by Nick Oldham
He breathed in deeply at his second early start on the trot, and walked across to his car on the drive, parked next to Kate’s Toyota Yaris. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Mondeo, wondering how he was going to get time to get to a tyre repair place when, just as he was about to insert his key, something made him sit up straight, furrow his brow. Something he’d seen. But he wasn’t quite sure what.
After a moment of cogitation, he got out and inspected the car and saw it.
It began at the headlight cluster on the front wing and finished at the backlight cluster. One long, continuous line: a deep gouge from front to back. He bent down and looked closely at it, touching it.
It was deep. Not superficial. All the way through each layer of paint to the metal below. Probably made by a screwdriver or a key.
He stood upright, hands on hips, speechless. He walked round and checked the rest of the car, but that was the only scratch.
‘Bastards,’ he hissed angrily. ‘Who the …?’ Actually, he immediately had a very good idea; not necessarily who had committed the damage, but why it had been done. The corruption investigation in GMP. The police car he’d used during the investigation had been damaged a few times during the course of his time there as he unearthed a web of criminality and upset a lot of nasty people. Obviously the game was now being carried on to his home turf.
A cold, nervous shiver ran through him.
A serious and worrying development, maybe having implications for his family.
Henry wracked his brain, wondering if he had missed seeing the damage last night during the wheel change. It could be that it had happened elsewhere, not on his drive at home. It was possible he’d missed it last night … and with that thought of reassurance, he pulled away from home and headed to work, but only after he’d got down on his hands and knees and checked the underside of the car for a bomb.
Sunday is never a good day to get food in a police station, as canteen facilities are usually nine to five weekdays and Saturdays. Henry stopped off at a little café he knew of old in South Shore and ran in for a bacon sarnie and hot tea in a large plastic cup, which he then drove to the nick with. He hurried to the MIR, where he devoured his breakfast feast, scoffing the last mouthful as the two bleary-eyed female detectives slobbed sleepily into the room.
‘Progress?’ Jane asked, rubbing her eyes.
He held up a copy of the message from the FIM which he had printed off. ‘Young girl missing from North Yorks … doesn’t look good.’ Jane took the paper and scanned through the message. ‘I’d like you both to go over to Harrogate and do the necessary with the police and the family over there. We need to see if we can get a DNA match with our body. We’ll fast track everything.’
‘I thought I was crime scene manager,’ Jane whined. ‘They don’t go gallivanting around.’
‘They do if the SIO says they do,’ Henry retorted coldly, but seeing her stiffen, he relented. ‘We won’t get a full team on to this tomorrow and I’d like to get as much as poss done today. I don’t want any feet dragging on this one … and it’s a trip out, isn’t it? Harrogate’s lovely.’
Jane did not reply.
Debbie looked at him, a smile playing on her full lips, the lips Henry had kissed not many hours previously.
‘Do we get chance of breakfast before we go?’ Jane asked sourly.
‘There’s a couple of Little Chefs on the A59,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘Get an all day breakfast.’
‘Right,’ she said haughtily, getting the message. She turned to Debbie and Henry could feel the friction between the two of them, something he could not understand. But then again, the older and wiser he got, the less he seemed able to get to his head around women anyway. ‘You ready to go?’ Jane said.
Debbie nodded and they left Henry, a lone figure amongst the blank computer screens.
Time to tell Sharky, aka Dave Anger, about the new development – if he didn’t already know, Henry thought cynically.
Most of the morning was procedure-driven, ensuring that the staff he had were briefed and tasked and that everything that should be in place for a murder enquiry would be by Monday. He was under no illusions about the job he had to do, being the leader of the team, providing the investigative focus, coordinating and motivating the team, being accountable for every facet of the enquiry whilst managing a whole host of resources to maximum effect. There was no place for a loner in such a set-up, though the use of initiative was always encouraged.
