by Nick Oldham
‘Nothing really, but I enjoyed it, fuck did I enjoy it.’ Barlow’s eyes glazed over as he recalled the killing. ‘We all did.’
Henry felt sick.
Rik drove the CID car through the streets of Blackpool like a maniac and arrived at the Bispham address in minutes, before even the second of the two mobile patrols who had called up. One double-crewed car was there already, pulled up outside the house. A uniformed constable rushed to him, his face ashen.
‘What’ve we got?’ Rik asked, climbing quickly out of the car and walking with the officer.
‘It’s not nice. Two women, one the owner of the house, don’t know who the other is yet. Looks like they’ve both been shot in the head.’
‘Let’s see,’ Rik said. The officer led him to the front door and paused. ‘We’ve been in and out through this door and down the hallway only,’ he explained to Rik. ‘That’s as far as we’ve gone. Just looked into the kitchen and not in any of the other rooms yet.’ He was saying this because he was thinking of scene preservation.
‘Good.’ Rik followed him inside. At the kitchen door, the PC stood aside and allowed Rik to look in. He caught his breath as he saw the bodies and the blood, lots of blood from terrible head wounds sustained by both women, almost now covering the kitchen floor. His eyes roved expertly around the room, just a normal, well-equipped kitchen. Nice, but nothing special. Except for the death it now hosted.
Then he saw something on the tiled floor by the sink unit. A white laminated card, maybe an inch and a half wide, three inches long. And even from where he stood at the kitchen door, Rik could see the Lancashire Constabulary crest on it.
Although wary of spoiling any evidence, Rik stepped across the first body, tiptoeing on tiled areas free from blood, and picked up the card.
It was Henry Christie’s police warrant card.
NINETEEN
They crawled along the A6 into Lancaster, a city where traffic probably moved even more slowly than London.
‘I don’t want you to park on the police station car park,’ Barlow said. ‘Pull up on Marton Street, outside the nick, and we’ll use the public entrance for a quick in and out. The inspector’s office is just on the corridor behind the enquiry desk and that’s where the safe is. We walk in, acting all natural, you get the inspector to open up, you sign the property out, then we leave. Seriously, Henry, we’re in and out in five minutes and if you do or say anything ridiculous, she will die – that’s the pay-off for any stupidity. Do I make myself clear?’
Henry shrugged as the car hit the roundabout at the southern tip of the city – known as Pointer Island – and then headed down South Road into Lancaster proper. He took the offside lane at the traffic lights outside the hospital, then moved across again to bear right into Penny Street then first right on to Marton Street, at the end of which stood the crumbling nick that was Lancaster Police station, not the best-looking building in the world and continually in need of refurbishment.
Access to the public enquiry office was via steps and a ramp off the street and although there were double yellow lines, Henry parked up as instructed. In the rear-view mirror he saw the Mercedes pull in fifty metres behind.
‘What if we get a ticket? The traffic wardens are pretty keen around here,’ Henry said.
‘Getting a parking ticket is the least of your worries, Henry,’ Barlow said. ‘What we do is go in and tell the public enquiry assistant behind the counter that the car’s staying here for five minutes, just so she knows, and then we go in and do the business.’
‘OK – get out and let’s go do.’ He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, keeping hold of it with his right hand.
‘Don’t blow your foot off,’ Henry said. ‘No, sorry – please blow your foot off.’
Barlow shook his head at Henry and said, ‘Move, funny guy.’
Henry got out and the two men entered the station. There was no one in the foyer, but a PEA was leaning on the desk, filling in some forms. She looked up and smiled at Barlow. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, Jane.’ He sidled up to her in a curiously intimate way, reminding Henry of himself a little. Jack the lad, streetwise detective. ‘Just in a bit of a rush, so we left the car on the double-yellows.’ He pointed outside. ‘We’ll be about five minutes, tops . . . but we need a quick getaway.’
‘I’ll keep nicks,’ she said conspiratorially.
