Substantial Threat (34 page)

‘Can't you see I'm busy?'

Tom glanced at Henry and the corners of his mouth turned down, as though he knew something. Henry's breathing constricted for a moment. Tom looked back at his wife. ‘Please.'

Jane shook her head in disbelief and looked pleadingly at Henry.

‘You talk,' Henry said. ‘I'll sort this job out and you catch up later. Not a problem.' He jumped into his pool car, a rather tatty Astra which had temporarily replaced his Vectra, and set off behind a support-unit carrier. He saw Tom hand the flowers over to Jane. He wished them well.

Henry, wearing a ballistic vest, with two armed and dangerous officers standing behind him, was towering over Ray Cragg at five minutes past seven. Ray was in such a deep sleep he had not heard the front door being battered down, nor the thud of heavily booted coppers wading into his house, clearing each room with a shout as they went. Neither did he hear his mother's screams, or the grunt of her latest lover, as the firearms team entered her bedroom and pointed their machine pistols at them.

Henry shook Ray by the shoulder, thinking, The sleep of a man with no conscience.

He took a lot of rousing. Henry wanted to slap him – hard – but knew it would only backfire.

‘Come on, Ray. Come on, sleepy head.'

Eventually his eyes flickered open. Henry thrust his warrant card and badge in front of them and introduced himself, although introductions were probably unnecessary. He immediately cautioned Ray and told him he was under arrest on suspicion of murder, conspiracy to murder and supplying controlled drugs. ‘And whatever else I can think of in due course, but that'll do for now,' Henry finished.

Ray smiled mockingly. ‘Whatever. I'll be back here in an hour.' He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

‘This is a nice bed you've got,' Henry commented. ‘Very comfy.'

‘Had it since I was ten – it's brill.'

‘Unfortunately I don't think you'll be sleeping in it again – ever.'

Ray glared sharply up, a touch of concern on his weasel-thin face. It quickly disappeared to be replaced by an expression of contempt. ‘Don't think so.'

‘Get dressed.'

Ray stumbled to the wardrobe, eyeing the two armed officers. He removed his ragged underpants and began to clothe himself. He sat back on the bed as he pulled his socks on and glanced round for his footwear.

Henry bent down and picked up a pair of trainers tucked under the bed.

‘These?'

‘Yeah, give 'em here.'

Henry smiled and handed them over.

‘Nice ones. Had them long?'

‘Few months, why?'

‘Nothing,' Henry said innocently. ‘Let's go, pal.'

They conveyed him to Blackpool central police station where the pre-warned custody sergeant and gaoler were waiting to receive Ray with open arms.

‘Bag up his clothing and shoes,' Henry told the sergeant.

‘You let me get dressed, you twat,' Ray said to Henry. ‘Now you want me to strip again!'

‘I know. I'm like that.'

‘Why do you want my clothes?' Ray demanded, a sneer on his lips.

‘Forensics.'

‘As if,' Ray said cockily. He undressed and was given a paper suit in replacement. He then called his solicitor, who said he would be there in half an hour. Ray was led to the cells by the gaoler. Henry instructed the sergeant to ring when the solicitor landed. He then made his way up to the MIR to prepare for a tough interviewing session. It was 8.30 a.m.

He was surprised to see Bernie Fleming in the MIR. Henry's mouth twisted. Fleming was not his bestest friend at this moment. In fact, Henry had struck him off his Christmas card list.

Jane was also there, sitting on a chair at the allocator's desk. She looked pretty uncomfortable. Henry wondered if she and her husband had made up and were now united against the world together.

‘I need to talk to you,' Fleming said ominously.

‘What about?'

‘Not here, eh? DI Roscoe's office.'

As there was no one else in the room at that moment, Henry said, ‘Here'll do fine.'

‘As you wish.' Fleming shrugged.

He cleared his throat and Henry thought, Oh, fuck! He experienced a tightness across his chest and found he could hardly breathe. Somehow he knew what was coming.

