Unforgiving

by Nick Oldham

  ‘What are your plans, Henry? I know you can retire if you so wish.’

  ‘Would you like me to?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that … I just want to know what your thoughts are. I have to plan your replacement, so it would only be right if you did tell me.’

  Henry wilted slightly. ‘As unpopular as this may seem, I want to see this through,’ he told the chief. ‘I know the case has been taken off me for personal reasons, but I’ll leave when Charlie Wilder has been convicted and I’ve answered his accusation of assault if I have to.’

  Wilder, the cause of the night of horror that had left too many people dead or badly injured, had complained about Henry assaulting him, which of course had muddied the case against him.

  ‘In fact,’ Henry went on, ‘I’d love to face his accusation across a courtroom, and he knows it … It’s just a smokescreen for his defence, and I get it.’

  ‘So you’re not worried?’

  ‘Not in the least. I relish it.’

  ‘OK,’ Ellison said and sighed, giving Henry a look of doubt.

  ‘So I’ve decided to stay on in the meantime, then I’ll go after Wilder’s trial. It would only be right.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  Henry’s mug was almost at his lips. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You want to stay on as an SIO? I could get you an easy office job to take you through to the end if you like. A cushy six months, or however long the trial takes to come to court.’ Ellison tried to make it sound tempting.

  ‘Nah,’ Henry said, not taken in.

  On his return to the FMIT building on the opposite side of the sports field, Henry had sat down in his office, half expecting that all calls to his number would be diverted to someone else. It was pretty clear to him the acting chief wanted him to go.

  That had not happened.

  Almost as soon as he’d settled himself, his phone rang, and five minutes later he was in his car speeding towards the M6 to an area in the very north of the county that he was beginning to get to know very well indeed.

  And a short while later Henry had been addressing the desolate-faced uniformed chief inspector who was standing anxiously before him in Thornwell’s tiny, chilly, village hall. ‘Let me get this perfectly straight. This young lass has been sent alone to deal with a disturbance in licensed premises caused by a known, violent troublemaker. When she arrives, the problem is over, she calls in to say so, and then it is assumed—’ he stressed this word – ‘she drives back to Lancaster.’

  ‘Yes, that was the assumption.’

  ‘And yet she wasn’t missed until the night shift ended at seven this morning? Am I getting this right?’ Henry could feel his insides contracting with anger.

  The chief inspector – his name was Collinson – nodded.

  ‘So, somewhere in the region of, say, six hours,’ Henry said. ‘And nobody missed her. What. The. Fuck?’

  Collinson’s head twitched as he felt the insertion of a metaphorical ‘buck’ somewhere deeply unpleasant. He might not have been on duty overnight, but that did not mean he had no responsibility for what had gone on. ‘It was very busy out there,’ he explained pathetically. ‘The town kicked off.’

  Henry regarded him fiercely, realizing for the first time how terrifying he must look with his shotgun scars. ‘We’ll be coming back to that issue,’ he promised Collinson ominously, watching the man’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed dryly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the chief inspector said. Normally, Henry wasn’t bothered about being called ‘sir’, but Collinson decided it would be wise to make an exception in this case.

  ‘Bring me up to speed with what has happened since it was discovered that one of our officers has gone missing.’

  Describing what had been done since Laura Marshall’s disappearance was slightly easier territory for Collinson.

  But then Henry said, ‘No, tell you what, tell me again what happened last night, so I have it firmly in my head.’

  Collinson inhaled a deep breath. He then explained that Special Constable Marshall had been sent to the Swan’s Neck in Thornwell after comms had received a treble-nine from the landlord. It had only been realized that she was missing when the shift was about to parade off at seven a.m. At first it was thought that she might well have just gone off duty earlier without telling anyone (which could have happened, Collinson stressed – special constables were not subject to the same booking on and off scrutiny as regulars and often came and went without patrol sergeants knowing). It was only as the night patrol sergeant was leaving the station that he happened to notice her car was still on the car park and, not really thinking anything untoward at that stage, he popped back in and checked – only to discover the patrol car she’d been using had not been returned either. An early patrol was sent around to her flat in Lancaster, and there was no reply.

