father had disappeared many years before and he’d been raised by a mother more concerned with a fraught love life than giving Mark the attention he deserved.
Henry also had a bit of his own baggage with Mark. Truth was that Henry had used Mark for his own ends when tracking down the aforementioned dealer, making fake promises before cutting him loose. And Mark still bore that grudge, rightly, even though Henry had been instrumental in keeping Mark out of the hands of social workers after his mother’s brutal death.
Henry hadn’t had contact with Mark for months now. And here he was again, turning up like a bad penny, half-suspecting that Mark might have committed a murder without any supporting evidence.
Inside the restaurant there were two vague queues up to the counter and Henry spotted Mark, capped and uniformed, at the drive-thru window, taking orders via a headset, collecting money and dispensing food. He did not once look up at anyone in the cars.
Henry and Rik walked to the gap at the right of the counter and waited to catch Mark’s eye. But it was as if the lad was on autopilot, everything blanked out bar his task.
Another server, bearing a manager’s badge, stepped up. He was nothing more than a mega-spotty lad.
‘Help you guys?’ he asked. ‘Queue’s there,’ he said authoritatively.
Henry saw his name was Marlon. ‘Need to speak to that lad.’ He pointed a finger at the still oblivious Mark.
‘I’m afraid he’s a bit busy. May I ask what it’s about?’ Marlon asked, doing well to string the words together. Henry showed his warrant card and Marlon squinted at it.
‘Mm, OK.’ The manager turned to Mark who was handing a bagged-up meal through the serving window to a passing motorist. He tapped him on the shoulder and spoke into his ear. It was quite noisy in the restaurant with piped music, voices, cooking sounds, traffic. Mark leaned sideways slightly, his eyes came into focus and he recognized Henry, who gave him a little wave. Mark’s face wilted. In his short life — he was now seventeen — the appearance of Henry Christie had always spelled trouble.
Mark muttered something to Marlon, who nodded and returned to Henry.
‘I’ll let you have five with him, pal,’ Marlon said. ‘He just needs to fulfil these orders and I need to deploy someone to stand in for him. That’ll be me, I guess. So if you want to grab a seat.’
‘OK, no probs, Marlon,’ Henry said. The detectives backed off and found an empty table.
Henry did not sit, though. ‘You hang on here,’ he told Rik. ‘I’ll just mooch out back.’
‘Think he’ll do a runner?’
‘He’s programmed for it.’ Henry glanced over the counter. Marlon had already stepped in for Mark who was nowhere to be seen. Henry walked quickly out, made his way to the rear of the restaurant, and leaned casually on the wall next to a fire exit. He started to count, and as he reached five, the fire door opened outwards and Mark Carter stepped through, zipping up his jacket. Although he glanced both ways, Henry, flat against the wall, was just outside his field of vision for a moment — until the detective pivoted, grabbed Mark by the jacket and slammed him against the wall.
‘Shit,’ Mark uttered, taken completely by surprise.
‘Naughty boy,’ Henry said, pinning him back with one hand, his elbow locked straight. Mark struggled for a few seconds, realized the futility of it and then sagged in acceptance of the situation.
‘What do you want, Henry?’
‘Hey — didn’t realize you’d got a job as a chef.’
Mark eyed him. ‘I’m at college. It just about keeps me afloat. Like I said, what do you want?’
‘Natalie Philips.’
‘What about her?’
‘When did you last see her?’
Mark shrugged, pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Couple of days ago — why?’
‘Been reported missing. Her mum’s worried.’
Mark snorted derisively.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘About as worried as my mum used to be about me. Look,’ Mark was still stuck to the wall, ‘let me go, eh? Won’t run. Promise.’
‘How can I believe that? You’ve already tried.’
‘Only cos I don’t like you. You bring fuckin’ trouble all the time.’
Henry released his grip. ‘When did you last see Natalie and under what circumstances?’
Mark shrugged again. ‘Like I said, couple of days ago.’
‘Where?’
‘College. She does hairdressing there.’ Mark’s eyes played over Henry’s face, trying to read him. ‘Why do you want to know anyway? I know what you do…’ Mark faltered. ‘You investigate murders,’ he said slowly. His lips pursed into an unspoken question as his mind tried to pull the fragments of his knowledge together. And he hit the jackpot. ‘You don’t investigate missing persons.’
‘I hear you were her boyfriend,’ Henry probed, ignoring Mark’s conclusions. Mark suddenly withdrew into himself. Henry sensed that the promise about not running was about to be broken. His hand shot out again.
‘Were you?’ he demanded.
‘I… I might’ve been,’ he stuttered.
Suddenly Rik Dean skidded around the corner of the KFC, a harried look on his face, his personal radio gripped in his right hand. Henry looked at him, annoyed, his face saying, ‘What?’
‘We need to go — now.’ Rik waved the PR, from which could be heard shouts and general noises of mayhem.
‘Why?’ Henry released his grip on Mark’s jacket. Mark didn’t hesitate. He saw the opportunity and fled, ducking sideways, vaulting over a low fence and away, leaving Henry faffing in thin air. He turned on Rik, almost apoplectic. ‘Why?’
‘Officer down,’ Rik said.
FIVE
There had been times in the lives of both men when they’d had to endure tedious hours, sometimes days, of just sitting, watching and waiting for someone to move, or show up — or as in today’s case, simply get into a car and drive off. It was part of the job, but no one could argue that it was anything less than soul destroying. Like most aspects of law enforcement, boredom ruled ninety-eight percent of the time. But most law enforcement officers thrived on the two percent, when it all came together and the adrenaline flowed like champagne.
Today was nothing, particularly for these two men. At least Bill had a roving commission of sorts, whereas the others on the stake-out were tied to their observation points come hell or shine.
They reminisced for a while, each trying to outdo the other with tales of boredom. Donaldson got the gold medal. A four-week long surveillance of a gang of suspected armed robbers operating out of a factory unit in Miami. Donaldson, then a true field agent — a role he recalled with fond whimsy — had endured the month cooped up in a ship’s container with no air-con and very basic sanitation. He and his partner, Joe Kovaks, were determined to see it through, despite the contempt of their colleagues. The gang of four were supposed to set out from the unit, commit their crimes, then return and destroy every fibre of clothing in a blast furnace and wash themselves thoroughly, before stepping back into society.
The intelligence was partly correct.
They did return to the warehouse having committed four cross-state armed robberies in quick succession, killing one man in the process, but where they had set out from was never established.
Donaldson and Kovaks rounded them up without a shot being fired and recovered close to four million dollars in cash.
‘Good days,’ he said dreamily, recalling how shit-scared he’d been.
‘Never had anything quite like that,’ Robbins admitted, ‘but I was part of a team that arrested four armed robbers doing a bank in Preston a couple of years back. Real scary stuff, but I think they were more scared of us,
