Dead Heat hc-7

by Nick Oldham

  He wondered how to get his hands on the file. Although officially still classed as open, he knew it would be gathering dust at GMP headquarters now; given an occasional review, then put away again when no further evidence came to light. Such was the way of the world. There was little chance of him worming his way into GMP Headquarters in his unofficial capacity. They definitely would want to see his ID before he got any further than the front door. The only source of background he could think of which was available to him was from the newspapers of the time, probably the Manchester Evening News being the best bet. He would have to find a library with it on micro-fiche and that would mean a trip back to Manchester. He doubted whether a library local to him would have it in the archives.

  He sighed. Maybe he had done all he could. He had no obligation to the girl and her family. . but yet he hated to let anything like this go without wringing its neck first. Maybe he did have an obligation to Jo Coniston, even if he found her alive and well, living a riotous life of debauchery in Rio. He doubted that would be the case.

  From what he knew so far, he guessed that she was dead and so was her partner. Could very well be that Andy Turner might well have the answer. That was a line of enquiry that appealed to him. Find Turner and that would give him some answers. Henry knew where to go to mainline on that one.

  He looked at the display on his ringing mobile and groaned. Mobiles were the curse of the modern day. He hated them with a passion.

  ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not Jane. It’s your fucking Chief Constable using her phone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You might well say “oh”, Henry,’ FB stormed loudly. ‘Why the fuck have you gone to Manchester? You should be sniffing round the Wicksons, not the bleedin’ Trafford Centre. What the fuck has that got to do with the Wicksons?’

  ‘Nowt.’

  ‘Well, get your sorry arse back to Blackpool and get doing what you’re paid to do, not gallivanting around the north-west using up county petrol.’

  A typical burst of FB, Henry thought, as the Chief ended the call as abruptly as he’d started it. Henry whizzed up the M6, then did a left on to the M55. Soon Blackpool Tower was in sight.

  He turned off at junction 3, glancing across to the other side of the motorway where his abduction experience had ended on the hard shoulder. He was going to retrace the route back down the A585 to Poulton-le-Fylde and drive to the Wickson house. It was eerie driving back along the road, one he knew very well, knowing that not very long before, his life had been in terrible danger driving along the same.

  He thought about the possibility of dying as he drove along. When he’d been a young cop, the thought had never bothered him because he thought he was immortal, but as age dragged him on, he became more worried than ever about it. He was concerned that he would miss his daughters growing older, seeing them develop into young women and begin their own lives. He did not want to miss any of that because he had completely missed them growing up. The job had always taken precedence. Now, he had determined, it was family that would take first place. This was despite his strong, lingering feelings for Jane Roscoe. He knew he would never seriously consider rekindling their relationship now, even though he seemed incapable of stopping himself from flirting with her, going all doe-eyed and gooey. There was no future in it.

  He arrived at the entrance to the Wicksons’ and turned up the driveway. Across to the right were the stables. A JCB excavator was shovelling up the remains of the burned-down stables into a tidy stack from which the charred pieces of wood were then scooped up into the back of a massive truck. Work had already started on stable-block rebuild. Parked on the site was also a crusher for the stones and rubble shovelled up by the excavator. It was not in use at that moment.

  So busy was he looking at this, he only just stopped in time and pulled in tight to allow what he at first thought was a milk tanker to come down the drive in the opposite direction. As the vehicle squeezed past him, he realized it was not a milk tanker. And why should it have been? This was not a working farm. It was an old articulated fuel tanker. He looked up at the driver and was surprised to see a cigarette in the guy’s mouth. Then it manoeuvred past him and was gone.

  Henry shook his head, wondering why such a huge tanker was here. Probably delivering oil for the central heating. But it was a very big tanker and he knew that, usually, small rigid tankers brought oil to houses. Then he recalled seeing the dilapidated farm buildings at the rear of the house from the time he was on the hillside. There had been two articulated fuel tankers in the yard then.

