by Nick Oldham
‘Aw, Jesus,’ Larry moaned, sinking to his knees, covering his face as Henry released his grip.
Barry looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. He attempted to rise again, but Donaldson punched him in the chest and he went back down.
All eyes turned to the TV.
Harry tried to grab the remote control, but Fawcett kicked his hands from under him and he went down across the broken table again.
And there was nothing else to do but watch the horrific scene on the screen in front of them as a naked young girl, manacled to a wall, was savagely whipped until she could no longer scream, no longer even form a word. And then it got worse. And there was no doubt about it — what they were watching was for real.
Henry bent down in front of Larry. He could not begin to describe the repulsion he was feeling. He was short of breath and his heart was pounding in a way it never had before. He felt clammy, cold and very empty, yet at the same time filled with a simmering rage.
He spoke slowly.
‘Does this have anything to do with Trent?’ He lifted Larry’s face up with the tip of a finger. ‘Does it?’
‘Yeah,’ he whispered.
‘Tell me.’
‘All I know is, he makes films, sells ’em on. I mean, I don’t know if they’re real or not.’
‘Liar,’ Henry said.
‘Yeah OK, they are real. I just watch ’em, that’s all.’
‘Tell me where he is,’ Henry said softly. He could feel a desire to explode. He still had a fingertip under Larry’s unshaven chin, which was coarse and sweaty. ‘Tell me,’ Henry insisted.
‘He’s a fuckin’ madman.’
‘I don’t care. At this moment in time, I’m madder. Tell me where he lives.’
‘I don’t know, honest.’
‘I do.’ Harry, broken-nosed Harry, piped up. ‘I followed him once,’ he said through a mouthful of blood. ‘I was curious.’
Nineteen
Conflicting emotions jostled for position inside Henry Christie. Part of him was deeply annoyed that he hadn’t done the job properly when he’d gone to arrest George Uren. He hadn’t thought it through, and if he had, Louis Vernon Trent could easily be in custody now. Or at the very least, that lowlife landlord could have been sweated earlier. Another part of him was truly excited. If it all came together, the cops were patient, and Trent hadn’t already done a runner, one of the most wanted men in the country would soon be in his clutches. That prospect outweighed the negative side, but he knew he was fortunate to be in this position and was determined not to let the opportunity pass. And, all being well, he’d be able to stick two fingers up at Dave Anger, too.
It was ten p.m. Things had moved fast over the last few hours.
The trio of Corks were all in custody for various offences relating to child pornography and complicity in murder and kidnapping (though Henry knew the latter two allegations probably would not go far), and they were going nowhere for at least twenty-four hours.
A team from the surveillance unit had been brought in and were watching the address Harry Cork had given them. He had in fact pointed out the house in a quick, surreptitious drive past in a plain car with smoked-glass windows. Harry was now desperate to help the cops and Henry believed what he told them: they had only bought the videos from Uren, but Harry knew that the man called Stoke was supplying them. He had seen Stoke dropping off a package at Uren’s flat one day. He hadn’t even known that Stoke and Uren were buddies — ‘honest to God’ — but he did know that Stoke spent little time in the flat on the top floor. He had subsequently followed Stoke/Trent to a terraced house on Hornby Road, Blackpool, close to the town centre. That was the one he pointed out to the police.
Henry had asked Jerry Tope, the Intel DC, to do some quick utility checks on the address. The billing for gas, electric and council tax came back with the name reference Stoke. He had taken the place over two years before, a fact which sickened Henry. It meant that Trent had been living back in his home town, under an assumed name, right under the noses of the police, within a quarter of a mile of the station, making a living by stealing from old people and abducting children from surrounding forces.
But had he now gone? Had the police presence at Uren’s flat spooked him? And was Henry too late to save the life of Kerry Figgis?
