The Nothing Job (34 page)

‘Lucky break there, Henry,' FB agreed.

Henry rolled his neck, massaging it with both hands. His brow furrowed. ‘Where does Corrigan fit into all this and why was Scartarelli killed?'

FB shrugged. ‘Corrigan is the man behind it all, according to your chum in the FBI.' He said ‘chum' quite dismissively, because he didn't really like Karl Donaldson very much. ‘He's the guy who arranges for the prostitutes to come across from Eastern Europe, Albania and the like, sorts out their passage and where they're going when they get here and who gets them. Basically, Scartarelli worked for him. But the train of thought is that Scartarelli has been trying to oust Corrigan, even to the point of using his villa in Cyprus without his permission. That's why Corrigan wanted him killed – we think. No one's saying very much, though. That villa, by the way, is actually owned by a legit holding company in the States linked to the Tantini crime family, who I think you've heard of.'

‘How'd you find that out?'

‘Sent Jerry Tope searching online. He's a bit of a whiz at it.'

Henry smiled. ‘He'll get himself into trouble one of these days.' He leaned forward and squirmed himself into a better sitting position. ‘Plump up my pillows, will you?' he asked and FB, a grimace on his face at becoming a nurse, pulled Henry's pillows up as requested. Henry enjoyed the attention. It wasn't often FB did something for him.

The two men didn't speak for a while. Henry had had his brain knocked about a bit and his thoughts were jumping all over the place, not much logic to them, his brow constantly knitting together as he thought through something, wondered whether to ask a question, then didn't bother because it was too much like hard work. However, eventually he spoke.

‘Can I ask you something?' he said to FB at last.

‘Of course.'

‘How are Anthony Downie and Jane Kinsella connected to all this?'

‘Not sure what you mean – Downie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and got a bullet in the brain for it. The best witness is a dead witness. No great loss. Who's Jane Kinsella?'

‘Operation Wanted?' Henry reminded him.

‘Ah,
that
Jane Kinsella.' FB shook his head. ‘No connection at all, I don't think.'

‘Can I ask you something else?' Before FB could say yes or no, Henry said, ‘When you gave me those jobs to do, catching those wanted persons, did you have any inkling whatsoever about all this? Did you know about what Anger and Carradine were up to?' Henry craned his neck to look into FB's eyes. They told their own story. ‘I'll take that as a yes.' His mouth pursed, he closed his eyes and rested his sore head back. Eyes still closed, he said, ‘You fucking knew or suspected something was going on, didn't you?'

‘OK, I did, as did the Chief Constable of Merseyside. Shafer and others have been suspected for a long time of being involved in various criminal activities. So what better man to get involved in it than you? We'd been looking for a way to get into it for quite a while now and when I got that rocket from the Police Authority, it just seemed to slot into place. I knew that when you started delving, something could well happen. Always does with you. The other two wanteds were just so you'd think I wasn't pushing you in a particular direction.'

‘So I wouldn't suspect anything. You complete and utter bastard,' Henry said.

‘And then when Motta was killed … gold dust,' FB said brightly. ‘I have got a real sweetener for you, though.'

‘What would that be?' Henry said bitterly.

‘After the shit has settled on this, I'm going to put a superintendent in charge of FMIT rather than a chief super.' He paused dramatically. ‘It's yours if you want it – unless you want to retire instead, that is?'

‘You think that offering me promotion will be a sweetener?' Henry asked incredulously … but even as he spoke, his mind started to work out the big difference between a superintendent's pension and a chief inspector's pension. He said, ‘You could be right.'

The surprise was that when Dave Anger was released from the hospital into police custody proper, he wanted to talk, and talk he did. He had formed the impression that Carradine, Shafer and Corrigan had been confessing all, an impression that wasn't corrected by the detectives tasked to interview him.

In the end, with the half-stories from Shafer and Carradine, nothing from Corrigan, and more than enough from Anger, it all started to come together.

With regards to the shooting of Jonny Motta, the detectives learned that the IPCC investigator, McKnight, had been a bit too good and had stumbled upon several bank accounts owned by the police officer who pulled the trigger. They showed regular amounts dripping in and accumulating. Investigating further, he discovered more accounts belonging to firearms officers that did not seem quite right. He never knew for certain whether these finds were or were not connected to the shooting, but he knew they had to be investigated.

When Shafer got wind of this, he arranged for a fatal accident to occur to McKnight, who was under the impression he was going to meet a secret witness with information about the shooting. Shafer had then brazenly spoken to and sympathized with McKnight's grieving widow and been handed all her husband's work-related documents, including a notebook detailing all his finds.

