Hidden Witness (30 page)

‘Which is what you want him to do now?'

‘Well, yeah . . .'

‘You're welcome to him. I'll have to ring off, find his number, then get back to you . . .'

‘I've had a drink,' Jerry Tope said. ‘Can't turn out.'

‘How much have you had?'

‘A pint.'

‘And you can't drive after a pint?'

‘I can drive after ten pints, I just choose not to,' Tope said, clearly annoyed at the interruption to his evening.

‘I need your help. A computer thing. Can I come and see you?'

Tope sighed so heavily that Donaldson expected to feel a draught down the line.

‘Where do you live?'

‘A place called Lea, just on the Blackpool side of Preston.'

‘Gimme the address, I'll find it,' Donaldson said. Tope told him, Donaldson scribbled it down and as an afterthought asked, ‘Do you have a broadband connection?'

Tope tutted and said, ‘No, I'm the only computer geek in the world without one.'

‘Sorry.' Donaldson hung up gently, his mind in turmoil, still completely unable to fathom out why he should have been denied access to FBI files. Then another thought struck him. ‘Shit, I don't have a car.'

For some reason beyond Henry's comprehension, Kate had always seen herself driving a Fiat 500. So when the model was redesigned and the opportunity presented itself, she bought one. There was no doubt about it. They were classy, cool, small – tiny – cars, and, for a woman of Kate's stature, ideal.

Not so for Karl Donaldson. Six-four and broad to match, when Kate waggled her keys at him and said, ‘You're more than welcome to borrow it,' he wondered just how the hell he was going to fit into it. His own car was a spacious Jeep.

‘This looks like a bizarre logic puzzle,' he said. ‘Rearrange this shape –' he wafted his hand down his body – ‘to fit into that cupboard. Last time I had my knees around my ears was when the doctor was massaging my prostate.'

‘Far too much detail, and an image I'll be unable to wipe from my mind forever.'

‘Didn't you used to have a Ford?'

‘Fell to bits.' She jangled the keys and dropped them on to his open palm.

He approached the car with trepidation and like a member of a circus freak show, folded himself into it limb by limb.

As well as the luxurious transport, Kate had also provided Donaldson with a satnav into which he keyed Jerry Tope's postcode, and pulled up outside the pleasant semi-detached house some twenty minutes after leaving Blackpool. A combination of tiredness and the physical assaults he'd endured recently had made him stiffen up on the journey in the Fiat and he had to force his joints to open in order to get out of the car.

Tope came to the door to greet him, grinning at the size of the car versus the size of the man. Noticing the smirk, Donaldson said, ‘I'm good at getting big things into tiny spaces.'

He shook hands with Tope, who gestured for him to enter the house where he was then introduced to Tope's wife who was emerging from the kitchen. She was a tiny, rotund ball of a lady, with thick spectacles, a serious monobrow and facial hair issues.

‘Marina, this is Karl Donaldson I was telling you about.'

Donaldson proffered his hand. Mrs Tope squinted up at him as she shook his hand – and gasped as he came into focus. Tope eyed both of them and noticed his wife's reaction with a drop of his face.

‘Err,' he interrupted, ‘what exactly do you want me to do?'

Unwillingly, Marina Tope let go of his squeezed hand.

‘Could we talk privately?' he asked Tope. He glanced at the wife. ‘Nothing personal, but . . .'

‘Ooh, I understand. Why don't you take him up to your room, Jezzer? I could bring a drink up for you both. Tea, coffee, something stronger?'

‘Tea, milk, no sugar, would be excellent, thanks.'

‘Consider it done.' She bit her bottom lip and Donaldson saw that her top set of teeth were like tombstones.

‘Yeah, yeah, come on up,' Tope said. ‘And I'll have a brew too, luv.' Tope steered his visitor toward the stairs. ‘First on left.'

Donaldson had to duck on the stairs as he went up, then also to get into Tope's room, which was a back bedroom.

‘You've got your own rumpus room?'

‘Yeah . . . no kids,' he said wistfully.

