Seizure (9 page)

The one thing he'd discovered about being a superintendent was that the work that
needed
to be done was always superseded by less important tasks, such as attending meetings, seminars and general tick-the-box crap.

At five thirty p.m. that day, other than attending a tactical tasking meeting – which was important – and going to all the other dross, he'd done nothing that he wanted. All those things now had to be achieved outside his supposed eight hours, but then again, the eight-hour working day had always been a fallacy.

At last he was on the phone to Rik Dean, who was bringing him up to speed with the superstore murder/robbery investigation. There was little to report. The police were going through the motions, surveillance was up and running, CCTV tapes were being scrutinized, witnesses interviewed, and a stolen car had been found burned out by some garages in Rochdale that could have been used as a second getaway car by the robbers. Its location fitted in with the addresses of Richard Last and Jack Sumner, but didn't prove anything.

Henry hung up with a heavy heart. He hoped that everything that could be done was being done. His gut feeling was that these two guys were involved and it just needed persistence and a bit of good luck to uncover the vital chink that would open the floodgates and nail the fuckers.

He had to make some more calls. There was an ongoing stranger rape in Lancaster, a domestic murder in Fleetwood (solved but with complications) and several other investigations that needed pushing along.

He picked up his desk phone, keeping his finger on the disconnect button while he tried to recall the extension number he needed, when the phone rang unexpectedly, making him jump.

‘It's me – Rik. Some bad news just in, Henry.'

‘Go on,' he sighed.

‘Last and Sumner have shaken their tails. The surveillance team has lost them.'

‘Oh, brilliant . . .' Henry couldn't be bothered to get angry. ‘Keep me up to speed, please.' He hung up, his finger still on the button, and the phone rang again. ‘That was quick!'

‘Well you know me, Henry,' came a low, female voice at the other end, one he recognized instantly. It always sent a shiver of anticipation down his backbone.

‘Sorry, I thought it would be someone else, not Naomi Dale, prosecutor extraordinary, unless I'm much mistaken.'

‘As ever, right on the button.'

‘What can I do for you?' He checked his watch. It was going on six thirty, time to be getting back to the hospital.

‘Johnny Cain,' she stated.

‘What about him?'

‘He's about to go on trial for murder. I know you're not involved.'

‘No, but I'm up to speed with it.' Henry knew that Cain had been committed for Crown Court trial some time ago. He hadn't been involved with the job and the investigation had been headed by the previous head of FMIT, Dave Anger, who was now pending serious charges of his own – not linked to Cain. Henry thought everything was done and dusted, even though Cain was pleading not guilty to the charge.

‘I need to have a word with you about it. Something's come up,' Naomi Dale said.

‘Oh fuck me, the brief is back. Woo-woo,' Dick Last said, shaking his hands to imitate fear. ‘Look at me – scared.'

Barry Baron inhaled deeply and sat down in the alcove next to Last. He glanced around the bar, which was quite empty. The pub they were in was situated high on the moors between Rochdale and Rossendale. On a bad day it could be bleak and barren. That evening, though, it was warm and sunny, a pleasant enough place to hang out.

Richard Last and Jack Sumner often visited the place. Their main haunts were dives in Rochdale town centre, but sometimes they gravitated to this pub, known as Owd Betts, to have a quiet pint in a location the law probably wasn't watching. And because Last had realized that he and Sumner were under surveillance, the duo had spent a good deal of time that day ensuring they shook off their followers. He was certain the police were not watching them when they met Baron.

It was a mistake that would cost them dearly.

Last cut to the chase.

‘Been to see him, then?'

‘I have.'

‘What's he say?'

‘He's not impressed,' Baron replied, unfazed and not intimidated by either man. In the world of the crim, he was pretty untouchable.

‘He's not impressed?' Sumner shot forward, jabbing his finger. ‘He's not the one doing the work, is he?' He thudded back against the padded seat and grabbed his pint petulantly.

‘No one was supposed to get shot,' Baron said evenly.

‘Well someone did,' Last iterated. ‘Tough shit, shouldn't have been a hero.'

