Dead Heat (20 page)

FB hooted impatiently on his horn, a sound which seemed to reflect the affluence of the Lexus.

‘Better get going.' Henry gave Kate a quick hug and kissed her cheek, then set off downstairs, already questioning his own reasons for accepting the invitation. Was it because he saw the chance to get back into doing some detective work? Did he see it as a chance to get back into the firm's good books? Or was it because Jane Roscoe was involved? Or a combination of all those factors?

Kate was close behind him on the stairs and at the front door. She made a point of embracing and kissing him goodbye, then glaring into Jane Roscoe's eyes as Henry walked to FB's car. When Henry turned to wave, Kate's expression morphed from dagger into flower and she gave him a loving smile.

Roscoe turned away from her and folded her arms defensively.

Henry slid into the back seat next to Donaldson, behind Jane.

‘A very touching display,' FB said sarcastically, knocking the gear stick into ‘D' and smoothly moving away.

Jane muttered something under her breath. Henry leaned forwards. ‘What did you say?' he asked angrily.

‘Nothing,' she said, deliberately not looking round.

‘Yes, you did,' he persisted.

‘No, I didn't,' she said.

Henry was about to say something he would clearly have regretted, but a hand on his shoulder – a big, American hand – gently eased him back into the seat. Henry bit his lip.

‘I know where we'll go for brekkie,' FB announced.

Known as the White Café, it was situated on south promenade, amongst the sand dunes, on the seafront at St Anne's. It was in a fabulous position and even had free parking for patrons. Business was always brisk.

Henry had been many times over the years, but had never taken anyone there other than Kate and the girls and, though this was a working breakfast, it felt peculiar to be sitting opposite Jane Roscoe, bearing in mind their recent history.

‘I'll buy,' FB announced grandly, stunning Henry. FB was legendary for his tightness, but it all slotted into place when he boasted, ‘seeing as I now earn more that a hundred grand a year and get a huge car allowance. I reckon it's my treat.' Henry's stun turned to repugnance, reminding him why he disliked the small man's character so much.

‘I never got a chance to congratulate you on your new job,' Henry said, picking up a menu. Against his better judgement and present diet, and because FB was paying, he decided that he was going to order the most expensive, greasy breakfast there was. He was going to get his money's worth out of the new Chief Constable whilst he could.

‘That's very nice of you, Henry.'

They all fell silent and chose their food. None of the freeloaders chose cheap options. When FB came back from the counter after ordering, he was as white as the bill in his hand.

‘Bloody nearly cleaned me out,' he moaned, sliding a tray of drinks and cutlery on to the table. Henry wondered how long FB would keep to-ing and fro-ing for other people. Not long, he suspected.

FB sat down. ‘To business,' he declared. His face turned granite. ‘I want to know exactly why you are involved with John Lloyd Wickson and his family and what you were doing up at his house and stables. No bull allowed.'

Satisfying FB took a long time. He put Henry through the wringer. If it had not been for the fact that breakfast hadn't arrived, Henry would have made his excuses and left. As it was, he was hungry.

‘It's simply this, and this is my final word on the subject: I was bored shitless. I got asked to do something that sounded half-interesting to pass some time and I ended up getting involved in something I didn't know existed.' He looked at Donaldson. ‘And I suspect your presence here means there's something big to this.'

Donaldson's face could not be read.

FB glanced at the American. It was only the sliver of a look, but Henry caught it – just. FB had known Donaldson as long as Henry, all having met on the occasion when Donaldson was investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Donaldson had never shown much respect for FB, and their relationship was, to say the least, icy. From the look FB, just gave him, Henry guessed this was still the case.

‘I just want to know, Henry,' FB said, ‘if you are involved in any way with the Wickson family. That's what this is about.'

‘As I said, only in as much as my daughter knows their daughter from riding lessons and that is all.' Henry held up his hands in defeat.

‘OK, I'll accept that,' said FB magnanimously.

A waiter appeared from the kitchen bearing a tray with several meals on. ‘Order six,' he called.

‘That's us,' FB hollered.

The food was duly delivered. Once the waiter had gone, FB said to Donaldson, ‘Over to you, Yank.'

