by Nick Oldham
The next point along the line marked where Lisa had called Henry and the next one indicated where Henry himself had visited Percy’s house, disturbed the killer and then gone sailing.
Henry moved on and looked at his e-fit of the murderer. He looked at it for a long time, wondering if he’d done a good enough job of it.
He had.
There was also an e-fit of a full length portrait of the killer wearing his forensic suit, although Henry doubted it was much use unless he used it as everyday attire.
On the wall opposite were photographs of the crime scene and Henry spent some time looking at these dreadful images, sad at two unnecessary and brutal deaths.
He had reached the bottom of his coffee. He wandered back to his office and sat for a while doing what superintendents do best: thinking, hoping he was doing enough to cover his arse.
He hoped he had the most important things covered and racked his brain to see if he could tease something out he had missed. He rocked forward and stood up, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and on to his own back.
As much as he would have liked to be out and about, knocking on doors – or preferably kicking them down – he knew he had to go back and revisit the relatives of the two murder victims and let them know the results of the post mortems, another of those tasks the SIO had to take on, although Henry knew a few who happily delegated this to others.
Stepping into the MIR he called across to Woodcock, who was writing at one of the desks.
‘Pete – I’m off to visit the parents again, bring ’em up to speed with where it’s at … I’ll do Lottie’s first.’
‘Oh, OK … I could do Archie if you wanted?’
Henry shook his head, already on his way out. ‘No, my job, I’ll sort it,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘after which I’m back to the crime scene.’
Lottie’s family was in deep mourning.
The atmosphere in the house was very grave and Henry felt like an intruder, even though a family liaison officer (FLO) was present, a young police woman who was acting as a conduit between the family and police, but also as an evidence gatherer. Henry chatted to her first and, although she had been well trained to take on the role, she was still inexperienced and just a little tearful. The family’s grief had rubbed off on her.
Henry then spoke to Lottie’s father, this time in the kitchen. He looked to have aged significantly overnight. His eyes were expectant and fearful; the thought of what his daughter’s body had just undergone was terrifying his imagination. Butchered on a slab.
‘It was as we expected,’ Henry said, knowing that the best way through all this was for him to be honest and direct. A ‘cruel to be kind’ scenario. ‘Lottie had been shot through the head, twice. She must have died instantly, as the trauma to the brain from either round would have killed her outright.’
The father said, ‘You were present … at the post mortem?’
‘Yes I was.’
He looked at Henry, nonplussed, trying to form words. ‘Was she … I mean …?’
‘She was treated with dignity and compassion,’ Henry assured him.
‘OK, OK,’ he murmured, this seeming to answer his unspoken question.
‘She would not have suffered,’ Henry said, referring to her death.
‘Except in the time leading up to her death,’ the father said. ‘Then she would have been terrified beyond belief.’
‘Yes,’ Henry said, ‘she would have. I can’t deny that.’
The man nodded.
‘I’m so sorry, but I will get him. Now, Mr Bowers, if it’s all right with you, while I’m here I’d like to take the opportunity to have a look through Lottie’s things, if I may? Up in her room. Just a glance for the moment, but I’d like you to give me permission to take away anything I feel might assist the investigation. I will send someone around a little later to do a more thorough job, though.’
‘You have my permission. There’s nothing to hide, so take what you need.’
There wasn’t much, as far as Henry could see. Her bedroom was fairly typical of a single young woman’s, he guessed, still living at home.
Some traces of childhood and teenage years – a doll, a poster of a pop star – but mostly just a modern feminine looking room. Three-quarter size bed, nice self-assembled furniture, a desk, dressing table, TV and laptop. He would let someone else seize the laptop.
‘This is it,’ her father announced, looking into the room over Henry’s shoulder, then backing away quickly, overcome with emotion. ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ he said in a voice that sounded tearful.
‘Thank you.’
Henry stepped in and closed the door, entering the world of Charlotte – Lottie – Bowers, feeling a bit like a burglar.
