by Nick Oldham
Sometimes the brain does not immediately compute what it is seeing. For a fleeting moment, Henry’s mind needed to make some adjustments; rather like staring at one of those multi-patterned optical illusions that need to be stared at for a length of time before hidden, recognizable shapes emerge in 3D.
At first Henry could not configure what he was seeing. It looked like a black and brown, singed, burnt mess … and then a shape emerged; a head, body, arms, legs; a seared, scorched, distressing sight. And then the smell hit him: burned human flesh, instantly recognizable, once inhaled, never forgotten, forever remembered by the olfactory sense.
‘Jesus!’ Jane uttered, putting a hand to her mouth.
Henry turned to see her stagger away, hands covering her face, retching. ‘Make sure you puke a good long distance away,’ he called after her, rather cruelly.
He caught Debbie’s eye, who, under her breath, said, ‘Wouldn’t want to contaminate the crime scene, would we?’
Henry smiled, looked again at the body. It was a truly awful sight, but the real horror to Henry was that its size told him something that made him shiver inside, made his throat constrict. Obviously it would have to be confirmed by the pathologist and the post mortem tests, but there and then Henry would have bet a month’s salary that he was looking at the body of a young person. Maybe eight, ten years old, somewhere round there. What sex he could not tell. Not that it mattered. Henry’s tired eyes – or good eye – which had seen a multitude of deaths, became sad as he inspected the murdered body of a child … and he now realized why Jane had maybe reacted so badly. She too had seen enough death for anyone and was usually unaffected by it. But even the most hardened detective is moved by the death of a child.
‘You think this death is connected to the enquiry you’re running?’ Debbie Black posed this question as she drove Henry south towards Blackpool. After apologizing to Jane about his lack of sensitivity, a gesture received with a sneer of contempt, Henry had delegated the task of crime scene manager to her for the time being, much to her obvious annoyance. He had then commandeered Debbie Black and her car to run him back to the Major Incident Room (MIR) from where he had been running his inherited investigation. To be straight, he should have given the CSM job to Debbie, but Jane was making him feel uncomfortable, so his decision was purely personal. If called to account, he thought he could justify it professionally if necessary.
Now, with the Irish Sea to his right this time, Henry considered Debbie’s query. He blew out his cheeks, gave it some application of grey matter.
On his return from the Manchester murder/corruption enquiry, he had been given an investigation that had been going down the pan. Not, he was at pains to admit, that he’d been doing much better with it since taking over. Problem was that it had taken the police too long to see that there even was a problem, despite the much-heralded problem-solving approach Lancashire Constabulary claimed it took, so by the time Henry became the SIO, he’d inherited a mess.
The whole thing had begun some six months earlier, whilst Henry had been knee deep in corpses and bent coppers across the border.
The beginning of spring. Days growing longer. Kids staying out later, parents inside, or sat on patios, beers in hand.
There had been four attacks in one day around Blackpool, each more horrific and violent than the last.
Saturday lunchtime: the first attack, an attempted abduction. A man in a car, a young girl skipping along a street. The man stopped, asked the girl for directions. She was wary, though, despite being a tender eight-year-old. When he opened his car door and she saw his trousers were unfastened, his penis out, she screamed as he lunged for her. She evaded his outstretched hands and ran for home. The man and car disappeared and the descriptions obtained were poor.
The second attack, two hours later: same MO and same result. The child escaped unharmed, although the attacker did manage to drag her to him, but he disappeared empty-handed.
Two more attacks took place that day. The fourth was the most horrifying, but this time the man – if it was the same man – was on foot in a local park, not far from the seafront at North Shore. He made no mistake and grabbed a girl who was walking alone through the park. Within seconds he had bundled her terrified into the boot of his car and driven away. She was released three hours later after suffering a brutal sexual assault. Again, the police had little evidence – that the man had a silver car was about the best they got – and after an intense, but short-term enquiry, they got nowhere. The man went to ground. No arrest was made, but then again there were no more attacks. After a short period of hi-viz patrolling, police resources were channelled into more productive activities. Within a month, the attacks were all but forgotten, except by the victims and their families.
