by Nick Oldham
‘Fuckin’ dump,’ Rik commented as Henry drove on to the estate.
Henry made no response. On and off for many years he had policed Shoreside and seen some terrible things. He knew, however, that the blight was caused by just a few individuals who brought misery to the majority, who were decent, law-abiding folk wanting peaceful lives.
‘Sink-hole,’ Rik added, his eyes roving.
‘Made your point,’ Henry said bluntly. ‘You’ve become very cynical.’
‘Haven’t you?’
Henry considered the question, brow furrowed. ‘Possibly,’ he said in an unconvincing way.
‘So you haven’t become cynical?’ Rik peered at him.
‘I’d like to think I haven’t.’
Before he could continue, Rik said, ‘We police the shits of the world who are all out to lie and cheat and hurt you; all they’re concerned about is themselves and a fast buck; we get treated like shit by the organization, we deal with the dross of society and you say you’re not cynical. I mean, you’re on the bloody murder squad, Henry …’ His voice trailed off hopelessly.
Henry remained silent.
‘I mean — look.’ Rik pointed to a group of youths lounging indolently at the roadside. One of them stuck a middle finger up as the car drove past. Rik shook his head sadly. ‘Shits.’
Henry had had enough introspection, because he was feeling strangely uncomfortable with Rik’s allegation. Something inside was telling him that being a cynic was a ‘bad thing’, and he was agreeing with it, even though the evidence which pointed to him being the biggest cynic of all time was overwhelming. ‘What’s the address again?’
Rik gave him a sardonic sidelong glance, then read it out from the note, realizing the conversation had come to a grinding halt.
Henry drove through Shoreside, the progress of the car monitored by many pairs of suspicious eyes. Henry felt a shiver of menace. He knew the estate had become an increasingly dangerous and intimidating place for cops, or anyone from the authorities. Although some government money had been tossed at it, it was to no avail. Henry believed the local authority saw it as a lost cause and would have loved to ring fence it, which saddened him. Even the police seemed to keep it at arms’ length, though they would deny this. Henry knew the post of community beat officer was vacant and had been for a few months. No one wanted it.
‘Psycho Alley,’ Rik said.
‘What?’
He repeated the words. ‘That’s what they call that rat run these days,’ he said, pointing to a high-walled ginnel which ran between two sets of council flats. It threaded from one side of the estate to a pub on the outer edge where many locals drank, and a row of shops which were not on the estate. It was actually called Song Thrush Walk.
‘Why Psycho Alley?’
‘The place where sane persons fear to tread,’ Rik said spookily. ‘Not unless you want to be raped, robbed or battered.’
‘Go on,’ Henry urged.
‘Two old biddies robbed and beaten; three assaults and one indecent assault in the space of six weeks … hence it being christened Psycho Alley. All the street lighting has been smashed, and even on a good day it’s a menacing walk.’
Having been based at HQ until recently, Henry often missed out on local crime hotspots and he had never heard of the problems here. ‘What’s being done about it?’
Rik shrugged as if to say, ‘Who knows?’
‘It’s a problem to be solved, isn’t it?’
Rik guffawed. ‘Problem solving. Our policing panacea? We’re so fucking busy, Henry, we don’t have time to solve problems. All we do is respond, respond, respond. Every bugger is driven by the brick around their necks,’ — he was referring to the personal radio — ‘or just by sheer volume of work. Do you know,’ he began to rant, ‘there are over five thousand crimans outstanding for Lancs PCs?’ Crimans were the follow-up enquiries doled out by supervisors to their officers. It was a statistic Henry did know. ‘We’re running round like bluearsed flies, chasing our tails all the time. It’s horrendous. We don’t have time to solve bloody problems!’
‘Finished?’ Henry said, unimpressed.
‘Finished.’
‘Now where’s that house? Down here somewhere.’
Henry drove into a cul-de-sac with three-storey blocks of flats on either side of the road, one of which contained the flat Percy Pearson lived in.
Peering through the windscreen, Rik pointed. ‘That one up there.’
