Dead Heat (10 page)

‘Who is your husband?'

‘John Lloyd Wickson.'

Now things made more sense to Henry. Pieces were slotting into place. He did not know Tara Wickson, but knew of John Lloyd Wickson, certainly by reputation.

Suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, came a burst of laughter as the three girls, Kelly, Charlotte and Leanne, appeared from the stables. They were red-faced, breathless and happy.

Quickly, Tara said, ‘If you come along and take a look at things, the payment will be discreet. Nothing official. Cash in hand. A grand, minimum.'

‘Dad! Dad!' Leanne shouted, running towards him. ‘What about McDonald's . . . please, please, pleeeease!' The other two girls were right behind her.

‘What about it, Mum?' Charlotte said to Tara.

‘I don't mind, but where's Kelly's mum or dad? I'll take you all, then drop you all back off at home – if you don't mind, Henry, and if Kelly's parents don't have a problem.'

‘Sure,' said Henry. ‘No probs.'

‘Here's my mum,' Kelly exclaimed and ran off towards her. Charlotte and Leanne drifted away, chattering excitedly. Leaving Henry and Tara.

‘So . . . will you do it?' Her eyes pleaded with him and he went weak. Women did that to him: one look and he was hooked. He was a tart.

‘I really don't think I can promise anything,' he said with a new-found inner strength, which immediately wilted under Tara's saddened gaze. ‘OK, OK, I'll come and have a look round, but as much as I'd like a thousand pounds in my back pocket, I'll have to forego any payment, thanks very much. It could make things a bit . . . difficult,' he said, screwing up his face. ‘These things are apt to get out.'

‘You are too honest for your own good,' Tara smiled. She handed him a card with her phone numbers on it. ‘Mobile and home,' she said, her eyes holding his again. She also described exactly where she lived and how to get to the house. ‘Maybe I could pay you in kind,' she said mischievously.

So Henry was right after all. She did want to go to bed with him.

‘S
urprise visitors!'

Kate Christie sat up sharply and looked out of the front window. She and Henry were sat with trays on their laps, eating Sunday tea whilst watching the natural history segment on BBC2. This had become a ritual over the last couple of months. Just the two of them, no daughters. They always seemed to be out at friends. Henry had grown to appreciate this time with Kate – preparing the meal together, drinking wine as they did, then sitting side by side on the settee, usually in silence as they ate and watched nature in the raw. It was something he had never done before on a regular basis, chilling out with her, and he found himself to be slightly annoyed to be interrupted by the unexpected guests, whoever they were. He and Kate were actually divorced, but were back together and had been for some time. Things were going pretty well. One day soon, he would be asking her to re-marry him. He tore his eyes away from a pride of lions feasting on an unfortunate antelope.

From where Kate was sitting, she had the view out of the window to the drive at the front of the house. Henry had to crane his neck to see who had landed.

There was a massive four-wheel-drive monster in the driveway behind the family Mondeo.

Henry relaxed and smiled.

‘I wonder what they're doing here,' he said, rising and rushing with his tray into the kitchen, depositing it on a work surface, then striding down the hall to the front door, opening it just before the bell rang.

Two kids raced towards him, toddlers, and grabbed his legs affectionately, but with a force that nearly toppled him over. ‘Hey, hey,' he warned, ‘steady on.'

Behind the children were the parents, the Donaldsons.

‘Well this is a turn-up for the books,' Henry beamed.

‘In the area, just passing, thought we'd call in and say hi,' said the big American, Karl Donaldson. He extended his huge paw, grabbed Henry's tiny one, shook it, dragged Henry to him and encircled him with a bear hug. Henry had no choice but to succumb until, ribs almost broken, he was freed. Henry turned to Karen. They embraced with less pressure and kissed.

‘You look really well, all of you,' Henry said, appraising them, bending down to kiddie level and rubbing the heads of both little boys.

‘Henry! Invite them in,' Kate's voice ordered behind him.

‘Kate!' shrieked Karen, shouldering Henry aside and hurtling towards her.

