‘They don’t have that information but there are some case number references to a job in GMP, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get that info.’
‘Go on.’
‘The bullets were thirty-eights.’
‘Right, good.’
‘And the guy down in Huntingdon has also been working on the slugs found in the back of the victim in Deeply Vale.’
‘Has he something on them, then?’
‘Oh yes. . the gun used in the robbery is the same one which fired the bullet into the car. . is the same gun which fired bullets into the back of our unknown victim.’
Henry took a nanosecond or two to digest this. ‘The bullet in the stolen car, and the bullets in the back of our dead man, come from the same gun. Is that what you are saying, John?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the gun was used in a robbery in GMP six months ago?’
‘Yes.’
Henry sank the remainder of the drink as soon as he finished this call. He looked up at the big-screen TV hanging down in one corner of the bar, showing Sky News. The scrolling headlines made Henry reach for his phone again.
North Manchester General Hospital, once known as Crumpsall Hospital, is huge and old. It is a complex warren of corridors and Lynch found that he could wander unchallenged. It helped, he assumed, because he had his ID pinned to his jacket and anyone who displayed any sort of ID was deemed to be kosher.
Lynch knew the hospital well, had been there on numerous occasions for various matters over the years and knew exactly where he was going.
He walked swiftly, businesslike, and found the ward he was looking for, not too far away from the outpatient department.
It was late in the day and staff were sparse on the ground.
Excellent.
At the entrance to the ward, he paused and peered down into it. On the right was an office, beyond that was the first of two private side wards, then, further on, the public ward.
He knew Bignall’s exact location. The problem was getting to him without being spotted. He assumed the night-shift staff were in the office, a fact confirmed by a laugh and the door opening. A nurse stepped out, said something to one of her colleagues in the office, turned and walked into the ward.
Lynch dropped back into the shadow of the corridor. He watched the nurse stroll down the ward, checking on patients, sharing jokes, smiling, being professional. His eyes narrowed as he waited for his moment.
Henry tabbed through the phone book in his mobile until he found Karl Donaldson’s number and pressed the call button. The connection was made more or less immediately and he heard the unmistakable tones of Karl’s American drawl.
‘Hi, pal.’ Donaldson sounded weary and far away.
‘Karl — how’s it going? I’m really sorry about calling you at this time of night. I heard about the death of the lorry driver, but I’ve been so busy tied up with my own life, I just forgot to phone. It was really bad news.’
‘Yeah, pal, thanks. I thought it could’ve been the opening to the Spaniard, but it didn’t happen. One o’ those things, I guess.’ He pronounced ‘things’ as ‘thangs’.
‘Philosophical.’
‘That’s life, baby. I hear you’ve been landed with a big, nasty murder.’
‘Yeah, gangland thing, I reckon. Not made too much progress yet, but I think things’ll begin to move tomorrow. But what’s your way forward, re the Spaniard?’
‘Just doin’ some shakin’ down.’
In the background Henry heard music and laughter.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Espana, babe. . out where the sun shines three hundred and twenty days each year.’
* * *
The nurse completed her round of the ward and returned to the office, failing to notice the figure of Lynch in the darkness, lurking silently. He waited, then stepped across the corridor and into the mouth of the ward. The door to the office was on the right. He crept close, listening hard. A patient on the ward coughed horribly. Lynch could make out the murmur of voices in the office. He crept nearer. The top half of the door was clear glass. He took a chance, sidled up and peered in with one eye — quickly — before flattening himself against the wall. Two nurses were in the office, sitting, talking.
He bent down and crawled past the door, rising back to his full height as he passed. The next door on the right was the private room in which Bignall was ensconced.
A troublesome thought entered Lynch’s head as he reached for the handle. One of those thoughts in which something worries you, but you cannot put your finger on exactly what. He turned the handle and opened the door slightly. His eyes searched the dark room. The dark room! The private room which the nurse had not checked on her round. Why not?
The empty room.
The bed was made up, neat and tidy, bedclothes pulled tight, awaiting the next patient.
Because Bignall was not there.
Karl Donaldson tugged at the unbuttoned collar of his short-sleeved shirt and blew down the front of it, cooling his chest. He was sweating, feeling lines of moisture dribbling down his body, pooling in uncomfortable places.
Although it was almost midnight, Spanish time, the evening heat on the Costa Blanca remained oppressive. He took a sip from his chilled mineral water — memories of overindulgence still lingering — and continued to gaze down the road from the terrace of the restaurant at which he sat. From there he could see the arched entrance leading into the Ciudad Quesada, that being a sprawling estate of villas which had spread rapidly over the last few years to accommodate some of the massive investment in property in the area. It was about five kilometres inland from Torrevieja and Donaldson knew that his informant lived in a huge house on the estate.
Donaldson was more desperate than ever to nail Mendoza. The man was at the very top of Donaldson’s hit list. The American realized that his interest in Mendoza was becoming unhealthy to the point of obsession, but he remained determined to bring him down and his whole organization along the way. Donaldson could trace it all back to the death of Zeke, the undercover FBI agent whom Mendoza had cold-bloodedly had murdered, Zeke the agent that Donaldson had been controlling. Donaldson had taken it personally and, one way or another, Mendoza would soon be history.
He had already partly revenged Zeke’s death. Verner, the man who had actually put the bullets into Zeke’s brain, had been eliminated, taken out by Donaldson. . and now all that remained was to do the same to Mendoza.
It had come to that.
Donaldson’s nostrils flared at the thought of the man. He could picture the bullet blowing out his brains.
Then he sniffed.
But that would not happen, as much as he dreamed about it.
Donaldson actually wanted to destroy the Spaniard by legitimate means if at all possible, to see him go through the legal process, to watch his face as he was sentenced to life behind bars.
Which is where the informant came in. The man had appeared from nowhere and offered up his services, something that occasionally happens, and gift horses should not be put down too quickly.
He was high up in Mendoza’s organization, fulfilling the role of business manager. It was his job to explore new openings, to seek out and explore new markets, to crush rivals if necessary and develop more profit for the boss man. He had been forging new connections in England in the last few years.
The informant was no angel. A couple of years earlier he had ordered a hit on a Manchester criminal, the kill being carried out by Verner. It had been whilst the body of the criminal was being disposed of that Verner had been surprised by two surveillance cops whom he had also murdered and buried. So the informant was very much implicated in the deaths of two cops, a fact which troubled Donaldson, but one which did not prevent him from going for the bigger picture: Mendoza.
Maybe when Mendoza had tumbled he would try to deal with the informant, but in the meantime he needed him.