had a criminal record, though, for an assault on his eighteenth birthday: he’d bitten the ear off a middle-aged man in a pub and had been given a year’s probation after three witnesses swore that he had been provoked. It was the only time he had been in court but it meant that his fingerprints, teeth impressions and DNA were in the system.
Kerr had channelled the profits from the robberies into drugs but, because of his record, he took more care than most to cover his tracks. He was paranoid about phones and did virtually all his business outdoors, face to face. There were hundreds of surveillance photographs in his police file, but no hard evidence of drugs-dealing. The police had looked into Kerr’s nightclubs, and while they were sure he was using them to launder his drugs profits, they hadn’t been able to prove it. There were also rumours that his men were extorting money from other nightclubs in the Manchester area, but only one owner had ever complained officially – his club had burned down the next day and he left the city shortly afterwards.
Shepherd read the file with a heavy heart. It was always the really nasty pieces of work who got away with it. Petty thieves, small-time pimps, street-corner drugs-dealers were rounded up, tried and packed off to prison. But the real villains were virtually untouchable. They surrounded themselves with physical and legal protection, intimidated or bought their way out of trouble, and caused untold misery to the population at large. Time and again, in police and Customs files he saw appeals for major investigations turned down because the resources weren’t available: it was too expensive to put together a case that was guaranteed to result in a conviction. And the powers-that-be couldn’t afford to move against the likes of Kerr without a guarantee of success. If the case collapsed they would look incompetent, so it was easier, and safer, not to try.
The Drugs Squad had tried working its way up the chain, picking up dealers on the street with balloons of heroin in their mouths, then using the threat of a jail sentence to get them to roll over on their supplier. They’d had some success, putting two major wholesalers away, but they couldn’t get near Kerr or his associates. People were simply too scared to give evidence against him.
Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. What about Angie? She, more than anyone, must know what her husband was capable of. Would she be prepared to go into the witness box and tell a court how he brought hundreds of kilos of heroin and cocaine into the country? And what about afterwards? If the Crown could find a non-corruptible jury and a judge who couldn’t be paid off or intimidated, and if Charlie Kerr was sent down for ten or fifteen years, what would happen to her? A lifetime in witness protection? Or a bullet in the head from the contract killer that Kerr would surely put on her trail to show the world that you never went up against Charlie Kerr?
Angie Kerr’s life as she knew it was about to end. If she refused to help the police she’d go to prison on conspiracy to murder. If she co-operated, she’d be in hiding for the rest of her life. And Shepherd knew that anyone could be found eventually, providing you had time and money. And Charlie Kerr had plenty of both.
Roger Sewell finished drying himself and tried to pull on the hotel robe. It would barely have fitted a man half his size and he couldn’t get it across his shoulders. He swore and flung it away from him. The hotel room was eight paces from door to window, and six from the bed’s headboard to the TV cabinet. Sewell knew this because he had spent the best part of the day pacing up and down, cursing Larry Hendrickson for wanting him dead, and the police for keeping him locked in a room the size of a cell. He’d only agreed to co-operate in the first place because he wanted to see Hendrickson behind bars, but right now Hendrickson was probably wining and dining a couple of escort girls in one of Manchester’s top clubs.
Sewell glared at the half-eaten cheeseburger and chips on the dressing-table. He hadn’t stayed in anything below four stars since his teenage years. The food was terrible and they didn’t have a bottle of wine for more than twenty pounds. Sewell wouldn’t ask a dog to live in the place, but the cops seemed to think it was acceptable to ask him to stay put for another two days. And Sewell hadn’t been fooled by the smooth-talking Superintendent Hargrove. Something had obviously gone wrong and they wanted to keep him on ice until they’d covered their arses. He didn’t believe Hargrove’s story about there being another contract. They’d screwed up their investigation and Sewell was paying the price.
He wrapped a towel around his waist, picked up the remote control and flicked through the TV channels. Nothing but soap operas and quiz shows. There were at least three policemen downstairs so there was no way he could leave the hotel. When they’d first told him about Hendrickson’s plan, they’d asked him not to tell anyone else, not even his family. Not that Sewell had much in the way of family. A mother in a nursing-home in North Wales, a sister who’d got halfway round the world during her gap year, married an Australian and never come home, and a couple of elderly aunts. If Sewell died, the only people at his funeral would be business acquaintances – he had fewer friends than he had relatives. He had followed instructions and no one knew where he was. But that meant he didn’t know what Hendrickson was doing with the company, or its money. If Hendrickson was sure he’d got away with murdering Sewell, he wouldn’t hurry to take over the company. He would probably wait a few days before he reported him missing, then bring in his own man as cosignatory on the bank accounts and sell the company. He had been pestering Sewell to sell for the past three years but he had always refused. Sewell owned seventy per cent of the shares so there was no way Hendrickson could sell without his agreement. Or death.
Everything depended on Hendrickson being convinced that no one suspected he had murdered his partner. If Hendrickson knew the police were closing in on him, he’d probably empty the bank accounts and make a run for it. Some offshore accounts could be accessed 24/7, and it wouldn’t take more than a few phone calls to transfer around half a million pounds out of the business. If Hendrickson realised the police were on to him, that would be more than enough running-away money.
Sewell picked up the hotel phone and pressed nine for an outside line. He smiled as he got a dial tone. He was fed up to the back teeth of following instructions. He could call his lawyer, John Garden, and at least check up on the bank accounts to see if Hendrickson had been making unexpected withdrawals. A few minutes on the phone would either put his mind at rest or confirm his worst fears. Garden had been on Sewell’s payroll for almost ten years and he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone.
Sewell tapped out the number of his lawyer, but before he’d hit the fifth digit a brusque voice was on the line: ‘Sir, who are you trying to call?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ said Sewell.
‘I’ve been instructed not to let you make any phone calls,’ said the man.
Sewell recognised the voice of the sergeant who’d brought him to the hotel in the first place. ‘I want my laptop brought in, and I need cash.’
‘No visitors, sir. Those are my orders.’
‘You tell me I can order food to be brought in, but I have to use cash and I’m down to my last twenty quid.’
‘I’ll speak to the superintendent,’ said the sergeant.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Sewell. ‘I’m cooperating, I’m doing everything you ask – all I want is my laptop and some cash.’
‘Like I said, sir, I’ll speak to the superintendent.’
‘I want to talk to my lawyer,’ said Sewell, forcefully.
‘I can’t allow that, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘without the superintendent’s say-so.’
‘Isn’t there something called habeas corpus?’ said Sewell. ‘A lawyer has the right of access to his client?’
‘That applies to people in custody, sir,’ said the sergeant.
‘Well what do you call this?’ asked Sewell. ‘It’s worse than prison.’
‘I think that’s an exaggeration, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ve visited a few in my time and I don’t remember one with room service.’
‘Listen, you sarcastic piece of shit, either I talk to my lawyer tonight or I set fire to my room. There’s no way you’ll be able to keep me here if the place burns down.’
‘That would be a very foolish thing to do, sir.’
‘Tell Hargrove I want to talk to my lawyer or I start lighting matches.’ Sewell slammed down the phone. He picked up his room-service tray and threw it against the wall.
It was just after nine o’clock when Keith Rose got home. As he pulled into the drive he saw his wife at the sitting-room window. She waved and disappeared. He drove into the garage and went through the internal door to the kitchen. Tracey was in her pink dressing-gown, pouring boiling water into two mugs. ‘Sorry I’m late, love,’ he said, putting his hands on her hips and nuzzling her neck.
