‘ Sure, fine,’ he said. ‘Who am I to argue?’
‘ Exactly. Who are you?’
Henry left her in the custody office, telling her he was going for a dump, which might take some time.
Instead of going into the station, he turned right out of the custody office, after checking Siobhan didn’t see him, and sprinted down the rear yard to get into a CID Metro for which he had the keys in his pocket. He gunned the small car out of the garage and into Blackpool town centre where he whizzed up and down a few streets, including going the wrong way down a one-way street. He wanted to know if he was being followed and was fairly satisfied he wasn’t.
He pointed the car in the direction of Lytham.
Behind him, Jim Tattersall tapped Tony Morton’s mobile number into his own, hardly able to suppress a laugh at Henry’s anti-surveillance tactics.
Morton told Tattersall to stick with him.
Morton ended the call and placed his mobile on the desk. He drummed his fingers agitatedly and asked himself what the significance could be of Henry’s departure from the police station without Siobhan, his chaperone.
The internal phone rang.
‘ Morton.’
‘ Siobhan, boss. Just seen the custody record. Henry’s had an unscheduled conversation with Rider before I got here. It says on the record it was in connection with a matter unrelated to the investigation.’
‘ Do you know where he is now?’
‘ Having a shit.’
‘ Wrong, you stupid bitch! He’s in a car and he’s heading out of town, for fuck’s sake. I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on him?’
Morton slammed the phone down.
Morton had ordered a two-car tail on Donaldson. And Mr Donaldson, FBI employee, didn’t spot it until quite late because they were good. By the time he saw them, he and Karen had visited the other two witnesses and taken statements.
He swore when he realised, but there was nothing more to be done about it — other than to lose them for the fun of it.
But by then, both addresses were on a piece of paper in front of Tony Morton.
Morton asked Siobhan to check the voters’ register to put names to them. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable; also that he had been too generous with Henry Christie by allowing him to live. The challenge of corrupting an incorruptible officer was proving to be a headache of epic proportions.
It would have been far easier to have had him whacked straight away.
Henry drove quickly, pushing the Metro hard through the mid-morning traffic which, due to the season and the weather, was fairly light.
He picked up the coast road and was soon in Lytham. He had a vague idea of where he was going because a few years ago he had delivered a message there, about what he could not recall. He did not know the town well, but it was only a small place and he trusted his memory and sense of direction.
He found the road in about ten minutes. Thirty seconds later he stopped outside the house, a large, bow-windowed semi.
He looked at the building for a while just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.
Yep. It was the right one.
He got out of the Metro and went through the garden gate, failing to see the car which had drawn up two hundred metres behind him.
Tattersall was quickly on the blower.
‘ Boss… we could have problems here.’
Morton paced his temporary office. Siobhan was sitting watching him with a fearful expression.
He had four names and addresses on his desk which still meant nothing to him.
And Henry Christie had spoken to Rider alone for about twenty minutes. And now he was at an address which sent goose bumps down his spine.
‘ I don’t like this one little bit.’ He rubbed his chin.
‘ He’s wriggling,’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s all.’
‘ He should’ve been killed like the two others. I regret not having him done now. I protected him and he could well be causing me problems.’
Gallagher came in bearing the statements which had been amongst Luton’s other paperwork in the plastic bag.
‘ Got the statements back,’ he said triumphantly.
He handed them to Morton who glanced at the top one and tossed them onto his desk. Then his neck craned down as he saw the name on the top one. He fanned all four out, his face turning ashen.
‘ These are the people that Donaldson guy has just been to see. He’s been visiting the witnesses again on Henry’s behalf.’
‘ What?’ asked Gallagher, who had not been privy to these developments. He’d been making a show of running the murder enquiry.
‘ Some guy called Donaldson and a woman have been visiting our witnesses again. Where have you been for the last twenty-four hours, numb-nuts?’
‘ Somebody has to make it look like we do policework occasionally,’ he griped.
‘ Yeah, yeah.’
‘ Did you say Donaldson?’
‘ Yeah, why?’
‘ Name rings a bell.’ Gallagher was thoughtful for a moment whilst he wracked his brains, the tip of his tongue resting on his lower lip. ‘Got it! FBI agent linked to that big trial Christie was involved in about eighteen months, two years ago. The mafia guy, remember? Yeah, I’m sure Donaldson was the name of the FBI agent who was a major witness.’
‘ So an FBI agent and a female who we don’t know are going round visiting witnesses?’ Siobhan wanted this to be cleared up.
‘ Probably his wife. She’s a policewoman, ex-Lancashire now in the Met. Works at Bramshill these days, I think.’
‘ I know her,’ Morton declared. ‘She was one of my course tutors on the senior command course.’
Morton looked at the statements again. His mouth sagged as something else dawned on him. ‘These are photocopies of photocopies.’
Gallagher’s brow creased.
‘ Luton screwed his copies up when I caught him. These should be creased, for God’s sake! Look, look at them. You can see that the ones they’ve been copied from were creased. I am surrounded by imbeciles.’
‘ Let me look.’ Gallagher took them from his boss. It was true. They were photocopies of creased statements. Gallagher’s despair showed on his face. ‘So they’ve still got the copies Luton made?’
‘ It fucking well looks that way, doesn’t it?’ screamed Morton. He took in a deep breath. ‘Seems we’ll have to sort Henry Christie out properly this time.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘ I don’t suppose for one moment you’ll remember me, sir…’
Before he had a chance to finish, the older man said, ‘Course I bloody do, you’re Henry Christie. I don’t forget faces like yours in a hurry.’
The former ACC of Lancashire Constabulary, Roger Willocks, stood to one side and allowed Henry into the house. He pointed to the lounge and Henry went in.
Henry could not fail to see the large number of sympathy cards around the room, filling every available flat surface.
‘ I’m sorry, Mr Willocks. If I’ve come at a bad time…’
‘ No, no, no, nothing of the sort. My wife died nearly a month ago Cancer. Just haven’t got round to taking the cards down yet. Seems such a final thing to do.’
He smiled sadly at Henry.
‘ It’s good to have a serving cop round. Most of my friends are retired now and I don’t have any particular connection with the Top Team now. Coffee?’
They chatted briefly about the good old days — which Henry was glad to see the back of, actually — and Henry told him of the sweeping changes which were taking place today in the job.
Willocks was not impressed. ‘Glad I got out,’ he said. He put his coffee down. ‘So, my lad, to what do I owe this honour? I don’t suppose you’ve dropped by just to delve into the past, have you?’
‘ Yes and no.’ Henry paused and gathered his thoughts together. ‘A few years ago you headed an enquiry into the North-West Organised Crime Squad.’
Willocks’ face blackened over. ‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it,’ he said stiffly.