him.’
Henry looked through his binoculars, focused them on Corelli as he clambered down the steps at the front of the plane.
‘ So that’s what a Mafia godfather looks like. Looks more like a grandfather,’ commented Henry.
‘ Don’t let looks deceive you. That’s one of his strengths. People are taken in by him.’
‘ But I’m well pissed off with this,’ Henry moaned. ‘He just doesn’t fit my stereotype. Isn’t life complicated?’
‘ Sure is, Henry,’ Donaldson muttered bleakly.
Henry gave Donaldson a sidelong glance and wondered what was on his mind. ‘Let’s get down to Customs,’ he said, ‘and make his entry into Limey as uncomfortable as possible.’
‘ Good idea,’ agreed Donaldson, pleased at the prospect. ‘Pity that the only way we can get at the bastard is by getting him stopped and searched. He should be on Death Row by rights.’
They began to make their way down from the public viewing gallery.
Donaldson thought about the rushed telephone call he’d received about two hours earlier from Joe Kovaks. He’d called from the cop shop in Miami where he’d been taken following his drink-drive arrest. He’d been released after giving a blood sample which would be analysed before any court proceedings, but they wouldn’t give him his car keys back until he provided them with a negative specimen of breath. So he’d been very unhappy.
Even though the situation had been pretty tragic for Kovaks, Donaldson could barely contain his mirth at the predicament and its irony; the bare-faced cheek of the Mafia and how one quick phone call had put Kovaks’ job on the line — because the FBI had a tough policy on lawbreakers within its own ranks. Drink-driving in particular was frowned upon. Several agents had been fired because of it. But Donaldson’s amusement had waned, then turned to anger and horror when Kovaks told him about Chrissy… and then burst into tears down the phone.
The two lawmen had already introduced themselves to Customs and the airport police. They took up a position behind screens, together with one of the airport detectives and a Customs officer, from where they could see through one-way windows into the baggage reclaim hall and both Customs channels, green and red: Nothing To Declare and Goods To Declare.
By prior arrangement two armed cops — with revolvers and MP5s on open display — had been posted to the Customs area. Not that problems were expected. Corelli wasn’t stupid. They simply wanted the godfather to feel under pressure when the uniformed Customs officers singled him out from the other passengers in order to search his luggage.
It all went according to plan.
Corelli and his aide collected their bags from the conveyor belt.
Corelli had a small sports bag, his aide a large suitcase and flight bag. They placed them on a trolley and headed to the green channel.
The Customs officer with the detectives spoke quietly into his radio. The uniformed officers in the green channel nodded at their boss’s instructions which they received via their earpieces.
Corelli and his man came into view.
The two armed cops were clearly visible.
Seconds later Corelli had been drawn to one side and directed to a long table where another Customs officer awaited them with a smile. The table was directly in front of the screen which Henry and Donaldson were behind, giving them, as planned, an excellent view of the proceedings.
Corelli and his man were smiling, as though they expected this to happen. They were patient and courteous, and carried out the requests of the Customs officer without rancour. Not once did they show irritation or annoyance.
‘ He’s fuckin’ enjoying this,’ hissed Donaldson. He was the one showing irritation and annoyance. ‘I just wanna put one on him. I really do.’
‘ Obviously something he’d foreseen,’ said Henry, less bothered.
He studied both men through the one-way window.
Corelli was about fifty years old and overweight. He was short and rotund, but carried his poundage quite well. His face was wide and his skin dark, betraying his Mediterranean origin. He had eyes which were lit with humour and a beguiling smile which he flashed regularly as he shared a joke or two with the Customs officers. He reminded Henry more of an accountant or bank manager — or maybe a successful salesman. He looked ordinary, decent, law-abiding, middle-aged and fat. He wouldn’t have drawn a second glance in a street.
‘ Know anything about the other guy?’ Henry asked Donaldson. ‘Lots. He’s Corelli’s main bodyguard, trusted right-hand man, but not a policy adviser or anything like that. He organises Corelli’s personal protection and anti- surveillance. Name of Jamie Stanton. An ex-cop, actually — did about five years with the NYPD before he went bad. Got busted for selling drugs to fellow officers, then moved into the security business, personal protection mainly. Worked with one or two controversial businessmen and union organisers before gravitating to Corelli. I think he’s probably very good — so good that he hasn’t been tested in any situation yet, and he’s made Corelli very surveillance-conscious. We’ve wired his home twice — both times sussed and he never uses his own phone to do business, unless he can’t help it because they’re nearly always tapped. He’s also a fitness freak. Jeez’ Donaldson shook his head, ‘if he came across, it’d be gold for us, but that’s just wishful thinking. He’s dedicated to Corelli and paid very, very well.’
Henry saw that Stanton was a tough-looking man in his mid-thirties who oozed violence coupled with intelligence. A dangerous combination. He was chunky, strong-looking, with shoulders like a swimmer. He did fit the stereotype, Henry thought with relief. His eyes were watchful. His movements were those of a man accustomed to reacting quickly should the need arise, but otherwise he conserved energy, a bit like a cat. Everything was held back for that vital thrust. Yet he too was smiling and cheerful, though on closer inspection his countenance wasn’t as convincing as Corelli’s. He’d been told how to react if stopped and didn’t really like acting the pleasant man. Henry made a mental note to watch him very carefully should their paths ever cross. He hoped they wouldn’t.
The baggage search was over, the clothing and toiletries — for that’s all there was — had been replaced.
Before moving away Corelli looked past the shoulder of the Customs officer at the one-way window behind which Henry and Donaldson lurked. He gave a cheerful wave of acknowledgement. Then he and Stanton — who scowled — walked towards the arrivals hall.
‘ Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ Donaldson uttered, wringing his hands in frustration.
‘ Suddenly I feel very small,’ said Henry. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I don’t now think this was a good idea, to have him searched. ‘
‘ Why the fuck not? It inconvenienced him, didn’t it?’
‘ And brought us down to his level, Karl,’ Henry said like the critical parent. ‘We should be better than this. It’s not as though we were likely to find anything, was it? He’d hardly have had a case full of crack, would he?’
Grudgingly Donaldson said, ‘Suppose you’re right… but I still enjoyed it.’
‘ And that’s all that matters,’ Henry said sarkily. ‘C’mon, let’s see who he meets up with.’
Out in the bustling arrivals hall they were just in time to see Corelli and Stanton being led out of the building by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
They pushed through the crowd.
When they emerged outside, all they saw was the rear end of a large, plush saloon car pulling away from the kerb. A Rolls-Royce with personalised number plates.
Donaldson cursed and fumbled for his pen and a piece of paper, hoping to get a note of the number.
‘ No need,’ said Henry, laying a hand on Donaldson’s arm. ‘I know who owns it — a guy called Lenny Dakin. RCS have run surveillance on him a few times but got nowhere.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Now I know what Jason Brown was doing in Blackpool. Dakin has some business interests there. Looks like they could’ve been working together, maybe. Looks like Dakin could have set up Brown for the hit, maybe. Looks like Dakin and Corelli are now business partners…’
‘ Maybe,’ the two men said in unison.
The charge of murder in English law is a very simple charge.
At 10 p.m., after a full day of interviews, a detective brought Hinksman, who was on his crutches, before the custody officer. Also present was Hinksman’s solicitor.