‘Buzz us in, will you?’ he asked. She reached under the desk and pressed the button that unlocked the entrance door. Barlow pushed it open and allowed Henry through ahead of him.
Mobile phone in hand, Flynn was sitting in the mortuary office with Professor Baines. There was still no reply from Henry and while this wasn’t a problem he was beginning to find it increasingly odd due to the nature of the fast-moving investigation Henry was in charge of: surely it was incumbent on the SIO to remain readily available. Going off and being a lone wolf was all well and good – and he had no doubt Henry was capable of doing that – but not at this moment in time.
‘Ah well,’ he sighed, ‘best get going.’
‘Henry needs to know about this,’ Baines insisted. He pointed to the tooth on his desk. ‘Discovering the crime scene will be crucial in this case.’
‘I know,’ Flynn said. ‘I wonder if it might be worth bobbing into Lancaster nick. Maybe they have another number for him, or might know of his whereabouts.’
‘Good idea.’
Flynn had walked out to Alison’s car and seeing it, he had a minor brainwave. He sat in it and dialled the landline number of the Tawny Owl. Perhaps he’d contacted Alison and spoken to her recently.
The number rang out for a while and he was just about to hang up when a slightly breathless voice answered, ‘Tawny Owl, Kendleton.’
It wasn’t Alison, but Flynn recognized Ginny’s girlie voice. ‘Hi, Gin, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’
‘Oh, Steve, I’m really glad you called.’
‘Problem?’
‘Have you still got Mum’s car?’
‘Yes, actually. Does she need it back? Sorry.’
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ she said. Flynn noted a slight tremor in her tone.
‘What, then?’
‘If she had the car back and it wasn’t here, I’d know she was out in it. As it is I don’t know where she is.’
Flynn frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know she got up this morning soon after Henry left for work and she did some stuff down in the cellar. Then she got the kitchen fired up and made herself a brew . . . and now I don’t know where she is. It’s like she disappeared, vanished. And the brew is half-drunk on the bar and her toast is still here, cold.’
‘Is your car still there? She hasn’t gone off in that, has she?’
‘No – it’s still here.’
‘Perhaps she went off with Henry.’
‘No – he definitely went to work alone.’
Flynn pouted. ‘Has she popped into the village for some supplies?’
‘I don’t think so. We don’t need anything – and I do that, anyway.’
‘Have you spoken to Henry, just in case?’
‘I tried his mobile, but there was no reply.’
‘Right – OK,’ Flynn said, frown deepening. ‘First off, don’t worry. There’s probably a simple explanation, but if you like I could come across. I’m just in Lancaster now at a bit of a loose end.’ And a shop to open and run, he thought.
‘Please . . . I’m a bit worried. It’s not like her just to disappear.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Flynn assured her. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.’ He swung his legs into the car and started the engine, reversing out of the parking slot.
They waited in the inspector’s office for the duty inspector to make his way up from the custody suite where he had been tied up doing prisoner reviews. His name was Drummond, a fine name for a fine man who did a good job and had no ambitions beyond that role. Henry had known him for a long time and Drummond nodded pleasantly at him
, but came up short when he saw Barlow. His eyes narrowed fractionally. No doubt news of the arrest would have spread quickly, but of the release perhaps not too fast.
‘Hi, Jack,’ Barlow said affably.
‘Ralph,’ Drummond nodded unsurely.
‘We’ve come to pick up some property from the safe,’ Barlow explained. Henry noticed his right hand was still in his jacket pocket, holding the gun, but trying to appear calm and normal. Henry wanted to believe that this was the weak point, but he felt powerless to act, to rush Barlow and pin the fucker to the wall. He knew he could and if he had been alone in this shitty mess he would have done. Alison, he called, I’ll sort this. Be brave.
Barlow went on, ‘It’ll be marked for Detective Superintendent Christie only. It’s a mobile phone and some passports.’
