appreciate the clear blue sea below, shimmering in the sunshine, nor the tantalising glimpses of the island itself.
Neither did it particularly concern him that the runway is one of the shortest in Europe, the end of which drops literally into the sea.
Normally he would have revelled in everything.
He readjusted his seat belt and braced himself for the landing which he knew would be characterised by extra reverse thrust and sharp braking. It was surprisingly smooth and lurch-free.
Within minutes the plane had taxied to the small terminal building.
Donaldson reached up and opened the overhead locker, lifting out his only piece of luggage, a small overnight bag. His stay was to be short, but not sweet.
The heat of the day hit him whilst walking from the plane to the terminal.
Even though it was January, Madeira was much warmer than London. He experienced a very brief reminder that, since being posted to London from Florida, he had seen little sun.
He went straight to Customs, showed his American passport and sailed through.
A dark-faced man with a black moustache and brown, intelligent eyes, approached him.
‘ You are Mr Donaldson, I believe, from the FBI in London,’ the man said. ‘Muito prazer.’
Donaldson nodded. ‘Muito bem, obrigado,’ he replied. It was one of the few Portuguese phrases he knew. He was not familiar with the language, but spoke Spanish well and German fluently. With his knowledge of the former he expected to be able to read menus and road signs, but nothing more complicated.
The two men shook hands formally, no smiles.
‘ I am Detective George Santana. May I welcome you to Madeira on behalf of the police service. Please accept my deep regret that the circumstance of your visit is not more pleasurable.’
Donaldson nodded. They had walked out of the airport. A car drew up to the kerb, driven by a policeman in uniform.
‘ I’d like to see the body as soon as possible.’
Donaldson touched down at one o’clock on Monday afternoon. By that time, Acting Detective Inspector Henry Christie had been at work for seven hours and was beginning to flag. He had only finished Sunday’s tour of duty at 2 a.m. and with less than four hours’ sleep under his belt, his eyes felt like a bucket of grit had been thrown into them.
He rubbed them once more with his knuckles, blinked a few times and ran a hand around his tired face. He stifled a big yawn, but only just.
The evening before, Hughie Dundaven had been booked into the custody system at Blackpool by about eight. He remained compliant in terms of his behaviour but said little and refused to divulge his name and address. He demanded to see a solicitor, which was one of his legal rights.
He had been strip-searched and all his clothing was seized for forensic. He was given a white paper suit — a ‘zoot suit’ as they are fondly called and a pair of slippers to protect his modesty. Nothing in his property gave any indication as to his identity. All he had in his wallet was cash. Six hundred pounds of it.
Non-intimate swabs were taken from his hands. Hair was plucked from his head for DNA sampling — the norm for all prisoners arrested for serious offences.
He refused to sign a consent form to allow his fingerprints to be taken.
By the time this had all been done it was ten o’clock. Dundaven had not yet been interviewed about anything.
The duty solicitor rolled in shortly after this and had a confidential chat.
Henry had appointed a DS and a DC to carry out the initial interview, but the solicitor said his client was not prepared to be interviewed at that time of day. He should be allowed to rest — all prisoners were entitled to a period of uninterrupted rest for eight hours in any twenty-four.
Henry hit the roof. He demanded an interview and got it.
It turned out to be a short one, just to establish why Dundaven had been locked up and to give him an opportunity to give his side of the story. He refused to say a word.
By the time that farce had ended it was midnight.
Dundaven got his wish then. He was led to a cell, where under a rough blanket he slept like a baby.
Henry and his detectives convened in the CID office where, over coffee, they planned next morning’s strategy.
Then he went to the property store where Dave Seymour and the ARV crew had unloaded and listed all the property from the Range Rover.
Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s an awful lot of firepower,’ he said appreciatively, looking at the guns and ammunition which had been laid out and labelled.
‘ Enough for an army,’ agreed Seymour.
Henry helped to list the last few weapons, noting their make and serial numbers, careful to handle them so as not to leave or disturb any fingerprints. The guns all looked new and unused.
The logging of the weapons was completed at 2 a.m.
Just before going home Henry phoned the hospital and asked about the condition of the policewoman, Nina. He was told, ‘Critical.’
He hung up with a tear in his eye. He did not know the girl, but it was the principle of the matter. He’d been involved in other investigations where police officers had been killed. These days the mere thought of it happening could move him to tears. He realised that as he grew older — he would be forty later in the year — he was getting less and less detached. In days gone by, nothing seemed to affect him. For some reason, everything did now.
‘ Turning soft,’ he said, wiping the back of a hand across his nose. He got up and went home.
When his head hit the pillow he could not sleep. He tossed and turned uncomfortably, drifting off occasionally, sweated, and disturbed Kate who, in her sleep, told him to ‘Pack it in.’ Whatever that meant.
Frustrated and knackered he gave up trying to sleep and was back in the office by six, getting his head around how he could cover everything that was happening with the few staff he had.
Two dead bodies: one in the mortuary in Blackpool, one in Preston. Both unidentified.
A cop in ICU, probably going to join them.
And a gorilla with a bullet in his shoulder.
A weekend in the north’s premier holiday resort. Come to Blackpool and get your head blown off or a knife in your guts… or, he went on to think shamefacedly, get kneed in the groin and lose a testicle.
He tried to delete the last one from his list and crossed his fingers mentally. Perhaps it would go away.
The identification of two bodies would only be a matter of being patient and waiting. He would be surprised if they didn’t come back on fingerprints.
He looked at the paltry list of detectives available to him. Not many. Most snaffled for the newsagents job. He shook his head, his brain like cotton wool. The management of resources really does your head in.
‘ Right, get on with it,’ he ordered himself He picked up his pen and began to decide who would do what.
The same DS and DC who had initially interviewed the prisoner could carry on with that investigation, together with Dave Seymour. It was well within the scope of any competent detective: interviews, exhibits, paperwork. All Henry needed to do was guide them, and keep an eye on the wider picture. At least there was a body in the cells, which made it a whole lot easier, even if Chummy was being uncooperative.
Whereas it was less straightforward with the dead girl. They still had to find out who’d done that one.
Henry’s remaining staff consisted of two DCs. Simply not enough to deal with the job. The thought of prostrating himself in front of FB was not appealing — but he was sure that if he pushed, FB would wilt.
He had to.
Blackpool police station was going to be extremely crowded.
The gorilla, Henry decided sadly, would have to wait.
And so would every other minor crime for the foreseeable future. The uniform branch would have to investigate everything that came in.
And that was how he spent his morning.
Administration. Deploying personnel. Wheeling and dealing for extra staff. Ensuring paperwork was done and
