At first Donaldson scanned them fleetingly, but then with growing interest.
‘Well, would ya-’ he began to say, but his exclamation was cut short by a knock on the hotel door. Annoyed, he rose, peering through the spyhole before opening, even though whoever was there had their back to the door. It was his next door neighbour, the lady on the adjoining balcony who had spotted him in his underwear admiring the view. She swirled around as the door opened, dressed in a flimsy, see-through wrap fastened at the neck, opening outwards in an inverted V-shape, over a skimpy bikini.
In her left hand was a bottle of champagne, in her right two fluted glasses.
‘Uh, hi,’ Donaldson said, keeping most of himself out of sight behind the door, as he was still only dressed in his boxers.
She was mid-thirties, tanned, beyond attractive with ample breasts and slim hips. ‘I hope you don’t mind my impudence,’ she said in a vaguely Scandinavian accent, ‘but I thought perhaps we could perhaps
… you know.’ With a swish of gossamer she came through before he could mouth any protest.
‘I…’ he stammered feebly, but she was already in the main section of the room before he could stop her.
She spun. ‘I’m Vanessa, and I’m all alone.’ Her eyes slithered across Donaldson’s broad chest, down across his stomach, then widened at his crotch. Her lips parted wetly.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, flustered.
‘We can have some fun — no strings,’ she promised wickedly.
Donaldson made a chopping gesture with the side of his hand. ‘Look, sorry, I’m rather busy…’
She spotted the laptop. ‘We can watch porn together, if you like? Is that what you’re doing now?’
‘No,’ he almost screamed.
But he wasn’t quick enough to stop her stepping to one side and seeing the image on screen. Her face dropped in horror and slowly turned to Donaldson, the colour having drained from it. ‘My God, what are you into? You sick bastard.’
Donaldson’s shoulders sagged. ‘Time to go,’ he said and wafted his hands towards the still open door.
‘It certainly is.’ She gathered her slip around her as best she could and flounced out of the door, champagne and glasses and all. Donaldson followed and closed it softly behind her, exhaling gratefully when she’d gone, but still reeling a little from the encounter.
‘Jeepers,’ he said.
He had some urgent phone calls to make.
SEVEN
‘ Henry Christie,’ came the tired voice.
‘Henry Christie, you old son of a… something.’
‘Well, well, well, Karl Donaldson, FBI agent extraordinaire, how the hell are you?’ Henry’s voice perked up.
Donaldson was back out on the balcony, dressed this time in Chinos and a polo shirt. The next balcony along was noticeable for its emptiness. Obviously Donaldson’s fetish for post-mortem pornography had terrified his sexy, forward neighbour into locking herself behind closed doors. Donaldson had his mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘I’m good, pal — and you?’
The two men exchanged personal pleasantries for a while. Now old friends, they had first encountered each other over a dozen years earlier when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Since that meeting when their friendship had blossomed, their professional paths had also crossed on several occasions over the years. Also, Donaldson had met a Lancashire policewoman way back then, had wooed and married her, had two children with her, so his connections through her to Lancashire were very strong, even though the marriage was going through a rocky patch that had lasted way too long.
‘Got your email,’ Donaldson said.
‘What email would that be?’ Henry asked. From his tone, Donaldson guessed he was harassed and irritable, as usual, and was only giving the time of day through politeness.
‘The dead guy email.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Henry said, remembering asking for a copy of the circulation to be sent to Donaldson, plus photos.
‘Have you identified the guy yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anywhere near identifying him?’
‘Who can tell?’
‘Any suspects?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘I think we have one dead witness and maybe another who’s not over keen to show his face… still working on it.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘There’s the possibility that someone saw the murder and was killed for it, and maybe another witness saw the same thing but is still out there… would you like me to spell it out for you?’
‘Ooh, mister touchy… but the dead guy is still unknown?’
‘At the moment, yes — why?’ he demanded.
‘Now don’t get shirty with me, but would it help you at all if I knew who the victim was?’
Donaldson’s next call was to Don Barber, his boss. ‘Don — Karl. Can you speak?’
‘Go on, pal.’
‘I’m assuming you’ve got an email from Lancashire Constabulary?’
Barber hesitated. ‘It’s one of many I haven’t opened — and at the moment I’m nowhere near a computer. Why, Karl?’
Donaldson briefly outlined the nature of the message. Barber listened without comment.
‘Sounds horrific,’ Barber said when he’d finished talking. ‘What’s the issue?’
‘I’m pretty sure the dead guy is Rosario Petrone.’
There was a gap of silence. ‘You are joking. Jesus.’
‘No, Rosario, Don, not the messiah, but the guy who ordered the hit in Majorca? The guy who went to ground when the bullets started flying afterwards. The guy you’ve been searching for, for the last three years, almost. The guy, who even though he didn’t pull the trigger, is ultimately responsible for Shark’s murder.’
‘Petrone?’ Barber said incredulously. ‘In freakin’ Blackpool, England — that Blackpool?’
‘Yep, I’m pretty sure it is. Get to a computer, check the circulation.’
‘It’ll be sometime before I can, but if you say it is, Karl, then I believe you. You’re great with faces.’
‘It might be worth my while getting up to Lancashire,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘I’m on good terms with the cops up there. I think we need someone on site to see what the score is… and they think they have a witness. What d’you think?’
‘A witness?’
‘Yep.’
The line went silent. Then Barber said, ‘OK Karl, get up there as soon as you can, see what’s happening, see if we need to be involved.’
‘Something I need to do here first, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Check with Fazil. If he comes across, I think we need to deal with him. He could be the key to the American.’
‘You’re certain he’s the one who delivered the weapon?’
‘As I can be.’
‘But he doesn’t want to deal?’
