‘Then what can you offer?’
‘I will recover the drugs, then they will go through the original channels of distribution and then the money will start to filter back.’
The old man nodded sagely as he mulled this through.
‘Not enough.’
Mendoza was exasperated. ‘What then?’
‘You own four building sites on which the houses are almost complete. . as a good-will gesture, they must be signed over to us.’
Mendoza’s mouth popped open. There was something like forty million pounds worth of property — potentially — on them, once sales picked up. He felt his insides crumble.
The old man raised his glass of wine. ‘My lawyer will meet with yours first thing to arrange the necessities. . and one more thing.’ Mendoza waited for another bombshell. ‘Clean up your organization — quickly.’
Fourteen
Henry knew that at some stage in the game, the chief constable would turn up and poke his nose into things which did not concern him — such as this investigation. Obviously and ultimately, everything that went on in that organization called Lancashire Constabulary concerned the chief, but even so, he could have done quite happily without the man’s appearance — especially on the day on which the victim was finally identified through DNA.
The temporary DCI — as DI Carradine continually and snidely referred to him, just to wind him up — arrived at Rawtenstall police station at seven thirty-five a.m. the following morning. He’d had a poor night’s sleep; thoughts of Tara Wickson, images of bullets being gouged out of dead bodies, tumbling through his brain all night long; thoughts of his latest infidelity, too. Bastard, he called himself many times throughout the night. Prime bastard. That’s me. Henry, the changed man. Hardly. Exhausted, he eventually dropped into a fitful sleep at three a.m., awoken by the alarm at six thirty.
Kate had rolled close to him during the night and he could not disguise the huge erection he had woken up displaying. She reached for him, but guilt made him extract himself from her gentle grip, saying he needed a wee.
He did not return to bed, but showered quickly, got dressed and was ready to roll at six fifty.
The morning briefing went well, a buzz of excitement rippling through the assembled detectives at the new information. Lines of enquiry were opening up for people and they eagerly grabbed new actions to follow up.
As they parted, the chief was revealed at the back of the room. Short, squat, rounded, putting on weight, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley grinned at and approached Henry.
They had known each other for a long time. ‘FB’, as he was commonly known, had been a detective in Lancashire for most of his service, rising steadily but not spectacularly through the ranks. He had been an assistant chief constable before transferring to Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary for a short time before returning as Lancashire’s chief only a matter of weeks before.
Henry had worked for FB in various capacities throughout the years and had usually been ruthlessly used by the higher-ranking officer. The two men could not be said to have been in love with each other, but they had a grudging mutual respect and Henry could get away with saying things to FB that not even a deputy chief constable would dare say. FB had most recently used Henry in the Tara Wickson debacle, but on the other hand had secured Henry’s return to work and a position on the SIO team. FB had said Henry would actually be working directly to him on a ‘special job’, but nothing had transpired about that. Henry put it down as bullshit.
Henry did not know whether to be pleased or worried about FB’s unannounced appearance. He squinted thoughtfully at FB as he got nearer.
‘How goes it?’ FB asked. ‘Solved it yet? That’s what you’re paid for, y’know. How many days is it now? Four? Three days and then murder inquiries go to rat shit, don’t they?’ He fired the questions at Henry like his mouth was a Gatling gun.
Henry decided to come back with cheek. ‘You should know, boss. Not many of your inquiries got solved within six weeks, as I recall.’ It wasn’t true. FB had headed numerous major investigations and every one had been solved sooner or later.
‘Touche,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Time to talk?’ Henry nodded. FB touched him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s hit the caff on the main drag, then.’ Henry walked ahead of FB out of the MIR, just catching sight of Dave Anger coming in through the door at the far end of the room. It was only a brief glimpse, but enough to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing Anger halt quickly and his face go like millstone grit.
The cafe FB referred to was near the bus station. It served the most outstanding latte Henry had ever tasted. Not that he knew what a true latte should taste like, but, whatever, it was quite wonderful.
‘Making progress then — at last,’ FB said, adding the last two words sardonically. Henry nodded, a moustache of coffee foam on his top lip. ‘It was a good briefing, Henry. Everyone still seems to be well up for it.’
‘They seem to be a good bunch.’ Henry wiped his lip.
‘Rossendale lads.’ FB winked.
‘Used to be a punishment posting.’
‘Still is.’ FB had ordered a double espresso which he sipped, then winced.
‘I hope — fingers crossed — that the DNA will be back today. I just can’t see how anyone with two slugs in his back wouldn’t be on record. This is the bit we’re struggling with, not identifying the guy. No one coming forward to claim a missing relative. Nothing’s come from the media shots at all.’
‘That’s the way it goes. I remember the handless corpse job in the late ’70s,’ FB reminisced. ‘A definite gangland killing. No ID, then suddenly a bird walks into a police station and says it’s her boyfriend. Just like that. Kicked off a massive international job.’
‘I remember it well,’ Henry said. As a PC in uniform way back then he had been fascinated by the case, which involved the international drugs trade, millions of pounds, unpaid debts, loose women, fast cars. It had been one hell of a story.
‘Something’ll turn up, is what I’m saying,’ FB said. ‘So. . how’s things with you?’
‘OK,’ Henry said hesitantly.
‘Dave Anger making life uncomfortable?’
‘You know, then?’
‘I hear things. Don’t worry about him. . things’ll level out, I’m sure. . especially when you pull this one out of the bag.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘How’re other things?’
‘Can’t wait for the Wickson inquest,’ Henry lied.
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine, too.’
Henry wasn’t so sure, but he said nothing about his doubts. ‘I hear you’re down to investigate that cock-up at Lancaster Crown, that GMP job that went shit-shape.’
‘Mm.’ FB looked along his nose at Henry. ‘Partly why I’ve come to see you.’ Henry waited. ‘I’m putting a small team together to look at the allegations. I’d like you to head it.’
The revelation took Henry aback. ‘I’d relish it,’ he admitted, feeling himself swell at little, ‘but I’d be struggling at the moment. This job’s taking all my time. I don’t see much slack ahead, not enough for a job like that, anyway.’
‘Whatever, I’ll be wanting you to head the inquiry team,’ FB said as though he hadn’t heard Henry’s position. ‘You’ll have to make the time — one way or the other.’
Henry found his teeth were grinding, something they did quite often in FB’s company. His swell had also deflated. ‘OK,’ he said unsurely.
‘You need to be up and ready first thing next week — that’s when I’ll be in a position to get going fully. That OK?’
‘Have to be, won’t it?’
FB smiled and downed the last dregs of espresso. Henry finished the latte and they set off back for the nick. As they walked side by side along Bacup Road, Henry towering over the rotund figure of the chief, Henry’s mobile rang.