‘So what’s new?’ giggled the massively educated professional like a schoolkid. He eased on his latex gloves. ‘So. . are you?’
‘No.’
‘Not surprised. There’s a certain tension between you.’
‘Tension is an understatement.’
‘You should really keep your dick behind the barn doors, H,’ the pathologist admonished.
‘Doing my best-ish,’ Henry said doubtfully.
‘And failing miserably, I’ll bet.’ Baines turned to the body. ‘Now, let us begin. Are we recording, please?’ he asked the mortuary assistant, who pressed a button which switched on the three wall-mounted video cameras. Baines moved to the slab. ‘A terrible, terrible way to die. . if, indeed, death was this way.’ He began to commentate for the benefit of the recording, describing the body and the burns in minute detail, always surprising Henry with his observations. For over ten minutes he talked and did not even once touch the body. Then he reached the stage where he could truly begin the physical examination.
‘No chance of fingerprints,’ he said, inspecting each blackened digit. ‘Now, let’s have a look underneath first. . you never know, there might be a knife in there.’
With the mortuary assistant, Baines gripped the body and rolled it up on to its side. Baines bent double and looked closely, ‘Hmm-ing’ to himself. ‘Well, he wasn’t killed where you found him, Henry. He was certainly dead before he was set alight. The back is virtually untouched by the fire, from the shoulders down to the backside, so he was laid out on his back before being set on fire. He was either dead or unconscious at that point, but I would say dead, though I will confirm that of course.’ He turned to the mortuary assistant. ‘Can we cut off the clothing, please.’ He looked across the body at Henry. ‘The item of clothing on the upper body is a T-shirt, by the way, not burned at all on the back. Looks like it has some rock-group tour dates on it. . bit of a line of enquiry for you there, maybe.’ Henry nodded. The assistant began to ease up the fabric, revealing the man’s skinny back. Henry walked round for a better view without getting in Baines’s way.
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Baines. ‘This man has been shot twice in the back.’
Mendoza actually did little business from the winery. Other than occasional briefings from Lopez he did most of his dealings on the hoof, meeting people, phoning people, killing people; sometimes he did it himself, more often he used hired hands, men he knew he could trust.
Verner had been one of those. Originally a Brit, Verner had emigrated with his family to New York and from there had turned to a life of crime. He became a remarkable and ruthless killer for the mob, but when the heat turned up and the Feds started manoeuvring he was moved quickly to Europe, where he came under Mendoza’s line management. He carried on working for Mendoza with ruthless efficiency until he came to an ugly end in England, gunned down by an unknown shooter who was still on the loose. Despite all of Mendoza’s resources, that killer still remained unidentified, something which rattled the Spaniard.
Surely a name should be surfacing by now, he demanded.
But nothing. . other than the Cosa Nostra, members of which were starting to ask awkward questions about Mendoza and his lack of control.
Mendoza and Lopez and the two heavies had driven into Torrevieja, where Mendoza owned a few bars and a couple of restaurants, one of which overlooked the harbour. At six p.m. that afternoon, Mendoza was sitting on the terrace of that restaurant, enjoying the heat, the view and the cool drink in front of him. He had ordered prawns in garlic and was waiting with anticipation for its arrival.
Lopez was pacing up and down the quayside, speaking animatedly into his mobile phone. The two guards sat at the far end of the restaurant, dozing; at the table opposite Mendoza sat the manager of the restaurant, going through the accounts.
‘Business is not good,’ the manager wailed as Mendoza looked at the figures.
‘Why not?’
The manager shrugged.
‘Two months ago this was the best eating place in town. . what has happened? Has the food gone off?’
‘No, Senor. People have moved on.’
Mendoza scowled at him, thinking that the poorly performing restaurant was just another fly in the ointment. He picked up the accounts and flung them at the manager, who ducked and cowered. Mendoza’s voice stayed level. ‘Get people back in here,’ he said simply. ‘Do what you have to. Burn other restaurants down, if necessary. Otherwise, I will have you. . removed from your post, shall we say? Now get out of my sight, you shit-faced worm.’
The manager dropped to his hands and knees and collected the scattered papers, then scuttled away, terrified.
Lopez finished his phone call. He had been doing a deal with a drug importer in Lisbon. From his body language, Mendoza picked up that the deal had gone through. . but then the phone rang again.
Mendoza watched Lopez’s whole body posture change. He stiffened. His face had a look of shock on it and he immediately shot Mendoza an expression of horror.
Four hours was long enough to be at a post-mortem, especially one like that, but it had to be done. When it was over, Henry gratefully stepped out into the cemetery, where the air was wonderfully fresh, the scent of many flowers hanging in the cool afternoon.
Henry, Roscoe and Baines stood by the door of the mortuary, enjoying breathing the air into their lungs, until Baines lit up a very smelly cheroot which smelled worse than the dead guy. Both Henry and Roscoe squirmed away from him.
The PM was over, complete, thorough, detailed. Everything that could have been evidence was bagged up and being fast-tracked through forensic submissions. That included the two misshapen slugs that Baines had rooted out of the dead man’s heart and the dental X-rays which would go a long way to identifying the body.
After a short debrief and a promise of a quick report followed by a more detailed one, Baines bade the two detectives adios. As he turned away, he pretended to lick an invisible plate.
‘What the hell did that mean?’ Roscoe asked, puzzled.
‘Sick humour. . don’t go there,’ Henry said. ‘Let’s get to the cop shop.’ He checked his watch. He had originally scheduled a briefing for four p.m., then put it back when the PM went on longer than anticipated. They jumped into the Mondeo and Henry drove them to Rawtenstall police station, where the incident was to be run from. If it had all gone to plan, twenty detectives, a uniformed support unit (one sergeant, fifteen constables) and various other bods would be waiting for the briefing.
All he had to do now was think of something to say to everyone.
‘Muy mal,’ Lopez said. Very bad.
‘Just tell me.’
A waiter appeared with the garlic prawns, sizzling in the skillet. Mendoza waved him away.
Lopez took a breath, steadied himself.
‘It is all gone and they are all dead.’
‘What is?’
‘Everything.’
Then Mendoza knew.
‘Todo?’ he said coldly. ‘Everything?’
Lopez nodded numbly.
‘Then I am finished,’ Mendoza said desperately.
Twelve
For the next fifty-four hours Henry Christie felt as though he hardly took a breath. The time shot by in a spiral of activity and images and it was only at eleven a.m., two days after the initial briefing to his team of detectives, that he found the opportunity to sit down, catch up, review and properly document everything that had transpired.
In days gone by, when Henry had been a pasty-faced rookie, naive enough to think he could even get away with wearing yellow socks with his uniform, the cops in the Valley had been supervised by a superintendent, a chief inspector and a whole rake of inspectors, one for each town in the Valley and more besides. Now there was one inspector covering the whole lot and it was in this man’s office that Henry secreted himself for half an hour to reflect — with a mug of coffee — on the progress, or otherwise, of the investigation.