Hidden Witness (35 page)

‘I guess if I hadn't had access to Jerry Tope, I still wouldn't be sure about anything. But Jerry hacked into the authorization emails that Don had sent to the IT guys, telling them to deny me access to these files. Then I found Don himself wasn't at the embassy. All the time I'd been talking to him on his mobile, I'd assumed he'd been in London.
Wrong
. We also found emails booking three rooms at cheap hotels in the Blackpool area . . .'

‘Which we'll have to search,' Henry said. A phone desk rang. Henry scooped it up. He listened, said a few yeps, hung up. ‘He wants to talk.'

Don Barber was in a white paper suit and matching slip-on boots. His skin had been carefully swabbed and hair combed by a crime scene investigator. Samples had been taken, he'd been photographed, fingerprinted and a swab of saliva taken for DNA purposes. He was sitting in an interview room, still handcuffed, guarded by the same officer who had accompanied him and Donaldson in the back of the van.

The detective and the FBI agent walked in. Henry gestured for the constable to leave, then he sat opposite Barber whilst Donaldson remained standing. Henry placed two sealed packs of tapes on the table, together with associated paperwork.

‘Off the record,' Barber said.

Henry shook his head. ‘No, not now. You had your chance, blew it. No more off the record unless I say. You are well and truly in police custody and we're not playing games. You want to talk, that's fine, but it'll be on tape, audio and video. If you don't want to, that's fine too, we still go through the motions. Your choice, but either way I'd recommend you talk to a solicitor – lawyer – so you know exactly where you stand.'

Barber took it in. ‘I want these off.' He raised his manacled hands. ‘I want a drink, I want to see a lawyer, I want to see a doctor and I want my phone call, and I want some people telling of my arrest.'

‘No phone call, no one to be informed or your arrest yet.'

‘I have a right.'

‘Which has been temporarily suspended. Authorized by the Chief Constable.'

‘That means I'm being held incommunicado. That's illegal.'

‘For the time being, that's how it is. Until I'm satisfied no one else is in danger from you and that all outstanding suspects have been arrested. Your choice.' Henry held up the tapes and waggled them enticingly.

Four hours later, Donaldson looked up as Henry entered the Chief Superintendent's office where he had been waiting. He had not been allowed to stay as the two detectives – Rik Dean and Alex Bent – chosen by Henry, had interviewed Barber.

He stood up warily. ‘Well?'

‘Rik and Alex have just briefed me,' Henry said. He checked his watch. ‘Unfortunately, we've had to get the police surgeon out to him, who has told us he needs to be taken to hospital. He's suffering from head pains, apparently. Feels faint. Sorry. Fancy a coffee?'

‘Whatever.'

Henry led the American out of the station and down on to the promenade. It was a chilly dawn, the tide was way out, but the sky was clear. They walked to the McDonald's on the promenade where Henry bought two black coffees. They sat in the deserted restaurant.

‘There's a long way to go,' Henry said apologetically. ‘He's talking, but he's not forthcoming, if you know what I mean? He has to be pinned down before he'll admit anything and even then it's not great.'

‘Where exactly are you, then?'

‘He blames the other two guys, the dead ones.'

‘Has he identified them?'

‘Says he doesn't know their names but it was all their idea.'

‘He's lying.' Donaldson churned inside, like the rumblings of a volcano about to erupt.

‘We'll keep on at him.'

‘You know I need to speak to him – alone.'

Henry nodded – his insides now churning.

‘I may have to visit him in hospital.' Donaldson held Henry's gaze until Henry broke off. ‘I won't kill him – but I need my answers. Without them, it's all speculation. Why did he want me to track down this, this American hit man? Why kill Fazil? Why did he let me live, then change his mind? How did he know Petrone was in Blackpool?'

Henry took a sip of the bitter coffee. ‘Because tracking down a professional hit man is hard, but killing a few Camorra Mafia dons who you suspect of ordering the murder of an undercover agent is more straightforward. My guess is that once you found and identified the American, he'd have been taken out, like Fazil was. Fazil only died after you confirmed to Barber that you were sure he was the guy who delivered the gun in Majorca.'

‘And he had someone waiting, ready to strike.'

‘Maybe one of those two dead guys, the one with the broken face? Given time, we'll find out. As to how he found Petrone,' Henry shrugged deeply, ‘who knows? Intelligence reports? Someone blabbed somewhere?'

‘Speculation, Henry.'

‘Can
I
speculate on something?' Henry looked down his nose at Donaldson. ‘Would I be right in thinking the FBI can listen into encrypted police radio transmissions?'

Donaldson said nothing, but tried to look innocent.

