‘Were you protecting, or were you out to kill?’ FB said.
‘Maybe both, if necessary.’
FB gave Henry a look and a nod.
‘I think we need to take this guy back to Lancs for a good long talk,’ Henry said.
‘I agree.’
‘But what about Grace?’
‘Come back for her,’ said FB.
‘Oi — I’m not under arrest,’ said Carruthers. ‘I need a doctor. You bastards assaulted me.’ He made to scramble to his feet. Henry helped him — grabbed him, yanked him up, spun him round and frog-marched him to the living-room wall, where, expertly, he pulled out his cuffs (an old pair of the chain-linked variety) and clipped them swiftly on a pair of chubby wrists, ratcheting them tight enough to make him squeal a little.
‘You are under arrest,’ Henry corrected him, speaking in his ear.
‘What for?’
Henry shrugged. ‘All sorts of things. . the gun. . threatening me with it. . no licence. . but mainly on suspicion of murder.’
‘Oh yeah, right.’
‘Yeah — I always start close to home, then work away,’ Henry said. ‘And you can have a doctor for free. Are you a smackhead, too?’
‘No, I’m fucking not.’
‘Oh, OK. Probably could’ve got you a script on the house if you had been.’
‘I need to make this very clear,’ said Henry, shifting in the driver’s seat of the Mondeo and looking over his shoulder to inspect his prisoner. The cuffs were now on Carruthers’ lap, his hands bound in front of him instead of behind. He was holding a roll of kitchen towel, dabbing his dripping nose. ‘If you so much as try anything remotely stupid, Colin, I will continue the work I started on your nose and then will move on to other, even more delicate parts of your body. You sit there like a good bloke and do not move or anything, OK?’
Carruthers nodded compliantly.
‘Good.’ Henry twisted forward, glanced at FB. ‘Ready to roll?’
‘Yep.’ In the footwell between FB’s feet lay the Luger and its ammunition, together with the other items they had found whilst searching the prisoner: a Bowie knife, a Kung Fu death star, a cigarette lighter which became a flick knife and a double-barrelled Derringer pistol.
‘Let’s go.’
They had secured Grace’s flat as best they could and Henry expected an early return to it by his detectives.
As he pulled off the estate, neither he nor FB saw the van parked some one hundred metres away, two men on board, sitting low in their seats, watching.
‘You’ve got a bit of a tale to tell us, then, haven’t you, Colin?’ FB said, tilting his head backwards.
‘I’ve got fuck all to tell the cops,’ he responded.
‘Not true, not true at all,’ Henry said gently.
Tony Cromer and Teddy Bear Jackman received their briefing, much the same one as they had been given previously: go forth and cause grief and mayhem and get some answers; go and make blood flow, frighten people, hurt them, kill them if you have to — but come back with a name.
‘Boss,’ Cromer began, a pained expression in his voice and on his face, taking care to choose his words correctly. ‘I know we’ve only really spoken to a couple of the major players, and quite a few of the riff-raff, but there’s just nothing coming out of folk. Not a word, fuck all, just fuck all!’
‘Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,’ Sweetman said.
Anyone else — anyone — and Cromer’s new expression would have been one of deep annoyance, but for Sweetman he kept a straight face, one designed not to anger or inflame. He nodded. ‘How long we got?’
‘A day.’
Cromer did the sums. Eight more big boys to visit, three hours per person — if they could be located quickly — no rest for the wicked. ‘We’d better get going then.’
‘You will both be well rewarded,’ Sweetman promised.
Colin Carruthers was not the type of person who could sit there and say nothing. He was no criminal in the darkest sense of the word, even though the offences he had committed in terms of the firearms and other offensive weapons were serious. Henry did not see them in the same way as offences committed by a tooled-up drug dealer. Colin was an army fantasist and hopefully a harmless one. Yes, he would have to have his weapons confiscated, but if he came up trumps for Henry then there was a good chance Henry could do a deal for him. But then again, Henry pondered as they hit the motorway out of Manchester, the fat little bastard had pointed a loaded gun at him. A sheen of nervous sweat suddenly covered Henry’s whole outer skin at that thought. Colin the Commando would have to provide some very good information to get out of that one.
‘Where we going?’ the prisoner called out.
‘Burnley.’
‘Why Burnley, for God’s sake?’
‘That’s where the custody office is.’
Carruthers withdrew for a few moments, thinking.
‘You and Keith good mates?’ Henry tossed to him.
‘Hmph. . were, stupid bastard. He always came to me when he was in trouble.’
‘Did he come to you recently?’
‘Yep.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Dunno. . week ago?’ Carruthers fell silent, then suddenly added, ‘But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’
Henry adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see Carruthers as he drove. ‘Why would I know that?’
FB’s mobile interrupted the flow of the conversation, exasperating Henry. He did not let it show.
Grant and Lopez sat together in the hotel bar, chuckling, smiling. Real bonhomie.
‘They’re floundering,’ Grant said.
‘Si.’
‘Haven’t got a clue.’
‘No.’
‘When do we make our move?’
‘Twelve hours?’
‘Twelve hours sounds good.’
They clinked glasses.
The call was from his staff officer, something about meeting the Police Authority, and the conversation seemed to go on forever, Henry getting more and more frustrated with FB. Finally it ended and just as Henry opened his mouth to resume the unofficial interview, his own phone blared out — ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. FB eyed him as he answered it, although at seventy mph on a pitch-black motorway was not the best of circumstances in which to chit-chat.
‘Henry? It’s me, Karen Donaldson.’
‘Hi — have you heard anything?’ Henry got in first.
‘No, nothing.’
‘Oh, bloody hell. What does the Legat say?’
‘That they’ve heard nothing either — and now it’s official. He’s officially missing.’
‘Right, right. . at least that’s a good thing. Means they’re taking it seriously. Putting some resources into it.’
‘Maybe.’ Karen sounded doubtful.
‘He’ll be fine, Karen. He’s a top man. He’ll just be doing something and won’t want to break cover. You know what he’s like.’
‘Suppose he’s been hurt — or worse. I keep calling him, just can’t get through.’ Henry could tell she was on the verge of tears. In the background the kids were crying.
‘When I get off duty tonight, whatever time it happens to be, I’ll call you. Is that all right?’
Her ‘OK’ was very numb-sounding.
‘I promise,’ he said, ending the call. ‘Karen Donaldson,’ he said to FB, who groaned. He had known Karen whilst she was an officer in Lancashire and had crossed swords with her on numerous occasions. They had little affection for each other, just as FB had no time for Karl Donaldson either. He had also been at loggerheads with him. Henry decided not to say anything about the nature of the call.
‘OK, Colin. . you were saying. .’
The motorway traffic was light at that time of day. Henry had pretty much claimed the outer lane and no one, so far, had pushed to overtake. He glanced into his door mirrors and saw that a vehicle was fast approaching, headlights blazing. The lights were high up and subconsciously Henry put it down as a van, or similar. But it was coming up fast. Henry automatically checked his speedo. It was now hovering around eighty-five mph. He had increased his own speed without realizing.
Suddenly the van was tailgating.
‘Tosser!’ Henry uttered.
FB glanced over, frowning. Carruthers looked too.