Hidden Witness (18 page)

‘I am.'

‘And you think Mark and Rory committed two robberies?'

‘Description fits with what I saw and what the victims say. Another thing might help prove it. The Goth had an imprint of a shoe on his face, y'know, in his make-up? I know you've got Rory's footwear, so it might be worth comparing the soles with the CSI photos of the Goth's face. From what the lad says, it's the one who fits Rory's description that stomped on him, even though the other one gave him a good whacking, too.'

Henry sighed. He looked out through the grubby window, smeared by hand prints, and watched the town whizz by. ‘I expected better from Mark Carter.'

‘I expected nothing else,' Rik said pragmatically. ‘His mum's a drunk and a slapper, his brother's banged up for drug trafficking and his sister's a junkie corpse. Who can blame the little shit?'

Henry went hollow at Rik's words of reality. It was such a shame a lad of Mark's potential should hit the skids like this. And if he was witness to another two murders, the future looked very bleak psychologically for him, too. Henry could not even begin to imagine what the lad was going through. As well as the horror of reliving the events, he could be terrified he was next on the list.

‘Why the hell hasn't he come forwards?' Henry demanded.

Rik sniggered. ‘Because they don't. People like that don't. He might be shit scared, his shed might well have collapsed, but we're still the enemy. He won't trust us lot one iota.'

‘No,' Henry said sullenly. And he, Henry Christie, had given Mark no reason to trust the cops. He'd used, then abandoned him after making some promises that were never kept. It was no wonder Mark would think twice about coming to the police. He'd been let down badly by them once. Henry went silent, his eyes defocusing as his mind turned inwards. He remained in that semi-catatonic state until Rik pulled on to Shoreside.

It was a decent enough night, no rain like the previous one and quite a few kids were milling about on the streets. A gang of six watched them drive past, immediately making the Focus as a plain cop car. Two stuck middle digits up at the detectives. Mouths opened and obscenities were shouted.

‘Shits,' Rik observed.

‘Abandoned kids,' Henry countered.

‘Bollocks. Shite parents. No control.'

‘No jobs, shit housing, no one cares,' Henry said bitterly.

‘Jeez,' Rik said, staring at Henry's profile. ‘You going soft in your old age?'

‘And preyed on by people like the Costains,' Henry ranted.

‘Shits,' Rik said again, closing the conversation.

They were glared at by more street hanging kids, but got by without incident. Police cars were often stoned on this estate. Then they were outside the Carter household on the edge of the estate. Lights were on, someone was at home.

‘You want to take the back, just in case he does a runner?'

‘Sure,' Rik said.

The detectives climbed out of the car, walked up the path and Rik peeled off between the side of the house and the outbuildings, positioning himself by the back door.

Henry gave him a few seconds to get settled, then knocked. From inside he could hear a TV blasting out. Curtains were drawn across the front window, so he couldn't see inside. He rapped more loudly and peered through the frosted glass of the UPVC front door, a replacement for the one shot up by an armed gang that had chased Mark's brother to ground here a couple of years earlier.

The lounge door opened, a figure approached the front door.

Mandy Carter, Mark's wayward mother opened the door.

‘Hi, Mandy, remember me?'

‘How could I forget?' She was in her early forties now, Henry guessed. She had close-cropped blonde hair, old watery eyes and a harsh, alcohol affected complexion that looked as though all her capillary vessels had burst just under the surface of her skin. This was a shame because she had been a pretty woman but the ravages of her lifestyle had taken an early toll on her. She was dressed in the bib of a local superstore and had obviously just returned from work. Henry knew she worked long hours, then played even longer. She pursed her lips. ‘What's the little shit done now?' she pre-empted his question.

‘I know you love him really.' Henry smirked. ‘Is he in?'

She shrugged non-committally. ‘Dunno, just landed home meself.' She cricked her neck and shouted, ‘Mark', harshly. There was no response, so she upped the volume and yelled again. Still nothing. ‘Guess not,' she said to Henry.

‘Can I come in and check?'

