Substantial Threat (28 page)

‘How?'

‘If you get convicted of Jennifer's murder, which you will, you'll go down for life. I'll make sure the prosecution lay it on thick and you won't even need to think about seeing the light of day for at least fifteen years. How old are you now? Thirty-eight? Let's see, that's . . .' Henry started to count on his fingers.

‘Fifty-three,' Sherridan said glumly.

‘Fifty-three, yes. Not too old, I suppose, but fifteen years behind bars – hell! I can help you, but you have to give me everything in return.'

‘How can you help me?'

‘I can get the murder charge reduced to manslaughter like that!' He clicked his fingers. ‘You could be walking in five years, or less if you're a really good lad. I could really lay it on thick for the judge, about how she drove you to pig-sticking her, how she sent you mental, how she deserved what she got – though it is a bit ironic that you stiffed her because of her infidelity when you were being entertained by hookers. That's how I can help you, Joe. Fifteen years down to five. But I want everything in return and if I don't think you've given me everything, I won't help you. I want names, addresses, dates, times, everything about your use of prostitutes. If you don't give, you'll be very old and gnarled when you walk out of prison.'

Sherridan stood up. Donaldson tensed again, but this time the prisoner walked slowly round the interview room, hands deep in trouser pockets, dragging his feet along the tiled floor.

‘It's your life you're talking about here,' Henry tossed across to him.

He stopped in one corner of the room and rested his head against the wall, speaking down to his toes. ‘There's some bad people involved here.'

‘And fifteen years of your life is a long time to spend banged up. Okay, you can start again at fifty-three, but it's a lot easier at forty-three. People have mid-life crises at that age and start all over again, I should know,' he muttered to himself.

Sherridan came back to his seat. Where before his eyes had been dead and lifeless, now they sparkled with hope. Henry knew he had seen the possibilities.

‘If you tell me all I want to know, I'll get the charge reduced to manslaughter.'

‘When do I need to decide?'

‘Now. And the first thing I want to know is the girl's name.'

‘Julie, they called her Julie, but she couldn't understand most of what I said to her. Foreign, she was. Albanian, I think he said.'

‘Julie from Albania,' Henry mused. He looked at Donaldson and repeated, ‘Albania.'

‘Sorry it took so long, Karl. I'll come back and speak to him again tomorrow, by myself. I know you're up here for a specific reason and I'm delaying you.' It was almost two hours later and Henry and Donaldson were just leaving Risley Remand Centre.

‘It's okay, pal. What he said was very interesting to me.'

‘Oh, good,' Henry said dubiously.

‘One thing I would like clearing up, though. Is it true that only his sperm was found inside her?'

Henry blanched with discomfort. ‘Not necessarily, but he didn't need to know that, did he?'

Donaldson laughed. ‘You are a twat, then.'

‘Goes with the territory.'

‘And it's such a nice, English expression too, so quaint,' said Donaldson who was always intrigued by the vernacular. ‘I'd put you down as more of a cunt.'

Miller and Crazy strolled innocently down the street past the house in Fleetwood they knew belonged to Debbie Goldman, Dix's girlfriend. It was in darkness, as they had fully expected it to be. Crazy had a carrier bag in his hand. They walked to the end of the street and lit a cigarette each, two friends chatting in the early evening, certainly doing nothing remotely suspicious.

Miller drew deeply on the cigarette but exhaled the smoke without breathing it into his lungs. He was not a smoker, never had been, but it seemed appropriate tonight for the sake of cover.

‘Looks like no one's home,' Crazy said.

‘Didn't expect there to be.'

‘You done much burgling in your time?'

‘Yeah, course,' said Crazy, affronted. ‘Screwed my first house when I was eleven.'

‘Ah, late starter then?'

Crazy grinned. ‘Made up for it since.'

‘Ever broken in and left something behind?'

‘No, always taken what was rightly mine. I'm not Robin Hood, just Robbin' Crazy.'

Miller smiled. ‘Let's reverse the trend then. Did you see an alarm on the house?'

‘Negative, don't think there is one.'

‘Me neither.' Miller looked at the sky. Cloudy, overcast, dull – the usual. ‘Let's break and enter.'

They ground out their cigarettes in the gutter.