Henry pulled into the kerb, looking up at the block, which made his mouth turn down at the corners. The sort of place he had been into, it felt, a zillion times. One of those 1970s experiments in housing which looked good on the plans, but when built turned into a social nightmare. A crumbling concrete balcony ran along the front doors of all the first and second floor flats, and one or two kids leering over were already interested in the appearance of an unknown car in the area. Henry was uncomfortable at leaving the Mondeo which had been the victim of enough damage recently, thank you.
Wondering whether it would be on bricks when he returned, he did leave it and walked toward the flats, up the stairwell which ran up the gable end. He was not surprised to step over what he had to step over on the way up, and this made him think that not being surprised by anything any more equated to cynicism. Or was it pragmatism? Some sort of ‘ism’ anyway.
All the while next to him, Rik Dean chunnered away about druggies and shits and no-hopers and low-class denizens of the jungle in general. He was having a bad day. It was about to get worse.
The pair emerged on to the balcony which clung to the upper floor, pausing to check on the car, which had attracted the attention of two snotty kids who were standing close to it, rather like a newly-born antelope found by ravenous wolves. They looked fearlessly up at the two detectives.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Henry called through hands cupped like a loudspeaker.
Both kids shouted something back and stuck their fingers up at him, but sauntered away. Henry watched them a while longer until he was satisfied they’d gone for good.
The detectives walked along the balcony until they reached Pearson’s front door, which had been repaired by boards and had graffiti sprayed across it. Henry looked for anti-paedophile slogans, but saw none. Rik banged on the door, hard and clear: a copper’s knock. He caught Henry’s eye, then thrust his hands into his pockets. There was no response, so he kicked the door instead with his toe cap, then bent down and tried to peer through the letterbox. He found he could not push up the flap. He rapped on the door again, put his ear to the wood and listened. Henry raised eyebrows at him.
‘I think I heard something …’ Rik stood back, knocked again, but not so dramatically. Just another door to add to the hundreds he’d knocked on in his career. He waited for a reply with a certain amount of diffidence.
Henry folded his arms patiently and glanced toward his car. Still OK.
There was a shuffle behind the door. The security chain was either slid back or slipped into place. Then it opened, and the chain was on: a face peered through the four-inch gap. ‘Yes?’
‘Afternoon, Percy, I think you know me.’ Just in case he didn’t, Rik extended his arm and thrust his warrant card into Pearson’s face.
Pearson didn’t even look, but a big, frightened eye — the only one they could see — flicked from one detective to the other.
‘DS Rik Dean from Blackpool nick, as you know. This is DCI Christie from the Force Major Incident Team.’ Rik wasn’t having any misunderstandings here, even though he knew Pearson did know him.
‘Well I don’t know what you want with me. I was locked up last week and now I’m on conditional bail, which I haven’t broken.’ It was a very whiny voice.
‘I know, I know,’ Rik cooed reassuringly. ‘We’re not saying you have done anything, but we’d like to have a chat with you all the same.’ His hands spread wide in an open gesture. ‘You might be able to help us.’
‘I doubt it,’ Pearso
n said, ‘and if you haven’t got a warrant, you’re not coming in here.’
He was about to slam the door. Rik managed to step in and wedge his shoulder against it, preventing it from closing. Henry came in behind his colleague and over Rik’s shoulder said, ‘Red rag to a bull, Mr Pearson. You chose to say some very poor words, because when we get told we need a warrant, that makes us very sus indeed, usually meaning that we don’t bother getting one, we just come in anyway.’
‘I’m hiding nothing,’ he protested.
‘Open the door then, and let us in,’ Henry said reasonably.
‘OK, OK, but you need to step back.’
‘And if you lock us out,’ Rik warned, ‘we’ll kick the door in and think of a reason after, got that?’
Pearson nodded. Rik and Henry took a step back. The door closed. For a moment they thought they were going to have to make good their promise about forcing an entry, but then the chain slid back and the door opened slowly. A wary sex offender said, ‘Come in,’ and led them through to the living room. It was a bare, basic place. Cheap furniture, big TV, DVD and video, and a computer in the corner, which attracted Henry’s attention.
