A Cool Head Part 3

Red stuff! Yes, red stuff! Blood, blood, blood!

'It's paint,' he called out to her. 'That's all, just some paint.'

'Shall I try cleaning it off?'

'No, I'll do it. I'll do it later.'

There was silence from downstairs. Then: 'Do you want any supper?'

'I just want to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?'

This time, the silence had no end. Hanley tried to lift the remains of the whisky to his mouth, but his hand was shaking too much.

Chapter Six.

Don Empson is Still Hunting Sam was driving. Eddie was in the seat next to him. Don sat in the back, not saying much. He had explained that he wanted to visit Raymond's garage. Well, not visit visit it exactly, just cruise past it. As they turned into the narrow back street, Eddie cleared his throat and said a single word. it exactly, just cruise past it. As they turned into the narrow back street, Eddie cleared his throat and said a single word.

'Cops.'

Three patrol cars had formed a roadblock. Tape was being strung between lamp posts. A couple of white vans were parked, a team emerging from them. They wore overalls and carried face masks. The forensics crew. A uniformed cop was making signals with his hand. Sam nodded and did a U-turn.

'What do you want to do?' he asked.

'Let's check some of the other streets,' Don told him.

'What happened at Raymond's?' Eddie asked.

'Somebody shot him,' Don explained. Eddie whistled but didn't say anything. Sam met Don's eyes in the rear-view mirror, but didn't say anything either. They drove in silence, cruising up one street and down another. Workshops and offices, then some tenements with shops below. There was no one about, but Don knew that soon the police would be knocking on doors, armed with their questions. Shots had been heard. Someone had rung 999. He remembered that he had another piece of business. The middle of the night might be a good time for it. But first, he had to keep his eyes open. He was looking for a car, a green sports car. Benjy's car. And eventually he saw it. It was parked two streets away from the garage. There was a half-filled skip next to it. He managed not to look too interested. He didn't want Sam and Eddie knowing more than they needed to know.

Benjy's plan: grab the money and run back to the car.

Benjy's plan hadn't worked out.

Don knew that the police would spot the car eventually. Or someone would draw it to their attention. After which they could run a quick check and come up with the name Benjamin Flowers. They would ask Benjy's mother, Don's sister, what Benjy did for a living, and she would tell them. He works for Stewart Renshaw. He works for Stewart Renshaw. Stewart, brother of George. And then George would know, and he would blame it all on Don. Giving Benjy a job had been a favour to Don. Someone would have to pay for that. Stewart, brother of George. And then George would know, and he would blame it all on Don. Giving Benjy a job had been a favour to Don. Someone would have to pay for that.

Don would have to pay.

He had gone through a whole range of emotions. Anger at Benjy, then sadness, and finally acceptance. Stuff happened, you just had to deal with it as best you could. But right now, he didn't know what would count as best.

As Sam took a right turn, Don leaned forward and told him there was a new destination, Merchant Crescent.

'I'm going to have a word with someone,' he added. 'Guess what her name is.'

Sam was the first to twig. 'Celine Watts?'

'Got it in one.'

'Are we going to whack her?' Eddie asked.

'Would that be wise?' Don snapped back. 'And besides, you you are going nowhere near her. Like I said, I'm going to have a quiet word, that's all. See if I can persuade her to change her story.' are going nowhere near her. Like I said, I'm going to have a quiet word, that's all. See if I can persuade her to change her story.'

Sam was looking at him in the mirror again. 'Thanks, Mr Empson,' he said.

'The one you should be thanking is Gorgeous George.'

Sam nodded slowly. He knew the score. The pair of them had been spotted in a car park next to woodland on the edge of the city. There had been another man in the car with them and he'd been crying, according to the witness. The witness was Celine Watts. The crying man was a small-time pusher who'd been warned before. His body had been found in the woods, in too shallow a grave.

Leaving Gorgeous George three options. Option one, hang Sam and Eddie out to dry. Option two, get them off the hook. Option three, b.u.mp them off.

So far, it had been option two.

The streets were quiet. It only took them half an hour. Eddie stopped the car next to the kerb and Don started to get out.

'Do you need us?' Eddie asked.

'Not on your life.' Don pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and walked up the path. When he got to the front door, he noticed that it was open a couple of inches. There were lights on inside. He pushed at the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. The first door led to the living room. Music was playing, and he could smell smoke. A woman was lying on the sofa, her feet bare. She was moving her toes in time to the music. There was an empty bottle of lemonade on the floor, next to a bottle of vodka. She was flicking ash from her cigarette into the palm of her hand.

