Scarred

by Nick Oldham

  TWENTY

  Henry Christie sat on the terrace of the Beach Hut Café (ironically named as it was nowhere near a beach) and waited for his second Americano to be delivered by the face-masked waitress. The café was actually next to the sea lock at Preston marina and the pyramid-like structure of the lock control tower was on the opposite side of the dock.

  There was a pleasant, grassed area by the control tower on which an outdoor martial arts class was just winding up after an hour-long lesson, some of which Henry had observed. One of the participants was Blackstone, and Henry had focused on watching her as the class practised the kung fu moves in perfect synch with each other, like a mesmerizing, slow-motion ballet performance to begin with. The slow blocking of blows by the left and right forearms, the steps forward with the curl of the hip, the punching out, right and left fists twisting like projectiles travelling down a barrel, then the sideways move on the left foot to allow the right to kick out. All these moves practised over and over, building up intensity and speed until finally the class moved together like an advancing army, fast, precise and dangerous.

  In the middle of one of the lines was Blackstone, easy to spot with her bright red spiked hair, totally focused on what she was doing, moving with grace, power and concentration. Henry was impressed.

  Finally, the class ended and split up. Blackstone gave Henry a wave, grabbed her rucksack and jogged across the bridge to join him; he had ordered her a chilled water.

  She sat at the table and smiled, breathing not heavily but healthily, he thought.

  She ripped the top off the water bottle and guzzled half its contents, before gasping and wiping her mouth. Then she said, ‘OK, old guy?’

  Henry gave her a withering look and she held up her hand.

  ‘OK, I’ll stop calling you that, even though it is the truth … well, y’know, in comparison to me and, obviously, your girlfriend.’

  ‘Enough,’ Henry stopped her, but not in an abrupt way.

  ‘For today.’ She winked mischievously and took another few glugs of the water. ‘What did you think?’ She pointed across the lock, meaning the class.

  ‘You’re a good little mover.’

  Despite himself, Henry had noticed she was kitted out in boxing shorts and a tank top, exposing her bare arms and legs, whereas most of her classmates were wearing more traditional-looking martial arts outfits.

  ‘It’s a good focus,’ she said seriously. ‘It’s a confidence booster, makes you feel in control, like you could take on the world. Better than drugs, or CBT come to that – at least for me. That said’ – she grinned again – ‘sometimes a stone in the hand is worth a kick in the nuts.’

  Henry chuckled and said, ‘Are we ready to roll?’

  ‘Yeah – got a change of clothes in here,’ she said, hoisting up her rucksack. ‘Best bib and tucker, obviously, for court.’

  Henry wasn’t completely sure he liked the sound of that. He finished his coffee and they walked around to the front of the café where he’d parked up a cheap rental car provided by his insurance company. His Audi, having been pitched radiator-first into a ditch and lifted out with a crane, was a total write-off. He was parked next to Blackstone’s Mini Cooper which was still awaiting repair work to its rear end.

  ‘How’s the chest – and the left nipple?’ she asked him as she threw her bag into the Mini.

  ‘Still sizzling … but all they’re giving me is paracetamol, which takes a long time to take effect and wears off quickly,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably as a little gust of pain wafted through him, making him clench his knuckles. He’d had a few dabs of acid and that was bad enough. Just a taster of what Blackstone had suffered.

  She winked at him. ‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’

  ‘Like I said, I’d never get past those big knickers.’

  They got into their respective cars and drove off, Henry in front, heading up to Preston with another busy day ahead.

  As if the last three days hadn’t been hectic enough.

  Henry and Blackstone had – rightly this time – been kept away from interacting with the prisoners, but worked tirelessly behind the scenes while DCs Eddows and Cattle (who Henry thought were tremendous) went to work on Clarke, Hindle and the three henchmen, and slowly prised open a can from which other names began to wriggle into the light.

  Once the sibling relationship between Clarke and Hindle was established beyond doubt, Clarke crumbled under pressure, admitting to having an incestuous relationship with her brother all their lives and, when she became a police officer, assisting him in identifying youngsters who could help him in his violent paedophilic lifestyle. This was coupled with a criminal enterprise that spanned decades, exploiting kids as thieves and drug mules, using his burgeoning building company as a front for much of it. The properties he was in the early stages of developing were where the youngsters identified by Clarke were abused … and, in some cases, buried.

  Hindle was more difficult to deal with: broodingly silent, mostly offering no comment. Henry got frustrated watching him being interviewed, but knew he would probably have lost his rag with the man if he’d been allowed in the same room.

  The other three were just heavies, interested in nothing but beating people up and making money, most of which they pissed down the drain or spent in the casinos in Blackpool, trying to impress women.

  They were nothing. Hindle and Clarke were the main players and it was them the detectives concentrated on.

  Finally, after a day of interviews and an extension to their period in custody authorized by Chief Superintendent Lee at Preston, Rik Dean decided it was time to go and look for bodies.

  At Blackstone’s insistence, the first floorboards to be pulled up were the ones in the room at the Park Lane Hotel, formerly the Belmont. The owner, Risdon, gave them permission, and Henry, Blackstone, a forensic and CSI crew, and a Support Unit team all dressed in forensic suits went into the room. The bed was moved, the carpet lifted, the floorboards exposed, then eased up one at a time, until a section between two floor joists was revealed and in it the bodies of Kelly Hampson and Ruby Weatherall, wrapped in shrouds of airtight plastic.

  Blackstone looked down at the girls for a long, long time. Finally, she walked across to Henry, tugged him out of the room into the corridor, wrapped her arms tightly around him and cried softly into his chest.

  ‘I want to kill those people,’ she said as she drew away from him.

  ‘So do I … but the thought of them separated, in different jails, for the rest of their lives gives me some sort of comfort. Not much, but some sort.’

  She nodded.

  When they went to look for Risdon, he was nowhere to be seen. They wanted to thank him and explain what was happening. They searched for him and eventually found him in the walk-in larder fridge at the back of the hotel kitchen.

  It had been hastily done, clearly, and there was a scribbled note left on a worktop which Blackstone found before they found him. It said simply, I never thought you would come back. I am so sorry. I am ashamed.

  Blackstone opened the larder door with trepidation to find Risdon hanging by his neck from a high shelf, and although Blackstone rushed to him, he was dead, beyond resuscitation.

  After three days of questioning, Clarke and Hindle were put before the magistrates. They were charged with two counts of murder and also the attempted murder of Henry Christie. As Henry and Blackstone watched the two prisoners led away down to the holding cells before being whisked away to jail, they knew that this was only the beginning of a long, complex enquiry that would uncover many unpalatable things. Even now, Henry and Blackstone suspected there were many people in positions of power, or who had previously held such positions, who were running for cover. Both detectives were looking forward to knocking on a lot of doors behind which would be innocent-looking characters with very dirty secrets.

  Blackstone said, ‘I hope you’ve nothing else planned for the next six months, old guy.’

 
; They never found Thomas James Benemy’s body, and neither Clarke nor Hindle would tell them where he was buried. Nor did they disclose where any bodies were buried, which meant a long police operation visiting all the properties renovated by Hindle over the years, with police dogs trained to sniff out bodies and specialist X-ray equipment, plus good old-fashioned digging.

  Henry managed to squeeze a couple of thousand pounds from the constabulary towards funeral expenses for Trish Benemy. She was cremated at Lytham Park Crematorium and her ashes interred in the grounds. Henry himself paid for a headstone. It read simply:

  Patricia ‘Trish’ Benemy

  1958–2020

  Loving Mother to Thomas James Benemy