‘I'm sorry about this,' Fleming went on, ‘but a decision has been made at the highest level that you should be suspended from duty.' Henry shivered as the words sank in. Fleming went on, ‘You'll be on full pay pending the outcome of the inquiry into the incident at Ormskirk. Your professional judgement has been called into question and it is not felt appropriate to allow you to remain on duty under the circumstances.' It was as though Fleming was reading it off a card. ‘I'm sorry, Henry.'

Henry held his tongue. What he would have said, he would have regretted. Instead, he said absolutely nothing.

‘I'm afraid you are now barred from entering police premises, other than the public areas. I want your warrant card and badge. I have been told that I should escort you from the station. Please give me your car keys, too, as well as your swipe card. You can arrange to come into headquarters later today to clear your desk.'

‘Thanks for nothing.' Henry handed over the required items. ‘I take it DI Roscoe is running with Ray Cragg now?'

‘She is.'

‘Just one minute before I leave.' He shouldered past Fleming and stood in front of Jane. ‘Ray Cragg is in custody. His clothing and footwear have been seized. Just cross-check his trainers with the footwear mark found on Carrie Dancing's head, will you? It could be a match. I think he's slipped up there, so if nothing else you'll get him for her murder.'

‘Thanks,' she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Henry, I swear I didn't know about this.'

‘It's okay, Jane. I'll be fine. Good luck with it, and with your life. And just for the record, I'm sorry I treated you so badly. Guess I'm just one screwed-up individual.'

Her face crumpled, but he turned away and without a backward glance walked out of the police station. It was four miles to his home. He walked there without stopping.

In the end, after much argument, Dix relented and allowed Debbie to go to her house to collect her things. Her reasoning that it was safe to do so was fairly sound now: Marty was dead and Ray had been remanded in custody charged with murder; their two henchmen, Miller and Crazy, were no longer in the land of the living. Debbie argued that Ray wouldn't be bothered keeping tabs on her house now as his organization was in total disarray. She said that it would be better to go there sooner rather than later, because if they left it too long Ray could well get his act together from prison. Dix was pretty impressed by her thought process. She was starting to think like a crim and he felt flushed with pride. Even so, he was still nervous about it.

They had been lying low in hotels in the Lake District, staying in nice places, one night here, a couple of nights there, but not flashing the money around. But both knew they could not maintain such an unnatural lifestyle for ever. They decided they had to get out of the country and settle somewhere cheap and cheerful, so Debbie wanted to get some stuff before they left, including her passport. This had caused further friction, because Dix said he knew someone who could get her a passport, but she said she wanted her own, real one. And she wanted to know why he wouldn't go back to his flat and retrieve his own passport, but he declined to tell her. That, he had said, was too damned risky. He would get a passport done for him by a man he knew who lived in Crewe. It would only entail a short stop off on their way south.

On the morning in question, he drove them down to Fleetwood. They were still using her car. He parked within a quarter of a mile of her house, near enough for her to walk the distance. He was feeling very tense.

She went in by the back door, not noticing the slightly damaged window frame, nor the slightly raised square underneath the lino on the kitchen floor.

She was quick and efficient. She knew what she wanted, where it was, and within five minutes everything was in a small suitcase and holdall. Then she was out, never to know she had activated a radio alarm which was not received anywhere as the box in Miller's car had been damaged beyond repair when he had driven into the side of the ARV.

Debbie hurried back to Dix, flopped into the passenger seat and breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled victoriously at him, threw her arms around him and gave him a big smackeroo. She was getting very used to being with him night and day and it was a great feeling.

‘Let's get out of this hell hole,' she said. ‘Never bloody liked Fleetwood anyway. Too many bloody fishwives.'

He spun the car round and headed for the motorway. His intention was to keep driving south, stop in Crewe for his passport, then go, go, go. Eventually they would catch the ferry to Santander and drive south to one of the less developed Costas and see if they could settle down in the sun.

The roads were busy, but he made good progress in her slow car. He joined the M55 at junction 3 and accelerated down the slip road. He kind of knew there was a heavy goods vehicle in the slow lane travelling alongside him as he began to filter on to the motorway. He expected it to move out to the middle lane to allow him on, but it stayed resolutely on his shoulder.