He knew it was absolutely necessary to go through all the correct procedures even though he was confident that the arrest of George Uren was not far away. However, Henry still found that when he got five minutes breathing space he retreated to his office and did some doodling on a pad. He wrote: ‘Why + when + where + how = who?’ Standard SIO thinking. It was pretty obvious that Uren and A. N. Other constituted the ‘who’ of the equation, but Henry was certain that all the other bits would need to be addressed in depth, particularly the ‘why?’, even after Uren had been locked up.
There was also something else he did not want to forget, and that was the fact that he was originally heading an investigation into a series of sexual assaults on young children and the discovery of the body in the boot had spun that off at a tangent. He knew he had to bear this in mind and keep his thinking open. It would be a tragedy if he pinned his hopes on George Uren to be the offender for those offences and then find out he was wrong. If the two strands came together and Uren confessed to these crimes, that would be great, but Henry wasn’t banking on it.
There was something altogether more sinister and brutal about the death in the car. He knew that sex offenders usually committed increasingly terrible offences, but was this one step too far? Or was it just a natural progression? Who could tell? The last offence committed in the series of abductions had been nasty, almost fatal, so maybe this was the next phase. The use of incendiaries to set fire to the car was strange, too. How many people used incendiaries? If nothing else, it was such an unusual MO that if they were used in other crimes, a link could be quickly established, hopefully.
He sat back, fingers interlinked behind his head, looking at the shark in the wall – almost a metaphor for the dangerous streets of Blackpool. He was feeling frustrated now. This had become one of those early investigation lulls when lots of things were happening, but nothing seemed to be going on. It was a time of waiting. The two women should have reached North Yorkshire by now, breakfasts taken into consideration, and soon they would have the means to make a scientific match, or otherwise, with the missing girl; a few pairs of detectives were visiting addresses and associates linked to Uren; the crime scene investigation was still on-going; Intel was being worked on … in fact, everything that should be happening was happening with the resources at his disposal, and even more would be happening come tomorrow. It just felt like nothing was going on. He was sitting on his backside, making sure the I’s were dotted, T’s crossed, doodling with ideas and twiddling his thumbs. Or, as a much-hated police driving instructor on his advanced course once accused him, when he’d nearly totalled the car, ‘Your finger’s up your bum and your brain’s in neutral, PC Christie. You’re in a fuckin’ world of your own.’ Despite the compliment and near collision, Henry had managed to pass the course. Just.
But actually, inactivity was not Henry’s strongpoint. It was unnatural to him. He enjoyed doing, not doodling, which is why he heaved himself out of his chair and strode purposefully to the MIR. He had realized that today would be his last opportunity to get out and about with this investigation. Once all the troops arrived tomorrow, he would be the office-bound strategist. Just for today, though, he was free to do some digging for himself instead of delegating others.
As he walked down the corridor he took off his jacket and slung his covert harness over his shoulders, which held his rigid handcuffs, ASP baton and CS gas canister underneath his left armpit, then shrugged his jacket back on.
With the ultimate and exact science of hind
sight, he would often wonder if it would have been the better option to have stayed in the office, drinking tea and pen-pushing, thinking strategy.
It would certainly have been the safer option.
DC Jerry Tope, Henry’s impressive intelligence cell, had actually done a good job of going through George Uren’s file and turning the information gleaned into actions for allocation, dropping the completed, triplicate, handwritten forms into the appropriate tray for distribution following Monday morning’s briefing.
Henry picked up the sheets and leafed through them, aware that Tope was eyeing him warily from his desk nearby. He smiled winningly at the DC and said, ‘You’ve done a good job here.’ Tope relaxed visibly, almost heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Have you started working on timelines yet?’ he then asked, to keep him on his toes.
‘Er … er … just about to start,’ Tope said hurriedly, brushing his hair back nervously and riffling through the papers on his desk.
Henry winked at him. ‘Good man.’
