The two men exchanged personal pleasantries for a while. Now old friends, they had first encountered each other over a dozen years earlier when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Since that meeting when their friendship had blossomed, their professional paths had also crossed on several occasions over the years. Also, Donaldson had met a Lancashire policewoman way back then, had wooed and married her, had two children with her, so his connections through her to Lancashire were very strong, even though the marriage was going through a rocky patch that had lasted way too long.
‘Got your email,’ Donaldson said.
‘What email would that be?’ Henry asked. From his tone, Donaldson guessed he was harassed and irritable, as usual, and was only giving the time of day through politeness.
‘The dead guy email.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Henry said, remembering asking for a copy of the circulation to be sent to Donaldson, plus photos.
‘Have you identified the guy yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anywhere near identifying him?’
‘Who can tell?’
‘Any suspects?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘I think we have one dead witness and maybe another who’s not over keen to show his face… still working on it.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘There’s the possibility that someone saw the murder and was killed for it, and maybe another witness saw the same thing but is still out there… would you like me to spell it out for you?’
‘Ooh, mister touchy… but the dead guy is still unknown?’
‘At the moment, yes — why?’ he demanded.
‘Now don’t get shirty with me, but would it help you at all if I knew who the victim was?’
Donaldson’s next call was to Don Barber, his boss. ‘Don — Karl. Can you speak?’
‘Go on, pal.’
‘I’m assuming you’ve got an email from Lancashire Constabulary?’
Barber hesitated. ‘It’s one of many I haven’t opened — and at the moment I’m nowhere near a computer. Why, Karl?’
Donaldson briefly outlined the nature of the message. Barber listened without comment.
‘Sounds horrific,’ Barber said when he’d finished talking. ‘What’s the issue?’
‘I’m pretty sure the dead guy is Rosario Petrone.’
There was a gap of silence. ‘You are joking. Jesus.’
‘No, Rosario, Don, not the messiah, but the guy who ordered the hit in Majorca? The guy who went to ground when the bullets started flying afterwards. The guy you’ve been searching for, for the last three years, almost. The guy, who even though he didn’t pull the trigger, is ultimately responsible for Shark’s murder.’
‘Petrone?’ Barber said incredulously. ‘In freakin’ Blackpool, England — that Blackpool?’
‘Yep, I’m pretty sure it is. Get to a computer, check the circulation.’
‘It’ll be sometime before I can, but if you say it is, Karl, then I believe you. You’re great with faces.’
‘It might be worth my while getting up to Lancashire,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘I’m on good terms with the cops up there. I think we need someone on site to see what the score is… and they think they have a witness. What d’you think?’
‘A witness?’
‘Yep.’
The line went silent. Then Barber said, ‘OK Karl, get up there as soon as you can, see what’s happening, see if we need to be involved.’
‘Something I need to do here first, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Check with Fazil. If he comes across, I think we need to deal with him. He could be the key to the American.’
‘You’re certain he’s the one who delivered the weapon?’
‘As I can be.’
‘But he doesn’t want to deal?’
‘Not at this stage.’
‘In that case, let him rot a while. You can come back to him later.’
‘I don’t want to miss the chance of a lead to the killer, Don.’
‘I’ll bet he’s a nothing guy. Let him rot.’
Donaldson groaned and said OK. But he hadn’t come all the way to Malta not to get a result of some sort, and even though he promised Barber he would not revisit Fazil, he intended to give the guy one last opportunity.
He clicked his phone shut, pondering. He needed Fazil to talk and maybe the brutal death of an old man on the streets of Blackpool, thousands of miles away, would be the lever he needed to do just that.
Donaldson was unable to book a flight back to the UK until the following morning anyway, an Air Malta flight to Manchester, so he had time to kill. He decided firstly to get into one of the hotel’s restaurants for an early evening meal, then he would visit Fazil, who had been cooking so long in the heat of those cells that, surely, he was now all casseroled and ready to fall apart.
He was in the restaurant at seven and out by seven thirty, passing his very available neighbour entering as he left. There was an expression of horror on her face at being in such close proximity to such a monster. He gave her a crooked leer and left the hotel, calling his wife on the mobile as he walked out into a Maltese evening that was hot and dry.
Whilst the marriage might still be rocky, it was still afloat, and they had an amiable conversation that did go slightly chilly when he told her he would be flying back to Manchester not to London next day. She did cheer up considerably when he suggested that she might head north herself with the kids and meet up at her mother’s, who lived in Lancashire. A date was made.
They finished the call on a loving note. And Donaldson heaved a sigh of relief, but wondered where the relationship was headed. He folded his phone away, but then had another thought and called Henry Christie to make arrangements to be picked up at Manchester airport.
Then he strolled through Valletta, back to the police station.
The heat had not left the dungeons. It was stifling and within minutes Donaldson was sweating heavily again, dark patches under his arms.
Once more he was face to face with Fazil.
‘You know, the more I come to talk to you, the more it will look as though you are talking to me… word gets out about that sort of thing.’
‘You are trying to scare me, FBI man.’
Donaldson nodded. ‘To be honest, you’ve been pretty lucky, haven’t you?’
‘How?’
‘Let’s see… what happened in the aftermath of that shooting in Majorca?’
Fazil shrugged, a gesture he had honed to perfection.
‘I’ll answer that for you: many people died, many people.’
‘People die all the time.’
‘Not always in a hail of bullets.’
‘In this world, dying in a hail of bullets is commonplace.’
‘What would you prefer? Bullets or old age?’
‘You’re still trying to frighten me. It’s not working.’
‘Or how about old age after years of rotting in prison? That could very well be arranged,’ Donaldson said. ‘America and Malta are on excellent terms behind the scenes.’
‘Fuck you,’ Fazil sneered.
Donaldson sighed and changed tack. ‘The killings in Majorca were the opening salvo of a gang war, as I’m sure you know. And I’ll tell you what I know. Rosario Petrone, the head of a Camorra Mafia clan in Naples, ordered the killings, and you were working for him. Three men were lured to their deaths and you provided the weapon that killed them. No, don’t deny it, because I can prove it, Fazil,’ Donaldson said harshly. ‘Those three murders opened up the floodgates. More killings, more reprisals, one clan against another… no winners. Somehow, you didn’t get your head blown off… yet.’
Fazil moved uncomfortably. ‘I got out,’ he admitted.
Donaldson noted the slight crack. ‘You may have got out, but you haven’t got away,’ he said cruelly. ‘No one gets away, not ever, especially people like you — you know that.’
Fazil rubbed his sweaty unshaven face.
‘I have some news for you,’ Donaldson announced. Fazil’s eyes rose shiftily. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence, so I’ll tell it to you straight. I know you were working for Petrone. Don’t insult me by denying this.’ Fazil’s mouth clamped shut. ‘Petrone went to ground some time after the gang warfare started, didn’t he? Hasn’t been seen for, what, one, two years? The fighting has continued in his absence, though, with him still directing operations by all accounts. The general not on the field of battle… a real hero,’ Donaldson said sarcastically.