Hidden Witness (23 page)

‘They are very sophisticated,' Donaldson said. ‘But I see where you're coming from.'

‘I don't,' Alex said.

‘Nor do I,' Rik seconded.

‘What I'm saying is this: supposing we're not dealing with the Mafia, at least where Petrone and Fazil are concerned. Suppose we're dealing with an entirely different animal.'

‘Such as?' Donaldson asked.

Henry gazed levelly at him. ‘Long shot,' he admitted, ‘but the baddies out there are pretty desperate to wipe out witnesses. I know the Mafia are too . . . but maybe we're actually dealing with someone, some people, some . . . body, who have a great deal to lose if they're identified.' Henry suddenly thought he sounded very lame and unconvincing. ‘I don't know, but I aim to make sure we keep a very open mind on this. If we get tunnel vision and only look on Petrone's death as a gangland murder, then we could end up showing our arses.'

It was Donaldson's turn to regard Henry thoughtfully as they munched their bacon sandwiches.

‘But our operational priority this morning is to find Mark Carter and that will be the thrust of the day,' Henry said. ‘He could be the key to this and I don't want to lose him again. He must be found.'

Then, Henry became very tired. He checked his watch and thought back a few hours to the decision he'd made in the early hours as he drove through the streets of Blackpool – to go home instead of seeking solace and wallowing in self-pity between the breasts of a woman who wasn't his wife. It had been a very close run thing and he almost found himself banging down Keira O'Connell's front door. Instead he'd driven home and sneaked into the house. He'd needed to get a few hours' sleep for the day ahead and had hoped to use one of his daughters' rooms.

But Kate had heard him and, clad in a silky dressing gown, was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Henry half expected to see curlers, a hair net and a rolling pin in her hand.

But as he looked up he saw the beautiful, understanding woman he'd been with for most of his adult life. She was slightly younger than him, but the gap could easily have been ten years. She still had a small frame, no excess fat on her, boobs he had often died and gone to heaven for. The landing light backlit her and Henry could make out her shapely outline through the thin material of her gown. He caught something in his throat as she came downstairs, the big, fluffy slippers making her look slightly comical. She stayed on the bottom step and almost came up to his height.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

‘Me too.' He took her in his arms and they embraced warmly. Henry could smell her soap and scent, could feel the outline of her body against his, soft yet firm, making him realize how musty he reeked. He pushed her slightly away and looked into her eyes. ‘Look, I know it's crap, but someone took a pot shot at me tonight, nearly killed two others and did kill the guy I'd been standing next to.' Kate nodded as he spoke, her eyes rimmed with moisture. ‘I need to catch these guys and I don't want to have to hand it over to anyone else. I promise . . .'

His uttering was cut short by the placement of Kate's index finger on his lips. ‘Shush.'

‘And I need to be at Manchester airport at eight to pick up Karl.'

‘I know. Karen rang. She's going to try and make it later.'

‘I will make it up to you. Prom—'

Once again, the finger. ‘You need a quick shower, then some sleep.' She took his hand and led him upstairs, her bottom coming level with his face on the way up. He couldn't resist – never could – placing his hands on her arse. ‘And just to help you sleep, I'll fuck your brains out first, if that's OK?'

Her faced angled coquettishly towards him.

‘It's the only way I will get some sleep.'

He grinned stupidly at the memory, his mind returning to the present.

The internal telephone next to the TV rang. Alex Bent picked it up impatiently. He listened, said a few yes's and his face began to go pale. He hung up slowly. All eyes were on him. ‘That was comms. Patrols are at Mark Carter's home address . . .'

TWELVE

T
here was nothing subtle about the way in which Mandy Carter had died. She had been gaffer-taped to a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen floor, over the exact spot, Henry noticed, where her daughter Beth had died of a drugs overdose. Her ankles had been strapped to the front chair legs, her wrists to the back legs.

Then she had been tortured and beaten to death.

Henry stood at the kitchen door and surveyed the scene. She had been stripped down to her panties, but there was nothing sexual about this assault. Her head lolled pathetically on her chest, blood and liquid dribbling from her mouth, at such an angle that Henry wondered if her neck had been broken. The final, killing act.

