Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Henry swallowed and fended the accusation by saying, ‘Did you see Tara Wickson? Did she say anything different?’

Jane bit her lip. ‘No.’

‘Well in that case, Jane, I’ll be off.’ He got to his feet and walked to the door.

‘Henry,’ Jane blurted. She turned to him, tears forming in her eyes. ‘Is there any hope for us?’

His shoulders dropped. He shook his head. ‘No, no there isn’t,’ he said softly.

‘I should’ve been a bloody cop.’ Troy Costain took a mouthful of lager, swallowed it, wiped his mouth and said, ‘Should’ve.’

Henry looked sardonically at him. ‘Sure you should.’

‘Well. . I’m as bent as a nine-bob note, whatever a nine-bob note is — before my time — so that’s one ability; and I can get information out of people.’

‘Yeah, all the competence you need to be a cop,’ Henry agreed.

‘Yep. . I tell lies, I nick things, I hit folk who aren’t bigger than me and I get people to open up to me.’

‘A natural charmer.’

‘Exactly. It’s my Romany background.’

‘My arse!’ said Henry. He ordered himself and Costain another pint. They were in a little pub in the village of Singleton near to Poulton-le-Fylde where it was unlikely that their tryst would be witnessed by anyone of significance to either of them. Even so, Henry was wary. It was often the meets like this in out-of-the-way places that went belly up. Sometimes it was better to do it right in the middle of town, to hide in a crowd.

They wandered out to the beer garden and sat at a table. It was just about warm enough to be outside.

‘What sort of bullets are in that gun of yours?’ Henry asked him.

‘Eh? Fuckin’ hell, that’s a bit of a heavy opening question, isn’t it?’

‘Well. .?’

‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘I bought the whole kit and caboodle from a guy from the smoke who was up here selling stuff. Didn’t ask. Just bullets — why?’

‘No reason,’ Henry said, remembering how he had blasted a huge hole in Verner’s shoulder that had almost removed the top right-hand quarter of his torso. He leaned back. ‘What have you got for me, master detective?’

‘Listen, I know you nicked my gun off me, an’ all, but I want you to know I been through a lot of pain to get this gen, talked to a lot of heavy dudes who were very suspicious of me, so before I tell you, I want some guaranteed dosh. A ton’ll do.’

Henry almost choked on his Stella.

‘You are in no position to bargain, Troy. That gun and those tabs are enough to send you down, lad, so don’t fuck with me.’

‘OK, just thought I’d give it a go,’ he admitted through his misshapen teeth.

‘Twat,’ sighed Henry, though not surprised. ‘Come on, speak.’

Costain looked up to the sky, amassing his thoughts and putting them in order. ‘Andy Turner disappeared just over two years ago, hasn’t been seen since.’

‘I know that.’

‘On the day he disappeared he half-killed a dealer called Goldy who was trespassing on his patch. The only other thing I could find out was that on that same day he had a meet with a guy to discuss a deal.’

‘What guy?’

‘He was a Spaniard, apparently some big shot on the international scene. Supposedly Turner had big plans to expand.’

‘Who was the guy?’ Henry persisted.

‘Henry, I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue, OK, other than he might’ve been called Lopez? But that’s all any fucker knows. All I know for certain is that Turner really hurt this dealer in Crumpsall — check your records, I’m sure you’ll find out who and when — and then he got dropped off at some Indian restaurant in Rusholme. . then was never seen again.’

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Henry said sarcastically. ‘You spoke to heavy dudes to get this information, did you?’

‘Yeah, I did actually,’ snarled Costain. ‘Now I’ve done my bit. . what about my merchandise?’

‘The gun and the drugs?’ Costain stayed tight-lipped. ‘Got rid of them for you. Nasty, nasty things.’

‘You got rid of ’em? You mean you haven’t got ’em any more?’ Henry shook his head. ‘I might as well have not told you anything,’ Costain protested. ‘I got all that information thinking I was being blackmailed and you’d already dumped the gear?’

‘Cruel world, innit, Troy?’

Costain was glad to get out of Henry’s company and head back to his seedy haunts in Blackpool. Henry was happy to see him go, leaving him alone in the pub to mull over what had been said. The big question in his mind was: how many Spaniards were operating in Britain? Henry knew there were a few, but they were pretty rare commodities. So who was the Spaniard that Andy Turner had met on that night, two years earlier by the name of Lopez?

What Costain’s meagre information did do was confirm to Henry that Jo Coniston and her partner had latched on to Turner in Rusholme and that their disappearance was definitely connected to this.

He walked back into the pub and ordered an espresso. He was feeling cold and needed a shot of something hot and black. He took the drink outside, shivering slightly. Using his mobile — a new one, with a new battery — he called Karl Donaldson on his mobile down in London.

‘Henry — how are you?’

‘I guess you have a pretty good idea how I am if you’re still in contact with the cops up here.’

‘Yeah, true. You had a rough time again.’

‘Goes with the territory. Karl, can I be cheeky?’

‘Cheeky? Why yes, pal. Why change the habit of a life time?’

‘I need a favour.’

It was just before seven o’clock the following evening in Henry’s home. He and Kate were sitting at the dining table, all the dinner things between them, each fingering the stem of a wine glass. They had just eaten with both daughters, a rare but pleasant occurrence, who had both vamoosed to leave the washing-up to their parents. Thank heavens for the dishwasher, Henry thought.

‘That was good, the whole family,’ Henry observed. He had made the meal and they had all said how much they enjoyed it.

‘We should do it more often.’

‘We’d have to chain the girls down.’ They smiled at each other. ‘I love you, y’know,’ he told her, then shook his head as he thought bitterly of the bad times he had put her through over the years. And yet, here they were, still together. Nothing short of a miracle, he thought. She had stayed with him through thick ’n’ thin, all his idiotic times, and though she had wavered once or twice (only to be expected), she’d clung on and been there for him, even through the divorce.

Henry opened his mouth to ask something very important, but the sound of the doorbell kept him silent.

‘I’ll go.’ Wearily he got to his feet.

He was surprised to see Tara Wickson there. She looked almost back to normal, though on close inspection her eyes were tired and drawn underneath the make-up. She was wearing a hat, cocked at an angle, covering her shaved head.

‘Could I speak to you?’

Henry looked beyond her. A Jaguar was parked up on the road. Charlotte was in the back seat. Behind the wheel was the man Henry had seen Tara meet at the Hilton Hotel. Her lover.

‘Yes, do you want to come in? What about. .?’ He pointed to the car.

‘They’ll wait.’

‘OK.’

Henry led her into the house and introduced her to Kate, who greeted her warmly.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Christie, but could I just have Henry’s ear for a few minutes?’

‘Be my guest. Can I get you anything?’

Tara refused politely. Henry took her into the conservatory, pulling the patio door closed behind them. She sat on the settee, Henry opposite on a chair.