Karl Donaldson was along for the ride. Henry and he were sitting in an unmarked police car two streets away from the target address, speculating, hoping to accumulate. Not far away an armed team were also parked up, as well as other specialists, detectives and uniformed officers. Even a joiner was on standby to repair any damage that might be caused from the house entry. They were all waiting for the final decision to be made.
So far, the surveillance guys reported no sign of any movement from the address. No lights, no activity.
‘It’s chicken and egg,’ Donaldson said. He shifted uncomfortably, having been hurriedly issued with a borrowed stab vest that was too tight for him. ‘And what’s the most important?’
Henry’s jaw rotated. He knew exactly what Donaldson was obliquely referring to: obviously the most important thing was to save Kerry’s life. That should override everything, even if it meant that Trent did not get caught … so should they wait? See if he entered or left the house? Or should they burst in, hoping Kerry might be in there alive? Not that there was anything to suggest she was in there. So many questions. Henry realized there was a good chance she was dead anyway, stats showed that … but, but … even if there was the faintest glimmer of her breathing, there was only one course of action to take. Even if she wasn’t in the house, there could be clues to lead the police to her.
Henry nodded, agreeing with his inner gut feeling: better to lose Trent than a life.
‘We go in.’
It was left to the specialists to get into the house. Once the exterior had been sealed, a team of Support Unit officers, armed with a door-opener, raced up to the front door. When they found it locked, they did the business. Within seconds the door was off its hinges. Immediately the firearms team burst through the gap into the house in a well-drilled manoeuvre, weapons drawn, full body armour protection, ballistic shields, torches and screams. They moved quickly but carefully through the ground floor, searching and securing the rooms one by one until they were satisfied it was all clear; the team at the foot of the stairs then got the instruction to move up, leading the assault on the first floor, which was also secured quickly with no trace of any occupants.
Henry and Karl Donaldson stood inside the vestibule, waiting for the rooms to be declared clear before stepping into the hallway, beckoned in by the sergeant in charge of the firearms team.
‘No one ground or first floor, sir,’ he reported. ‘But there’s a basement and an attic.’
‘OK,’ said Henry. ‘Trent’s a clever sod, so keep a presence upstairs and on this level. Don’t stand anyone down yet. Let’s have a look at the basement first, then the attic.’
‘Roger,’ the sergeant said sharply. He turned to direct his squad. The door to the basement ran off the hallway, under the stairs. Moments later the lead two firearms officers were ready to enter the basement. ‘Go,’ came the succinct order. The officer nodded and with Glock handguns drawn, ballistic shields in front of them, they tried the basement door — unlocked — reached through, simply switched on the light and charged down the concrete steps into the basement, followed by their back-up team.
It all fell spookily silent. Henry and Donaldson exchanged worried glances, then looked at the team leader who was at the top of the steps.
‘Situation report?’ the officer said into his radio.
‘All clear … hell,’ came the reply.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘You need to get down here … the DCI needs to get down here.’
Henry, his PR tuned to the firearms frequency, heard the exchange through his earpiece, as did Donaldson who had been loaned a PR.
The sergeant turned to Henry, who nodded and e
ased past him, followed by Donaldson. They went down the steep, narrow steps to the basement, hitting the stench as they descended. The four shocked-faced firearms officers who had made the entry, stood aside for them, allowing a view of the well-lit basement.
Trent’s studio. His lair.
Sophisticated-looking video and DVD recording equipment. Two expensive cameras on tripods. Hundreds of DVDs and videos stacked up by a wall. A mixing desk. Spotlights. And the small stage in the corner of the room which Henry recognized because he had seen it on Cork’s TV set, the one with the girl manacled to a metal ring in the wall.
She was still there, kneeling up to the wall, hanging by her wrists, which were chained to the ring that looked like a towel rail.
She was dead. Her head lolled through her arms, her lower legs starting to show signs of decomposition. She almost looked like she was praying. Her little naked body was stripped of flesh where she had been whipped and tortured.
