Instinct

by Nick Oldham

  ‘How good do you think the Intel is?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Who will have done all the legwork?’

  Donaldson opened one eye and squinted through it at Bill. ‘I always thought you were the laconic type, not loquacious.’

  Bill frowned, decided it was a compliment and said, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And in answer to your question, I don’t know. MI5, MI6, SIS, Special Branch, Counter Terrorism . . .’

  Bill was used to acting on intelligence received from unknown sources, usually crims with a grudge or a debt to repay. It was the way things were done these days, with many firewalls between informant and the officers who then acted on the information. It protected people and he guessed that in this case, the firewalls were pretty much impregnable. He yawned, too. Then said, ‘Not much of an Asian population around here.’

  ‘No, but plenty of white holiday-makers,’ Donaldson replied and snapped open his eyes as a horrible thought struck him.

  Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn’t like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool’s most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work – as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up – and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry’s own guess, but he’d be happy to lay down money – ‘a pound to a pinch of shit’ – it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.

  But none of that mattered.

  What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.

  ‘I’m truly, truly sorry,’ Henry said gently.

  Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.

  ‘The thing is,’ Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie’s description, we can only be certain after formal identification.’ Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.’

  ‘I know.’ She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?’

  ‘Later today. We’re not exactly sure when.’

  She nodded again. Henry eased the photograph from her fingers and looked at it, a posed picture of Natalie, smiling up at the camera, wearing a grey and pink silk scarf.

  Henry and Rik exchanged glances. Henry said, ‘I know this is a terrible time, but we really need to ask you some questions about Natalie and her . . .’ He was going to say ‘life’, but changed the word, realizing the girl hadn’t really had one to speak of yet. Instead he said, ‘Y’know, the things that were going on for her, who she knew, boyfriends if any, her mates, comings and goings. It’s vital we build up a detailed picture of her.’ Clare nodded numbly. ‘Can I just ask a quick question, first?’ Henry indicated the photograph. ‘This scarf, was she wearing it when you last saw her? It’s not mentioned in the clothing description on the Missing from Home forms.’ He did not recall seeing it at the murder scene either.

  ‘Yes – couldn’t get it off her. She loved it. I thought I’d mentioned it, mustn’t have done.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said. ‘Is there anyone we can contact for you? Anyone to be with you?’

  This time she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said thinly.

  Henry’s chest was becoming heavy. He was on the settee alongside her, a couple of feet away, knees angled towards her, offering comforting body language. The tension in the room was incredible and he was being affected by it all. He had to breathe in, catch himself. He’d done this sort of thing dozens of times before, got through it, never let it affect him. But he found himself staring at Clare Philips, feeling her pain.

  Not good. Empathy – OK. Sympathy – OK. Going to hell with the victim’s mother – not OK.

  He breathed out, rubbed his face.

  ‘Henry?’ Rik asked worriedly. He’d noticed Henry’s change in demeanour.

  Henry gave him a wave of dismissal. He was all right now. Had almost lost it, but had yanked himself back from the abyss.

  ‘What I’m going to do is get someone up here for you now, OK? A family liaison officer . . .’

  ‘What family?’ she demanded. ‘I have no family now. She was all I had. And now she’s gone.’

  Henry reached across to place a hand over her nicotine-stained fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing the word was ineffective. ‘But one thing I promise is that I will track down whoever did this and I will catch him. It’s what I do, what I’m good at.’ He spouted the claim confidently, but underneath he wasn’t certain he truly believed it.

  His eyes blinked sadly. Henry knew she was in shock. The news had hit her like a steam hammer even though she might have been expecting it, and may well have mentally tried to prepare herself for the worst. At the moment she was being scarily calm but Henry knew grief intimately and that this stage was unlikely to last. However, she did give him a nugget when she spoke.

  ‘I know she had a big fall out with her ex-boyfriend,’ she whispered. ‘Had some horrible rows with him.’ Henry remained silent, and despite how he was feeling emotionally – on edge, likely to crumble – the old ring piece did the dance of excitement, the bum twitch that meant he was on to something. ‘It’s that little shit, Mark Carter. You’ll know him, I’ll bet.’

  As much as Henry would have liked to march out of Clare Philips’s house and grab Mark Carter, who he did know, events in murder investigations rarely happened just like that. And in some respects Henry was glad he didn’t rush out, because the nugget that was Mark Carter actually just became another coin in a handful of loose change as he and Rik Dean talked further to Clare.

  Other names came into the frame and Henry realized that quite a few individuals needed to be interviewed very carefully, not just Mark.

  Natalie’s current boyfriend was one. A guy by the name of Lewis Kitchen (and at the mention of the name, Henry and Rik exchanged a knowing glance). They didn’t delve at that point and they guessed that Clare possibly didn’t know that Kitchen was known to the police as someone with a conviction for assaulting a female.

  Next there was Natalie’s real father, a lowlife called Scott Newton, again known by the detectives. He was someone who had reappeared recently in Clare’s life after eighteen months inside for robbery. By Clare’s own admission the ‘family’ had had some violent rows and Natalie had taken her mother’s side and found herself taking a slapping from a pissed-up Newton, who threatened to kill them both. He needed to be tracked down and interviewed p.d.q.

