Big City Jacks (16 page)

Stashed in there were bundles of tightly packed banknotes, a mix of sterling and euros, sitting on which was a small revolver and two speed loaders. Sweetman pulled out the gun and flicked out the cylinder. It was fully loaded with soft-nosed .38s. A good gun, easy to conceal. He slid it into his waistband at the small of his back, the speed loaders into his pockets, then relocked the safe, pushing the mirror back into place.

Then he ran his hand over his hair and gave himself the final once-over. ‘Definitely back in business,' he said.

Karl Donaldson could have reeled off every known fact about the Spaniard: that he was believed to be one of Europe's most successful criminals, that his wealth could be counted in millions and that most of his money had come from human suffering, be it drugs, illegal immigration, gambling, whoring or guns. That he was fluent in Italian and English. Donaldson could even tell you the Spaniard's current mobile-phone number from memory. He knew that Mendoza's tightly run organization dealt in everything on a big scale. He was known to have close links with the Sicilian Mafia and their American brethren. It had been those connections which had brought Mendoza to the attention of the FBI and caused two agents to be infiltrated into the organization – which ended up with those two agents dead. Donaldson was confident that the contract killer who had actually pulled the trigger had been dealt with, but that still left Mendoza, the man at the top, the man who drove it all. Mendoza was also suspected of ordering the assassination of a gangster from the north-west of England, a young man called Marty Cragg, who had welched on debts to Mendoza. He had been murdered at the same time and place as the second of the undercover FBI agents, and this double murder was still an ongoing investigation being handled by Lancashire police. However, because of its lack of success, it was being scaled down . . . something else which made Donaldson even more determined to nail Mendoza.

There was no way in which another undercover officer would ever be put into Mendoza's organization again, so other methods were being used against him, one of which was to cultivate informants who could provide damning evidence against him . . . hopefully.

‘The information I had,' Donaldson explained, ‘was precise. It detailed the lorry, everything.'

‘And yet it was duff gen?'

‘Duff gen?'

‘Y'know – bollocks.'

‘Bollocks? Jeez, you English crease me up.' He paused, a smile playing on his face. He loved English phrases and slang and whenever possible used the vernacular himself. ‘Yeah,' he admitted eventually, ‘it was wrong.'

Henry knew some peripheral things about Donaldson's source and had previously been able to adduce from the American that the informant was high up in Mendoza's food chain, that he was empowered to order hits and, not least, he possibly knew where the bodies of two Greater Manchester detectives might be buried. Henry had promised himself that he would pursue this with Donaldson, but had not really had the chance since returning to work. They had been two young surveillance officers who had been unfortunate enough to stumble on Mendoza's hitman burying the body of a drug dealer who had just been culled on the order of Donaldson's informant.

It was all complicated, delicate stuff, but made no less easy by Donaldson's personal desire to nail Mendoza and the fact that informants are very easily lost. Donaldson knew he had a gem and was loath to jeopardize the relationship by pumping him for information he did not want to give . . . such as information that would incriminate himself.

The only good thing was that Henry knew that the man who had murdered the detectives was the same one who had killed the undercover officers, and Henry knew how sticky and fiery his death had been. He also suspected that Donaldson knew a lot more about the demise of the killer than he cared to divulge. Secretly Henry suspected that Donaldson had some part in the death, but he could not be sure of this . . . and part of him did not want to know, if truth be told.

‘So what you gonna do?'

‘Meet, see, talk with him.'

‘What's his agenda? What's he going to get out of this relationship?'

‘That's something I need to ask him, I guess.'

The reasons why people become informants varied. Usually it was for financial reasons or revenge or the thrill of it. Rarely was it for altruistic reasons. Every informant had a personal agenda and it was vital that the officers who managed them knew the reasons, or the whole relationship could easily go shit-shaped.

‘You must have some sort of inkling,' Henry said.

Donaldson screwed up his face. ‘He's playing a game, but . . .' He bit his lower lip. ‘And this is only a feeling . . . I guess he's out to stuff Mendoza. I think he wants the business.'

