Psycho Alley hc-9

by Nick Oldham

  His tired detectives made their reports at the debrief in the MIR, including Jane Roscoe, and he thanked all of them genuinely. As knackered as they were, they remained keen and eager.

  He sent them home at ten p.m. They were all parched and Henry overheard some mutterings about going across the road for a pint, a thought that tempted him. He gathered up his papers, aware that the room had not completely emptied. Jane Roscoe lounged by the door, looking across at him.

  A heart sinking in a chest can be a sickening thing.

  ‘Hi Jane.’ He walked towards her. ‘Thanks for the work you did at the scene.’

  She shrugged an acceptance of the remark. ‘You going home?’

  He nodded. ‘I need a good, long kip.’ He paused by her so they were almost shoulder-to-shoulder at the doorway. ‘You OK being the crime scene manager for the time being?’

  ‘Whatever.’ She sounded like a grumpy teenager.

  A beat passed. Henry gave her a sad smile, then walked on by, heading back to his office. Even though he wondered how deep she was into Dave Anger’s pockets, his heart was still thumping and a quick sluice of adrenalin had done a rush into his blood as he had passed close to her. He was past knowing how to deal with the situation he and Jane were caught up in. An affair over, feelings still running strong on her part, the work situation.

  At the door to his cubby-hole he said, ‘Oh fuck, what a mess,’ then tried to put her out of his mind, or at least partition her away for the time being, and thought, Bring on the plasma screen TV.

  A weak man versus a public house. Every time, hands down, the pub wins, as it did that Saturday night as Henry left the police station. Despite his weariness and resolve to go home, his head was still spinning and the lure of a cold beer from a well-cared-for tap was too much to resist. Just the one, he promised himself whilst crossing Bonny Street to the Pump and Truncheon less than thirty feet away from the building. One long, chilled pint of Stella Artois would be the thing he needed to get that all-important eight hours sleep.

  Ten thirty p.m., and the place was full to bursting, with good rock music blaring out, unlike the junk he’d been subjected to the night before. With his injured leg making progress twice as hard, Henry eased his way through the throng, nodding at one or two people and edging his way to the bar. On his journey he noticed a gaggle of his jacks huddled in one corner of the bar, engrossed in a real debrief.

  It took a while to get served, but his persistence in the face of adversity paid off when the barmaid pushed his golden drink toward him and he crossed her palm with the appropriate amount of brass and silver. He took the pint, turned, intending to lean on the bar, but came face to face with Debbie Black, who was standing right behind him, half a pint in one hand, cigarette dangling from the fingers of her other. He hadn’t clocked her on entry.

  She gave him a half-cocked smile which he found rather attractive.

  ‘Boss,’ she said. ‘Am I on the team?’

  ‘I’ll swing it.’ He sipped his lager, then took a deep draft. It tasted amazingly wonderful, feeling like it was shooting through his lungs and stomach and every capillary. ‘Thought you only smoked at post mortems?’

  ‘I lied.’ She took a deep draw, held it in for what were obviously a few sweet moments, then exhaled upwards through pursed lips, reminding Henry of the pathologist’s observations of a smoking woman. She reached past Henry, deliberately closing in on him, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the bar. To Henry, admittedly not a smoker, it seemed to take rather longer than normal to extinguish a cigarette, but he wasn’t complaining. Even though he was wearing his windjammer, he could feel Debbie’s generous curves up against him. He swallowed. She moved back, but remained well within his space, her eyes roving all over his face, completely taking him in.

  Henry’s heart was pounding again, blood pressure rising.

  She smiled in a way he did not understand and stepped further back, having done exactly what she had intended to do to him.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘It’s quiet at the far end of the room.’ She turned, he followed at a limp, though for some reason his leg didn’t seem to be hurting him half as much now.

  Squashed down snugly on a bench seat in one corner of the bar next to each other, they could converse without having to shout too loudly.

  ‘Think we’ll get him?’ she asked, her lips close to his ear.

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘I want to be part of it.’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘He deserves stringing up, the molesting, murdering bastard.’

  Henry nodded in agreement, though the words jarred in his ear.

  ‘Really got to me, that PM.’

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. They often do get to you. You’re only human,’ Henry said with empathy.

  ‘Did it get to you? It didn’t seem to.’

  ‘They all do,’ he admitted. ‘Nowadays more than ever. Must be an age thing.’

  ‘And just how old are you?’

  Henry gave her a sidelong and told her. She raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, ‘You don’t look it.’

  He guffawed at the compliment and, flattered, took a red-faced swig of his Stella.

  The street outside the pub was busy with foot traffic, typical of a Saturday night in Blackpool. Music from bars drifted in the wind which whipped down the gap between the buildings. It was not a well-lit street, though, and there were plenty of places in the shadows in which a person could secrete themselves.

  A dark figure stood unseen in a doorway which reeked of stale urine.

  The figure waited patiently.

  When last orders were called, Henry had just reached the bottom of his beer glass, amazed at his record: that must have been one of the longest lasting pints he had ever drunk.

  ‘Can I buy you another?’