Henry switched the lights on. They flickered and pinged and eventually lit the room brightly. Down one side were the refrigerators, over a dozen doors, each one with a body behind it.

‘Welcome to my home,' Henry said, adopting a creaky, witch-like voice. ‘This is my kitchen and those are my freezers.'

Karl Donaldson was not amused.

‘Sorry,' said Henry quickly, sensing his friend's serious mood. ‘But just at the moment places like this are second homes to me.'

He walked along the fridge doors, reading the name cards as he went, until he found the one he was searching for.

He opened it and pulled the drawer out. It slid easily and noiselessly on its runners.

The body on the tray inside was wrapped like a ghost in a white muslin shroud. Henry hesitated.

‘Do it, please,' Donaldson said.

Henry obliged and folded the material away from the face, revealing a grotesque mess, part of the left side of the face blown away.

‘Two more bullet wounds in the back of the head,' Henry informed Donaldson.

The big American looked as close to tears as Henry had ever seen him.

‘It is Zeke,' he whispered. ‘Real name Carlos Hiero, FBI field agent, expert in undercover work – a good man.' Donaldson choked and cleared his throat.

‘I'm sorry,' Henry said, knowing the words were inadequate.

‘How was he killed – exactly?'

‘He was shot in the back of the head. The pathologist believes that the first was to the base of the skull, the gun angled upwards a touch, so it would be a fatal wound. The other two to the back of the head were make-sures, not that they were needed because the first one did the job.'

Donaldson took the information in. ‘Calibre of weapon used?'

‘Nine mill. Two bullets have been found inside the brain and we can match them to a weapon if we ever find one – your thoughts?' Henry asked. He could see Donaldson was pensive. The American had brought his attaché case with him. He hoisted it on to the edge of the drawer and flicked open the catches. He pulled out some glossy photos of a crime scene and handed them to Henry, who blinked when the images registered fully with his brain.

‘That's another undercover agent, codename Barabas. He infiltrated Mendoza's gang and was killed in exactly the same manner as Zeke.'

‘And Marty Cragg,' Henry added.

‘And at least four other people in Spain and France. Same MO. What particularly worries me is the fact that two undercover agents have been shot dead within the space of a few months, two very experienced guys.'

‘Like I said in the car, you need to be asking who knew about them from your side. Maybe there's a leak somewhere. Did you control both of them, Karl?'

Donaldson nodded reluctantly.

‘Who else knew – if it wasn't you who leaked?' Henry asked, striking a chord with the American.

‘That's what worries me.' Donaldson scratched his head, took back the photos from Henry and slid them into his briefcase.

Henry's mobile rang. He stepped away from the body on the tray and answered it while Donaldson stared sadly down at his shrouded colleague. It was Rik Dean speaking from the Major Incident Room at Blackpool.

‘Sir, I've been speaking to Jack Burrows. She wants to talk to you and not only that – she wants to look at Marty Cragg's body. Here's her number.' Dean read it out while Henry, with his phone lodged between ear and shoulder, wrote it down on the back of his hand.

‘Is that it, Rik?'

‘Er . . . yeah, that's it.' He sounded doubtful.

Henry immediately telephoned the number, not being one to miss an opportunity. She answered quickly.

‘Thanks, thanks for ringing – I need to see you.' Her voice wavered.

‘I'm at the mortuary at Chorley hospital. I think you know where that is, if you want to make your way.'

‘I'm about half an hour away. Can you wait?'

‘Yes.' Henry thumbed the button to end the call. ‘Interesting,' he frowned. ‘Mind staying for a little while longer? Call me an old-fashioned detective, Karl, but I think we might have some sort of breakthrough here.'

For two men of their undoubted calibre, the task of breaking into Debbie Goldman's house was very easy. They went in via the back yard, forced the kitchen window causing little visible damage and climbed quickly in. They used fine, penlight torches to find their way around. Crazy went to the front door, while Miller stayed at the back.

What they intended to do was simple and straightforward.

Crazy lifted the doormat out of the slight recess in which it lay and inserted what looked like a wafer thin, black, square metal plate, then replaced the mat on top. He returned to Miller in the kitchen, who was having a slightly more complicated time. He had to ease up the linoleum flooring by the back door before placing a similar black plate underneath it, about eighteen inches away from the door. He pushed the flooring back into place, flattening it with his shoe.