She was not Celine Watts.

'You're not Celine,' he said.

She showed no surprise at his arrival. Her eyes were gla.s.sy. She blew some smoke towards him.

'Her cousin,' she explained. 'Sofa's supposed to be where she sleeps.' There was a sleeping bag rolled up under the woman's head. 'Only she's done a runner. Left the front door wide open and everything. Lucky n.o.body nicked my stereo.'

'Maybe she's with the police,' Don said.

'Are you you not the police?' She watched him shake his head, then concentrated on her cigarette again. 'Neighbour saw her driving away in a flash car. A black, s.h.i.+ny car. Looked official.' not the police?' She watched him shake his head, then concentrated on her cigarette again. 'Neighbour saw her driving away in a flash car. A black, s.h.i.+ny car. Looked official.'

'What did the driver look like?'

The woman shrugged. Don's BMW, the one Benjy had taken, was black. And some people would call it flash. It was a 7 Series.

And this address was in the glove box.

Had Benjy come here to warn Celine Watts? Unlikely, the state he'd have been in. And anyway, the kids on the street had told him it was the guy called Gravy. Gravy, panicking at the sight of Benjy covered in blood. Gravy, finding the address and a.s.suming it to be a safe house of sorts. Finding Celine Watts instead.

Gravy, with Don's car. With Celine Watts. With Stewart's money.

'Where would she go?' he asked the cousin. Her eyelids were drooping.

'Far away from here, if she's got any sense.'

Don knew he would have to call his pal at the cop shop again and ask him to widen the search. 'Did she take all her stuff?' he asked the cousin. She shook her head.

'Didn't take anything. anything. Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they're all still here. This is even her vodka I'm drinking.' As she reached down for her gla.s.s, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand. Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they're all still here. This is even her vodka I'm drinking.' As she reached down for her gla.s.s, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand.

'Cheers,' she said. Then she lost her balance, rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, laughing. Don ignored her and opened the shoulder bag on the coffee table. Celine Watts' purse was inside, along with aspirin and paper hankies and a phone. Why hadn't she taken anything? Because she'd been scared. And besides, she had everything she needed in the car . . . a driver, and a small mountain of cash.

The cousin was still chuckling quietly to herself, eyes closed. He knew that if he beat her up, it would send a message to Celine Watts. The sort of message Gorgeous George would thank him for.

All the same, Don didn't have the heart for it. He pocketed Celine's purse and phone and walked back to the waiting car.

Chapter Seven.

The Detective Jane Harris had been a detective inspector for all of three weeks, and here she was standing in a garage with pools of blood at her feet.

Pools plural.

The cold, dead victim was called Raymond Masters. It was his garage. He cleaned cars for a living, or had done until about four hours ago. That was how long it had taken them to locate the source of the gunshots. A gun had been found in the dead man's hand, and it had been fired. It wasn't suicide, though. Two shots had been fired by Masters. One bullet had already been located, stuck in the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. One had done some damage to another human, if the bloodstains were to be believed. There were big dollops of the stuff. Masters had suffered a shot to the head. There should have been a spray of blood and brain matter, but cars had been parked here. Probably two of them, judging by the tyre marks.

Jane Harris had asked one of her team to look in Masters' office. He would have bookings. She wanted to know which car or cars he had been working on. Maybe someone had wanted them. Cars got stolen all the time, didn't they? But carjackers didn't normally resort to guns. And why had the garage owner carried a gun of his own?

Her colleague Bob Sanders had a different theory. Bob had been on the force for almost as long as Jane had been alive. She trusted him when he mentioned the name George Renshaw.

'Explain,' was all she said, folding her arms.

'Raymond might look clean these days, but in the past he was a bit of a lad. Ran with Albert Renshaw's crew. Albert was George's dad. Raymond's done time inside. Word is that he's still friends with Gorgeous George, and I can see why he'd be useful . . . George might sometimes have a car that needs cleaning.'

'I thought he got rid of them at his sc.r.a.pyard. '

'Maybe.'

