Low Profile (30 page)

‘I hope I haven't made a mistake here,' she said, mouse-like.

‘In what way, Marion?'

‘I always go the extra mile, you know?'

‘Yes, I know … that's why you're on this investigation.'

‘People said I could trust you, Mr Christie. I hope I can.'

‘Of course you can.'

‘Only I was going to tell you something earlier, then DCI Woodcock went into your office and you seemed very friendly towards each other.'

‘We're colleagues and we get on,' Henry said, wondering where this was going.

‘Can I trust you?' She raised her face defiantly.

‘Yes you can.'

She pursed her lips, then seemed to come to an inner decision. ‘As you know, I've been looking at the CCTV footage following the supposed chase on foot – you know, when DCI Woodcock was supposed to be chasing that man who killed the couple?'

Henry nodded but winced inwardly at the word ‘supposed' being used twice. It did not bode well. He said, ‘There are no cameras in Exchange Street, though.'

‘No there aren't,' she agreed. ‘But that didn't stop me looking through all the footage from all the other cameras in the area, just to see if I could spot the man, or someone like him, either before or after this foot chase. I go the extra mile, like that.'

‘You're a valuable asset to the team,' Henry said genuinely.

She primped proudly at the praise, but then her forehead creased and concern crossed her features.

‘What's up, Marion?'

‘I hope I'm not going to regret this,' she said.

‘It's obviously something vital,' Henry said encouragingly. ‘Coming all this way out here at this time of night.'

‘I think it's vital, but if you and he are proper friends, then I've had it.'

‘Me and the DCI?' Henry asked. She nodded. ‘We're not mates, but we are colleagues. I'm his boss, just like I'm your boss. So what's going on?'

She had a manila folder with her which she had placed down by her stool. She picked it up and held it between her hands. ‘These are some stills I've enhanced and downloaded from a council CCTV camera on Dickinson Road – timed just a few minutes before the DCI started chasing that man who, oddly enough, never gets found. Also there's a DVD in there that I've downloaded too.'

‘OK.' Henry was now feeling concern.

She opened the folder and took out a photograph and gave it to Henry. The time and date stamp confirmed what Marion had just said and the image was perfectly clear.

‘I've worked in the Field Intelligence Office for the last two years and I recognized this man.'

Henry stared at the photograph and ground his teeth. It showed DCI Woodcock standing on the kerb by an open car door. It was a Vauxhall Insignia, and Henry knew this belonged to Woodcock. He was talking to another man whose face was turned away from the camera, which was obviously at the top of a lamp-post somewhere nearby. Henry looked at Marion. ‘I can see the DCI, but I can't ID this other man.'

Her hand dipped into the folder and withdrew another photo. On this one the DCI was looking away from the camera, showing the back of his head, whilst the man he was talking to was looking the opposite way, now facing the lens.

‘Who is he?' Henry asked, even though he knew the answer.

Marion's mouth clamped shut, then she said carefully, ‘This is the trust bit. People tell me you're incorruptible but that doesn't mean to say you won't protect your colleagues and, in so doing, screw me – or worse.'

‘You can trust me,' Henry reiterated. ‘What is this man's name?'

She handed him another photograph. This time both Woodcock and the other man were facing the camera. ‘Roland Barclay.'

‘Yes,' Henry confirmed. ‘You're right, it is.'

‘But I do not know if there's any significance in this. A DCI meeting a villain on the streets – it happens.'

‘And two minutes later the DCI is chasing another bad guy on foot.'

‘Mm,' she said doubtfully. ‘I've scoured all the footage regarding that and I'm certain if what DCI Woodcock had said was true, somewhere I would have spotted the man, because I'm good at what I do and, based on what he said, the man should have appeared somewhere on foot – but he didn't. That said, I don't know if the DCI talking to this man is of any interest or if I'm just being silly.'

‘Do you have film of the whole of this meeting?' Henry asked. She nodded. ‘So what happened?'

‘There was a lot of finger pointing from the DCI, who grabbed the other man's jacket at one point and shook him; then the DCI got into his car and drove away. A minute later he was chasing the suspect – allegedly. Barclay crossed the road, probably into Walker Street, and then he was gone. If I had time I could probably track him further.'

‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention,' Henry said formally.

‘Ahh.' Marion tilted back her head and regarded him cynically. ‘End of story, eh?'

‘Well, to be fair, there might not be anything to this,' Henry said.

‘So I've wasted my time?'

‘No you haven't,' Henry said. ‘What exactly do you know about Barclay?'

‘Thief, con man, burglar, has a violent streak. I know he's assaulted some of the old people he's burgled.'

‘Do you know anything else about him?'

‘Should I? I just brought this to your attention because I felt uncomfortable with it … Just didn't feel right.' She shivered. ‘They just seem so chummy at one point, then at another the DCI's angry and shakes Barclay.' Her shoulders fell. ‘But maybe it is nothing. Maybe he's just an informant or something.'

Henry held up a hand – the number one stop sign. ‘Actually this is important, Marion, and you've done the right thing, but you probably don't know why. Roland Barclay was found dead in his flat in South Shore this evening; you probably haven't heard.'

She rocked forward, shocked, her hand covering her mouth.

‘It looks like he died from a shotgun wound.'

‘Did he kill himself?'

‘No – I think Archie Astley-Barnes killed him in a burglary that went wrong. Barclay managed to get home, but died from his wounds … and, Christ! There's something else I've remembered, too.' He shut up, then said, ‘You've done a brill job here and you can trust me to get to the bottom of it.'

She beamed delightedly.

And Henry sifted back through his brain. Earlier that day, after visiting the home of Scott Costain's girlfriend Trish in the posher part of South Shore, he'd been returning to the MIR in Donaldson's Jeep along Lytham Road. He saw himself talking to Jerry Tope in the back seat, then swivelling around to face the front and seeing a car pull up at the junction with Severn Road.

Woodcock's car.

H
enry was back in the MIR at seven the following morning, jumpy as hell, a horrible sensation running through him. No one else was in and he drifted around the room looking at the timelines and charts he and Woodcock had helped to put together in relation to the double murder. He spent a good long time looking at the mug shot of Hawke that Donaldson had sent him, comparing it to his own e-fit of the guy, which was very close to the real thing. Henry looked into Hawke's eyes, the eyes of a true killer. A professional hit man – but not in the sense of the Jackal; his was a sordid world of back street killing. He swallowed at the memory of just about evading Hawke's bullets and then stepped even closer to the mug shot to look even more deeply into those soulless eyes, wanting to know what drove a man like that on.

‘Murdering bastard,' he thought. He was a guy who did it simply because he enjoyed it and was well paid for it.

So why was he here in the UK, killing Percy and Lottie? Just what had Percy got himself involved with? Henry's gut feeling told him he wasn't far from the answer, even though it was still eluding him. Once it all started to unravel it would be quick, he thought.

‘Not long now,' he said to Hawke's photograph, and tapped his own nose.

‘Talking to yourself, first sign of madness,' a voice came from behind him.

Henry didn't turn. ‘Yeah, I'm pretty mad,' he said, and only then did he turn and look at DCI Woodcock. ‘Mad at myself, mainly.'

‘Why's that, boss?'

‘Tell you soon.' He and the DCI were standing across the office from each other and Henry tried – in vain – to look into his eyes, but he was too far way.

‘What did you want me to come in early for?' Woodcock sounded edgy.

‘Just wanted to run through the Roland Barclay thing with you. I know it's probably going to be straightforward, but I just want to get it all right in my mind so I can concentrate on Percy and Lottie and I don't have to think about it while I hunt this sack o' shit down.' He flicked his thumb at Hawke's picture. ‘Come into the office.'

The two men went into Henry's office. Henry sat at his desk, poured two coffees from the jug and pushed one over to Woodcock, who reached for it gratefully and sat down.

‘I'm sure it will be straightforward,' Woodcock said. ‘I'm sure the bloods will all match and there'll be other stuff to put Barclay at Archie's house … bastard.'

‘Yeah, I agree,' Henry said, feeling his voice shake.

‘You OK, boss?'

‘Fine … another late night, just basically knackered, I guess.'

