A Time For Justice (28 page)

The bodies themselves were tucked virtually out of sight under
the bonnet of the decomposing shell of an old car which was on its
roof. As Henry looked at the scene all he could see clearly was a
naked foot, half-covered in grass.

‘
Have a look,’ urged the DCI. ‘The pathologist should have
completed his initial by now. Time to go and get them turned
over.’

At the top of the path stood a uniformed PC with a clipboard
and pad. On the ground next to him was a supply of paper suits,
plastic shoes and disposable gloves. He issued Henry and the DCI
with a full set each and instructed them to put them into evidence
bags when they’d finished at the scene. This way there was less
chance of any vital evidence being carted away on the clothing and
shoes of heavy-footed coppers.

It was not a simple task to get the suits on over normal
clothing. Henry and the DCI jigged about comically for a while.
Once dressed, Henry led the way down to the scene.

On the ledge he nodded at the doctor who, on recognition,
smiled broadly at the detective. They had previously spent several
revelrous nights together.

‘
Henry, you old bastard!’

‘
You not been struck off yet?’ Henry asked lightly.

‘
No ... the dead tend not to complain.’

They shook hands, despite their disposable gloves.

‘
So what d’you think?’ asked Henry. ‘Suicide pact?’

Baines chuckled. Then he became serious. He moved his large
head from side to side, pursed his lips and thought for a moment or
two.

Henry liked him very much. He was young, just forty, and for
the position he held that was good going. He knew his job well, so
well in fact, that Henry felt in awe watching him work. Henry
enjoyed being in the presence of people who knew their specialised
fields intimately and he was honoured that Baines classed him as a
friend. Henry looked upon himself as a jack-of-all-trades. Their
friendship also assisted their professional relationship no end
when at the conclusion of an investigation they knew they would be
out together on the town, celebrating success (or failure) in some
dive of a nightclub. But now, in all seriousness, they both became
the two pros they were.

‘
From here,’ the doctor said, ‘I’d say they’ve been rolled
down that slope behind you.’ He pointed to the steep side of the
quarry. ‘Or maybe pushed out of a car.’

‘
We’ll get it checked for tyre-tracks,’ the DCI cut in.
‘Forensic can do that. They’ll be here soon.’

‘
And they’ve come to rest under this car,’ Baines concluded.
‘And ...?’ Henry urged.

‘
Can only see one of them really, and not very well. A male.
I’d say the other’s female, but that’s to be confirmed. He looks
like he’s had his brains blown out. Not pretty. Been butchered too.
Can’t say an awful lot about that either, yet.’

‘
Bloody messy,’ commented Henry.

‘
So how do you want to recover the bodies?’ the doctor asked.
His question was directed at the DCI.

All three men turned to consider the problem.

The bodies had rolled down the slope and come to rest
underneath the bonnet of an overturned car which looked like it had
been there for years. It was badly rusting, had no windows intact,
no wheels and probably no engine. It might once have been a
Vauxhall of some sort, Henry thought, one of the bigger ones, but
he couldn’t be sure. They had wedged next to what used to be the
front windscreen.

Henry knelt down and looked. The bodies were face to face,
both naked, trussed up together in a large polythene sheet. One arm
had come free and protruded into the cab of the car through the
windscreen.

Henry noticed that there was no hand on the end of it. For a
brief moment he was stunned. He pulled himself together.

Baines squatted down next to him. ‘As I see it,’ he said,
‘there’s three options. One - drag them out by hand. Two - get your
lads down here to do the heave-ho and roll the car away
...’

‘
And the third?’

‘
Get a crane to lift the car away inch by inch,’ said Baines.
‘But,’ he admitted, ‘there are problems with each.’

Henry waited.

‘
The first one will be very messy and unpleasant - and we
might do something silly like pull one of their legs off, or head
off, or something. Fraught with danger, as they say. The second one
is OK, but as you can see, from where we are, as soon as the car is
rolled over, it will topple down the quarry on top of all those
other cars which is a good sixty-foot drop. So if there’s any
evidence in the car, it’ll be a pain recovering it.’

‘
And what about option number three?’ asked Henry. ‘It’s like
a TV game show, this.’

‘
Best of the lot,’ enthused Baines.

‘
Why?’

‘
Everything is preserved. The only problem is that the crane
might destroy any tyre-marks which are up at the lip of the quarry.
‘

‘
Unless we get forensic to move their arses and do the
business up there ASAP,’ said Henry. ‘Yep, I’m for that
one.’

They stood up simultaneously.

‘
I don’t want to put a damper on this,’ said the DCI, ‘but
where the hell do you intend to get a crane from? It’ll cost a
fortune to hire one.’

‘
No problem,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s a working quarry half
a mile up the road from here. Plenty of cranes there. I’m sure if
you ask nicely enough they’ll oblige.’

‘
Something tells me,’ said Henry with a smile, ‘this is a
decision already made.’

Donaldson knocked hard. There was no reply. He looked through
the downstairs windows, shading his eyes with his hands, then went
round the back of the house to check the rear garden, but it was
clear there was no one at home.

Next he tried the neighbours. No one could help
him.

Then he sat in his car on the road outside the house. He felt
an incredible empty sadness pervading his whole being. She was
gone. He had lost her. She didn’t want to see him now.

And there would be no time to tell her what he
felt.

He swore at the girl from the London office of the FBI who had
contacted him that morning to tell him the news: he had been
recalled to the States. The British cops didn’t need him any more.
He had done his job. His flight had been booked from Manchester for
the following day. He was expected to be on it. It gave him just
enough time to attend Ken McClure’s funeral.

He punched the centre of the steering wheel in abject
frustration, and cursed aloud.

Fanshaw-Bayley arrived at Rossendale’s public mortuary. He
looked a worried man. With good cause, as Henry was soon to find
out.

