“How can that be? What do you mean, Doc?” Alec frowned, creasing his face deeply.
“Your Patrick Lloyd is not the same man that was discharged from the Army. He is the man who was arrested at the Benjamin murder, that is certain, but he is not that soldier.”
“Someone has taken his identity?” Will asked.
“Yes, and your someone is a wanted man,” the doctor said solemnly. “Our DNA searches have flagged up a name on the international database. Jack Howarth.”
“Jack Howarth,” Alec said. “That name will ring alarm bells all over the country.”
“It should,” the doctor took off his glasses again. “The newspapers called him ‘The Child Taker’.”
“Jesus, Will and myself were involved with him years ago.” Alec shook his head at the memories. “Why didn’t his name come up in the Benjamin investigation?”
“He was never charged with the murder. There was no evidence against him, so the traces were never analysed until now.”
“Howarth is wanted by everyman and his dog, and Kisha
has gone to knock on his door.” Alec stood up. They needed to move quickly.
“Alec.” The doctor held up his hand. “His name is also being watched by the Counter Terrorist Unit. John Tankersley from the Terrorist Task Force is on the way to my lab as we speak. The DNA matches someone on his wanted list. By my reckoning, you have about a half an hour head start.”
“What? They interfered the last time Jack Howarth was in our sights,” Alec gasped. “I want this address surrounded and Kisha found before the spooks get here and take over our case.”
David Lorimar and his accomplice, Griff, took Jackson Walker’s body to an associate’s farm in the countryside. Carrying a body through the city during teatime traffic was a nervous time.
“How long is this going to take?” Griff asked distractedly.
“It’s a twenty-minute drive from the city.”
“Who is this guy?” Griff asked. He pointed his thumb to the back of the van, where a roll of carpet contained Jackson Walker. His identity didn’t matter to Griff. This was business.
“Just a dead drug dealer,” David Lorimar smiled.
“Did he cross someone?”
“He took on a hit, but the target got wind of it,” Dava smiled again. “Quickest trigger wins, right?” His accomplice had worked with him in the Middle East when they had been mercenaries. He had asked too many questions back then, and he did now. “Enough said.”
“Fair enough,” Griff looked out of the passenger window and sulked. “I was just trying to make conversation.”
“You sound edgy,” Dava gritted his teeth and the sinews in his wiry neck protruded. It looked like there were sticks of bamboo beneath the surface of the skin. He kept his body lean and fit despite his advancing years. “Are you getting cold feet?”
“Bollocks,” Griff snapped. “This is the boring bit. I just want to get to the pub. It’s poker night tonight, and by the way, it’s you that’s being edgy. I just asked you a question.”
“Sorry,” Dava lamented. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt. Old habits die hard. The less said the better, right?”
“No problem,” Griff laughed. “Loose lips sink ships and all that old shit.” Griff Collins was as fit as Dava, but ten years younger. He hated the military because of its hierarchy, and so his career in uniform had been a short one. His mercenary career had been much longer and more lucrative.
“Yes, something like that.”
“Where are we taking him?” Griff asked.
Dava thought about not answering, but didn’t really see the problem with telling him. He would see soon enough anyway.
“A farm out in Cheshire,” Dava said. “I served with the guy in the Congo. He’s solid.”
“A farmer boy?”
“He bought the place ten years back and started breeding cattle and pigs,” Dava shrugged and put on a posh accent. “Pigs says it all, he butchers his own animals and turns them into sausages, burgers and quality meats for the Cheshire set.”
“So this guy is pig food?”
“Basically.”
“Nice, I like your style.”
Dava smiled and they made the rest of the journey in silence. They turned off the M62 at the Birchwood junction. A huge white telephone mast towered above the island, shaped like two angels kissing. The second exit was almost invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. Bushes and trees hid the exit leading to a narrow farm track. Potholes pitted the track and gravel rattled off the underside of the van. The passengers bounced about, the headlights casting long shadows into the surrounding woodland. It was fifteen minutes until the track forked.
“Here it is.” Dava turned the van off the track into a farmyard.
“Fucking hell, I hate dogs,” Griff moaned as a pack of German Shepherds surrounded the van. They were yapping in a cacophony of barking. A security light switched on and flooded the yard with light. The halogen glare blinded them for a moment.
“There he is.” Dava pointed to a large barn to the left of the farmhouse. It was a modern building, built from block and carbon panels. A big man in a flat tweed hat and black Wellington boots waved them toward a set of open barn doors. His Barbour jacket was open, showing a check shirt beneath. A long bank of fluorescent tubes hanging from the rafters lit the interior of the barn. They could see rows of walk-in freezers built into the side of the building. The low hum of condenser fans spinning . Dava steered the van cautiously through the pack of yapping dogs toward the open doors. He wound down the window as he approached the farmer.
