslow which his son, a thirty-year-old detective inspector, was investigating.
‘This is a possibility,’ Makin said, handing the message to Henry. ‘Three weeks ago in Cheshire.’ Henry read it, absorbed it, passed it on to Donaldson.
‘Let’s call the DI now,’ Henry said, noting the time with a wry smile. It was one of the drawbacks of being a detective inspector — telephone calls at unsociable hours. Tough, he thought, picking up a telephone and dialling the number on the message switch. ‘Heard from your undercover man yet?’ he asked Makin. She shook her head. The phone started to ring and was answered almost immediately and brightly despite the time of day. Once the apologies and introductions had been made the business began. Henry stuck a hand over his ear to cut out the background noise of the communications room and also because there was still a ringing noise in his head from the bomb blast earlier. He cradled the phone between shoulder and jaw and scribbled notes as he talked.
‘Double murder, husband and wife,’ the roused DI, by the name of Harrison, said. ‘Hubby stabbed to death in the kitchen, wife murdered in the bathroom. They had marks on their chests indicating they could have been subdued by a stun gun, or similar. We think she was the target and husband got in the way because the killer had spent time with her. Wrapped her in parcel tape and gutted her, bit like a ripper murder. Forensically the place was as clean as a whistle.’
‘Who were the victims, what did they do?’ Henry asked.
Pause. ‘She was a solicitor specialising in discrimination cases and she was black, husband was white. He was an accountant. They were pretty loaded. Lots of avenues we’re following up.’
‘Anything stolen? Anything written on the walls?’
‘Nothing stolen, nothing written on the walls. They’d spent the day with friends up to about three-ish, then spent the afternoon alone, bumming around the house we reckon. We think the killer came into the house about eight o’clock and they died sometime between then and midnight.’
‘Anything unusual at the scene?’
‘A butchered body is pretty unusual — what do you mean?’
‘Who found the bodies?’ Henry said, still fishing.
‘The cleaner — she found them just after nine in the morning.’
‘Did she mention anything unusual?’
‘Um — yeah, she found two dead people,’ Harrison said gruffly. He was beginning to feel tired again. ‘Just tell me what you mean, will you?’
‘Sorry, yeah. Was there any music playing?’
‘She didn’t mention anything. I’ve read her statement dozens of times, so I should know.’
‘OK. It sounds similar to ours in some respects. Have you found any more around the country?’
‘One in Surrey, two in the Met, one in West Midlands, but they’re not a hundred per cent tied in yet, you understand.’
‘And do you have any strong leads?’
‘Nothing much. One witness saw a motorcyclist in the area, but it’s not tied in for definite, nothing more than that. It’s maddening. I think it was a planned, organised job, not a spur of the moment thing. We have some observations from a psychological profiler.’
Henry stifled a yawn. Profilers, in his experience, while of some use, tended to generalise so much that half the population became suspects. He thought they were a bit like mediums, conning the shit out of people, ripping them off. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘White male, twenty-five to forty-five years old. Bears a grudge against women and black people.’ Henry could almost hear the DI’s brain ticking over. ‘University educated-’
‘Where did that come from?’
‘Search me. Look, mate, I’m falling asleep here. I’ll send you everything I have so you can review it. I’m not precious. I just want to catch a killer. I’ll send a motorcyclist up with it first thing — nine at the latest, promise.’
The phone call ended. Henry hung up thoughtfully. All eyes were on him. ‘It’s a beginning.’
The communications room was buzzing with activity. Phone calls were coming in constantly even though it was the early hours of the morning. Officers were being deployed. Nothing ever changed in Blackpool: the tide came in and out twice a day; eighteen million people visited every year; and the cops did their best.
Dermot Byrne and PC John Taylor came in and headed towards Henry.
‘How’s it going, Dermot?’ Henry asked. He had forgotten that other things were happening — such as twenty-odd car loads of Asian youths heading into town to cause ructions. ‘How did my little plan pan out?’
‘Pretty good. They all got snarled up in the traffic chaos from the bomb which took about three hours to clear. They got split up and didn’t have any plans for regrouping, so they all seem to have sloped off home. Shoreside has been boxed up and it’s all quiet up there, more or less. Some bits of trouble, but nothing we couldn’t nip in the bud. So it worked.’
