courses she needs to do to get where she is and nothing more. She’s hardly set the world on fire, just played the system and won. She’s nothing more than a competent administrator. Jesus, this is appalling. I wonder how long it is since she was last face to face with an actual villain? Or even a member of the public, come to that?’
FB listened to the tirade, nodding all the while.
‘ It does help,’ he added, ‘when you’re shafting the Chief Constable at the same time.’
Crosby’s eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t know if that’s true. Let’s turn some of that rumour into hard fact before it’s too late. We don’t want this investigation falling apart round our ears. We’ll need to move fast. Can I leave it to you, FB?’
FB nodded.
McClure picked up Donaldson from his central Manchester hotel paid for by the FBI — at ten-thirty that morning. Both men looked haggard through lack of sleep, but at least McClure had had the advantage of spending the night in his own bed with his own warm-arsed wife to spoon up to.
It had gone three when Donaldson had clambered into a bed which was cold and uninviting despite the plushness of the room. He missed having someone to get to grips with in the dark hours. In fact, he had missed someone for three years. Ever since his wife had disappeared with a beat cop from Fort Lauderdale who worked horrendous hours yet came home every day. Donaldson didn’t really blame her. If he made it home once a week it was an occasion. He was thankful there were no children to worry about.
‘ Put a name to that face yet?’ McClure asked as the agent slumped beside him.
‘ Can’t say I have,’ sighed Donaldson, ‘but I’m sure I’ve seen it before… in the Corelli file…’ He thought hard, screwing up his face. ‘Or a bar somewhere… I dunno.
Anyway, I’m going to do an ET.’
‘ A what?’
‘ You know — phone home,’ Donaldson explained.
‘ Oh, right,’ said McClure bewildered.
‘ I’ll have someone look through the photos for me. I’m sure it’s from one taken in a restaurant or bar. It’s just tough that we’ve hundreds of Corelli in fucking restaurants.’
‘ Actually I have an idea that might just help on that score.’
‘ Whaddya mean?’
‘ Later, later,’ said McClure. ‘Just sit back and enjoy the ride.’
The gymnasium at Preston police station had been commandeered as the murder incident room. Since the early hours, furniture and equipment had been rolled in and placed on the canvas matting which had been laid to protect the gym floor. Four HOLMES terminals (Home Office Large/Major Enquiry System) were already up and running, waiting for information to be fed into them; four more were expected. Twelve phones had been rigged up. Desks were placed around the room, all equipped with stationery and wire baskets and a sign indicating who would be sitting there: Receiver, Allocator, Coordinator, Exhibits Officer etc… and the wall ladders around the gym were covered with whiteboards, blackboards and noticeboards.
Two coffee machines had also been installed. It was going to be a long investigation.
The room was crowded for this initial briefing. There were forty detectives drawn in from around the county, twenty-odd uniform officers mainly from the Support Unit, some traffic cops, a handful of civilians and three Coroner’s officers.
Those present were subdued but expectant and raring to go. Impatient too. After all, the first briefing at eleven had been cancelled. Valuable time was being wasted.
The atmosphere was quietly charged.
Despite himself, Henry Christie couldn’t suppress a smile. He leaned back on the wall and looked around the room. He’d worked on many murders, been in this situation many times. Dying to get going, get your teeth into it. Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d be the one to feel the collar.
Particularly this one. This was almost personal.
His smile disappeared.
Especially this one.
Karen Wilde shuffled her notes into order, glancing through them once more, collating all the salient facts. She knew all there was to know so far, and she also knew exactly what she was going to say in the briefing which was — she checked her watch — five minutes away.
She stood up and paced the office she’d taken over — a small one on the third floor belonging to some pen- pushing nonentity admin inspector who’d moaned pathetically when she’d turfed him out. Silly little sod.
She straightened her suit then made her way towards the lift and pressed the button. The gym was several floors up. She tapped her feet as she waited for the lift to arrive.
It came. The doors creaked open. Two men she did not know stepped out. They peered at her office pass which was clipped onto the lapel of her new jacket.
‘ Chief Inspector Wilde,’ one of them said.
‘ Acting Superintendent,’ she corrected him, bustling past into the lift. ‘Acting Detective-Superintendent, actually,’ she said, pressing the button.
But the lift did not move. The man had stepped across the threshold, preventing the doors from closing.
‘ I believe you’re running the investigation into the M6 bombing?’
‘ Correct.’
‘ Big job for a little lady like you,’ said the other man. Karen noticed his American accent.
She said stonily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I don’t care for your attitude or approach. Now, I have a briefing to give, so if you wouldn’t mind…?’ She waved away the man who was impeding the lift.
‘ We have some valuable information for you regarding the bombing,’ he said.
‘ Can’t it wait?’
‘ No.’
‘ Then you’d better be quick about it, hadn’t you?’
Earlier that day, McClure had driven north up the M6. He’d had to detour round Preston because the motorway was still closed, but within an hour they were in Lancaster. He drove into the Posthouse Hotel car park.
Donaldson was mystified. McClure had refused point blank to answer any of the American’s queries.
‘ This better be fucking good, ’ said the FBI man, clambering out of the car.
McClure just smiled.
The two men stood side by side. McClure, still silent, pointed up at the hotel.
Donaldson’s mouth dropped open.
Video cameras. Two of them. Each one positioned on a front corner of the building, recording views of the car park from different angles.
He spun round to McClure, grinning. ‘You brilliant bastard! How in hell did y’know about these?’
McClure shrugged modestly. ‘Just recalled seeing them yesterday, but didn’t think much of it at the time.’
‘ Let’s hope they work.’
The management were as helpful as on the previous day, allowing the detectives to view the tapes in a private room. It took only ten minutes to find what they wanted. Then McClure claimed the relevant tape for evidence and gave the manager a receipt.
‘ May I ask what all this is about?’ the manager asked.
‘ Did the man we’ve just seen on the tape book a room?’ McClure enquired, ignoring the question.
‘ Yes — he paid two days in advance.’
McClure looked quickly at Donaldson. ‘Is he still in it?’
‘ I don’t know. We’ll have to ask Reception.’
‘ Let’s do it,’ snapped Donaldson.
‘ But what’s it about?’ the manager demanded.