Dressed in a crime scene suit, Henry stepped carefully into the room using the path decided on by the first officer at the scene, one that every person must now take. He walked around Mandy, carefully avoiding the blood splatters, and when he was in front of her, he eased himself slowly on to his haunches and gazed at her pulped face.

He looked at it for a long, long time.

It was an awful mess, her features beyond recognition.

He looked at her feet. They had been smashed flat. Then her shins, which had been broken probably by the force of a sledgehammer, then her knees, pounded to nothing.

The fingers on both her hands had been snapped backwards. And her face destroyed. Henry's eyes took it all in. Then he stood up and left the room.

He ripped off the paper suit and boots, signed it back in, and the constable in charge of the comings and goings from the scene re-bagged it and dumped it in a container.

Rik Dean, Alex Bent and Karl Donaldson were outside the house and Henry approached them. They broke off the conversation they'd been having and waited with anticipation for the detective superintendent.

‘I thought this place was being given a visit at four a.m?' he demanded of Bent. ‘To try and catch Mark?'

‘I checked, it was, but there was no reply.'

Henry emitted a muted grunt. ‘Right – Rik, scene manager, please. The pathologist will be here soon. It's Keira O'Connell by the way. Alex, you continue as office manager and general dogsbody, please. Get a DC up here ASAP with some uniforms and get them knocking house-to-house. Somebody must have seen something.'

‘We're pretty stretched,' Alex said. ‘The scene's still being worked where Costain was shot and we've still got people at the scene of Rory's and Petrone's death. We're running out of monkeys.'

Henry nodded. ‘I'll sort out the staff . . . but let's get things moving here, now, quickly.' He took a deep breath. ‘Karl, let's go and hunt down a teenager.'

‘What do you know about this kid?' Donaldson asked as he settled in the passenger seat of Henry's Mondeo. ‘Is he a hoodie?'

Henry chuckled. ‘Decent lad, crap upbringing, a wonder he hasn't taken the left-hand road before now. And none of this is helping keep him on the straight and narrow. But every cloud has a silver lining . . . at least because he and his mother didn't communicate, she couldn't tell anyone where he was.'

‘And you think that' – Donaldson jerked his thumb – ‘is why she was murdered?'

‘I don't need anyone to tell me she was tortured, do you? And that's a rhetorical question.'

‘OK, where are we going now, buddy?'

‘They always go to their mates and girlfriends, don't they?'

‘Is that rhetorical, too?'

Bradley wasn't at home, no one was, so Henry's next stop was Shoreside High School where Henry demanded an audience with the head teacher, a man called Stirzaker who Henry knew vaguely and who was only too willing to have a chat. A cop at Shoreside High was always welcome. He was a modern type of head, flashy suit, stubble, but very child orientated. He let Henry and Donaldson into his office where Henry explained the situation leaving out the gory bits.

‘Let me see.' Stirzaker sat behind his desk and tapped the keyboard on his computer, checking the attendance register. ‘No, Mark's not in. Not been in for four days now, so he's a cause for concern – educationally, that is. Computer's flagged him up for further attention today, actually.'

‘Have you done anything about him so far?'

‘Two phone contacts with mum – no help. Next up was a home visit from Mark's head of year. That'll probably be tomorrow, now.'

‘Is Bradley Hamilton in?'

Stirzaker looked questioningly at Henry.

‘He's Mark's best mate, isn't he?'

‘You know a lot about Mark.'

‘I dealt with his sister's death.'

‘Ahh . . . that had a big effect on the lad. Let's see.' He checked the computer. ‘Bradley's in.'

‘We need to speak to him.'

‘I'm not sure . . .' Stirzaker's voice tailed off.

‘I'll come clean, Mr Stirzaker, Mark's mum isn't just dead, she's been murdered.'

‘Do you suspect . . . ?'

‘Mark? No. But we urgently need to find him, as you'll understand.'

‘Poor, poor lad. I'll get Bradley.'

‘We need to speak to him alone.'

Stirzaker looked uncertain, but Henry's stern face made the decision for him. ‘And while you're at it, bring in Kate Bretherton, too. Mark's girlfriend, as I recall.'

