hands. It was a powerful, double-edged karate-style chop that knocked the man to one side, giving Donaldson the chance to roll sideways — straight up against Fazil’s dead body that lay along the cell floor behind the door. Like the desk sergeant, he’d been killed by a double-tap to the head and for an instant his and Donaldson’s faces were inches apart, almost nose to nose, but the FBI agent didn’t have time to be shocked.
The attacker was off him. Now he had to somehow regain the advantage by getting to his feet. He did this in a fluid, well-practised motion, rising before the other man could regain his senses.
He kicked him hard in the side of his head, knocking his face out of shape.
It was going to be over now.
Donaldson towered over him, a position from which he had never lost a fight.
Unless someone came up behind him and crashed a baton across the back of his head, sending him into brain-spin land. A searing pain shot across his head, fired down his spine, his legs went weak, he staggered, attempted to turn, but another blow to the head came from his new attacker. He slumped stupidly against the wall, trying to hold himself up, but he slithered down to on to his backside. His head lolled and his fuzzy vision looked at Fazil’s dead eyes. Then his own eyes rolled upwards in their sockets and everything went black.
EIGHT
Henry had been in Blackpool public mortuary when he got the call from Karl Donaldson that afternoon.
‘Who was that?’
He folded away his mobile phone, a thoughtful expression on his face, hidden when he replaced the surgical mask that covered his nose and mouth. He positioned himself behind the figure of Keira O’Connell who was standing by the body of the old man on the mortuary slab. The delayed PM had begun, the incision from neck to groin made and the body cavity opened out, the skin having been pared delicately away from the crushed ribcage.
The pathologist looked over her shoulder at Henry.
‘A guy I know in the FBI, works down in London,’ Henry said.
‘Ooh, very sexy.’
‘Mm, he really is a good-looking so and so.’
‘From what I overheard, he was calling about this chap… does he think he knows who he is?’
‘Yeah, I sent him a circulation and some dead body photos… he does think he knows who he is,’ Henry said tantalizingly.
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Could be a Mafia godfather.’
O’Connell had an electric saw with an oscillating safety blade in her hand, the type used for cutting through bone.
‘In Lancashire?’
‘In the backwoods, you mean, where the natives have lazy eyes and play the banjo really well?’
‘Exactly.’ She flicked the switch on the saw and the blade vibrated.
‘Not as ridiculous as you might think,’ Henry said.
He didn’t expand on the remark there and then, but it wasn’t so long ago that two men with strong Mafia connections and suspected of murders had been arrested in Lancashire on behalf of the police in Naples. He’d had no involvement in the arrests, but knew that the Constabulary had some concerns about Mafia linked individuals lying low in this corner of the world.
Henry had mixed feelings about Donaldson’s call, though. If the ID was correct, it meant, as Henry suspected anyway, this was a professional execution and would be a far reaching investigation. That was an exciting prospect and he’d already had his customary bum-twitch.
The flip side of the coin was that the chances of a successful resolution in terms of arrests and prosecution would be more difficult. Professional killers didn’t usually hang around to get caught, although this lot had hung around long enough to kill a potential witness… so maybe they were still around, especially if they thought there was another witness out there who remained a threat. And if that was the case, Henry could not allow anything to slow down the flow of the inquiry.
He stood back to allow a CSI videographer to get into a better position to record the post-mortem as O’Connell busied herself with the complexity of removing the old man’s crushed ribcage. It was a bit like removing pieces from a Roman mosaic.
Henry checked his watch: three p.m. Would that make it five in Malta? he thought fleetingly, wondering what his old mate Donaldson was up to in the Med. Concentrate. It was more than likely he would be tied up in the mortuary for about the next five or six hours, because it was planned to do Rory Costain’s examination immediately after the old man and both would be fairly long drawn-out tasks. As lead SIO, Henry had a responsibility to be present, even if it tied him up for a considerable period of time. Had the case been less complex he might have delegated the job over to a deputy, but he realized he needed to know absolutely everything about these deaths. So while it went against his natural instinct — he would have preferred to be out and about — it was something that had to be done.
He settled down for a bit of a marathon, but that didn’t mean he was unable to direct ops from the mortuary. He fished out his phone again and dialled directly to a number in the Intelligence Unit at HQ.
‘Ullo,’ came the sullen voice at the other end of the phone.
‘Jerry, it’s Henry Christie.’
‘I know,’ the detective constable replied. He could obviously see Henry’s number on his phone display.
‘Aren’t you happy to hear from me?’
‘Ecstatic.’
Henry chuckled, allowing Jerry Tope his moodiness, even though he was a mere DC and wasn’t showing Henry any respect. He let him get away with it because Tope was a whizz at his job of intelligence analysis — and, unbeknown to many, also a super-duper computer hacker. The latter was a skill that had almost got him into hot water a few times, but it was something Henry was happy to use for the benefit of law and order.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Firstly, as of this moment, you have been co-opted on to my murder squad. I want you to run the intelligence cell… I assume you know what I’m on about?’
‘Yep.’ Jerry knew all about the double murder in Blackpool. He was expecting a call from Henry and was only surprised it had taken him so long.
‘First job… I want to give you a name and I want you to do some research on it. Then I’d like you to get across to Blackpool for seven tonight, ready to debrief the squad at eight thirty with what you’ve got.’
‘Unph… fire away then.’
That done, Henry then called Alex Bent for any updates. Henry had appointed the DS as the Major Incident Room Manager so that nothing happened without Bent knowing. Henry had briefed the quickly assembled murder team at one that afternoon, and all the deployments of staff — controlled by Bent — had been based on the fast track actions that needed to be taken within the first twenty-four hours of an investigation. There was a wide range of headings for these enquiries, such as — identify suspects, exploit intelligence, scene forensics, witness search, victim enquiries, possible motives and others. Each had a pair of detectives working on them.
‘Anything new?’
‘Not as yet. How’s the PM going?’
‘Only just begun… but I have had an interesting phone call
…’ Henry related Karl Donaldson’s news to him and he could hear the scratch of Bent’s pen as he jotted down the details, then added that Jerry Tope was now doing some background. ‘If this is the guy,’ Henry said, ‘we’re probably looking for a basic flat somewhere near to where he was hit. What do they call it when Mafia members go to ground? Going to the blanket, or something? Can you get more uniforms into that area, if possible?’
‘Will do.’
‘Anything further on the missing witness?’
‘No. I spoke to Billy Costain again, but he hasn’t got anywhere as yet.’
‘Right.’ Henry sighed. ‘Forensic links? Footwear? Dog shit? Hair and blood?’