She gave him a withering look. ‘Got a warrant?'

Henry mirrored her expression until she dropped her defiant eyes and her shoulders slumped. She took a step back and angled herself to allow him inside. ‘What the hell,' she moaned, ‘you're coming in anyway.'

‘Thanks Mandy.' He sidled past and stuck his head around the kitchen and living room doors. No Mark. Then he went upstairs into the bedroom he knew belonged to Mark. Not there, either, but he took a few extra moments to case the room. He noted Mark's brand new Xbox 360, the huge array of games for it, all very expensive. There was also a new laptop and a big, flat screen TV, as well as lots of clothes scattered around. Henry picked up a snazzy tee shirt and saw that the label was from an expensive high street store. Last time Henry had been in here all the equipment Mark owned was first generation PlayStation stuff, a knackered TV and certainly no computer. Mark had been immensely proud of his gear, all brought together by hard graft and saving money earned from his newspaper rounds. The stuff Henry was now looking at hadn't come from the few quid he got from stuffing papers into doors. There was at least two grand's worth of equipment here. Henry's mouth turned down disdainfully. Mark had gone up in the world.

He had a quick peek in the other two bedrooms, Mandy's and the one that had belonged to Mark's dead sister, Beth. Both were empty. Beth's was stripped and bare. He trotted back down to where Mandy was leaning against the front door jamb, blowing smoke out into the atmosphere.

‘Didn't think he was in,' she said.

‘Where will I find him?'

‘No idea. He comes, he goes.'

‘What's he up to, these days? Who's he knocking around with?'

She considered Henry with amusement. ‘Why the hell are you asking me?'

‘You're his mum,' Henry said, the inflexion rising in his voice. ‘Mum's usually know things about their kids.'

‘Not this one.' She exhaled a lungful of smoke that hung lazily around Henry's head. He guessed she wished she was blowing it up his ring piece.

‘I need to speak to him urgently, Mandy. Have you got a mobile number for him?' He asked only in vague hope because he remembered that Mark had been one of the few kids who didn't have one of the evil devices. That situation could well have changed. Judging from the gear in his bedroom, Mark was probably now kitted out with a stolen one to match.

‘Far as I know, he hasn't got one,' she said unhelpfully, ‘but I'm not sure.' She sounded totally unconcerned about her son. Henry wanted to give her a slap. ‘You going now?' she prompted him. ‘I've got a busy evening.'

‘I'll bet,' Henry said. ‘When you see him, tell him to call me.' He flicked her one of his business cards. ‘He knows my number, but here's a reminder.'

She picked it from between his fingers and made to close the door, almost shoving him out. Henry hesitated on the top step, then went to the side of the house and beckoned for Rik to join him.

As they drove away, Mark Carter emerged from the coal-hole and walked cautiously to the front corner of the house and watched the Focus disappear, proving that even the most experienced cops can overlook the obvious.

Mark jerked a middle finger at them.

‘Frustrating, but he won't be far way,' Henry said to Rik, pulling his mobile phone out and answering it. It was Alex Bent.

‘Boss, interesting new twist.'

‘Fire away.'

‘We've had the manager of a clothing and footwear shop on from the town centre, a shop called Lucio's, just a bit further up Church Street than the Winter Gardens, opposite side of the road.'

‘I know it.' His daughters had bought stuff there.

‘Well, the guy's the manager, not the owner, and he says that the owner comes in everyday and is always there at the end of the day when staff leave. Apparently, he stays on and leaves later.'

‘Only he didn't turn up today,' Henry guessed.

‘Spot on – and his description fits that of our dead man.'

‘Would that also explain one or two of the keys in his possession?'

‘It would.'

‘Where is this manager guy now?'

‘Still at the shop, stayed on himself for a stocktake.'

‘OK, we're just leaving Shoreside . . . can you get hold of the keys from the old man's property and one of the photos of him from Jerry Tope's presentation and meet us at the shop. We'll be there in about five minutes.' Henry ended the call and turned to Rik. ‘I love developments.' He rubbed his hands together exaggeratedly.

