The door opened behind him. Alex Bent stepped in.
‘Alex,’ Henry said.
‘Boss?’
‘You OK?’
‘I just did that in the ladies, couldn’t make it this far.’ The DS looked as pale and sickly as Henry. It was one thing to be dispatched to a murder scene, something else completely to be part of one, and both men were emotionally screwed by their near brush with death. They regarded each other wordlessly and blew out their cheeks, and then it was done. There was work to do, killers to catch, and to get into any touchy-feely navel-gazing would only be counterproductive at that moment.
‘Let’s get a coffee, have a chat,’ Henry said, ‘and do a bit of hypothesizing — if there’s such a word.’
‘Coffee’s filtering as we speak.’
They left the toilets and bumped into Rik Dean in the corridor, last seen taking a statement from the clothing store manager.
‘Guys,’ Rik said. He looked concerned. ‘How you doing?’
‘The bullets missed us, so we’re OK,’ Henry said bravely. ‘Billy Costain wasn’t so lucky.’
‘I’m only glad I didn’t go out with you,’ Rik said. ‘I’d no doubt be on a mortuary slab now. I take my life in my hands every time I go out on a job with you,’ he said to Henry. This referred to the unlucky run he’d had in the past when he’d been stabbed once and shot twice, whilst Henry remained more or less unscathed.
‘We’re heading for a coffee. Join us?’ Alex asked.
Rik waggled the sheets of paper he was holding. ‘Yeah, and I’ll go through the salient points of the shop manager’s statement if you like.’
The coffee was good, dark, rich. Henry had it black, no sugar, and it hit the spot. He settled himself down in a chair opposite Alex Bent’s desk in the main CID office and rotated his neck to ease the massive tension in his muscles. He felt like a block of steel and desperately needed to wind down, but doubted if that luxury was something he’d get to enjoy.
Alex was behind the desk and Rik had pulled up another chair alongside Henry. The rest of the office was deserted.
From inside his jacket pocket, Henry’s mobile vibrated as a text landed.
‘One sec,’ he said. Checking the phone he found the message was from Keira O’Connell. It read: ‘IM STILL UP. COMPANY?’ Henry’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed thoughtfully as he speculated whether or not the pathologist was a rabbit-killer. The prospect of ‘popping’ around to see her was still very appealing, especially after the argument he’d just had with Kate, but he would only want O’Connell for one thing and wondered if that would be enough for her. If it wasn’t, then he’d find himself with problems, not least having shagged a woman who knew how to dissect a human body with precision. He would also have to explain why she hadn’t been turned out for Billy Costain’s death. Henry had requested another pathologist be called instead. He deleted the message. ‘OK, Rik, just run through what you’ve got first.’
‘To be honest, not much. The shop was opened about twelve months ago, staff were taken on through a jobs agency and Mario Casarsa, as they knew him, was in charge. He did all the wholesale buying, telling staff it was all genuine stuff at knock down prices because he claimed he had “contacts”.’ Rik emphasized the last word. ‘No one questioned him, they did a good trade and he paid them slightly above the going rates. He was a good boss — apparently — but according to the manager, no one got close to him. And no one knew where he lived. His habit, usually, was to arrive mid morning and leave late. On the day he died, he did that and was still there when the staff left. The manager said he usually left around the nine o’clock mark, from what he knew. When he didn’t show the morning after he wasn’t too concerned, until he heard the radio later in the day and guessed it could have been Casarsa… Petrone.’
Henry scratched his head as he listened to Rik’s exposition. ‘So, it looks like he locked up and started to make his way home on foot. Two lads who wanted to rob him then accosted him?’ Henry looked from one detective to the other. ‘Yeah? Possibly? Which could account for Rory’s hair on the walking stick. Y’know, get back you little rascals, or I’ll whack you, and then he did? And then he got run over and shot in front of them.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Alex said, ‘is why these guys are so intent on plugging witnesses.’
‘Fear of identification,’ Rik said,
‘OK, I kind of get that, but even if Rory and Mark actually saw the killers, it was night-time, street lighting was pretty crap, there could have been obstructions, lots of movement, bad weather. Even the best witnesses would struggle in court, R. v. Turnbull and all that,’ Alex said, referring to a stated case regarding the identification of suspects. ‘Any good defence barrister would tear that evidence apart, and, and,’ he went on excitedly, ‘if the killers are Camorra hit men, surely all they need to do is disappear back to Naples and the chances are we’ll never find them.’
Silence. All three detectives considered this.
‘But supposing Rory and Mark got something better than just a view?’ Alex suggested. ‘Mobile phone? Digital camera?’
‘Yeah, maybe they got photos or even a video of the murder,’ Henry said. ‘But no phone or camera was found on Rory, nor at the scene of his death, and Mark Carter, unless he’s changed, which he may have done, was the only kid I know who didn’t have a mobile.’
‘But the two people who were robbed both had mobile phones stolen, so the lads could have used one or both of them,’ Rik said.
‘And that’s why they’re after the remaining witness,’ Alex declared. ‘Must be.’
Henry rubbed his very tired, unshaven face. His stubble felt like sandpaper. ‘They want the phone and the witness.’
‘And so do we,’ Alex said.
‘Something else bothers me,’ Henry said. ‘How did they know we’d be up on Shoreside, going to pick up Mark Carter? How did they know? They couldn’t have just been cruising on the off-chance and got lucky, surely.’
‘Channel scanning?’ Alex suggested. ‘There was a lot of stuff over the PR’s about it. Comms not having anyone to send. What the job was. There was nothing guarded about our transmissions.’
‘And why should they have been? These radios — ’ Henry picked up his PR and waggled it — ‘are newfangled, state of the art, and we are assured that people can’t listen in like they used to. I could listen to police transmissions on my dad’s radio, once over. Now everything’s supposed to be encrypted. The technology side of this worries me a bit.’
‘What are you getting at, Henry?’ Rik asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted, ‘but if Petrone got whacked by a rival gang, are they organized and resourced enough to have scanners capable of listening to police radios in the UK?’ He looked at his colleagues’ fatigued faces. Neither man had any response to give, their brains now severely addled. ‘Just something to think about, or maybe they did just get lucky.’ He shrugged and wiped his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Best thing we can do now is get some sleep. I think we’ve got most things covered for the moment, haven’t we?’ He looked expectantly at Alex Bent.
‘Yeah — I’ve arranged for uniform to hit Mark Carter’s house at four; British Transport Police have been contacted to keep an eye out for him at Blackpool railway station. All patrols have his details. The crime scene’s been covered and secured. CSI and scientific support will be back at daybreak. Motorway patrols in the north-west are pulling every Volvo estate they spot. I have a couple of DCs coming on at six to kick things off. Think that’s about it.’
‘Right, let’s get some sleep.’ He checked his watch. ‘And be back for a briefing at nine thirty, by which time we should have a team firing on all cylinders. Thanks for your effort, guys.’
Henry drove through the streets of the resort. They were litter strewn and a stiff breeze whipped around the alleyways, blowing torn newspapers and discarded burger packaging out into the main thoroughfares. He stopped at a junction, no others cars on the roads as yet, and looked at his mobile phone. He wished he hadn’t deleted O’Connell’s text now. Idiot, he chided himself for even thinking that he should have kept it. How could he possibly want to sleep with a pathologist? The thought of where her hands had been and what they’d done should have made him shiver with revulsion. But it did not. He turned left.
Eight o’clock next morning, Henry was at Manchester Airport to be the one who greeted Karl Donaldson. He sipped a strong Americano from a polystyrene cup and waited underneath the meeting-point board at terminal two,