‘However,' Baron continued calmly, ‘I did relay to him your suggestion about upping your percentage and explained your position to him.' Both men eyed him greedily, waiting. Baron gave a short shake of the head. ‘No deal.'

There was a beat of silence before the reaction.

Last leaned forward again. ‘In that case you can tell him where to stick it –
and
that we're keeping all of the last one. All of it. Every last cent.'

Baron pursed his lips, then slid his hand into his jacket pocket, extracting an envelope. ‘Let me remind you that even though he is inside, he wields more power than you could ever imagine. This is just a small example.' He held out the envelope. Last snatched it, tore it open. The recently downloaded and printed set of digital photographs splayed out on the table between the men's pints.

Last picked one up slowly. Baron watched the blood drain out of his face. His eyes took in the image and flickered to Baron and back.

‘I'd advise you not to get mad with me,' Baron warned. ‘But the message is that sixty per cent is unacceptable. He'll go to forty and no more. And the next job must be done without shooters.
And
the money from the last one must be handed over, otherwise he will start to spread his net . . . more family.'

Last's face became a mask of rage. His eyes widened. His lips pulled back into a snarl. ‘He did this to Jamie – the bastard.'

Baron interlaced his fingers in front of him and leaned back. He knew these two wouldn't touch him but he still had to be cautious. The reaction to the news he had just presented to them could easily end in a violent outburst. ‘Jamie will be all right. It looks worse than it is and you should consider that.'

Last seethed visibly, his chest rising and falling, fist clenching. He was an unthinking, dangerous man usually fired by drugs – hence the shooting – and his rage always required some kind of outlet. His eyes became opaque and the skin on his face tightened to a surface like the side of a box of safety matches.

Sumner put a calming hand on Last's forearm and spoke to Baron. ‘You can tell him he just made the wrong move on us and now he'll pay for it in more ways than one. Financially and personally.'

‘He could easily have let a lot worse happen to Jamie. He could be in a body bag right now and if you threaten him, he will be.' Baron rocked upright. ‘Now, I expect to collect the money you owe tomorrow and back to business as usual. I don't have the time or inclination to talk or counsel either of you. That's the way it is.'

Last's arms were now folded as tight as a wire rope around his chest as he held on to his volcanic rage. He hissed, ‘Tell him no deal.'

Baron nodded. Guys like this were very expendable and he'd been told by Deakin to do whatever was necessary to get the money back, or deal with them with finality. He stood up, keeping his eyes on Last, then turned and walked out of the pub.

It was still warm outside, the sun slowly dropping behind the coarse hills. Baron exhaled a long breath, then trotted to the car park, pausing by the door of his Mercedes. He glanced back at the pub, raised his chin and in a subtle, prearranged way, ran his right forefinger across his throat. Anyone watching would have thought he'd scratched his neck, not given the gesture that meant ‘Kill them.'

She was petite, maybe five four, but had a seductive voice that made Henry want to breathe heavily, and doll-like looks which had not diminished with the twenty tough years she'd spent as a CPS prosecutor in Lancashire. Although she still regularly attended court, where her looks and stature belied a tigress-like tenacity and a devious brain which had caught out many an unsuspecting defence solicitor, she spent much of her time working alongside the police on complex major investigations. She pulled together intricate files which, more often than not, delivered guilty verdicts. Henry had known her for many years, and had always been impressed by her professionalism and annoyed by her complete lack of interest in him. She was also a workaholic, unmarried; he thought she had a fairly lonely life, from what he knew about her. She needed a bit of excitement in her life, Henry thought.

She was based at the Crown Prosecution Service office in Blackpool, which meant it was easy for Henry to make his way across to meet her before going to visit his mother in hospital.

They did not meet in the office, however, but at a pub just off Marton Circle, the motorway roundabout which was the last junction of the M55 outside the resort.

‘Hope you don't mind meeting here,' Naomi Dale said, climbing out of her Mazda coupé. She was still in her practical business suit of grey pinstripe, which sounded dull but clung tightly to her curves and which Henry thought was extremely sexy: a woman in uniform, almost.