As if he was at a crime scene, he jammed his hands into his pockets and simply stood there, taking it all in, letting his eyes do the walking, trying to imagine her there. Back home after a failed marriage, would she still have the same habits as always? Would she keep a diary? Looking at her laptop on the desk, Henry guessed she would be social media savvy, would have Facebook and Twitter accounts, probably. Would have e-mail and could well have other accounts, such as Instagram, maybe. They would all need checking.
Nightmare, Henry thought. Social media sux.
He sat on the tiny office chair at the desk and looked at it. Perfume bottles, nail polishes, nail polish remover … a photo of her and some of her friends in a ‘Forever Friends’ photo frame. A photo of her and Percy stuck on the wall with Blu-tack, looking all loved up.
Henry didn’t touch it, but looked closely at it.
Percy was quite a bit older than her – into his forties – and he’d been quite a bit younger than Lisa, maybe ten years either way. He’d been a toy boy in one relationship and a cradle snatcher in another, even though Lottie was in her thirties.
But they looked like a good couple, a good fit, nothing out of place about them.
Henry’s eyes scanned the desk and behind one of the photo frames he saw a small digital camera. He dragged it towards him, then switched it on.
He wasn’t great with new technology, but even he could manage to find his way around a digital camera and soon started to flick through the photographs stored on it, starting with the most recent first, then going backwards in time.
The first of the photos were of her and Percy, a vast array of those ‘couple’ photos taken when they hug each other and one or the other of them, arm extended, takes the picture. Lots of smiles and laughing. Having a great time photos.
Then Henry came across a few photographs of a fishing boat … he thought the type of boat he was looking at was called a sportfisher, but couldn’t be certain. He had no great knowledge of anything maritime, as his excursion into Morecambe Bay had adequately demonstrated. And he liked to be fishing with his feet firmly on the ground.
Quite a few of the shots were of a marina which looked very nice, crowded with row upon row of very sleek, expensive looking power boats and sportfishers. The whole place looked extremely plush and wealthy.
He went through the photographs slowly.
A few were of Percy and Lottie, arms around each other, on the deck of a fishing boat – Henry now knew it was a fishing boat, because he could see fishing rods stacked up … sometimes he amazed himself that he could put such clues together. And quite a few of these photos were obviously taken by a third person.
There were more photos of the boat itself, one of which was taken from the quayside where the boat was moored. It showed the back end of the boat and its name emblazoned across it and its port of origin.
The boat was called Silverfin and the port was Key West.
So the trip to Florida the couple had taken, Henry put together brilliantly, was to do some sea fishing. Did they catch marlin and huge tuna fish from Key West, Henry half-recalled? He had studied Hemingway at school and seemed to think that the writer had lived in Key West at some stage in his life and had owned a fishing boat there.
Percy did not strike Henry as being an angler.
Maybe it had been one of those secret ambitions but, if the business was floundering, wasn’t it a bit of an extravagance to zip over to Florida to treat his girlfriend to some deep sea fishing? Henry sighed and continued to flick through the photos, then stopped at one and peered at it.
He knew enough about digital cameras to be able to focus in on sections of the screen and enlarge them.
The photograph that had piqued his interest was the only one so far in which there was someone else other than the couple. It was a shot of Lottie standing on the deck of Silverfin and behind her was the cockpit of the boat with the wheel and the instrument panel behind it.
Bending over and giving a shadowy profile to the camera was a man dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, a baseball cap on his head.
He looked familiar.
Henry angled his head at the camera and peered closely at him. The photo wasn’t all that clear, he was just a guy in the background behind Lottie, in the darkness of the cockpit, not focused on, just the usual collateral damage in an innocent photograph. Probably a crew member.
Yet … he looked familiar to Henry, although he knew this could not be the case. Henry simply did not know anyone in Florida. Full stop. Yet … he tried to enlarge it again, but it didn’t seem to help.