Stirzaker checked the register again. ‘That's odd, she's not in. Very unusual. Just one second.' He picked up the phone on his desk and dabbed in a number. ‘Yes, it's me . . . Katie Bretherton? Not in today. Any idea why? Any phone call from the parents? Nothing. How odd. Thanks.' He hung up and said, ‘Reception – all absences should be reported to there, but nothing in Katie's case. Very odd. She's one of our star pupils, a real achiever, never sick.'

‘OK, wheel in Bradley, then, please,' Henry said.

‘Now then Bradley,' said Henry after introducing himself and Donaldson, though the fact that Karl was an FBI employee seemed to fly over the lad's head. He had been seated in one of the comfy chairs in Strizaker's office, whilst Henry perched the cheek of his bum on the corner of the desk and Donaldson lounged by the door.

The young lad's eyes darted from one man to the other, clearly frightened and intimidated – just as Henry liked 'em.

He smiled ingratiatingly and said, ‘I know we haven't met before, but I do know you're Mark Carter's best friend.'

‘Was,' Bradley corrected him.

‘Whatever . . . fact is, you know Mark well, don't you?'

‘Look, am I in the shit, or something?' Bradley reared. ‘Cos if I am you need to arrest me and caution me, and I need an appropriate adult present. I know my rights. I do Citizenship, you know.'

‘Let's just forget that little outburst, shall we? Hm?' Henry jiggled his eyebrows. ‘Mark came to see you last night, didn't he?'

‘No,' Bradley sneered.

‘I'll go and ask your mum the same question, shall I?'

‘No,' Bradley blurted. ‘Yeah, he came – so what?'

‘Bradley, you seem like a decent lad, so let's drop the attitude, OK?' Henry knew he sounded patronizing, but he was past caring. ‘What did he want? What did he say? And where can I find him?'

‘So I'm not in trouble?'

‘No, but Mark is, and not from the cops.'

‘He told me what had happened, the old man and Rory, and that somebody'd tried to run him down, too.'

Henry hadn't heard about that, but he let it go for the moment.

‘He said whoever'd killed the old guy was after him, too, and he wasn't safe in town, so he was going to run, go to London, he said. Then he went.'

‘Did you hear about last night's shooting?'

‘On the estate, yeah, course. Kids doing a drive-by. Not really news any more.'

‘Wrong . . . men attempting to kill Mark and killing an innocent person instead.'

Bradley faded to ashen. ‘Is Mark OK?'

‘He did a runner, but Billy Costain is dead.'

‘Oh my God.'

‘I need to find Mark, I need to protect him.'

‘He said you couldn't. He doesn't trust you.'

‘That doesn't change anything. There's no way on earth he can protect himself. Has he got a mobile phone yet?'

‘Nah, he just doesn't like them.'

‘You've been no great help.'

‘Well what do you expect? All I did was give him something to eat, a bit of cash, and then he went. Last I saw of him. I went to bed, y'know?'

There was a knock on the door. Donaldson opened it to find the head teacher, Stirzaker, there, hopping about worriedly. ‘I thought you should know. It's about Katie Bretherton. I've just spoken to her mum. Apparently, she did set off for school this morning as usual.'

Mark had landed hard under Henry Christie's body as the detective shoved him over the garden wall just a second before the bullets started flying. Mark had seen the car approaching, like some terrible bug in a sci-fi movie, and he'd recognized its outline immediately – because he'd seen it before when it had tried to flatten him just after Rory had been murdered.

The breath went out of him under the detective's crushing weight and everything became a visual blur.

He heard the dull firing of the automatic weapon, then saw the slow-motion dance of Billy Costain under the street lights as the slugs ripped into him and tore open his chest.

Then Christie's weight came off as Henry peered over the wall, at which point Mark took his chance. Scooping up his sleeping bag, he rolled away, up on to his feet, running hard down the side of the unoccupied house without a backward glance. He realized that distance was the most important thing for him at that moment in time.

So he ran. Vaulted fences, stumbled blindly through gardens. Powered across roads without looking until he was on the complete opposite side of the estate, where he stopped, then walked casually up someone's footpath, down the side of the house and into darkness where he slumped down exhausted and tried to control his breathing.