Crunch Time (19 page)

‘OK,' Henry said numbly. He heaved up the bags, Mitch let him out of the room and he walked stiffly down the corridor.

In the car, Henry's mind started to whirr as he gasped for air. What was the next step here? He had just witnessed a double murder and all his instincts told him to arrest Mitch – now! But there was still the chance of implicating Ingram and as Mitch had pointed out, there was a window of time ahead, maybe sixteen hours, which might be used to good advantage – if he played it right. The trouble was, Henry wasn't the player here. He wasn't making the moves. He was just caught up in the whole heap of shit.

Mitch yanked the driver's door open and dropped his bulk into the seat, his body venting a contented groan.

‘A good piece of work, well done,' he said, chuffed with himself. ‘Two pieces of shit dealt with, half a mill still in the bank, we're on the road and I'm going to stop for a huge burger at the first motorway services we come to. I feel like the Blues Brothers. And,' he added, ‘to cap it all, I've got this.' He held something up between his finger and thumb, which glinted in the light. ‘Couldn't resist – and can you blame me? He reckoned it cost three grand.'

It was the diamond that had been inset in Man A's front tooth.

H
enry Christie was in a toilet cubicle at the northbound Stafford motorway services on the M6. Mitch was stuffing his face in one of the restaurants and Henry had little time to compose his thoughts, but one recurring theme he was unable to quash was ‘Henry Christie and the judgement call'.

This, he thought sourly, could all go very, very wrong.

He knew if he didn't get it right, there would be no forgiveness anywhere, from anyone.
I will be for the high jump and all those other clichéd phrases and sayings that go with police discipline, sacking, court appearances and loss of pension rights – and a chief inspector's pension at that.

He swallowed drily.

The fact was he had witnessed someone kill two other men and undercover though he may have been, there was a forceful argument he should have emerged from the shell that was Frank Jagger, morphed into Henry Christie and laid hands on Mitch's collar, nicked him, sod the rest of it. Go after Ingram when Mitch was banged up and screwed to the floor, unable to wriggle out of anything.

If Henry got this wrong and, for whatever reason, lost Mitch, then he was very definitely up the Swannee without any form of propulsion at all … but … but … Henry wanted Ingram now. Hell, society wanted Ingram, and if he had arrested Mitch there and then, the chances were that Ingram would remain untouchable. But if Mitch stayed free, at least for another sixteen hours, then maybe he could drop Ingram in it either through his own verbosity or though conversations with his boss which were overheard and recorded by Henry …

… the judgement call of Henry Christie questioned once again.

He pulled down his jeans. Sticky-taped to his inner right thigh was the mobile phone he had bought in Stratford. He pulled it free carefully, wincing as his hairs were ripped from their roots, switched it on and waited an interminable length of time for it to pick up a signal.

Ever expecting Mitch to tear the toilet door from its hinges, followed by his head from his shoulders, Henry dialled Andrea Makin's number from memory again. The phone rang, but there was no reply and it went straight to voicemail.

Henry chunnered a curse, then composed a short text which named the hotel and room number in Stratford and added, ‘Protect and preserve the scene'. Then he sent it, deleted all traces of it and his unsuccessful phone call before strapping the mobile back between his legs.

Mitch was still eating, hadn't moved from the table.

Henry sat down, still pale as a sick ghost. ‘You seem pretty relaxed about all this.' His hands flew around in exasperated gestures.

‘I am. Why shouldn't I be?'

Henry eyed him, shocked.

Mitch shrugged. ‘They deserved to die, thieving bastards.'

‘Look, Mitch, I'm a businessmen, not a killer. I don't do killing.'

‘You do now. You're one of us – or didn't Ingram make that clear? I think he did, yeah.'

Henry shook his head. ‘I'm a bits 'n' bats man.'

‘Well, you'd better get your head round it, pal. You're in with us, big style, even down to the blood on your sleeve. Good link to a crime scene, I'd say.' Mitch winked evilly.

Henry glanced at his cuff.

Mitch pushed himself away from the table, stood up, wiping his greasy hands on a napkin. Henry had a fleeting hope that the grease he had just consumed would enter his bloodstream immediately and slam his ventricles shut with a deadly clang.