And, finally, Anger named the people responsible for killing Scartarelli in the court cells: three firearms officers from Merseyside, also implicated in the protection rackets and who had taken part in the raid on Motta's flat.

Lancashire officers, who also arrested the firearms PC who had shot Motta and claimed he was acting in self-defence, arrested them in dawn raids – and when those four were in custody, everything crumbled.

‘Yeah, that's where we're up to,' Henry Christie said. It was four weeks later and he was on the phone in his new office in the FMIT building across the sports field from the headquarters main building. Sat opposite him, feet up on the other side of the desk, was Karl Donaldson. Henry was on the phone to DI Georgia Papakostas of the Cyprus Police. He was giving her the regular update of the progress of the investigation, even though he was not actively involved in it himself, merely a witness. ‘Yeah, I know,' he said, ‘still no name for the sniper. Sorry about that, but we'll keep digging if you will. It would be tragic not to get someone arrested for killing a cop, even if it was by accident. Good luck with it. Yeah, I'm doing fine, thanks … OK …' The conversation was drawing to a close. Donaldson dropped his feet and mee-mawed for Henry to give him the phone. Henry snarled at him. ‘Someone here who wants to speak to you …' He gave him the phone.

‘Hey, babe, how y'all doing?' he said, thickening his accent. ‘Me, fine, I'm fine … what about you? When do I get to see you again?'

At that, Henry stood up, annoyed. He gave Donaldson a middle finger and stalked out of the office into the corridor and looked up and down at what was to become his new kingdom – FMIT. He hadn't yet been promoted, as FB promised, but had been allowed to move into the office on the middle floor of the block pending this. He had taken great delight in getting the labourers to gut what was once Dave Anger's domain. Now it was his and would be for as long as possible.

Donaldson appeared at the office door and regarded his British friend with a half-smile.

‘You think we really did it, pal?'

Henry returned the inspection, looking his American friend up and down, considering the question. He shrugged. ‘She's a very beautiful woman.'

‘Not as beautiful as my wife,' Donaldson said.

‘But you let me think, for all these weeks …'

‘I was enjoying myself.'

Henry's desk phone rang and he moved Donaldson out of the doorway to get in and answer it. He listened then said, ‘Be there in a few minutes … see you.' He turned to Donaldson. ‘Fancy watching a real cop in action?'

‘Is there one around here?'

‘If you were much smaller, thinner, lighter, wore thick glasses, had false teeth and one leg, I'd smack you very hard and then run … Come with me, I have things to do.'

Henry, Jerry Tope and Donaldson strolled into the accounts department on the middle floor of headquarters where Madeline Rooney sat at her desk. She was sporting a wonderful tan from her recent holiday in Florida and it was set very nicely against the new expensive and very low-cut dress she wore.

‘You two guys stay here,' Henry told his companions, then crossed the office to Madeline's desk, taking a seat at the end of it. She hadn't seen him approach, being quite engrossed in her nails that looked as though they had been recently manicured.

‘Henry, darling,' she said brightly. She lowered her eyes and tilted towards him, displaying a wonderful view of her chest, which Henry remembered well, despite the intervening years.

‘Hi.' He smiled.

‘What can I do you for? Remember I'm a happily married woman now, but there could be
one
exception to the rule.' The breasts wobbled enticingly.

Henry gave a sigh. ‘I'm not sure how to say this, Madeline, but I suppose I'll get straight to the point, if that's OK?'

‘Yeah, whatever.'

‘Did you have a good holiday?'

‘Oh, wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Great villa, Disney, the Gulf Coast, the Keys … you name it, we went, me and John – and the kids,' she added with a hesitant afterthought. ‘Why, do you fancy going? I've got loads of brochures and things.'

He shook his head. ‘No,' he said patiently, leaning forwards himself, but keeping his eyes to hers. ‘It must have cost a fortune … how did you finance your trip?'

‘What sort of question is that? We saved for it.'

‘You mean like the way you saved for your new car? And the way John saved for his? And everything else you've bought in the last couple of months.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I've seen your bank accounts, love.'

Her mouth shut tight and she swallowed. He went on, ‘Lots of deposits in there that match lots of withdrawals from Lancashire Constabulary accounts, including Operation Wanted.' He raised his eyebrows. ‘You knew you'd get caught in the end, didn't you?'

She turned her attention to the computer on her desk and her hand covered the mouse. ‘I suppose I'd better turn this off. I presume we'll be going from here.'

‘Yeah,' Henry said quietly. ‘Once we've got John, too. Shall I caution and arrest you here, or would you like me to do it in the corridor?'

‘Corridor, please.'