Six weeks later there were two more attacks on the same day – attempts, unsuccessfully, to entice young girls into a silver car by a man with his pants off and penis in hand. These were half-hearted attacks, less serious than on that first day, and it was assumed that they might not have even been committed by the same man. The only evidence linking the two days was the silver or grey car. The problem was that these were not unusual occurrences. A man driving around, flies undone, pants removed, approaching young girls, was the sort of thing that happened quite regularly, unfortunately.
Then nothing. Not one incident for three months.
Then he was back with a vengeance.
A Saturday morning in midsummer. One of the hot days. Scorching sun, people letting their guard down. Nothing bad was supposed to happen on such days, not in England, surely.
He struck hard and brutally.
The girl he abducted was found three hours later, left for dead in a grass verge next to a lay-by, having been strangled and raped. That she lived was a miracle.
It was only then that the police started to click the pieces of the puzzle together, realizing there was every chance they had a serial offender on their hands, someone who could possibly kill on his next outing. In a very short space of time an investigation team was cobbled together and a proper enquiry was underway. Better late than never. By judicious use of skilful bullshit and lies, they managed to avoid too much criticism from the local press, who were ever willing to kick the cops at every opportunity; internally there was some searching questions asked and a lot of arse kicking. A ferocious chief constable insisted on a result, or else.
The results did not come. The local DCI in charge of the investigation found himself miserably sidelined on to a neighbourhood policing project – shamed, basically – and replaced by the newly-returned-to-the-force Henry Christie.
For Henry, this was an unexpected and unwelcome development. He had known about the restructuring of FMIT and his transfer to Blackpool, but had not expected to be handed a poisoned chalice so quickly.
His first two days back in the force had been spent doing his defensive tactics refresher training, which included a great input on how to slap someone, which was both highly amusing and effective; there had also been a demonstration by the Firearms department of the taser stun gun, which was also impressive. On day three he was unwillingly helping out with promotion interviews at headquarters, forming one third of the panel assessing potential sergeants. This was not up Henry’s street, but he had only himself to blame; foolishly he had once volunteered to be trained to carry out recruitment and selection interviews in a moment of weakness several years earlier. Now it was payback time as he found himself press-ganged on to a panel asking inane questions to bright-eyed bushy-tailed constables who believed they had the qualities to be sergeants if they gave the answers the panel wanted.
He became so bored so quickly by the whole, dry, mind-numbing process that he started to apply his own assessment criteria. He started scoring highly if the candidate was female, blonde, slim and attractive, whatever they said in answer to his less-than-probing questions. Just so long as they had a modicum of intellect. His approach was soon spotted by the rather snooty other members of the panel, s
traight-laced, rod-up-the-arse HR types. He was quickly taken to one side and lectured to by a scary lady who threatened him, but could not actually really prove what he was doing. She looked as though she could have plunged a knife into him, which gave him a warm feeling inside.
‘You can always find someone else,’ he suggested, knowing she was well and truly stuck with him as all the other eligible high-ranking officers had scattered like cockroaches from a light when they saw this task coming up. Just like he would have done if he’d been pre-warned. However, he took heed of the dressing down and when he returned to the interviews he amended his criteria to be more inclusive: redheads, brunettes and blondes.
By three p.m. on the second day of interviews – Thursday of that week – having seen an average of three people an hour over six hours, he was mentally screwed and physically crumbling. The panel were taking a well-earned coffee break, Henry avoiding all small talk about human resource issues, when his mobile phone vibrated silently in his pocket as a text message landed … and by three fifteen p.m., having given his fellow panel members a cheery wave bye-bye, he was sitting in the chief constable’s office wearing a wary expression and wondering if he would be better off choosing blondes or brunettes. Also in the office was Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger, head honcho of FMIT. Even before conversation commenced Henry’s eyes roved the room in search of the metaphorical chalice, or was it the Sword of Damocles?