‘Good — and how are you feeling, John?’ Henry asked Taylor who was as pale and insipid as Henry had ever seen him.
‘I’m all right, sir.’
‘Any news on Jane or Mark?’ Byrne inquired.
Henry shook his head.
‘Not looking good, is it?’
‘Keep a positive attitude. Which reminds me — neighbourhood watch co-ordinators, where do we keep a list of them? I want to know who the co-ordinator is for the area where Joey’s flat is situated. Just before Jane and Mark went AWOL she spoke to some military-type old man. I thought that if we got hold of the co-ordinator for that area, he or she might know who the guy is.’
‘Could I look into that, sir?’ Taylor volunteered, perking up a little. ‘I know where the list is kept.’
‘Thanks.’
Taylor scuttled away.
‘Is he really OK?’ Henry asked Byrne about Taylor.
‘I think so. He’s keen to make amends. He’ll be fine.’
Byrne gave a quick wave and said he had to go to the custody office.
It was 3 a.m.
‘Well, team,’ Henry said in a less than motivational tone, eyes moving from Makin to Donaldson, ‘I want to be able to say, “do this” or “do that”, but at the moment I’m not sure there’s anywhere to go. Perhaps we should get some sleep, then reconvene in Gold at eight and give ourselves a full day. Observations?’
‘I think you’re right — we can’t do anything now,’ Donaldson conceded.
Makin nodded her acquiescence.
‘Right — back here at eight, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
Even though he was shattered, the idea of taking some sleep did not appeal to Henry, but he had to admit that realistically there was nothing that could be done until morning. It would be far better to rest for the next five hours instead of sitting around doing nothing, only to find that when he needed a brain later in the day it was just cottonwool. It was imperative that he should be able to think straight because he had a feeling there would be a breakthrough some time during the day. There had to be, he thought desperately. If there wasn’t, then statistically speaking, the chances of finding Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans alive were nil.
He shrugged his leather jacket on and made his way out past the custody office into the car park.
‘Sir, sir,’ came a voice behind him. It was PC Taylor, holding an index file card. ‘I’ve found the name of the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator,’ he panted.
‘Well done.’
‘It’s a Captain Blackthorn, lives more or less opposite Joey Costain’s flat. It could even be the person DI Roscoe spoke to. Sounds like a military type.’
‘Yeah, it’s a possibility.’
‘Anyway, whatever,’ said Taylor, eager to please, ‘I’ll go round now and speak to him, rather than phone. It’d be better, wouldn’t you think? If he’s in and has any useful information, should I contact you?’
‘Yeah. I’m going home now. My number’s on the board in communications. If you think there is anything, give me a call.’
‘OK, sir — if you don’t hear from me, it’s a dead end.’
Taylor sauntered smugly back into the building and went up to the CID office, humming to himself. The office was empty and he helped himself to a set of car keys on the rack by the door. He thought it would be more discreet to go and see Captain whatever-his-name-was in a plain car. It would draw less attention than a bright marked one. PC Taylor did not really like drawing attention to himself.
No one saw him take the keys or leave the station.
Five minutes later, in South Shore, he pulled up away from a street light, got out of the car and left his hat inside it.
The house in which Captain Blackthorn lived was divided into a number of good-quality flats, unlike most of the others in the area which were nothing more then glorified bedsits. Taylor pressed the door bell and kept his thumb on it.
‘Who’s that for goodness sake?’ a sleepy voice said groggily.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ Taylor said into the intercom. ‘I’m PC Taylor from Blackpool police station. Can I speak to you on an urgent matter, please? I really do apologise, but it is extremely urgent.’
‘Yes, yes, suppose so.’
The buzzer release sounded. Taylor stepped into the building.
Captain Blackthorn was dressed in a thick, mustard-coloured dressing gown over a pair of flannelette pyjamas. His feet were slotted into a pair of zip-up slippers. He came out of the small kitchen bearing two mugs of tea, one of which he handed to PC Taylor, whose leather-gloved hand took it and aligned it on the exact edge of the coffee table.