  ‘No, thanks. I need to get home,’ he said and made to stand up.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No — honestly. I’m injured, old and knackered, and I need my bed.’

  Debbie smiled and stood up with him. ‘I’ll walk up to the car park with you.’

  With a wave at the other detectives, who seemed to have settled in for a session, he and Debbie left the pub, walking quickly across the street and into the police garage using a swipe card to gain entry.

  The figure in the doorway stepped back into deeper blackness and watched the two of them enter the police building.

  The person’s breathing became shallow and juddery at the sight of Henry Christie, a man loathed beyond anything ever thought possible; a man who had ruined more than one life and who, the person in the shadow had decided, would suffer as a consequence.

  They rode up a floor in the lift, then walked out of the police station and across the mezzanine which led to the level in the multi-storey car park on which the police had secure parking. Henry’s leg was back to hurting like hell, probably, he guessed, due to tiredness more than anything. He was aching for sleep. They trotted down the concrete steps and through the secure gate on to the police-only parking level.

  Henry’s car was the nearest, his trusty Mondeo. He clicked the remote and heard the thud of the doors unlocking.

  They stopped walking.

  ‘Well, see you tomorrow, bright and breezy,’ Henry said, turning to Debbie. She did not respond verbally. Instead she looked up at him with one of those expressions which sent a shimmer of anticipation through him, like a bolt of electricity. There was a moment of — literally — charged silence, then she stepped close, face to face, only inches away. For the third time that evening, his heart started to beat faster than resting pace without the inconvenience of physical exercise. He hoped he didn’t have any clogged arteries.

  ‘Thanks for letting me on to the team.’ She sounded husky.

  ‘ ’S OK.’ His throat was dry.

  ‘I appreciate it.’ She moved closer. Her arms slid up around his neck. She rose on tip
toe, paused for the briefest of moments — for effect — before planting her lips on to his.

  For a second, Henry wanted to struggle and push her away; it was only a second, because her lips tasted good, the smokiness of her breath somehow giving her a vague taste of liquorice. One of his hands encircled her and pulled her into him until the kiss ended naturally and she dropped back on to the flats of her feet.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do that for almost fifteen years,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve never kissed another cop before.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  She nodded, lips slightly parted. ‘You bet. Want to do it again?’

  Henry swallowed, some moisture back in his throat, making what should have been an easy decision quite hard. ‘I don’t think so, but thanks, it was nice.’

  ‘OK,’ she whispered, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Right … er … goodnight.’

  She touched his jacket gently, gave him a look which he translated into something very hot. She spun and walked slowly across to her car, hips swaying gently, knowing Henry was ogling her. Henry watched her gradually disappear into the shadows before breathing out and climbing into the Mondeo. His mind rattled madly. He needed another drink now. ‘Get home, get a JD with ice, get to bed and forget this shit,’ he said to himself, inserting his key into the ignition and starting up. He drove out of the space — the one now reserved solely for him — and within less than a few feet of motion, he knew something was wrong. He stopped, got out, checked the tyres.

  The rear nearside was as flat as an iron.

  The words which emanated from his mouth were not pretty nor lyrical.

  On the other side of the car park he heard Debbie’s car fire up. He stood uselessly by his car as she drove slowly towards him and stopped. Her electric window descended.

  ‘Changed your mind?’ she asked coquettishly.

  ‘Flat tyre.’ He indicated the offending Firestone.

  ‘That’s a bugger,’ she grinned.

  ‘Yeah. Better get on with changing it.’ He headed to the boot of the Mondeo, opened it, picked his way through assorted clothing, magazines, Wellington boots, hoping like mad the spare wasn’t flat, too. He could not even recall the last time he’d checked it.

  ‘Need any help?’ Debbie called.

  Henry replied from the depths of the spare wheel well. ‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  She drove off without another word.

  Twenty sweaty, swear-laden minutes later, Henry was driving down the ramps of the car park on to Richardson Street. His hands were black with oil and grime, his face looked as if he had tried to camouflage himself. His annoyance levels were at their highest and as he sped out he almost flattened the lone pedestrian crossing through his headlights, making the poor soul break into a short dash to save himself. Henry did not stop, did not really register the person other than to grumble an obscenity in their direction. He tore away, desperate to get home. Annoyed that he had weakened enough to go to the pub, annoyed — but curious — about the kiss, seething about the flat tyre and aware that the chain of events he’d been foolish enough to put into motion now compromised his sleep time. Tomorrow would be one hell of a difficult day and he needed to be on top form to deal with it. Now he knew he wouldn’t be.

  The pedestrian who had almost become a casualty stood and watched Henry speed away car with a grim smile of satisfaction.

  SUNDAY

  Four

  Before he knew what he was doing, Henry had answered the bedside phone and had it to his ear and was in conversation with the FIM — the Force Incident Manager — who was based in the control room headquarters.

  ‘What? Whoa,’ Henry garbled when he realized he had taken part in a dialogue that didn’t make sense to him. ‘Sorry, Andy, can we start again? My brain is befuddled and I’ve taken in nothing you’ve said to me.’

  ‘OK, boss, no probs,’ the inspector said patiently. He was accustomed to contacting people at godforsaken hours of the day and conversing with idiots.

