Crunch Time (20 page)

‘Work–life balance.'

‘Hm,' he muttered darkly, ‘not much balance there.'

They drank and had a few moments of silent contemplation.

‘And it's destroyed my friendship with Henry, too,' he admitted. ‘I got so focused on something and y'know, it was screw him or what he thinks, and I think I lost a pal, too.'

‘I don't think you have,' Kate said. ‘He can be as brick-headed as you.'

‘That's a fact.' He looked her in the eye. ‘But I want to right the wrong I did to him, if I can.'

‘You don't really need to. He'll come around.'

‘Oh yes I do, and, I dunno, something in me says that by doing it, it'll be the start of getting the rest of my life back on track, a sort of building block: sort out Henry, then sort out Karen and me. Put work where it should be, maybe even think about early retirement.'

‘You! Retire?'

‘It's an approaching option. I've had an offer from the private sector already … bit of a shady one, but an offer nevertheless. I've been doing this FBI shit for twenty-five years now.'

‘What's the offer?' Kate was intrigued.

‘Private security.'

‘Maybe you should set up with Henry. I'm hoping he'll retire when he can, which is soon.'

Donaldson laughed at the thought. ‘DC Investigations.' He pouted. ‘Who knows?' But it wasn't a serious thought. He stretched and yawned.

‘How about a night cap?' Kate asked.

‘Back at your place?'

She gave him a dirty smile. ‘Where else?'

‘I suppose I'll have to be good?'

‘In that you'll be sleeping in Leanne's bed, you mean?'

‘Yup.' He stood up and helped Kate to her feet. Outside the pub they linked arms again and began the half-mile stroll back to the house. ‘So when are you and Henry tying the knot again?'

That brought a guffaw from her. ‘Sometimes I think he's about to ask me, then he bottles out … but I'm not so fussed, really. If he asks, I'll say yes, but I'm not going to push the issue.'

‘I like being married,' Donaldson proclaimed. Then, sadly, added, ‘I don't want to lose it.'

Kate pulled herself tighter to him. ‘I'm sure Karen doesn't want to, either.'

‘Mm.' It was a doubtful noise.

They walked on in silence, both deep in thought.

As Kate inserted her key into the front door, she said, ‘I'll be opening the Glenfiddich for you.'

‘Lovely.'

He was standing behind her. He glanced over his shoulder. The estate was quiet, but then he heard the sound of a car being driven fast, the noise increasing. Then it screamed around the corner and accelerated in their direction.

‘Get in,' Donaldson said, his senses suddenly sharp. He reached inside his jacket – a conditioned reflex from all those years as an agent – but there was no firearm there.

The car raced down the avenue and skidded to a halt at the end of the driveway.

Donaldson relaxed slightly when he saw the driver was a female who jumped out and quickly strode up the drive.

‘Kate Christie?' the woman asked sharply.

Donaldson recognized her now, but she had not even looked at him.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm Detective Superintendent Makin.' She flashed her warrant card.

‘Hello, Andrea. Remember me?' Donaldson cut in.

Recognition dawned on her face. ‘FBI Agent Karl Donaldson … nice to meet you again.' Her eyes flicked once over his features, but her attention turned back to Kate. ‘Kate,' she said worriedly, ‘I need to know … have you heard anything from Henry in the last couple of hours?'

When Henry returned from the toilets, Ingram had arrived at the club. He was sitting with Mitch in the raised area, speaking into Mitch's ear, a serious expression on the fat man's face which Henry did not like very much.

He rejoined them, Ingram nodding at him.

‘Frank.'

‘Hello.'

‘Been in the wars?'

‘Something like that … I may look cool, but I'm freaked out.'

‘Don't be, it'll be fine … hey, what say we get some booze in and head off for a bit of a celebration?'

‘Celebrating what?'

‘Well, for one thing, I've taken care of your debt, so that's a weight off your shoulders.'

Henry squinted at him.

‘Now you owe me,' he added.

‘So I'm still in debt?'

‘Kinda, yes, but in a good way. I'll sell on your goods, then you won't owe a thing, mate, but you'll work for me.'

