The Nothing Job (25 page)

‘From what I recall, he was hit by a stolen car which ended up being burnt out,' Jerry said. ‘That comes under “unexplained” to me. It was on the Internet.'

‘But not necessarily murder,' Bill pointed out.

‘Admittedly not.'

Henry pulled himself together, kicking himself. ‘And you didn't feel the need to mention this to me? Anyway, let's not jump to conclusions.' He said that even though he knew that a big part of the job of an SIO was to jump to conclusions and then test them out. ‘Bill, you've been to Merseyside's Firearms Department this morning … anything of interest?'

‘Nahh, not really …'

But Henry's mind wasn't completely on what Bill had to say. It was on what Tope had just revealed … plus the fact that the description Mrs McKnight had given him of the officer to whom she'd handed her husband's files matched Detective Superintendent Paul Shafer to a ‘T'.

‘L
ook, pal, all I want is ten minutes with this guy.' Karl Donaldson was pleading with Henry as they walked through the doors of the Tram and Tower, Henry's local pub, presided over by his favourite landlord, Ken Clayson. They approached the bar and already Ken, having spotted Henry, was pulling him a pint of the finest Stella Artois. The duo leaned on the bar. ‘I don't wanna go through a loada bureaucratic shit, I just wanna get in and talk, that's all. Not even on the record.'

‘Which is probably what worries them.'

Ken placed the drink on the bar and smiled at Donaldson. ‘A water for you, sir?' He knew from past experience that the American could not take his liquor, despite his size. Two pints and he was anyone's, to quote a phrase.

Donaldson thought about it. ‘I'll try a pint of that … what is it? Bitter.'

‘Good choice, sir.'

Donaldson had remained up in the north-west since last meeting Henry and had tried to get in to see Paulo Scartarelli, who was being held on a remand to police cells. He was at Leyland police station, Lancashire's highest-security nick.

‘I've been on the phone, seeing people … You name it, no deal. I keep getting referred upwards, sideways and up people's assholes.'

‘Who have you spoken to?' Henry sipped his beer.

‘Your pal, Dave Anger, from whom I got a flat no. His was the final say-so.' Donaldson's pint arrived. He allowed the head to settle before taking a sip and wincing at the taste. ‘Folk drink this shit?'

‘The second sip gets better, the third even better. Trust me.'

‘You're right,' he said, wiping a foamy moustache from his top lip. They retreated to a corner table, Henry subtly furious that the ladies present, without exception, were watching Donaldson like predatory hawks. It also annoyed Henry that Donaldson, simple soul he was, did not even seem to know he was the centre of so much attention.

‘Your fan club is in,' Henry said scathingly as they seated themselves.

‘Come again?' the Yank said dumbly.

‘Nothing,' Henry muttered darkly and scowled at the women who were openly gawking. Then he said, ‘Am I being paranoid, or what?' as an opener for the discussion relating to his own problems of the moment.

‘How do you mean, pal?'

‘I've been asked to take over the investigation into this police shooting in Liverpool, as you know. Only been doing it two days and not even done anything yet, really. The natives aren't friendly. Which I expected. But the office we were allocated to work in has been set on fire and there's some unconfirmed rumour going about that the IPCC investigator died in mysterious circumstances. When I say mysterious, he was flattened by a hit-and-run driver in a stolen car.'

‘Not much to go on there,' Donaldson said, taking a further swig of his drink and nodding approvingly.

‘Supposing he found out something he wasn't supposed to and – bam! Splat!'

‘Far-fetched.'

Henry leaned forward. ‘And it turns out that the guy who was shot by the police is the same one who killed two prostitutes in Preston – but I've been told it's none of my business and to get lost.'

‘Definitely the same guy?'

‘He looks similar.'

‘Can you prove it?'

‘Well, I had an altercation with the guy and during it I dug my fingernails into his throat and clonked him with my PR on his arm. I've had a look at the dead body and he's got those injuries still. Faded, but definitely there.'

‘Have you told anyone this?'

‘Not at present.'

‘Is there any other way of proving it's one and the same guy?'

