Dead Heat by Nick Oldham Page A

going?’
    â€˜As regards Zeke, the murder investigation is getting nowhere. We’re no closer to Mendoza yet, though our intelligence suggests he did order the hit and may well have been present when it happened. Your investigation is, quite rightly, concentrating on tracking down the hit man. We – the FBI – are going for Mendoza, but he’s wrapped in cotton wool . . . although,’ Donaldson said mysteriously, ‘I might just be getting somewhere on that front. Dunno. Can’t say more yet.’
    â€˜A source?’ asked Henry.
    â€˜As I said – can’t say.’
    Henry understood. Informants were fickle things. Getting them was like playing a trout on the fly. More often than not, they swam away never to be lured again. ‘What about Phillipa Bottram?’
    Donaldson snorted, disgusted. ‘That bitch –’ he almost spat the word – ‘as good as pulled the trigger on Zeke herself, and what happened? Ill-health pension.’
    Henry snorted too. ‘The FBI sounds just like our lot.’
    â€˜No cojones. She’s back home in the States, free as a bird. No blemish on her character. Not what you know, but who you know. She’s well in with the top political brass, I figure . . . or is that me being cynical, but if I’d done what she’d done, my testicles would be stuck down my throat by now.’ Donaldson’s face mirrored his feelings.
    â€˜Outrageous.’
    â€˜We’re pretty sure the hit man’s killed at least two more people for Mendoza since. One in France, one in Andorra.’
    â€˜Any leads?’
    Donaldson shook his head. ‘It’s the weapon that links them, same as the one used for Zeke and Cragg. Your – Lancashire’s, that is – investigation is widening. Lots of trips to exotic locations for your boys. Barcelona and Paris, France, to name but two.’
    â€˜Could’ve been me jetting off,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘Not to be, though.’ He rolled his eyes as he thought about what he was missing. Not just the ‘jollys’, as they called them, but the cut and thrust of high-profile inquiries. ‘But, I have been asked to do a bit of investigating work on the side for the mother of a friend of Leanne’s.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Yeah and whilst it’s hardly international stuff, it might be a bit of something to do, have some fun.’ He drained his pint and did a time check. He looked at his and his companion’s empty glass. ‘At least two more, I reckon.’ He gathered them up. ‘Same again?’
    Deep in the undergrowth, Verner smiled to himself as he looked through the night sights. He was enjoying himself because this was just a bit different from the usual stuff he was paid to do. It was fun and easy and for once, although this did not make any difference to him in the least, no one was going to get hurt. Only animals. Only horses. The people would just get a scare.
    It was 9 p.m. He watched the security guard saunter boredly around the stables some 200 metres away from his position.
    From where he was, on a hill to the south of the stables, he had a good view across the main yard, which was open at one side, but with stable blocks on the other three sides. Each stable door was now locked and bolted, the hired stable-lad having carried out this task an hour earlier, then left for home. Each horse was now locked up and safe for the night.
    He watched the security guard walk from door to door, trying each lock. Then he spun his view around to the main house, again a good 200 metres away to his left. Lights blazed at most windows, the family at home. Not a problem, thought Verner.
    The sound of the engine starting up made him arc the night sights back to the stables. It was the security guard driving away in his van, the ‘Wickson Security’ logo on the side of it. He watched the van drive past the front of the main house, then