  His mouth turned down at the corners, his mind actively ingesting these snippets of information. He pressed on and drove to the gravelled parking area at the front of the house. The Bentley and Mercedes were parked there, and a couple of other less grand cars. He drew the Astra in next to the Bentley, relishing the juxtaposition of machines. He got out and rang the front door bell, waiting and whistling. No reply. He looked to the stables again, watching the land-clearing activity. Turning round, he saw a figure riding up the driveway on a horse.

  It was Tara.

  No. . he was wrong. . as the horse and rider got nearer, he saw it was Charlotte, not Tara, in the saddle. From a distance it was an easy mistake to make.

  She walked the horse towards the house. Henry approached her.

  ‘Good morning, Charlotte.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Nice horse.’

  ‘He’ll do.’

  ‘How’s Chopin?’

  ‘Poorly.’ She brought the horse to a halt in front of Henry. He took a wary step back. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Your mum asked me, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She dismounted.

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘Dunno. Don’t care, really.’ She hooked the reins over the horse’s head. ‘Have to walk him in from here. The machines,’ she explained. ‘Don’t want to ride him in case he gets spooked. He can be a handful.’ She slapped the horse’s neck.

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Phoenix.’

  ‘Hello, Phoenix,’ Henry said to the beast. Its ears pricked forwards at the mention of its name. Charlotte started to lead him towards the stables. Henry walked along with her. ‘No school today?’

  ‘No,’ she said shortly, offering no explanation. She did not seem to be in any mood to chat.

  ‘Any progress on the fire?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are the police getting anywhere with their enquiries?’

  ‘Apparently it was caused by an electrical fault, so there’s nothing for them to do.’

  This revelation jolted Henry. He thought it better to say nothing. He watched Charlotte slyly out of the corner of his eye as she walked the horse past the excavator and crusher. She was Leanne’s age, but looked older. She was very thin and had dark rings around her eyes which accentuated her high, fashion-model cheekbones. She was close to being beautiful, but her pale skin and slightly kinked nose and gauntness kept that beauty at bay. Henry thought she had the look of her mother, rather than her father.

  She took the horse into a loose box and pulled the half-door closed behind her. Henry leaned in, watching as she sorted the horse out. She slipped the saddle and bridle off, balancing them across the top of the door, making Henry stand back. She allowed the horse to eat and drink as she started to groom him, firstly by picking out the feet, then grooming his body with a brush and curry comb, using long circular strokes which brought the coat up to a lustrous sheen. She knew what she was doing around horses, talking gently to the animal whilst working on him.

  ‘It was a deliberate fire,’ she said above the horse whispering. Her back was towards Henry.

  ‘Eh?’ He cocked his head to one side.

  ‘It wasn’t an electrical fault,’ she spat, continuing brushing the horse. ‘Some bastard burned it down and mutilated Chopin.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

&nbs
p; ‘Thought that was your job to find out?’

  Henry pouted. ‘I’m not sure if your mum wants me to anymore. . anyway, how do you know the fire was deliberate?’

  She turned on Henry, a sick look on her face. ‘Take it from me, it was. Any idiot could smell petrol.’

  ‘Who said it wasn’t deliberate?’

  ‘Fire Brigade. My dad’s got a report. The insurance are paying up-’

  Henry was about to say something when, from behind, the sound of the excavator stopped as the operator switched off. A lovely silence came to the stables. Birds could be heard tweeting, sheep baa-ing. But then there was the sound of footsteps approaching. Henry saw two men coming quickly towards him. One was John Lloyd Wickson, the other Jake Coulton.

  ‘Hey you!’ Wickson called out. He was pulling off a pair of heavy gloves and had industrial wellington boots on his feet, as did Coulton. Both men were wearing overalls. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just come on to my land and start talking to my daughter without my permission.’ He was fuming.

  Coulton loomed behind him. Before, Henry had not been able to place the head of security as he had only seen him from a distance. Now it clicked.

  ‘Get the fuck off my land now,’ Wickson boomed furiously.

