Donaldson was back at his desk in the embassy, leafing through a mountain of paperwork which came with the job. His mind was not concentrating on what was in front of him. He checked his watch constantly and glanced at the mobile phone propped up on his desk. His eyes stopped at a photograph of his wife and two sons and he could not keep himself from grinning at them even though his mind was harbouring dark thoughts.
It was four days since he had heard from Zeke.
‘You know, sometimes you can’t please anybody,’ DS Rik Dean said to Henry. ‘I mean, we give ’em all the protection they can possible want, mollycoddle ’em and yet they still maintain they’ve nothing to tell us.’
The two men were standing outside Blackpool Victoria Hospital, near to the entrance to A amp;E. Henry had driven up from the police station and found Dean in a small private ward where the two shooting victims from McDonald’s were being guarded by armed cops. Both men were now out of danger, medically speaking, but neither seemed to have any great desire to talk to the police, not surprising as they were deep in the mire themselves anyway.
‘Doesn’t really matter, though,’ Dean was saying. ‘Witnesses put them down as the instigators of the shoot-out and they just came off worst.’ Dean shook his head. ‘Blackpool, what a bloody place!’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry thoughtfully, ‘in more ways than one.’ He took a breath. ‘One thing, though — keep them separated. Not only so they don’t have contact with each other, but also so that they’re not in the same place if anyone chooses to pay them a return match. It’ll make it more difficult if they’re apart from each other.’
‘Good point,’ said Dean. ‘I’ll sort that. For now they’re under guard and as soon as the quacks say they’re fit enough, we’ll haul their backsides down to the station and start kicking their wounds.’
Henry laughed. ‘Yeah, good.’ He had no qualms about Rik Dean, trusting him to take care of business professionally. ‘I’ve come about something else, actually.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘I told you I was investigating a cold case, reviewing the murder of that unidentified female in the flat in North Shore last year, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing — you just don’t forget murders, do you?’
‘No, suppose not. Well, I’ve unearthed an interesting connection between that murder and the shooting down at King’s Cross, I think.’
‘Yeah?’ Dean drawled, his eyes narrowed, wondering why Henry was sharing this with him.
‘Thought I’d run it past you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘You know there’s a good chance the Cragg brothers are involved in that, yeah? I’ve been trawling through all the stuff we have on them both. Very little on Ray, he’s a cool, very aware dude, but we’ve a bit more on Marty, much more volatile publicly, as you know. He got locked up for a bit of a fracas a few months ago outside the Palace.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Dean still had no idea where this was going.
‘Looking through the custody record I found an interesting connection, left there by mistake by Marty. I wondered if you had any observations on it.’
‘And the connection is?’
‘Jacqueline Burrows, aka Jack Burrows. You remember, the woman who owned the flats in which the girl was murdered?’ Henry watched Dean’s face carefully. Last time he had mentioned Burrows’ name to him, Dean had gone a white shade of pale. ‘You took a statement from her, remember?’
‘I recall,’ Dean croaked. He was eyeing Henry suspiciously and once again had lost all colour. Henry could not fathom why. Dean tried to shrug off his discomfort. ‘So what’re you asking me?’
‘Well, it might be something and nothing. I’m just chasing shadows, maybe — it’s just that when Marty was arrested for the public order offence — which was for beating up a female, by the way — he was given his rights when he sobered up. .’ He did not complete what he was going to say. He did not know why, but he was playing Dean like a fish, for some reason.
‘And. .?’ Dean almost demanded.
‘When asked who he wished to be told of his arrest, he nominated Burrows.’ Dean looked perplexed.
‘An interesting connection, don’t you think?’
‘Fascinating.’
‘I wondered if you’d come across that connection when you took that statement from her?’
‘No.’
‘Because the other interesting thing is that Marty has convictions on his record for beating up women.’
‘Oh, right,’ Dean said, nodding wisely. ‘So if we’d known of the connection between him and her, he would’ve been worth a pull. Is that what you mean?’ Henry nodded. ‘No, never came up,’ said Dean.
‘Mm, okay. . anyway, he’s still worth a pull and when I get time, I’ll be doing the pulling.’ Henry drew his head back and looked down his nose at Dean, then leaned in close to him. ‘I want you to know one thing, Rik: any time you want, you can come and have a chat with me, in confidence, about anything, because I’ve been a cop long enough to know one thing.
‘What’s that?’
‘I know when there’s more going on than meets the eye.’ He tapped his nose and left it at that.
Karl Donaldson had never worked undercover. Never wanted to. It took a special kind of person to do it, one with many qualities Donaldson knew he did not possess. Being undercover is not a glamorous job. It is often exciting in a sphincter-curdling way and it is always dangerous because, every hour of every day, the life of an undercover agent is under threat. Donaldson, though a brave and courageous man, knew he could never live life like that. He did not mind putting in the necessary hours or days, but at the end of it he liked to be able to relax and forget about work.
An undercover agent could never do that because he or she could never be a hundred per cent certain they had not been grassed up or their cover blown. At any time they could receive that fatal visit from a disgruntled felon, angry at having been taken in, deceived and cheated, and therefore determined to track down the person responsible for his downfall.
Donaldson had nothing but admiration for undercover agents. But he never wanted to be one.
Four days, he was thinking. Had not heard from Zeke in four days.
Keep calm, he instructed himself. There are no hard and fast rules about contact, but it was just so out of character for Zeke. He made some sort of contact each day, either by phone or text message. To go so long with nothing worried Donaldson.
Particularly in view of the job Zeke was doing at that moment, because he had taken the place of an undercover FBI agent who had been murdered.
‘Are you harassing me? Do I need to call my solicitor? Or is this just a friendly, social visit?’
Jack Burrows stood resolutely at her front door, looking, Henry had to admit, very desirable indeed. She was dressed in a rather severe business suit, hair swept back into a tight ponytail, face made up expertly. She did not look as though she had ever been, or could be, an undertaker. She spoke lightly, with steel undertones.
‘If asking a few questions about a murder committed on one of your properties is deemed to be harassment, then yes, I’m harassing you.’ Henry smiled winningly.
She had been tense, but her shoulders relaxed.
‘Come in,’ she said, relenting, and led him into the lounge. ‘What can I do for you?’ She indicated for him to sit, which he did. She remained standing, affording Henry a great view of her long, tapering legs.
‘Couple of things. Firstly, I haven’t been able to trace Thomas Dinsdale yet, your ex-manager. I wonder if you could help?’ He actually hadn’t tried, but that wasn’t the point.
‘He left no forwarding address, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I really do need to speak to him,’ Henry said, laying it on thick. ‘I reckon he’ll know more than he said. I’d like to sweat him a little.’
‘Is that allowed these days? Interrogation?’
‘I’ll do it in the nicest possible way.’ Henry’s face indicated otherwise, bringing a glimmer of a smile to Burrows’ lips.