Crunch Time (16 page)

‘And he's living in a bloody Travelodge.'

‘That's all we know about. It wouldn't surprise me if he's already bought something up here.'

‘He hasn't mentioned anything yet.'

The intercom buzzed, making both of them jump. They looked at each other, puzzled.

‘Who's this?' Andrea said.

Henry didn't speak, but crossed to the wall by the door and spoke into the intercom which was linked to the main door of the building. ‘Yep?'

‘Ingram.'

Henry mouthed ‘Shit!' to Makin, who quickly shoved the file back into her briefcase and snapped it shut.

‘Not a good moment,' Henry said into the intercom.

‘Open the fuckin' door.'

‘Come up.' Henry pressed the door release button and turned in a slight panic to Andrea, then had a thought. ‘Rub your eyes,' he said quickly. ‘We've just had a barney and you're storming out, with your briefcase … lover,' he added ironically.

She nodded, going with the flow immediately. She hitched her jacket on, then scrunched the palms of her hands into her eyes, mussing up the newly applied make-up, making her look like a panda again.

There was a knock on the door: Ingram.

‘As far as I'm concerned, you can just get stuffed,' Henry raised his voice as he made his way to the door.

‘You bastard!' she shouted, storming up behind him and, just as he unlocked the door, pushing past him on to the landing. ‘You can stick it.' She turned like a vixen and snarled, ignoring the presence of Ingram and Mitch. ‘You make me want to vomit!' Her eyes blazed through the black smudges that surrounded them. She swivelled to face Ingram, who she sneered at. He looked askance at her, stepping back. ‘You can fuck off, too,' she told him with a snarl, then gave Henry the middle finger and stalked haughtily away without a backward glance.

Ingram and Mitch regarded Henry with knowing smiles.

‘Touchy bitch. You fallen out?' Ingram said.

‘Told her to fuck off, basically,' Henry said, ‘then she gets all catty and accuses me of using her.' He grinned. ‘Which I was,' he added conspiratorially, like blokes together.

‘Are you lettin' me in?' Ingram asked, now bored with the domestic chit-chat.

‘Aye, come on.' Henry stood aside.

They sauntered into the apartment, hands in pockets, both making to the window to admire the view, which was pretty stunning.

‘Wouldn't mind one of these pads myself,' Ingram ruminated, appraising the interior.

Henry's eyes did a worried rove, too. Was anything out of place? Was there anything here not belonging to Frank Jagger?

He was feeling OK about things up to the point where he spotted his own, not Frank's, mobile phone on the coffee table. His own personal property, the one he'd used to call Kate only minutes before. Mitch slobbed down on to the sofa and plonked a foot on the table, his ankle right next to the offending device.

Henry's mouth dried up. ‘Coffee?' he croaked. ‘Just brewed.'

It had been Mitch who had downloaded the SIM card information from Frank Jagger's phone, and the one only inches away from his foot was a completely different make and model. Frank Jagger's phone was in his jacket at that moment.

‘I'll have one.' Mitch twisted to look at Henry.

The mobile phone seemed to grow in size to that of a brick. Henry expected it to ring at any moment.

‘Sugar, milk?'

‘Black, no sugar.'

‘How about you?' Henry asked Ingram, who turned from the window, hands thrust deep in his pockets. ‘Sugar, no milk.' His sharp eyes scanned the room continually.

Henry hesitated. Going into the kitchen meant putting a little bit of distance between him and them, something he was loath to do. But, with trepidation, he went in.

‘I thought you said a day or two?' he said, finding a couple of mugs.

‘I did.'

Henry looked up. Ingram was leaning against a kitchen cupboard, scrutinizing Henry.

‘What?' Henry asked.

‘Just looking at you … you're a bit familiar, which is always slightly worrying.'

Henry shook his head. ‘I thought you were, too, but I've wracked my brains and … nothing.' He looked squarely at Ingram, unfazed by him. ‘Milk, you say?'

‘Just sugar.'

Henry handed a mug to him and he moved back into the living area. Henry came in with Mitch's coffee.

