Big City Jacks (15 page)

There was good reason for his condition.

‘Unbelievable,' Donaldson was saying, shaking his head despondently. ‘God, if only I'd pulled the right truck . . . maybe they could've been saved.'

‘They could have been dead for a long time, Karl,' Henry said softly. ‘You shouldn't punish yourself.' He could see Donaldson was going through that cop-type thing – blaming yourself for something that was impossible to prevent.

‘I know, I know, but it's so hard not to.' He could clearly envision the opening of the rear of the container, could not eradicate it from his mind. ‘It was awful . . . I've seen a lot of bad things in my life, H, but this is up there in the top five. Twenty dead bodies, suffocated because of an electrical failure . . . just imagine their suffering.' He took a mouthful of the JD. Henry noticed Donaldson's right hand was quivering ever so slightly. He was in a bad way, Henry thought.

‘What has the driver to say about it?'

Donaldson blew out his cheeks. ‘Nothing – yet. He's terrified and probably with good cause, because I have a damned good idea what was in the bag which was stolen from him.'

‘Drugs?'

‘Millions of pounds worth.'

‘So he failed on both counts . . . didn't deliver the human cargo, nor his other package. Do you think he knows much?'

The American shook his head. ‘Doubtful. Just a mule, a fool . . . or maybe a man who didn't have a choice.' He shrugged. ‘Who knows?'

‘Will he talk?'

‘Maybe, but my guess is he'll say nothing.'

Henry poured some of his cold, sweet drink into his mouth, wishing it was Stella Artois. It was approaching ten p.m. and so far his evening had been quiet. Roy Costain was still on the loose and the husband-murderer from the night before was tucked up in bed, ready for court next day. He hoped it would stay like this, because he needed a full night of beauty sleep.

‘Hope you didn't mind me turning up out of the blue,' Donaldson said glumly. ‘Been a bad day in more ways than one.'

‘Not at all. You can crash out in Jenny's bed if you want. She's out for the night at a pal's.'

‘Appreciated . . . I was gonna go to a Travelodge . . . you saved me that agony at least.' He tipped his head back and downed his third JD.

‘So what drove you to Hull in the first place?' Henry asked.

‘Same old, same old.'

‘Ahh,' said Henry knowledgeably, tilting his head and looking down his nose at Donaldson. ‘If I'm not mistaken, your friend and mine . . .'

‘Mendoza,' they said in unison.

‘Can I get you a refill for that?' Donaldson said, pointing at Henry's light-green drink.

Detective Superintendent Carl Easton had convened an emergency meeting of his team at a pub not two miles away from the Greater Manchester Police Training Centre at Sedgeley Park. Easton knew the landlord and he was allowed to use the upstairs function room. Easton arrived first, together with DS Hamlet. They quickly set out a few chairs to accommodate the others who would be arriving soon.

Easton and Hamlet reflected on the day. One that had gone very badly. They were worried men.

‘I know I keep saying it,' Easton pondered, ‘but it is not good, not good at all.'

Hamlet took a deep swig of his pint of Boddington's Bitter, wiped his mouth and agreed. ‘Puts us in a very delicate position.'

Two men wandered in through the double doors, pints in hand – two members of Easton's close-knit team. They acknowledged each other and, sombre-faced, seated themselves. Within minutes, four more arrived, all equally worried-looking, then a woman, then finally the last member of the team, who ensured that the doors were closed properly.

‘OK, thanks for coming at such short notice, everyone,' Easton began. ‘By now you all know what's happened at Lancaster Crown Court today . . . it's across all the papers and on TV.' They all nodded or murmured. ‘Sweetman is back out on the streets again, a free man.' He let the words sink in and tried to catch everyone's eye. ‘This is a very bad thing.' He inhaled deeply. A couple of the team lit cigarettes. Smoke rose languidly in the still air. ‘It affects us on two fronts . . . firstly because Sweetman is back out there, it means we have to be very careful about how we operate. I don't want anyone to think they're safe, because they're not. Sweetman will want his revenge and so will his backers . . . and I was called in to see the chief constable this afternoon. To say he was pissed off is an understatement. I argued that any inquiry into this matter at court should be kept internal . . . but he wouldn't have it.'