‘And if you act on what he tells you and you bring about Mendoza's downfall, the business might just revert to him. He might just end up stepping into a dead man's shoes, as it were.'

Donaldson nodded. ‘And that's not the idea of an informant, is it?'

‘No.'

‘But yet it doesn't fully explain Hull.'

‘Unless he's playing some sort of double game?'

‘The trouble with us, Henry, is that we are too suspicious of people, aren't we?'

Henry raised his glass. ‘No bad thing.'

Carl Easton's team drifted back into the main bar of the pub, having been thoroughly briefed about what was expected of them when the outside force came in to investigate. In essence it was that they should be as helpful as possible – on the face of it – but actually be as obstructive as possible below the surface. It would be a fine balancing act, but he knew his team was up to it. They had been scrutinized before but had come out of it smelling of roses.

Easton and Hamlet sat alone in the function room, saying nothing to each other, deep in thoughts of strategy and tactics.

‘We'll be OK,' Easton said at length. Hamlet nodded. ‘It's Sweetman himself that bothers me more than anything. He'll be like a raging tiger now.' His lower jaw rotated. ‘We may need to deal with him for good.'

‘I was thinking the same.'

‘Any ideas who?'

Just then the door opened. One of Easton's team re-entered the room, carrying a refilled pint. He came in and sat opposite the detective superintendent. He looked haggard and drawn, ready to drop from exhaustion. Easton and Hamlet exchanged a quick glance.

‘Leave us,' Easton said to Hamlet. He took no offence, collected his drink and left. When they were alone, Easton said, ‘You look knackered.'

‘Been busy.' He stifled a yawn.

‘Got some good news, I hope?'

‘Very good news.'

Karl Donaldson had to be eased out of the Tram and Tower and guided into the front passenger seat of Henry's car. It was one of the few times that Henry had ever seen his friend the worse for wear from drink. It was good to see there was some weakness in the Yank's armour after all. On the other hand it made Henry worry slightly because it showed just how much the obsession with Mendoza was getting to him.

Henry jumped in behind the wheel and watched his inebriated mate tugging on his seat belt, making the inertia reel lock repeatedly as he pulled at it. Henry let him struggle just for a while longer before taking the seat belt out of his hand, letting it run back on to the reel, then fastening it for him.

‘Thanks, pal,' Donaldson slurred, slumped back in his seat. ‘Guess you think I'm an asshole.'

‘Not at all.'

Suddenly Donaldson went silent. He was asleep.

Henry emitted a long, weary sigh. As he engaged first gear, his mobile phone rang.
Shit!
he thought. ‘First death of the night coming in.'

The meeting convened by Rufus Sweetman was perhaps less than two miles away from the pub in which Easton was meeting his team. The venue was a shabby hotel near to the motorway junction at Prestwich. It was a place he often used, because he owned it.

Sweetman and Grant, the solicitor, arrived first and together. They walked through the reception area of the hotel, making towards a conference room. Once inside, Sweetman positioned himself at the head of the oval-shaped table and helped himself to a bottle of fizzy water from the tray on the table. The door opened. The other two people Sweetman had ordered to attend sauntered in. Theodore Jackman and Tony Cromer, Sweetman's top negotiators and influencers, as he referred to them.

Solemnly they shook hands with Sweetman, then both men could hide their emotions no more and they hugged their boss with tears in their eyes. Sweetman's cold front evaporated and a lot of weeping and backslapping went on for a long time until Sweetman said, ‘Enough, enough, you blabbering idiots. Anyone'd think I'd been banged up for the best part of a year on a trumped up charge.'

‘But you have,' Theodore Jackman said, missing it completely.

‘Yeah, I have . . . but I'm back out now and there's some wrongs to put right. Are you guys up for that?'

There was no hesitation: both were.

‘OK, we need to prioritize here,' Sweetman said when all four men had settled at the table. The first thing we need to do is find out who ripped us off . . . five million quid's worth of coke . . . any ideas? Who's got the connections to deal that amount? Guys?'

