Out of curiosity, he went over to where Sam’s belongings had been piled up and dug out a flight bag; he unzipped it and pulled out a money pouch, the type worn around the waist. He remembered Sam wearing it on the Lake District trip. Inside was all the money she had left in her possession — about five hundred pounds in sterling travellers’ cheques and six thousand escudos. There were other bits of paper folded up: restaurant and bank receipts, a receipt for a coach tour of the island — for tomorrow — and the thing Donaldson had been looking for… the same timeshare information leaflet he had been given.
He unfolded it carefully and laid it next to his on the bedside cabinet.
Yes. Exactly the same. Other than the time and date of the visit, written in by the tout. He sighed heavily. So what?
Then he turned the sheet over and saw that Sam had written two extra words on hers — two words which he had missed when he’d originally gone through her belongings. Donaldson recognised her writing — big, loopy, almost child-like.
Scott Hamilton!!!! The exclamation marks were Sam’s.
Donaldson, after removing his socks, visited the bathroom. Whilst he sat there he thought, Maybe timeshare is for me, after all.
11 p.m. Monday. A continuous tour of duty of seventeen hours. At last, Henry Christie wrapped up his day. He was fast approaching a state of zombie-dom.
He rechecked his ‘to do’ list in front of him, hoping that everything which needed to be done, had been.
Dundaven had been charged with some firearms offences, bail refused. He would be up before the Magistrates tomorrow, when the police would apply for a remand in custody for seventy-two hours, otherwise known as a ‘three day lie-down’. This would enable Henry’s team to question him at a more leisurely pace and complete further enquiries. Several addresses had come to light in the east of the county and they were all going to be hit at six the next morning. Everything was arranged for that: firearms teams, Support Unit officers and detectives. All coordinated by Henry, who sensed something big and nasty lurking behind Dundaven.
The three days would give a clearer indication of Nina’s condition. Whether she lived or died would affect further charges. Murder or Attempted Murder? In any case, Dundaven was going to be charged with McCrory’s murder.
The other enquiry on his plate — the dead girl on the beach — seemed to be pretty slow. She had been identified from fingerprints and some documentation found in her bedsit.
Marie Cullen had been a prostitute, working on the streets and in the clubs of Blackburn. Other than that, the police had very little to go on. Two detectives were going east in the morning to do some spadework. Henry thought this one would be a toughie. Prostitute murders usually were.
He had a stinking headache, his sinuses acting up as though they had been clamped with alligator clips.
He opened his desk drawer and sifted through the contents to find some Paracetamols. He was sure he had some. Whilst doing so he noticed the statement he’d drafted about the incident with Shane Mulcahy. He pushed it to the back of his drawer and hoped it would go away. He found no tablets.
Derek Luton, looking tired and haggard, wandered into the office, stretching and rolling his neck.
‘ Degsy — you got any headache pills on you?’
‘ No. That’s why I came in here myself. Got a real splitter.’
‘ Ah well,’ said Henry resignedly, ‘we’ll just have to suffer. How’s it going?’
‘ Good. Yeah. Excellent, in fact. Really interesting. I’ve been out taking witness statements with a Detective Sergeant from the Organised Crime Squad, guy called Tattersall.’
‘ And are you getting anywhere?’
‘ I think they have some sort of line on the gang, but they’re keeping it close to their chests at the moment. They seem to have really got in the driving seat now, because it was one of their lot who got it. FB is letting Tony Morton run with it.’
‘ What’s the name of the cop who got killed?’
‘ A DS — Geoff Driffield. From Manchester, on secondment to the squad.’
‘ Can’t say I know him. What the hell was he doing in that shop all kitted out and tooled up and all alone?’
‘ That remains a mystery,’ said Luton. ‘Apparently he was a bit of a loner. His days on the squad were numbered because he wasn’t a team player — more of a glory-seeker. Theory is, he got some gen about the gang, discovered where they were due to hit and wanted to make a name for himself. Backfired.’
‘ That’s a fucking understatement.’ Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Gotta go, bud, early start tomorrow.’
The club never cranked up that night. Hardly anyone ventured in after pub closing time. Rider shut up shop shortly after midnight. No point flogging a dead horse. By 12.30 he and Jacko were the only ones left inside. The customers had drifted away without complaint, as had the remainder of the staff. Isa had kissed Rider on the cheek and gone to bed in the guesthouse opposite the club where she was staying.
After washing and drying the glasses, Jacko locked up the bar. He hated leaving a mess because it was always depressing to return to. He set the alarm for that area, gave Rider a quick wave and sauntered out into the night.
Rider was alone.
He savoured the peace for a few moments whilst drawing the last few puffs out of his cigar. He stubbed it out and after checking all the likely places a burglar might hide, he too left.
They hit him as he walked to the car.
Two of them. Balaclavas. Baseball bats, or maybe pick-axe handles.
They came from the shadows, giving him no time to react.
The first blow landed on his back, right on the kidneys. A surge of pain, like a bolt of lightning, scorched up through him. But he didn’t have too much time to savour this because the second blow, from the weapon wielded by the second man, connected with his lower stomach.
The blows were only milliseconds apart.
They had the effect of putting severe pain into him, winding him and disorientating him. His body didn’t know what to do. Part of it screamed to him to stand upright and respond to the pain in the back; another part wanted him to bend over double. The compromise meant that his body contorted to pay homage to both blows.
By which time more violence was being used.
The sticks flashed, raining blow after blow on Rider: shoulders, arms, ribs, stomach, arse, upper and lower legs.
Rider was driven callously to the ground in such a manner he was unable to scream or respond in any way which might have brought him some assistance. All screams became gurgles, all shouts whimpers. All he could do was take it, roll up in a ball, cover his head and hope that oblivion was not far away.
In a beating, thirty seconds is a long time, especially for the party receiving it. During that time, Rider’s body probably took in excess of forty well-delivered hard blows.
Then they stopped.
Rider groaned pathetically. His whole body felt like it was on fire. A raging, searing, Great Fire of London type of fire — one which destroyed everything in its path.
His cheek was pressed against the cold pavement. His mouth sagged open. A horrible gungy liquid dribbled out: a combined brew of snot, blood and whisky.
In agony he pushed himself up onto all fours. His breathing was shallow, laboured, painful.
Then it all began again.
The first blow of this renewed attack smashed into the base of his spine.
This time he did emit the beginnings of a scream — but the sound was cut short when the next blow connected with the side of his head. This sent him spinning across the pavement towards the front wheels of his car and mentally into a void.
They stopped before he lost consciousness.