‘OK – what else is there to celebrate?'

‘You were there, you should know.'

‘That's a cause for celebration?'

‘Is from where I'm sitting,' Ingram said.

‘They must have really been screwing you.'

‘You don't know the half of it … let's get some booze and get out of here.'

H
is face was battered to beyond a pulp. His eyes were purple and swollen, his cheekbones crushed, jaw broken, mangled and distorted, as was his nose. Both forearms had been stamped on and shattered, his knees smashed and his lower right leg broken. His ribs had multiple fractures, one of them had split and ruptured a lung and there was other, extensive internal damage not yet fully assessed. He was going for a brain scan because his skull had probably been fractured and it was possible there was a blood clot on the brain.

He had been left for dead.

But he was still alive.

Just.

‘If he hadn't been found, he would be dead.'

Andrea Makin spoke these words to Karl Donaldson whilst striding through the corridors of Blackpool Victoria Hospital towards the intensive care unit.

She had taken a lot of convincing to open up to Donaldson, but had finally relented because she knew him of old.

‘Where was he found?'

‘Roadside ditch, near a place called Out Rawcliffe, out in the sticks. He'd obviously been dumped from a car or van and rolled into a rat-piss-infested dyke.' Andrea turned to him and gave him a ‘you dare' look which prevented any smart remark. He just raised his eyebrows. ‘He may have swallowed the ditch water.'

‘Weil's Disease, y'mean?'

She raised her eyebrows, impressed by his knowledge. ‘It's something that needs to be checked out.'

‘Who found him?'

‘Passing motorist stopping for a pee, ironically.'

They carried on walking, Andrea purposeful in her stride.

‘Tell me about Henry's last message again?'

She reached into her shoulder bag, thumbed through her mobile phone and handed it to Donaldson, who, as the excitement of the moment rushed through him, seemed to have purged all traces of alcohol from his system and replaced it with adrenalin.

‘A hotel and room number?'

‘With two dead bodies in it.'

‘Identified?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Suspicions?'

‘Dealers from London,' she said, snatching the phone back. ‘Look, I've told you all this, Karl.'

‘And I'm trying to get my head round it. He is my friend, you know and if he's in danger, I want to help.'

‘You're just a guest at the moment, so don't get uninvited … I need to think.'

Donaldson was undeterred, but for the moment he decided that silence was the best course of action.

They marched on down the corridor, following the coloured lines on the floor to the ICU, eventually arriving there.

Two uniformed constables hovered outside the entrance, accompanied by Dave Anger, the officer in charge of FMIT, who turned and watched them arrive.

‘Andrea,' he said formally. He pointed at the American. ‘Karl Donaldson, right?' They had met before and clashed and Anger knew of his relationship with Henry. ‘What are you …?

‘Where are we up to?' Andrea said firmly, hurriedly, no time to enter any debate as to why Donaldson was here.

Anger's eyes came back to her and Donaldson could see he was smitten by her as his face softened – although hers just became harder. ‘It's not looking good.'

‘Where is he?'

‘In there.' He jerked his head at the double swing doors leading to the ICU.

‘Let's look.'

The uniforms stood aside to allow the detectives through. The ICU was divided into several cubicles on either side of the unit. Anger led them to the nearest one and drew back the curtain.

The sight made Andrea recoil.

Donaldson stifled a gasp, too.

Troy Costain was a terrible, terrible mess. His swollen face, one side of it ballooning out horribly, was unrecognizable. Banks of monitors, IV drips and oxygen tanks, all attached, clipped on or inserted as necessary, surrounded him. His lips were cut, gashed, skewed out of shape. His breathing was shallow and difficult.

‘Hell fire!' Andrea said, shocked. ‘Has he regained consciousness at all?'

Anger shook his head. ‘He's going into theatre in minutes. It's touch and go,' he said dramatically. ‘This could soon be a murder investigation.'

A team of porters, nurses and doctors came in moments later, shooing the detectives aside as they wheeled Costain out to theatre, leaving an empty space where the bed once was.

‘We need to talk,' Anger said to Andrea, glancing at Donaldson who clearly got the message.

