‘What I say. I don’t know.’
‘You’ve been robbed by four armed men, but you don’t know what was taken from you?’
Whitlock nodded. Donaldson was riveted.
‘Why don’t you know?’ the officer asked, his cop hackles rising as he sensed there was more to this than met the eye.
‘They weren’t my bags.’
‘Whose bags were they?’
Whitlock shrugged again — pathetically — and Donaldson thought he was going to cry. ‘Dunno,’ he said once more. Then, more forcefully, Whitlock said, ‘Excuse me.’ He placed his cup down on the floor of the Range Rover, pushed the cop out of the way and staggered round the back of it, where, leaning with both hands against the vehicle, his head between his arms, he was violently sick. Donaldson heard the splatter of vomit as it cascaded on to the ground.
Donaldson said to the officer, ‘Can I give you a clue?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘This vehicle has just come into the country from Holland.’
‘Ahh.’ The officer grasped the scenario instantly.
‘And I think it’ll be worth having a look in the back.’ He pointed to the container. He stepped to one side and gobbed out some blood from the cut inside his mouth.
Rufus Sweetman and Ginny, his girlfriend, lounged in the plush back seat of the stretch limo as it sped south down the M6, the driver occasionally touching eighty, but never more. Next to the driver sat Grant, Sweetman’s solicitor and, less well known, the number two man in Sweetman’s whole organization. Both men were trying to ignore what was happening behind the partition.
Almost as soon as they had pulled away from Lancaster Crown Court, Sweetman and his girl fell into each other’s arms, drooling, devouring each other with wet, passionate kisses, trying to make up as quickly as possible for nine months of separation.
After this necessary release, Sweetman opened the well-stocked in-car bar and helped himself to a Glenfiddich on ice.
‘God, it’s good to be out,’ he sighed. He opened the partition and said to Grant, ‘We need to sort the cops now, though, get ’em off my back for good.’
‘I agree.’
‘Legally and illegally.’
‘Sure, Rufus.’
‘I want them to think they’re gonna get stuffed through the courts. . I want them to know that, actually. . and I want them worrying about me all the time, I want them looking over their shoulders, wonderin’ when they’re gonna get it next. I want ’em shittin’ ’emselves in all directions, the bastards. I want every innocent cop on the beat to think he might be the next target. I want them all to be afraid, Bradley.’
‘Sure, Rufus.’
‘And I want my business back.’
‘It’s happening, even as we speak.’
‘Good. . and another thing. .’
Grant looked over his shoulder. ‘You don’t want much, do you?’
‘I haven’t even started,’ Sweetman snarled. ‘I want to find out who actually killed Jacko Hazell.’
Grant was still looking back over his shoulder, trying to avert his eyes from the half-dressed Ginny. He killed the image and raised his eyes to Sweetman’s smirking face, avoiding the look of dare which he knew was on Ginny’s face. ‘The business is due some good news today, boss.’
Sweetman brightened up. ‘Today, is it?’
‘Yeah. . thought I’d keep it until the moment was right. Yeah, it’s due in today. . five mill worth of product. . the foundations to take the business forwards.’ His eyes looked beyond Sweetman and for a moment the expression on Grant’s face changed, darkened. He was watching something through the back window. A car was moving out for an overtake. The look made Sweetman turn and follow the line of sight. The car drew level and held that position.
Sweetman opened his smoked-glass window.
His eyes locked with the front-seat passenger in the car.
‘Ignore,’ Grant instructed.
But Sweetman could not stop looking across the gap from car to car, looking into the eyes of Detective Superintendent Carl Easton. The man who had gone to the extreme and set him up for a murder both knew he had not committed. Easton had been like a zealot in his pursuit and Sweetman did not fully understand why the cop had gone to such lengths. Sure, Sweetman was a big operator, probably the biggest and most organized in Manchester at the moment, and had been a thorn in the side of Greater Manchester Police for years. He had managed to evade justice time and again. . but yet Easton had been obsessive and gone on to try and prove something with which Sweetman had no involvement. Why? Sweetman needed that answer, maybe would get it in the near future. He knew he was fair game for the cops, it was the nature of the way he lived; but the ruthless way in which Easton had pursued him actually frightened him a little. . which is why those phone calls had been made, firmly putting suspicion on other people. Sweetman had been so worried that he might get convicted that it had been necessary to do that, but yet Easton had obviously tried to bury the information.
Easton brought a mobile phone up to his ear. Grant’s phone rang out.
The cars stayed parallel with each other, eighty mph.
‘It’s for you.’ Grant handed the phone to Sweetman.
Both men were still eye to eye, maybe six feet apart, eighty mph.
‘Don’t think this is over,’ Easton said. His mouth moved soundlessly, but Sweetman heard the words.
‘Nor you,’ Sweetman said.
‘I’ll always be after you.’
‘Go and fuck yourself.’
‘Real clever words, them.’
The line went dead. Easton broke the locked gaze and sat forwards in his seat. His car surged ahead of the limo.
Sweetman tossed the mobile back to Grant and sat back. Anticipation coursed through his veins at the prospect of what lay ahead.
‘Before we open up, is there anything there that should not be in there?’ Karl Donaldson asked Whitlock as they stood next to the container. The driver looked more than ill now. He looked as though he should be on his death bed, or maybe being transferred into a coffin. He made no reply. ‘Better open it then,’ Donaldson said to one of the traffic cops.
The latches were pulled down, forced sideways on their heavy springs, the door heaved open.
Several seconds passed before everyone registered what exactly they were seeing.
‘That was what was wrong,’ Whitlock said to himself, agonized as he recalled his feeling that something was amiss with the lorry. Now he knew. The noise made by the air-circulation unit had stopped.
Donaldson’s stomach churned emptily. The breath in his lungs hissed out and his lips popped open.
Nine
Henry Christie rubbed his tired eyes and focused them on his friend. The two men were sitting in a public house within walking distance of Henry’s home, a hostelry called The Tram and Tower in deference to a couple of the main attractions of the resort of Blackpool. Of course, Henry was not drinking alcohol. He was still on-call and was sipping a pint of lemon and lime, with ice. His friend was on something stronger, having just downed his second Jack Daniel’s double, a third sitting conveniently in front of him, ready for consumption.
Henry’s friend was Karl Donaldson. They had met several years earlier — their paths had crossed when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating American mob activity in the north of England. Since then their paths had continued to intercut and at the same time their friendship had grown, even though Henry hated Donaldson’s guts for being such a good-looking bastard. Donaldson had been posted to the US embassy in London for a number of years and had married a high-ranking British policewoman he’d met on that first investigation.
Donaldson looked more drawn out than Henry, and definitely more emotional. It was usually the other way round. In fact Henry had never seen the normally cool, laid-back Yank so stressed and uptight.
There was good reason for his condition.
‘Unbelievable,’ Donaldson was saying, shaking his head despondently. ‘God, if only I’d pulled the right truck. . maybe they could’ve been saved.’