  Then there was a succession of previous boyfriends – a bit of a who’s who of petty crims in Blackpool – that Natalie seemed to have succeeded in upsetting by ruthlessly dumping all of them. One had bombarded her with threatening texts and indecent Facebook entries and had been stalking her.

  On top of that, one of the lecturers at Shoreside College, where she attended the hairdressing course, had shown an unhealthy interest in her. Clare suspected that Natalie and this guy had had sexual relations at some stage, but Natalie had been very secretive and Clare had only discovered him by accident – by looking in her diary which had disappeared after Natalie found this out. Diaries were always useful and Henry made a mental note to ensure it was searched for thoroughly.

  As she spoke, Henry realized that unless there was a quick breakthrough, this could be a long slog of an investigation.

  They left the house two hours later, with Clare being
attended to by a female constable until a fully fledged FLO could be briefed. Both men were ravenously hungry and Rik suggested a KFC drive-thru, to which Henry agreed; then they could eat and drink on the move, which is what they guessed they would be doing for the next few days. Might as well get used to it.

  The nearest Kentucky was on Preston New Road and Henry, at the wheel of his Mercedes – which he’d been dubious about driving into Shoreside in the first place – headed off the estate in relief. All four wheels were still on it and there were no key scratches down the sides.

  ‘Opinions?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Lots to go at . . . Natalie sounds like a hot-headed promiscuous young lady who liked moving from lad to lad. We’ll get a result sooner rather than later.’

  Henry nodded. He did not want to get blinkered into thinking Natalie’s death was definitely down to one of her circle of acquaintances, but the chances were it was. He knew he had to keep things wide open and there was still a possibility she could have been murdered by an opportunistic stranger. The fact her body was dumped out of town skewed things a little that way. However, it would all be part of his investigative strategy which he would have to work out in the next few hours. Already his mind was ticking over, relishing the prospect of concentrating on something other than self-pity.

  He mulled over the things he would have to think about: location, victim, offender, scene forensics, post-mortem, and all the factors that could link them together. And the need to think logically as to what had happened, why it had happened, and who committed the crime. It was all pretty fundamental stuff for a murder investigation, but had to be done. Keep things logical, answer the questions, work the knowledge.

  ‘But the most important thing,’ Rik said thoughtfully, ‘is whether I should have a boneless box or a two piece meal.’

  ‘Some things,’ Henry conceded, ‘just take precedence. I’m on chicken burger and coffee.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Henry eased the Mercedes into the drive-thru lane at the KFC, three cars ahead of them. When it was his turn, he came alongside the speaker and placed the order, the tinny voice of the server then read it back to him, asking if any sauces were required – yes, mayo – quoted the cost and told Henry to drive up to the window.

  He paid, took the bagged-up meals and drinks and passed them over to Rik. The KFC server did not once catch his eye, acting like he was on a Brave New World production line, which in essence was almost true.

  Henry drove out and pulled into one of the grill bays on the car park by the side of the restaurant. Rik frowned. He’d been deeply engrossed in sending and receiving text messages – presumably to and from Lisa – and hadn’t even raised his eyes at the drive-thru, even when he’d been given the food to hold. Now he had a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘We’re eating here?’

  ‘How do you feel about striking while the iron’s hot?’

  Rik shook his head, no idea what Henry meant.

  ‘Mark Carter – you didn’t see him?’ Rik shook his head again. ‘He’s the moron who served us.’

  Rik pouted. ‘Can’t do any harm, I suppose. Let’s play it by ear, see what he says about Natalie. We don’t have to mention she’s dead, do we? It’s not common knowledge yet.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Let’s eat first. I hate cold KFC.’

  ‘Er – no,’ Henry said, as much as he wanted to devour his food. If Mark was linked to Natalie’s death and he had clocked Henry in the drive-thru, he could well be spooked and ready to run. Rik emitted a sound of great disappointment.

  Henry knew Mark for a few reasons, none of them good. Firstly, Henry had dealt with the death of Mark’s sister from an overdose of a lethal drug concoction and Mark had helped Henry track down the supplier. Secondly, Mark had witnessed a murder and this had resulted in Mark’s mother becoming a target for killers who’d actually been trying to track down and silence Mark.

  Henry had always thought Mark was a fundamentally decent lad, struggling against a crap upbringing. His father had disappeared many years before and he’d been raised by a mother more concerned with a fraught love life than giving Mark the attention he deserved.

  Henry also had a bit of his own baggage with Mark. Truth was that Henry had used Mark for his own ends when tracking down the aforementioned dealer, making fake promises before cutting him loose. And Mark still bore that grudge, rightly, even though Henry had been instrumental in keeping Mark out of the hands of social workers after his mother’s brutal death.

  Henry hadn’t had contact with Mark for months now. And here he was again, turning up like a bad penny, half-suspecting that Mark might have committed a murder without any supporting evidence.

