Nightmare City (28 page)

And fourthly, long hours and hard work killed no one. Or so it
was said.

‘
Right,’ he said again. ‘Get a grip and deal with everything
as it happens.’

However, it was with slothful reluctance that he took the top
piece of paper from the pile on his desk and read it.
Correspondence waits for no man. Failure to deal with it simply
means more. It doesn’t stop coming just because there are other
things to do.

He began to deal.

The procurer drove his three products back to Blackburn later
that afternoon. He delivered them to various locations. Gary asked
to be dropped off near to the railway station. Angel was left
outside a motel on the edge of town where Saltash had another
client waiting for her. Gillian wanted to be taken home.

The whole journey had been unusually quiet. Normally the two
girls were full of laughter and mischief whilst Gary, for his age,
had a very inventive sense of humour. Today was different. They
were all withdrawn, sullen and somewhat tense. Saltash was quite
happy that there was no chatter. He was over two thousand pounds to
the good - tax-free, of course - and each of his products had
pocketed two-fifty plus whatever tips they had been given. That was
their business.

Gillian was the last of the three to be dropped off. She had
seemed unusually distracted; it was her mood that had rubbed off on
the others.

Saltash stopped near to her council flat in Shadsworth on the
outskirts of town.

‘
Here we go,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll pick you up here at ten
tomorrow. Busy day, lots of dosh to earn.’

She was sitting in one corner of the back seat, her long legs
drawn up underneath her, coat tucked in, staring blankly out of the
window. The snow in Blackburn had turned into wet, sleety rain.
Very unpleasant.

‘
Come on, Gillian, I want to get home,’ he snapped when she
did not get out straight away. He twisted round and cast his eyes
back at her. Slowly her head turned away from the window and she
looked into her pimp’s eyes.

‘
He was Marie’s main customer, wasn’t he?’ She wrung her
hands.

Saltash’s eyes dropped momentarily. ‘That’s none of your
business.’

‘
He killed her, didn’t he?’

‘
I don’t know. Anyone could’ve killed the silly bitch. She was
wild and stupid and probably got her come-uppence. But I’ll tell
you one thing, Gillian; if you go mouthing off what you’ve just
said to me, I’ll kill
you.
Understand?’ He licked his lips.

A tear rolled down her cheeks. ‘He degraded me today,’ she
said with a choked sob. ‘And he talked about Marie when he
did.’

‘
Listen, you brainless tart, you degrade yourself every
fucking day by what you do. Hasn’t that sunk in yet? You make good
money pandering to the whims of pathetic, rich men, so don’t knock
it, babe. In five years you’ll have enough to pack it in - but if
you want to go now and work for tuppence ha’penny at a supermarket
check out, then fine, fuck off and do it. But don’t moan to me
because a customer’s a bit kinky. Goes with the show, girl.’ He
pointed animatedly at her as he spoke.

‘
And Marie? Does that go-with the show? Ending up dead on a
beach?’

‘
Maybe,’ he said cruelly.

‘
I thought you were supposed to protect us?’ she
cried.

He had no answer.

‘
Oh fuck you!’ she yelled into his face, opened the car door
and emerged into the sleet.

Walking across the pavement she could still feel the sore
places on her ankles and wrists where he’d tied the ropes to pin
her to the bed. That she could handle. Many did that. It gave them
a sense of dominance. What she found impossible to deal with was
the cold knife-blade which McNamara had touched against the lips of
her vagina and threatened to ram in.

Just like he’d done with that other poor bitch.

The phone rang. Henry grabbed it, delighted by the
distraction.

‘
Henry, you old son of a b,’ came the ebullient American
accent down the line.

He brightened up immediately. ‘Karl, how ya doin’?

‘
Nice-ish,’ said the FBI agent. ‘I guess you heard about
Sam.’

‘
Karen phoned Kate the other night and mentioned it. Sorry to
hear about it. She was a nice person.’ Henry had met her the once
on that weekend trip to the Lake District.

‘
Murdered.’

‘
Really?’

‘
Yep. Can’t prove it, but I’ll try. You know me.’

‘
Certainly do. Anyway, pal, business or pleasure?’

‘
Well, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Henry,’
the American said genuinely.

‘
Karl ... you’re making me blush. Now cut the
crap.’

‘
OK. Been reading a routine circulation of yours re the
seizure of some firearms after a shooting up on your manor. . .
manor - is that the right phrase, bud?’

‘
More a Metropolitan term, but it’ll do. So, what about these
firearms?’

‘
They’re part of a haul from a break and enter at a warehouse
in Florida, just outside Miami. Two months ago. One heck of a haul
too: machine guns, rifles, pistols, bazookas, SAM’s . . . you name
it, plus the ammo to go. Several million dollars’ worth. Enough to
equip a small army.’

‘
From Florida?’ Henry said, astounded. ‘What the hell are they
doing in Lancashire then?’

‘
Who knows?’

‘
You coming up here then, Karl?’

‘
Naw, not for a while anyways, but I’ll do my best from down
here to help you with information, as and when - or if - I get it.
For the time being I’ll fax you all the details of the haul. Maybe
you should have another word with your suspect? Then I’ll speak to
the Miami Field Office to see what else they can tell me about
it.’

They chatted on for a few more minutes before concluding the
call. Henry, cheered by the news and the conversation, picked up
the last piece of correspondence and found himself humming
Starfucker.
The tune
stopped abruptly when he saw the post-it sticker slap bang in the
middle of his blotter. He ripped it off and read it.

In the precise way Derek always operated, the note was timed -
10.15p.m. - and dated.