Donaldson had expected an all-singing, all-dancing technology show. Instead, he found the room to have been kitted out as a study but with plenty of bookshelves and cupboards. The books on display were mainly thick, Tom Clancy type techno-thrillers, but there was a good selection about computers too. He had also expected to be faced by a barrage of computer screens and stacks and bits 'n' pieces, and satellite dishes, but all there was, was a desktop PC and a laptop next to it. Knowing what he knew about Tope, Donaldson was a tad disappointed that he wasn't looking at a room from somewhere like Bletchley Park.

‘You OK?' Tope asked him.

‘Yeah . . . kind of thought . . .'

‘Bells and whistles? Was once like that, but truth is you don't need all that much crap these days. Just keep your machines up to date and Bob's your uncle. Although I do own an exact replica of an Enigma decoding machine.'

‘I'd like to see that,' Donaldson said. ‘One of those things we Yanks liberated from a German U-boat, if I'm not mistaken.' He saw Tope stiffen at the twist of history. ‘Only kidding,' he said.

‘Mm.' Tope sounded doubtful. ‘Anyway – take a pew.'

He sat on one of the two office chairs and it creaked under his weight. He'd brought along his own laptop, which he hoisted on to the desk. ‘I want you to do some hacking for me.'

O'Connell was deep inside Billy Costain's chest cavity when Henry's mobile phone rang again. He was glad of the diversion because the atmosphere between him and the pathologist wasn't really conducive to a pleasant post-mortem, if such a thing could exist. She had turned to ice since he'd snubbed her and the already chilly temperature of the mortuary seemed to have a second layer to it.

It was Donaldson on the phone. ‘Need to see you urgently, Henry,' who didn't need to be a detective to detect the extremely worried tone.

‘I'm up to my neck in blood and guts,' Henry told him. ‘Only about a quarter of the way through a PM.'

‘How about I see you there, then – half an hour?'

‘I take it you've unveiled something of interest?'

‘Understatement, buddy, understatement.'

‘Do we need anyone else here?'

‘People you trust,' Donaldson said and hung up.

Henry had backed out of the mortuary to take the call in the room where the body fridges were stacked against the wall. As he ended the call, he looked up to see a figure enter the mortuary and his heart sank a little. It was FB, the Chief Constable. Bobby Big-nuts.

Billy Costain's bullet-shredded lungs were just about to be removed when the last of the specially invited guests arrived at the mortuary and squeezed into the office. Henry had managed to find a couple of extra chairs, and space was limited. FB, of course, had claimed pole position on the largest, comfy chair behind the desk. Henry was in a plastic chair next to him. Karl Donaldson, edgy and upright, had declined the offer of a seat. There was no way he could have sat down for any length of time because he was like a caged tiger. Jerry Tope was sitting alongside Bill Robbins and Rik Dean leaned against the back wall. Last to arrive was Alex Bent, the DS who had been dealing with Mark Carter.

Henry inspected the faces. With the exception of FB, he trusted each one of these people without question. He only mistrusted FB in the area of ‘Me', but otherwise he begrudgingly trusted him, too.

Donaldson chewed his nails nervously. He sighed, troubled.

FB scowled at him.

Henry nodded at Bent. ‘OK?'

‘Yes, sorry I'm a bit late. Just finishing up with Mark.'

‘Where is he now?'

‘I handed him over to social services . . . is that OK? They're going to provide him with some short-term accommodation and then we'll arrange an urgent case conference to decide what to do with him. And this is the e-fit.' He showed Henry the product of Mark's memory and a computer programme.

Donaldson looked at it as it went round the room. He did not display any reaction to the picture, but inside he went icy.

Henry's lips twisted and he shook his head sadly as he thought about Mark. There was one lad he had seriously let down and he wasn't sure how to make amends. However, that would have to wait. Henry turned to Donaldson. They'd had a rushed discussion before everyone had landed and Henry knew what he was going to say, but wasn't sure how things would be taken forward from that point. ‘Karl?' he prompted.

‘Uh.' Donaldson came back from wherever he'd been, ‘OK.' He took a deep, unsteady breath. ‘It's a tough one, this,' he admitted. ‘But I think Rosario Petrone, Rory Costain, Billy Costain –' he jerked a thumb in the direction of the mortuary – ‘and Mark Carter's mother –' he pointed at the bank of fridges, in one of which was Mandy Carter's body – ‘were murdered by an FBI hit squad.'

