Nightmare City (18 page)

He let Rider’s head drop with a dull thud into the edge of the
pavement. A second later he passed out.

Chapter Nine

After four fitful hours’ sleep, Henry found himself standing
in front of a large squad of police officers, cups of tea in their
hands. It was 5.45a.m. and they were in the canteen at Accrington
police station. The reason for meeting here was that five out of
the six addresses they had uncovered in relation to Dundaven were
in East Lancashire, and Accrington was central for them all. The
sixth address was in Bury, just over the Greater Manchester
border.

There were forty-eight officers, eight for each address. Four
Support Unit, two CID and two firearms. The Support Unit were
specialists in entering premises quickly and also in search
techniques for buildings and persons. The plan that morning was to
get in quick on the warrants Henry had sworn out the day before,
take no crap, search thoroughly and if necessary, make
arrests.

Henry cleared his throat and called for
attention. The room fell immediately silent as all eyes
turned to him.

He briefed the officers about what they should search
for
,
reminded
them of their powers and the law, begged them to cause as little
damage as possible, try not to shoot anyone unless absolutely
necessary, and wished them luck.

They separated into their various teams whilst Henry marvelled
at the sheer size of some of the Support Unit officers. He was no
pygmy himself, but some of them towered over him. Even the women.
They all checked their equipment - door openers, dragon lights,
extending mirrors, various tools, guns and CS sprays.

Within ten minutes they had all dispersed, leaving Henry and a
Detective Sergeant sat in the canteen.

By 6.30 the teams were all in place. Five minutes later the
first door went through.

It was a good feeling.

The Jacaranda da Funchal was one of the most pleasant
complexes he had ever seen; if he hadn’t been there for some other
reason, Karl Donaldson could easily have succumbed to the hard sell
which was actually disguised as a soft message.

He had walked the two miles to it from his hotel: west out of
Funchal, beyond the rather staid but magnificent Reid’s Hotel, and
to an area known rather unoriginally as the Tourist Zone. It was a
fairly unprepossessing part of town, much of which reminded
Donaldson of a bomb site with many open tracts of wasteland, some
with half-demolished buildings, others nothing but rubble and dust.
Oh, and tourist hotels.

When he found the Jacaranda it was pure oasis. Set in about
ten acres of gently shelving land, it had everything someone who
wished to buy a timeshare could dream of: health club, tennis
courts, two pools (one indoor, both heated), and the apartments
themselves were luxuriously equipped to a very high
standard.

Donaldson was very impressed. He stood there and surveyed the
place, dressed in his best tourist shorts and shirt.

The sales patter made him want to sign up there and then - but
he had been trained to resist brainwashing, tough though it
was.

He could imagine Karen’s face to be told they now owned a
timeshare in Madeira.

Eventually, begrudgingly, the salesman gave up on him and
handed over his free gift - a flight bag - and turned his attention
to other, more responsive clients.

Which gave Donaldson a chance to break off and wander round
the complex alone.

He was armed with the compact camera which he’d bought to
photograph Sam’s body. He made his way to the posh reception area
where a pretty Madeiran lady was busy behind a large desk,
inputting on a PC.

‘
Ajude-me, por favor,’
he said with a
broad smile.
‘Fala ingles?’

‘
Sim,’
she nodded. ‘I do.’

‘
Bom,’
he replied, relieved. ‘My name
is Donaldson. I’m from the United States and I believe Scott
Hamilton works here?’

‘
Yes, Mr Hamilton owns the Jacaranda.’

‘
Oh, great. We’re pals from way back when. I’m here on a kinda
short visit and thought I’d drop by and say howdy.’

The direct approach. He was under no illusions this would
work. He expected nothing, so was pleasantly surprised when the
opposite happened.

The receptionist, Francesca, whose name was on a badge pinned
to her blouse, immediately picked up the phone, punched in a short
number and spoke very quickly. The name Hamilton came up several
times, but Donaldson did not manage to catch much of the
conversation. She put the phone down and smiled. She had
pitch-black hair and her beautiful white teeth contrasted
spectacularly to produce a very alluring effect which was not lost
on Donaldson.

‘
He will come and see you,’ she said.

‘
Obrigado, Francesca.’
Donaldson
noticed her eyes were a wonderful shade of brown which was in
keeping with her lovely olive complexion.

‘
Please sit down.’ She pointed to a comfortable-looking sofa
on the other side of reception. He obeyed, completely dominated by
her - in his dreams. She returned to her console and began tapping
away, occasionally glancing across at him.

A few minutes later a man in his late twenties appeared from a
door behind Francesca’s desk. He was dressed in a silk,
cream-coloured, short-sleeved shirt with an open neck, blue chinos
and black open-toed sandals, no socks. He wore plenty of jewellery,
mainly gold. His hair was black, combed away from his face and his
sideboards sloped and tapered past his ears. A minor goatee was
stuck onto his chin like- a slug. He looked very slick.

And to Donaldson, very much like a player.

He approached Donaldson, a quizzical look on his
face.

Donaldson stood up, not wishing to be disadvantaged. He held
out his hand, which the man ignored.

‘
I don’t normally see salesmen,’ he said, ‘but you asked for
me personally. I gotta say, you don’t look much like
one.’

‘
I, er...’ Donaldson began. He glanced quickly at Francesca,
who studiously avoided eye contact. He recovered quickly. ‘It’s
always possible you wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been completely
honest. You are Scott Hamilton, I take it?’

He nodded and rolled his tongue around his mouth with a
slurping noise.

‘
I’m Karl Donaldson. I’m an FBI agent. You knew a colleague of
mine, Samantha Dawber, now dead.’

Hamilton was totally unfazed. His bottom lip pouted while he
considered the name. He shook his head. ‘Nope, I think not.’ Super
fucking cool.