Drummond nodded. ‘Yeah, I know – a support unit sergeant booked it in earlier.’ He had a set of heavy looking keys on a detachable fob linked to his leather belt. He unhooked them and selected one, a long, but sturdy one.
The big old safe was in the back corner of the room, not fixed to anything, but unlikely that it would ever move. It was far too heavy and would need specialist lifting equipment to drag it anywhere. It was used mainly to keep any monies that came into police possession and other small valuable items. Most everything else went into the property store.
Drummond bent down and slotted the key in the lock.
Barlow grinned at Henry. ‘You OK?’ he mouthed.
‘Fuck off,’ Henry mouthed back.
The safe door opened easily and the inspector pulled out the items, plus a single, cut-off Wellington boot. Henry swallowed at the sight of this and felt his fists bunch up. The phone and the passports were in separate envelopes across which had been written ‘To be handed to Det. Supt Christie ONLY’. Drummond ripped them open.
He handed the property – seven passports, mobile phone and boot – across to Barlow, still eyeing him suspiciously. ‘You need to sign for it all.’ Drummond gave Barlow the form, which he in turn handed to Henry.
‘You’ll be wanting to sign this, boss.’
‘I don’t have a pen,’ Henry said awkwardly.
‘Here.’ Drummond gave him one from his shirt pocket. Henry signed the form.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Barlow said. ‘We need to get going now. Bodies to deal with.’ It was the sort of thing any cop might have said, but to Henry the words sounded ominous: whose bodies?
They walked out of the office and down the corridor. Henry saw Barlow drop the boot into a waste bin, something else so disrespectful to the dead that a shiver of horror went through him. Then they exited through the enquiry office door.
Once in the foyer, Barlow spun to the lady behind the desk who was now dealing with a member of the public.
‘All quiet, love?’ he asked her.
‘No sign of the yellow peril,’ she confirmed.
Henry went ahead of Barlow out to the car and walked around to the driver’s door, where he paused and leaned on the roof with his forearms.
The Mercedes was still there. Barlow gave the occupants a quick nod and said to Henry, ‘Get in.’
Henry stared in the direction of the Mercedes. Someone sounded an angry blast of a horn further down the street and it looked as though a car had pulled up without warning in front of another car, causing a problem.
Henry got in, as did Barlow.
‘That was nice ’n’ easy, wasn’t it, Henry?’
‘Jack Drummond wasn’t happy. He’ll be making phone calls now, you know. He’s not stupid.’
‘Fuck him. Drive,’ Barlow ordered and drew the gun out of his pocket. ‘Head north.’
Henry started the car, checked his mirrors and over his shoulder and set off. The Mercedes moved out to follow.
Flynn drove off the mortuary car park and onto the A588, where he turned left up to Pointer Island. The traffic seemed worse than normal, irritating him. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been a traffic jam in Puerto Rico, although it did have its moments.
His mobile phone rang and he answered it, securing it between his right shoulder and ear.
‘Flynn, it’s Rik again. Have you made contact with Henry yet?’
‘Tried but failed. I think he’s gone AWOL.’
‘Shit.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
Flynn edged forwards in the car and was two cars away from the roundabout. It was then he saw a car he knew pull onto the roundabout from the A6 and sail past him, some fifty metres away and then onto South Road towards the city.
Flynn said quickly, ‘Isn’t that DI Barlow supposed to be in custody?’
‘Ahh . . . why do you ask?’
‘Answer the question, Rik.’
‘He got released first thing this morning, as did Sunderland. Nothing to do with Henry. A done deal. Again, why?’
The word Fiasco rang in Flynn’s ears.
‘Because Henry’s just driven past me towards Lancaster – and Barlow’s sat right beside him. What going on, Rik?’
‘Double murder in Bispham,’ Rik said succinctly. ‘Two females, one of which is Joe Speakman’s daughter, Melanie. The other is her friend. Both shot in the head – and Henry’s warrant card was found at the scene.’
Flynn reached the roundabout, zipped around a more sedate driver and gunned Alison’s car down South Road, but was immediately caught up in more snail traffic at the red lights outside the front of the hospital – and he had lost sight of Henry.