‘Boss.’ Someone tapped Henry’s arm. He tore his eyes away from the girl. One of the firearms team pointed across to another corner of the basement, the only poorly-lit area. Henry walked across and found a blanket draped over something. He lifted it carefully, then reeled back instinctively before regaining his composure and looking again at the two small bodies on top of each other, decomposing. One was nearly a skeleton; another still had quite a lot of flesh and skin on the bones.
He dropped the blanket, horrified.
‘You guys — well done, but out, now, please,’ he said to the firearms team. ‘The attic needs sorting, please.’ They did not need telling twice, withdrawing silently.
Henry and Donaldson looked at each other.
‘Three dead girls,’ Henry said, unnecessarily.
Donaldson’s jaw jutted.
‘And he’s not here — unless he’s in the attic.’
‘No,’ said Donaldson.
Henry turned to the body of the girls chained to the wall. ‘I don’t think that’s Kerry Figgis. That’s the girl on the Cork’s video … could be the one from Manchester, maybe.’
‘Which means Kerry could still be alive. Maybe she’s with Trent now.’
‘A plus point … and another plus point,’ Henry said, stunned by his thoughts. ‘I know that Jodie Greaves died in the back of that Astra, and she went through hell, but at least she didn’t have to suffer this. Not that it’s any consolation … fuck, just look at these poor kids. Shit.’ Henry was close to tears. ‘He cannot be allowed to escape.’
‘Maybe we’re not too late,’ Donaldson said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Because there might still be a chance of him returning here. I know it’s a long shot, buddy, but just suppose he hasn’t seen us here,’ Donaldson said urgently, making chopping gestures with his hand to emphasize what he was saying. ‘These unfortunate kids aren’t going anywhere, so is there anything lost in shutting up the house, getting the door repaired — there’s a joiner with us, isn’t there? — and maybe waiting a few more hours. Whaddya think? Kerry isn’t here, so it’s not as though we’ve totally lost her yet; you did the right thing coming in, now let’s continue playing out our luck. You never know. He might just come back, whistling a happy tune.’
SATURDAY
Twenty
Alone in the darkness, he was aware of the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart, even the noise of his eyelids coming together as he blinked. All magnified, all giving away his position, or so it seemed.
He looked around the living room, his eyes now well adjusted to the dark, the heavy curtains cutting out most of the illumination from the street outside. It was a normal room. Three-piece suite, TV, DVD, pictures on the walls. A normal room in a normal house in a normal street in Blackpool — a far from normal town. But hadn’t 25 Cromwell Street been a normal address? Yet what had Fred West’s home revealed? A trail of multiple murder stretching back over many years.
At least this house had only had its current owner in for two years. There would not be a legacy of lifetime killing here, just that of forty-eight months. What Trent could have achieved in that length of time was pretty terrifying, though. Three corpses in the basement for starters. Would more be found?
Sitting there, one floor above, Henry was certain that more bodies would be discovered.
A scraping noise made him stop breathing, listen intently.
Nothing. It was nothing.
As much as he could, he relaxed in that normal room.
His thoughts stayed with those bodies, the remnants of three young girls, murdered by the hands of Louis Vernon Trent and probably George Uren. Their terrible fate made Henry surge with anger. Kidnapped, abused, probably filmed, kept alive for how long? Months, possibly. Then murdered. His eyes moistened as his imagination ran riot. They had been given no chance and no hope. Plucked from the streets, from surroundings they knew well, felt safe and comfortable in. But in an area in which two ruthless predators swooped to survive; firstly by targeting old people, stealing from them, terrifying them and destroying their lives in the process; then pouncing on the young and ending theirs just to feed their perversion.
Henry knew he was the last hope for all those victims. If he missed Trent this time, he would never see him again, of that he was certain. He had disappeared for several years once already, but then come home to build a lair in which he lived with impunity. If he could do it on his home soil, he could do it anywhere. He would learn by his mistakes and would never be found again, and he would still go on living at the expense of the defenceless.