  Inside the restaurant there were two vague queues up to the counter and Henry spotted Mark, capped and uniformed, at the drive-thru window, taking orders via a headset, collecting money and dispensing food. He did not once look up at anyone in the cars.

  Henry and Rik walked to the gap at the right of the counter and waited to catch Mark’s eye. But it was as if the lad was on autopilot, everything blanked out bar his task.

  Another server, bearing a manager’s badge, stepped up. He was nothing more than a mega-spotty lad.

  ‘Help you guys?’ he asked. ‘Queue’s there,’ he said authoritatively.

  Henry saw his name was Marlon. ‘Need to speak to that lad.’ He pointed a finger at the still oblivious Mark.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s a bit busy. May I ask what it’s about?’ Marlon asked, doing well to string the words together. Henry showed his warrant card and Marlon squinted at it.

  ‘Mm, OK.’ The manager turned to Mark who was handing a bagged-up meal through the serving window to a passing motorist. He tapped him on the shoulder and spoke into his ear. It was quite noisy in the restaurant with piped music, voices, cooking sounds, traffic. Mark leaned sideways slightly, his eyes came into focus and he recognized Henry, who gave him a little wave. Mark’s face wilted. In his short life – he was now seventeen – the appearance of Henry Christie had always spelled trouble.

  Mark muttered something to Marlon, who nodded and returned to Henry.

  ‘I’ll let you have five with him, pal,’ Marlon said. ‘He just needs to fulfil these orders and I need to deploy someone to stand in for him. That’ll be me, I guess. So if you want to grab a seat.’

  ‘OK, no probs, Marlon,’ Henry said. The detectives backed off and found an empty table.

  Henry did not sit, though. ‘You hang on here,’ he told Rik. ‘I’ll just mooch out back.’

  ‘Think he’ll do a runner?’

  ‘He’s programmed for it.’ Henry glanced over the counter. Marlon had already stepped in for Mark who was nowhere to be seen. Henry walked quickly out, made his way to the rear of the restaurant, and leaned casually on the wall next to a fire exit. He started to count, and as he reached five, the fire door opened outwards and Mark Carter stepped through, zipping up his jacket. Although he glanced both ways, Henry, flat against the wall, was just outside his field of vision for a moment – until the detective pivoted, grabbed Mark by the jacket and slammed him against the wall.

  ‘Shit,’ Mark uttered, taken completely by surprise.

  ‘Naughty boy,’ Henry said, pinning him back with one hand, his elbow locked straight. Mark struggled for a few seconds, realized the futility of it and then sagged in acceptance of the situation.

  ‘What do you want, Henry?’

  ‘Hey – didn’t realize you’d got a job as a chef.’

  Mark eyed him. ‘I’m at college. It just about keeps me afloat. Like I said, what do you want?’

  ‘Natalie Philips.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  Mark shrugged, pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Couple of days ago – why?’

  ‘Been reported missing. Her mum’s worried.’

  Mark snorted derisively.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’


  ‘About as worried as my mum used to be about me. Look,’ Mark was still stuck to the wall, ‘let me go, eh? Won’t run. Promise.’

  ‘How can I believe that? You’ve already tried.’

  ‘Only cos I don’t like you. You bring fuckin’ trouble all the time.’

  Henry released his grip. ‘When did you last see Natalie and under what circumstances?’

  Mark shrugged again. ‘Like I said, couple of days ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘College. She does hairdressing there.’ Mark’s eyes played over Henry’s face, trying to read him. ‘Why do you want to know anyway? I know what you do . . .’ Mark faltered. ‘You investigate murders,’ he said slowly. His lips pursed into an unspoken question as his mind tried to pull the fragments of his knowledge together. And he hit the jackpot. ‘You don’t investigate missing persons.’

  ‘I hear you were her boyfriend,’ Henry probed, ignoring Mark’s conclusions. Mark suddenly withdrew into himself. Henry sensed that the promise about not running was about to be broken. His hand shot out again.

  ‘Were you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I . . . I might’ve been,’ he stuttered.

  Suddenly Rik Dean skidded around the corner of the KFC, a harried look on his face, his personal radio gripped in his right hand. Henry looked at him, annoyed, his face saying, ‘What?’

  ‘We need to go – now.’ Rik waved the PR, from which could be heard shouts and general noises of mayhem.

  ‘Why?’ Henry released his grip on Mark’s jacket. Mark didn’t hesitate. He saw the opportunity and fled, ducking sideways, vaulting over a low fence and away, leaving Henry faffing in thin air. He turned on Rik, almost apoplectic. ‘Why?’

  ‘Officer down,’ Rik said.

  FIVE

  There had been times in the lives of both men when they’d had to endure tedious hours, sometimes days, of just sitting, watching and waiting for someone to move, or show up – or as in today’s case, simply get into a car and drive off. It was part of the job, but no one could argue that it was anything less than soul destroying. Like most aspects of law enforcement, boredom ruled ninety-eight percent of the time. But most law enforcement officers thrived on the two percent, when it all came together and the adrenaline flowed like champagne.