He still had the phone to his ear. ‘You still there, Rik?’
‘Still here.’
‘I’ve lost him.’
‘Shit – try the nick.’
‘Will do. Oh, by the way, don’t know if this is significant, but Alison’s gone missing this morning. Henry’s Alison, that is. Done a disappearing trick. I’ll call you back.’ He cut the connection.
The lights seemed to stay on red for ever, but it was far too busy for Flynn to do anything rash, like race down the wrong side of the street against two lanes of oncoming vehicles.
Instead, he had to wait. Then they changed and he tailgated the car in front through the lights, veered into the outside lane on King Street, and then bore right into Penny Street and next sharp right into Marton Street where he almost ran into the back of a black Mercedes parked illegally on the double yellow lines on the left. He swerved, drove on and saw that Henry’s classy pool car was parked just as illegally on the double yellow lines outside the police station.
Flynn winced, not quite able to make a decision, but by the time he did he was at the junction at the one-way system again and because of vehicles behind him, he had nowhere to go but forward and edged out into the traffic stream again.
He cursed and picked his mobile phone up from the dashboard, where it was wedged. He didn’t have Rik’s number, so he had to go through the rigmarole of finding the ‘recently received’ calls menu to unearth it, then call him back. By which time he had moved a good twenty metres. Progress was not good.
‘Yeah, Flynn,’ Rik answered quickly.
‘The pool car’s parked outside the nick . . . I couldn’t find anywhere to park up, so I’m looping back round to see if I can on this run.’
‘Right . . . Flynn, what the hell’s going on?’ Rik asked.
‘That question gives me a feeling of déjà vu,’ Flynn said. ‘I don’t know, is the answer . . . but nothing pleasant, I suspect. Why the hell would he be with Barlow?’
He was back at the junction with King Street again, and moving slowly north, into Sun Street, then ninety degrees right into Marton Street again, at which point the motorist in front of him jammed on his brakes and came to a sudden, unexpected stop, obviously unsure where he was going. Flynn almost upended Alison’s car as he slammed the brakes on.
Up ahead he saw Barlow and Henry emerge from the police-station door and go to the pool car. Henry walked around it and leaned on the roof, talking across to Barlow, looking back down the street in F
lynn’s direction.
Flynn honked his horn at the guy in front, who still hadn’t made up his mind. The man’s arm appeared through his window and he gave Flynn the middle-finger salute. Flynn pipped again.
The car edged forwards and Flynn could not decide what the bugger was up to – and then it kangarooed to a stalled stop.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Flynn said and he saw now that Henry had got into the car with Barlow and was moving off and joining the traffic Flynn had just left. And behind was the black Mercedes.
Flynn was trapped. He crunched the car into reverse, lurched backwards, stopping only an inch from the car behind, which honked with an angry warning. He gave a ‘sorry’ wave, spun the wheel, mounted the footpath with two wheels and passed the dithering car driver.
By the time he reached the junction, Henry was just turning right, heading north up through the city.
Flynn pushed the nose of the car into the junction, but no one was willing to give way, so he simply barged out, causing a concertina of braking cars and a cacophony of horns which made it sound more like Rome than a Lancashire town.
Even though he had forced his way in, he was still restricted by the sheer volume of traffic. The only way he could have made quick progress would have been to get all four wheels on the footpath this time and mow down a bunch of pesky pedestrians.
Instead he had to seethe.
There was no way, either, that Henry could rush through the morning traffic, and its slowness was compounded by a set of roadworks on the one-way system that for about a hundred metres reduced two lanes into one and almost brought everything to a halt.
Not that he was rushing. He was purposely going as slowly as he could, not taking any advantage of gaps, but crawled deliberately, feeling a surge of positivity in him because he had seen Flynn in Alison’s car and for a moment longer than necessary he had kept his face turned towards him in the hope that Flynn would see him. Surely he had.