No such luck.

‘Don't do anything silly, Frank. Just go with the flow and you'll be OK. Promise.' He leaned forward and patted Henry on the cheek. ‘I wonder how the boss is doing?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Didn't I mention?'

‘Mention what?'

‘He's paying a visit to the guy you owe all that cash to, to end the debt. What's his name?'

‘Costain.'

‘That's the fella. Yes, he's going to sort out your debt, which, incidentally, he doesn't intend to pay.' Mitch tapped his nose. ‘Need a dump.' He walked to the toilets.

Henry stared after him.

‘It's good of you to stay.'

Kate Christie and Karl Donaldson were walking arm in arm along the pavement, having decided that a nice trip to the Tram and Tower would be a splendid idea for two people in their situations. They were also good friends and the arm linkage had no sexual connotation to it.

‘I had nowhere else, if you want the truth.'

‘I know, but even so.'

‘Free board and lodgings, gorgeous landlady … pure gold for a separated man, never to be refused.'

‘But that isn't the reason you stayed, or turned up in the first place?'

Donaldson shook his head. ‘Nah, complicated …'

They reached the front door of the pub, stopped and turned to talk. ‘It's between Henry and me,' Donaldson said.

‘Something happened, I know. He wouldn't tell me.'

‘Something major. We need to clear the air.' He sounded unsure. ‘I hope we can. I'm sorry he had to go to work.'

‘Is this “something” linked to what's happened with you and Karen, too?'

‘It has connections, I guess.'

‘Mm.' Kate pursed her lips. ‘Let's get a drink.'

Mitch and Frank Jagger were back at Ingram's unit near the Trafford Centre by 10.30 p.m., Mitch driving the Sonata in and parking next to the Peugeot.

‘What now?' Henry asked.

‘Get changed and wait for Ingram to call or show up.'

‘OK.'

Henry got out and retrieved the bag containing his own clothing from the Peugeot, whilst Mitch opened the boot of the Sonata and heaved the two holdalls out and carried them to an office in the corner of the unit. Henry waited until he had disappeared before quickly stripping and changing into his own clothing. As he pulled his own jeans on, he heard Mitch's mobile ring, reminding him that his own was still on the dash of the Peugeot.

Henry reached in and grabbed it, pocketed it, just as Mitch emerged from the office, doing a sort of disco jig and singing, ‘
Celebrate good times, come on, doo doo doo doo doo dah dah dah …
' His whole body wobbled obscenely as he danced towards Henry as though he thought he was an exotic dancer.

‘Happy today,' Henry remarked, as opposed to ‘Happy Michelin Man', which was the phrase on his lips.

‘Party time,' Mitch announced. He stopped dancing and began to divest his clothes in front of Henry, who turned away for the sake of modesty and disgust.

‘Party – why's that?'

‘Good day's work, good night's play,' Mitch answered, jeans falling. ‘We're off to Marco's,' he said. ‘Ingram wants to see us there, pat on the back time – you in particular,' he said.

Marco's was in Manchester on the edge of Chinatown. It was close to a club where Henry, as a rookie cop on a course held in GMP, had once been given the eye by a beautiful transvestite. If he had not been held back by a more savvy colleague, he would have made an error of judgement that would have scarred him for life. That had been almost thirty years ago. And still, he thought bitterly, his judgement was not as honed as it could be.

Mitch walked straight to the head of the queue at Marco's and was immediately waved in by the bouncers.

‘Does Ingram have something to do with this place?'

‘He's made himself a sleeping partner.' Mitch had to shout as the doors opened and a blast of music slammed into both of them.

Henry guessed this meant he'd made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse.

They dropped down a dog-leg set of stairs into the club in the basement of the building. It was tight, compact, hot, sweaty and overpoweringly noisy. It had no appeal for Henry whatsoever.

