by Nick Oldham
Henry shook his head.
A young girl coming through the alley to go to the shop. The Figgis family needed berating for sending her alone. It was no wonder the alley was the scene of assaults and muggings. It was ripe for them, a bad place where bad things happened. He resolved to get something done about it as he walked across the car park.
He stopped in the middle, the spot where, allegedly, Kerry had been seen getting into a car. What did that mean? ‘Getting into?’ Willingly? Unwillingly? He needed the witness to be spoken to in some detail. He considered it was his job to do that, but realized he would have to delegate it to someone else, but someone he trusted. There was only so much he could do personally.
It was the fundamental question, though.
Willingly, unwillingly?
Someone she knew? Or a stranger?
Henry carried on towards the shop, nostrils flaring.
Eleven forty-five p.m.
‘What’ve we not done?’ The question was thrown out to Jane Roscoe and the other detectives and uniformed officers crammed into the MIR. There was a distinct hum of body odour and everyone looked creased and worn out. It was Henry who had barked the question, asking it in a defiant way which almost dared anyone to suggest that something had not been covered or at least considered. ‘To say that we’ve got an abduction on our hands, a nine-year-old girl missing, what have we not done that we should have done in the last five hours?’
The sea of tired blank faces told its own story. Henry experienced a slight tinge of regret for the challenging way he’d posed the question. Anyone who came up with something now would expect to be treated with hostility, and he realized he would have to be careful. Just because he was knackered and under pressure did not mean he had to alienate the people he depended on, people who had been run ragged for the whole of the evening. They were all as exhausted as he, all as dedicated and professional. He needed to keep them on board. He tried to soften his tension-raged face, opened his arms and said, ‘Any ideas warmly welcomed.’
Nothing.
He checked his watch: ten to midnight. ‘OK folks, back for a seven-thirty a.m. briefing.’
‘Why not seven?’ someone chirped.
‘I’m already breaking working-time regs by asking you to come back at half-seven. But if anyone wishes to trap at seven, I’ll be here.’ From the nods and the looks on the faces, he knew that to a man and woman they would all be back. A missing girl, added to everything else that had happened since Friday, meant that everyone in that room thought it obscene to be even going home, let alone going to bed. The reality of it was that there was little to be done at that time. Every possible lead in terms of friends, relatives, acquaintances had been followed up. They hadn’t yet traced Kerry’s true father, which was a bit unsettling. Searches had been done, would be redone in the cold light of dawn. The night duty inspector was staying in touch with the family and all night patrols had been briefed … and Henry was feeling nauseous because he feared the worst. Kerry Figgis was probably dead now, and he felt a fraud too for even thinking about going home.
The team sauntered reluctantly out, leaving Henry and Jane in the MIR.
‘Need a drink,’ Jane declared.
‘Me too, but not alcohol.’ He stretched, bones cracking. He touched his injured eye, now a rather putrid shade of yellow, and rubbed his sore leg, injured by Uren’s car so, so long ago. ‘Definitely not alcohol. I’m knackered and if anything happens overnight, I want to be at least half-compos to deal.’
‘Mineral water, then,’ Jane announced. ‘Down at the King’s Arms. They’ve got a late licence.’
‘OK, see you down there. Just need to check my e-mails first.’
‘And call in?’
‘And call in,’ he confirmed. They stared uncomfortably at each other, Jane bristling that Henry wanted to call home and speak to Kate.
‘So why does it still bother me?’ she said. She shrugged. ‘See you in the pub … don’t be long.’
THURSDAY
Thirteen
He called Kate using the work phone on his desk. She sounded sleepy but concerned, and promised to keep the bed warm for him. A pleasant thought which made him fleetingly consider cancelling the mineral water with Jane.
He spun in his chair and glanced at the shark. A dark figure hovered in a doorway below the model, but Henry thought nothing of it. Doorways in Blackpool abounded with dark figures. He sighed and forced himself to his feet, everything aching, everything weary, everything needing a warm bed and lots of sleep.
He wended his way down through the police station using the stairs. He crossed New Bonny Street and headed towards the King’s Arms, unaware his progress was being monitored by the figure in the shadows. Henry had completely forgotten he was there.
In the pub he found Jane at a table clutching something that looked remarkably like a gin and tonic and munching from a ‘Big Eat’ bag of crisps, which was torn apart on the table. He sat opposite – after nodding to a couple of other detectives at the bar – and lifted the long, cool, iced mineral water Jane had bought him. He said cheers and had a sip. It was nice, but it wasn’t Stella.
‘Contact made?’ she asked coolly.
‘Contact made,’ he confirmed.
She looked sad and a little frustrated, but said nothing. Carefully she selected a large, corrugated crisp, and folded it into her mouth, chomping meaningfully into it.
