Dead Heat by Nick Oldham

Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had since worked together on a number of investigations and had become good friends. Donaldson had met and subsequently married Karen, who had been a serving police officer in the Lancashire Constabulary at the time. She had since transferred to the Metropolitan Police and they lived within commuting distance of the capital. Donaldson travelled in daily to his office in the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square and Karen drove to the Police Staff College at Bramshill, where she was seconded as a lecturer on the Strategic Command Course. Their life seemed settled and idyllic.
    â€˜How ya doing?’ Donaldson asked. ‘You look a whole lot better than when I last saw you.’ Which was a week after Henry had been suspended.
    Henry shrugged. ‘Learning to take it as it comes.’
    Donaldson was concerned, though. He knew Henry of old and had seen him crack before. ‘You sure you’re coping?’
    â€˜Yeah. It’s helped that me and Kate are really together now. She’s been a rock.’
    â€˜Good . . . when’s the full inquest?’
    â€˜Not sure yet. Don’t even know when the trial is. Don’t even know when my internal hearing is . . . but I have a sneaking feeling they might go for me before the court trial.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜To get rid. To cover their backs. To make them look good. They need a scapegoat and I’m going to be it, I reckon.’
    â€˜You did nothing wrong, Henry.’ Donaldson sipped his Stella Artois. ‘There’s no way they’ll nail you.’
    â€˜Karl . . . a cop got shot and wounded, a vital witness almost died and then two baddies ended up dead . . . they might have a case, y’know. The more I dwell on it . . .’ Henry stared into space, his mouth distorted glumly. ‘Sometimes I think I might give up without a fight . . . see if I can get out with my pension intact.’
    â€˜Don’t you ever fucking dare,’ Donaldson warned him. ‘Now you really are worrying me.’
    â€˜They’ve closed ranks, Karl, and they’ve got all the ammo.’
    Both men drank their lagers in silence. Eventually Henry inhaled a deep breath. ‘So what drags you up here – really?’
    â€˜A combination. An opportunity to mix family business and business business. We’ve visited the in-laws and Karen’s going to stay on for the week with the terrible duo. I’m working up here tomorrow, going back to London for the rest of the week, then coming back on Saturday to pick up Karen et al.’
    â€˜I suppose you’re doing what I think you’re doing?’
    â€˜Yeah, Zeke,’ Donaldson said. A look of severe anguish crossed his face. He took a long draught of Stella.
    Mm, Zeke, thought Henry, experiencing a sudden flashback to the scene of a double murder under the shadow of a motorway bridge. Two men lying there, one across the other, both with their heads blown apart. One of them was Zeke. Or to be more correct, his real name was Carlos Hiero and he was an undercover FBI agent working deep down in a gang controlled by a Spaniard called Mendoza who had links with American Mafia families. Zeke was his code name and he had been unfortunate enough to have been discovered. The other man was called Marty Cragg, a local hoodlum who owed Mendoza money he was unable to repay. Both had been ruthlessly assassinated on Mendoza’s orders.
    Henry knew that Zeke’s undercover status had been rumbled by the indiscretions of Karl Donaldson’s boss down at the Legat; Phillipa Bottram had been weak and foolish enough to let her bisexual appetite get her drawn into divulging confidential information to a woman with connections to Mendoza’s criminal gang. It had been Donaldson’s courage to have Bottram put under surveillance that netted her wrongdoing.
    â€˜How is the investigation