“Alright, Luke, aren’t you taking the farmer look a bit too seriously?”
“Alright, Dava, you’re still as funny as a wasp up the arse.” The farmer smiled. “How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks, just one for now.” Dava nodded to the back of the van.
“One?” The farmer shook his head and laughed. “I thought you were bringing three. Are you getting slow in your old age?”
“Something like that,” Dava laughed.
“Who’s this?” The man looked at Griff and stopped laughing.
“He’s one of us,” Dava said seriously. “We did a few gigs in the desert together.”
“Okay, let’s dispose of the problem, shall we?” The farmer waved the vehicle into the barn and closed the doors behind it. The sound of the dogs barking faded as they clanged shut. “Drive it over there.”
“Will do,” Dava saluted and pulled the van further into the building.
“This looks like a slaughterhouse.” Griff looked around. There were stainless-steel chains hanging from an overhead track. Huge hooks dangled from the chains, waiting for the farmer to fix animal carcasses to them. “I like your style,” he repeated.
“There will do.” The farmer banged on the back of the van and Dava killed the engine. “Pop him on there.”
“Let’s get this done,” Dava turned to Griff and climbed into the back of the van. Griff jumped out of the passenger door and walked around to the back doors. “Fucking hell, he’s starting to stink already.” The back of the van smelled of urine and excrement. The thick cloying smell of the corpse was beginning to escape the carpet roll. The sphincter muscles in the dead body had relaxed, and the stinking contents of the intestinal tract were beginning to leak out.
“Grab that end.” the farmer grunted at Griff as the doors opened. Dava lifted the body from inside the van and they struggled to edge it to the tail of the vehicle.
“Yes, sir,” Griff replied sarcastically. He didn’t like taking orders from anyone. “What do I call you anyway?”
“Sir is fine,” the farmer replied abruptly.
“Okay, after three. One, two, three.” Dava heaved the body toward the other two men and then jumped down onto the slaughterhouse floor. Deep gutters collecting the blood and waste channelled
the concrete.
“Plonk him on here,” the farmer said. He moved toward a stainless-steel slab with a drain hole at one end. They lifted the carpet roll onto the metal table and unwrapped the hapless gangster.
“Nice work,” the farmer said, looking at the cable tie cutting deep into the victim’s neck. The face and head had swollen to a hideous size, and the eyeballs looked like they would pop out at any moment.
“You never lose it, do you?” Dava laughed. Griff didn’t laugh. He looked David Lorimar up and down. The farmer caught his expression and Griff looked away nervously.
“What’s up with you?” the farmer asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, mate,” Griff grunted. “Is that it?” He asked Dava.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“I’ll wait in the van.” Griff turned and walked away.
“Thanks for that.” Dava handed the farmer an envelope. There was no need to check the money inside. It would be an insult to count it. Trust was everything to men like them.
“How are things really, Dava?” The farmer shook his hand
and looked him sternly in the eye. “Aren’t you getting a bit old for this shit?”
“Maybe, Luke.” Dava returned his look. They had shared some dangerous experiences in the Republic of Congo. “When we retired from the service, I thought I had enough money to keep me going.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the floor.
“I thought you had done okay out of it all?” Luke asked. “I saved enough money to start a legitimate business and live comfortably without getting involved in this nonsense.”
“I fucked it all up,” David Lorimar answered. “I squandered a lot on women and beer, as you do. The rest I invested into a diamond deal.” He gave a wry smile.
“What? Don’t tell me you did a deal in the Congo?”
“Yes, it’s a bit embarrassing, really. I should have known better than to trust those evil bastards, but that’s the way it goes.”
“How could you fall for that old chestnut?”
“I know, I can’t believe I did it now, but hindsight is a great thing, Luke.” Dava stopped smiling. “Do you remember Squire?”
“Yes, he was a guide from the Congo regulars, wasn’t he?”
“That’s him.” Dava nodded. “He set it all up. He assured us that the diamonds were coming from a government shipment they were going to hit in transit. They fucked it up, and he ended up dangling from a crane jib with his bollocks stuffed in his mouth.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Two hundred big ones between the three of us,” Dava chuckled sourly.
“So what are you going to do?” Luke looked concerned. “Have you thought about doing another tour?”
“It has crossed my mind, but my passport is marked. I went out to Afghanistan and got turned back at Kabul airport. It cost me two grand to get told to fuck off!”
“Sounds like you’re on your arse, mate.”
“Well, I make a few bob selling reactivated gear to wannabe gangsters, and then there’s always this line of work. Once this deal is done, I am out of it, Luke.”
“Well, if you want to make a few quid, I’m looking at a stud farm near Delamere.” Luke raised his eyebrows. “I’m looking for a partner to come in with me.”