Frustrated, Henry flicked the button so the screen returned to normal, and in the corner of the same photograph he saw the edge of what looked very much like a bicycle wheel, which also seemed slightly odd. He didn’t get time to ponder as his mobile phone rang and he answered it immediately, not checking the caller ID, still looking at the photograph of Lottie’s happy face.
‘Henry Christie,’ he said.
‘Henry – where the hell are you?’ It was DCI Pete Woodcock, his voice sounding urgent, and Henry could hear footfalls and heavy breathing.
‘Lottie’s parents.’
‘Good … look, I’m on foot, Blackpool town centre … ditched my car … certain I’ve just spotted a guy who’s a dead ringer for your e-fit of the murderer we’re after … got patrols closing in … it’s all over the PR.’
‘On my way,’ Henry snapped.
He took totally inappropriate leave of Lottie’s parents’ house, saying he was sorry but he had to rush, that he’d borrowed her camera and would return with a receipt if that was OK. He hadn’t waited for an answer, just tore rudely out through the front door and leapt into his car, which then screeched down the avenue.
Lottie’s family lived in the village of Singleton, not too far away from Blackpool, and within a minute Henry was on the A586, Garstang Road, heading west towards the resort.
As he drove, he reached into the glove compartment, fished out his personal radio and switched it on, hoping the battery was charged up. It was, and the radio was already tuned into Blackpool’s frequency; the first voice he heard was that of Woodcock, directing operations. Henry visualized his location: somewhere near to the railway station, Blackpool North.
‘Exchange Street,’ Woodcock was transmitting. ‘Last sighting, Exchange Street, walking in the direction of the town centre.’ He sounded out of breath.
‘Alpha Six, got that,’ a mobile patrol shouted up. ‘Dickinson Road, heading to the town centre.’
One of the town centre foot patrols shouted up that he was on Springfield Road, which Henry knew wasn’t far away from Exchange Street. There was a good chance that if the suspect was going in that direction he could well end up in that particular cop’s arms.
Henry called up, driving one-handed, his Audi touching seventy. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie, presently Garstang Road, direction of the town centre. What’s the description of this man?’ he demanded. ‘And patrols to be aware that if this is our suspect, he is extremely dangerous and will not hesitate to injure a police officer.’
Woodcock piped up, ‘Six foot, medium build, short brown hair, wearing a brown zip-up leather jacket, blue jeans, trainers.’
‘Roger that,’ the comms operator acknowledged.
A series of mobile patrols also acknowledged receipt of this information.
‘No sign Exchange Street,’ Woodcock gasped.
‘Nor Springfield Road,’ the officer on foot said.
‘A patrol needs to make for the railway station,’ Henry butted in. He had weaved through the traffic, zapped cheekily around the busy roundabout at Little Carleton and was speeding down Westcliffe Drive, only minutes from the railway station himself.
Woodcock shouted up, his footfalls pounding as he ran, ‘I’m at the station now … I’ll check it out.’
‘Be careful,’ Henry said.
‘Roger.’
‘Alpha Six, I’ll continue towards town, check out the bus station.’
The foot patrol said, ‘I’ll do High Street, Talbot Road area.’
Henry powered on and then he was at the top of Talbot Road, driving towards the centre, having slowed right down and adopted cop cruise mode. His eyes searched hard, looked at every single person.
Woodcock chirped up over the radio, ‘In the railway station.’ Then, ‘No sign.’
Henry felt deflated. He called up comms. ‘How many more patrols do we have free and within a couple of minutes of the town?’
He knew that people being chased could disappear very quickly and time was critical. The longer it took to get cops to the area, the less chance of a result.
‘Just two town centre foot patrols and one more mobile.’
‘Roger … keep them deployed in the area for at least another fifteen minutes if possible … DCI Woodcock, location?’
‘Railway station.’
‘One minute.’
Henry caught up with him on the concourse outside the station. He was doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping, red-faced.
‘I mean … I couldn’t be exactly certain … I was on Dickinson Road, saw the guy out of the corner of my eye … looked just like the e-fit. Time I turned round, he’d scarpered. I combed the streets, then spotted him on Exchange Street, then got blocked by a bin wagon. Ditched the car, ran … fucking lost him … sorry, boss.’
