Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  He had started at the bottom end and Blackburn had been a superb training ground for someone like him. Drunks were available all the time, day or night; shoplifters seemed to queue up to be arrested; there were assaults every day, mass fights spilling out of the clubs. It was great. He aimed for an arrest a day and on one occasion, following a brawl in a town centre pub which went on and on, Henry arrested ten people.

  It was like shelling peas.

  For a young cop with lots of energy, they were wonderful days.

  Gradually he moved on to the more complex stuff when he was given a mobile beat covering one of the town’s largest council estates. Then he began targeting burglars and one arrest, with which he was justifiably chuffed, resulted in 235 offences being taken into consideration.

  His goal was to become a detective and in those days, the late 1970s, early 80s, one of the best stepping stones on to CID was via the uniformed Task Force, a mobile crime patrol used to target crime across the county and to assist in major investigations.

  Task Force was on its last legs, though, and was due to be disbanded because of force restructuring. That did not deter Henry from doing his best to get on, and although rumours of its demise stated it would not last until the end of 1982, Henry managed to get a transfer on to the department at the beginning of that year. He was determined to enjoy it as best he could, short-lived though his time on it might be.

  He was one of the last officers to join and the first thing he did was to get a clothing requisition signed by his sergeant and then race to HQ clothing stores and claim his car coat – a short cut gaberdine issued only to TF members. It was like a badge of honour, issued only to the elite (as they saw themselves, smugly) and Henry wore it with pride. It was one of the few items of uniform he owned over twenty-five years later, stuffed away in the loft of his house.

  His only problem was that a move on to TF also meant a move from Blackburn to be based in Rawtenstall, from where the crime car operated. He was living in digs in Blackburn, being cared for by a little old lady who loved young cops – in a motherly way, of course. Henry travelled daily across to the Rossendale Valley to start with, but to save time, he found a small, damp flat near Rawtenstall town centre, which he shared with another PC on TF, by the name of Terry Briggs.

  Life as a cop continued to be fantastic.

  Henry found himself working around the county regularly on several high-profile investigations, including the infamous Mr Asia murder case, as well as around Rossendale and Accrington on general crime patrol.

  He spent a lot of time assisting detectives, although he did try to avoid the DI who was based in the valley, one Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, who was later to become the Chief Constable of Lancashire. At that time he was a rotund, sweaty individual, who barked orders, blew smoke into people’s faces, belittled anyone who disagreed with him and rode roughshod over feelings, rules and regulations, as it suited him. In those days, that was how DIs could operate and get away with it.

  Little did Henry know that their love–hate relationship would begin in the valley and continue throughout his career. At that time he did his best to steer clear of FB, as people called him, whilst doing as much for other detectives as possible.

  It was the summer of 1982.

  The summer when the little girl went missing.

  The briefing was at 8 a.m.

  Arriving early, Henry made his way up to the refreshment room on the first floor of Rawtenstall Police Station, now commandeered as the incident room in the hunt for the girl.

  He was first to arrive and spent some time looking at the walls, which were covered in charts and photographs, detailing all the information known about the last movements of the girl, her family, possible suspects, everything the police knew. Except what had actually happened to her, and where she, or her body, was.

  There was a school photograph of her on the wall.

  Her name was Jenny Colville and she’d been missing a week by the time the inquiry really got under way and the police took her disappearance seriously. Par for the course in those days.

  Henry looked at the list of possible suspects.

  Today, it was rumoured, would be the day when they would be rounded up for questioning. He wondered which one he would be asked to pull.

  An arm shot past his shoulder and two stubby fingers with a cigarette trapped between them tapped on one of the names.

  ‘That one.’

  Henry looked round. FB was standing behind him. He took his hand away from the list and took a deep drag of the cigarette, exhaling the smoke up towards the ceiling. Henry coughed slightly.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ FB said, squinting through the smoke. ‘Anyway, my money’s on that toerag,’ he said, nodding at the list on the wall.

  ‘Why’s that, boss?’

  FB took another drag. ‘Gut feeling.’