‘Which accounts for the very state of the art radios found in their possession?'

‘Obviously, we'll want them back.'

‘And mobile phone triangulation?'

‘Goes without saying. I'll be able to backtrack everything he did in that respect, but don't expect the FBI to admit to very much . . . and what became of
that
phone?'

‘Not found, as yet. Probably down a grate somewhere.' Henry finished the coffee. ‘I need to get back, there's a lot of shit to sort out and I don't want to cock anything up. And I need to sort out Mark Carter. He's been sitting in a waiting room for the last few hours, getting his head down.' He stood, but leaned on the table. ‘Don't do anything silly, Karl. I know you're upset with the guy, rightly so, but we have him now. We'll delve and delve and turn over all the shitty rocks necessary. Let justice take its course.'

‘Lecture over?'

‘And out.'

‘You might need these.' He dropped a set of car keys into Donaldson's hand. ‘My Mondeo – on the car park in front of the nick.'

Donaldson had a coffee refill for free, just by giving the young lady behind he counter one of his best smiles that, even so early, completely made her day. He sat back down alone at a window seat, and gazed across the promenade to Central Pier.

His mind was full of Don Barber. He hated what the man had done and yet Donaldson could see where he was coming from. Revenge was a very forceful emotion to contend with. Shark had been his responsibility as well as an old friend. And his over the top reaction had been his response to his death. Blood for blood. Donaldson had been there, however much he had denied it to Barber – who didn't know half of what Donaldson had done over the years.

He fished out his phone. It was early, but he still called Karen's mobile, knowing that she would be in bed and unable to take the call. He didn't call the home phone because he didn't want to wake her, but he wanted to leave a message she'd find when she got up because she always left her mobile down in the kitchen.

He walked back to the station, jiggling Henry's car keys and thinking about what he would say to Barber. As he crossed Bonny Street, his mobile phone rang and he was surprised to see it was his home number.

‘Karen? I didn't wake you, honey, did I?'

‘No, I was already up.'

‘You OK?'

‘Yes – how about you?'

‘Oh, it's been a busy few hours, but I came through.'

‘Good.' She sounded shaky.

‘You sure you're all right?' He was already wondering if she had found out about the Scandinavian sex-fiend he'd screwed.

‘I am, just feeling queasy, that's all.'

‘Heavy night?'

‘No, not really . . . been sick that's all . . . look, Karl, I'm really sorry if you think I've been a bit off with you for a few weeks. It's just . . . look, I don't really know how to put this.'

His heart was already sinking. He said nothing, expecting the worst.

‘It's just, I didn't know for certain, but I went to the doctor yesterday and he confirmed it.'

‘Confirmed what?'

‘Do you not listen? I've been sick this morning, yeah. Does that not tell you something?'

‘Are you saying you're pregnant?'

‘Duh – yes, you big, dumb, wonderful Yank.'

Donaldson was speechless for a few moments, as his jaw dropped and he took in the news.

‘I wanted to tell you face to face, but seeing how you phoned this morning and declared your undying love to me in a voicemail, I thought I'd tell you so you can prepare yourself for when I get up there this afternoon. Maybe flowers at the ready? Chocolates? An expensive present of some sort?'

‘You're pregnant?'

‘Yes . . . impregnated by your gallant sperm.'

‘When? How?'

‘About a month ago, I guess. How – I'll draw you a diagram this afternoon, then tonight we can do a re-enactment if you like? But more to the point, how do you feel about it?'

Donaldson caught a sob in his throat. ‘Fantastic,' he said, his eyes moistening. ‘Utterly, utterly, fantastic. What about you?'

‘Great – sick, but great. Just more icing on our cake.'

‘I love you, babe.'

‘Love you too.'

The conversation degenerated into several minutes of cooing and lovey-dovey words designed to make any eavesdropper poorly, before they hung up, desperate to see each other later in the day.

In the blink of an eye, Karl Donaldson's world had a renewal of perspective. Suddenly, he was no longer bothered about Don Barber and what he had to say to him. He could wait for the answers now. They would come as he and Henry investigated the man. The two other men would be identified in time – and no doubt turn out to be FBI operatives with military backgrounds who both knew Shark. And as for the hit man known as the American, so what? He was still out there, plying his dirty trade, but again, so what? One day, Donaldson, or someone like him, would take the bastard down, but for the moment, he could stay out there. His time would come, probably in a hail of bullets.

Donaldson could not wipe the stupid grin off his face. He did an about turn, trotted across the promenade to the seafront and gazed at the horizon, his chest bursting with pride, almost unable to breathe, swallowing back his tears. This is what real life is all about, he thought. Sperm and babies.