or six quid an hour; has to work all the hours God sends to pick up anything approaching a decent pay packet. Has a girlfriend… some slag who works behind the bar at his local club. Most of the adult male population of Bispham have been through her, apparently.’
‘ Why’s he gone bad?’
Smith shrugged. ‘I suppose carting millions around and getting paid fuck-all for it might have something to do with it. But I’d say the real reason is debt.’ Smith counted on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The mortgage, his car’s on HP, and last but not least, he owes money to a local bookie and to a loan shark, a guy with a very bad rep.’
‘ You know him?’
‘ Of him.’
Crane nodded. ‘Get him to back off.’
‘ Should I pay him off?’
‘ No, just get him to tread water with Hodge for a while.’
‘ Will do.’
‘ Are you sure Hodge isn’t a cop?’ Crane asked. He watched for Smith’s reaction.
Smith breathed in deeply, held it in while he considered the question, exhaled slowly. ‘How can I say for sure, Bill? I’ve had him well checked out by this private detective I told you about, and I reckon he’s done a pretty good job in such a short space of time. He’s still on it, by the way.
‘ Cops have good legends, I admit. A lot of time and effort goes into them, but I reckon Hodge is just an arsehole on the make, a greedy cunt. He’s seen an opportunity and is going for it.’ Smith looked out of the window. ‘Is he a cop, though?’ Then he sang, ‘How can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing?’ The old David Cassidy number.
It brought a smile to Crane’s face. ‘Yeah, right. OK then, what about this being a set-up? Is it some kind of elaborate plot to do us? He came to you and that worries me.’
‘ But only because Tony Roberts picked up on what Hodge was saying around the clubs. I’m the one who followed it up. He didn’t actually come to me.’
‘ Bluff, counter-bluff, falling into the trap,’ Crane offered sagely.
‘ Could be, Billy, could be, but I doubt it. My gut tells me that Colin Hodge is a genuine greedy, weak-kneed bastard who wants to escape from a squalid little shitty life, like a million other people. They just do the lottery instead.’
Crane watched the passing landscape for a while. He sniffed. ‘OK, let’s go with him — but keep our eyes and ears well pinned.’
A smile of satisfaction came to Smith’s face.
‘ Next question, Don: does he genuinely carry that amount of cash?’
‘ Haven’t been able to sort that one out yet, Bill. Working on it.’
‘ All right — keep snooping.’ Crane stretched and adjusted his position on the seat. ‘What’s happening with the murder investigation?’
At that exact moment, Loz was overtaking a slow-moving van. On hearing the word ‘murder’, he nearly left the road.
‘ Fucking watch it!’ Crane yelled at him.
Loz regained control. ‘Sorry, guys.’
‘ As far as I can tell, they’re getting nowhere with it. Obviously the cops reckon it’s drug-related — correct, to a degree. Otherwise, nothing.’
‘ What about the garage-owner?’
‘ Won’t be a problem — knows nothing anyway. I arranged use of the garage through a long chain of people. I’m well down the line, too far down to unravel. Don’t worry, I’ve been very careful.’
Crane leaned back. He wanted to know everything, but for the moment he was content.
They had just reached the outskirts of Los Cristianos. There were many questions still to be asked.
Contrary to widespread public belief, exaggerated by police dramas on TV and film, murders are not solved by maverick cops acting on their own instincts, breaking rules, disobeying their supervisors and falling into bed with sexy suspects. They are solved by routine, often tedious investigation by professional detectives who dedicate time and effort, often unpaid and unrecognised, and occasionally a smidgen of creativity, to catching the murderer.
Whilst it can be exciting to be part of a Murder Squad, most of the work is boring, generated by a harassed office manager churning out ‘actions’ which are then allocated to detectives — usually, but not always, working in pairs. They then follow up the ‘action’ to the bitter end until they get a result, or otherwise. Then they go back to be given another, and so on and so forth — until there is a breakthrough. Even then, the actions don’t stop.
Much to her surprise and delight, Danny had been drafted on to the murder team. These emotions were tempered by an action which, whilst of vital importance to the whole investigation, seemed to be getting nowhere fast. Very frustrating, as she believed this could be the key to the whole thing.
The action read, very simply, Identify the unknown male in the vehicle inspection pit. She was then expected to follow up all the avenues open to her to achieve this objective.
The first and most obvious port of call was to the Fingerprint Department. Danny had personally taken the dead man’s dabs whilst his body was on the mortuary slab, awaiting post-mortem. She had held his cold flesh, applied the fingerprint ink with a roller and manipulated good quality prints on to the required forms. That bit did not bother her in the least; what did was the sight of the head wounds. She could not stop her eyes from flicking up towards them, seeing injuries which reminded her of Jack Sands’s wounds as he lay in her fridge. However, she completed the task, relieved to get away.
Fingerprints are not without their problems. Firstly, the obvious one: if the person is not in the system, there is no result. Secondly, if the person is not on the ‘Livescan’ data base — the computerised fast-track fingerprint recognition system — then a protracted manual search of all files has to be carried out. Even if the person is on record, there is the possibility that it could take weeks, even months, to match the dabs. There is also the minute possibility that a match might not be made. No system is infallible.
The dead man’s prints were not on ‘Livescan’ and after three days, no manual match had been made. Danny was getting nowhere with her ‘action’. Dental records were another option to identification and she was awaiting results from this, which can also be a long-drawn-out process.
Another avenue to explore is Missing From Home files, but they were not producing anything of interest as yet and anyway, Danny held out little hope from this. It was more than likely the dead man was from the criminal fraternity, and mysterious disappearances amongst felons and their families did not always result in someone being reported missing.
Obviously the murders had generated a great deal of media interest. The press, locally and nationally, and local TV had been more than happy to circulate an artist’s impression of the dead man. This was Danny’s biggest hope in trying to ID the guy. The media usually prompted response, but so far there had been zilch.
Danny knew that FB was in contact with the Crimewatch TV programme, and other similar shows, with a view to getting some lengthy national TV time — but so were forty-two other police forces, all clamouring and claiming their crimes were the most important ones. If Lancashire could get it on soon, there would be a pretty good chance of a result. Big ‘if’.
As for the dead man himself, he had been completely naked. No clothing or documentation had been found, so nothing from that angle either.
Danny sat at a desk in the Murder Incident Room (MIR) and scratched her head. This was her first mega murder enquiry and she had been tasked with a pivotal ‘action’. She was getting nowhere with it and now she was grasping at straws.
Colin Hodge’s apartment was in Los Cristianos, about a mile away from the centre of the small port, in a block of at least fifty other similar apartments. There was a large pool outside next to which was a snack bar selling food and drink.
The woman from the night before had left and he was alone. His head was more together following his shower and another screw therein. He had spent the last hour on a sun lounger by the pool, sipping San Miguel and reading a paperback thriller. He reached the end of a chapter and folded down the corner of the page, then lay back with the book on his bare chest, his right hand reaching down for the beer at his side.