‘So, have we done everything?’
‘Yes we have,’ she said. ‘You feeling a bit vulnerable?’
‘A wee bit.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve done good – but what about tomorrow?’
‘Find the missing dad for a start, interview Mum properly, and spotty Callum … keep looking.’ He sounded a little hopeless.
‘Think she’s dead?’
‘My gut feeling …’ He paused. ‘Hm, gut feeling: I know she is.’
‘Uren’s mate?’
‘Doesn’t fit the pattern as such, but it could be. Could be Daddy, could be anybody, could be Callum. Keeping an open mind. Need to get the press on board big-style.’ He took another ice-against-the-teeth drink of water. ‘One dead girl, another abducted, similarities with other missing girls, inter-force working … it’s going to be a feeding frenzy, and I don’t want anything going wrong, like Soham,’ he said. He was referring to the abduction and murder of two young girls a couple of years before, which exposed police procedures and information-sharing protocols as a joke. ‘All interested parties need to get together tomorrow, and we need to start talking.’
He sat back, the enormity of the task daunting him, making him wonder if he was up to it. There was going to have to be a lot of political game-playing from now on and the spotlight would be firmly burning his eyeballs out.
Tearing his eyes from the pub ceiling, he found Jane staring at him. He instinctively knew the subject was about to be changed. Call it a hunch. There seemed to be no escaping past misdemeanours. He was beginning to feel some sympathy for felons who were tarred for life by a moment of madness.
‘Go on,’ he said suspiciously.
‘Nah, nothing really.’
‘Go on,’ he ordered her this time.
‘I was just wondering how many people would send you texts and damage your car. I’ll bet there’s more than just my husband. Correction, my ex-husband-to-be.’
‘You’ve made that decision then?’
‘Oh yeah,’ she said passionately
‘I’m sorry.’
‘One of those things.’ She shrugged stoically. ‘Even if you hadn’t come along, him and me would’ve ended up in this position at some stage, I guess. Me and you were just a symptom of an underlying problem … so don’t avoid the question. You’re too good at that, deflecting attention. How many people have you driven to hate you so much?’
He contemplated this, then blew out his cheeks. ‘Lots of villains, of course, but I don’t mind that so much. Anyone who hates me because I’m a cop doesn’t bother
me, goes with the territory, but I get unsettled when I think someone hates me on a personal level.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘You don’t really want anyone to dislike you, do you?’ she observed. ‘You’re not terribly good at relationships, are you?’ She smiled sadly.
‘They frighten me,’ he admitted, wishing he had a double JD in his hand instead of a poxy mineral water.
His mobile rang, attracting stares of derision from other punters because of the ring tone.
‘Henry Christie.’
‘It’s me, Debbie, sorry I’m late calling, but I’m only just back from Harrogate.’
‘No probs.’ He ‘phewed’ inwardly, having completely forgotten about her and his promise of a drink. ‘Did you do that job for me?’
‘Yeah, and guess what? Jodie’s grandmother was a victim of a bogus official earlier in the week and there were three other jobs in the same area, but no one was locked up. The evidence points to travelling criminals.’
‘Right, thanks, that’s really good stuff,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘How much went from the burglaries?’
‘Not sure, about two grand in total, I think.’
‘How many offenders?’
‘Two white males on each job.’
‘OK, good stuff, Debbie. Look, there’s a briefing at seven, because there’s been another kid gone missing over here. If you want a lie-in, that’s OK, but I could do with seeing you. I might need you to go back to Harrogate, I’m afraid.’
‘Anything to keep me at arm’s length.’
‘Not at all. I want someone there I can trust to help catch a killer.’
There was a burst of laughter from the other detectives at the bar.
‘Where are you, Henry? I thought you were at home. You’re in a pub, aren’t you? Can I come?’
‘I’m off home now,’ he said. ‘See you in the morning.’
He ended the call and folded his mobile into the palm of his hand.
‘The lovely Debbie,’ Jane said with a distinct snippiness. ‘So did you shag her in Harrogate? She’s deffo got the hots for you, but she’s a bit mental, you know.’
‘Answer – no. And so I’ve heard.’ He paused, waiting for Jane to come back at him, but she remained mute. His mouth twisted thoughtfully, his mind back to the more serious matters at hand. ‘I’m just going to go back into the nick to see if Troy Costain’s awake. I’d like an informal chat with him.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Jane said, ‘to protect you from yourself.’
‘No need – and I won’t give him a crack, even though I still want to murder the little shit.’
They finished their drinks and left the still-busy pub. The wind was whipping up and they huddled into their coats as they walked back to the station, entering through the door into the police car park, separating at the lift and stairwell, pausing to say goodnight. Their eyes caught for a spell, then Jane turned quickly away and ran upstairs. Henry walked down the corridor to the custody office.