‘Yuh, know what you mean.'

‘I didn't really get a chance to ask you yesterday, but have you ever had any dealings with Barclay?'

Woodcock's face screwed up as he considered this. ‘Nah, can't say I have.'

‘Ever locked him up?'

Woodcock thought about that one, too. ‘No … course I knew of him … petty con man, basically.'

‘When did you last see or speak to him?'

Woodcock fidgeted and took a hurried sip of coffee. ‘I don't know … ages, I suppose. Can't remember.'

‘Oh, right,' Henry said, feeling dithery and nervous. He nodded sagely, wondering whether to pounce or play. ‘Where did you get to about three o'clock yesterday afternoon, Pete?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know … when I went out to deliver that death message from Gran Canaria, where were you?'

‘Here, sorting stuff,' he stated.

Henry pouted, then said, ‘No you fucking weren't. You left the MIR after I'd gone up to Shoreside and came back after I returned, then went to the post mortem.'

‘Henry, what the hell is this, the Spanish Inquisition? I went to the canteen, grabbed a bite to eat. That OK?'

Henry could sense Woodcock's panic beginning to escalate.

‘Right, Pete, let's just start this again: where … were … you? Simple.'

‘What? What is this? I went for a sandwich.' His hand gestures were starting to betray his worry and uncertainty.

‘Try again,' Henry said, breathing down his nose. ‘I'm very patient – up to a point.'

‘I don't know what you want me to say. Sorry, I was out of the office getting a butty, mate.'

A shimmer of cold steel ran down Henry's spine. ‘Don't call me mate,' he said chillingly.

‘OK, sorry … boss, then. Look, what is this? Do I need my solicitor?' He laughed at his feeble joke.

‘I've done a bit of checking through this year's custody records – you know, the actual paper ones that go into the binders, the ones that get actually written on, that say what happens to prisoners in custody.'

‘And?'

‘Roland Barclay has been arrested three times this year …'

‘Not by me!'

‘No, you're right there, but on all three occasions he was interviewed by you, wasn't he? And then released without charge. I haven't had time to listen to any tapes, but I imagine they won't tell me very much.'

‘Fuck, you must have got in early, Henry. Did you wet the bed?'

‘Actually, don't call me Henry, call me sir.'

Woodcock leaned back in his chair, his face a stony mask now.

‘When I say so, and not before, I want you to turn round and look at the wall behind you and the photographs on it. Now, go on, look.'

Woodcock eyed Henry, then turned slowly and took in the six A4 size photographs Blu-tacked to the wall. Each one downloaded from a CCTV camera and each one showing a slightly different frame of Woodcock and Barclay in conversation on a Blackpool street. His eyes widened and Henry said, ‘Taken yesterday, just minutes before you supposedly spotted Hawke on the street and gave chase on foot.'

‘I did chase him.' He spun back, furious. ‘What the hell is this?'

‘Fuck the chase,' Henry said. ‘You saw and spoke to Roland Barclay yesterday, didn't you? Don't even think about lying.'

‘Well OK, so what? He's a local toe rag. It's what detectives do, talk to scrotes like him on the street.'

‘D'you want to tell me where you were when I went out yesterday to deliver those death messages? And don't say “the canteen” again.'

‘It's all I can say.'

‘All right, make yourself look a dick. I saw you pulling out of Severn Road in your car when I was being driven past in Karl's Jeep – then you came in after me.'

‘What were you doing near Severn Road? I thought you were up on Shoreside.'

‘One of the death messages was at a house in South Shore.'

Woodcock looked slightly nauseous.

Henry sniggered and said, ‘Right, let me have a punt at this. Barclay is a seasoned distraction burglar. He cons old people into letting him and others into their houses and steals from them and if it goes wrong, he assaults them. He has convictions for this, as you know.'

Woodcock watched Henry as blandly as he could.

‘He was arrested earlier this year for committing offences like this, purporting to be from the council. You interviewed him and he walked every time without charge. What did he say to you to get out? What relationship did you form with him? Was he the one who knew an old bloke who had shed-loads of diamonds in his house, but also a shotgun? Who only let in people he knew – and cops?'