‘Henry,’ the chief constable began. He was sitting on one of the four low leather sofas arranged into a square, for those less formal gatherings. He leaned forward with his fingers intertwined, facing Henry who was on the sofa directly opposite. Dave Anger was on the one to Henry’s right. ‘I just want to say again that you and your team did a cracking job in GMP.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ The Chief did not hand out praise readily; mostly he insulted Henry, so Henry realized immediately he was being softened up, therefore remained on guard. In terms of the Manchester job, the Chief had actually headed it, though Henry had done the donkey work.
‘No point slacking now you’re back, though,’ he went on.
‘Hadn’t intended to. I’ve just redone my defensive tactics training and I’m involved in PC to PS interviews as we speak.’
‘Very commendable,’ he said insincerely. The Chief’s name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. Henry had known him for many years. FB, as he was known in the force (and it was not necessarily an affectionate term, because most people called him ‘Fucking Bastard’ behind his back), had spent virtually all his service as a police officer in Lancashire. He had been a career detective up to the rank of chief superintendent, then became an ambitious high-ranking chief officer, ending up in his present position quite swiftly after one or two deft career moves. Henry had worked for FB several times over the years and they had developed an unhealthy, one-sided relationship, one in which Henry’s skills were used and abused by a ruthless FB, often to the detriment of Henry’s well-being, mentally and physically. Henry had actually believed FB had gone a little soft on him, but that gentleness seemed to have gone up in smoke. Now he was back to normal, the pleasantness just an unexplained blip on an otherwise uncompromising bastard’s character; FB had resumed his role of devious, manipulative, scheming, result-driven git, and Henry guessed that FB did not possess a conscience.
Henry smiled stupidly from one high-ranker to the other, raised his eyebrows and waited for the punchline.
‘Dave and I have been talking … about you,’ FB announced. ‘And as you’re now pretty hot in terms of your investigatory skills, what with this GMP thing under your belt, we want those honed skills to be put to good use for this force now.’
‘Oh, save me the rhetoric. Cut the crap and cut to the chase.’ The words hovered on Henry’s lips, but were left unsaid. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, realizing he was definitely being set up for a stinker. ‘Oh dear,’ he did say, looking sideways at Anger. Anger had been fairly recently transferred into Lancashire from Merseyside to run FMIT. Despite his best efforts, he could not dislodge Henry as much as he would have loved to. With close-cropped grey hair and tiny round glasses, making him look like a fully-paid-up member of a Gestapo hit squad, Anger smiled venomously. Despite Henry’s success in GMP, Anger still did not give him the benefit of the doubt. It was something Henry could not understand; just what did he have against him? Whatever it was, it was about to be unleashed. Anger’s next step in his master plan to oust Henry off FMIT.
‘We want you to take on the enquiry into the child rape and attempted murder in Blackpool and the associated abductions,’ Anger said without blinking.
‘I thought Tom Banner was heading that.’
‘Was. As of now, you are.’
‘Does Tom know this?’
‘He’s gone on the neighbourhood policing project.’ Anger gave a twitch of his nose. ‘Good for his CV.’
‘Why me?’
‘Fresh perspective and all that,’ FB intercut. He knew Henry and Anger did not see eye to eye, that there was a palpable tension there. Once FB had been bothered by the clash; now he wasn’t. He had more important things to do than get involved with the petty squabbles of his subordinates. Rather like Pilate, he seemed to have washed his hands of the affair. He was chief constable, for God’s sake. ‘The investigation seems to have stalled, so we want you to take it on, and,’ – for some reason FB inspected his watch – ‘get a result within a month.’ It was said in an offhand, almost unimportant way.