‘You win some,’ Henry said. ‘I wonder why he was walking around the town centre.’
‘Dunno, I’m just sorry I couldn’t grab him …’
‘He’s likely to be elusive … he won’t be easy to nail or catch.’ But why was he strolling around town? Henry wondered again. Was it possible he had digs around here? It wasn’t unknown for felons to get their heads down in some grotty bedsit in Blackpool.
‘That’s if it was him,’ Woodcock said. ‘Bloody looked like him.’
Henry gazed around. ‘Any CCTV in this part of town?’
‘No,’ Woodcock said sharply. Then more softly, ‘No … don’t think so.’
‘Pity … just check to see if there is. You never know … could strike lucky.’ Henry patted the DCI on the shoulders. ‘Never mind, mate.’
Having got his breath back, Woodcock stood upright and asked, ‘How did you go on at Lottie’s?’
‘Er … not sure really … got some recent photos on a digital camera which I’ll get printed and enlarged … might be nothing.’
‘And old man Archie?’
‘Didn’t get round to see him. Might be tomorrow now … I’ll give you a lift back to your car.’
TWELVE
Steve Flynn was naked.
He stood in the centre of the cell.
The door opened and he glared at the gaoler, who noted the expression and hesitated slightly.
‘Señor,’ the gaoler said, tossing a bundle on to the floor. ‘Put these on.’
Flynn glanced down at what looked like a roll of rags, then devilishly back at the gaoler, who retreated quick-time and slammed the cell door shut, leaving Flynn alone in the semi-darkness, the only light cast by a dim, flickering bulb behind toughened frosted glass over the door.
He picked up the pile. It was a very old pair of prison dungarees and they looked
as if they hadn’t seen washing powder for years. They were grey to start with, a slash of hi-viz neon yellow across the chest and back, and the lack of cleaning did nothing to help that colour.
Flynn peered into the crutch. It was soiled, marked with dried shit.
Much of Flynn’s self-respect had already evaporated with the invasive strip search he’d had to endure and to some extent he was past caring, but there was no way he was going to dress in shit-soiled clothing. His own had been seized for scientific examination and he would probably never see it again, he assumed.
He dropped the dungarees, stepped over to the wall and jammed the heel of his hand on the ‘call’ button set into the cell wall, and didn’t release it. He could hear it ringing somewhere in the cell complex.
‘At least it’s annoying someone,’ he muttered, his rage starting to rise again.
Footsteps approached along the cell corridor, then the inspection flap in the cell door clattered open and the round, moustachioed face of the gaoler appeared. ‘Si?’
Flynn pointed at the dungarees and said, ‘Not. Wearing. Them. Shit. On. Them.’ Then he added, ‘Sucio,’ meaning ‘dirty’.
The gaoler pouted. ‘Y?’
‘Limpio – por favor,’ Flynn said. Clean, please.
The gaoler harrumphed with annoyance. ‘Por qué?’
‘Porque sucio.’
The hatch slid up and slammed shut. Then the gaoler’s footsteps began to recede and Flynn slammed his hand back on the call button again – but this time nothing happened. The gaoler had obviously deactivated the button from the outside of the cell.
‘Bastard,’ he hissed and started to smash the side of his fist on the cell door, but eventually gave up, twisted his back to the cell wall and slithered down so his naked buttocks were on the cold, hard concrete floor. He rested his forehead on his drawn-up knees and wrapped his arms around his shins.
Having arrived at the police station in Puerto Rico he had been almost instantly transferred to the main police station for the island in Las Palmas where he had been roughly manhandled throughout the whole process, but acquiesced silently with the farce that was his arrest and detention. Then his clothing had been taken from him, he’d been full body searched – which included having to part his arse cheeks and display his anus to the searching officers – then been tossed into a stinking cell, the toilet in which was blocked with evil smelling faeces and toilet paper.