  Straight away a traffic car was sent to check the route between Lancaster and Thornwell, via Kendleton. These roads were pitch black at night, tight, bendy and dangerous, and sometimes drivers missed a corner or a deer jumped out in front, causing them to swerve off the road. First thoughts were that she too might have crashed, gone off road and into a field or a ditch, maybe into a river. That had to be checked out, but the traffic officer found nothing, and definitely no sign of a missing cop or car.

  By this time, the night duty sergeant was having palpitations, and he rang the chief inspector at home, who turned out and took control.

  Henry listened to this again, then checked his watch. Now it was just after eleven a.m. and over eleven hours since Laura had called in to say everything was fine at the Swan’s Neck.

  ‘Not happy,’ Henry said coldly. ‘How can it be possible that …?’ he began with exasperation, but didn’t finish his question. Collinson bit his lip. ‘Let’s go and see this landlord … McCready?’ Fuming, he spun and went out of the village hall ahead of Collinson into the still fresh morning.

  Henry inhaled as he stepped out and paused to look around the place. Although he now lived in the next village, three miles away, Thornwell was not somewhere he had visited, but it looked a pleasant enough spot. A few ducks and a pair of regal-looking swans floated on the tiny stream that cut through the village. Some residents were out, curious to see the police activity. Henry nodded at a couple of old guys sitting on a bench overlooking the pristine village green, then looked across at the Swan’s Neck, the only rival in this area to the Tawny Owl – but a poor one at that.

  It was a double-fronted pub, quite substantial, but had an air of neglect, and Henry guessed from what little he had learned of the licensing trade that the place was struggling to keep going. It probably relied on regulars, but that was fatal for survival. The days of sitting back and letting punters come to you and spend had long since disappeared. Now pub owners had to be ruthless and proactive, which is why the Tawny Owl was thriving under his fiancée Alison’s stewardship. She never let anything grow under her feet and pursued every channel of business, now even applying for a licence to hold weddings. Nor did it hinder things that she was a bit of a looker, Henry realized. Some guys came in just to ogle her.

  Something that could not be said about Bert McCready, the landlord of the Swan’s Neck, as Henry discovered a few moments later.

  Henry pounded on the double doors, and eventually the grumpy man answered. He was small, rotund and had a mop of hair flattened on his head that was clearly a cheap wig which did not match the colour of his sideburns. A bar towel was flipped over his left shoulder.

  He eyed Henry and the chief inspector. ‘Already spoken to you guys,’ he muttered, opening the doors fully and bolting them back.

  ‘Need to speak again,’ Henry informed him. He held out his warrant card and introduced himself. ‘I’d like you to tell me about last night.’

  McCready jerked his head. Henry and Collinson followed him, entering the pub. Henry inhaled the stench of stale beer, and, yes, there was some damp in that aroma too. The unpleasant
niff of an old-fashioned pub. Although Henry did not want to make comparisons, he knew that first impressions counted, and when anyone entered the Tawny Owl they were always greeted by a wonderful aroma of woodsmoke, brewing coffee and good food – all done on purpose. Customers were no longer impressed by having the soles of their shoes sticking to carpet.

  McCready sidled behind the bar to put a barrier between himself and the law. Henry perched one corner of his bottom on a bar stool, his eyes roving slowly around the premises, noticing a swept-up pile of glass by the door and the stacked-up remnants of a table and stool.

  ‘The visit of Spencer Bartle?’ Henry asked, nodding at the piles.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  McCready’s eyes jittered between the two cops. ‘Simple. He came in here, drank too much – my fault – started arguing about nothing, got shirty when I asked him to leave, so I called the cops. He’d gone before that policewoman landed. As far as I know she got into her car and drove off. Best idea from me is to check the valleys carefully … These roads are treacherous. You’ve only got to get a deer in front of you or misjudge a bad corner.’