  Charlotte had stopped grooming the horse and had come to the stable door. ‘Dad, it’s all right.’

  ‘No, it fucking isn’t.’

  ‘I think that’ll do,’ Henry said calmly, now getting his first proper close-up of the almost bankrupt multi-millionaire. He saw a rodent-like man, thin and nasty-looking. ‘No need to swear, Mr Wickson.’

  ‘Jake — get this fucker off my property. He’s not even a real cop.’ His security man stepped past and strode towards Henry.

  ‘Come on, you.’

  ‘You lay a finger on me, Jake, and I’ll have your guts.’

  A dawning of recognition plastered Coulton’s face. Both men now knew each other. He stopped short. Coulton was a big, hard man, as tough as they came. He was also an ex-cop and Henry knew why he was ‘ex’.

  ‘Jake, escort him from the premises,’ Wickson restated.

  Henry held a finger up at Coulton, a small but significant warning. He was under no illusions that on a one-to-one Coulton would get the better of him. He was hoping it would not go that far.

  ‘I’m here with permission,’ Henry said. ‘Mrs Wickson has asked me to look into why someone is mutilating your horses, see if I can find the person responsible.’

  ‘Not now — permission withdrawn. Get him out of here, Jake.’

  Coulton reached out with a big right hand.

  ‘No need to touch me, Jake.’ Henry knew when to withdraw.

  ‘Walk him to his car.’

  Henry’s nostrils flared. He said, ‘That’s the last time I save your life, pal.’ He looked at the silent figure of Charlotte and winked surreptitiously at her. He started to walk away, then stopped shoulder to shoulder with Wickson. ‘You’ve got a lot of secrets, haven’t you, Mr Wickson. Don’t want people delving, do you?’

  Wickson gave him a stone-cold deadly stare. Henry looked up and down at Wickson’s protective attire. ‘Been mending a tractor?’

  ‘Go and don’t return, or you’ll suffer,’ he whispered.

  Henry set off back to the house. He saw the front door open and Tara Wickson run down the steps and jump into the Mercedes. With a scrunch of tyres, she accelerated away.

  Jake Coulton caught up with Henry and gave him a push between the shoulder blades, sending Henry stumbling, almost making him lose his balance. Henry skidded and spun round.

  ‘Come on, you fucker. Get off this property. Don’t hang about.’

  Henry stood his ground, chest expanding like a caveman.

  ‘And don’t even pretend you’re a cop, Henry. You’re suspended and soon you’ll be a nobody, like they made me.’

  ‘Difference being you were a criminal, Jake. You were an apple ridden with smelly worms. All I’ve done is make a mistake. And if you assault me, make no mistake, I’ll get you and you’ll lose this nice, cushy job because you’ll be back in clink. So back off.’

  They were standing about four feet apart from each other, both perilously close to invading each other’s personal space. Any nearer and they would have had to grapple, such was the man-thing. The reek of testosterone filled the air. Henry knew he would have come off second best. Coulton’s reputation had been as a hard cop, but his hardness deviated into intimidation, then into blackmail and then he went too far. A man he had arrested ended up with a broken jaw and the Discipline and Complaints department (now modernly renamed Professional Standards) used it as a platform to put surveillance on Coulton. He was caught on video visiting the man and threatening further violence if he pursued his complaint. Coulton was soon out of a job because he ended up with a criminal conviction and a three-month prison sentence. The only sad thing was that it had taken so long for the organization to get its act together and stuff him.

  Henry edged away and made it unscathed to his car. He saw Charlotte and her father arguing back at the stables, could hear the sound of their raised voices. Then the excavator came back to life, drowning out anything more. Henry got into the Astra and set off, driving purposely slowly past the brooding figure of Jake Coulton, who watched him all the way down the drive.

  He headed back to the main road, intending to drive home and think about future tactics when his mobile phone rang. He did not recognize the number displayed.

  ‘Mr Christie, it’s me, Tara.’

