women shuffled back into the court room for the last time, having reached their verdict after four days of heated deliberation. They sat meekly, avoiding eye contact with the accused.
Detective Superintendent Henry Christie noted the body language and as usual, when he became excited at the possibility of a result, his bottom clenched tightly. He exchanged a very quick glance with the detective inspector sitting next to him, Rik Dean. A glance of triumph. Both men could smell it. Surely this had to be a guilty verdict.
The investigation had been long and difficult, understaffed and fairly low-key, even though the police were hunting a professional killer who had executed a gangland lord by the name of Felix Deakin. Having escaped from custody, Deakin himself had been on the run from the police; tracked by the cops to an isolated rural farmhouse, he had been re-taken into police custody but before the police had even managed to put him in the back of a van, the hit man had struck. From his hiding place up on the moors, almost a mile away, he had expertly blown Deakin’s head apart with a high-powered rifle. He had escaped before the stunned police could react.
Henry was convinced the killer had been hired by one of Deakin’s rivals, a man called Jonny Cain, because Deakin had volunteered to give crucial evidence against Cain in a murder trial. Although Henry was certain of this, certainty didn’t mean evidence, but it was a starting point for what was only part of a complex investigation with many threads.
Setting a small team to work consisting of experienced detectives, intelligence and financial analysts and firearms officers, Henry let them get on with the job. Five months down the line they had a name. From the name came various aliases. From the aliases, bank accounts across the world, complex travel arrangements, forensic tie- ins — and then the location of the individual.
Working with Interpol and the Cypriot police, an armed raid was carried out on a secluded villa near Paphos and a man arrested without any bloodshed or drama.
Three months later, after much solid detective work assisted by a forensic team that managed to link the man in custody to the position he’d laid up in with his rifle (not recovered) on the bleak moors of Rossendale, he was in crown court facing a murder charge, even though he had not said one word whilst in custody. But that didn’t matter.
And now the jury was back.
Henry held his breath as the clerk of the court asked the jury foreman if they had reached their verdict.
The man stood nervously, as though his back was killing him. His eyes did not look into the steel-grey impassive eyes of the killer in the dock. He said, ‘Yes we have, Your Honour,’ addressing his reply to the judge.
Henry glanced at the defendant. He was ex-army, had been a sniper in Kuwait, Iraq and Afghanistan — a superb one — and had left the services and offered his killing skills to the highest bidder. He had an exemplary service record and no previous convictions, facts referred to many times by the smooth defence barrister. But Henry knew he had carried out at least four other assassinations in African republics that had netted him about a million and a half pounds, probably foreign aid money. The killing of Felix Deakin had brought him two hundred thousand, money that was still being tracked by the financial experts, but it was proving tricky to find the source.
The man, who was called Mike Calcutt, allowed his gaze to take in the jury foreman and Henry — pausing just a little too long for comfort on the detective — before looking back at the jury.
The clerk asked if the verdict reached was unanimous or by a majority.
‘Unanimous.’
A whisper of amazement flitted around the public galleries, which were packed with gawping public and greedy media.
The clerk then read out the murder charge against Calcutt and asked if the jury found him guilty or not guilty.
For a brief moment, as the foreman paused, Henry thought he was witnessing some reality TV show, where contestants were voted off.
‘Guilty.’
Henry’s eyes swept to Calcutt. He did not flinch. Cool, cool bastard, he thought. But we got you in the end. If only we could get the bastard who hired you in the first place.
Henry, Rik Dean and four other detectives involved in the case had gathered in a loose congratulatory circle in the public waiting area outside the court-room doors. They all beamed wide smiles and there were lots of handshakes and high-fives amongst them. The kind of euphoria that comes after a protracted, successful investigation that nails a killer.
‘Well done everyone,’ Henry said, checking his watch. He meant what he said, because he’d very much taken a back seat and had only put his twopenn’orth into the machine when asked. Now that he was a detective superintendent he was trying to delegate more and not get involved in day-to-day investigating. It went against his natural instinct, as was the case with most high-ranking detectives who loved to get down and dirty with the lads. Problem was that it was easy to lose sight of the overview and at his rank, as he was learning, that was not something he could afford to do. He had now become a professional plate spinner and this major inquiry was just one of many he had to manage.
‘Drinks?’ Rik Dean suggested. There was an eager gaggle of yeses from his colleagues, who wanted to celebrate in the traditional way. This was although the defendant had yet to be sentenced by the judge. Once the jury had informed the court of the verdict, the defence had immediately leapt up with a desire to make submissions, so the judge had adjourned proceedings when he would hear further bleating from Calcutt’s defence. Then he would sentence him to life imprisonment, the only available option in the case of murder.
‘You guys go ahead.’ Henry delved into his jacket, extracted his wallet and pulled out fifty pounds, which he gave to one of the jacks. ‘Have a round on me. I need to-’ He was interrupted by the arrival of a court usher.
‘Detective Superintendent Christie?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Message from the holding cells… Mr Calcutt wishes to speak to the senior investigating officer before he’s taken on remand.’
Henry looked blankly at the black-smocked man. ‘You mean the defendant, Calcutt?’ The other detectives had become silent.
‘Yes sir, his brief asked me to pass on the message.’
Henry squinted, then looked at Rik Dean. ‘You’re the man,’ he said. ‘Take one of the other guys with you. Your job, I’ll leave it with you.’
Henry strode out of the court and stood on the mezzanine. It had become brutally cold outside and he shivered as he slid himself into his Crombie. His first impulse had been to grab Rik and head down to the cells and see what was behind this turn-up for the books. But he would have been butting in. It was effectively Rik’s investigation and Henry was happy to leave it to him. He had been angling to get Rik on to the Force Major Investigation Team (FMIT), which he jointly headed, and it had taken some persuading to get the nod for Rik to run this investigation. Now that it had proved to be successful, Henry hoped he would be able to convince the chief constable that Rik should have a permanent position on the team. If something came out of speaking to Calcutt, then all the better.
He pulled out his mobile phone, switched it on, called home. ‘Has Karl landed yet?’ he asked Kate, his wife.
‘Just this minute pulled up outside.’
‘Great. Hey — see you soon. And we got a result here, by the way.’
‘Ooh, you are such a good detective,’ Kate cooed mockingly. Henry didn’t pick up on the lack of sincerity and said, ‘I am, aren’t I?’ without a trace of irony.
Flynn took the decision to avoid the Irish bar when he turned out late that afternoon, suspecting that an encounter with Janey might lead to complications he could well do to avoid. After showering and dressing in the tiny terraced villa he rented, he wandered back down to the harbour and trotted down the steps into one of the bars in the complex at the back of the beach itself, wearing his beloved Keith Richards T-shirt and three-quarter length pants. It was still early and quiet, but Flynn knew it was unlikely to get any busier. Many bars were struggling to survive in the economic downturn as tourists kept their own heads down and shied away from foreign holidays. This was one of Flynn’s regular haunts and had managed to keep going by providing bargain booze and inexpensive but good food. The manager smiled at Flynn’s arrival and immediately filled a half-litre glass with Estrella Damm, placing it in front of Flynn, together with a small plate of olives, as he nestled up to the bar. Flynn nodded and