  Henry surveyed the man as he spoke. He seemed to be telling the truth, but Henry wasn’t impressed for some reason – instinct, maybe. Plus, his mantra when investigating anything was: don’t believe a word.

  ‘How long was it between Bartle leaving and the policewoman getting here?’

  McCready cogitated. ‘A good ten minutes, I’d say.’

  Henry nodded, slid off the stool on to his feet. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Dunno … town, maybe.’

  ‘How would he get there?’

  ‘Taxi … KountryKabs … They run from a unit on the industrial estate up the road. Cabs, coaches, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve seen their cars. Is there much business round here for them?’

  ‘Not midweek, except for school and hospital contracts, but pretty busy at weekends. No bugger wants to drive into Lancaster for a night out and drive back pissed.’

  ‘OK.’ He gave the landlord a thin smile. ‘Probably talk again … Nah, definitely,’ he said with significance. He gave the unimpressed man a wave and left the pub trailed by the chief inspector.

  Outside, he stopped.

  ‘What d’you think, boss?’

  Henry gave Collinson a withering look. ‘That she met Spencer Bartle.’ He sighed, surveyed the front parking area of the pub, then walked slowly around the perimeter of the building and cast his eyes around the car park at the rear. He began to walk diagonally across, gravel scrunching under his shoes, his eyes roving, seeing nothing out of place. He stopped in the centre of the car park, looking all the while, traversing back and forth until finally he was looking down at his feet.

  That was the moment at which he felt very queasy.

  Slowly, he eased himself down on to his haunches and peered at the grit under his feet. He reached down and picked up a tiny cube of broken glass between finger and thumb, rolling it, holding it up to the light. He pushed himself upwards again, then turned very slowly, still looking down at the gravel at his feet.

  The chief inspector watched him, bemused. ‘What is it?’

  Henry handed him the tiny chunk of glass, which he looked at on his upturned palm.

  Collinson frowned. ‘Car glass – that’s how it crumbles … Broken windscreen, something like that.’

  Henry continued to revolve, seeing more of the glass mixed in with the gravel as he became familiar with what he was looking at. As his eyes rose again, he frowned and experienced another of those queasy inner feelings.

  He walked slowly towards what he had seen. From a distance it was nothing – just a dark shadow underneath the perimeter hedge that could easily have been a ball of litter. As he got nearer, the shape began to take on some kind of form. Its edges sharpened, and there was a glint of something silvery.

  His frown was fixed as, once again, he dropped slowly on to his haunches, knees cracking like a walnut. He reached out to lift the low hanging branches, exposing what had caught his eye, seeing the shape for definite at last. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Collinson, who had followed mutely, but who then, seeing what Henry had seen, said, ‘Shit.’

  Henry blew out his cheeks. ‘Yes, exactly …’

  ‘Sorry, boss?’

  Henry’s contemplations had been rudely interrupted by Jake Niven, who was sitting alongside him in Wayne Oxford’s flat in St Annes.

  ‘Eh?’ Henry turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said something, boss.’

  The two of them had been sitting on the sofa for over an hour, waiting to see if Fraser Worthington would knock on the door. After an initial hushed conversation, the two men had melted into their own private worlds of cogitation. Henry’s mind had gone back to the still-missing policewoman, Laura Marshall, a case being treated as murder; Jake had been considering his own over-complicated life.

  Henry, his head nodding as he thought back, had blurted the words, ‘Yes, exactly,’ out of the blue and interrupted Jake’s thoughts.

  ‘Did I really say that out loud?’ Henry said, wiping his mouth, grinning a little self-consciously at Jake. ‘Must be losing it.’

  Jake smiled. ‘Join the club, boss.’ Jake was in his work gear, the navy-blue uniform of a firearms officer, a Glock 17 at his side and an H&K machine pistol propped on the floor.

