Crunch Time (8 page)

‘Hardcore porn.'

She sighed, sipped some more coffee, wiped her lips this time.

‘Re. Frank Jagger, we need to get him a banger to run around in … in fact, maybe approach Ingram on that score,' Henry said, thinking out loud, his brain becoming de-fogged. ‘Ingram knows Jagger has no wheels and that he's still got a load of gear to shift …' His words drifted off. ‘But, whatever, I need to be seen to be in a panic because my debts are still unpaid and I've got that huge fine to pay off, too … Jagger's pretty much in the shit, desperate, even …' Things were coming together slowly in Henry's mind, the next stage of the scam – but he suddenly pulled up short. ‘I take it the wheels are in place to quash that conviction I just got?' He was referring to the fact that even though he had been convicted of the drink-drive offence under the name of Jagger, he would still be a disqualified driver in the eyes of the law. After all, he was the one who had committed the offence, whether he called himself Jagger or Christie.

‘It's all being taken care of,' she assured him. Wheels within wheels, Henry thought, at the highest level of the criminal justice system in the country. However, any checks carried out by a third person would always reveal that Frank Jagger had been convicted and disqualified, which was part of the exercise.

‘Good.'

A silence descended between them.

‘What a waste,' she said at length.

‘Meaning?' His brow creased.

‘My hot arse,' she said delightfully.

‘Don't,' he pleaded, mortified, ‘don't.'

Henry shivered. The heating was off and it was very chilly inside the small industrial unit Jagger rented on the ground floor of a huge Victorian mill behind Great Ducie Street, not far from the Manchester Arena next to Victoria Railway Station.

The place was stacked to the rafters with cans of booze – the stock in trade of Frank Jagger, whose business consisted mainly of arranging the theft and then the selling of huge quantities of alcohol. Henry surveyed the cans and grinned because none of it was actually stolen, it was all provided by breweries and when this scam was finished it would all have to be returned.

He walked across the concrete floor and stood next to the fifty or so boxes containing several thousand DVDs, all of which were crammed full of hardcore pornography, including 500 with child porn. These had all come from the vaults of the Metropolitan Police, and once Ingram had been ensnared, they would all be returned for destruction.

As part of his preparation for getting back into the role of Jagger, Henry had sat through several disgusting hours of DVD viewing so that he could at least talk knowledgeably about the contents if necessary.

It had been harrowing to watch and as he recalled some of the scenes, he grimaced and wiped his face, then checked his watch: two in the afternoon. He started to wonder if Ingram would really contact him.

In the meantime, he locked the building and jumped into the beat-up Nissan Micra that had been found for him by Andrea. It had been decided to get him some wheels straightaway, otherwise it would have severely curtailed his ability to keep up with Ingram. The car was one from the GMP pound, had no current owner and would stand any scrutiny by Ingram.

It started first time, sweet as a nut in spite of its age and appearance, and he drove down to the A56, heading away from the city towards Bury. He pulled on to the forecourt of a motor dealership about two miles out of town, and stopped. The place specialized in the sale of Rover and MG cars and it was from here that he'd bought his Rover 75, part-exchanging it for the Mondeo.

Walking past a lovely display of MG TFs, the two-seater sports cars, he went into the salesroom and spotted the guy he'd done the deal with almost ten months earlier.

The salesman – Ken (how many car salesmen were called Ken? he wondered) – was chatting to a colleague by a coffee machine; as Henry closed in, Ken spotted him and cut away from the chit-chat, affixed his salesman smile and greeted Henry, who realized that he had not been recognized.

‘Hello, sir, can I help you?' Ken eyed Henry's face and general appearance, then looked past his shoulder and clocked the Nissan on the forecourt.

‘It's Ken, isn't it?'

A slight cloud of doubt scudded across Ken's honest visage as he speculated what he'd done – or not done, perhaps. ‘I'm sorry, do I know you?'

‘I part-exed a Mondeo for a Rover 75 about ten months ago?'

‘Right.' Ken squinted, still not having put a face to the transaction.

‘You did the deal.'

‘Oh, I do hope there's no problem, sir.'