He followed Mitch as the big man boogied his way around a tiny, packed dance floor towards a raised area by one of the bars. This was roped off and guarded by a bouncer, but as soon as Mitch was spotted – which was immediately, because he couldn't be missed – the bouncer unlatched the rope and allowed him and Henry through to a tiny seating area reserved for the great and bad, from which there was a good view across the club. Mitch slumped on to a wide, low chair. Henry sat on a low leather one, which revolved.

‘He's a partner?' Henry shouted into Mitch's ear.

‘Yep – first step in Manchester. Good one, too.'

A bartender came and took their drinks order. Henry sat back and surveyed the dancing throng and the people crushed up to the bar, wondering how little the police actually knew about Ingram and the scale of his operation. Maybe they did and weren't letting on to Henry, which was fine because it was up to Ingram to reveal stuff to him. But he got the impression that Andrea Makin hardly knew anything at all. He guessed she didn't know about Marco's. And if she didn't know very much, it meant that Ingram was more canny and careful than she could ever have imagined.

Henry's lager arrived. Mitch had ordered a cocktail of some sort, a green and orange concoction with a little umbrella and a parrot on a stick that looked ridiculous in his hands. Henry would have expected him to have ordered a pint of beer, not a girlie cocktail.

He watched Mitch surreptitiously, hoping the contempt he showed for him did not show on his face, then quickly ran through his predicament and made some crucial decisions.

Firstly, he would not allow the U/C charade to go on much longer. The further removed Mitch was from the scene of the double murder in terms of time and distance the weaker the case against him was, evidentially.

Henry also wondered where he had hidden the gun he'd used. He guessed it was in the industrial unit with the drugs.

Secondly, he somehow needed to implicate Ingram in the murder by getting him to admit his ‘managerial' role in it. But if that didn't happen tonight, tough shit. Henry would get them both arrested and do it the hard way … not that any method used against these two gangsters would be easy, but if he could just get Ingram to say something silly, it would make the whole thing much smoother.

And thirdly, he was getting far too old for this shit, as the elderly cop often said in films.

Witnessing the murders had shaken him to the core.

The stress of being U/C was taking its toll on him and his family. Ten years ago, it was fine, and he realized now that jumping at the chance to get out from behind his desk had been another error of judgement …

He shook his head involuntarily.

‘Still thinking about it?' Mitch said.

‘Yep.'

‘Don't worry, it'll be fine. Get some booze down your gullet.'

Henry nodded, his face strained. He swigged his beer and it tasted sour. He pulled his face and feigned illness. ‘I got to go to the bog, feel sick.'

He stood up and received a hefty pat on the back from Mitch, sending him staggering out of the seating area in the direction of the toilets. He threaded his way through the dancers, his eyes catching several pairs of heaving young bosoms and rotating backsides, none of which made him feel any better at all.

Inside the toilets he found himself alone, the music from the club muted. He washed his face and considered using one of the mobile phones now in his possession, but decided it would be too dangerous. He'd already taken a chance on the motorway services and he needed his luck to hold, at least for the next few hours.

They had a nice, companionable evening in the pub, Kate listening mostly to Karl Donaldson as he gradually opened up, his verbosity fuelled by an intake of lager and a whisky chaser. He did not drink much and it did not take too much to affect him, so whilst he was nowhere near as inebriated as he had been when he'd drunkenly called Henry in the middle of the night, he was very loose-tongued.

He told Kate some of the things that Henry had never divulged to her. Some of it was deeply shocking, too.

He gave a fairly long, rambling explanation, fuelled by emotion, sometimes cold and matter-of-fact. He ended up by bringing Kate up to speed with himself and Karen.

‘An' I gotta admit, I was tempted by the lady from Facilities,' Donaldson admitted. ‘I was lying there, all alone, with my cell phone in my hand and my thumb hovering over the call button. She has the hots for me, y'know? Just one press and I'd've committed adultery …' His slurred voice trailed off wistfully.

‘But you didn't,' Kate said.

‘Nah.' He rubbed his face. He was exhausted. His insides were hurting along the track of the bullet and his brain was scrambled from his emotional turmoil. ‘I love her an' I've never come close to cheating on her.'

‘Other than with your job,' Kate suggested.

Donaldson sniffed up, considered her remark. ‘You're right. I lost sight of what was important.'