  Henry blinked. ‘Do we need a bit more than that?’

  ‘OK, he’s a perv. Been done for exposing himself to kids, indecent assault, and last year he tried grabbing a little girl off the street. Well,’ he said dubiously, ‘I know it was him, but I couldn’t prove it … but he’s my favourite.’ FB raised his eyebrows. ‘You wanna bring him in for me?’

  Henry did not want to seem to hesitate, not particularly liking FB, nor his total reliance on gut instinct. Something more concrete was reassuring.

  ‘Arrest him, you mean?’

  FB looked at the young PC as if he was an idiot. ‘Coax him in … for a cosy chat, eh?’

  A telephone on a desk rang. FB waddled towards it, but his body was twisted in Henry’s direction, his two cigarette-bearing fingers pointing at him. ‘I hear you’ve got a bit of a nose.’ He picked up the phone. ‘DI here.’

  As he listened to what was being said, his eyes rested on Henry.

  ‘Where … who by? Exact location? OK, I’m on my way.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘They’ve found a body … you got a car?’ Henry nodded. ‘Let’s go then. Briefing’s cancelled.’

  The A6177, Grane Road, threads across the high moors between Haslingden in Rossendale, to Blackburn. In winter it can be impassable, in summer glorious, but always bleak and beautiful.

  Directed by FB, Henry drove on to Grane Road and towards Blackburn, climbing steadily, passing the two large reservoirs on the left-hand side before the road twisted slightly and on the right was a car park and visitor centre for the more adventurous souls who liked to don walking boots and brave the elements.

  As they drew into the car park, Henry saw the liveried section vehicle, a Ford Escort, still called a Panda Car for some reason, even though the stripes had long since gone. A uniformed PC was talking animatedly to a pretty young lady, dressed for the outdoors, accompanied by a shaggy Golden Retriever. Henry drove up to the pair, stopped and both he and FB climbed out of the maroon coloured Vauxhall Victor, which was the favoured car of Task Force.

  Henry recognized the PC. He was a fairly grizzled old-timer, stationed at Haslingden. They nodded at each other, but Henry’s eyes were drawn to the female dog-walker. She was seriously pretty on close inspection and Henry’s usually wayward heart missed a couple of beats.

  ‘OK, what’ve we got?’ FB blustered.

  The PC, whose name was Stanforth, said, ‘This young lady’s been walking her dog on the hillside, came back down through these trees’ – he pointed to the pine trees surrounding the car park – ‘and she spotted some clothing in the undergrowth by the path. Her dog was off the lead …’

  FB cut the PC short with a chopping motion of the side of his hand. ‘Let’s let her tell, shall we?’ He turned smarmily to the woman. ‘Hello, I’m DI Bayley’ – in those days he did not use the Fanshaw in his double-barrelled name; it was only as he moved up the ranks and further up his own backside that he started using it again – ‘I’m from Rawtenstall nick.’ He smiled – leered – at her. ‘Now, don’t get all upset or anything, love, but what happened here? Y’can tell me, I’m head of CID round here.’

  ‘Oh
, that’s nice,’ she said, amused and unimpressed.

  ‘What’s your name, love, by the way?’

  ‘Kate Marsden.’ She smiled at Henry, who had to catch his breath.

  ‘And what’ve you seen, Kate?’

  ‘Well …’ she began.

  ‘I want you’ – FB jabbed his cigarette-holding fingers at Henry – ‘to take this young lady home and get a comprehensive statement from her. You got that? Everything … and then I want her clothing parcelled for forensic, OK?’

  For the first and last time in his life, Henry wanted to give FB a great big hug.

  FB spun around and left them. The circus had arrived and there was now a great deal of police activity on the car park and the surrounding woods.

  ‘I didn’t really see much,’ Kate, the witness, said.

  ‘Your evidence is vital,’ Henry insisted. ‘Like the boss said, I’ll need to get a detailed statement from you.’ In one of the strangest sensations he had ever felt, Henry found himself gasping for breath, even though he hadn’t been exerting himself.