Karl Donaldson was dropped off outside the hotel, pausing at the entrance to inhale the night air. Walking through the foyer he decided against using the elevator and trotted up the stairs instead because he wanted to get silently to his room. He didn't want to advertise his return to his neighbour, wanted to get in quietly and get some sleep before tomorrow's early flight to Manchester.

This motive for a quiet approach was the only thing that saved his life.

He came up the stairs and paused on the penultimate step before turning into the corridor leading to his room. He checked the corridor before stepping into it and saw it was silent and empty.

Not realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled with relief, and started to approach his room, four doors down on his left. He found himself tiptoeing like a cartoon character. He was pretty sure he could get in without disturbing her. After all, he'd been trained in silent approach tactics, and he saw it as a transference of skills to get into his hotel room avoiding a sexy woman as opposed to a terrorist or master criminal. He had his pass card ready, aware that slotting it into the reader would unlock the door with a loud click.

He reached the door, leaned back and looked slyly at Vanessa's door, and inserted his card when he heard the door behind him on the opposite side of the corridor being opened.

Nothing unusual in that.

The pass card turned on the green light with a click and a whirr.

Simple curiosity made him turn slightly to look at the guest emerging from the room opposite. He was about to smile at whoever came out. The door opened – and Donaldson once again came face to face with a masked man, the guy's face obliterated by a balaclava. There was a revolver in his hand – silenced as before. The same man he'd faced in the cell.

Donaldson computed that the man wasn't expecting to see him. There was that awful moment of dawning recognition. Just a fraction of a second. Almost nothing, but for Donaldson it was the moment that saved his life and exactly the moment his neighbour's door opened. Another distraction.

The guy's gun was down at his side and he was still partly obscured because he was still half behind the room door that he'd opened inwards with his left hand, which meant he was encumbered.

Then he started to react, to bring up the gun.

Donaldson spun one-eighty in that moment of hesitation and distraction and hurled himself across the corridor, a distance of maybe three metres.

The man realized his position, not the best from which to kill a man.

As the gun came up, Donaldson saw that although it would be a rushed shot it would probably hit him somewhere in the groin region, maybe taking out a testicle or two, or even a penis.

He ducked to his right and the man tried to follow him with the muzzle, but was still hampered by the door.

Vanessa screamed, the sound filling the corridor with horror.

The man had to take a step back to open the door and free himself from his disadvantageous position. At the same time, Donaldson realized that if the man were to get out, then he would be unable to defend himself, so he had to take the fight to him. All this went through Donaldson's mind as he ducked right, so he immediately weaved left and threw himself at the door with the intention of trapping the man behind it. He put all his weight into the manoeuvre and it worked, pinning him in the ‘V' between door and wall, but ensuring that the man's hand was still free. That became Donaldson's target and he grabbed the man's right forearm with both hands and pounded it against the wall.

The gun discharged, the bullet driving into the ceiling right above the two men. Then it went off again, but this time Donaldson had managed to wrestle the man's arm down parallel with the floor, and the bullet smashed into the patio doors at the far end of the room, disintegrating them spectacularly.

Donaldson had the man's arm tight up against the wall.

The man fought back, heaving his weight against the door, his whole body tensing with muscle as he forced the door back against Donaldson.

Both of the FBI agent's hands went for the gun, trying to tear it out of the man's grip, but the reaction to this took him by surprise. The man simply opened his fingers and let the gun drop to the floor, kicked it away into the room, and with a supreme effort, tore his arm free of Donaldson's fingers, then put all his power behind the door, keeping it there as a barrier between them. He got himself into a better position like a man trying to push a tractor and Donaldson, despite his undoubted strength, felt himself being pushed backwards as the man, inch by inch, managed to close and lock the door against Donaldson, who roared with anger and pounded it with frustration.

Then he had a sudden thought and reeled away from the door just as two bullets came through the wood at chest height. Had he stayed where he was, beating a closed door, he would have taken both in the heart.