‘
She wrote your name down on a piece of paper before she died,
and as she passed on in mysterious circumstances, I’m obviously
investigating. I think she may well have visited the Jacaranda. She
had some of your literature in her possession.’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Lotsa
people visit the place. But I don’t know her anyway.’

‘
She obviously knew you. Otherwise why would she have written
your name down?’

‘
I’m the manager of the place. My name’s on all the literature
we produce. Not unusual. People write my name down.’

He hadn’t spoken too many words but Donaldson gave him a
Brooklyn origin, tainted and watered down by some time in LA. He
also gave him credit for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch. He had
a desperate urge to grab the man’s goatee and rip it out of his
chin and make him squeal like a kicked puppy. In fact, he promised
it to himself.

‘
She put four exclamation marks after it. Why in hell would
she do that, pal?’ Donaldson was on the edge of losing his own
cool. ‘It seems damn odd she’s gotten your name down on a piece of
paper and she’s ended up dead soon after.’

‘
What the fuck you implying?’

‘
Nuthin,’ said Donaldson innocently.

‘
I don’t much like your tone, mister ..?’

‘
Donaldson. Karl Donaldson. FBI. London office.’

‘
And what exactly is your jurisdiction in Madeira?’

‘
I’m empowered worldwide to investigate offences committed
against American citizens on foreign soil.’

‘
Well, here’s one you’d better start investigating then,’ said
Hamilton, leaning towards him. ‘I’m an American citizen and I’m
being harassed unlawfully by the FBI. Fucking investigate
that!’

He got closer and closer to Donaldson as the words tumbled out
of his mouth. The FBI agent remained impassive and said with a
click, ‘Pal, you’ve just cooked your goose.’

‘
Get off this property.’ Hamilton turned to Francesca. ‘Call
Security. I want this man removing.’

She scrabbled for the phone.

‘
I’m going,’ said Donaldson.

Hamilton turned away and stalked towards the door.

Donaldson called out, ‘Just one more thing.’

Hamilton spun back, an angry look on his face - which
Donaldson captured for posterity with a flash of the
camera.

Henry sat hunched at his desk at Blackpool Central police
station. In true detective fashion he was easing the last crusts of
a meat pie into his mouth with one hand, the other cupped
underneath to catch anything that didn’t make it. Hot gravy
dribbled painfully down his chin. He had nothing to wipe his mouth
with, other than his hands. Then he had nothing to wipe his hands
with, other than his desktop blotter.

‘
Acting Detective Inspector Christie, isn’t it?’

With a mouthful he turned and looked up, and tried to stand up
when he saw who it was. ‘Yeah, it is . . . sorry.’ He
swallowed.

‘
No, don’t get up.’ The man perched on the corner of Henry’s
desk. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton from the
North-West Organised Crime Squad and this is WDC Robson, Siobhan
Robson.’ He cocked a thumb at the officer, then held out his right
hand.

‘
Yes, I know. Look, sir, I’m sorry but my hands’re a bit
greasy at the moment. I’m not sure you’d appreciate me shaking
yours - unless you wanted to lick it after.’

Morton gave a short laugh and the female detective giggled
brightly. The DCS withdrew his hand with a shrug and a
smile.

Henry leaned back to get a better view of his
visitors.

‘
It’s Henry ... am I right?’

‘
Yes, sir.’

‘
I believe you’re up to your eyeballs in major
enquiries.’

‘
Pretty much. Can I help you in some way?’

‘
I was just curious about the Dundaven enquiry, how it’s
progressing. We’ve been monitoring that man’s activities for a
while and in one fell swoop you’ve got him slap bang to
rights.’

‘
Mmm, at a cost, though.’

Morton did not understand for a moment. Then it clicked. ‘Ah
yes, the policewoman. Very unfortunate.’

‘
Not to mention the guy whose brains he blew out,’ said Henry.
‘And the multi-vehicle pile-up on the motorway he caused by
deliberately ramming a traffic car. I’m amazed no one died in
that.’

‘
So, how goes the investigation then?’

‘
Very well,’ said Henry. He had no reason to be anything other
than open with Morton, a man he greatly admired and whose squad he
would gladly have worked on. ‘We hit a few addresses this morning,
all connected with Dundaven, but found very little - which
surprised me. But we’re not going to let it rest. I get the feeling
he’s well connected and I’m going to keep chipping away at him. We
haven’t found the origins of the guns yet and that needs to be
bottomed. They’re all new and I’ll bet they’re from a warehouse
somewhere. When we pinpoint that, it’ll give us another angle to
dig at - and dig we will.’

‘
You seem very determined.’

‘
I am,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like people who
shoot at coppers, nor do I like people who sell guns.’

‘
Very laudable,’ commented Morton. ‘But sometimes it’s
difficult to be so thorough - the practicalities of the job, time
constraints, pressures, especially working in local CID. I know the
caseload is enormous.’

‘
Yeah, I agree. . . but I’ll do my best. I won’t let it rest
until I’m completely satisfied I can’t go any further with
it.’

‘
How will you know when you can’t go any further?’

‘
Intuition. . . brick walls. . . some dickie-bird’ll tell
me.’

‘
Well, good luck, Henry. Stick at it.’ Morton turned to the
female detective. ‘Ready?’ She nodded assent. ‘See ya,
Henry.’

‘
Bye,’ Siobhan said, giving him a little wave and a
smile.

He watched them leave and wondered what the hell that was all
about.

Five hundred kilometres off the west coast of Africa, on the
tiny island of Madeira, Karl Donaldson was back in his hotel
room.

It was 6 p.m. Night had fallen quickly. With it came rain
which lashed against the balcony doors of his room.