  So far no one had knocked, and Henry was considering calling it quits and coming at Worthington from a different angle, one he had not quite yet worked out. But, whatever, it seemed the man had got wind of Oxford’s arrest and tonight was going to be a no-show.

  Jake stretched. ‘What a tangled web.’

  Henry glanced at him, saw a troubled face and was about to ask a ‘deep-meaningful’ when their radios chirped up, calling for Henry.

  ‘Receiving,’ he said, pushing his earpiece a little further in, like a small burrowing insect. It was the operator in comms who had been briefed to monitor and control the little operation Henry had hastily set up following the news that Worthington had slipped the surveillance net.

  ‘Just had a message from Sierra Tango Two,’ the operator said, referring to the call sign of one of the surveillance team’s mobile units which had previously lost Worthington north on the M6 and were still trying to pick him up again. ‘Can I patch him through?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Henry agreed, knowing they were operating on a different radio channel. He winced as a burst of static cracked through his ears and someone asked, ‘Superintendent Christie?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Sierra Tango Two here, boss,’ the surveillance officer said. ‘An update for you in relation to our target. His vehicle is now parked in the same position as it was first thing.’

  ‘Does that mean the target is now at that address?’

  ‘It means the car is, but no eyeball to target to confirm ID,’ the surveillance officer said.

  ‘OK, received … Thanks for that.’

  ‘Further instructions?’

  ‘Stand by on that,’ Henry said, thinking it all through. Not least of the components in his calculations were the cost implications of keeping officers on duty. He glanced at Jake, who had heard the transmission. So the surveillance team had lost Worthington, who had apparently gone off the grid but might now have returned home, although that wasn’t a certainty. Other than by actually banging on his door to see if he really had returned, which would be counterproductive, it seemed to Henry there was only one practical solution. Worthington’s disappearance did worry him, though.

  ‘Sierra Tango Two,’ Henry called up, ‘sack it for the night, and we’ll reconsider the whole thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The patch-through was then disconnected by comms.

  Henry shrugged at Jake but said, ‘I don’t really want to …’

  ‘No, nor me.’

&nbs
p; ‘DCI to Superintendent,’ Henry’s radio called. It was Rik Dean, who at that moment was sitting in his car, slouched very low in the seat, with a view along North Promenade towards the front of the block – Salter’s Bank View – in which Oxford’s apartment was situated. ‘Might be nothing, but a motorcycle has been up and down the prom twice. First time normal speed; second time a slow fly-past. One male on board.’

  ‘Make, number?’

  ‘Can’t see … He’s cruising back down again.’

  Rik was parked about 100 metres north of the block, whilst 200 metres the other way was a grubby looking Transit van in the back of which the other three officers involved in the stake-out were waiting – Kirsten Lee, Dave Morton and Rob Brown.

  Rik had seen the motorcyclist and thought nothing of it the first time he drove past, heading south, even though the brake light did come on as the bike slowed slightly, going past the block of flats. The bike went on, disappeared, but five minutes later, presumably after having done a loop around, the lights appeared in Rik’s rear-view mirror and the bike went by again, this time almost at walking pace. That was when Rik started to pay attention.

  The bike rolled slowly past the block, then the surveillance van, which was the point at which Rik alerted Henry.

  Once more it disappeared down the prom, then once more came up behind and past Rik again, who had slithered as far down in his seat as was humanly possible without actually being curled up in a foetal position in the footwell, whispering into his radio.

  The bike drove slowly past the block and the Transit van again, but this time as Rik craned his neck, his eyeline just above the dashboard, he saw it had stopped about fifty metres beyond the van, a message that he whispered to Henry, adding, ‘The rider is still astride the bike.’

  ‘Roger,’ Henry said, tensing up next to Jake. ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘He’s off the bike, lifting it on to its stand … He’s too far away from me to see a number … Any of you guys in the van make it out?’ Rik asked the three officers in the van itself. The van was parked with its nose towards Rik, and the three officers were in the back of it.