‘ Thanks, Eamon.’
He died before Henry could get to him. The nurses in the Casualty Department at Lancaster Royal Infirmary were just dismantling the medical equipment from around the bed and pulling drips out of veins which no longer pumped blood. Two of the nurses had tears in their eyes. A couple of young doctors stood at the end of the bed, conversing in hushed tones. An older doctor was filling out a form on a clipboard.
Two uniformed Constables and a Sergeant stood quietly by the door, all three overawed by the circumstances.
Henry walked to the Staff Only area where a Sister was working at a desk. He introduced himself and showed his identity. Henry noticed that she, too, had red rings around her eyes. He couldn’t decide if it was tiredness or emotion.
‘ The policeman who just died,’ he said, ‘asked to see me. I wonder if you know what it was about. No one around his bed seems to.’
‘ I don’t, actually,’ she said. ‘However, he was very lucid up to the last and asked for a pen and piece of paper. He wrote a short note on it and gave it to me to give to you. I think he knew he would die before you got to see him.’ It was then Henry saw that the redness was emotion. ‘He was in incredible pain,’ she said, ‘but he was very brave and very philosophical. He’s a credit to the force.’
‘ Thank you,’ said Henry, trying not to be moved. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into this. He needed to keep an emotion-free head. ‘Do you have the note?’
‘ Oh yes, it’s here.’ She pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket and handed it to Henry. ‘I haven’t read it.’
‘ Thanks.’
He went to the waiting room where he found a spare chair and sat down. He unfolded the note.
It looked like it had been written by a frail eighty-year-old with arthritic fingers. But it was legible.
DS Christie, he read. He’s going to come for you.
Henry read it over several times before slowly folding it up and placing it in his jacket pocket.
‘ No,’ Henry said out loud. ‘I’m going to go and get him.’
Special Agent Eamon Ritter realised that he might have made a mistake, or possibly two, or maybe even three.
The first one had been failing to ensure that Damian had actually been in Clearwater and the second was not searching Sue’s apartment properly. Now there was a distinct possibility that the little worm had witnessed the whole thing.
And what happens when you assume? he grilled himself mentally. You make an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me’.
Standard FBI ground rules: don’t make fucking assumptions.
And now, to compound all that, he’d made a third mistake by letting it slip to Kovaks that he knew about Damian’s leave to his mother’s in Clearwater.
Kovaks was very sharp: the chances were that he was probably meditating on that same disclosure at this very minute. Drastic measures were required — and these could include the sudden deaths of another Special Agent and a fingerprint expert.
Something was bugging Joe Kovaks, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He filtered through everything that had happened during the day: the visit to Laura, Tommo’s infantile remarks, Damian’s phone call, Ram Chander’s appearance.
What the hell was it?
Twenty minutes later he still didn’t have the answer. This is no good, he thought. I’m getting nowhere fast. He decided to take the rest of the day off. Give Chrissy a surprise.
He replaced the Corelli surveillance logs into a file and tucked it under his arm. He would take them home and study them there with a beer in his hand. Removing any official documents from the building, unless approved, was strictly against Bureau rules. But like most of the rules, Kovaks thought they were bullshit and often flouted them.
On the way home he would call in and see Laura, pep her up and discuss his idea of where to waste Corelli.
As he stepped into the elevator, the phone on his desk started to ring. He did not hear it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kovaks rubbed his temples wearily and stood up. He walked across to the large picture window of the apartment. From it there was a fine view of one of the inlets of the intracoastal waterway which ran up behind Fort Lauderdale. Yachts, motor boats, power boats, craft of all sizes and descriptions were moored there.
But Kovaks’ mind was not on the splendid vista. It was concentrated solely on the violent death — not before time — of Corelli.
Was this really the right way?
Using Laura, a no-hoper, who had never really done anyone any harm — could he live with that? Using her, knowing that she would almost certainly die.
The problem was that he’d known her before she became a drug user and a prostitute, and he could clearly remember her as a spirited, pretty and more or less honest girl. Given time, trouble and patience she could return to her former self.
But there was no time.
She had to do it soon. Corelli had to be wasted. Delay meant more lives destroyed.
Kovaks had purchased the murder weapon — a two-inch-barrelled Smith amp; Wesson model 31, Regulation Police, 32 calibre. It was just under 7 inches long and weighed 22 oz when empty. Laura needed to get in close and that meant a pistol or revolver, of a size and calibre she could hide and handle easily. And it had to be powerful enough to do the job. It was a wonderful gun to handle, though Kovaks found it too light for himself.
Laura had taken to the gun well. She knew a lot about them anyway. She’d spent their last session together practising, walking up to a lampshade with the empty gun tucked into her waistband, then drawing and pumping six imaginary shells into Corelli’s head.
She found it very exciting. She wanted to do it for real.
‘ You must say nothing,’ Kovaks coached her. ‘You stroll up to him like it’s a normal Sunday afternoon. Look relaxed. Smile. Pull the gun out at the last possible moment and shoot the bastard. Throw it down, turn and run. I’ll be outside in a car waiting for you.’ This lie almost stuck in his throat. ‘Don’t worry about the layout of the place yet. We’ll go there for a meal ourselves a couple of times beforehand and find out where he usually sits. Now… squeeze the trigger. Yes, like that. Don’t pull it.’
Kovaks didn’t hear Chrissy emerge from the bedroom. She padded barefoot and silent up to him, wearing a short nightshirt which only just managed to cover her. She touched his sleeve. He jumped.
‘ Hi,’ she said. ‘What’re you shaking your head for?’
‘ Oh nothing, just pondering.’
She slid an arm around his waist. It was as though a shock of electric current had passed through him. Surprised, but happy, he draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him.
She smiled.
He couldn’t believe it: a smile. He was almost overwhelmed with joy.
‘ I’ve been pretty awful to live with these past few months,’ she admitted.
‘ You’ve had good enough reason. It hasn’t been a problem.’ It was a brave attempt at a lie.
‘ Oh yes, it has,’ she insisted. She put her other arm around him and squeezed. ‘You’ve been so good to me. I’m a lucky lady. You’ve put up with me and my moods and my medical needs, stayed with me through everything, no complaining, nothing. I’m very grateful to you, Joe.’
‘ You don’t have to be grateful. It’s my job — I love you.’