Bob left her to think about it. He knew she would would think about it. The guy who'd been wounded . . . someone would know. A doctor or hospital. An all-night supermarket where he could buy compresses and bandages. Someone would know. Or he could be nearby, hiding, biding his time. Maybe in a garden or a flat. He could have burst his way in. Jane knew that the first few hours were crucial, knew that the trail started to go cold after that. She needed people to go knocking on doors. She needed at least a couple of sniffer dogs. think about it. The guy who'd been wounded . . . someone would know. A doctor or hospital. An all-night supermarket where he could buy compresses and bandages. Someone would know. Or he could be nearby, hiding, biding his time. Maybe in a garden or a flat. He could have burst his way in. Jane knew that the first few hours were crucial, knew that the trail started to go cold after that. She needed people to go knocking on doors. She needed at least a couple of sniffer dogs.

One member of the forensic team was taking a photo of a footprint. The footprint was b.l.o.o.d.y. It got fainter as it neared the garage doors. The wounded man? No, because he'd been twelve feet further away. But the pool of blood vanished too. There were no signs that it led outside. So, one man heading outside, one man taking a car. Had they been partners? Or was one a bystander?

'Might be a car theft after all,' another detective said, emerging from the office. 'Full valet this afternoon on a big Bentley. They cost a hundred grand plus. Owner's number's in the diary. I've just talked to him. He was picking the car up in the morning.'

'Put out a call,' Jane said. 'Let everyone know the registration. Box of chocolates for the first one who spots it.'

'And a hug and a kiss from yourself, Jane?' Bob joked.

'Unless you're the winner,' she told him. Another officer had appeared from the forecourt.

'Parked car, recently damaged. Maybe by the getaway vehicle.'

'Get forensics on to it,' Jane said.

An hour later, she was heading back to HQ. Her boss had been woken up and was on his way there from his home. He would want a report. She would ask him for more officers. He would start doing the sums. Everything cost money, and even murder came with a budget attached. Jane parked in an empty bay, just as a police van was drawing up. People were singing inside. Drunks, probably, on their way to a night in the cells. She pushed open the door to the police station and went in. The desk sergeant nodded and waved.

'Busy night?' he guessed.

'You heard about the shooting?'

He nodded. 'Thought it was funny, actually . . .'

She stared at him. 'Funny?'

'Odd, I mean. You know that Ray Masters has links to George Renshaw?'

'Bob told me.'

The desk sergeant smiled. 'Well, Bob knows everything, doesn't he?'

'Meaning I don't?'

'You're a quick learner, though, ma'am. So tell me this, who's Don Empson?'

She walked towards him. 'No idea,' she confessed.

'Only, we had him in here a few hours back. Patrol car picked him up in a graveyard. He spun them a story and we had to let him go.'

'So who is he then?' Jane asked.

'He's George Renshaw's right-hand man, that's who . . .'

Jane at the graveyard As soon as it was daylight, Jane drove to the graveyard. The gates had been broken open. A chain and padlock lay on the ground next to them. The car was parked over towards a workman's hut. Empson had said it wasn't his. Fair enough. If he was telling the truth, his fingerprints wouldn't be all over the inside. She'd got the licence plate number from the officers who'd found Empson. The computer had come up with an owner's name and address, but the car had been sold by this man for spare parts.

Sold to George Renshaw. Now wasn't that that a coincidence? a coincidence?

It wasn't much of a car. The paintwork was the only thing holding it together. She pushed a finger against an area of rust and the finger went straight through. She wiped the finger clean and took a walk around the graveyard. The gra.s.s was damp with dew. Birds were singing. She could count the number of clouds in the sky. She checked her watch. She had woken up someone from the council and asked them who would be in charge of the graveyard. He would meet her here. By now, he should have been here.

She kept walking. Behind a hedge she found a compost heap. There was a digger, too, and a wheelbarrow with a rake in it. The wheelbarrow had stains on it, not rust this time but something more like blood. Jane made a note to herself: get forensics down here. They could check the car at the same time. Maybe there'd be blood there too. As she continued her walk, she saw that back towards the gates the gra.s.s was stained. She crouched down. Again, it looked like blood. Someone had dripped blood along here. Someone wounded.

She retraced her steps, taking more care this time. She was looking for evidence. She was looking for something like a fresh grave. A sniffer dog might help . . .

Then she saw the man standing at the gates. He was examining them and shaking his head. He saw her and started walking towards her, hands in pockets. There was a bag on his shoulder. Maybe it contained his work clothes and packed lunch. Jane introduced herself.

'Paul Mason,' he said, shaking her hand. 'A carjacking, was it? Boy racers?'

'A man in his late fifties, actually. At least, that's what we think. Can I take a look inside your shed?'

Mason nodded and led the way. He unlocked the shed and pulled open the door.

'Nothing's missing,' he said.