A car drove by. Its headlights sent brief rods of light through the chinks in the curtain.
Henry stayed still, checked his watch. It was a few minutes after midnight, into a new day, and although he had been there for less than an hour, he felt that the chances of Trent returning were ebbing away. Part of him believed Trent would not show, because he was a feral animal with highly developed senses that kept him one step ahead of the game. If he hadn’t already gone, Henry was sure he would intuitively know that his lair had been invaded and would not come back.
Henry had bustled everyone off the property, got the joiner in to do a quick repair to the front door, and the house was back to square one, on the face of it — with the exception that Henry was sitting in the living room, and everyone else, including a bleating Karl Donaldson, had been withdrawn. Henry had been insistent with Donaldson, who said it was foolish just to have only one person in the house. He and Henry had almost had a stand-up row about it, before Henry agreed to a suggestion made by the American which was a bit of a compromise. The nearest plain police car was at least a quarter of a mile away. Others were even further away. Their personal radios were all on a single talk group and ordered not to transmit anything unless urgent.
Another hastily-devised plan, Henry thought, leaving him exposed and a little nervous. He was prepared to give it until daylight. If Trent had not returned by then, it would be all hands to a manhunt.
To Henry, the return seemed unlikely, but it was worth a try.
The time passed on. Henry settled in for the wait, yawned. His earpiece fell out. He replaced it, screwing it in. Sometimes he thought his ears were not the right shape for anything other than good quality headphones.
‘DCI Christie — contact call,’ Henry whispered over his PR.
‘Received,’ comms answered.
He settled back. His stab vest was not the best thing for comfort, especially with the covert cuff/baton/CS harness hanging under his left armpit.
Twenty minutes later he found himself nodding off, the toil of the long hours beginning to play on him. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
‘Shit.’ He took some deep breaths. ‘Not good.’ He sat up and urged himself to keep going. He went ten more minutes before his head fell forwards, the earpiece came out, and he jerked his head upright, rubbed his eyes hard.
Then he sensed something dreadful, but before he could react, his head was yanked backwards and a
knife placed across his throat.
‘Long time, no see,’ Louis Vernon Trent whispered into Henry’s ear. ‘If you move, I’ll slit your throat.’
He could feel the narrow, fiercely sharp blade digging into his skin, not quite cutting the surface. Trent was standing behind him, leaning forward so that his head rested on Henry’s right shoulder. Trent’s breath was warm on his ear, the man’s left hand on Henry’s forehead, holding his head back.
‘This is a good trap,’ Trent said.
‘Yeah, I scream, they all come running.’
‘They being?’
‘Lots of cops.’
Trent thought about this and pressed the knife harder into Henry’s skin. ‘Do you know how long it takes to slit a throat? Before they come, that’s how long it takes … and actually, it’s not that good a trap.’ His voice was quiet, no more than a whisper. He seemed calm and relaxed. In control.
‘Good enough for you.’
‘What, you alone in this house? I don’t think so.’
‘How do you know I’m alone?’
‘Watched you all coming and going. I have a friend next door, nice old lady, until she saw you lot and asked me why all you nasty policemen were raiding my house. Now she’s a dead old friend.’
‘Why come back?’ Henry asked. ‘If you knew we were here?’
‘Need to get my money before leaving. And I knew you were here. Couldn’t resist one last chance to kill you, could I, Henry? I always wanted it to be Danny, but she came to another sticky end, so that’s all right. Just had to have the last word with you.’
‘Ego,’ Henry said.
Trent adjusted his stance slightly, getting a better hold on Henry’s head, the knife digging deeper. It felt sharp and deadly. Henry’s nostrils flared. Just one cut — zip — and he was dead, or at least bleeding to death. ‘Ego?’ he laughed. ‘You’re the one with the ego problem, if you think you can catch me all by yourself, with the nearest help, what, three minutes away. You’ll be dead, I’ll be gone by the time they land, when they realize you haven’t made that last contact call.’