‘Possibly. I think some partial fingerprints were recovered from the car in which one of the prostitute's bodies was found and as far as I know, there was never a match. If I had a set of prints from a corpse lying in Southport, then got a friendly fingerprint guy to cross-check 'em … that would be something to go back with, wouldn't it?'

‘So that's you sorted out … Now what about my problem?'

Henry stared at his friend over the rim of his beer glass. ‘Scartarelli's in Leyland now, yeah?' Donaldson nodded. ‘And he's up before the magistrates tomorrow for a remand hearing? If I scratch your back and you scratch mine … how does that sound?'

‘So long as you don't touch my ass … What're you thinking?'

‘I'm thinking that Scartarelli will be handed over to a private-security firm in the morning. That will effectively take him out of the police system – which means I might be able to get access to him, maybe. And I'm also thinking something else … There's no time like the present to get a set of fingerprints from a dead man.'

No self-respecting detective would be found without a portable fingerprint kit in the back of their car. And although a few people in the organization that was Lancashire Constabulary had set out to make Henry Christie look a fool, he had never lost his professional self-respect. Which was why he always carried an inked strip, a tube of fingerprint ink, a wooden roller, a wooden block with a shiny metal strip on it, several blank fingerprint forms and many pairs of latex gloves in the boot of his car.

He and Donaldson walked quickly back to Henry's house after finishing their pints. After a brief verbal joust with Kate, they jumped into the Rover and headed for the motorway. They came off the M6 south of Leyland and crossed the southern edge of the county to Southport. Henry, although he had only had one pint and was well under the legal limit, still drove like a Formula One Grand Prix driver.

They pulled into Southport General after about half an hour's nippy travel.

Henry collected his go-anywhere fingerprint kit from the boot, which he kept in a plastic Asda bag, and he and Donaldson entered the hospital.

The corridors were quiet as they plunged into the depths of the building. It was after visiting hours and hardly anyone was moving about.

The mortuary was staffed by the same mini-attendant as on Henry's previous visit, still playing medical/death-related tunes on his CD player. Henry was pleased to hear a familiar riff emanating from the attendant's office. It was the Rolling Stones' track ‘Dancin' with Mr D', highly appropriate for the task he was about to undertake.

There was a surprised expression on the attendant's pasty face as Henry poked his head round the door and sang, ‘Dancin', dancin', dancin' with Mr D,' in the style of Mick Jagger, his idol. It was obvious that his pint of beer as well as making him desire to travel faster had also removed his inhibition barrier.

Scrambling to his feet, the attendant blurted, ‘You're back!'

‘Yeah – brought a new friend.'

‘Uh … what d'you want?'

Henry held up his plastic bag and fleetingly in his mind's eye he saw the image of himself as the great comedian Eric Morecambe, who used to leave the stage wearing a long raincoat and flat cap and carrying a plastic bag. He coughed to clear the image, let his hand with the carrier drop to his side and said, seriously, ‘I need another look at Mr Motta, please.'

‘Why?'

‘Police business.' He gave the attendant
the look
, hoping it would quake him in his tracks.

‘Sure, sure.' The CD clicked on to the next track, one Henry did not recognize but had the words ‘Dead, dead, dead' in it. ‘You know where he is. He hasn't moved.'

Henry tilted his head in thanks and indicated for Donaldson to follow.

He slid out the drawer and as he snapped on the latex gloves, Donaldson folded back the muslin sheet covering Jonny Motta's nicely chilled corpse.

On seeing the bullet holes in his chest, he said, ‘Good shooting,' admiringly, as Bill Robbins had done previously.

Henry got to work on the fingers, twisting out the hands, selecting the digits and rolling them on the ready-inked strips, then transferring the prints on to the blank sheets as best he could manage in the circumstances. Motta wasn't particularly compliant, but at least he wasn't fighting, as some of the people Henry had taken prints from had been.

At the far end of the mortuary, neither Henry nor Donaldson noticed that the attendant was watching their activity discreetly and making a call on his mobile phone.