His eyes went from one man to the next. If he'd intended to shock them, he'd succeeded. Every mouth had popped open, with the exception of FB who said gruffly, ‘We're listening.'

‘Let me just say this first,' Donaldson continued. ‘I've got a lot of work to do on this, but I reckon this is the way the cards are stacking. Some of you know some of the stuff I'm about to say. However, I think I need to go over it again so everyone's reading from the same page, as it were. Forgive me if you already know these facts, but I'll try and keep it succinct.'

‘If you would,' FB could not help but say.

The two men exchanged a scowl.

‘For several years the FBI had an undercover operative who had infiltrated one of the Camorra Mafia clans – the Marinis. He operated at a pretty high level—'

‘Sorry . . . I'm not up to speed on this,' Bill Robbins interrupted, ‘but why was he there? What was he doing?'

‘He was there because we are interested in the Camorra. They have worldwide networks in place and though they remain Naples based, they are spreading and they're rich, powerful and ruthless, as you guys know. Jerry here gave you a good background briefing, I believe. This operative, codenamed Shark, was unfortunately murdered by a hit man known as “The American” about three years ago. No one knew he was undercover, no one does even now. But he was killed alongside a Camorra leader called Marini. The hit, our intelligence suggested, was ordered by Rosario Petrone. Our guy wasn't the target, he was just collateral damage.

‘You know of the gang war this hit sparked off – again, I know Jerry did a great job of briefing you all on this. Marini versus Petrone, and lots of people died . . . but that aside, I was tasked to track down the hit man known as the American.'

‘Just you?' Bill asked.

‘Just me. Not a simple task, but hey, I got on with it and didn't get anywhere until a guy called Fazil got arrested by chance in Malta a few days ago. He was linked forensically to the murder scene as the guy who supplied the weapon for the American. So, I go to see Fazil, who gets killed in police custody before I can get anything out of him.' Donaldson considered telling them about the murder of two cops and his own run-in with the gunman, but decided against it. He had a quick story to tell and didn't want to bog it down in peripheral detail. ‘You guys with me so far?'

All nodded silently, even FB.

‘Oh, sorry guys,' Alex Bent said apologetically and reached into his pocket to come out with his vibrating mobile phone. He checked the display and said, ‘I probably need to get this.'

‘OK, go ahead,' Henry said and Bent sidled out of the room.

Donaldson felt like his head was about to explode. He had developed a huge arc of pain over his eyes and if he had suffered from them, he would have said it was a migraine. It was staggering in its intensity, like a hammer drill boring out holes behind his eyes.

‘Are you all right?' Henry asked, picking up on his friend's condition.

‘Stress headache.'

Alex Bent came back in, a serious look on his face.

‘Henry – the mobile phone stolen from the Goth . . . it's been switched on, the phone company's triangulating its position now, as we speak.'

SIXTEEN

E
llen Thompson had been a public enquiry assistant at Blackpool police station for just over six months. She was twenty-three years old, a single mother with a two-year-old son and lived on and off with her partner, Lee Clarke, in a rented terrace house just to the north of the town centre. She had no previous convictions, otherwise she would never have got the job, but Lee Clarke had. He was a drug user, small time thief and handler of stolen goods.

At the time of Ellen's application for a job as a PEA, she and Lee were having one of their regular splits from each other. Consequently, the rather flimsy background check on her did not reveal Lee's presence in her life. Ellen had been desperate for a decent, regular job with a bit of flexibility in it and being a PEA, whilst not massively remunerated, was good work, well within her capabilities and actually pretty interesting.

However, two months after proudly securing the job, Lee Clarke came back on the scene. A bad boy, full of charm, and try as she might, Ellen could not resist him and his bad influence.

On top of which, the fact he was the father of her son was an extra pull on her heart strings.

At first, on his return to her life he was, as usual, remorseful, brimming with positives and promises. He said he'd put his drug habit behind him, kicked thieving, kicked booze.

And she fell for it.

Then her money started to disappear and he was obviously back on the line.