All eyes alighted on him.

Henry felt someone's foot touch him under the table. He knew it was Jane's, but he did not flinch.

‘It's complex.'

‘Keep it simple, then,' FB suggested.

Donaldson took a ruminative second and Henry thought that his fried egg – sunny side up – might just have found its way on to FB's lap, but his friend's resilience was grade ‘A'.

‘As you know, the investigation into the death of Zeke, my undercover agent, and Marty Cragg is ongoing . . . both men killed by the same guy, the hits ordered by a Spanish criminal called Mendoza.'

Henry knew this. Mendoza was a very big operator in Europe. He had a finger in many pies: drugs, prostitution, blackmail, illegal immigrants . . . just to highlight a few of his speciality areas. Mendoza had strong links with Italian Mafia families and also, by default, to American ones. It was for this reason that Zeke had infiltrated Mendoza's organization. Unfortunately, like the previous u/c agent before him, his cover had been blown and then his head had been blown off. Both agents had been murdered by the same hit man, using the same weapon.

Yes, Henry knew all this. Even so, he listened with interest, waiting for the Wickson connection.

‘Obviously I've been unwilling to put another undercover agent into Mendoza's set-up. He's been bitten twice already and I would only be putting a third guy into danger, so it's a no-go. Instead we've spent time on intelligence, human sources and surveillance. It's a slow process, as you know.'

Henry nodded.

‘Mendoza is surveillance-conscious, very, very careful and is not a man of habit.'

Henry nodded again, slightly impatiently. Jane's foot brushed against his again. He drew his legs underneath his chair, out of reach, he hoped. Or maybe it was touch by accident and his arrogance – believing that she was still in love with him – was once again surfacing.

‘John Lloyd Wickson is a multi-millionaire,' said Donaldson. ‘Self-made, ruthless, always operating on the edge of what he does––'

‘And he's not got a red cent,' FB interrupted. Henry had seen that the head of Lancashire's finest had been itching to butt in.

‘Exactly,' Donaldson confirmed, ‘he's completely broke.'

‘Ahh,' said Henry. ‘Interesting. How do you explain the helicopter, farmhouse, cars and all the trappings?'

‘Window dressing,' Donaldson said.

‘All on the drip,' Jane said.

FB turned and gave her a disgusted stare as if to say, ‘Shut it, love.' Jane shifted awkwardly on her seat, her gaze falling to her hands.

‘He's stretched to his limit,' Donaldson said. ‘We've been into his bank accounts, at least the ones we can find, and they tell a pretty rotten story. Bad management, bad forecasting . . . bad everything.'

‘And now he's in debt to the Mafia?' Henry ventured.

‘Let him finish before you start drawing conclusions like that,' FB admonished him.

Henry tapped the table with the end of his fork, wondering if he should plunge it into FB's heart. If he had one. He speared a sausage instead and kept quiet.

‘He's got a lot of businesses,' Donaldson continued. ‘One involving the importation of stone-crushers, which he then assembles, and then sells them or further exports them to Europe. The goods involved originate from a company in the States. We have intelligence to suggest that Wickson has been importing these crushers from the States and is being paid handsomely by the Mafia to provide cover for the importation of drugs into the UK.'

‘Has he any previous criminal history?' Henry asked.

FB shook his head. ‘Just one assault in his late teens.'

‘So how have the Mafia got their hooks into him?'

‘We're not altogether sure,' Donaldson admitted. ‘But it is a well-known fact that la Cosa Nostra, the Mafia to you, are continually on the lookout for business opportunities . . . and I say the word “business” loosely. They have people working for them in every conceivable industry or service, feeding information to them. Most of it is never used, but some is.'

‘You believe someone in an American engineering company which makes these crushers has tipped them off about Wickson's dire financial plight and they've muscled in on him?' Henry worked out.

‘Could be, could be,' said Donaldson.

‘Where does yesterday's gunman episode fit into all this?'

‘Not absolutely sure about that one,' Donaldson admitted.

‘And Mendoza?'

Donaldson's face creased into a very pained expression. He did not know exactly what to say to Henry.

‘Tell me.'

Donaldson, Jane and FB interchanged looks. FB nodded.