Henry shrugged at Donaldson. ‘Maybe we should swap partners,' he suggested. ‘You and me together and those two together. Life would be much simpler.'

‘I don't really want to sleep with you,' Donaldson admitted.

‘Oh, OK,' Henry said, feigning disappointment. ‘You'd better come in then.'

How the two men managed to pull it off, neither was sure, but after rustling up some grub for the uninvited foursome, Henry and Donaldson were allowed out to the pub.

They were given one hour maximum.

The pub was on the outer edge of the housing estate on which Henry lived. It was a modern, soulless sort of place which made big-bucks from serving up food that Henry described as ‘pre-packaged crap'. In truth, the food was not that bad and he and Kate and the girls had had occasional meals there. It was called the Tram and Tower, references to two of Blackpool's many delights. It was divided into two sections, restaurant and bar. Without exception the bar was always quiet, even when the restaurant was heaving.

Henry and Donaldson sat opposite the entrance, giving themselves a good wide-angled view of the happenings in and around the bar. Henry glanced at Donaldson as he gazed around the room, then he himself looked around to see that each woman in the place was getting an eyeful, either slyly or obviously, of the big, bronzed, good-looking bastard sat next to him. Henry had often contemplated, in a very sexist way, that he could have had a fantastic life for himself just feasting off Donaldson's cast-offs. Henry believed that the American was one of the few men who, truly, could have the choice of any woman he wanted. Henry hated him deeply because of this.

However, Henry also knew that Donaldson was deep into fidelity and worshipped Karen. Henry wished that he was as angelic as his friend because, all too often, his tarnished halo had slipped.

‘It's good to see you, you ugly swine.'

‘And you, pal.'

They had been friends for half a dozen years now. Donaldson worked for the FBI's legal attaché in London. The two men had met when Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had since worked together on a number of investigations and had become good friends. Donaldson had met and subsequently married Karen, who had been a serving police officer in the Lancashire Constabulary at the time. She had since transferred to the Metropolitan Police and they lived within commuting distance of the capital. Donaldson travelled in daily to his office in the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square and Karen drove to the Police Staff College at Bramshill, where she was seconded as a lecturer on the Strategic Command Course. Their life seemed settled and idyllic.

‘How ya doing?' Donaldson asked. ‘You look a whole lot better than when I last saw you.' Which was a week after Henry had been suspended.

Henry shrugged. ‘Learning to take it as it comes.'

Donaldson was concerned, though. He knew Henry of old and had seen him crack before. ‘You sure you're coping?'

‘Yeah. It's helped that me and Kate are really together now. She's been a rock.'

‘Good . . . when's the full inquest?'

‘Not sure yet. Don't even know when the trial is. Don't even know when my internal hearing is . . . but I have a sneaking feeling they might go for me before the court trial.'

‘Why?'

‘To get rid. To cover their backs. To make them look good. They need a scapegoat and I'm going to be it, I reckon.'

‘You did nothing wrong, Henry.' Donaldson sipped his Stella Artois. ‘There's no way they'll nail you.'

‘Karl . . . a cop got shot and wounded, a vital witness almost died and then two baddies ended up dead . . . they might have a case, y'know. The more I dwell on it . . .' Henry stared into space, his mouth distorted glumly. ‘Sometimes I think I might give up without a fight . . . see if I can get out with my pension intact.'

‘Don't you ever fucking dare,' Donaldson warned him. ‘Now you really are worrying me.'

‘They've closed ranks, Karl, and they've got all the ammo.'

Both men drank their lagers in silence. Eventually Henry inhaled a deep breath. ‘So what drags you up here – really?'

‘A combination. An opportunity to mix family business and business business. We've visited the in-laws and Karen's going to stay on for the week with the terrible duo. I'm working up here tomorrow, going back to London for the rest of the week, then coming back on Saturday to pick up Karen et al.'

‘I suppose you're doing what I think you're doing?'

‘Yeah, Zeke,' Donaldson said. A look of severe anguish crossed his face. He took a long draught of Stella.