He took the sheaf of actions – which had yet to be entered on the HOLMES system – and wandered over to a spare seat. He began to read them carefully. Truth was, he should have simply selected the top one and not gone through them to try and pick out a juicy one. From tomorrow, all the actions would be prioritized by the Allocator, but here and now he had the pick of the litter.
It was true to say that ninety-nine per cent of the actions were dull and mundane. Essential, but boring, with no real chance of leading directly to a killer, although this is what every detective would hope for. They were all pieces of a jigsaw, and those in Henry’s mitts were no exception. Most were just tedious pieces of sky, but a few were interesting and might just lead somewhere significant. There were four that looked a bit tasty. Henry discarded one, then eeny-meenied the other three, leaving one. Oddly enough it was the one he wanted to do anyway.
The actions were on triple carbonated paper. He wrote ‘DCI Christie dealing’, timed and dated it, tore off the top sheet for himself and dropped the remaining copies on to the Allocator’s desk. He returned the others to DC Tope. He picked up his PR from his office and clutching his job, started making his way to his car.
Reaching the lift just before the doors slid shut, he stepped in to find himself standing next to an old protégé, a detective sergeant called Rik Dean. Rik had once been a customs officer and had joined the police late, mid-twenties, but had brought with him an instinct for sniffing out thieves and bad people. His gravitation on to CID and subsequent promotion had not surprised Henry, who had always backed Rik, and not just because he was a good thief-taker. He was also a ruthless lady-killer, his exploits well known, but for some reason he was rarely in trouble over his conquests. Unlike Henry.
Henry had specifically asked that Rik be released to join the murder squad for the big push tomorrow.
‘Henry,’ Rik said, ‘got your message about tomorrow. The DI’s happy to release me for the murder team … well, when I say happy, he doesn’t want me to go but knows he doesn’t have a choice.’
‘Good … in that case, how are you fixed to join me a day early? I could do with some company.’ He shook the action at him. ‘I’m going over to Accrington to knock on a door… if you could make it …’ Henry gave a ‘whatever’ gesture with his shoulders. The lift reached level One, doors, as ever, sliding sluggishly open as though they resented doing the job. Henry stepped across the threshold to prevent them closing. He could see Rik was tempted. ‘Could be a juicy one,’ Henry said tantalizingly.
‘I’ll have to clear it with the boss.’
‘Tell you what. I need to nip out to have a tyre repaired. I’ll give you a shout when I’m clear … that should give you enough time to get an answer one way or the other.’
‘Done,’ Rik said.
Henry left Rik in the lift and made his way across the mezzanine to the car park.
Before getting into the Mondeo he checked it for damage again. There was nothing further. He looked at the new go-faster stripe down the side and felt a tremor of anger, tinged with an unsettling feeling. He had to assume the damage had been done on his drive at home; anything else was just wishful thinking. It couldn’t have been done on the secure car park, could it? If it had happened outside his house, it meant that, unless it was just a random act of vandalism, someone who did not like him very much knew where he lived. To Henry, that constituted a threat to his family. Unless … unless the culprit was that neighbour he’d fallen out with who had allowed his poodle to shit on Henry’s front lawn. Whilst a person’s reaction could never be second-guessed, the incident had happened months ago. Maybe there had been a festering resentment as Henry’s response to the fouling had hardly been restrained: delivering the offending faeces back on to the neighbour’s front door step could have been a tad too far. Even so, his car had been scratched and he was extremely annoyed.
He drove out of the garage and up to the nearest tyre repair garage he could think of, which was, fortunately, not too busy. Within five minutes he was being attended to and his flat was being examined.
Henry stood, hands in pockets, breathing in the Blackpool air. It was a good day. Clean, almost warm, lots of blue sky, some sun even.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Turning, Henry saw the young lad who was dealing with the puncture. Being addressed as ‘sir’ by anyone other than someone of lower rank in force was a peculiar sensation. Especially by a spotty teenager in overalls who would probably be out on the lash later, happy to spit at patrolling cops and getting girls pissed on alcopops … or was he being a bit harsh on the poor lad? He held up the tyre, which had been taken off the wheel hub.
