killed on orders from Petrone at the beginning of a very violent dispute between two clans…’ The door opened and a tray bearing wonderful smelling food and drink was wheeled in by one of the canteen staff. The detectives descended on the free food like hyenas on a dead wildebeest. ‘The short story is that I was assigned to the task of trying to track down the hit man Petrone brought in for the kill, someone we know only as the American. Unfortunately…’ Donaldson bit into a toasted sandwich and made a pleasurable grunt, ‘I got shot doing something else, which kinda blocked my enquiries… however, I got better, but discovered no one else had got anywhere with tracking this guy down, so I got back on the case little by little. In the meantime, Petrone went to ground, no one knew where, but there was a lot of killing going on. Next, I got information about the arrest of the guy suspected of providing the weapon for the American, a guy called Fazil. I went to Malta to interview him but before I could persuade him to come across, he got blown away in his cell, as did a Maltese sergeant and a constable. At the same time I heard Petrone had been found here — a bit unwell.’
‘What are your conclusions, Karl?’ Henry asked him.
He shrugged. ‘That a rival gang has a hit squad operating and that they’ve taken out Fazil and Petrone and your witness. These guys don’t give a shit about human life, they’ll kill you as soon as look at you.’
Henry took a sip of even more coffee. ‘How do you think they found out about Fazil being in custody and were able to operate so quickly?’
‘That I don’t know. We, the FBI, found out pretty quickly via Interpol, and I was there talking to Fazil within hours of the arrest.’
‘They must have good communication and intelligence channels,’ Alex volunteered.
Henry considered what Donaldson had said, feeling a great disquiet about it all. ‘Just how good are those channels?’ he posed.
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’ Donaldson said.
‘Well,’ he pursed his lips. ‘Somehow they get to know about Fazil almost as quickly as you, which suggests their strategic comms must be of the highest order. Secondly, the more I think about it the less I’m convinced it was a coincidence that they turned up at the exact spot where one of my witnesses had been found. That means their tactical comms are also of the highest order. Does that sound like the Mafia to you?’
‘They are very sophisticated,’ Donaldson said. ‘But I see where you’re coming from.’
‘I don’t,’ Alex said.
‘Nor do I,’ Rik seconded.
‘What I’m saying is this: supposing we’re not dealing with the Mafia, at least where Petrone and Fazil are concerned. Suppose we’re dealing with an entirely different animal.’
‘Such as?’ Donaldson asked.
Henry gazed levelly at him. ‘Long shot,’ he admitted, ‘but the baddies out there are pretty desperate to wipe out witnesses. I know the Mafia are too… but maybe we’re actually dealing with someone, some people, some… body, who have a great deal to lose if they’re identified.’ Henry suddenly thought he sounded very lame and unconvincing. ‘I don’t know, but I aim to make sure we keep a very open mind on this. If we get tunnel vision and only look on Petrone’s death as a gangland murder, then we could end up showing our arses.’
It was Donaldson’s turn to regard Henry thoughtfully as they munched their bacon sandwiches.
‘But our operational priority this morning is to find Mark Carter and that will be the thrust of the day,’ Henry said. ‘He could be the key to this and I don’t want to lose him again. He must be found.’
Then, Henry became very tired. He checked his watch and thought back a few hours to the decision he’d made in the early hours as he drove through the streets of Blackpool — to go home instead of seeking solace and wallowing in self-pity between the breasts of a woman who wasn’t his wife. It had been a very close run thing and he almost found himself banging down Keira O’Connell’s front door. Instead he’d driven home and sneaked into the house. He’d needed to get a few hours’ sleep for the day ahead and had hoped to use one of his daughters’ rooms.
But Kate had heard him and, clad in a silky dressing gown, was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Henry half expected to see curlers, a hair net and a rolling pin in her hand.
But as he looked up he saw the beautiful, understanding woman he’d been with for most of his adult life. She was slightly younger than him, but the gap could easily have been ten years. She still had a small frame, no excess fat on her, boobs he had often died and gone to heaven for. The landing light backlit her and Henry could make out her shapely outline through the thin material of her gown. He caught something in his throat as she came downstairs, the big, fluffy slippers making her look slightly comical. She stayed on the bottom step and almost came up to his height.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ He took her in his arms and they embraced warmly. Henry could smell her soap and scent, could feel the outline of her body against his, soft yet firm, making him realize how musty he reeked. He pushed her slightly away and looked into her eyes. ‘Look, I know it’s crap, but someone took a pot shot at me tonight, nearly killed two others and did kill the guy I’d been standing next to.’ Kate nodded as he spoke, her eyes rimmed with moisture. ‘I need to catch these guys and I don’t want to have to hand it over to anyone else. I promise
…’
His uttering was cut short by the placement of Kate’s index finger on his lips. ‘Shush.’
‘And I need to be at Manchester airport at eight to pick up Karl.’
‘I know. Karen rang. She’s going to try and make it later.’
‘I will make it up to you. Prom-’
Once again, the finger. ‘You need a quick shower, then some sleep.’ She took his hand and led him upstairs, her bottom coming level with his face on the way up. He couldn’t resist — never could — placing his hands on her arse. ‘And just to help you sleep, I’ll fuck your brains out first, if that’s OK?’
Her faced angled coquettishly towards him.
‘It’s the only way I will get some sleep.’
He grinned stupidly at the memory, his mind returning to the present.
The internal telephone next to the TV rang. Alex Bent picked it up impatiently. He listened, said a few yes’s and his face began to go pale. He hung up slowly. All eyes were on him. ‘That was comms. Patrols are at Mark Carter’s home address…’
TWELVE
There was nothing subtle about the way in which Mandy Carter had died. She had been gaffer-taped to a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen floor, over the exact spot, Henry noticed, where her daughter Beth had died of a drugs overdose. Her ankles had been strapped to the front chair legs, her wrists to the back legs.
Then she had been tortured and beaten to death.
Henry stood at the kitchen door and surveyed the scene. She had been stripped down to her panties, but there was nothing sexual about this assault. Her head lolled pathetically on her chest, blood and liquid dribbling from her mouth, at such an angle that Henry wondered if her neck had been broken. The final, killing act.
Dressed in a crime scene suit, Henry stepped carefully into the room using the path decided on by the first officer at the scene, one that every person must now take. He walked around Mandy, carefully avoiding the blood splatters, and when he was in front of her, he eased himself slowly on to his haunches and gazed at her pulped face.
He looked at it for a long, long time.
It was an awful mess, her features beyond recognition.
He looked at her feet. They had been smashed flat. Then her shins, which had been broken probably by the force of a sledgehammer, then her knees, pounded to nothing.
The fingers on both her hands had been snapped backwards. And her face destroyed. Henry’s eyes took it all in. Then he stood up and left the room.
He ripped off the paper suit and boots, signed it back in, and the constable in charge of the comings and goings from the scene re-bagged it and dumped it in a container.
Rik Dean, Alex Bent and Karl Donaldson were outside the house and Henry approached them. They broke off