‘No, not at all … you don't recall me, do you?'

‘I'm afraid …' Ken bit his bottom lip. ‘We have so many customers.' He peered closely at Henry, then recognition dawned. ‘You're the cop!' he said delightedly, jabbing a finger towards Henry's chest and coming a little too close. Henry caught a whiff of stale alcohol on Ken's breath. ‘Now I remember.'

‘Yeah, that's me.'

‘So, is there a problem?'

‘Not with the Rover, which I love and everybody else hates …'

‘Such is the way of the world with that make and model, I fear. You either love 'em or hate 'em.'

‘What happened to the Mondeo?'

‘Why, do you want it back?'

Henry thought he saw something in Ken's eyes. Caution or worry, something like that. ‘I'd just like to know what happened to it.'

‘Err, not sure actually … I'm presuming we sold it or it went to auction … let me look up the records.' He indicated for Henry to follow him and then walked to a glass-fronted office where he plonked himself down behind the desk and told Henry to grab a seat. Ken then proceeded to flick through the lower drawers of a filing cabinet next to the desk. ‘What was the name again?'

‘Christie.'

‘Here we go.' He extracted a slim file, tipping out the contents after clearing away a copy of the
Racing Post
. Henry recognized copies of some of the forms he had signed in triplicate. ‘Part-ex,' he muttered. ‘Mondeo for Rover … um … I recall you drove a hard bargain …' Ken raised his face from the documents. ‘I know! It went to auction … simple as that.' He gathered up the paperwork. ‘Beyond that, I don't know.'

Henry looked at him, slightly puzzled – because he got the impression that Ken seemed to be hiding something, but couldn't say what. ‘OK, did anyone show any interest in it before it went?'

‘Not that I know.'

‘Anyone come and test drive it, anything at all?'

Ken shrugged. ‘Not through me.' He looked suspiciously at Henry. ‘Why, has it been used in a job?'

‘Sort of,' Henry said. ‘Linked, shall we say?'

‘How ironic.'

‘Why?'

‘Ex-cop's car being used in a blagging.'

‘I didn't actually say that.'

‘No … literary licence … but, back to your question, I don't know if anyone came to look at it. Another sales person might have dealt with them, if they did.'

Henry had noticed that CCTV cameras were dotted around the forecourt. He pointed at one. ‘Do they work?'

‘Sure do.'

‘How long do you keep the recordings for?'

‘Indefinitely – it's all digitally recorded. Very clever, state of the art, won't get wiped until the hard drive fills up.'

‘So if someone came and enquired about the Mondeo, it could well be on camera.'

‘Could well be.'

‘Can you find out for me?'

Ken had obviously been expecting the request, but even so he could not keep his reluctance from showing behind the full-face smile. ‘I'll do my best … we have eight sales people here, two left since you bought your car.'

‘I know it's a big ask,' Henry said in a vain attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘but you'd be doing us, the police, a great favour. And also, which auction house did it go to?'

‘That I don't know. Head office deals with that side of things. Could be one anywhere in the country.'

Henry smiled encouragingly.

‘I'll find out … but can you give us a day or two?' He looked pained. ‘Has your mobile number changed?'

‘No.' Henry moved to stand up – but before he rose to his feet the mobile phone in his right-hand pocket rang. ‘Speak of the devil,' he said, fishing it out.

It wasn't his personal phone, it was his business one.

Someone was calling Frank Jagger.

Ingram arrived in an old Peugeot 607, big enough for comfort, plain enough not to get noticed. It was driven by another man, a big, overweight slob with porcine eyes and a sneering disposition. Henry guessed he was Ingram's fists, even though the guy did not look capable of running more than twenty metres. Henry decided there and then that if it came to fisticuffs, he'd simply outrun the big guy, hopefully give him a heart attack.

They had arranged to meet somewhere neutral, a back street industrial estate behind a large biscuit factory in Bolton. Henry had been reluctant to go to Bolton as it meant creeping ever closer to Lancashire, thereby increasing the odds of being spotted and recognized. On the plus side, he'd never worked very much in Bolton, so not many crims in that neck of the woods would be able to point the finger at him. He decided to chance it.