‘Can’t repair this.’
Pound signs clattered across Henry’s brain. ‘And why not?’
‘Bit more than a puncture.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Someone’s stuck a knife, or a screwdriver or summat in it in several places. The inner steel belt is damaged. Looks like a big screwdriver, actually. See.’ He showed Henry just what he meant. ‘Someone got it in for you, sir?’
‘It’s beginning to look that way,’ Henry said darkly.
Five
It came in black, like a thundercloud, hanging over Henry’s brain, fuelling a deeply unsettled mindset as he drove across Lancashire from west to east. Not only was it the seventy-five pounds it had cost him to replace the tyre (‘Surely you would like one that matches the rest?’), it was the fact he felt he was being stalked. Maybe they could have been unrelated incidents – the scrape down the car, the damage to the tyre – just coincidences, perhaps, but he did not see that as being the case. A queasy sensation of vulnerability crept over him.
‘If I’d known you were going to be a boring old fart, I’d’ve stayed in Blackpool,’ Rik Dean remarked as, so far, apart from the occasional grunt, Henry had not spoken. He’d been deeply engrossed in running through the suspect list in his head, but try as he might, he could not begin to accept he was a target for anyone other than some aggrieved cop, relative or friend of a cop from Manchester. He had put a lot of noses out of joint, shaken some reputations, angered many. He was not popular over the border.
‘Sorry, pal,’ he said, breaking out of his reverie.
‘Something troubling you?’
‘Nah, nothing.’
‘Women problems?’
Henry chuckled. ‘Always have women problems.’
Rik Dean sighed. ‘Moi aussi.’
‘Oh?’ Henry said, suddenly interested in the scandal of someone else’s life. ‘And who is your most recent conquest?’
‘It would be ungentlemanly to reveal a name,’ Rik said mysteriously. ‘Other than to say she’s in the job and she’s a bit jangled. Went a bit far one night, now I can’t get rid. She keeps wittering on about love … wouldn’t mind, but she’s hitched, though separated.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘You said it. And all that baggage – ugh!’ He shivered
Henry’s mood
had brightened a little as he hit the M65, continuing a journey that was all motorway.
‘So what are we looking at?’ Rik asked, refocusing on the job.
‘George Uren was released from prison to a probation hostel in Accrington eighteen months ago. He did a bunk from there and hasn’t been seen since. Bit of a long shot, but the staff there should remember him and you never know.’
‘Why did you need a sidekick? It’s not exactly a two-man job.’
Henry looked coldly at him. ‘I get scared on my own.’
Dean laughed.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the motorway and drove down the dual carriageway into Accrington town centre. The place had changed considerably over the years since Henry had spent time there. He had done a lot of teenage drinking, carousing and courting around Accrington, and had loved the place at the time. He’d touched base with it on and off during his police career and seen it evolve, seen the population become much more multicultural, and grown to dislike it. Very different from the town he had known as a youth, now with multi-storey car parks, big shopping centres, car-free zones and blue disc parking – what was all that about, he often wondered.
Although much had changed, the basic layout of the place hadn’t, and Henry threaded his way easily across town on to Manchester Road, where the hostel was situated. He drove past the police station, an old building, connected to the magistrates court, which should have been flattened years ago. As cop shops went, Accrington was pretty much the pits. Whilst acknowledging that some officers might have warm feelings for the building, Henry wasn’t one of them.
Less than half a mile further, he pulled up outside a large double-fronted house on Manchester Road which had once been a palace, could have easily belonged to a mill owner in days gone by. Now it was a bail hostel, badly maintained and, no doubt, deeply unpopular with its neighbours. It was one of those not-in-my-back-yard things, and Henry felt a great deal of sympathy for people who suddenly found such an institution on their doorsteps – and often inmates from that institution in their front rooms. Pinching the telly.