“Horses?”
“Horses and cattle, good money in it, Dava.” Luke patted him on the back. “You could leave this shit behind you.” He pointed to the dead man on the table.
“I’m in.” Dava held out his hand again. There was genuine respect in their touch. “Thanks, Luke.”
“How well do you know that guy?” Luke nodded to the van. Griff was looking at them through the passenger window. When they looked at him, he looked away.
“Well enough to know he won’t blab if anything goes Pete Tong.”
“Be careful, Dava.” Luke lowered his voice. “I’m telling you now that he’s a wrong one. Just watch your back.”
“You worry too much. I can look after myself,” Dava walked toward the van. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Move fast and stay low, Dava.”
“Yes, you too, and watch your corners, Luke.”
Luke watched the van reversing out of the barn. He had a bad feeling about his friend’s associate. He picked up a large meat cleaver and got to work dismembering the body. It took less than fifteen minutes to remove the limbs and the head from the torso. The remains fitted into the funnel of an industrial grinder. He turned Jackson into mincemeat and fed him to his herd of pigs. The pigs were destined for the organically reared meat counter in a large supermarket, and there the DNA trail would end.
Jinx made his mind up and decided to call off the hit on Dean Hines. His kids were critical in a high dependency ward, and that didn’t sit right with him. The Leon problem wasn’t going to go away, but he had to leave Dean out of it for now. He called David Lorimar again, but his telephone clicked straight to voicemail. Dean was at the hospital, and that was where David Lorimar would go. Jinx had to get there before it was too late. He picked up his car keys and grabbed his leather jacket. He was breaking all the rules calling his hit man at all, but he wanted Dean left alone. Jinx couldn’t text in case Dava was in custody. They could explain a call, but a specific text message would incriminate him. He had no choice but to go to the Royal and wait for David Lorimar to turn up.
Patrick Lloyd disappeared into his house. Kisha wasn’t convinced that he was linked to the murder in any way, but she needed to cross him off the key holder lists. The sooner she investigated the names on the list, the sooner she could join the bulk of the team in the real detective work. She needed to be away from that clown Stevie. He was a creep. The fact that he leered at her was bad enough, but worse still, he was a poor detective. It was procedure for detectives to work a six-month probationary period in plain clothes before they were offered a permanent position. If they weren’t up to the job, then the force returned them back to the uniformed division. Kisha doubted Stevie would pass his probation, and she was convinced he would end up walking the beat. If she had to clear the key holder list on her own, then she would. She followed Patrick into the house without hesitation. Her instincts told her to press on and remove Patrick Lloyd from the list.
“Shut the door behind you, please. My central heating system is an antique.” Patrick called as he reached the kitchen and turned to see if Kisha was coming in. He was laughing as he spoke. “It’s like burning twenty pound notes, keeping this place warm.” He smiled as he went out of sight into the living room. Patrick did not have the demeanour of a worried man.
“I know the feeling,” Kisha said as she shut the front door. “My boiler is ancient and it burns fuel like a steam train. It sounds like one at times, too!”
“Oh, tell me about it,” Patrick said from the other room. “The knocking pipes in here keep me awake some nights. It sounds like someone is banging them with a lump hammer.”
Kisha looked around the hallway and up the staircase. She had developed the habit since becoming a police detective. Her brain analysed information as she scanned the decor and furniture, the pictures and photographs, and made lightning fast assumptions about the house owner. It was by no means a science, but gut feeling counted in her job. On the face of things, the place was well kept and decorated with taste. The walls were smooth plaster painted in neutral beige, and the pictures were scenic black and white images of the ocean and seashore somewhere. There was a fragrance plug halfway down the hallway and the smell of fresh pine pervaded the house. Kisha listened and she could hear Patrick opening a drawer in the next room. He whistled a tuneless song as he rummaged.
“I know I have them here somewhere,” he chirped. “I’m terrible for keeping things. I can’t throw anything away.”
She walked down the hallway toward the living room door and peered into the kitchen. It was spotless. The stainless sink was shining and the kitchen worktops gleamed. Patrick kept a tidy house. She looked around the kitchen quickly, noting that he had locked and bolted the back door. Through the window, she could see that his backyard was walled, and that the previous owners had topped the walls with broken glass set into concrete. It had been standard practice in the sixties and seventies to protect your yard with shards of broken bottles and jars. The deserted street would have been full of children playing hopscotch back then, and every house would have housed a family. She could almost hear their ghostly voices echoing from the aging walls. Generations of families had been born and raised in this area. Now it was a crumbling mess.
When she turned toward the living room door, Patrick Lloyd smashed his fist into her nose. Blinding lights flashed in her brain. She tasted blood at the back of her throat, then darkness closed in on her.