He stroked Karen’s hair. It felt coarse and grubby. Stale.
She tilted her head and looked up. Tears flooded her eyes, pouring down her cheeks. Make-up ran, lipstick smeared. She would have been the first to admit she looked a mess.
‘ I’m sorry, Karl,’ she said.
The door opened before she could finish.
FB and a sidekick strutted businesslike into the room.
‘ Oh, this is fuckin’ great,’ he shouted. ‘Straight back to your old tricks and the bodies are still warm. I should’ve known. You’re an uncaring, unfeeling slag. Yes, a fuckin’ slag and you’ll never be any different. ‘
Karen and Donaldson had stepped a pace apart from each other.
They were speechless.
‘ Right — collect your things. You’re off this investigation as of now and you’re also suspended from duty pending a full enquiry.’
‘ Suspended?’ she said in disbelief. ‘On what grounds?’
‘ Neglect of duty, disobeying a lawful order, bringing the force into disrepute… you name it, lady, it’s there. Unfortunately you’ll be on full pay. May I have your warrant card, please? As of now you’re banned from entering any police station, other than as a member of the public. You must go home and remain there until D and C contact you.’ FB was in full flow. ‘Do you know how many lives you’ve destroyed by this thoughtless operation? And do you care? I’ll bet not.’
Karen couldn’t answer.
‘ Let up, will you, pal?’ Donaldson cut in.
‘ You shut it, Yank,’ snarled FB, pointing. ‘You’re not involved in this.’
‘ Not involved?’ Donaldson stepped forward and grabbed FB’s lapels, heaved him onto his toes and whacked him back against the wall. They stood nose to nose. ‘Not involved, you asshole? My friend died in my arms today, you little shit. Not involved? I oughtta punch you into next week.’
His big clenched fist drew back. FB braced himself, wondering what time-travel would feel like.
Karen caught the fist before it connected. ‘Karl, Karl. There’s no need for that. It won’t do anyone any good… and please, let me fight my own battles.’
‘ But it’d make me feel so damned good,’ he said, reluctantly dropping the sweating FB.
Numbly, Karen rummaged through her handbag until she found her warrant card. She placed it photo-up on her desk. She collected her coat, slung it around her shoulders and walked out of the office, averting her eyes from everyone else’s.
‘ Good fuckin’ riddance,’ FB called out childishly. ‘And stay away from the Chief — he doesn’t need your poison.’
‘ You be quiet,’ Donaldson warned him. He came up close to FB again. ‘I don’t know you, but you sure got bad manners and if she hadn’t stopped me your teeth would be stickin’ outta your ass now because I’d’ve smashed them that far down your goddamned throat.’
Donaldson hurried out of the office after Karen, but she’d already caught the lift. He ran down the stairs into the car park — just in time to see the back end of her car pull away into traffic with a screech of tyres.
Chapter Ten
The surveillance was back on.
The suspected drugs dealer in the Porsche was gunning down the west-bound carriageway of the M55, heading out towards the Lancashire coast. He was averaging about 100 mph — not particularly excessive for such a car — but it showed he was fairly relaxed about things and didn’t think he was being followed. What he didn’t know was that a sophisticated tracking device had been fitted to the underside of his car and was emitting a powerful, easy to follow signal to the four-car RCS surveillance team, the nearest of which, two miles behind, was driven by Henry Christie.
This is an absolute piece of cake, Henry thought, alternately watching the tracking monitor fitted to the dash, the road ahead, the road behind. He’d only managed to get hold of the tracker by a combination of accident and theft early that morning. In their tiredness, another RCS team, going off-duty after an unsuccessful night’s work, had forgotten to lock it away. So Henry nicked it.
He was alone in his car. Terry was still off sick with his broken thumb and Henry didn’t really feel inclined to be working with anyone else at that stage. He wished to avoid talking about the bomb and its unpleasant aftermath. He just wanted to be at work, doing something, chasing someone, taking his mind off it. He did have a constant dull headache he couldn’t rid himself of, though, due to the bump on his temple. That was reminder enough.
When the bomb exploded, the surveillance operation on the dealer had obviously gone to rat-shit. They had lost him for the time being and it had taken Henry and his team the best part of that day to relocate him and his car in Manchester and then get into position once the tracker had been fitted.
The tracker had proved to be a godsend once the target had started to move, about 8p.m. The team had followed him without a hitch around Manchester for about twenty minutes and eventually onto the motorway network. He’d taken the M61 out of the city, picked up the M6 north and cut left onto the M55 where he was now, at two minutes to nine.
Henry hadn’t a clue what he was up to, nor where he was headed. Because of the bomb they were starting from scratch again.
Presumably he’d sold on his Ecstasy tablets. Henry hoped he was going into Blackpool to do some wheeling and dealing in the pubs and clubs where perhaps he could be caught red-handed.
It would be nice to arrest him in Blackpool, Henry thought. That way he could go straight home. See his wife and children. Even if it was late. He hadn’t given them much time recently and he wanted to change that. They all needed a holiday and he vowed that as soon as he could arrange some leave they’d scoot off to sunny Spain.
On the final few miles into Blackpool, where the MSS narrows into a normal two-lane road, they hit the tailback of slow-moving Illuminations traffic, inbound to Blackpool. Hundreds of cars crammed full of families, all drawn by the world-famous lights fantastic. Everyone, including the Porsche, was forced to a snail’s pace.
Henry decided the time had come to move up into visual contact with the target. He accelerated, executed a few hairy overtakes, causing some swerving, swearing, fist-shaking and angry horn blasts, and slotted in two cars behind the target.
Leaning forwards, he pushed the button to switch on the car radio. It was 9 p.m. He hadn’t heard any news today. He tuned in to Radio Lancashire and almost crashed into the car ahead when the announcer calmly reported the deaths of three police officers in a firearms incident in Blackpool where the person responsible had managed to evade capture; the same person, incidentally, wanted for questioning in connection with the M6 bombing.
It was 9.30 p.m.
The public house on the promenade was busy, packed to the doors. Henry Christie squeezed in, his eyes roving the bar, searching for his man who he was sure had come in here. He shuffled sideways in between the crush of people, ensuring his left arm always lay tight across the revolver in his shoulder-holster. His compact Sig Sauer which he’d lost in the river had been replaced temporarily by a more bulky short-barrelled. 38, which in comparison felt like a bazooka stuck under his arm. He would be glad when his new Sig arrived.
The smell of sweat, beer and cigarettes intermingled with the sound of raucous laughter, banter and loud music blasting from the video jukebox. Two huge screens hanging precariously from the ceiling showed the group Take That strutting their pectorals. It was a typical youngsters’ pub. A good place to buy and sell gear — drugs, that is.
Henry still couldn’t see his man but was sure he was in there somewhere.
Since he’d parked his Porsche some ten minutes earlier in one of the back streets behind the promenade, Henry, in a panic, had ditched his own car and tracked the man on foot.