‘ Acting Detective Inspector Christie, isn’t it?’
With a mouthful he turned and looked up, and tried to stand up when he saw who it was. ‘Yeah, it is… sorry.’ He swallowed.
‘ No, don’t get up.’ The man perched on the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton from the North-West Organised Crime Squad and this is WDC Robson, Siobhan Robson.’ He cocked a thumb at the officer, then held out his right hand.
‘ Yes, I know. Look, sir, I’m sorry but my hands’re a bit greasy at the moment. I’m not sure you’d appreciate me shaking yours — unless you wanted to lick it after.’
Morton gave a short laugh and the female detective giggled brightly. The DCS withdrew his hand with a shrug and a smile.
Henry leaned back to get a better view of his visitors.
‘ It’s Henry… am I right?’
‘ Yes, sir.’
‘ I believe you’re up to your eyeballs in major enquiries.’
‘ Pretty much. Can I help you in some way?’
‘ I was just curious about the Dundaven enquiry, how it’s progressing. We’ve been monitoring that man’s activities for a while and in one fell swoop you’ve got him slap bang to rights.’
‘ Mmm, at a cost, though.’
Morton did not understand for a moment. Then it clicked. ‘Ah yes, the policewoman. Very unfortunate.’
‘ Not to mention the guy whose brains he blew out,’ said Henry. ‘And the multi-vehicle pile-up on the motorway he caused by deliberately ramming a traffic car. I’m amazed no one died in that.’
‘ So, how goes the investigation then?’
‘ Very well,’ said Henry. He had no reason to be anything other than open with Morton, a man he greatly admired and whose squad he would gladly have worked on. ‘We hit a few addresses this morning, all connected with Dundaven, but found very little — which surprised me. But we’re not going to let it rest. I get the feeling he’s well connected and I’m going to keep chipping away at him. We haven’t found the origins of the guns yet and that needs to be bottomed. They’re all new and I’ll bet they’re from a warehouse somewhere. When we pinpoint that, it’ll give us another angle to dig at — and dig we will.’
‘ You seem very determined.’
‘ I am,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like people who shoot at coppers, nor do I like people who sell guns.’
‘ Very laudable,’ commented Morton. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult to be so thorough — the practicalities of the job, time constraints, pressures, especially working in local CID. I know the caseload is enormous.’
‘ Yeah, I agree… but I’ll do my best. I won’t let it rest until I’m completely satisfied I can’t go any further with it.’
‘ How will you know when you can’t go any further?’
‘ Intuition… brick walls… some dickie-bird’ll tell me.’
‘ Well, good luck, Henry. Stick at it.’ Morton turned to the female detective. ‘Ready?’ She nodded assent. ‘See ya, Henry.’
‘ Bye,’ Siobhan said, giving him a little wave and a smile.
He watched them leave and wondered what the hell that was all about.
Five hundred kilometres off the west coast of Africa, on the tiny island of Madeira, Karl Donaldson was back in his hotel room.
It was 6 p.m. Night had fallen quickly. With it came rain which lashed against the balcony doors of his room.
He had recently returned from making the final arrangements for Sam’s body to be on the same flight as himself to London next day. From Heathrow he would connect it with New York.
He was not looking forward to the journey, knowing she would be lying stiff, cold and desecrated in the hold below. He shivered at the thought.
Pangs of hunger growled in his stomach.
He had a quick shower, changed and walked from the sea view annexe where his room was situated through the rain across the metal footbridge which spanned high above the main road into Funchal, and up to the main part of the hotel, the Quinta. He went into Joe’s bar, had the dish of the day — which happened to be espada — and half a bottle of Atlantis Rose.
An hour later, after the meal, he moved the few metres across to the bar and settled down for a couple of beers whilst reflecting on the events of the day.
Just what the fuck was Scott Hamilton up to? And more to the point, who was he? Why did Sam write his name down? Did he have something to do with her death? Or was he, Donaldson, just clutching at straws?
It frustrated him that he might well be able to find out about Hamilton, but might not ever be in a position to answer any of the other questions. Even so, there was no way he would ever — EVER — accept that her death was misadventure or accident. He was convinced she had been murdered, but how the hell could he prove it?
Lost in thought, he did not notice the approach of the woman. She appeared from nowhere, and touched his shoulder gently. Donaldson twisted his head upwards.
It was the receptionist from the Jacaranda.
She was wearing a trenchcoat, but no headgear, and was soaking wet, her black hair plastered to her head and face. Her mascara had run from her eyes, making her look like she’d been crying. Maybe she had.
‘ Francesca,’ Donaldson said in surprise, remembering her name. He got to his feet.
‘ Mr Donaldson,’ she said with a quaver in her voice.
‘ You’re soaked to the skin.’
‘ It’s OK, doesn’t matter.’ She unfastened her belt, the buttons of her coat and flapped it a couple of times to shake the excess rain off the gabardine material. Underneath she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. ‘May I sit down?’
‘ Sure, sure, help yourself.’
She sat.
‘ Drink? Coffee — wine — whatever?’
She shook her head. Donaldson eased himself back into his chair, eyeing her uncertainly, trying to judge what was about to happen.
She was obviously on edge; her body language screamed it. Her hands twitched nervously, could not keep still. She brushed wet strands of hair back away from her face with shaking fingers. She seemed hardly able to bring her eyes up to meet Donaldson’s.
‘ So, Francesca, what brings you here?’
‘ I want you to understand I enjoy my work,’ she said quickly after a few moments’ consideration. ‘I’m quite well paid and I’m lucky because I have no real qualifications. In did not work at the Jacaranda, I would probably be a waitress.’
Donaldson nodded. He decided not to say anything, let her fill in all the blanks, though he wasn’t sure what this all meant.
‘ I don’t want to lose my job. I support my mother. My father died two years ago…’ She shrugged, suddenly unable to continue. She glanced quickly towards the door and her mouth opened slightly as she appeared to see something. Donaldson peered round to look. No one was there. She was seeing ghosts.
‘ You are from the FBI?’ she asked meekly.
‘ Yep.’
‘ That lady — Samantha — she too?’
‘ Yep.’
Her eyes looked deeply into his for a couple of seconds, then tore away. She appeared to stifle a sob.
‘ Look, Francesca,’ Donaldson said, hoping he was going to hit the right note. ‘I think you’ve come to see me for a reason. Does it concern Samantha?’
‘ Yes.’ It was a hoarse whisper.
‘ So, what is it?’ he probed softly. His eyes found hers once more. ‘You can trust me,’ he added, thinking,