A chill of fear rippled through Henry’s lower intestine. ‘A month? It’s been going on six months already.’
‘All the more reason to wind it up quickly. A lot of people are getting extremely twitchy about it and we want to be seen to be doing something,’ Anger said.
‘Hence me,’ Henry said glumly.
‘There is a carrot,’ FB announced.
‘Shock me,’ Henry said.
‘Substantive chief inspector. I’ll fix it.’
Henry was a temporary chief inspector which always had the possibility of being taken away from him. ‘And if I don’t get a result in a month?’
FB pouted. Anger half-shrugged. Neither seemed to have an answer.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Nope,’ they said in unison.
And so Henry inherited a major investigation getting nowhere which he secretly named ‘Operation Wank’, because he was sometimes just plain childish.
Henry sniffed, nostrils flaring, and turned to look at Debbie Black’s profile. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, with oval eyes and a thick, meaty mouth. Henry half-recalled that she had separated from her husband, but couldn’t remember the exact details. Since she had posed the question, Henry had been mulling it over for so long that they had reached the multi-storey car park next to Blackpool Central police station, one level of which was leased for police use only, secured appropriately.
‘Good question,’ he said finally. ‘Does it have any connection?’
‘Taken you long enough to reply,’ she smirked.
‘Deep thinker, me.’
‘So?’ she queried, negotiating the car around the tight corners and high kerbstones of the car park. ‘What do you think? Connection or not?’
His shoulders jerked, a non-committal gesture. ‘Who knows? I don’t think I’ll be able to say until later in the day, but my gut feeling is that it’s not connected with the investigation into the abductions … or then again, it could be. Uren could be our man for both … maybe … vague answer, but it’ll have to do. I really want to get the scientific side boxed off properly, get the body identified and find the unpleasant Mr Uren PDQ.’
The MIR from which Henry had been running his investigation was situated on the fourth floor of the station. Henry and Debbie made their way to it by way of the lift and found the room, unsurprisingly quiet, devoid of personnel. Or, at least that’s what Henry thought until he saw a dark, bulky figure lurking behind one of the computer terminals. A man rose slowly as he an
d Debbie entered the room. Henry’s boss. Dave Anger.
He should not have been astounded. Although he had not personally informed Anger of the latest developments because he had not yet had time (or inclination, if truth be known), it was something very near to the top of his mental ‘To Do’ list. Henry guessed that Jane Roscoe may well have done the deed already in her capacity as Anger’s snitch, though Henry did not know for sure. And even though he did not know if this was truly the case, his feelings towards her hardened anyway. It confirmed to his slightly paranoid mind that she and Anger were still in league, Roscoe because he had dumped her and it still smarted; Anger because of some unknown, unfathomable reason that completely eluded him.
The two men faced each other across the computer terminals. Henry could see Anger looking at his injured face. Debbie hovered back behind Henry.
Anger addressed Debbie, speaking across Henry’s shoulder.
‘Leave us. Close the door behind you.’
‘Sir.’ Meekly, head bowed, she withdrew, confused by the tableau, leaving Henry with a man he had grown to hate. But why? Henry knew Anger wanted his chosen few on FMIT and Henry did not come into that clique, but that surely did not really explain the utter dislike.
‘What’ve you got, Henry?’
‘Abandoned car, body of a young person in the boot. Car was being driven earlier by George Uren, someone we wanted to question.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He tried to run me down.’
‘You get hurt?’
‘A bit.’
Anger looked disappointed that Henry wasn’t lying on a mortuary slab. ‘Are you the SIO?’
Strange question, Henry thought. ‘Yeah,’ he said unsurely.
Anger’s head rocked. His lips drew back, revealing his teeth. ‘Your job is to tell me about it all, I believe.’ He sounded supercilious and Henry half-expected him to lick the tip of his finger and mark a ‘one up to me’ in the air. ‘I’ve had trouble with you before about this, haven’t I? Not keeping me informed.’