The big man had not moved. Still slouched on the couch, feet on the coffee table, mobile phone still there.

How would it look if I moved it? Henry thought. Can't do anything too unusual or obvious. If I give him his coffee, then pick up the phone and pocket it, how would that come across? Henry agonized as Mitch sat up and took the mug in his big, chubby hands.

He decided to leave it, take the chance.

His visitors sipped their drinks.

‘Nice,' murmured Mitch appreciatively, sitting back and putting a leg on the table again, resting his coffee on his chest below his ample neck.

‘Something I can do for you, then?' Henry faced Ingram. He
was
familiar, Henry had to admit. He prided himself on never forgetting a face or a name, one of his greatest gifts as a detective, yet he could not quite place Ingram and he cursed himself for not having delved into the guy's antecedents a little more deeply – but that was part of the balancing act with undercover knowledge. Too much could be too dangerous. Not enough could be fatal.

It was also obvious that Ingram thought he knew Frank Jagger from somewhere. Henry's worry was that if he did make the connection – if there was one to be made – things could get very hirsute for Henry.

Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he just thought he did.

Such were the ambiguities and dangers of working U/C. You could never tell when it might all come crashing down around your ears.

‘How are you fixed for a bit of travel?'

‘Depends what, where, when, how long … stuff like that.'

‘Let me rephrase that. You're going on a journey.'

‘And if I don't want to?'

‘Your wishes don't come into it, Frank, mate. I fuckin' own you now, so don't forget it.'

A horrible creeping sensation tightened Henry's skin.

His bag was packed. He threw it into the back of the Jeep, then reversed the big car out of the narrow parking bay in the underground lot beneath the apartment building. He manoeuvred his way out of central London, always heading north, until he joined the M1, which was mercifully clear of traffic. He stepped on the gas and moved the vehicle up to eighty, set the cruise control and sat back to enjoy the drive. He had a full tank of gas, a cool car, a pair of shades, Otis Redding on the CD player and just for once in a long time, he felt chilled and relaxed. The bullet wound ached, probably would for ever, but that was all.

He was on the road now, about to right some wrongs, about to reset his whole life, make some positive decisions.

It felt good.

He flicked off the cruise control and pushed the car up to ninety.

‘My name is Karl,' he said to himself.

‘Just fancy.' Her voice was cynical, pissed off.

Henry flounced back in the chair and folded his arms, face set like a rock.

Back home that evening, he had told Kate more than he should ever have done: about Ingram, about Andrea Makin, about the job he was involved in. He knew that cops were reluctant to discuss their work with their partners at the best of times and it was a complete no-no to say anything about U/C work to anyone not involved, but Henry had made an exception. The hope was that Kate would understand his reasons for staying at it a few more days.

She was not convinced.

He felt as though he was in a TV cop drama, one of those telling the tale of the dedicated cop who gave his all to the job at the expense of his family.

Ironically, that
was
the position he was in.

Something he had done all his working life, put his family second even though he had resolved on many occasions to do otherwise. It was just that the job ensnared him, had him in its grip, seduced him. But he
was
trying to break free from its shackles, but by saying yes to an undercover operation it would not have taken the brain of Britain to tell him it was decision he'd come to regret, because it was bound to tear him in all directions.

‘I knew this would happen,' Kate confirmed it all. ‘I always come second.'

‘Listen, I promise I'll do this one thing,' said Henry, well on the back foot now, ‘then I will pull out and come home, work nine-to-five in the office and be there for you … how does that sound?'

It must have sounded reasonably OK because that evening they jumped on the sexual bandwagon again. Kate, a couple of glasses of Blossom Hill red inside her, very much took charge, whilst Henry lay back and took it like a man. They drifted off afterwards in each other's arms, his mind already moving on to what the next few days might bring.

He was asleep soon … until a flickering brightness slowly played over his closed eyelids. Unable to believe it was dawn already, Henry opened his eyes and looked across at the curtains, puzzled by what he was seeing for a few moments – until it hit him.

‘Shit!' He leapt out of bed and ran to the window, pulling back the curtain.

