However, Henry also knew that Donaldson was deep into fidelity and worshipped Karen. Henry wished that he was as angelic as his friend because, all too often, his tarnished halo had slipped.
‘It’s good to see you, you ugly swine.’
‘And you, pal.’
They had been friends for half a dozen years now. Donaldson worked for the FBI’s legal attache in London. The two men had met when Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had since worked together on a number of investigations and had become good friends. Donaldson had met and subsequently married Karen, who had been a serving police officer in the Lancashire Constabulary at the time. She had since transferred to the Metropolitan Police and they lived within commuting distance of the capital. Donaldson travelled in daily to his office in the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square and Karen drove to the Police Staff College at Bramshill, where she was seconded as a lecturer on the Strategic Command Course. Their life seemed settled and idyllic.
‘How ya doing?’ Donaldson asked. ‘You look a whole lot better than when I last saw you.’ Which was a week after Henry had been suspended.
Henry shrugged. ‘Learning to take it as it comes.’
Donaldson was concerned, though. He knew Henry of old and had seen him crack before. ‘You sure you’re coping?’
‘Yeah. It’s helped that me and Kate are really together now. She’s been a rock.’
‘Good. . when’s the full inquest?’
‘Not sure yet. Don’t even know when the trial is. Don’t even know when my internal hearing is. . but I have a sneaking feeling they might go for me before the court trial.’
‘Why?’
‘To get rid. To cover their backs. To make them look good. They need a scapegoat and I’m going to be it, I reckon.’
‘You did nothing wrong, Henry.’ Donaldson sipped his Stella Artois. ‘There’s no way they’ll nail you.’
‘Karl. . a cop got shot and wounded, a vital witness almost died and then two baddies ended up dead. . they might have a case, y’know. The more I dwell on it. .’ Henry stared into space, his mouth distorted glumly. ‘Sometimes I think I might give up without a fight. . see if I can get out with my pension intact.’
‘Don’t you ever fucking dare,’ Donaldson warned him. ‘Now you really are worrying me.’
‘They’ve closed ranks, Karl, and they’ve got all the ammo.’
Both men drank their lagers in silence. Eventually Henry inhaled a deep breath. ‘So what drags you up here — really?’
‘A combination. An opportunity to mix family business and business business. We’ve visited the in-laws and Karen’s going to stay on for the week with the terrible duo. I’m working up here tomorrow, going back to London for the rest of the week, then coming back on Saturday to pick up Karen et al.’
‘I suppose you’re doing what I think you’re doing?’
‘Yeah, Zeke,’ Donaldson said. A look of severe anguish crossed his face. He took a long draught of Stella.
Mm, Zeke, thought Henry, experiencing a sudden flashback to the scene of a double murder under the shadow of a motorway bridge. Two men lying there, one across the other, both with their heads blown apart. One of them was Zeke. Or to be more correct, his real name was Carlos Hiero and he was an undercover FBI agent working deep down in a gang controlled by a Spaniard called Mendoza who had links with American Mafia families. Zeke was his code name and he had been unfortunate enough to have been discovered. The other man was called Marty Cragg, a local hoodlum who owed Mendoza money he was unable to repay. Both had been ruthlessly assassinated on Mendoza’s orders.
Henry knew that Zeke’s undercover status had been rumbled by the indiscretions of Karl Donaldson’s boss down at the Legat; Phillipa Bottram had been weak and foolish enough to let her bisexual appetite get her drawn into divulging confidential information to a woman with connections to Mendoza’s criminal gang. It had been Donaldson’s courage to have Bottram put under surveillance that netted her wrongdoing.
‘How is the investigation going?’
‘As regards Zeke, the murder investigation is getting nowhere. We’re no closer to Mendoza yet, though our intelligence suggests he did order the hit and may well have been present when it happened. Your investigation is, quite rightly, concentrating on tracking down the hit man. We — the FBI — are going for Mendoza, but he’s wrapped in cotton wool. . although,’ Donaldson said mysteriously, ‘I might just be getting somewhere on that front. Dunno. Can’t say more yet.’
‘A source?’ asked Henry.
‘As I said — can’t say.’
Henry understood. Informants were fickle things. Getting them was like playing a trout on the fly. More often than not, they swam away never to be lured again. ‘What about Phillipa Bottram?’
Donaldson snorted, disgusted. ‘That bitch — ’ he almost spat the word — ‘as good as pulled the trigger on Zeke herself, and what happened? Ill-health pension.’
Henry snorted too. ‘The FBI sounds just like our lot.’
‘No cojones. She’s back home in the States, free as a bird. No blemish on her character. Not what you know, but who you know. She’s well in with the top political brass, I figure. . or is that me being cynical, but if I’d done what she’d done, my testicles would be stuck down my throat by now.’ Donaldson’s face mirrored his feelings.
‘Outrageous.’
‘We’re pretty sure the hit man’s killed at least two more people for Mendoza since. One in France, one in Andorra.’
‘Any leads?’
Donaldson shook his head. ‘It’s the weapon that links them, same as the one used for Zeke and Cragg. Your — Lancashire’s, that is — investigation is widening. Lots of trips to exotic locations for your boys. Barcelona and Paris, France, to name but two.’
‘Could’ve been me jetting off,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘Not to be, though.’ He rolled his eyes as he thought about what he was missing. Not just the ‘jollys’, as they called them, but the cut and thrust of high-profile inquiries. ‘But, I have been asked to do a bit of investigating work on the side for the mother of a friend of Leanne’s.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah and whilst it’s hardly international stuff, it might be a bit of something to do, have some fun.’ He drained his pint and did a time check. He looked at his and his companion’s empty glass. ‘At least two more, I reckon.’ He gathered them up. ‘Same again?’
Deep in the undergrowth, Verner smiled to himself as he looked through the night sights. He was enjoying himself because this was just a bit different from the usual stuff he was paid to do. It was fun and easy and for once, although this did not make any difference to him in the least, no one was going to get hurt. Only animals. Only horses. The people would just get a scare.
It was 9 p.m. He watched the security guard saunter boredly around the stables some 200 metres away from his position.
From where he was, on a hill to the south of the stables, he had a good view across the main yard, which was open at one side, but with stable blocks on the other three sides. Each stable door was now locked and bolted, the hired stable-lad having carried out this task an hour earlier, then left for home. Each horse was now locked up and safe for the night.
He watched the security guard walk from door to door, trying each lock. Then he spun his view around to the main house, again a good 200 metres away to his left. Lights blazed at most windows, the family at home. Not a problem, thought Verner.
The sound of the engine starting up made him arc the night sights back to the stables. It was the security guard driving away in his van, the ‘Wickson Security’ logo on the side of it. He watched the van drive past the front of the main house, then down the long driveway to the main road.
Now the yard was still. The fluorescent yellow lights shone brightly.
Verner relaxed and thought about the hours to come.
His orders were to up the stakes tonight. So far, things had been pretty mild. ‘Put the fear of God into them,’ he had been instructed.