And fifty-five it would be.
When he said goodbye to the job next year he would step into a world of secretly acquired wealth, amassed cautiously over the years, in particular the last ten or so during the life of the NWOCS when he became virtually autonomous, being able to operate how he saw fit. And also Conroy had become much more profitable over these years, mainly due to Morton’s protection.
Now Morton owned a villa in Spain, an apartment in Barbados and a holiday cabin in Eire. The Spanish home came with a pool, Porsche and maid; the Caribbean one with a Mini-moke, the Irish one with a small lough, brimful of trout. All had been bought covertly through third parties.
When he retired he intended to split his time between the three, pretending they were rented if anyone should ask. His life would be financed — on the face of it — from his police pension and savings, and some legitimate stock-market dealings. This, in fact, would only be pin money, the icing on the cake of a career of corruption: his association with Conroy had placed?2.2 million in Channel Island and Cayman Island bank accounts. He reckoned this would provide him with about one hundred and fifty grand a year in interest.
Life would be very sweet.
All he needed to do was see the next twelve months through.
Multi-millionaire Sir Harry McNamara had come into the equation in the 1970s during a shady land deal associated with Conroy, which was fortunately being investigated by Morton who was then on the Fraud Squad. By some wily manoeuvring, Morton prosecuted some of the tiddlers and allowed the fat fish to swim away. Craftily Morton made this appear to be a successful operation through police eyes.
The land deal had been ratified by a certain local councillor called McNamara, as he then was. All three men benefited from the sale of the land which was purchased for an inflated fee by a national company who built a multi-storey car park on it. The spin-off in terms of building contracts were enormous. All from a piece of scrubland that Conroy had bought for next to nothing from an old bloke who needed to have a gun shoved into his mouth before he signed the contract.
From that inauspicious start an empire grew.
Soon afterwards, Conroy started supplying McNamara with women in payment for certain favours. A couple of these women mysteriously disappeared. Conroy asked no questions, but warned McNamara. No more disappeared — until Marie Cullen.
When McNamara became an MP and, for a short time, a big noise in the Foreign Office, it wasn’t long before Conroy urged him to look into the possibilities of dealing in guns. Towards the end of the 1980s Conroy, who had always dabbled in the British underworld scene of arms dealing, had a flourishing trade based on selling arms stolen in America or bought in Eastern Europe to warring African countries. He’d made a real killing selling to Ethiopian warlords. They always seemed to have enough money to buy guns and whisky.
In essence, McNamara used his position of influence whilst in the Foreign Office to bring about arms deals, usually right under the nose of the PM, who had a soft spot for him. There were many photographs of the Premier shaking hands with overseas dignitaries — usually African — whilst in the background McNamara could be seen standing next to a government official, smiling, chatting, arranging deals.
In his own constituency McNamara was a staunch proponent of law and order and policing issues. When gang warfare came to Lancashire and Manchester in the mid-1980s, it was McNamara’s pressure and his mouth to the PM’s ear, that the Home Office should fund a regionalised unit, an extension of the Crime Squads, to tackle the problem head on.
And who better to run it, McNamara recommended, than that excellent detective with a wealth of experience in dealing with gangsters — Tony Morton, then a Detective Superintendent.
Fully dressed, Henry said, ‘Which car are we going to Blackpool in?’
‘ I don’t give a shit. Use which you want. They’ve all got their keys in the ignition. I’m not coming with you.’
‘ Yeah… Look, I’m sorry, Siobhan. Nothing personal.’
‘ Fuck off, Henry,’ she said sourly.
He nodded. Tight-lipped, hot and flustered, he went swiftly down the stairs to the garage below. He opened the electrically controlled doors and got in the first car he came to. There was a piece of material in the driver’s seat which reminded him of a bikini bottom. He tossed it into the passenger footwell and then adjusted the driver’s seat which was pulled forwards for a short person. Then he reached for the ignition key. It wasn’t there. He checked the sun visors. Not there either.
Siobhan rapped her knuckles on the window.
‘ Not this one,’ she said in a tone which made him feel stupid. ‘It’s a stolen car, been seized for evidence.’
‘ Oh, right,’ he said. How was he supposed to know? Where was the property label that should be prominently displayed on it?
‘ Use that one,’ she said, pointing to the next one along, a Vauxhall Vectra.
He got out, sidled past the stolen one, wondering how he could ever have mistaken an Alfa Romeo for a police car.
Minutes later he was on the road, heading west out of Blackburn. Away from Siobhan and a big mistake that might have been.
‘ Right about now he should be getting his end away, if it’s all going to plan,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton declared after checking his watch. ‘And,’ he added with aplomb, ‘I have no doubt it is going to plan.’
‘ I’ll believe it when I know it for sure,’ said McNamara. ‘He’s not stupid,’ he went on, referring to Henry Christie. ‘He might just suss what’s going on.’
‘ Naah.’ Morton shook his head. ‘My woman detective is very good. She’ll fuck his brains out before he knows what’s hit him. She’s done it before.’
‘ At least he’s getting sorted,’ Conroy said. ‘Make sure you do a proper job, that’s all, Tony.’
‘ Worry not. By tomorrow night he won’t know his arse from his tit.’
‘ Hm,’ McNamara muttered through closed lips. ‘What’s happening with Marie Cullen’s murder, that’s what I want to know.’
‘ It’s going nowhere, rest assured. Particularly now that Saltash is out of the picture, as it were.’
‘ Very funny,’ said the MP, not appreciating the play on words relating to the pimp’s demise underneath a portable TV set. ‘What about that Gillian, the one who did it? Where is she? She’s the one I had at our last meeting, if you recall.’
‘ Is she?’ Morton hadn’t realised that. ‘Does that cause you a problem? The cops wanted to talk to Saltash and he was a link to Cullen. Now he’s gone, what’s the fuss?’
The look on McNamara’s face made Morton ask, ‘What’s the fuss?’ again, this time firmly.
McNamara opened his mouth to say something. He quickly clamped it shut.
‘ Spit it out, Harry,’ Morton commanded.
‘ Shit… if the police catch her and interview her, she might tell them about me.’
‘ Why should she? Her killing Saltash, and her clients are two different things.’
‘ I said something stupid, I think, when I was with her. Something incriminating. She might use it.’
‘ What did you say?’
Conroy, listening, closed his eyes despairingly.
McNamara shrugged as though it were nothing. ‘I made reference to Marie.’
A long, pissed-off sigh exhaled from Morton’s lungs.
Conroy exploded. ‘Are you a complete fucking nutcase? You must be short of something up here.’ He tapped his head. ‘What the hell happens to you when you get an erection? Does all the blood come out of your brain, or something, because it’s fucking obvious it goes into neutral.’
Morton rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You are really going to have to get yourself sorted out. You’re becoming a weak link.’
‘ What can we do about her?’ McNamara insisted on knowing.
‘ Ronnie?’ Morton turned to Conroy, eyebrows raised.