‘Fuck,' he said, pushing Debbie's car a little harder, hoping to nip in front of the HGV, but its engine was not designed to outrun anything. It responded sluggishly.

Then the HGV veered towards him, the driver, unbeknownst to Dix, having dropped asleep at the wheel. Dix braked and tried to avoid the beast. He drove on to the hard shoulder. The HGV slewed right across and collided with the little car.

Dix remembered nothing more until he found himself regaining consciousness upside down in the car in a field next to the motorway. The HGV was on its side, its load of hardcore having burst out everywhere. Dix shouted for Debbie. He could not see her. She was not there. He got his seat belt open and crawled out of the wreckage, a severe pain in his head and left leg.

‘Debbie,' he yelled.

Then he saw her. She had been thrown clear of the car and had landed about twenty metres away in a ditch. Her body looked twisted and badly hurt.

‘Debbie!' he screamed, his eyes trying to focus properly, his head hurting badly. ‘Jesus! Oh no!' he cried at something else he had seen.

The holdall containing all their cash, which had been in the back seat, had also been ejected from the car. It had ruptured when it walloped against a tree and now the contents of the bag were being blown across the field, towards the motorway. All thoughts of Debbie evaporated from his head as he ran to the holdall and desperately began collecting the money which was scattered everywhere.

When the police arrived at the scene, they found Debbie still alive in the ditch, no thanks to Dix. The offending driver of the HGV was also alive but trapped in his mangled cab, both legs and pelvis broken. Dix was in the middle of the motorway, chasing his banknotes at the same time as trying to avoid oncoming traffic. He was clutching a few thousand pounds to his chest, but the bulk of almost three hundred thousand pounds had disappeared in the wind.

Karl Donaldson spent every night for two weeks in London, much to his wife's annoyance. She was reassured, though, when he promised he would make it up to her in more ways than one.

It took him that long to get what he needed. It was a complicated process, carried out furtively, and he hated doing it, but he knew he had no choice in the matter.

On the morning of the fifteenth day he presented himself unannounced in Philippa Bottram's office.

She was deep in her work and looked up, startled. ‘Hello, Karl.' She was always pleased to see him. ‘Do we have a scheduled meeting? I'm sorry, I forgot.'

‘No. I just need to chat. Important and urgent.'

‘Very well, take a seat.'

He drew up a chair to her desk, sat down and placed a large buff envelope on the desk.

‘Not sure where to begin,' he admitted. Bottram thought he looked very tired and troubled. ‘Is is about Zeke?' He nodded. ‘Still preying on your mind. Don't feel guilty, Karl.'

‘It's not that, but he is still preying on my mind.' He had a flash of the memory of informing Zeke's parents of his death and their reaction. It had been very hard to deal with. He had also made it his job to accompany the body back to the States to hand it over to them personally. Their grief had rubbed off on him deeply.

‘What can I do for my favourite legal attaché this morning, then? Begin at the beginning,' Bottram said benignly.

Donaldson opened the envelope and extracted a large number of photographs which he did not immediately show to Bottram. ‘I've spent a lot of time researching Mendoza, his associates, relatives, friends, etc. I've pulled together everything we know about him and managed to get photos of many of these people.' He paused uncertainly. ‘As we know, Mendoza arranges for a lot of people to enter the UK illegally and I've spent time analysing what we know about the people connected to him and how they help him – all those sorts of things.'

‘Very creditable,' said Bottram.

‘Okay, that's one prong of my fork, shall we say? The other is that I believe Zeke must have been compromised somehow because, to this day, I do not believe he would have been so unprofessional as to let his guard down.'

‘Maybe, maybe not. Where is this going?'

Donaldson showed her a photograph. ‘Do you know this woman?'

Bottram looked and gulped. Donaldson could tell she had suddenly gone ice-cold.

‘She is married to a Spanish diplomat based in their embassy here,' she said. ‘I met her once briefly at a function there. Just fleetingly.' Bottram, who was tanned by means of a sunbed, had lost much of her colour and had gone slightly green.

‘Didn't I see her here?' Donaldson asked. ‘On the day I learned what had happened to Zeke. Remember, when I showed you those faxes?'