‘ I’ll sort her out,’ he said angrily, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll get some Salford low-life to blow her away — if we can find her, that is.’
‘ Good,’ said Morton. ‘Now, some better news for you both. Munrow’s been killed.’
The change in Conroy was visible. One moment he was hard-faced, the next bright and happy on hearing of the death. ‘Hoo-fucking-ray,’ he cheered. ‘Rider?’
‘ We can only presume so,’ Morton said. ‘Unidentified male blew his head off in a Debenhams changing room. Could be Rider from the description.’
‘ Looks like my little ruse worked. Yes!’ He punched the air. ‘What the hell was he doing in Debenhams?’
‘ Buying clothes presumably,’ Morton answered.
‘ And what about Rider?’ Conroy asked. ‘He could do with stitching up for that. Any chance? If he was out of the game, we could have his club.’
Morton gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
In his mind he was already formulating a course of action which involved the newest detective on his unit.
The sharp knock on the door made them jump.
Conroy opened it.
Scott Hamilton walked in.
Henry parked the NWOCS car at Blackpool and dropped into the station to see if there had been any developments in the investigations he had so happily left behind for a quick move onto a new squad. A move which had already got him shot and into a compromising position. All in one day. Not bad going by any standards.
Nothing seemed to be moving on anything.
Particularly in respect of Marie Cullen; the case seemed to have come to a standstill with the death of the man supposed to be her pimp.
Working on the assumption that his short secondment to the. NWOCS was virtually over, Henry decided that he’d do a few things with it next week. Maybe if there was a push, it might lead them properly to McNamara, millionaire bastard — and friend of Tony Morton…
Henry frowned.
He recalled the photos on Morton’s wall. Him and McNamara looked pretty close buddies. One of those horrible queasy churnings moved through him like a bad case of wind.
Surely not..? He banished the thought.
A note had been scribbled out and left on his desk asking him to call round and see Annie, Derek’s widow. She had something for him, apparently. Henry pulled his nose up at the thought of revisiting her. Then his sense of responsibility overpowered this. He would call in for five minutes on his way home.
At least it would delay seeing Kate. It was going to be difficult to face her and act normal, knowing that he had as good as committed adultery for the second time in their marriage.
Was it technically adultery when another woman sucked your cock? Or if you went down on her? Surely it had to be full intercourse?
It was a fine line, to be sure. But he knew one thing for certain; Kate would be blind to the semantics. If she ever found out.
‘ I am trying to understand the situation,’ Hamilton was saying. ‘We all have difficulties from time to time. In fact, I recently had a couple of FBI agents snooping around the Jacaranda. One was eliminated by two good friends who were staying with me at the time; they made it look like a drunken accident.’
‘ And the other?’ Morton enquired.
‘ Beaten to within an inch of his life,’ he boasted. Not quite true, but these three didn’t have to know that.
‘ Who are your friends?’ That was Conroy.
‘ Professionals. And should you ever need their services, contact me. They are very, very good. One hundred per cent track record. As messy or as clean as you like. Don’t mind killing cops… but we digress. The problem we now have is that the agent acting on behalf of the buyer is arriving soon and we have no goods to display because they are in the hands of the police.’
‘ That’s about the long and short of it,’ McNamara said.
‘ Do we know where these guns are at the moment? Are they accessible?’
‘ Yes and no,’ said Morton firmly. ‘We’re not busting them out of the police store.’
‘ Who said bust them out?’ Hamilton said.
The three waited.
‘ Why not borrow them and then return them — and no one is any the wiser? It solves the problem of me having to arrange to bring more into the country from Madeira. Simply borrow them for a couple of hours.’
Morton sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. Now why hadn’t he thought of that one? ‘Possible,’ he said, chewing it over. ‘Just possible.’
Chapter Nineteen
Police Sergeant Eric Taylor’s financial trouble could be traced back over twelve years — to the 1984 miners strike, actually. One of the longest and most bitter strikes ever to hit the UK, lasting for over a year, it had a major spin-off for the police officers who were required to police it: by working the excessive amounts of overtime needed, they made plenty of extra money. This particularly applied to officers who had to travel from their own force areas to the trouble spots to support their colleagues. These travelling officers often found themselves working away from home for weeks on end, and their pay packets reflected this, with up to double their usual earnings.
Some officers, it was said, taunted the striking miners by waving their hefty pay cheques at the picket lines. Others sent postcards from far-flung places around the globe to the miners’ leader Arthur Scargill, thanking him for the money which had paid for the holiday of a lifetime.
Another downside to the money was that some officers found themselves in debt when the strike ended and the wage slips returned to normal.
Eric Taylor had made a great deal of money out of the strike.
He was one of those who was always available to go, and over the year he spent about seventeen weeks away from home, policing the miners, earning a relative fortune.
But, like so many others, he failed to plan ahead and the end of the strike caught him by surprise.
A new car, conservatory, new three-piece suite, a couple of holidays abroad — all still needed to be paid off once the strike was over.
And he was still feeling the ramifications to this day.
He had had to borrow to service his borrowings — and then borrow to service those borrowings. At least a third of his salary went out to pay for loans taken on board twelve years earlier.
And he was a bitter man.
His wife left him, taking their two children and a large percentage of his remaining salary in maintenance payments.
A long-term woman friend also took him to the cleaners.
Now he lived in a rented terraced house, alone, unhappy and ripe for corrupting.
These people were always easy targets.
He was the first of two to be visited that evening.
Whilst Henry was shuffling around Blackpool police station, DI Gallagher and DS Tattersall knocked on the front door of Taylor’s house, knowing he was off-duty and fully aware of his severe financial problems. He was unlikely to be out gallivanting.
Perfect.
A sour-faced man opened the door.
Gallagher and Tattersall held up their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Gallagher was carrying a briefcase.
Taylor recognised them. He’d seen them knocking about the station throughout the week, but he did not know who they were.
‘ Sergeant Taylor, is it?’
Taylor nodded suspiciously. He did not like being visited at home by anyone. He was always slightly embarrassed by his inferior surroundings, having once lived in a detached house with a double garage. He had really come down in the world, in his own estimation. And he was particularly wary of two detectives from NWOCS.
‘ Yeah,’ he answered shortly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘ Could we possibly come in and have a chat?’ Gallagher asked affably enough. Tattersall remained silent, as he was to do for the remainder of the visit. He was a brooding, unsettling presence, hovering behind Gallagher. The DI noted Taylor’s look of wariness. ‘Nothing to worry about, honestly.’