‘What is it?' Kate asked blearily.

Henry was right.

It was a fire.

And burning brightly on his front lawn was a blue Ford Mondeo – his old car – flames gushing out of the window, rising high into the night sky. There was a loud crack and the rear window exploded.

Kate joined him at the window, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, horrified at the sight.

‘That's your old car,' she exclaimed.

‘Yeah,' he said sourly, ‘better call the fire service just in case no one else has.'

H
enry was feeling dithery and tired when he dropped off his slightly singed Rover 75 and picked up the Nissan from the unit, then headed for Manchester, desperately trying to get himself into the role of Frank Jagger.

His mind, understandably, was elsewhere, and even though Karl Donaldson had turned up out of the blue in the middle of the night – why, Henry did not have time to find out – and assured Henry he would keep watch over Kate, Henry knew it was his job, not someone else's, to watch over his loved ones.

He thought that if Ingram or anyone else commented on his vagueness, he could always use the excuse of being distracted by the break-up with his ‘lover', Andrea Makin.

Thinking of whom, Henry stopped at Bolton West services and called her from his mobile. She answered immediately.

‘Hi, Henry, how're you feeling? Up for this?'

He hesitated before telling her about the incident of the Ford in the night-time.

‘Shit,' she said tightly. Then, ‘You can pull out if you want to.'

‘No, I said I'll see it through, and anyway, an old friend turned up out of the blue last night and he'll be keeping an eye on Kate for me. Karl Donaldson – remember him?'

‘Yeah, do I!' She had met Donaldson at the same time as she had first met Henry, in Blackpool, hunting down a bomber linked in with the white supremacist movement. ‘You're a good one, Henry,' she said.

‘Kate isn't that impressed.'

‘She's luckier than she thinks.'

‘I doubt that's a point of view she shares … anyway, she's got protection, so she should be OK.'

‘You can pull if you need to.'

‘No, let's crack on.'

‘Still no inkling what the day will bring?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘You still going in without back-up?'

‘That's the general idea.'

‘Is that wise?'

‘Who knows? At the first sign of trouble, I'll do a Jesse Owens. I've got a hell of a sprint on me when the chips're down.'

Andrea laughed. ‘I appreciate this – really.'

‘My pleasure.'

‘Just keep in touch.'

‘I will.'

Henry deleted all the details of the call from his mobile, then screwed the little Nissan down the motorway, blue smoke all the way. Half an hour later he was back on Salford Quays in the apartment, showering and doing his best to freshen up, get his brain into gear. He changed into clean jeans, tee-shirt and trainers, then made a strong coffee, flicked on the CD player at let Amy Winehouse perform a bit of rehab on him. He had only just picked up on her, after seeing her take the stage with the Rolling Stones at the Isle of Wight festival, viewed on YouTube. He was now deeply in love with her gravelly voice and superb music. He hoped she wouldn't mainline her talent away and destroy herself.

The door intercom buzzed.

Henry shot to his feet, switched off the music and looked around the room. This time there were no stray mobile phones to give him palpitations. He had hidden his personal one and there was nothing else to indicate there was anyone else who lived here other than Frank Jagger, bits 'n' bobs scallywag.

‘Yep?'

‘It's Mitch – you ready?'

‘You coming up?'

‘Why, d'you wanna screw me?'

‘Not especially.'

‘Then get your arse down here, pillock face.'

‘Fuck you, too,' Henry said, but only after he had released the speak button. Obviously Mitch had not particularly taken to him.

He shrugged on a leather jacket, patted down his pockets, took a breath and went for it.

Mitch was in the underground car park leaning against the Peugeot 607. Two fat things together, Henry mused.

‘Where's Ingram?'

Mitch put a finger to his lips. ‘No names, nothing,' he said, narrowing his porky eyes. ‘Get in.' His stubby thumb jerked at the car and Henry climbed into the passenger seat whilst Mitch eased himself behind the wheel, giving Henry a grin as he got comfortable.

He held out his left hand, palm up. ‘Phone,' he said.