Mm, Zeke, thought Henry, experiencing a sudden flashback to the scene of a double murder under the shadow of a motorway bridge. Two men lying there, one across the other, both with their heads blown apart. One of them was Zeke. Or to be more correct, his real name was Carlos Hiero and he was an undercover FBI agent working deep down in a gang controlled by a Spaniard called Mendoza who had links with American Mafia families. Zeke was his code name and he had been unfortunate enough to have been discovered. The other man was called Marty Cragg, a local hoodlum who owed Mendoza money he was unable to repay. Both had been ruthlessly assassinated on Mendoza's orders.

Henry knew that Zeke's undercover status had been rumbled by the indiscretions of Karl Donaldson's boss down at the Legat; Phillipa Bottram had been weak and foolish enough to let her bisexual appetite get her drawn into divulging confidential information to a woman with connections to Mendoza's criminal gang. It had been Donaldson's courage to have Bottram put under surveillance that netted her wrongdoing.

‘How is the investigation going?'

‘As regards Zeke, the murder investigation is getting nowhere. We're no closer to Mendoza yet, though our intelligence suggests he did order the hit and may well have been present when it happened. Your investigation is, quite rightly, concentrating on tracking down the hit man. We – the FBI – are going for Mendoza, but he's wrapped in cotton wool . . . although,' Donaldson said mysteriously, ‘I might just be getting somewhere on that front. Dunno. Can't say more yet.'

‘A source?' asked Henry.

‘As I said – can't say.'

Henry understood. Informants were fickle things. Getting them was like playing a trout on the fly. More often than not, they swam away never to be lured again. ‘What about Phillipa Bottram?'

Donaldson snorted, disgusted. ‘That bitch –' he almost spat the word – ‘as good as pulled the trigger on Zeke herself, and what happened? Ill-health pension.'

Henry snorted too. ‘The FBI sounds just like our lot.'

‘No cojones. She's back home in the States, free as a bird. No blemish on her character. Not what you know, but who you know. She's well in with the top political brass, I figure . . . or is that me being cynical, but if I'd done what she'd done, my testicles would be stuck down my throat by now.' Donaldson's face mirrored his feelings.

‘Outrageous.'

‘We're pretty sure the hit man's killed at least two more people for Mendoza since. One in France, one in Andorra.'

‘Any leads?'

Donaldson shook his head. ‘It's the weapon that links them, same as the one used for Zeke and Cragg. Your – Lancashire's, that is – investigation is widening. Lots of trips to exotic locations for your boys. Barcelona and Paris, France, to name but two.'

‘Could've been me jetting off,' Henry said wistfully. ‘Not to be, though.' He rolled his eyes as he thought about what he was missing. Not just the ‘jollys', as they called them, but the cut and thrust of high-profile inquiries. ‘But, I have been asked to do a bit of investigating work on the side for the mother of a friend of Leanne's.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah and whilst it's hardly international stuff, it might be a bit of something to do, have some fun.' He drained his pint and did a time check. He looked at his and his companion's empty glass. ‘At least two more, I reckon.' He gathered them up. ‘Same again?'

Deep in the undergrowth, Verner smiled to himself as he looked through the night sights. He was enjoying himself because this was just a bit different from the usual stuff he was paid to do. It was fun and easy and for once, although this did not make any difference to him in the least, no one was going to get hurt. Only animals. Only horses. The people would just get a scare.

It was 9 p.m. He watched the security guard saunter boredly around the stables some 200 metres away from his position.

From where he was, on a hill to the south of the stables, he had a good view across the main yard, which was open at one side, but with stable blocks on the other three sides. Each stable door was now locked and bolted, the hired stable-lad having carried out this task an hour earlier, then left for home. Each horse was now locked up and safe for the night.

He watched the security guard walk from door to door, trying each lock. Then he spun his view around to the main house, again a good 200 metres away to his left. Lights blazed at most windows, the family at home. Not a problem, thought Verner.

The sound of the engine starting up made him arc the night sights back to the stables. It was the security guard driving away in his van, the ‘Wickson Security' logo on the side of it. He watched the van drive past the front of the main house, then down the long driveway to the main road.