corrupting an incorruptible officer was proving to be a headache of epic proportions.
It would have been far easier to have had him whacked straight away.
Henry drove quickly, pushing the Metro hard through the mid-morning traffic which, due to the season and the weather, was fairly light.
He picked up the coast road and was soon in Lytham. He had a vague idea of where he was going because a few years ago he had delivered a message there, about what he could not recall. He did not know the town well, but it was only a small place and he trusted his memory and sense of direction.
He found the road in about ten minutes. Thirty seconds later he stopped outside the house, a large, bow- windowed semi.
He looked at the building for a while just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.
Yep. It was the right one.
He got out of the Metro and went through the garden gate, failing to see the car which had drawn up two hundred metres behind him.
Tattersall was quickly on the blower.
‘ Boss… we could have problems here.’
Morton paced his temporary office. Siobhan was sitting watching him with a fearful expression.
He had four names and addresses on his desk which still meant nothing to him.
And Henry Christie had spoken to Rider alone for about twenty minutes. And now he was at an address which sent goose bumps down his spine.
‘ I don’t like this one little bit.’ He rubbed his chin.
‘ He’s wriggling,’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s all.’
‘ He should’ve been killed like the two others. I regret not having him done now. I protected him and he could well be causing me problems.’
Gallagher came in bearing the statements which had been amongst Luton’s other paperwork in the plastic bag.
‘ Got the statements back,’ he said triumphantly.
He handed them to Morton who glanced at the top one and tossed them onto his desk. Then his neck craned down as he saw the name on the top one. He fanned all four out, his face turning ashen.
‘ These are the people that Donaldson guy has just been to see. He’s been visiting the witnesses again on Henry’s behalf.’
‘ What?’ asked Gallagher, who had not been privy to these developments. He’d been making a show of running the murder enquiry.
‘ Some guy called Donaldson and a woman have been visiting our witnesses again. Where have you been for the last twenty-four hours, numb-nuts?’
‘ Somebody has to make it look like we do policework occasionally,’ he griped.
‘ Yeah, yeah.’
‘ Did you say Donaldson?’
‘ Yeah, why?’
‘ Name rings a bell.’ Gallagher was thoughtful for a moment whilst he wracked his brains, the tip of his tongue resting on his lower lip. ‘Got it! FBI agent linked to that big trial Christie was involved in about eighteen months, two years ago. The mafia guy, remember? Yeah, I’m sure Donaldson was the name of the FBI agent who was a major witness.’
‘ So an FBI agent and a female who we don’t know are going round visiting witnesses?’ Siobhan wanted this to be cleared up.
‘ Probably his wife. She’s a policewoman, ex-Lancashire now in the Met. Works at Bramshill these days, I think.’
‘ I know her,’ Morton declared. ‘She was one of my course tutors on the senior command course.’
Morton looked at the statements again. His mouth sagged as something else dawned on him. ‘These are photocopies of photocopies.’
Gallagher’s brow creased.
‘ Luton screwed his copies up when I caught him. These should be creased, for God’s sake! Look, look at them. You can see that the ones they’ve been copied from were creased. I am surrounded by imbeciles.’
‘ Let me look.’ Gallagher took them from his boss. It was true. They were photocopies of creased statements. Gallagher’s despair showed on his face. ‘So they’ve still got the copies Luton made?’
‘ It fucking well looks that way, doesn’t it?’ screamed Morton. He took in a deep breath. ‘Seems we’ll have to sort Henry Christie out properly this time.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘ I don’t suppose for one moment you’ll remember me, sir…’
Before he had a chance to finish, the older man said, ‘Course I bloody do, you’re Henry Christie. I don’t forget faces like yours in a hurry.’
The former ACC of Lancashire Constabulary, Roger Willocks, stood to one side and allowed Henry into the house. He pointed to the lounge and Henry went in.
Henry could not fail to see the large number of sympathy cards around the room, filling every available flat surface.
‘ I’m sorry, Mr Willocks. If I’ve come at a bad time…’
‘ No, no, no, nothing of the sort. My wife died nearly a month ago Cancer. Just haven’t got round to taking the cards down yet. Seems such a final thing to do.’
He smiled sadly at Henry.
‘ It’s good to have a serving cop round. Most of my friends are retired now and I don’t have any particular connection with the Top Team now. Coffee?’
They chatted briefly about the good old days — which Henry was glad to see the back of, actually — and Henry told him of the sweeping changes which were taking place today in the job.
Willocks was not impressed. ‘Glad I got out,’ he said. He put his coffee down. ‘So, my lad, to what do I owe this honour? I don’t suppose you’ve dropped by just to delve into the past, have you?’
‘ Yes and no.’ Henry paused and gathered his thoughts together. ‘A few years ago you headed an enquiry into the North-West Organised Crime Squad.’
Willocks’ face blackened over. ‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it,’ he said stiffly.
‘ I need your help,’ Henry begged him. ‘Two police officers have died within the last week, another has been shot, and another is having his balls squeezed — and the thread through them all is that squad. The more I find out about it, the less I like — and my testicles are starting to hurt quite badly.’
Willocks’ gaze drifted around the cards in the room, all sent in sympathy for his departed wife.
He laughed to himself and said, ‘Don’t suppose it matters now she’s gone.’ He turned to Henry.
‘ You’ve only scratched the surface,’ Willocks commented, when fifteen minutes later he had listened to Henry’s very edited version of events. ‘Come with me, Henry, let’s go to my thinking shed.’
He led the detective through the house and out into the garden at the rear. The rain had stopped and the cloud had thinned considerably. They walked down a path to the garage and entered it by means of a door at the back. Inside it was dark and Willocks pulled a light switch. A series of three spots came on, revealing a workshop with lots of pieces of furniture scattered about the place in different stages of renovation. A workbench was covered in tools of all descriptions. Fumes which Henry assumed were paint-remover or turps pervaded everything.
‘ Don’t light up, whatever you do,’ warned Willocks with a laugh. ‘Leave the door open, it’ll clear. This is where I spend my spare time. Buy crap, make it look good, sell at car boot sales. My hobby,’ he said proudly.
Henry, to whom anything in the sphere of DIY was an anathema, tried to look impressed. He sat on a newly
