‘To be honest, not much. The shop was opened about twelve months ago, staff were taken on through a jobs agency and Mario Casarsa, as they knew him, was in charge. He did all the wholesale buying, telling staff it was all genuine stuff at knock down prices because he claimed he had “contacts”.’ Rik emphasized the last word. ‘No one questioned him, they did a good trade and he paid them slightly above the going rates. He was a good boss — apparently — but according to the manager, no one got close to him. And no one knew where he lived. His habit, usually, was to arrive mid morning and leave late. On the day he died, he did that and was still there when the staff left. The manager said he usually left around the nine o’clock mark, from what he knew. When he didn’t show the morning after he wasn’t too concerned, until he heard the radio later in the day and guessed it could have been Casarsa… Petrone.’
Henry scratched his head as he listened to Rik’s exposition. ‘So, it looks like he locked up and started to make his way home on foot. Two lads who wanted to rob him then accosted him?’ Henry looked from one detective to the other. ‘Yeah? Possibly? Which could account for Rory’s hair on the walking stick. Y’know, get back you little rascals, or I’ll whack you, and then he did? And then he got run over and shot in front of them.’
‘What I don’t get,’ Alex said, ‘is why these guys are so intent on plugging witnesses.’
‘Fear of identification,’ Rik said,
‘OK, I kind of get that, but even if Rory and Mark actually saw the killers, it was night-time, street lighting was pretty crap, there could have been obstructions, lots of movement, bad weather. Even the best witnesses would struggle in court, R. v. Turnbull and all that,’ Alex said, referring to a stated case regarding the identification of suspects. ‘Any good defence barrister would tear that evidence apart, and, and,’ he went on excitedly, ‘if the killers are Camorra hit men, surely all they need to do is disappear back to Naples and the chances are we’ll never find them.’
Silence. All three detectives considered this.
‘But supposing Rory and Mark got something better than just a view?’ Alex suggested. ‘Mobile phone? Digital camera?’
‘Yeah, maybe they got photos or even a video of the murder,’ Henry said. ‘But no phone or camera was found on Rory, nor at the scene of his death, and Mark Carter, unless he’s changed, which he may have done, was the only kid I know who didn’t have a mobile.’
‘But the two people who were robbed both had mobile phones stolen, so the lads could have used one or both of them,’ Rik said.
‘And that’s why they’re after the remaining witness,’ Alex declared. ‘Must be.’
Henry rubbed his very tired, unshaven face. His stubble felt like sandpaper. ‘They want the phone and the witness.’
‘And so do we,’ Alex said.
‘Something else bothers me,’ Henry said. ‘How did they know we’d be up on Shoreside, going to pick up Mark Carter? How did they know? They couldn’t have just been cruising on the off-chance and got lucky, surely.’
‘Channel scanning?’ Alex suggested. ‘There was a lot of stuff over the PR’s about it. Comms not having anyone to send. What the job was. There was nothing guarded about our transmissions.’
‘And why should they have been? These radios — ’ Henry picked up his PR and waggled it — ‘are newfangled, state of the art, and we are assured that people can’t listen in like they used to. I could listen to police transmissions on my dad’s radio, once over. Now everything’s supposed to be encrypted. The technology side of this worries me a bit.’
‘What are you getting at, Henry?’ Rik asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted, ‘but if Petrone got whacked by a rival gang, are they organized and resourced enough to have scanners capable of listening to police radios in the UK?’ He looked at his colleagues’ fatigued faces. Neither man had any response to give, their brains now severely addled. ‘Just something to think about, or maybe they did just get lucky.’ He shrugged and wiped his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Best thing we can do now is get some sleep. I think we’ve got most things covered for the moment, haven’t we?’ He looked expectantly at Alex Bent.
‘Yeah — I’ve arranged for uniform to hit Mark Carter’s house at four; British Transport Police have been contacted to keep an eye out for him at Blackpool railway station. All patrols have his details. The crime scene’s been covered and secured. CSI and scientific support will be back at daybreak. Motorway patrols in the north-west are pulling every Volvo estate they spot. I have a couple of DCs coming on at six to kick things off. Think that’s about it.’
‘Right, let’s get some sleep.’ He checked his watch. ‘And be back for a briefing at nine thirty, by which time we should have a team firing on all cylinders. Thanks for your effort, guys.’
Henry drove through the streets of the resort. They were litter strewn and a stiff breeze whipped around the alleyways, blowing torn newspapers and discarded burger packaging out into the main thoroughfares. He stopped at a junction, no others cars on the roads as yet, and looked at his mobile phone. He wished he hadn’t deleted O’Connell’s text now. Idiot, he chided himself for even thinking that he should have kept it. How could he possibly want to sleep with a pathologist? The thought of where her hands had been and what they’d done should have made him shiver with revulsion. But it did not. He turned left.
Eight o’clock next morning, Henry was at Manchester Airport to be the one who greeted Karl Donaldson. He sipped a strong Americano from a polystyrene cup and waited underneath the meeting-point board at terminal two, whilst keeping an eye on the flight arrivals monitor. The scrolling information told him the flight from Malta had landed and that passengers were now collecting their luggage. They began to filter out through the exit, suntanned individuals and couples. Eventually, the big Yank he proudly called his friend, even though he was totally envious of his looks, emerged with just hand luggage and a beaming smile, drawing secret looks from each and every woman in the vicinity.
Good-looking bastard, Henry thought uncharitably, standing his ground and allowing Donaldson’s eyes to find him, which they did almost instantly. He approached Henry with a crooked smile, which Henry was certain was a rip-off of his own boyish grin, designed to weaken all female barriers. Not that Donaldson needed such ammunition. His all-American good looks, stature and general aura of naivety around woman were enough to lower the knickers off nuns. Only thing was, he didn’t know he had it, that magical sex-factor.
‘Henry, you son of a gun,’ he smiled. ‘I thought I was getting the monkey, not the organ grinder.’
‘You have got the monkey — Bobby Big-nuts couldn’t make it,’ Henry joshed and the two men embraced in a manly way, of course. ‘Let me take that.’ Henry took Donaldson’s hand luggage from him and the weight almost dislocated Henry’s shoulder. ‘Hell, what you got in here?’
‘Just man stuff — and a laptop.’
Henry frowned at him as he noticed the American’s battered appearance. ‘You been in the wars?’
‘Sort of… tell you later.’
They walked out of the airport side by side. Henry was a reasonably big man, six-two with the poundage to match, but Donaldson was at least two inches taller, wider at the shoulders, narrowing to a slim waist. Henry felt like the weedy younger brother and couldn’t wait to get him into the car.
Henry had parked on the short-stay car park opposite the terminal, and after getting out and negotiating the increasingly complex series of roundabouts at the airport, he hit the motorway and relaxed a little.
He glanced at his friend who had now developed a frown that brought his eyebrows together.
‘Something up, mate?’
‘Mm.’ Donaldson’s mouth twisted.