Ingram climbed out and lounged against the side of the Peugeot.

His driver/sidekick rolled out and Henry walked towards them from his Nissan. He extended a hand, which Ingram shook with damp fingers, making Henry cringe inwardly. As he withdrew his hand, he knew he'd just shaken with someone suspected of abusing and killing little girls. Those fingers had probably encircled young necks and squeezed life out; they had certainly touched young girls. Henry looked into Ingram's eyes, which crinkled with superiority.

He hoped he didn't allow his distaste for the man to show, as this would show he knew too much, and it could be picked up by Ingram if Henry wasn't careful.

‘You got out then,' Henry said.

‘It was bollocks … this is Mitch, by the way.' Ingram jabbed a thumb in the direction of the large guy. Ingram scratched his face, then nodded past Henry. ‘Got a new car?'

‘I had it anyway.'

‘So what's your position, then?'

All three men turned as a huge HGV stopped a few metres down the street and began a slow reverse towards the biscuit factory gates, accompanied by the warning bleeper.

‘In what way?' Henry turned back to Ingram. Mitch stood to one side of them, just out of earshot, his eyes taking in Henry, the Nissan and the environment. He was a lookout as well as a fist man, Henry noted.

‘Financially,' Ingram said.

‘Precarious … if only I was in hock to a bank. At least they don't have heavies.'

Ingram smiled knowingly. ‘Don't you believe it.'

‘OK, I won't. So what's this about?' Henry gestured with his hands to take in this meeting.

‘I'll come to that when I'm good and ready, Frank.'

‘Well, it better be sooner rather than later, because I got a lot of wheelin' and dealin' to do, as well as watching my arse for not-nice blokes who want to hassle me for loads of cash I don't have. I'm in a tight spot and unless you're here to stump up some dosh, then why are we talking?'

Ingram's eyes widened. ‘Why the hell would I want to bail you out? Did I say this is what the meeting's about?' He sounded angry.

‘No, no you didn't,' Henry conceded, ‘but you did say you might be able to help me out, which is why I assumed …' He gave a helpless shrug.

Ingram looked critically at him. ‘Let's go somewhere else.'

‘Eh?' Henry said.

‘After Mitch has given you the once over – and your car, too.'

‘What the hell are you on about?'

‘I'm very reluctant to get into bed with anyone who just happens to come into my life uninvited. I'm a careful person, Frank … and if you really do want a favour, then you'll happily comply to my wishes. I'd hate to discover somewhere down the line that you were a cop all along, y'know.'

Henry stared open-mouthed at Ingram, shocked by the suggestion. However, this was one of those points in a budding relationship that needed cautious handling. A violent, OTT reaction, or a pathetically acquiescent one would definitely alert Ingram. It had to be just so …

‘Everybody's afraid of undercover cops these days,' Henry said. ‘Too much shit on the telly, that's what it is. For all I know, you could be one.' He smiled cynically. ‘I don't know you from Adam … you just got dumped in my cell … I'm the one could be being set up here.' He raised his eyebrows.

‘And why would the cops want to spend time setting up a lowlife like you?'

‘Mmm, good point,' the man known as Frank Jagger conceded. ‘Well anyway, I'm not a cop and you can do what you have to do. I don't like it, but I want you to say sorry when you don't find any hidden wires or micro-cameras.'

Ingram nodded to Mitch. ‘Do him and the car.'

The big sidekick said, ‘OK, boss,' in a high-pitched squeak of a voice which did not complement his appearance. A paddle-like instrument appeared in his right hand, having been secreted underneath his jacket. He took two steps towards Henry. ‘Arms out, legs apart.'

Henry extended his arms, spread his legs slightly and allowed Mitch to run the detector across his body and under his armpits, down across his stomach to his groin and then up between his legs with a jerk which caught his balls. Henry scowled. Mitch smiled grimly, or it could also have been a scowl. Henry was not certain.

‘Enjoy that?' Henry asked.

‘Actually, yeah.' He jabbed the detector between Henry's legs again, then ran it down and around both legs, then back over the outside of Henry's jacket, causing it to beep.

Mitch eyed Ingram.