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.