‘Shit!' was one reaction.

‘Bollocks!' was another.

‘Another force will be coming in to investigate us,' Easton announced.

A collective groan filled the air.

‘Who?' someone asked.

‘Our Chief has asked the Chief Constable of Lancashire Constabulary. He had already done that before I saw him, so it was a done deal. He's taken this measure because it was such a high-profile case and he needs to be seen to be doing things right. I can appreciate this point of view.'

‘So we're going to be investigated by a bunch of fuckin' country bumpkins,' one of the detectives ventured. He laughed. ‘We'll run rings round the fuckers.'

‘No doubt we will,' Easton said cautiously, ‘but we have to be seen to be cooperating as much as possible, and that means we have to get the house in order as of now. We need to have answers ready for the questions we're going to be asked. And not only that, we need to ensure that every door that needs to be closed is closed, that every report is sanitized . . . outside detectives sniffing around in our dirty washing makes us very vulnerable indeed.' He looked knowingly at his team. ‘And not just because of what might be uncovered in relation to the way Sweetman was investigated.'

It must have been the time on remand that did it. That was all Rufus Sweetman could put it down to, but he was finding that as he probed and thrusted himself into Ginny's willing body, he could not come.

‘Fuckin' prison,' he blasted, sitting up on the edge of the bed. ‘Screws your mind, does your head in . . . my mind's all over the place.' He stood up and crossed to the en suite, where he relieved himself and stepped into the shower. Just too many things going on in his head, competing, making him feel disconnected and slightly spaced out. He knew he needed to make an effort to calm down and think normally again, if there was such a thing as normal in the world of Rufus Sweetman.

So immersed was he in his thoughts that Ginny had to knock hard on the shower door to attract his attention. It did not help that the power shower was pulsing hot jets of water into his tensed-up shoulders and back muscles. He switched it off and opened the door. She held out a mobile phone.

‘Grant,' she said distastefully.

‘Thanks.' Sweetman reached for a towel and skim-dried himself before taking the phone from her. ‘It's me.'

‘How's it going?'

‘So-so.' He glanced at Ginny. She was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, filing her nails.

‘Got news for you . . . in fact, have you seen the news on TV?'

‘No, been a bit tied up, if you know what I mean?'

Ginny looked up and giggled.

‘Yeah, sure.'

‘What's the news?' Sweetman asked.

‘The consignment's gone.'

‘What do you mean, gone?'

Sweetman started to look round the bedroom, finding the TV remote and aiming it at the portable.

‘It's been taken, is what I mean.'

Sweetman perched on the corner of the bed, his breathing shallow. ‘Tell me,' he said quietly, the undertone dangerous.

‘The lorry got robbed on Birch Services. The goods were stolen . . . and that's not all . . . the cargo is no longer alive . . . all dead. It's very big news.'

‘Murdered?'

‘Suffocated.'

‘Christ! And the shit's all gone, has it?'

‘Yeah . . . look, it's all over the TV . . . watch News 24 . . . it's massive . . . well, the deaths of the immigrants is . . . there's no mention of anything else, obviously.'

‘But it's gone for sure?'

‘Yeah.'

Sweetman flopped back across the bed. ‘Who did it?'

‘No idea.'

‘We need to meet . . . usual place . . . one hour . . . I want Theodore and Tony there . . . we're going to find out who's responsible and crush the bastard.' He paused. ‘Does the big man know about this?'

‘I haven't told him . . . but he may know something.'

‘He needs to be informed . . . and he needs to be told that I'm back on the case, not fucking running things from a cell, for shit's sake.' He hung up and looked at Ginny. ‘Has Grant been coming on to you?'

Donaldson returned to the table and placed the drinks down. Henry looked enviously at his friend's and wished he wasn't on call. It was tempting to have just a wee one, but Henry knew it would be a mistake. Even after a pint he tended to drive as though he was Michael Schumacher and he could tell his judgement was impaired even from such a small amount of alcohol. He knew that fine judgement was an essential for an on-call SIO and did not want to take any chances. His own judgement and decision-making had been savagely questioned in the not-too-distant past and he was sharply aware that while several people in the organization were out to knee-cap him he had to be cleaner than clean at all times.