‘I want to be part of this,' he said quickly.

‘I don't think so,' Anger said.

The two men traded looks. Anger's eyes were magnified behind his round glasses.

‘There's no time for this,' Andrea cut across the male posturing. ‘Karl's an experienced law enforcement officer, and a good one as you damn well know, and that's good enough for me.'

‘Look at me as being on secondment,' Donaldson suggested.

Anger gave a snort, but he did know about Donaldson and, inwardly, had an immense, albeit grudging, respect for him. He nodded reluctantly and Donaldson guessed he was only assenting to his presence in the hope that in the near future Andrea Makin's lips would be wrapped around Anger's cock.

‘Let's get coffee and talk,' she said.

Words which were honey to Donaldson, whose mouth was bone dry from the alcohol.

They found a drinks dispenser in a corridor and grouped around it, the money going in and hot black liquid coming out. To describe it as coffee, though, was an insult to all coffee bean growers the world over. However, it did the trick for Donaldson, grim though it was.

Andrea cleared her throat, began a summary.

‘Henry texted me earlier,' she began, realizing the ball was very definitely in her court, ‘as a result of which two bodies were found in a hotel room in Stratford-upon-Avon. Then you contacted me, Dave' – she nodded at Anger – ‘telling me that Troy Costain had been found in a ditch, beaten, left for dead. You're aware of the role Costain played in the operation Henry is engaged in.' Anger nodded. ‘Now I cannot contact Henry and, to put it in a nutshell, I'm frantic with worry,' she admitted. ‘If Costain's beating had something to do with his involvement in this operation, which is the hypothesis I would like to continue with, then I can only assume that Henry might have been compromised.' Bleakly, she said, ‘Add to that the bodies in the hotel, and I do know Henry was down in Stratford with Mitch Percy, earlier today … I have a very bad feeling about it all.'

Anger released a long breath. He pursed his lips. ‘There's something else, too, which may or may not be connected … a young girl was abducted in Poulton-le-Fylde earlier this evening, quite close to Out Rawcliffe. Straight off the street into the back of a van. I know that Ingram is suspected of crimes similar to this and if he has been in the area and assaulted Costain, then he could be tied in with this. My colleagues on FMIT are dealing with the abduction.' He looked at them. ‘I'm not one for coincidences, so I'd rather treat these things as a whole rather than separately until we know otherwise.'

‘I'll go with that,' Donaldson seconded him.

Andrea nodded.

‘I'm going to pull together a linked investigation team as regards Costain and the missing girl … re. the job in Stratford, I'll get someone down there within the next three hours to liaise. On top of that, let's locate Henry. Much as we do not get along, his safety is paramount and at the very least he knows something about the murders …'

‘I just hope he's alive, that's all,' Andrea said gravely.

And indeed, Henry Christie was very much alive and kicking, sitting in the back of an old Ford Granada, Ingram and Mitch up front, passenger and driver respectively. They were both quiet as Mitch drove the old car out of Manchester, out towards Rochdale. Henry tried to keep track of his whereabouts, knowing the area reasonably well, but he did lose track of the route for a brief period when they reached Rochdale. As they began to rise out of the town, he realized they were on the A680 which cut across the moors between that town and Rossendale. The knowledge made him feel a little more comfortable, as did the feel of the mobile phone strapped to his inner thigh, a bit like having a derringer tucked away for emergencies, even though he did have his own phone in his pocket.

Mitch drove well, racing quickly on to the moors. It was hard to believe he had shot two people dead only hours before. Henry knew this was the difference between most members of the public and bad bastards:
conscience
.

‘What's the crack?' Henry asked. He leaned forwards between the front seats. ‘Where are we going? Where the hell are we, in fact?' he asked, playing dumb.

Suddenly a smack of heavy rain battered down, drenching the car. Mitch flicked on the wipers.

‘You'll see,' Ingram said.

Henry sat back, feeling that the mood of celebration seemed to have dissipated.

Two miles farther on, Mitch slowed, peering through the downpour, then turned right on to a farm track which, pitted and rutted though it was, did not cause any problems for the car, even in the bad weather.