‘ All right — keep snooping.’ Crane stretched and adjusted his position on the seat. ‘What’s happening with the murder investigation?’
At that exact moment, Loz was overtaking a slow-moving van. On hearing the word ‘murder’, he nearly left the road.
‘ Fucking watch it!’ Crane yelled at him.
Loz regained control. ‘Sorry, guys.’
‘ As far as I can tell, they’re getting nowhere with it. Obviously the cops reckon it’s drug-related — correct, to a degree. Otherwise, nothing.’
‘ What about the garage-owner?’
‘ Won’t be a problem — knows nothing anyway. I arranged use of the garage through a long chain of people. I’m well down the line, too far down to unravel. Don’t worry, I’ve been very careful.’
Crane leaned back. He wanted to know everything, but for the moment he was content.
They had just reached the outskirts of Los Cristianos. There were many questions still to be asked.
Contrary to widespread public belief, exaggerated by police dramas on TV and film, murders are not solved by maverick cops acting on their own instincts, breaking rules, disobeying their supervisors and falling into bed with sexy suspects. They are solved by routine, often tedious investigation by professional detectives who dedicate time and effort, often unpaid and unrecognised, and occasionally a smidgen of creativity, to catching the murderer.
Whilst it can be exciting to be part of a Murder Squad, most of the work is boring, generated by a harassed office manager churning out ‘actions’ which are then allocated to detectives — usually, but not always, working in pairs. They then follow up the ‘action’ to the bitter end until they get a result, or otherwise. Then they go back to be given another, and so on and so forth — until there is a breakthrough. Even then, the actions don’t stop.
Much to her surprise and delight, Danny had been drafted on to the murder team. These emotions were tempered by an action which, whilst of vital importance to the whole investigation, seemed to be getting nowhere fast. Very frustrating, as she believed this could be the key to the whole thing.
The action read, very simply, Identify the unknown male in the vehicle inspection pit. She was then expected to follow up all the avenues open to her to achieve this objective.
The first and most obvious port of call was to the Fingerprint Department. Danny had personally taken the dead man’s dabs whilst his body was on the mortuary slab, awaiting post-mortem. She had held his cold flesh, applied the fingerprint ink with a roller and manipulated good quality prints on to the required forms. That bit did not bother her in the least; what did was the sight of the head wounds. She could not stop her eyes from flicking up towards them, seeing injuries which reminded her of Jack Sands’s wounds as he lay in her fridge. However, she completed the task, relieved to get away.
Fingerprints are not without their problems. Firstly, the obvious one: if the person is not in the system, there is no result. Secondly, if the person is not on the ‘Livescan’ data base — the computerised fast-track fingerprint recognition system — then a protracted manual search of all files has to be carried out. Even if the person is on record, there is the possibility that it could take weeks, even months, to match the dabs. There is also the minute possibility that a match might not be made. No system is infallible.
The dead man’s prints were not on ‘Livescan’ and after three days, no manual match had been made. Danny was getting nowhere with her ‘action’. Dental records were another option to identification and she was awaiting results from this, which can also be a long-drawn-out process.
Another avenue to explore is Missing From Home files, but they were not producing anything of interest as yet and anyway, Danny held out little hope from this. It was more than likely the dead man was from the criminal fraternity, and mysterious disappearances amongst felons and their families did not always result in someone being reported missing.
Obviously the murders had generated a great deal of media interest. The press, locally and nationally, and local TV had been more than happy to circulate an artist’s impression of the dead man. This was Danny’s biggest hope in trying to ID the guy. The media usually prompted response, but so far there had been zilch.
Danny knew that FB was in contact with the Crimewatch TV programme, and other similar shows, with a view to getting some lengthy national TV time — but so were forty-two other police forces, all clamouring and claiming their crimes were the most important ones. If Lancashire could get it on soon, there would be a pretty good chance of a result. Big ‘if’.
As for the dead man himself, he had been completely naked. No clothing or documentation had been found, so nothing from that angle either.
Danny sat at a desk in the Murder Incident Room (MIR) and scratched her head. This was her first mega murder enquiry and she had been tasked with a pivotal ‘action’. She was getting nowhere with it and now she was grasping at straws.
Colin Hodge’s apartment was in Los Cristianos, about a mile away from the centre of the small port, in a block of at least fifty other similar apartments. There was a large pool outside next to which was a snack bar selling food and drink.
The woman from the night before had left and he was alone. His head was more together following his shower and another screw therein. He had spent the last hour on a sun lounger by the pool, sipping San Miguel and reading a paperback thriller. He reached the end of a chapter and folded down the corner of the page, then lay back with the book on his bare chest, his right hand reaching down for the beer at his side.
A figure appeared over him, blocking out the sunlight.
Something stirred in Hodge — maybe a tinge of fear — and for the first time he felt ever so slightly out of control. So far he had been master of ceremonies, but now, on their ground, he had lost that edge.
‘ Can I help you?’ Hodge asked. His eyes focused on the man.
He was only a small guy, maybe five-six, nothing more. Pretty weedy-looking, wearing a bright shirt and light trousers. His left hand was bandaged.
‘ Be on the ferry to La Gomera at three.’
That was all he said. He turned and walked away, ignoring Hodge’s, ‘But, what…?’
Hodge leaned slowly back and picked up his beer with a dithery hand. He finished it off, but his throat remained constricted and dry.
Henry Christie’s hair had been closely cropped again with a number two attachment to the trimmer. He’d allowed his stubble a couple of days’ growth and now shaved electrically with the shaver head to maintain that level of growth. Designer stubble. He did not like it personally. He preferred a good, wet, close shave each day, but stubble suited the image of Frank Jagger, his alter ego.
Once again, he was back into his legend, rather like slipping into an old raincoat. He was at Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters near to Preston, where he was being briefed by Rupert Davison on the current state of the investigation into Jacky Lee’s murder. Also present, listening in and butting in when appropriate or otherwise, was ACC Fanshaw-Bayley.
Although Headquarters was quite close to his home, Henry had not driven directly to it that afternoon. Instead he had set off early and made his way to a very secret location on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Blackburn. It was a location known only to undercover police officers, the admin staff who directly supported them and a couple of high-ranking officers in the National Crime Squad which covered the North-West of England. Not even FB or Rupert Davison knew where it was. Its location was strictly controlled on a tight need-to-know basis.
It was a large, single-storey unit, surrounded by a high fence, protected by the latest hi-tech equipment, rented ultimately by the NCS. A fictitious company operated from the unit, ostensibly distributing goods in various shapes and sizes throughout the country. At least that’s what all the other companies on the estate were led to believe and anyone watching the place would also believe it too. It looked like a real company, operated like one, but it was only a shell. In reality it was the base where undercover police operatives went to adopt or ditch their legends or pick up or drop off gear and equipment.