  She smiled at him. His knees, literally, turned to weak rubber. ‘Your place or mine?’ she said playfully.

  Henry’s mouth opened and closed like a dumb goldfish.

  She smiled again. ‘You follow me in my car.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ he gabbled.

  Kate Marsden turned and walked away, her dog at one heel and Henry Christie at the other.

  Henry’s life in Rossendale since moving into the flat off the town centre had been all work and play, nothing in between. He worked, he played; he caught criminals, he got drunk, ate poorly, chased women and had sex coming out of his ears – then he chased more criminals. The social scene for young cops was amazing, but eventually, it started to wear him down a little because it was so relentless.

  But in Kate Marsden, a girl who worked for an insurance brokerage, Henry found some stability, though the morning after the discovery of the girl’s body, the only thing he had found with Kate Marsden was exhaustion. They had easily fallen into each other’s mindset.

  Henry had taken the witness statement as directed. Done it long and slow, drawn out every last detail, every last word, just because he didn’t want to say goodbye.

  It had been Kate who finally smiled at him and said, ‘Honestly, I don’t think I can say anything else. You’ve drained me dry.’

  She was more and more stunning the more time he spent in her company. Her young beauty grew on him. Her slightly crooked smile, one slightly misaligned tooth, the slight kink at the end of her nose … all those trifling off-centre things went to make her gorgeous in Henry’s eyes and he knew he couldn’t let go of her … but how to keep her? He was immaturely clueless at that point.

  ‘Right,’ he said collecting the statement forms, ‘thanks.’ He stood up. They were in the kitchen of Kate’s family home in Haslingden where she lived with her parents. It was a big, detached house with a huge garden. Her parents were out. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  She walked him to the front door, pausing in the hallway.

  She was tiny in comparison to him, and, having removed her walking clothes, which Henry had bagged up as instructed, and changed into jeans and a tee-shirt, Henry saw everything was just about right, where it should be.

  ‘Um, er …’ he said, lost for words.

  Her eyes caught his, held them.

  ‘Are you going to ask me out?’ she asked cheekily. ‘I’m between boys.’

  Stunned, Henry garbled, ‘Will-you-go-out-with-me?’

  ‘Only after I’ve tested the merchandise,’ her voice said, husky all of a sudden. She tiptoed up, placed a hand at the back f his neck and pulled his face towards hers …

  ‘PC Christie!’

  Henry’s head shot up as he was dragged remorselessly back into the real world of the morning briefing of the night before, possibly the most glorious night of sex he had ever had in his short, penis-driven life.

  He had managed to drag himself out of bed to make it to the hastily rearranged briefing at 8 a.m. on the morning after the discovery of the girl’s body.

  Henry knew he had fallen in love.

  He looked at the stern face of the DI.

  ‘You’re away with the fairies, laddie,’ FB said to the amusement of the rest of the people in the smoke-filled room. ‘Still on the job?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘No, sorry,’ Henry spluttered, his face red.

  ‘Right,’ FB said. He took the last, deep drag of his ciggy and mashed it into an ashtray. ‘You lot queue up for your jobs. PC Christie, you and me have some unfinished business to attend to.’

  ‘Right, boss.’ Henry stifled a yawn and wondered if his new lady friend had managed to drag herself out of his bed.

  Five minutes later they were in the Vauxhall heading towards Haslingden, the most westerly town in Rossendale. Henry was at the wheel, FB in the passenger seat, constantly readjusting himself in his underpants.

  ‘Wife’s got me these newfangled boxer shorts,’ he moaned. ‘Can’t keep the bloody tackle in … need my usual ones, my Y fronts … so bloody uncomfortable, these fuckers.’

  ‘So what’s the cause of death? Any inkling yet?’

  ‘The PM’s at noon today, but early indications are strangulation and sexual assault.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait until that’s done?’ Henry suggested meekly. ‘I take it the guy we’re off to see is the one we were going for yesterday?’

