Freshened and sated, Donaldson was back in Henry’s study looking at the laptop. He had a small lager next to him on the desk, which he sipped. It was cold and tasted wonderful with the huge sandwich he’d just eliminated.
His fingertips rested on the keyboard, touching it lightly, but not pressing any keys. When the connection was made he went on to the FBI website and entered his password to take him on to the highly sensitive staff site. He was then asked a series of security questions to enable him to get further into the site and on to the databases he wanted to interrogate.
Things seemed to be going well.
He clicked on a folder named ‘C2’ and a prompt requested a further password from him, which he supplied, then hit ‘enter’ triumphantly.
There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation before the screen flashed ‘ACCESS DENIED’.
He cursed and tried again, thinking he might have entered an incorrect letter or digit, but the response was still the same.
He watched the screen for a few moments, then picked up his phone and dialled his office at the American embassy in London. Even though it was now well past office hours he had every expectation that his shared secretary, a very busty sixty-year-old career FBI admin lady named Jacintha, would still be hard at it. Her family had flown the coop, her husband had popped his clogs (as Donaldson believed they said up north when someone had died) and her life revolved around work, a tiny south London garden and four smelly cats.
‘Cinth, it’s me, Karl.’
‘Hello, sir,’ she said primly. All the men were deferred to as ‘sir’, whilst all the women were given short shrift.
‘Cinth, I’m trying to log on to look at a file, but I can’t seem to get into it for some reason. Any idea why?’
‘Not in the least, sir.’
‘Could you possibly do a quick check with the IT guys? I really need access. Then call me back?’
‘Yes sir, no problem.’
Donaldson exited the programme and went on to his email. Two unread messages vied for his attention with little red flags, both from a Scandinavian lady who was becoming a nuisance. He knew he should really have deleted them without reading, but curiosity urged him on. The messages were actually blank, so he clicked on the attachments.
‘Oh… my… God,’ he said as he opened them. The photographs had obviously been taken by Vanessa herself — he hoped. They were detailed self-portraits of a particular part of her anatomy, held apart by her fingers in such a way that made him cringe.
‘Not even a gynaecologist…’ he started to say and deleted the photographs. He sat back and felt a little less fresh now. ‘What have I done?’ he asked himself.
His mobile phone rang.
‘Karl, it’s Don Barber — what’s happening up there?’
‘Erm…’ he began, choosing his words carefully, ‘we managed to get hold of the witness, who is now in custody in Blackpool,’ he answered, trying to get his mind back on track.
‘Is the lad any use at all?’
Donaldson blinked. ‘Hard to say at this stage. Definitely saw the murderer, saw the killer’s face and a photo was even taken on a cellphone…’
‘What did the photo show?’
‘That’s a good question, Don — because the phone’s missing. The witness who got murdered lost it whilst running away from the scene. So far it hasn’t turned up, which is a pisser.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘The police artist is going to spend some time with the witness tonight, so we’ll see what comes out of that. Don, I can’t seem to log on to some files I want to see. I wondered if you were having problems down there?’
‘No, it’s all working correctly far as I know.’
‘Not what…’ Donaldson started to blurt, about to say, ‘I heard’, but he stopped himself for some reason.
‘What’s that, buddy?’ Barber asked.
‘Nothing… hey, speak later, yeah?’ Donaldson ended the call and sat pensively, mulling things over. He looked at his mobile phone and shook it, but his mind drifted back to the close-up shots he had received from Vanessa. ‘Hell, I wonder if she wants me to send shots of me back to her?’
Henry ate a hearty tea, meat pie, chips, peas, gravy, mug of tea and another sticky bun. A real copper’s feast and it tasted amazing. He had reached a stage in his life where, more often than not, he was reasonably careful about what went into his mouth, but every now and then an unhealthy meal or a fast food breakfast was just what the doctor ordered. The type of food he’d survived on in the eighties, and he always remembered having a stained tie from the juice that ran out of hot chip shop meat pies and always caught him off-guard. It was a long time since he’d eaten such a pie, but the memories lingered fondly.
He told Rik and Bill Robbins, who was still in the canteen, to hang fire, then he went down to the CID office to see how Alex Bent was faring with Mark Carter. Bent was standing at his desk, placing some paperwork on it, having just come back up from the custody suite. Henry asked him how it had gone.
He answered thoughtfully. ‘OK. I’ve got the robbery stuff out of the way. He’s having the Goth and the girl, no problems, and the attempt on the old man. And the shed break. Says he dumped the bike behind those shops near where Katie Bretherton lives. He’s been fingerprinted, photographed and DNA’d, now he’s just having some scran. A social worker’s been with him, but he’s gone out for some food, too. Told him to come back in an hour.’
‘How is Mark?’
‘Not good.’
‘I need to get back to the mortuary, so if you can carry on with Mark, that’d be good. I take it you’re getting on reasonably well with him?’ Bent nodded. ‘In that case, get a witness statement starting from the point where the old man gets hit by the car and up to the present, if you can. Include as much as you can.’
‘I might not have time to get everything in it tonight. It’ll be a long one — and the e-fit guy is here, too.’
‘Do what you can, Alex. I’ll pop down and see him on my way out.’
Mark had only ever been in a cell once in his life before, other than the one at Preston. That had been at Blackpool nick, too, and as he looked around the one he’d been placed in, he realized this was the same one. That was when he’d been locked up for shoplifting, the time when he’d gone off the rails following the death of his sister and he’d ended up running with a bad crew then. A bit like now, he thought as he looked at the sickly cream-flecked walls with obscenities carved into them along with names such as ‘Kev’, ‘Rocky’ and ‘Moose ere 12/4’. Mark knew Moose, a bit of a no-brainer from Shoreside. Big, dumb and harmless, unless you laughed at him. Then he punched your lights out with frightening efficiency.
The key rattled in the door, which then creaked open. Henry Christie stood there. Mark said nothing, couldn’t even be bothered to sneer at him any more. He was too tired.
‘How’re you doing?’
‘Great.’
‘I thought I’d tell you what happens now.’
‘Not interested, Henry. I’ll go with the flow. Big picture is that I’m going to end up in institutions until I’m eighteen — that’s if I live long enough.’
‘We’ll discuss protection later. I just wanted to know how you were, that’s all.’
Mark raised his chin and looked squarely at the detective. ‘As if you give a shit.’
What stung Henry was that Mark was probably right. When he had met the lad before to investigate his sister’s death, Henry had seen a good chance to use Mark to nail a big time drug dealer nicknamed the Crackman. He had played on Mark’s vulnerability to get him in a position from where he could feed Henry information that would lead to the mystery dealer, and, in a skewed way, it had been a successful job. But along the way Henry had made some promises to Mark that he didn’t keep, and that was partly why Mark had veered off the path and been drawn into Rory Costain’s feral lifestyle.
But, like most cops, Henry shrugged off most of the guilt. There was only so much that could be done for people and, at the end of the day — a phrase Henry hated — he wasn’t Mark’s keeper. His mother was, and she’d failed. His big brother had a part to play, too — and he’d failed. Problem was, Mandy was all Mark had and now she