It read,
H. Need to speak to you
urgently. Found something well odd.
It was
signed
Degsy.
Then a P.S.
I’ll be at home.
Whatever time you get back, call me or come round, WHATEVER TIME!!
It’s urgent. D.

Within seconds, Henry was hurtling down the stairs.

The line was very bad. Donaldson had to listen very intently
through the static to hear the voice at the other end. It didn’t
help that the person was speaking in a Portuguese accent and was
calling from Madeira.

‘
Special Agent Donaldson?’

‘
Yeah. Sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I can hardly hear
you.’

‘
It is me, George Santana, speaking from Funchal.’

‘
Oh, hello,’ said Donaldson slightly more formally. He rated
the Maderain detective very low on the Richter Scale following his
experiences in that country, but was obviously very interested in
why he should be ringing. He was the last person Donaldson expected
to hear from, and quite honestly had grave doubts about the man’s
professional ability. He’d concluded, from very little evidence,
that either the guy was not a ‘real’ detective, with no feel for a
case, or he was on the take. Or both.

With a startlingly loud crackle which nearly burst his
eardrum, the line cleared. Then they could have been conversing in
adjacent rooms.

‘
Ahh, that’s better.’

‘
Yes, I can hear you well, also,’ said Santana. ‘I have some
news for you about the person who was arrested for the assault upon
you.’

‘
Uh-hu, Romero,’ nodded Donaldson. His fingers automatically
touched the chain-track across his cheek. He expected the worst:
he’d escaped, or been released without charge, been given a pardon.
Something along those lines.

The news stunned him.

‘
He’s dead. He was found hanging in his cell in the prison
where he was being held pending court. It was very
suspicious.’

That’s handy, Donaldson thought cynically. Another possible
witness found dead, unable to testify.

‘
That is not all,’ Santana continued. He sounded out of
breath. ‘The one we believed to be Romero’s partner in crime is
dead also. He was found floating in the harbour near to the ferry.
Throat cut from ear to ear. Of course we do not actually know if he
worked with Romero when you were attacked-’

‘
Yes we do, George,’ the American snarled.

‘
OK, OK, we do,’ Santana submitted.

‘
Why tell me all this, George?’

‘
Because I have been obliged to think long and hard about
this. I admit I was very unconvinced about Agent Dawber’s death
being of a suspicious nature. However, following the other girl’s
death, then the man in the harbour, then Romero - who we are not
convinced hanged himself, I believe there is more to this than
meets the eye.’

‘
Hooray,’ Donaldson could not resist saying. He held back from
blasting out that it had taken two more deaths for it all to be
taken seriously.

‘
There is also more,’ Santana said. From the tone of voice,
Donaldson could visualise the sheepish look on his face. He waited
for it.

‘
The samples taken from under Agent Dawber’s
fingernails?’

Donaldson’s gut wrenched. ‘Yes?’

‘
Human tissue. It looks like she scratched somebody’s
face.’

Donaldson closed his eyes and fist in celebration. Thank: God
he made the pathologist take the samples!

‘
We are unable to match with DNA from here,
regrettably.’

‘
Send me the sample. I’ll get it done.’

‘
We’ve yet to find any hard evidence against anyone at this
stage. The result of the analysis of Agent Dawber’s blood shows a
high alcohol content - which doesn’t help you, I’m
afraid.’

‘
Take a good long look at Scott Hamilton at the Jacaranda.
He’s the connection.’

‘
Exactly what we are doing. He is now under twenty-four-hour
surveillance.’

Annie was deeply distressed. It manifested itself in different
ways. She moved from almost violent hysteria to a silent,
trance-like state in a flash. Tears flowed, dried up, burst again.
One moment she was on her feet, the next sat down, head buried in a
cushion, trying to deal with the enormity of the
situation.

She had returned to the house, in spite of others urging her
to stay out. She wanted to remain
in
situ,
in the home she and Derek had
created in the six months of their wonderful marriage. To stay with
memories which, with the exception of the final one, were good
ones. She wanted to touch the things they had owned, bought and
paid for together with their hard earned cash.

The hallway was being inspected by a forensic team. Two
scientists clad in white plastic suits were crawling about, lifting
fibres, scraping up blood; a scenes of crime officer was daubing
excessive amounts of grey fingerprint powder all over shiny
surfaces, leaving dirty marks that would be hell to clean later.
They were finding little. It had been a very clean kill.

The house would never be the same again, physically or
spiritually.

Annie was in the lounge with her mother and a male police
officer who had replaced the policewoman. Both seemed to have no
clue what to say or how to deal with her.

She was in the middle of one of her trance-like states. Her
eyes stared unseeingly at the gas-fire from her position on the
settee. Heavy rain lashed against the window. Snow doesn’t last
long in Blackpool. Henry sat next to her.

‘
Annie? I need to ask you some questions. Important questions.
Things we need to know quickly. Annie?’ He found it hard to tell if
he was getting through to her. ‘Annie, do you hear what I’m
saying?’

No response.

He laid a hand softly on her shoulder. She shivered and came
back from wherever she’d been, blinked at him for the first time in
the half-hour he’d been there. He kept her gaze locked into his.
‘Annie, we need to talk.’

She swallowed, nodded and ran the back of her hand across her
nostrils and sniffed up.

‘
What did Derek say when he got home from work last
night?’

She screwed up her pretty face and tried to concentrate. Her
brain was making this difficult. She put a hand on his and squeezed
it, then collapsed against him. Deep sobs shook her whole being,
like a monster struggling to free itself from inside her. Henry put
his arms around her. She crushed her face into his chest and
cried.