‘ Enough for an army,’ agreed Seymour.
Henry helped to list the last few weapons, noting their make and serial numbers, careful to handle them so as not to leave or disturb any fingerprints. The guns all looked new and unused.
The logging of the weapons was completed at 2 a.m.
Just before going home Henry phoned the hospital and asked about the condition of the policewoman, Nina. He was told, ‘Critical.’
He hung up with a tear in his eye. He did not know the girl, but it was the principle of the matter. He’d been involved in other investigations where police officers had been killed. These days the mere thought of it happening could move him to tears. He realised that as he grew older — he would be forty later in the year — he was getting less and less detached. In days gone by, nothing seemed to affect him. For some reason, everything did now.
‘ Turning soft,’ he said, wiping the back of a hand across his nose. He got up and went home.
When his head hit the pillow he could not sleep. He tossed and turned uncomfortably, drifting off occasionally, sweated, and disturbed Kate who, in her sleep, told him to ‘Pack it in.’ Whatever that meant.
Frustrated and knackered he gave up trying to sleep and was back in the office by six, getting his head around how he could cover everything that was happening with the few staff he had.
Two dead bodies: one in the mortuary in Blackpool, one in Preston. Both unidentified.
A cop in ICU, probably going to join them.
And a gorilla with a bullet in his shoulder.
A weekend in the north’s premier holiday resort. Come to Blackpool and get your head blown off or a knife in your guts… or, he went on to think shamefacedly, get kneed in the groin and lose a testicle.
He tried to delete the last one from his list and crossed his fingers mentally. Perhaps it would go away.
The identification of two bodies would only be a matter of being patient and waiting. He would be surprised if they didn’t come back on fingerprints.
He looked at the paltry list of detectives available to him. Not many. Most snaffled for the newsagents job. He shook his head, his brain like cotton wool. The management of resources really does your head in.
‘ Right, get on with it,’ he ordered himself He picked up his pen and began to decide who would do what.
The same DS and DC who had initially interviewed the prisoner could carry on with that investigation, together with Dave Seymour. It was well within the scope of any competent detective: interviews, exhibits, paperwork. All Henry needed to do was guide them, and keep an eye on the wider picture. At least there was a body in the cells, which made it a whole lot easier, even if Chummy was being uncooperative.
Whereas it was less straightforward with the dead girl. They still had to find out who’d done that one.
Henry’s remaining staff consisted of two DCs. Simply not enough to deal with the job. The thought of prostrating himself in front of FB was not appealing — but he was sure that if he pushed, FB would wilt.
He had to.
Blackpool police station was going to be extremely crowded.
The gorilla, Henry decided sadly, would have to wait.
And so would every other minor crime for the foreseeable future. The uniform branch would have to investigate everything that came in.
And that was how he spent his morning.
Administration. Deploying personnel. Wheeling and dealing for extra staff. Ensuring paperwork was done and the necessary circulations made. Pacifying the media, which had descended on Blackpool en masse. What really bugged him was that they were more interested in a wounded gorilla than a policewoman on her deathbed, or a young female on a mortuary slab. He didn’t allow his annoyance to show.
Basically he did all the things that went along with being a police manager — a million miles away from a car chase with crashes, flying bodies, helicopters, Stingers and shotguns.
He would rather have had his head down, getting into the ribs of that bastard down in the cells, making him talk by using his interview skills. But that was not his job any more. His was to manage, to delegate, to empower. Perhaps he was safer sitting behind a desk. At least it stopped him from getting into trouble.
The ride into Funchal, Madeira’s capital, took thirty minutes. At his request, Donaldson was driven directly to the morgue so he could get the worst part over with soonest: identifying the body of a friend and colleague.
The morgue was bare and functional, but clean. Donaldson was glad about that. It could have been much worse.
The body was on a drawer in the huge fridge.
Santana pulled it out and drew back the harsh white sheet.
Donaldson suppressed a gasp. Not because of any marks of violence or because it had been mashed to a pulp. Neither of those things applied to this body. Rather because he was looking at the face of someone who had been young, vibrant, very much alive not many days before. Someone he and his wife had grown very close to over the last few months.
He sighed, nodded, looked up at Santana. ‘Yes. That’s her.’
It was like a violation of sorts but it had to be done.
Donaldson took hold of the sheet, drew it back and exposed the naked corpse, closing his eyes for a moment to halt the sensation of dizziness.
He had never seen her without clothes before. He never thought he would. He could not deny that, even though she had been a good friend and work colleague, he had occasionally allowed his eyes to drift across her breasts, or down her long slim legs — and speculate. Special Agent Sam Dawber had been beautiful; she also had the personality and brains to go with it. But Donaldson’s admiring looks were only sporadic. He was deeply in love with his wife and other women did not enter the equation.
‘ Sorry, Sam,’ he said softly to her now. ‘Please forgive me.’
He folded the sheet at her ankles.
She looked peaceful in death. Serene. Her skin was more tanned than when alive, but she’d been on Madeira for almost a week and the weather had been exceptionally good. Her back, bottom and backs of her legs were red and mottled where the blood had settled. There was a tinge of blue around her mouth, which was slightly parted.
‘ You say she was found dead in her bath in the hotel room?’ he said to Santana. For some reason the act of speaking made him feel better able to examine her, detaching him from the task. He peered closely at both sides of her neck.
‘ Yes, apparently drowned. She may have been drinking heavily and fallen asleep in a stupor. There were many bottles of spirits in the room. Much of it drunk. Maybe she took her own life?’
Donaldson stopped himself from giving Santana a withering look. At the same time alarm bells sounded in his head.
He nodded and continued the minute examination. He picked up her left hand, opened it out and looked at her nails.
‘ Who found her?’
‘ A chambermaid.’
‘ I want to speak to her.’
He was now peering at a cut and bruise on the hairline on Sam’s left temple, which was only visible when her hair was pulled back.
Santana said, ‘Sure, can be arranged today. Why?’
‘ Routine,’ Donaldson answered with a shrug. ‘All sudden deaths of FBI agents are fully investigated.’
‘ But there are no suspicious circumstances,’ Santana said defensively.
‘ To you, maybe not.’
‘ To any detective.’
‘ Look, George, I don’t mean this as a slur to your professionalism, but I know — knew — this woman: Donaldson bent down and inspected her inner thighs. ‘For a start, she didn’t drink,’ he said, standing up again. ‘When will the autopsy be carried out?’
‘ This afternoon, four o’clock.’
Initially Donaldson had had no intention of staying for it. He changed his mind. ‘I want to be here.’
‘ Why, do you not trust our doctors now?’