  ‘I wanna rattle this guy’s cage, get into his rubs, get him sweating.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows. It seemed half-cocked to him, bull in a china shop, but he shrugged mentally. FB was the boss and had a reputation for taking that bull by the horns and shaking the shit out of it. Unpleasant though the man was, he did get results.

  ‘Now the body’s been found, he’ll be on pins, waiting for us to hit his drum.’

  Henry drove on to a council estate called Longshoot.

  ‘Everything’s fallen into place with him,’ FB went on, making further adjustments. ‘Firstly, he has a van and he works in a mill over in Blackburn … uses the Grane Road everyday, so he knows it well. He’s got pre-cons, as I said. Fairly minor stuff, but it’s starting to escalate … and he’s related to the dead girl’s mother, a cousin or something.’

  Henry nodded, pulled to a stop in front of the address FB had given him.

  As he did twenty-seven years later, all these historical thoughts having tumbled through his mind since leaving Ken, the car salesman, in the pub. The memories were still sharp, even now. The dead girl … meeting Kate for the first time … FB and his horrendous macho ways – which had not changed much in the intervening years, just his ability to hide them – and the way in which the police operated with ruthlessness.

  Robert Fossard came to the door bleary-eyed, dressed just in a pair of jeans. Behind him were his wife and ten-year-old son, drawn to the door by the presence of a uniformed cop and a detective.

  ‘Robert Fossard?’ FB had asked.

  ‘Yeah, what?’ Fossard scowled.

  ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder – how does that sound?’

  ‘What the fuck you on about?’

  ‘Jenny Colville – abducted and murdered – and I’m locking you up for it. You’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be taken down in writing and given in evidence. Now get dressed and get your coat on.’

  ‘This is madness. I didn’t do it … Jenny’s a relative!’

  ‘Yeah.’ FB looked coldly at him. ‘And we all know relatives kill relatives, don’t we?’

  ‘What’s going on, Bob?’ Fossard’s wife, a thin, rat-haired girl with thick glasses, asked.

  ‘They’re tryin’ to fit me up for Jenny’s murder.’

  ‘What?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘It’s bollocks.’

  ‘Get hold of him, Henry,’ FB said.

  Henry grabbed Fossard’s arm. ‘You either come easy, or har
d,’ he growled, but he knew it would be easy. Fossard was a slightly built man, no match for the rugby-fit Henry who was all trim and muscle at that age.

  Fossard glared at him. ‘I’ll get dressed.’ He shook his arm out of Henry’s grip and retreated into the house, Henry close at his heels, not allowing him the opportunity to do a runner or hide anything that might be vital evidence. He followed him upstairs and he noticed the son watching him coldly, but with an air of worry. ‘It’s all right, Bobby Junior,’ Fossard reassured his offspring, ‘they’ve got nowt on me.’

  At the front door, Henry heard FB arguing with the wife.

  ‘It’s bollocks, this,’ Fossard complained as he pulled on a shirt, socks and shoes.

  Henry shrugged. ‘We’ll see, eh?’

  ‘You look like a real bastard.’

  ‘I am a real bastard, but I don’t kill kids.’

  Henry saw that the son had sneaked up the stairs behind them.

  FB clouted Fossard hard across the face, open-handed. The smack landed like a crack of lightning and the force of the blow lifted him off the seat in the interview room and sent him sprawling across the tiled floor, upending his chair. FB stood over the prisoner’s prostrate form, breathing heavily from the exertion.

  ‘Now then.’ He wiped his lips. ‘Let’s start again.’

  He aimed a kick at Fossard’s ribcage which landed hard, winded him and made him curl into a ball, clutching his guts.

  FB turned to Henry, a feral look on his face. ‘Make sure nobody comes through that door,’ he instructed the young cop, then took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, bent down and heaved Fossard up and pinned him against the wall.

  Henry gulped, but stood guard by the door.

  FB punched the prisoner in his lower belly then let him go as he doubled over, but bent down with him. ‘Now then, you fuckin’ lyin’ piece a shit, tell the truth. You abducted her and raped her and strangled her, didn’t you?’