‘OK. Your guys recovered the weaponry belonging to the shooter on the hillside. All very interesting. Two things in particular. Firstly the pistol he used when he kidnapped you . . . a STAR make, originating from Spain. Model 30PK, nine millimetre, holds fifteen rounds. The STAR is one of the few decent firearms made in Spain, actually, in an industry that has a pretty bad reputation.'

FB stifled a yawn at all this technical stuff, then inserted a fried tomato into the hole that was his mouth. Donaldson pretended not to notice, going on to say, ‘I'm telling you this because we know what type of weapon was used to kill Zeke and Marty Cragg. A nine millimetre. I fast-tracked the gun through our ballistics department because we couldn't jump the backlog of yours in Huntingdon. Early tests and comparisons show it is more than likely to be the same weapon used to kill Zeke and Cragg.'

‘You mean I've been fighting a professional hit man?'

Donaldson nodded seriously. FB smirked. Jane looked very worried. Henry sat back, not remotely hungry any more. He pushed his plate away, the breakfast only half-eaten.

‘Not want that?' FB asked in disbelief.

Henry shook his head numbly. ‘Lost my appetite.'

FB helped himself to the last sausage and dipped it in the egg yolk on Henry's plate before scoffing it.

‘He killed Marty Cragg and I had the bastard . . . we had the bastard . . . andhe got away . . . ?'

‘And don't forget he nailed two good cops before he scarpered,' FB said through his food. ‘And on my first day as Chief Constable. How do you think that makes me look?' he demanded. ‘I had to tell their families yesterday. It wasn't nice. I've got the media and the police authority on my back now, pushing for a quick result. It's shit I could have done without, thank you.'

Henry wondered how FB had broken the news to the grieving families, but then he knew: FB would have done it well. As well as it could have been done. As brusque, unpleasant and politically incorrect as he was when he knew he could get away with it, he could be the caring, professional cop when he had to be. He was a master at playing the game to his advantage, otherwise he would never have made it to Chief. Henry knew FB was no fool.

‘Anything on the weapon that killed the officers?' Henry asked. He knew it had been quickly established that their own weapons had not been used against them.

‘.22 calibre bullets, nothing more yet,' Jane said.

‘I do have a thought about that – and that's the second thing,' Donaldson said. He pondered for a moment. ‘I might be wrong, but I think I know how he might have let your lads keep a gun on him.'

Henry picked up on this immediately. ‘Something that was a gun, but didn't look like one?'

‘Right! I'll bet they thought he had a mobile phone on him.'

‘You're kidding,' FB exclaimed, stopping just short of his mouth with a forkful of food.

‘It'll be something like that,' Donaldson said. ‘French cops seized two mobile phones earlier this year, except they weren't, they were guns capable of firing four bullets. The digital touch pads are used as triggers. They look pretty much identical to normal cell phones on the outside, but they come apart in the middle to reveal a four-chamber secret compartment for .22 calibre bullets which are shot out of the end. Lethal up to about ten metres. They were found during a raid on a gangster's house in Rouen, a gangster who, incidentally, is connected to Mendoza. They're made in Eastern Europe and actually surfaced in Belgium in 2001.'

The information did not stop FB from eating.

‘But it's only a theory,' Donaldson said. ‘We may never know.'

Silence descended on the table whilst FB digested his breakfast and the other two digested the news.

Henry exhaled. His coffee cup was empty. ‘Are you buying more drinks, boss?'

‘Jane – refills,' FB ordered the DI. ‘There's a love.'

Henry saw her reaction. Red spread from her neck upwards. She visibly bristled. Henry waited to see if she would say anything. He knew she would. She leaned on the table to FB. ‘Don't ever call me “love” again – sir – or you might regret it.' She pushed herself up. ‘Coffees all round?' she enquired pleasantly.

Henry closed his eyes momentarily and thought about the complexity of the relationships around the table. Him and FB; FB and Donaldson; Jane and FB; him and Donaldson; him and Jane. It made him weary. Maybe he could do without this, wherever ‘this' was going. Maybe he would just go home and be suspended. Accept whatever came his way, then coast up to retirement in some backwater job, like Best Value or something.