He had his back to her and did not do her the courtesy of turning. Just shook his head, made no verbal response.
‘ Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ she persisted gently.
He closed his eyes momentarily in a gesture of impatience. Still not turning he said, ‘No,’ firmly.
She left.
When he was sure she was out of earshot, he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a local number.
‘ We need to have chats, soon,’ he said.
‘ When?’
McNamara gave a time and date. No location because the venue was always the same. He ended the call abruptly.
He spent as little time as possible on mobiles. Handy though they were, they were also dangerous. He knew he could very easily be a target for journalists with scanners, particularly with his reputation. He preferred the old- fashioned landline where possible.
‘ Harry,’ McNamara’s wife called from the conservatory door.
‘ I said I don’t want anything!’ he barked.
‘ I know,’ she said, ‘but the police are here — two detectives. They want to see you about something. Harry, what is it?’
‘ How the hell should I know?’
Brushing roughly past her, he mooched over to the house and went to the entrance hall where, indeed, two detectives were waiting to see him.
‘ Sir Harry McNamara?’ the male detective said politely, a smile on his face. He held out a hand. McNamara shook it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, but we need to have a chat with you. Hope you don’t mind, hope it’s not inconvenient. Oh, by the way, this is DC Crane and I’m Detective Inspector Christie. We’re from Blackpool CID.’
‘ Come into the study,’ McNamara said. ‘I hope this won’t take long. I’m rather busy and need to go out shortly to a business meeting.’ A lie, but these two cops wouldn’t know.
‘ I can’t make any promises about how long it’ll take. Depends on what you tell us,’ Henry informed him.
McNamara nodded and led the detectives to the study which was off the hall. Henry caught sight of McNamara’s wife standing in the kitchen. It was only a brief glimpse of a tall, sad-looking woman, lonely and quite beautiful.
The officers were not asked to sit, nor were they offered refreshment. McNamara made it clear he was doing them a favour. It was an imposition for him.
‘ What do you want?’
Lucy did the talking, Henry the watching.
‘ We appreciate this might be quite delicate,’ she began. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman in Blackpool. We think you knew her and we’re obviously speaking to everyone we can find with connections to her. As a matter of routine.’
‘ No, I don’t know her,’ McNamara said immediately. ‘I don’t know anyone in Blackpool.’
‘ She’s not from Blackpool, she’s from Blackburn and her name is Marie Cullen.’
Henry watched McNamara’s face, which flushed like a toilet.
‘ No. The name means nothing to me.’
‘ She was a prostitute and was arrested for soliciting about a year ago in the King Street area of Blackburn. You were arrested at the same time for kerb crawling and drink driving. She was seen to get in your car.’
‘ And as you two probably know, I was acquitted of the charges at court. The poor woman who was embroiled in the same incident was not known to me then, nor now. I did not, nor do not, know her. It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances for which the police will be paying dearly when it reaches civil court.’
‘ You’re saying you don’t know Marie Cullen?’ Lucy asked.
‘ Yes. That is what I’m saying, so I suggest we stop at this point. I have never seen the woman since that night and if you even begin to make out that I have done, I’ll sue you. Now I’m asking you to leave.’
They were ushered out and moments later were climbing silently into the CID car. Henry started the engine.
Then they looked at each other. Simultaneously they both said the same word and burst out laughing.
The word was ‘Guilty’.
Once on the road, Henry said, ‘I think he knew we were coming, Luce, which I find pretty worrying. Let’s bob into Blackburn police station and have a nose around, maybe speak to the officer who dealt with him again.’
‘ Good idea.’
The top ten worst moments of my life, thought Karl Donaldson. I’m not exactly sure which one this has replaced, but I think it’s definitely sneaked into the top five.
He was certain the number one spot would never be breached — the time when he’d held the dying body of a friend and colleague who’d been cruelly gunned down by a mafia hit man. That had been a hell of a bad moment, which still hurt two years later.
But this was pretty damned bad too.
The casket containing the post mortem mutilated body of FBI operative Samantha Jane Dawber was taken from the hold of the GB Airlines plane which had just touched down at Heathrow from Madeira. It was transferred under Donaldson’s watchful eye onto the back of a small flat back truck with big tyres, an amber flashing light and a curious sounding horn, across the apron on what seemed like an interminable journey to the British Airways New York flight.
He watched it while it was loaded into the belly of the huge jet, amongst all the other luggage.
Donaldson desperately wanted to be on that flight too, in order to accompany her all the way home and hand her over to her Mom and Pop. To be able to tell them everything he knew about her life and death; tell them what a fantastic person she was, a wonderful caring friend, a dedicated professional. And tell them he’d arranged for another autopsy to take place because he wasn’t remotely satisfied with the one already done.
The hold was locked.
Donaldson said, ‘Bye, Sam, look after yourself.’
It was hard to hold back a tear and a sob, but he did. He was sad that he would miss the subsequent funeral, but he knew Sam would understand because something told him he would be busy at this end, unearthing stuff about Scott Hamilton and maybe getting to grips with the real reason for Sam’s death. And, of course, the other death he felt totally responsible for — Francesca’s.
Karen met him at the other end of Customs.
When he melted into her arms he allowed himself that tear. Karen too had obviously been in a state of denial. They cried silently for a few moments, holding each other tight, oblivious of the gawping stares of everyone else.
Eventually they let go. Time to look at each other properly.
‘ Your face is a terrible mess,’ she said, looking at the dirty chain-mark and black eye.
‘ It’ll heal.’
‘ And you look completely whacked.’
‘ And you look completely gorgeous.’ He glanced down at her stomach, which was just beginning to show signs of expansion. He touched it and said, ‘How’s your belly?’
‘ Full of arms and legs,’ she smiled, ‘but fine.’
‘ Long hot bath and a good night’s sleep is what I need,’ he said, taking her hand and walking towards the exit.
She looked at him critically. ‘Hope that’s not all you want. I mean, there is absolutely no way I can get pregnant now. We should take advantage of that sort of situation, don’t you think?’
‘ Then I suggest we get home as soon as possible.’