The wide American sat down and glanced around the pub. Henry clocked the sly looks he was attracting from most of the women, the good-looking bastard. Secretly Henry hated him for being such a handsome twat and also because he was such a goody-two-shoes; Karl would never have considered cheating on his wife, whereas Henry, despite his commitment to being such a changed man, remained weak and vulnerable around a pretty face.

‘How's work?' Donaldson asked.

‘Fraught,' Henry admitted after some consideration. ‘Always being watched, always being tested, always being treated with suspicion.'

Donaldson nodded, knowing what Henry was referring to. ‘I thought FB said you'd be working to him? Anything come of that?'

‘Six weeks in and I haven't had two words from the guy. He's been too busy being a chief constable, I suppose. Still, he let me get back on the SIO team, so I can't complain too much, though I do detect an undercurrent of resentment across the force in my direction.'

‘Like you've been given some sort of favouritism?'

Henry nodded.

‘Don't let it get you down . . . you're a good detective.'

‘With a history . . . and everyone's just waiting to see me fall off my pedestal again.'

‘You won't,' Donaldson said confidently.

‘We'll see.' Henry sipped his lemon and lime, wiped his mouth, raised his eyebrows. ‘You were saying . . .'

‘Oh, yeah, developments on the Spanish front . . . mm, let me see . . . none really after today.'

‘What about your informant?' Henry probed, aware that the American was playing footsie with a guy very high up in Mendoza's organization. As a seasoned – some would say ‘long in the tooth' – detective, Henry knew how fraught informant handling could be, but this was the way in which the FBI had chosen to get to Mendoza, coupled with hi-tech approaches. Other ways had proved disastrous. Two undercover agents had been compromised and then ruthlessly murdered by Mendoza, which was why Donaldson was so focused on the target: Donaldson had personally managed the second u/c operative and when the man – codenamed Zeke – had been discovered and killed, Donaldson had taken it badly, personally. He now wanted Mendoza's blood and it was becoming an obsession with him, one that Henry hoped would not destroy his friend in the process.

‘Ahh, my informant.' Donaldson had bought himself a pint of San Miguel lager – a special promotion at the bar – which he raised cynically and toasted.

Whitlock was being held at Rochdale police station, the one with the jurisdiction over that section of the motorway on which the robbery and subsequent discovery of the bodies had occurred. He was only too glad to be sitting alone in a cell, his hands holding his head as his predicament whirled around in his mind like a sandstorm. How had it all happened? How had he been sucked in and duped? How had he got into a position from which it was impossible to extract himself?

He thumped his forehead into the base of his hands, but found this was not doing the trick. He stood up and on trembling legs he walked to the cell wall and began to smack his head against it.

Once Rufus Sweetman had realized he was going to be released from court, the quick plan of the day sketched in his head had been to spend time screwing Ginny – which he had done, though not as successfully as he would have liked; then he planned for them both to go into the city for a meal in Chinatown, then on to one of the clubs in which he held an interest to begin networking again, plan how the new stash would be distributed, then get totally and utterly smashed out of his head.

But suddenly, the goalposts moved.

The loss of the consignment was a major blow. It was a situation that demanded urgent attention.

Following the phone call from Grant, Sweetman dressed quickly. He tossed a couple of hundred pounds at Ginny and told her to go and meet some friends, have a good time, and catch up with him later. Naked, still, she eagerly grabbed the cash and ran giggling into the dressing room.

Sweetman's face was hard as he pulled on his leather jacket, paused by the mirror and considered his reflection. He had lost a lot of weight whilst inside the joint, but this had given him a razor-sharp edge to his features. His close-cropped hair gave him the appearance of being haunted and desperate. His piercing green eyes stared sunkenly back and he quite liked what he saw. But he wasn't standing there just to preen himself. He reached out to the edge of the mirror and touched a hidden catch. The mirror swung away from the wall on concealed hinges revealing the front of a push-button safe fitted flush with the wall. He prodded the four-digit number and the safe door opened silently to reveal its innards.