‘OK, OK,’ Mark relented.
‘And after you’ve done that, we might go and scoop up the shit you left in some poor bugger’s shed last night, at the same time as returning his bike to him, eh?’
‘It’s definitely Petrone,’ Donaldson was saying. He had a mug of filtered coffee in his hand and was standing in Henry’s back garden, looking out across the adjoining field on which sheep grazed and a pair of noisy Canadian geese pecked at the ground next to a pond. He was on the phone to Don Barber down in London. ‘Confirmed with my own eyes.’
‘Well, at least it’s some revenge for Shark’s death.’ Barber said, referring to the undercover FBI agent.
‘You could look at it that way,’ Donaldson conceded, ‘but it’s one less avenue for me to get to the American.’
‘Any leads as to who might have whacked him?’
‘I mentioned this witness before, who they’ve got in custody now. It’ll be interesting to find out exactly what’s been seen or otherwise.’
‘Where is he in custody?’
‘Preston at the moment, but being brought back to Blackpool.’
‘OK, keep me posted, Karl.’
‘Will do, boss… there is one thing.’
‘That would be?’
‘I’ve decided to review all the murders between the Petrones and the Marinis that happened since the Majorca shootings, if that’s OK.’
Barber hesitated slightly. ‘To what end?’
‘Mm, maybe nothing, just an aside the SIO up here said to me. I just want to have a look at the patterns to the killings, see if anything strikes me as odd.’
‘In what way?’
‘Again, not sure yet, but the SIO has a vague theory that we might not just be up against the Mafia… as I said, it’s a vague one.’
‘Don’t spend too much time on it.’
‘I won’t.’
Donaldson chucked the last dregs of the coffee over the fence and returned to the house. Kate had been studying him from the kitchen. He handed her the cup and said thanks, but wilted under her knowing eyes.
‘Please don’t say you’ve been unfaithful,’ she said, ‘not you.’
Had Donaldson been accused of murder, not even the most experienced interrogator in the world, not even torture, would have made him reveal a thing. But the hurt, accusing glint in Kate’s eyes turned his stomach over and he had to hold himself back from prostrating himself at her feet and begging forgiveness for his transgression.
‘No,’ he said haughtily. ‘Can I use the study now?’
‘I should bloody well think so.’
Mark Carter scowled at the remark made by Henry and rammed the mop head into the bucket.
‘Finished.’
‘Right, let’s get going.’
He made Mark carry the bucket down the corridor to a tap and sluice sink where he poured the urine and water away, then rinsed mop and bucket.
‘You had a shower?’
‘Do I look like I’ve had a shower?’
‘You look like shit, actually. Come on, now you’ve cleaned up your mess, let’s clean up the mess that’s you.’
Karl Donaldson slid his laptop out of its case, plugged it in, switched it on. It was a new one, state of the art, and was up and running in seconds. He connected to Henry’s broadband system.
Firstly he checked his personal emails, then wished he hadn’t.
There were four new ones, three from travel agents he subscribed to, the fourth from an unknown sender that the computer marked with a red flag warning and the perceptive words, ‘This could be dangerous’. He clicked on it, saw it was from someone called ‘VanLang’. At first he thought it could have been one of the many he received from online Viagra sellers — not that he needed any — but when he opened it he found it was from his sexy neighbour in Malta.
‘Arrived home. Missing you. Can still feel you inside me. You exploded!!! Want to see you again. Can this be arranged? I can travel at a moment’s notice. Husband not a problem. XXX’
Husband? Donaldson squirmed, recalling she had mentioned a boyfriend, not a spouse. But not only that, how had she managed to get his email address? He wracked his brains for the moments when she could have got it. On reflection, she did have one or two opportunities. For a very serious moment he considered replying, but that would have compounded his stupidity and started an electronic dialogue that might get out of hand. Emails were dangerous, as many a person in power had discovered to their cost. As were texts. He pressed the delete button as though it was electrified.
‘Not good, not good,’ he mumbled, suddenly not liking adultery very much any more.
Next he went on to his work emails and saw he’d received forty-odd of the bastards, all with ‘Read me’ and ‘Urgent’ flags. He couldn’t be bothered with any, his mood knocked for six by Vanessa’s message.
Then he went on to the FBI website, logged into the staff-only section, and started his research.
From a purely investigative point of view, Henry would have preferred not to tell Mark about his mother’s death — just yet. He wanted to bleed him dry of any useful information about the assassination of Rosario Petrone, and would have liked to extract this from the lad without having to deal with the additional burden of emotions that would come with telling him about Mandy’s death — and the manner she’d met it.
It was a delicate balancing act, one that Henry hadn’t quite worked out.
It was certain, though, that Mark had a right to know about her death, whether they got on well or not. Henry would also have to arrange for a message to be passed to Mark’s older brother, Jack, presently lounging for a long spell in clink.
They were at the custody desk. Mark had showered and although he was in the same set of clothes, he looked fresher, smelled cleaner. Mark’s property was in a sealed bag, but Henry took a few moments to check that the contents actually matched the list on the custody record before signing for it. He whistled at the amount of money in Mark’s possession and gave him a questioning look. ‘Planning on being away for a while, were we?’
‘In case you’re thinking — it’s kosher. It’s my mum’s money. She gave it to me.’
‘Highly unlikely,’ Henry said. He signed the record and resealed the bag. ‘Come on, pal, back to Blackpool.’ Henry herded the crestfallen boy out of the custody office to the secure bay at the back of the police station, where his car had been moved by arrangement.
‘In the back,’ Henry said, opened one of the rear doors and shoved Mark into the car, then sidled in alongside him. ‘Child locks’re on, so don’t think you can just leap out at traffic lights.’
There was a uniformed police officer behind the steering wheel of the car, who looked over his shoulder and nodded at Henry.
‘Who’s that joker?’ Mark said snottily.
‘That joker is none other that Constable Bill Robbins, our selected driver for the day, who, at great personal cost, has rushed down here from police HQ to assist us,’ Henry said grandly. ‘And if you do think of running away, I’ll get Bill here to shoot you. Not to kill you, obviously, just wing you, because Bill’s a sharpshooter who could shoot the nadger off a gnat, couldn’t you, Bill?’
‘Could that.’
‘What are you on about, idiot?’ Mark snarled.
‘Show him, Bill.’
Robbins shifted on his seat and pulled something up from between his legs. A Heckler amp; Koch G36.
‘It has one of those red dots,’ Robbins explained, ‘which makes it very, very precise.’
‘Armed and dangerous,’ Henry said, ‘especially when provoked.’
Karl Donaldson refreshed his memory. He started with the shooting three years ago in Can Pastilla. This was a file Donaldson knew well, for obvious reasons, and he accessed it through the FBI database with no problems, his computer taking him there almost instantly.
Three men sat at a table. The fourth picking up a gun that had been planted for him and killing the others with deadly calm. A true professional, the only glitch being the traces left in the restroom and on a table by the slightly careless Mustapha Fazil. If the traces hadn’t been found and lifted, Fazil would never have been identified and Donaldson would maybe have read his name in a crime circulation after his arrest on Malta, then filed it none the wiser.