‘ McCrory did the shooting?’
‘ That’s what Dundaven says. Next thing, McCrory’s holding a gun to Dundaven’s belly saying, “Let’s go”. Poor ole Dundaven has to do whatever he’s told, but being a law-abiding citizen, what he really wanted to do is hand himself over to us.’
‘ So why did he ram us and shoot at us?’
‘ Duress. Fear.’ Seymour shrugged. He swallowed more pie with a forkful of peas.
‘ Bullshit,’ said Henry. ‘And the next bit? This should be worth hearing.’
‘ It is,’ laughed Seymour, and recited: ‘So overcome with emotion and grief is McCrory that he puts a gun to his own head, opens the door and tops himself.’
Henry laughed out loud. ‘He expects us to believe that?’
‘ Deadly serious about it.’
Henry stopped laughing. ‘And then?’
‘ Fear makes him continue the chase, ram the traffic car and take a pot shot at the helicopter.’
‘ So where do we stand with all this? What can we prove?’
Seymour had devoured his meal. He went and bought a pot of tea and two cups. He poured one for Henry.
‘ There are no direct witnesses to refute what he says, unless Nina pulls through. Rik Dean was sat in his car and couldn’t truthfully say who shot her, because the car is much lower than the Range Rover, and his view was obstructed by the spare tyre on the back. Same for us. We couldn’t actually see him waste McCrory, could we?’
Henry considered it for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be long before the first twenty-four-hours’ detention would be up. Then for an extra twelve he’d need the authority of a Superintendent to carry on questioning Dundaven without charge. He decided he would seek that authorisation and keep the pressure on Dundaven.
He told this to Seymour and added, ‘Even if you haven’t got any admissions from him, keep pushing him and then, as late as possible, charge him. Throw the book at him. Charge him with everything you can possibly think of, including the driving offences. If there’s enough shit, some of it’ll stick.’
Donaldson was booked into the Quinta da Penha de Franca. He had been allocated one of the sea view rooms in the new annexe. Very nice and comfortable, with a balcony overlooking the pool and the ocean beyond. The night was dark, tranquil and quite chilly.
He shivered, walked back into the room from the balcony, closed the door and drew the curtains. He stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head and mulled over his thoughts on Samantha Jane Dawber, whose devastated body was lying in a fridge with all its vital organs including the brain — thrown loosely into the torso and sewn up. Her cranium had been packed with newspaper and her facial skin stretched back into place and stitched so tightly that her features were stretched and distorted.
There was no respect in a morgue. Death was simply a business. A sausage factory.
Samantha Jane Dawber.
Sammy Jane.
Sam.
She had been posted to London six months earlier and easily fitted into the small team. She was recently divorced, but the break-up — without kids to worry about — did not seem to have affected her too deeply. She kept in regular touch with her ex, a Special Agent from the New York office.
Donaldson fell into an easy working relationship with her. When she subsequently met Karen, his wife, they too became friends.
It had been a good six months.
With her assistance (she had done most of the legwork) he had helped the police in Cornwall to crack a long-running fraud case. She was a good worker who took the job seriously, constantly updating herself on criminals who drifted around the international scene. One of her favourite games was to get the mugshot books out — which contained hundreds of photos — remove about fifty, cover their names, shuffle them and challenge Donaldson to name them. Usually he might recognise five or six. Without fail she could name every one, every time.
Sammy Jane. All-American girl. Whatever that meant.
Now dead in a way Donaldson didn’t like.
She ‘got into’ walking in a big way since coming to England. She often dragged the Donaldsons out all over mainland Britain to hike over hills. One memorable walk had taken place in the Lake District over a weekend when Henry and Kate Christie had been invited along. Donaldson and Henry had met and become friends on the same enquiry when he’d met Karen. It proved to be a tough walking weekend, both nights of which ended up in exhausted revelry in way-out pubs in the middle of nowhere. He and Henry had got extremely drunk and were watched with severe pity by the womenfolk.
Donaldson remembered the laughter of those two days. Sam’s giggles and wry outlook on life had been infectious.
Her visit to Madeira had been prompted by an urge to explore the levadas — footpaths running alongside irrigation channels — that crisscross the island. That was the plan.
Donaldson sat up and made himself not cry. He shook his head, breathed heavily and attempted to combat the sobs building up inside him.
He won. It was a close-run thing.
‘ Phew.’ He blew out his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and looked across at Sam’s luggage which he’d deposited on the spare bed. Maybe the reason for her death was amongst that lot. He hadn’t sorted through it yet.
In his heart he was convinced she hadn’t died a pathetic drunk in a bath. That was not Sam.
Reaching across to her suitcase, he flicked up the catches.
John Rider coughed long and hard. He managed to clear his chest and throat, picked up the King Edward cigar from the ashtray, put it between his lips and re-lit it with a ‘pa-pa-pa’ until the flame had taken properly.
He blew out a ring of smoke.
‘ You OK, John?’ Isa enquired, gently resting a hand in the centre of his back.
He squinted sideways at her and nodded. ‘Never better.’
‘ You should give up.’
‘ One of life’s last few pleasures,’ he said to justify the habit.
Isa tried to hold his gaze a little longer, but he looked away and reached for his drink. She emitted a short, dissatisfied sigh and her mouth warped in frustration for an instant before returning to its normal self.
She took a step to the bar and leaned on it.
Jacko gave her a mineral water and she took her first sip of it, wishing she had the guts to tell Rider how she felt about him. It’s ridiculous! she told herself. A woman of your age and experience being unable to tell some two-bit ex — gangster that you love him. Her overriding fear was that it could spoil both their friendship and business partnership if he didn’t reciprocate.
The club was extremely quiet. Monday. January. Blackpool. Hardly worth opening. But Rider believed it might as well be open as shut right up to the refurbishments starting.
Rider, perched on a bar stool, hoped he had come back to emotional equilibrium. Yesterday had been a nightmare. That Henry Christie. Looked quietly ruthless. Looked like he knew about the zoo. Looked like he wouldn’t let it rest.
Then the news about the gorilla splashed all over the telly and the papers. That had really gutted Rider, the suffering of an animal.
Today, thankfully, had been peaceful. A couple of detectives, not including Christie, had visited and searched the flat which might have been the dead girl’s. They had found nothing but might possibly have got an ID from her property and fingerprints on a glass. Rider gave them a short statement.
And that was that. Back to square one. Normality. Or so he hoped.
There were very few customers in the club. A few lonely souls. A few canoodling couples ensconced in the alcoves. Later, when the pubs closed and the disco cranked up, it would get busier. Not much. It would close at 12.30 a.m.
Rider couldn’t wait to get stuck into the place. Get the builders in, ripping the guts out of it, giving it a full body transplant. Transforming it into a ritzy, glitzy entertainment spot. If the planning application was successful, the builders would be in within six weeks. Four months after that, barring accidents, the doors would re-open just in time for the summer trade.