‘OK — the big issue here is that someone has died in a road accident after being pursued by the cops, yeah? The fact that it was a stolen car and they were joyriding doesn’t hold much sway anymore, and neither does the fact that it wasn’t much of a chase. The added complication is that the girl who dies and the offender who killed her and then legged it are members of the same shit-house family, a family who happen to be one of the biggest trouble-making clans in Blackpool.
‘They will blame the cops for everything, and therefore we need to handle this carefully with the media. We know we’re not to blame, but we’re never that good at proactively defending ourselves. . so, as soon as we can, we get our heads together with your divisional commander and our media people and put a strategy together before facing the media out there. Are you with it so far?’
Dean nodded.
‘So that’s the PR, public bullshit side of it — that and the community reassurance and hi-viz patrols on Shoreside to quell any disturbances that the Costains might like to ignite.’ Henry took a breath. His brain was feeling slightly woozy, having now been on the go for twenty-four hours. ‘The real policing side is to get good, strong statements from the officers who chased the stolen car and any witnesses in our favour; then we need to trace our chum Roy Costain and nail the little bastard to the wall. Still with me?’
‘Yep.’
‘And I need to speak to Troy here.’ Henry nodded at the cowed Costain in the back of the car. ‘Because I think I might have some influence on him.’
Following the introduction of the Human Rights Act and the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act (also known as RIPA), the handling of informants by the police — now termed Covert Human Intelligence Sources (CHIS) — is tightly regulated. The days of informal ‘snouts’ are, by and large, long gone. Informants are now formally registered and dealt with by handlers who have day-to-day responsibility for dealing with the ‘source’, and by the controller who has general oversight of the source. All information or intelligence from these sources is then sanitized and forwarded to local intelligence departments who then forward it for operational action. It is a system commonly referred to as the ‘firewall’ or the ‘sanitized corridor’.
However, some informants slip through the loop. And one of them was called Troy Costain. He had been Henry Christie’s only unregistered informant for about fourteen years. Henry was acutely aware of the disciplinary tightrope he was walking with Troy, but he was loath to register him because he would lose him.
He had first met Troy when he had arrested him for an assault, when Troy was a mere teenager. Troy’s subsequent introduction to the inside of a police cell had sent the youngster almost insane as he suffered from severe claustrophobia. Seizing gleefully on the condition, Henry had seen an opportunity. Troy was a member of the Costains, one of the most feared criminal clans in town, and Henry realized that an informant in their midst would be a godsend. So, with ruthless efficiency and calculated threats, Henry gave young Troy an option: get banged up and go mental or get talking and go free.
A desperate Troy chose the latter option and Henry had exploited him ever after. Troy had provided Henry with masses of information about low-level crimes and criminals over the years, and some higher-level stuff too. At times, when it looked as though Troy was about to stray from the path of righteousness, Henry had administered an appropriate short sharp shock to keep him in line.
The downside of the relationship was that Troy had moved into drug dealing. Though it was common for cops to protect and turn a blind eye to the activities of their snouts, Troy had gravitated into territory which Henry disapproved of and Henry knew that there could be problems if Troy’s activities got out of hand. It was a question of proportionality. Was it worth letting him carry on, weighed against the quality of information he could give? Henry had not yet decided Troy’s future.
Henry slid into the front passenger seat of the car. He twisted round and scowled at Troy, whose eyes dropped.
‘I’m sorry about Renata.’
‘Yeah, sure you are,’ sneered Troy. ‘You’re making a habit of getting me in to ID my dead relatives, aren’t you?’ He was referring to a couple of years earlier when his younger brother had been murdered and Henry had got Troy to identify the corpse. ‘I think you get a kick from it.’
Henry arched his eyebrows.
Troy knew that what he was saying was pure bollocks. He spat a ‘Tch!’ and his mouth twisted down at the corners.
‘How’s the drug dealing going?’
Troy’s face became bland and expressionless. He chose not to be baited. Henry sighed, recalling how not very long ago he had confiscated a revolver and a bag of drugs from Troy, which he had subsequently, and illegally, disposed of. Henry said, ‘Next time I find you with dope in your hands, I won’t be so lenient. You understand that, don’t you Troy?’
Troy merely looked bored, feigned a yawn.
‘So now we come to our present predicament.’
‘You bastards will suffer for this,’ Troy said gleefully.
It was Henry’s turn to look indifferent. He sighed. ‘OK, battle lines drawn. . what can you tell me about Roy? Such as where can I find him, for a start?’
‘Dunno.’ Troy’s thin shoulders rose and fell.
‘OK. . how come he was in a stolen car from Manchester?’
Troy squirmed ever so slightly and fourteen years of harassing him suddenly seemed to come good for Henry as he knew he could read Troy’s body language like a large-print book. Henry smiled slightly. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Troy?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did Roy go to Manchester last night and come back in a stolen motor?’
‘How the bleedin’ hell should I know? I’m not his keeper.’
‘But that’s exactly what you are, Troy. At the moment you are head of the Costain household. You said so yourself.’
‘Look,’ Troy said, beginning to get uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what he’s been up to, all right? He comes ’n’ he goes as he pleases. He’s bloody fourteen for fuck’s sake.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Erm. . tryina think. . em. .’ Troy’s mind was whirring now as he tried urgently not to drop himself in anything smelly. ‘Probably about six last night. . tea time. . yeah, that was it.’
‘Hm, interesting.’
‘Why?’ Troy asked worriedly.
‘If you saw him at six, the car was only stolen at seven in Manchester — he made bloody good time to the city.’
‘Didn’t he just. . well, maybe someone else stole it and-’ Troy began, but stopped himself on a sixpence.
‘Good theory. Go on,’ Henry urged him.
‘No, nothing,’ he said with a wild back-pedal.
‘OK — so where do I find him, Troy? You know we have to talk to him sooner rather than later, don’t you?’
‘Henry, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you.’
‘Not a terribly good answer.’
The wind screamed into the port of Hull from the River Humber and beyond from the North Sea, carrying with it stinging particles of sleet. It was bitter cold and driving hard, making Karl Donaldson burrow down even more deeply into his thick reefer jacket, tug up his collar and wish he’d had the foresight to put on a further couple of layers. The sea was running high as the weather deteriorated and Donaldson felt as though his recently acquired tan was being stripped from his face. It had been difficult to hear the voice down the mobile phone, but eventually Donaldson confirmed everything twice, then hung up. A slight change of plan, but not drastic.
He squinted out across the murky sea, but could see nothing other than low cloud and high waves. His ship had yet to come in, though he knew it was not far away.
With a judder, Donaldson turned his back to the wind and made his way to the permanently sited Portakabin on the quayside adjacent to the customs channel through which all vehicles rolling off the ferries must pass. There was some warmth in the hut provided by the meagre portable gas fire, but this was having to be shared around the six people inside, all attempting to get a few therms for themselves.