Henry shook his head in disbelief.
‘ That meeting between me and Conroy took place at the zoo, incidentally.’
‘ When?’ Henry blurted. ‘Last Sunday? When Boris got shot?’
‘ Yeah… proper sad, that.’
After twenty minutes Henry had enough to be going on with. He switched the tape recorder off.
‘ Now what?’ asked Rider.
‘ We go to the Custody Sergeant and I’ll tell her that there’s no evidence against you, and you are to be released immediately. Then we’ll get out of here as quickly as possible. Pick up Isa, my wife and kids, then we run to the Chief Constable — hopefully before we get a bullet each in the brain.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
De la Garde had developed a speciality which ensured that, occasionally, just to supplement his drug-derived income, he made a nice bonus.
His specialism was drive-by shootings.
He was a gun for hire.
A plague in the States, but a rarity in Britain until recently, the DBS — as it has become affectionately known — is now a fairly common feature of the inner cities. Liverpool has experienced its fair share, as have Manchester and Leeds. Lancashire, trailing behind these urban areas in terms of violent crime, had never had one — yet.
The DBS was often used as a tool to frighten and intimidate, the message often being more important than the injury.
But De la Garde had been given specific instructions: this time there was no message to deliver, just sudden death. ‘Ensure that your target dies,’ he had been told in no uncertain terms.
He had not even blinked or asked why. He was paid two and a half grand up-front and promised the same amount on completion. Not much, but well above the going rate for most of the killers who roamed the streets of north-west England. It would pay for a pleasant holiday to Jamaica he had planned for next week.
His target was the prostitute called Gillian, the one causing so much anguish to McNamara.
It had taken De la Garde some time to hunt her down.
He had been patient and let it be known he was seeking her through his contacts. She had gone to ground since killing her pimp, Saltash, but De la Garde knew she would reappear soon. People like her couldn’t hide for ever, nor could they run. They were trapped on a hamster wheel and had to make a living the only way they knew how.
So patience, shaking down a few hookers and petty drugs dealers eventually put De la Garde on the right track and led him, unusually, to a pub on the main road between Preston and Blackburn.
De la Garde had been waiting in a strategic position on the council estate in Shadsworth where Gillian lived, and the information he had obtained proved correct. The fucking cheek of the bitch. She was still driving around in Saltash’s car, though she’d had the brains to change the plates.
Eventually, as he knew she would, she drove past his observation point. He followed her to the pub, waiting for a chance to kill her, but she managed to park up and get inside before he could move in.
Not that he cared. Sooner or later she would come out and he would make his money. He sighed at his driver, his usual one — another black man who called himself Rufus T. He was the best in the business at present, constantly in demand for shootings and blaggings. De la Garde had negotiated fifteen hundred for him — less ten per cent commission.
They were in an extremely hot Jaguar XJS in the pub car park, tucked away in one corner, listening to the owner’s Abba collection on CD.
On his knees De la Garde had laid his instrument of death.
In this case an HK MP5.
Lovely. Light. Accurate.
Morton’s head was in his hands. The cassette player on his desk clicked off, ending the recorded conversation between Henry Christie and John Rider, in which Rider had blabbed everything he knew about Conroy, his organisation and contacts, and naming a few names including Tony Morton and Harry McNamara.
Across the room, Gallagher and Siobhan sat quietly, waiting for instructions.
Morton looked up. ‘Get down to the custody office now and do something before they both walk out of here!’ he shouted. ‘If Conroy falls, we fall too. I don’t need to tell you what that means.’
‘ What shall we do?’ cried Siobhan.
‘ Fucking think of something.’
Henry and Rider had to queue up at the custody desk. Four other prisoners and their arresting officers were ahead of them.
‘ Just what we don’t need,’ Henry moaned, looking at the queue. He was feeling jumpy and very, very vulnerable. They had to get out of here as soon as possible.
One of the prisoners ahead began to complain loudly to the Custody Sergeant about how badly he was being treated.
Eric Taylor read his statement through very carefully. He placed a firm full-stop at the end, signed his name and initialled one or two corrected errors.
‘ That’s it then,’ Karen said. ‘For your own sake don’t tell anyone else you’ve made this statement — not yet, anyway. These are very dangerous people we’re dealing with here, and we need to keep this under wraps until the rest of the operation bears fruit — which might be a couple of days yet.’ She spoke to give the impression there was an organised investigation on-going.
‘ I understand.’ He pushed the money-filled briefcase across the coffee table towards them. ‘Take it. I’m sick of looking at it.’
‘ We need to count it and give you a receipt.’
‘ Fair enough. But I can assure you it’s all there — all five thousand pounds of it.’ Taylor didn’t bat an eyelid when he said this, but a trickle of sweat ran down the middle of his back and made him cringe a little inside.
There was only one prisoner ahead of them now.
Siobhan strolled casually into the custody office.
Henry stiffened and suddenly felt like a schoolboy who’d been caught smoking by the cycle sheds. He actually blushed.
‘ What’s going on, Henry?’ she asked.
‘ Just about to take his fingerprints,’ he replied quickly. ‘That is all right, isn’t it?’
She surveyed him through slitty eyes. Her mouth hardened. But even so, there was no doubt about it. She was totally desirable. Once again Henry experienced regret at not having gone all the way.
‘ You can forget them. He has to be taken to Preston.’
‘ Why?’
‘ Because the officer in charge of the investigation is screaming at Tony Morton to bring him over,’ she lied crisply. ‘That’s where he should be lodged anyway, as you well know. The crime happened there.’
‘ Doesn’t usually bother you that procedures aren’t followed,’ Henry pointed out.
She gazed blandly at him. ‘We’ve borrowed a section van — so get him booked out and we’ll meet you out back. Make sure he’s handcuffed.’
‘ It’s a uniform job, transferring prisoners.’
‘ We’re going to do it this time, so stop messing about and be ready to roll in five minutes.’
She spun on her heels and exited.
‘ At the first opportunity in Preston I’ll get you released,’ Henry said quickly to Rider. ‘We’ll go along with them for the time being. Don’t want to make them suspicious.’
The prisoner in front had been dealt with. Henry presented Rider to the custody officer, who firmly believed, because the NWOCS had told her, that Henry was suspected of corruption in a big way. That was why it had been necessary to bug the interview room. But just act natural. Don’t let him see you suspect him of anything, they had instructed her.
Gillian laid a hand on the shoulder of the other woman in a consoling. gesture.
They made an unusual pair, one which attracted inquisitive glances from the other customers in the pub. The young black girl, dressed provocatively in a cheap, bust-revealing blouse, micro skirt and long leather boots contrasted with the slim, anxious white woman in her mid-thirties dressed conservatively, but expensively, in a black suit by Dior.