‘Need somewhere to put this,' he said. He took a small black box out of the plastic bag they had brought along with them. It was about 6″ by 3″ by 1″ with a small aerial on the side which Miller extended to its full length of six inches. There was an on/off slide switch on it. ‘I don't think we need to be too cute about hiding this,' he said. ‘She'll be in a rush, won't be hanging about, won't be looking for suspicious things.'

‘You certain she'll come back?'

‘As eggs is eggs. She's a woman. She'll have to get her totty things. It's just the way they are. You'll understand one day when you start shaving.'

‘Doubt it. As long as I can get me knob sucked from time to time, I'm a happy guy.'

‘Right. Here'll do,' said Miller. He had walked into the living room. He slid the box behind the video recorder, which was near to the window. ‘Should get a good enough signal from here.' He pulled another box out of the carrier bag. This one looked like a hand-held transistor radio, which in some respects, it was. He turned a switch. ‘Stand on the mat,' he told Crazy.

‘What – just step on it?'

‘That's the idea.'

Crazy went into the hall and stood on the mat. Immediately the box in Miller's hand came to life. ‘Alarm Code Echo, Alarm Code Echo,' it repeated through its small speaker.

‘It's working,' Miller said. He pressed a re-set button and it shut up. ‘Let's try the one at the back door.'

Crazy did as bid with the same positive result.

‘Hey, that's good,' Crazy said with admiration.

‘It's just a radio alarm. Cops use them all the time. Easy to get hold of, easy to install. Now let's get out of here.'

Henry met Burrows in the car park. She turned up in her yellow Mercedes, so it was easy to spot, even in the dark. She parked in a vacant spot next to Henry's Vectra, paused for a while to collect her thoughts, then got out.

‘What can I do for you?' Henry asked.

‘I'd like to see Marty.' Her voice was flat. ‘I didn't get to see him when I was here before.'

The car park was one which was ‘secured by design' which meant it had features built into it and around it which tended to make criminals think twice about robbing or stealing cars. One of the things it had was good, bright lighting. When Jack spoke she lifted her face up to Henry and he got a good look at her. He saw the cuts, the bruising and the swelling.

‘Jesus, what happened?'

Her mouth tightened and she winced. Her right eye was purple and puffed-up, her cheek too, her top lip cut. Her eyes fell away. She turned back to her car and reached for the door handle.

‘I thought you wanted to see Marty?'

Her fingers hovered by the handle. ‘I do,' she said meekly. She kept looking away from Henry as though she was embarrassed.

‘But why?' Henry asked. ‘Why do want to see the body of someone you claimed not to know initially? Are you just a morbid thrill seeker, or is there a professional interest there, you being an undertaker and all that?'

‘You know why I want to see him.'

‘Tell me.'

Her face flickered round to him again. This time the car park lights caught the tears streaming down her face. ‘Because I love him,' she sobbed.

Henry was hard faced. ‘So? You're not a relative and I don't have to let anyone see him but relatives. Even his mum hasn't been to see him yet.'

‘She's too distraught, can't get out of bed.'

‘Ah well.' Henry shrugged. ‘Then you'd better give me a good reason why I should let you see him. I could get into trouble for allowing you to.'

‘I said I love him. Isn't that enough?'

‘No, not in my book, Jack.' Henry was actually on the verge of cracking and letting her have her way. Her tears and emotion were getting to him, despite his rock-like expression. He could never stay hard for long. He was too nice.

She stood in front of him, a vicious debate going on inside her.

‘Come on, Jack, I haven't got all night.'

‘Okay.' She swallowed nervously. ‘Let me see him and I'll give you Ray Cragg on a plate.'

C
razy returned with a take-away, handing Miller his chips and pie covered in a curry sauce. He had a doner kebab for himself, everything thrown on, and a portion of chips. They were in a pub car park about quarter of a mile away from Debbie's house with the alarm receiver on the dashboard of Miller's second car, a rather battered Ford Granada. Crazy pulled off his crash helmet and sat in the car next to Miller. They had decided it might be wise to have two vehicles at their disposal and when Crazy told Miller he owned a 750cc Honda which travelled faster than light, it seemed to be the right thing to use.