Fleming shook his head. ‘Not yet. Looks like an out of town job. Professional hit. We may struggle with this one.’
Henry opened his eyes wide in surprise. He made it a rule never to kick off a murder investigation by thinking he would have to struggle with it. If you think it, you do it, he believed.
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Be my guest.’ Fleming made a sweeping gesture and Henry approached the screen, which reminded him of a beach windbreak. Behind it there was some concentrated activity going on, including the presence of the Home Office pathologist, Professor Baines, who looked up from his grisly task and smiled with great pleasure at Henry.
‘Nice to see you again so soon.’ He had been bent over, but stood up and backed away from what he was doing, giving Henry his first proper view. A scenes of crime photographer snapped away for the family album. ‘Voila!’ said Baines.
Henry folded his arms.
Two bodies, both male, face down on the ground, one lying across the other. Both with massive head wounds to the base of the skull. Henry pouted as his experienced eyes clinically took in the horrific tableau.
‘Both killed in the same manner. A gun placed to the base of the skull, angled upwards, shot through the brain, exit wounds through the forehead. Very effective and instantaneous. They wouln’t have suffered.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
A movement in the corner of his eye caused Henry to glance towards the car park. A hearse had been allowed to pull in. Two dark-suited individuals climbed out and chatted to a constable. They reclined on the long black vehicle, waiting for their turn in proceedings.
‘Both killed in situ,’ Baines said confidently.
‘Not killed elsewhere and dumped here?’
‘No — shot here.’
‘Time of death?’
Baines guffawed, then shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? You know as well as I do it would be an educated guess.’
‘Guess then,’ Henry prompted him.
‘They’ve been here about ten hours, give or take a couple either side.’
‘So anywhere between eight and twelve hours? Brilliant.’
‘Fuck off, Henry.’ Baines laughed. ‘Shall we have a look at what’s left of their faces?’
‘Why not?’
The policy was that undercover agents always made contact with their controllers, not the other way around, unless in extenuating circumstances. This was sound common sense as a poorly thought out phone call from a worried controller could easily compromise an agent. That was why Karl Donaldson was reluctant to pick up the phone and call Zeke. He dithered over his phone’s key pad, telling himself that there must be a very good reason for Zeke’s lack of contact and all that he would do by contacting him would be to compromise him.
But four days was a long time. Too long.
‘Right,’ he said to himself. He dialled Zeke’s number.
‘Get this on video, please,’ Baines instructed the SOCO. The officer prepared his camera, then nodded his readiness. Baines squatted down and took hold of the shoulder of the dead man who was lying on top of the other dead man. He supported the man’s shattered head, then checked to see if everyone was ready. Henry was, Fleming was, the local DI was. ‘Okay, I’m going to move this man now.’ Gently he eased the man’s shoulders back with one hand, held his head with the other and turned him slowly. The body rolled gently off and the face twisted up to the sky. The whole left side of the forehead had been blown away in a massive raggedy hole.
Henry breathed out, not realizing he had been holding on to a lungful of air.
‘What a mess,’ Fleming said for everyone. ‘Any idea who it is?’ he asked Henry and the local DI.
Both men peered to look.
‘No,’ said the DI
Henry froze. A mobile phone started to ring.
‘Where is that?’ the DI said.
‘It’s under this guy’s leg,’ Baines said. ‘Someone want to get it?’
The two detectives looked at each other. Henry bent down and lifted up the dead man’s leg and found the phone. He picked it up carefully. The display read, ‘Anonymous — answer?’ He pressed okay and said, ‘Hi?’
A voice he recognized immediately said, ‘Is that you?’
‘Yep,’ he said shortly.
There was a silent moment, then the line went dead as the call ended.
‘I wonder which one of these it belongs to?’ the DI asked.
Henry did not answer. He looked at the murdered face of the dead man that Baines was propping up. Part of the left eye was missing. The right eye was open, sightless and blank. His mouth gaped, coagulated blood congealed around it and around his nostrils. Even so, Henry was in no doubt.
‘Hello, Marty,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’
Donaldson let the phone ring out until the answering service cut in, then hung up without leaving a message. He tried the number of another phone to which he knew Zeke had access and got the same result.
They stood back to allow Baines and the SOCO to carry out the necessary preliminary work on the body which had been lying under Marty Cragg. This gave Henry a little time to apply his mind to a crime scene assessment, consciously subjecting himself to a mental process of reconstructing what had happened. It was a disciplined process, concentrating on the various elements which constitute a crime scene — location, victim, offender, scene forensics, followed by post-mortem — and then considering the links between them. Though this was early in the enquiry, Henry knew he had to begin a good crime scene analysis because there was only ever one chance to do it.
He discussed the matter with the local DI and appointed him the Crime Scene Manager.
As Henry was telling the DI exactly what he wanted to happen, Baines looked up from his task and called, ‘You can come closer now.’
Henry finished what he was saying and walked over.
‘I’m going to turn this man over,’ he said and nodded to the SOCO, who was ready with the video camera for take two. Henry watched, wondering if he would recognize the second victim. But he did not. Nor did the DI, nor did Fleming.
‘They were both murdered here, I’m sure of that,’ the pathologist reconfirmed. ‘This man first’ — he indicated the body he had just turned over — ‘then this one.’ He jerked his thumb at Marty. ‘Both killed the same way, gun to the back of the neck, etcetera, etcetera.’
Although Henry was pleased that one of the victims had been identified quickly, giving him an immediate starting point, he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this shooting was intertwined, somehow, with recent events in Blackpool. There had to be a connection. It smacked of gangland. It stank of professionalism. It meant he would be working very long hours for the foreseeable future and it also meant, on a personal note, he would be going back to Blackpool and, ultimately, Jane Roscoe.
Fucking tangled web, he thought, then turned his mind to more pressing matters.
Why here? Why was one man killed before the other? Was there a reason for the order of their deaths?
‘DCI Christie!’ Someone was shouting his name from the car park — a uniformed PC who clearly did not want to approach the scene. He eagerly beckoned Henry to come to him. Henry obliged.
‘Sir, I’m PC Garry from Bamber Bridge.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Just been to a job at the Premier Lodge near to Sainsbury’s. I think it’s connected with this.’
‘I was, like, shell-shocked,’ the man said defensively. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘If you’d phoned the police at the time, they could have advised you one way or the other,’ Henry told the Premier Lodge night porter, deciding whether or not to let the man off the hook. As far as Henry was concerned, the man had not performed his duty by phoning the police immediately. If he had, he might have saved a life. ‘Four armed and masked men abduct one of your guests, then return twenty minutes later to revisit the room. .’ Henry’s voice trailed off.
‘He wasn’t a guest,’ the night porter bleated, ‘he was visiting a couple who were in the room.’