  ‘I’ve just been escorted off your premises.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On Garstang Road, near to St Mary’s High School.’

  ‘Can I see you? We need to talk.’

  She hesitated. ‘This is a bit close to home.’

  ‘How about making your way up to Fleetwood? There’s a cafe in the Floral Hall complex, overlooks the beach.’

  ‘I know it. Fifteen minutes.’

  Henry arrived first. He went into the cafe and ordered a bracing pot of tea and a couple of scones. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was feeling dithery, particularly after his near fisticuffs with Jake Coulton. His blood-sugar levels needed a whacking big boost. He drank the tea sugarless, though, relying on the scone and jam to do the job.

  He chose a table by the window, overlooking the beach, people-watching until Tara arrived. She looked flustered and breathless, but still very attractive with a pair of eyes that could have stopped any man in his tracks. Henry poured her a tea and pushed it to her with a scone.

  ‘Do you still want me to help you, Tara?’ Henry thought he would go for the direct route.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘It’s unlikely that your husband and his gorilla will let me back at the house. He doesn’t seem to want anyone nosing around at all. Why is that? Surely it would be in his own interests.’

  ‘Again — I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know very much, do you?’ He did not say it harshly.

  She looked down at the scone, her eyes very unhappy. ‘We pretty much lead separate lives. One of those things.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Shit happens. It’s never been a strong marriage.’

  ‘Why marry in the first place then?’

  She gave him a look which told him it wasn’t his business. ‘I’m just concerned about Charlotte. She’s been a bit wayward recently. . teenage-girl stuff. . but the horse mutilation business has been really getting to her. I wanted to try to stop it for her. She needs a bit of steadiness right now.’

  ‘Seems a bit more than just horse mutilation now, though, doesn’t it? The fire, someone shooting at your husband?’

  ‘The fire was accidental, an electrical fault.’ Her eyes avoided Henry’s. He reached out and tilted her chin. Her skin felt wonderfully soft.

  ‘We both know different, don’t we? And even if it was accidental, who mutilated the horse and why did th
at man take shots at your husband? And don’t tell me it was a bloody poacher. He went on to kill two cops and a nurse. He’s a professional killer and I got there just in time for your husband. Now there’s a nationwide manhunt on for him.’

  She raised her chin off the tips of his fingers.

  ‘This stuff all comes right back at John Lloyd Wickson. What is he up to, Tara? Give me the answer to that, and I’ll solve the horse problem.’

  ‘Do you really think they’re connected?’

  ‘Is grass green? Is the Pope a Catholic? I didn’t even begin to think you were that dim, Tara.’

  Her slim body sagged. ‘I’m just bothered about Charlotte. I haven’t a clue what John is up to.’

  ‘Then maybe you’d better start finding out, don’t you think? One might just assist the other.’

  Nine

  Henry sat in his conservatory, slouched down in one of the comfortable wicker chairs, a stubby bottle of Stella Artois resting on his stomach, balanced there in the grip of his right hand. His mind churned through the day, trying to put things in order, to make sense of what he had learned. He shifted painfully, grimacing. The knife slash down his side was hurting, though it had not done so all day.

  The visit to Manchester had been fruitless, if tantalizing. There was something not quite right about Jo Coniston’s disappearance and nothing right at all about Sgt Al Major, her caring, sharing supervisor. Henry struggled to see a way forward with it, other than to do some desktop research into the news stories of the time and some of his own ‘on the streets’ research.

  Next, his visit to the happy home of the Wickson family. It struck him that they were a deeply troubled trio of characters. John Lloyd Wickson was clearly up to no good in more ways than one. If she was to be believed, Tara did not know what he was up to, although even to Henry, some of his misdemeanours were blatantly obvious. Charlotte had her problems, too, probably caused by the relationship between her mum and dad. She was the only one of the three Henry felt anything like sorry for. The kids always get it, he thought bitterly. They may be amazingly adaptable, but it was always the parents who forced that adaptability on them.