‘You lot’ve got my hard drive,’ Pearson said.
Henry looked at him properly for the first time. Saw a middle-aged man with pockmarks cratering his face and a look in his eyes which showed fear. Pearson was breathing shallowly, and Henry could have sworn he heard the man’s heart beating.
‘No need to be nervous,’ Henry told him with a wicked smile, making him even more tense. There was something wrong, Henry sensed. His eyes narrowed. ‘Just want a chat, Percy, that’s all.’
‘D’you want to sit?’
‘I’ll stand,’ Henry said, not wishing to lose any advantage. ‘Move around a bit, if you don’t mind.’
‘Me too,’ said Rik, also sensing Pearson’s unease. The detectives circled like hawks.
‘What d’you want?’
Maybe it was simply the fact that two cops had arrived unannounced and were invading his space that made Pearson nervous; the fact that it was hugely apparent they immediately disliked him and that here he was, alone with two big guys who might want to do him damage. Maybe that’s why he’s all jittery, Henry thought.
‘I believe you’re on the sex offenders register,’ Henry put to him. Pearson blinked, swallowed, looked pale, nodded. ‘How long for?’
‘Life,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ve signed on and done everything I’m supposed to do.’
‘That’s good, even though you still are committing offences,’ Henry pointed out, happy to continue to make Pearson squirm, even though he knew he was being a bit naughty.
‘Allegedly,’ he retorted primly. Then, ‘What do you want?’
‘You were in a probation hostel in Accrington,’ Rik said.
‘Which you already know … look, what is this?’
‘You were there with a guy called George Uren.’
Pearson’s mouth closed tightly. ‘And?’
‘We want to know where he lives,’ Henry said.
‘I already told you lot last week. I’ve seen him knocking about in Fleetwood, but I don’t know where he lives. God, I wish I’d never opened my trap.’
‘According to the hostel records, you were pretty pally with him.’
‘Hm! That bitch Harcourt tell you that? Well she’s wrong. He was a bloke I talked to, that’s all. Nothing more.’
‘Sharing experiences?’ Rik cut in with a sneer. Pearson’s eyes turned to Rik. He licked his lips.
‘We talked … that’s all. He wasn’t a man I particularly liked, OK?’
Suddenly, the heads of all three men turned to a door off the living room which Henry guessed led to the bedroom. Was it a scratching noise?
‘Someone in there?’ Rik demanded. ‘You not alone?’
Henry focused closely on Pearson, himself now tense, wondering if they’d stumbled on to something. There was a faint meow. Pearson crossed the room with an angry look on his face and opened the door six inches, allowing a tiny kitten to tumble through the gap. Pearson lifted it up in the palm of his hand and closed the door. The expression on his face morphed into one of triumph tinged with … Henry attempted to work it out, then got it: relief.
‘Just my cat, Nigel.’
‘So, nothing more than a passing acquaintance with Uren, then?’ Henry said, resuming the conversation.
‘Exactly. He is not the sort of person I wish to be associated with.’
‘Why not?’ Rik queried.
‘Erm …’
Henry’s head jerked toward the bedroom again, his whole concentration on it, a tingle of static crackling through him as his senses clicked into overdrive. He was certain he’d heard something else, not just a cat. His head revolved slowly to regard Pearson. ‘Who’s in that room?’ he asked quietly.
‘Nobody,’ he snapped defensively.
The cold, hard eyes of the detectives picked up Pearson in their glare, deeply suspicious.
‘Another cat?’ Henry said. Pearson’s mouth stayed clamped shut. ‘Have you anything to hide, Percy?’
‘No.’ It was just a whisper of denial, no strength in it.
‘Then you won’t mind if we have a glance,’ Rik said, taking a step to the door. Cat still in hand, Pearson made a sudden move toward him. Rik came up sharp. ‘Yes?’ he said. Pearson stopped, his countenance desperate with indecision.
‘You need a warrant.’
‘Like hell,’ Rik said. ‘I need fuck all.’ His hand reached the door handle and rested on it, then pushed it down and pushed the door which swung open on its hinges, revealing a dimly-lit bedroom beyond, a double bed up against the back wall and an indistinguishable shape upon it, under the duvet.