  ‘What time is it, first?’

  ‘Six thirty.’

  Quick calculation: six hours sleep, well, six hours in bed, two hours tossing about and traipsing endlessly to the bathroom (note: get prostate checked) and four hours in a middling dream-filled sleep which was unsatisfactory to say the least. He cringed.

  ‘OK, go on.’

  ‘You wanted to know asap about any response to your message switch to all forces regarding the body in the car.’

  Suddenly Henry was fully awake and operating. He waited for the FIM to continue.

  ‘North Yorkshire Police have responded. A young girl was snatched in Harrogate Friday evening. Nine years old. Not been found yet. Disappeared between her home and her grandmother’s about quarter of a mile away. They’re very concerned.’

  ‘Right … we’re due for a briefing at eight this morning, but do me a favour and turn out DI Roscoe and DS Debbie Black. Ask them to meet me at the MIR at Blackpool as soon as. Send a copy of the message from North Yorks to the MIR, too, will you?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And thanks for letting me know.’

  Henry got dressed in the walk-in wardrobe, spinning dangerously around as he pulled on his M amp;S Y-fronts and socks, trying not to disturb Kate too much and probably not succeeding terribly well. He crashed out of the wardrobe to find her up on one elbow staring crossly at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, bending to kiss her. ‘Could be a long one, this.’

  ‘I gathered. Just keep in touch, OK?’

  ‘Yep.’ He snuck out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He felt his face. He had showered when he got in from changing the tyre and shaved at the same time, as he had thought something like this might happen. He didn’t want to be rushing round so he had prepared himself for the eventuality, like the good boy scout he had never been. If only he could have got some decent sleep, the plan would have worked quite well. As it was, he was well groomed but feeling no better than before, and his leg still hurt and his eye throbbed. Before leaving the house he helped himself to two Anadin Ultra capsules and pocketed the rest of the packet now that his hospital supply had been consumed. Stocked up for the day with pain relief.

  Stepping out of the front door gave him a flashback to all those years ago when he was a sprog in the job, when work seemed to be an endless round of early shifts and night duty; one way or another he had been awake at some horrendous time of day. He was glad those days were long gone and he genuinely felt sorry for some of his contemporaries, who after twenty-five-plus years of coppering were still PCs working shifts. Poor bastards. Most people he had joined with had moved away from that, but there were still some sad ones left who looked ill, drawn and desperate to retire.

  He breathed in deeply at his second early start on the trot, and walked across to his car on the drive, parked next to Kate’s Toyota Yaris. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Mondeo, wondering how he was going to get time to get to a tyre repair place when, just as he was about to insert his key, something made him sit up straight, furrow his brow. Something he’d seen. But he wasn’t quite sure what.

  After a moment of cogitation, he got out and inspected the car and saw it.

  It began at the headlight cluster on the front wing and finished at the backlight cluster. One long, continuous line: a deep gouge from front to back. He bent down and looked closely at it, touching it.

  It was deep. Not superficial. All the way through each layer of paint to the metal below. Probably made by a screwdriver or a key.

  He stood upright, hands on hips, speechless. He walked round and checked the rest of the car, but that was the only scratch.

  ‘Bastards,’ he hissed angrily. ‘Who the …?’ Actually, he immediately had a very good idea; not necessarily who had committed the damage, but why it had been done. The corruption investigation in GMP. The police car he’d used during the investigation had been damaged a few times during the course of his time there as
he unearthed a web of criminality and upset a lot of nasty people. Obviously the game was now being carried on to his home turf.

  A cold, nervous shiver ran through him.

  A serious and worrying development, maybe having implications for his family.

  Henry wracked his brain, wondering if he had missed seeing the damage last night during the wheel change. It could be that it had happened elsewhere, not on his drive at home. It was possible he’d missed it last night … and with that thought of reassurance, he pulled away from home and headed to work, but only after he’d got down on his hands and knees and checked the underside of the car for a bomb.

  Sunday is never a good day to get food in a police station, as canteen facilities are usually nine to five weekdays and Saturdays. Henry stopped off at a little cafe he knew of old in South Shore and ran in for a bacon sarnie and hot tea in a large plastic cup, which he then drove to the nick with. He hurried to the MIR, where he devoured his breakfast feast, scoffing the last mouthful as the two bleary-eyed female detectives slobbed sleepily into the room.

  ‘Progress?’ Jane asked, rubbing her eyes.

  He held up a copy of the message from the FIM which he had printed off. ‘Young girl missing from North Yorks … doesn’t look good.’ Jane took the paper and scanned through the message. ‘I’d like you both to go over to Harrogate and do the necessary with the police and the family over there. We need to see if we can get a DNA match with our body. We’ll fast track everything.’

  ‘I thought I was crime scene manager,’ Jane whined. ‘They don’t go gallivanting around.’

  ‘They do if the SIO says they do,’ Henry retorted coldly, but seeing her stiffen, he relented. ‘We won’t get a full team on to this tomorrow and I’d like to get as much as poss done today. I don’t want any feet dragging on this one … and it’s a trip out, isn’t it? Harrogate’s lovely.’