killings when they had enough people of their own willing to have a try at earning their spurs?
Donaldson could understand them bringing in one or two — as Rosario Petrone was alleged to have done by recruiting the ‘American’ to carry out the hit in Majorca.
And the long-range hits were something special. Not many people outside the military were capable of carrying out such hits. Donaldson had a good knowledge of such people.
He opened another file and studied the profiles of half a dozen professional killers. Two were actually in jail, another was believed to have been killed in Africa, leaving three operational. One of these was believed to be living in Thailand with young boys for company. Another was a British ex-special forces soldier who was supposed to have carried out a hit in the north of England recently and was lying low. That left one, and the chance of him being hired by the Mafia to carry out three assassinations was, whilst possible, pretty remote.
Donaldson sighed, rubbed his neck. He flicked back to his personal email and his heart lurched when he saw another message had landed from ‘VanLang’. He opened it with trepidation. It read, ‘Please reply. Am desperate!! XXX’.
He wondered if he had enough money in his bank account to bring a hired assassin out from retirement.
Henry had known Bill Robbins for a long time. In the eighties they had worked briefly as PCs together, but more recently Bill had worked with Henry to help prevent the American State Secretary being blasted to smithereens by terrorists. Since Henry had become a superintendent on FMIT he had tried to get a role for Bill on the team, but the Chief Constable had blocked his efforts. Bill therefore continued to be a firearms trainer at the training centre at HQ, as well as being required to carry out regular operational duties in his ‘down time’. Bill had asked to be issued with a broom so he could shove it up his arse and clean the floors as well as everything else. He had submitted the report as a joke and a broom had been subsequently issued to him by stores with instructions for use.
Henry had got permission from FB to have Bill dropped off at Preston nick, fully tooled up, to drive Henry and Mark back to Blackpool, and to provide armed protection should it be necessary.
Henry leaned forward and whispered into Bill’s ear as they reached the roundabout at Marton Circle on the outskirts of Blackpool. Rather than going down Yeadon Way into Blackpool, a road that led almost directly to the police station, Bill veered left and went towards Lytham instead.
Sullen, not even looking up, Mark did not even notice the change of direction.
Henry sat back. ‘You’ve gone off the rails, Mark. I thought you were better than that.’
‘Than what?’
‘Shitting in people’s sheds, nicking bikes… robbing people. I really thought you were something different.’
Mark eyed him. ‘What’s this? You a social worker now?’
‘No, I’m a cop doing a job.’
‘Oh, friggin’ spare me.’ Mark now saw they were headed somewhere other than Blackpool. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere I can talk to you.’
‘Somewhere to beat me up?’
‘I do that sort of thing in the cells.’
‘Last time you talked to me, you conned the shit out of me, then you got what you wanted and pissed off.’
Henry reddened at the accusation.
‘True, eh?’ Mark rammed home his steel-tipped advantage.
Henry’s lips tightened into a thin line.
Bill reached the T-junction at the seafront. A right turn would take him to Blackpool, left towards Lytham. He went left, past Pontins, then right on to the sand dune front at St Annes and drew up on the car park next to the beach cafe. Bill climbed out, stretched his legs. Mark caught sight of the holster at his side under his windjammer, and the Glock pistol in it.
Donaldson stood up, exasperated. In his role at the Legat, he had access to many computer files at all levels, but as he clicked on to the ones he particularly wanted to see, this access was denied.
‘Goddamn technology,’ he said through gritted teeth and paced around the study. It had previously been a garage, but when the house had been rebuilt following the fire, the space had been converted into a fairly airy office. Donaldson’s mind went briefly back to the arson attack that had almost killed Kate. That had been a hell of an experience for both of them.
There was a tap on the closed door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course you can ma’am,’ Donaldson cooed as he opened the door.
‘I heard you muttering.’
‘Just annoyed at the computer. I can’t access something I need to see, but it’s probably because I’m doing it from here rather than in the embassy,’ he reasoned, not really knowing too much about such things. He used technology well enough but didn’t understand how or why it worked.
‘Could you use another drink?’
‘That would be fine.’
He followed her into the kitchen where the coffee-filtering machine was dripping and hissing away. He leaned against a worktop as Kate reached for a couple of mugs from hooks on the wall. It was still on the tip of his tongue to admit his unfaithfulness, but he checked himself. Telling Henry had been as far as he was prepared to go in the self-torturing stakes for one day. To reveal all to Kate, he guessed, would be disastrous. He was of the opinion that men and women were wired up differently, that the picture they saw might be the same, but each sex viewed it differently. He knew Henry wouldn’t say a thing to anyone, but suspected Kate might see it as her duty to tell Karen.
She filled a mug for him and handed it over, looking directly into his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t say a thing, you know,’ she said as though she’d read his simple mind.
A thought skittered through his synapses. If I were being tortured, water-boarded, nails pulled out, branded by hot irons, my balls wired up to the electrical circuit, I would not reveal a national secret. But this — this — was much worse than torture. Subtle, psychological prodding, accompanied by a beautiful face and big innocent eyes, a package designed to draw information out of him. And mind reading. Fight it.
‘I’ve nothing to say, honest. You’re barking up the wrong tree. And I need to phone my boss.’
‘There’s a lot of ground to cover, Mark,’ Henry said turning squarely to the lad in the back of the Mondeo. He held up a hand to stop Mark’s protestation. ‘Let me just tell you what I know and then let me tell you something very important.’
Mark sneered, an expression that seemed permanently affixed to his face.
‘First off, I know that you and Rory Costain were out on the rob two nights ago. You beat up two people and stole from them. Maybe you even did more I don’t know about.’ Mark opened his mouth. Henry snapped, ‘Shut it. You robbed a lad in the town centre and a girl just down the road from the nick. But that’s not all, is it? Tell me about the old man, Mark.’
‘What old man?’
‘The one you tried to rob.’
‘Didn’t rob no old man.’
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Don’t know what you’re blabbing about, Henry.’
‘Mark, you stupid little shit. I’ve talked to Bradley and I’ve talked to Katie…’
‘The little twats.’
‘Your mates, actually. People who care about you.’
Mark’s sneering expression showed he thought differently. He folded his arms. ‘Nothing to say.’
‘Have you any idea who the old man was?’
‘What old guy?’ Mark said stubbornly.
‘Ever heard of the Mafia?’
‘Course.’
‘That old man was a Mafia godfather…’ Henry stopped speaking as Mark sniggered. ‘Put two and two together, Mark. You saw him get killed and the people who did it saw you watching. And then they killed Rory and