After a cursory inspection of the two bodies which were laid
out on the slab, still encased in their polythene coffin, he
beckoned Henry and the DCI outside.

He sighed before he talked. ‘Severe money problems here,’ he
began. ‘And manpower.’

‘
So what’s new?’ asked Henry.

‘
Different this time,’ said FB. ‘I’ve been to see the Chief
this morning and he’s told me we cannot afford to launch a
full-scale murder enquiry on this one. Basically there’s no money
left in the coffers. We feel we need to keep resources channelled
into the M6 bombing so we tie up all the loose ends. And that means
keeping the majority of the squad working on it for at least
another two weeks. As and when it winds down, we’ll release
officers to this enquiry - unless you finalise it
first.’

‘
Well, judging from this,’ Henry said, ‘there won’t be any
quick result here.’

‘
So what’s the set-up?’ asked the DCI.

‘
You’re the head of the investigation, and Henry here will run
the operation itself.’

‘
What?’ said Henry nonplussed. ‘Shouldn’t it be a DCI at
least?’

‘
The divisional DI is off sick and I’ve no one else
available,’ said FB. ‘Anyway, they’re only toe-rags, these two,
crims topped by crims by the look of it. So it’s your baby, Henry.
Look on it as a reward for Hinksman. ‘

‘
Another good decision by the Chief,’ said Henry
sourly.

‘
Look,’ said FB, a hard edge coming into his voice, ‘I don’t
particularly like it either. But it’s all about money these days,
and that’s something the county doesn’t have much of . . . and I
don’t like a DS talking that way about the boss. He’s under a great
deal of pressure at the moment, what with Jack Crosby
dying.’

Amongst other things, Henry thought.

‘
And we’re making the best of a bad job - OK?’ concluded
FB.

‘
No, not really,’ said Henry truthfully. ‘We always make do in
the police. Pisses me off, it really does. But what choice do I
have?’

‘
Absolutely none,’ said FB.

‘
How many men will I have?’

‘
Ten detectives.’

‘
Ten! Jesus! Impossible.’

‘
I’ll try and get one of the support unit teams to assist too.
That’ll give you another ten PCs and a uniformed Sergeant. But no
overtime, either.’

‘
Can’t be done,’ said Henry, shaking his head.

‘
You’ll have to do it,’ insisted FB.

‘
I am not happy, not one little bit.’

‘
It’s not your job to be happy or not,’ said FB shortly.
‘You’ll do as I say, understand?’

Glumly, Henry nodded. He began to realise now why Karen didn’t
much like FB.

FB turned to the DCI. ‘You keep the media sweet,
OK?’

‘
I’ll do me best, sir.’

Creep, thought Henry.

‘
Let’s just hope we don’t get any more murders this year.’ FB
swivelled back to Henry. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m satisfied you’ve done
enough background re Hinksman. Well done. I’ve spoken to the FBI
office in London and told them they can take their agent back. We
don’t need him any more.’

‘
But Corelli’s landed in Manchester! I sent you a memo. He’s
hobnobbing with Lenny Dakin. Karl Donaldson’s input could be
crucial. We really need him and his knowledge.’

‘
Unfortunately he’s going back to the States - tomorrow, I
believe.’

‘
So who’s going to keep an eye on Corelli then? This
connection has the makings of a big one - and there are the links
with the M6 bombing too. Rumour is that Corelli put the finger on
Carver and hired Hinksman to do the dirty business.’

‘
Just pass your info onto the incident room and let them
handle it,’ said FB dismissively.

‘
But we need someone in the know!’ Henry stressed.

‘
Unlucky,’ said FB finally. ‘He’s going and that’s that.
Right, I’m off now. Hope you catch someone.’

Henry and the DCI watched FB’s car drive away.

‘
I take it you knew this was going to happen,’ Henry
suggested.

‘
I had an inkling,’ admitted the DCI.

‘
Thanks a bunch,’ said Henry, throwing his hands up in the
air. He turned and made his way back into the mortuary, talking to
himself. ‘Fine, fine, a double underworld killing, ten jacks to
sort it, no bloody overtime. It’s not a problem, I can handle it, I
can handle it - I’m a Sergeant, aren’t I? I should be off fuckin’
sick.’

He felt completely overwhelmed and out of his depth. It was
probably the last thing he needed at this time.

Baines stood by the slab, smock on, plastic gloves on, cap on,
mask on, dissecting-knife at the ready. An attendant stood by his
side. The Scenes-of-Crime photographer was standing halfway up a
stepladder, video at the ready, in a position to record the whole
post mortem.

‘
Problems?’ asked Baines. ‘Politics?’

‘
With a capital "P",’ said Henry. ‘But I can handle it. If
you’re ready, let’s get on with it.’

‘
Lights ... camera ... action!’ said Baines. His knife
descended towards the polythene wrapper.

The post mortems carried out by Dr Baines were thorough and
remarkably smelly.

Death, thought Henry, has a peculiar tang all of its own.
Always the same - musty, dirty, clinging to clothing for hours,
even days after. That was why he hated having to attend post
mortems.

He was not physically sick, nor had he ever been. He knew of
cops who couldn’t face PMs even after a dozen years. But it was no
big deal, nothing to be ashamed of.

Once, early in his career when he’d been a PC, he had sat
through four in a row, one after the other. He’d not been remotely
affected by any of them, despite the fact that one had been a road
accident victim and another a child.

All he hated was that damned smell.

Today’s PMs were not even as bad as some he’d had to attend,
of people who’d been dead for weeks, gone bloated and bad. Today’s
victims had bellies that had been slit open and thus all the gases
which normally accumulate had been able to disperse. Even so, they
reeked strongly.