The detectives shared a quick glance, then Henry looked at Pearson whose shoulders dropped in a gesture of defeat. ‘You fibbed.’
Rik took a step into the bedroom, his broad frame filling the doorway, his back now to both Henry and Pearson.
Pearson moved with sudden violence, catching both men off guard. His right hand, the one holding the kitten, swung in Henry’s direction and with all his might he hurled the poor feline at him, a tiny bundle of fur and claws flying across the room and slamming into Henry’s face, a squeal emitting from both man and beast with the shock.
Then Pearson lunged at Rik’s back, his right arm raised.
Henry scrabbled the kitten away, sending it sprawling into the safety of the settee; at the same time he saw a flash of silver in Pearson’s raised hand and immediately realized it was a knife — where the hell had it come from? — and it was plunging toward Rik’s unprotected back.
A primitive roar of unintelligible sound uttered from Henry’s throat as he tried to warn his colleague, whilst at the same time he dove at Pearson. But even then, in that nanosecond, he knew Pearson had the advantage. He was close to Rik. Henry was too far away. And Henry knew he could not stop the arc of the blade, which he now saw clearly was thin, narrow, about seven inches long. A knife which could easily kill.
At the last moment, Rik twisted, but the knife was thrust into his shoulder, drawing a gurgling, inhuman scream.
In the surreal way in which incidents like this unravel in the gap between vision and thought, it all slowed down to an agonizing speed and clarity as Henry saw the tip of the blade touch Rik’s shoulder, enter through the fabric of his jacket and disappear a millimetre at a time into his flesh.
Then real time clicked back in.
Rik bellowed in agony and stumbled down to his knees.
Pearson shrieked with rage.
Henry Christie yelled as he went for Pearson, contorting toward him and looping his left arm across Pearson’s chest, but not in time to prevent him from going for Rik again, this time angling the knife into his neck and forcing it into the unprotected flesh just below his ear. Rik screamed again, fell, clutching the wound which spurted a fountain of crimson, causing Henry to think, ‘Shit, he’s hit his jugular!’
> Henry managed to wrap his left arm across Pearson’s chest and yank him backwards, frighteningly aware that the knife was now searing toward his own face. Henry’s only thought was to overbalance Pearson and dodge the blade at the same time. He was bigger, heavier and stronger than the out-of-shape offender, and he used this to his full advantage, pulling him backwards and sticking out a leg, over which he dropped Pearson who, realizing he was falling, tried to keep upright, failed, and let out a yell as Henry slam-dunked him to the floor.
All the while, Rik’s predicament was there in his mind.
He knew he would have to deal quickly, efficiently and ruthlessly with Pearson.
As the man hit the carpet, Henry reached out and grabbed his right wrist, then dropped his full weight on to the guy, landing across him and pinning him down. Henry’s other hand went for the wrist too, and he bashed the knife hand down on the floor repeatedly. The grip gave almost immediately and the knife rolled away just out of reach. At that exact point, Henry knew he now had the power … particularly as Pearson simply went weak and lost the will to fight. He began to sob.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …’ he blubbed.
Henry kept him held down as he readjusted his own position, straddling his chest, trying to control his own breathing and temper — two things which did not happen. He glared down and bunched the fist of his right hand, nostrils flaring, shaking angrily. Then he had a thought and checked himself.
Instead of punching him, he slapped Pearson hard across the face, employing the technique he had learned from his recent defensive tactics training, then slapped the other way, then the other, and kept going until his anger had dissipated.
It was satisfying to see Pearson’s face swell and hear him whimper.
Then he spun him over on to his front, dragged his arms behind his back and cuffed him tight so the ratchets ate into his flesh, right on the wrist bone.
He stood up, kicked the knife away, growling, ‘Do not fucking move,’ and turned his attention to Rik, who was lying across the threshold of the bedroom, clutching his neck and shaking uncontrollably as though he was being jabbed with a cattle prod. Blood pumped through his fingers. Lots of it.