‘Not at all. It's on my way home.'

She regarded him oddly. ‘Of course, you live over here, don't you?' They shook hands and walked side by side to the pub. Henry let her step in ahead of him, gallant as ever. The main bar was sparsely populated and they were served quickly, a gin and lime for her, mineral water for him. They moved to an alcove and sat opposite each other at a brass-topped table. Henry had trouble keeping his eyes off her. Despite now being a superintendent, he acted like a nineteen-year-old trapped in the body of someone with almost half a century behind him.

‘How are you, Henry?'

‘I'm good.'

‘How's the Dave Anger fiasco panning out?'

He wasn't surprised she knew about the corrupt Dave Anger, previous head of FMIT and Henry's nemesis. But he was a little taken aback by the question.

‘Still bubbling away. Don't think it'll disappear for quite some time, but the stench of a corrupt cop always lingers.'

‘I expect it does.' She sipped her drink and her eyes focused on his left hand. ‘You're married!'

‘Remarried, as in ex-wife, now wife again.'

‘Mm, I think I heard that. Congratulations,' she said flatly. Henry gave her an equally flat smile. ‘Anyway, to business. Johnny Cain, one of Dave Anger's cases.'

‘His legacy lingers in more ways than one, but the reality of it is, all he did was oversee the investigation. Others did the graft.'

‘It was a good case, but even good cases can use a bit of assistance sometimes.'

Henry nodded. Despite Dave Anger's deep-rooted corruption, he had a good clear-up rate. It was hard for Henry to admit, but it was a silver lining in Anger's very grey cloud. The Johnny Cain file was a case in point. Cain was a top-line drugs dealer and suspected for a number of years of killing a business partner who had been skimming deals. It had been a very nasty execution, an object lesson in persuading other people who were thinking of doing the same thing to Cain to think otherwise.

It had taken a three and a half year investigation for a small team directed by Anger to finally make links to Cain and ultimately secure an arrest. Henry acknowledged the gruelling work involved, but he had heard a rumour that there were still some tenuous threads in the case which could possibly be snapped by a smart defence barrister. These were mainly procedural things linked to surveillance and phone tapping, on which a lot of the evidence relied.

‘There is no doubt that Cain knew John Swann,' she said, naming the victim, ‘but we have to convince the jury of that. Once that connection is firmly established, Cain is well and truly screwed . . . but a lot of it depends on interpreting phone calls and conversations couched in, shall we say, innocent terms or euphemisms.'

‘A bit like the Mafia. All those phone taps used by the FBI to bring down some big Cosa Nostra families,' Henry said.

‘Yeah. Plus there's no forensic links, which is a bit of a bummer. Three and a half years from finding the body to making an arrest. However, I am confident the Crown has a good case, but it could always be better.'

Henry sipped his drink, then shook his head slightly. ‘So how can I help?'

‘Ever heard of Felix Deakin?'

Henry's guts hit the ground with a thump at the mention of the name. He tried to hide his reaction. ‘Yeah, I've had experience of him.'

‘What do you know of him, then?'

‘Big time crim, used to be one of our top targets . . . now in prison for importation, distribution, serious assaults, threats to kill. Got sixteen years, if I remember rightly. Once suspected of killing a seventeen-year-old lad who was one of his mules.'

Naomi nodded. ‘I've had an approach from his legal representative, literally only hours ago, so it's not something I've been sitting on. Johnny Cain is due to go to trial in the next few weeks and Deakin is offering to give evidence against him.'

‘What evidence?' Henry asked dubiously. Naomi shrugged. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, I wouldn't trust him as far as I could chuck him.'

‘Me neither.'

‘What's he offering?'

‘I have actually no idea, but I've arranged to go and see him in prison tomorrow. But I'll need a cop alongside me.' She raised her eyebrows. ‘One of appropriate rank and influence and at a level to make serious decisions.'

‘Good Lord,' Henry said, ‘that must be me.'

FIVE

T
he two men eyed each other venomously. Henry Christie breathed shallowly, gritting his teeth and holding himself from leaping across the screwed-down table and tearing the shit limb from limb.