Henry completed his creepy task, then produced a digital camera from his pocket. He got Donaldson to lift up Motta's chin whilst he took a couple of snaps of the marks on his neck. Then he took a shot of the inch-long injury on his right forearm which could have been caused when Henry hit him with a police radio. Henry then re-covered Motta with the sheet and slid him back into the fridge.

Donaldson slammed the door into place as Henry put his gear away in the Asda bag, then peeled off his gloves. They walked out past the attendant, who gave them an uninterested wave and turned up the music.

As the mortuary was on the lower ground floor it was a choice of going up the stairs or using the lift to take them to the ground floor. The lift won hands down and after pressing all the lift-call buttons they stood patiently at the doors of the three elevators that served the main spine of the hospital.

Two lifts descended almost simultaneously, one slightly ahead of the other.

The doors of the first one creaked open and the two men stepped into an empty lift just as the second one arrived and the doors opened slowly. As Henry pressed the button inside the lift to take them up a floor, a man stepped smartly out of the other lift and walked in the direction of the mortuary.

As the doors closed, Henry did a double-take and managed to ease his foot between the doors to prevent them from shutting.

‘What's the matter?' Donaldson said.

Henry placed a forefinger to his lips. ‘I thought I recognized that guy … in fact, I do.'

‘Who is it?'

‘C'mon,' he said. He stepped out of the lift, closely followed by Donaldson, and ran to the double doors at the end of the corridor that led to the mortuary. He crouched down and, like a naughty schoolboy, peeped through the strengthened-glass panel in the door and watched the man turn into the mortuary. Henry scuttled after him, Donaldson in tow and mystified. They reached the mortuary doors and, peeking again, Henry saw the man from the lift talking earnestly to the mortuary assistant, who was gesticulating defensively as he responded.

‘Who is he?' Donaldson whispered over Henry's shoulder.

‘Paul Shafer, the Merseyside super I told you about.'

‘Ah,' Donaldson said as the dime dropped.

Shafer was pointing angrily at the attendant's chest with his right forefinger and the attendant was backing off, clearly afraid. Although Shafer's voice was raised, it was impossible to hear what he was saying because of the thick doors and the fact the CD player was still blasting out grim-reaper music. Then the tirade stopped, Shafer's shoulders sagged and his hand went into his inner jacket pocket, extracted his wallet and eased a twenty-pound note out of it. He folded it into the assistant's grubby hand.

‘He's coming out,' Henry ducked back sharply and stood on Donaldson's foot. He gave a muted howl of agony and began hopping about on one leg. Henry dragged him down the corridor, almost at a run, through the next set of double doors, which they dropped down behind. Both men saw Shafer emerge from the mortuary and stalk away in the opposite direction to the lifts. Henry and Donaldson stood upright from their hiding place.

‘What's the plan?' Donaldson asked. He was still hopping a little.

‘Dunno.'

‘Good plan … Do we follow him, or not?'

‘To what end?'

‘Dunno.'

‘So that's a good plan, too,' Henry said sarcastically. Glancing to his right he saw a set of stairs which he moved towards, saying, ‘But it's a plan I like. Let's see if we can beat him to the car park.' Henry took the steps two at a time. He emerged slightly breathless on the ground floor and trotted towards the exit, only realizing he would have to pay for car parking before getting to his car. He searched his pockets for change as he reached the pay station just outside the main entry doors, ahead of Shafer he hoped. He slotted in a couple of coins, which fell straight through and out into the change dispenser with a metallic clatter. ‘Shit.'

‘Nice one,' Donaldson commented drily. ‘He'll be in the queue behind us if you don't pay soon.'

Henry's thick fingers fumbled for the change again which he stuck in his mouth to douse with saliva in the hope the money wouldn't just drop through again. The first coin registered … and so did the second. Henry grabbed the ticket and both men ran hard to the Rover.

By quickly re-parking and getting a better view of the hospital entrance, they were able to watch Shafer join the short queue at the pay station then walk across to his car, which was parked dangerously near to Henry's. They ducked low. Shafer didn't even glance up. He was deep in thought as he unlocked and then drove off in his BMW.

The small amount of alcohol had now left Henry's system. He was clear-headed, even if the inside of his mouth tasted like the bottom of an oven.