Jackman – known as Teddy Bear – and Cromer looked blank. ‘It's all been really quiet,' Teddy Bear said, his nickname belying his looks. He was nothing like a Teddy Bear, more an angry, hungry, grizzly bear.

‘Well, it's time we were knowing . . . someone's got very cute in a way which could put us out of business. All that dope is on the drip and the man we owe the money to will not be very happy if we don't deliver. I think someone is trying to bring us down . . .' And even as he spoke a thought whacked him like an uppercut. He knew it was an assumption, but he kicked himself for never having thought of it before. His voice trailed off, eyes narrowed. ‘Shit . . . I think I've just added up two and two.'

It had been bad enough getting Donaldson into the car in the first place, but extracting him – a guy well over six foot tall and built like a cooling tower – was no joke either. Then guiding him into the house and up the stairs was even less amusing. His legs and feet seemed to have disconnected themselves from his brain and it was as though the steps had come to life at the same time. The big Yank simply could not coordinate himself to climb them and it took the joint effort of Henry and Kate to literally drag what was almost a dead weight up and into Jenny's bedroom. They dropped him on to her bed, where he began to snore immediately.

Panting and sweating, Henry and Kate surveyed their handiwork.

‘I've never seen him drunk before,' Kate said. She bent down and eased his shoes off.

‘I have, but for a different reason.' Henry attempted to get Donaldson's jacket off him, but could not manipulate his arms. Eventually he gave up.

‘He'll be OK,' Kate assured him. ‘How much has he had?'

‘Not too much. He's just not used to it.'

‘So what's up with him?'

Henry shrugged. ‘I think that to say he's had a bad day is an understatement.' He had no desire to tell Kate exactly what his friend had experienced over the last twenty-four hours. ‘I need to go into Blackpool. There's someone come in to see me, says they have some vital information about something.' He raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘Not sure how long I'll be. Not long, I hope. I could do with a good night's sleep.'

Kate touched Henry's face with the tips of her fingers, a tender, loving gesture. She tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You look tired, sweetheart.'

Henry took hold of her and kissed her hard on the mouth, letting his lips and tongue linger. She pushed herself into him and their mouths crashed together, but the moment of passion was destroyed irrevocably by one of the loudest and longest and perhaps most perfect farts either of them had ever heard, which emitted from the arse of the sleeping drunk.

‘Middle C,' Henry said. In a fit of giggles the pair backed out of the room and closed the door behind them. ‘Hope you have a good supply of air freshener,' he added.

Sweetman was standing and pacing the conference room like some executive on a creative roll, banging a fist into the palm of his hand, making points, spinning on his heels as he tested his hypothesis on his workers.

‘Just think back – two and a half, three years. What was happening to us?'

‘We were establishing ourselves across the city,' Grant ventured. ‘We set up the contract with the spic.'

Sweetman pointed, nodded.

‘And we had a whole lot of trouble with the niggers in Stockport,' said Teddy Bear Jackman. ‘Soon sorted them out, though.'

‘Go on,' the boss urged.

‘We dealt very firmly with a couple of them.'

Sweetman laughed. ‘Yep, we did.'

‘We professionalized the organization,' Grant suggested.

‘And as a result of that, what happened?'

All three faces remained blank. Sweetman closed his eyes despairingly, opened them and said, ‘We got our best ever supplier, yeah, and we built up a business which stretched from here to Birmingham and across the hills to Sheffield . . . yeah?' he finished hopefully.

They all nodded enthusiastically.

‘We got the contact, we got the goods, we crapped on the opposition, we forged new links, we set up good structures with firewalls and we made real money . . . yeah?'

More enthusiastic nods.

‘So who came into our lives?'

‘Mendoza,' blurted Jackman.

Sweetman glared hard at the man. ‘No names,' he warned him. ‘No names . . . never trust that anywhere could be safe unless you can put your hand on your heart and say it is.' He waved his hands at the conference room. ‘It's two years since we've been in here, so you never know . . . OK, who else?'