Half past midnight mid-week, and a stream of prisoners was coming through the doors. Henry pushed through, ecstatic that his time in the custody office was long since over. After a quick chat with the night custody officer who, against all regulations, gave him the cell keys, Henry entered the cell complex, which was a series of cells built around an internal, barred-roof courtyard used to let prisoners exercise and smoke.
Cell four. Henry peered through the peephole.
Troy Costain sat huddled in a shaking ball on the wooden bed, rocking, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. A pitiful moan came from somewhere deep inside him. Henry felt no sympathy. The old adage, ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,’ came to mind. Although he had used Troy ruthlessly over the years, Henry had always kept him out of custody, protected him, even though their relationship had never been smooth. Troy deeply resented the power Henry exercised over him. But now Henry felt no longer able to do look after him, not with visions of his mother skipping through his mind. As far as he was concerned, Troy was on his own now.
He opened the door. Troy raised his head. He looked dreadful, not least because of the swelling of his face from Henry’s earlier battering. Again, Henry experienced no regret at that. A punch in the plexus was the least Troy deserved.
‘Get me out of here, Henry,’ he whimpered.
‘Not a chance.’
‘I can’t stand it, it’s fuckin’ killin’ me.’
‘Good. I like to see you suffer.’
He spread his hands. ‘Why, what the fuck have I done? What’s making you treat me like this?’ He looked at the non-responsive Henry Christie and it suddenly struck him. ‘Oh, fuck, oh my good fuck! I did your mother, didn’t I?’
They were in the exercise yard. Henry had given Costain one of the cigarettes he always kept on him for such occasions. The non-smoking regulations in cells and interview rooms was strictly enforced, and prisoners were lucky if they were allowed to smoke anywhere these days, not something which enhanced cop-prisoner relationships. It was cold, the wind swirling in through the metal bars which formed the secure roof of the yard. Dark clouds scudded across the night sky, rain threatened.
Costain leaned against the wall, deeply inhaling the smoke from the cigarette, relieved to be out of his cell.
‘I’d never have knowingly done it, Henry, not if I’d known … never … you’ve got to believe me, mate.’
‘Don’t “mate” me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘If it wasn’t my mum, it would’ve been somebody else’s.’
‘Aye, suppose.’
‘You are seriously in my debt now, you know?’
‘Yeah, yeah, anything.’ He sucked the cigarette down to the filter, tossed it down and scrubbed it out, then exhaled the lungful of smoke into the air. ‘Can I have another, Henry?’
Henry shuffled the packet out of his jacket pocket and let Costain take one. He was already trying to work out the best way of getting the most out of the rueful Costain one last time.
‘Callum Rourke,’ Henry said.
‘What about him?’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Shacked up with that bird on the Parade. I sell him a bit of smack, but I don’t know much about him really.’ He lit the new, slightly crumpled cigarette with Henry’s lighter (also carried for on-the-hoof interviews), cupping the flame against the wind. Another deep intake, followed by a long, pleasurable emptying of the lungs. ‘Lucky bastard, actually. I’ve always fancied shaggin’ her … anyway, why should I tell you what I know, you’ve been treating me like shit, Henry. I could complain against you for assault. You’re only being nice now ’cos you want something.’
‘OK.’ Henry snatched the fag from Costain’s fingers. ‘Back to your cell.’
‘No, man, no.’ He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Stay cool, c’mon … gimme the stick back.’
Henry slowly handed it back to him. ‘All right, Troy, you’re right. I do want something from you – and I’ll do you a very big favour, if you agree to do it.’
‘What’s the favour?’
‘I’ll release you now on Part Four bail. You’ll have to come back and be interviewed, but at least it’ll keep you out of the cells for tonight.’
‘You can do that?’
‘I’m a DCI – I can do anything.’
‘But what do you want from me?’
Henry knew he would have some major explaining to do, but a deal was a deal, and he bailed Troy Costain to come back to the station in a week, then led the claustrophobic felon out through the police car park and pushed him out on to New Bonny Street.
‘You’re makin’ me walk home from here?’ he whinged. ‘What about my car? You’ve bloody snaffled that from me. Can I have it back?’
‘Seized for evidence – now fuck off.’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’
Henry stood at the door and watched the young man saunter away in the hard-man, bal
ls-of-the-feet walk they all seemed to use, wondering if he’d done the right thing. Even though he thought that justice would be served, he would rather have seen Costain locked up for what he had done to his mother. He comforted himself with the thought that when Troy eventually came to court, he’d probably end up being sent down for a few months.
As he closed the door, his mobile phone rang. He answered it, noticing that the caller display screen said ‘Number withheld’.
‘Henry Christie …’
There was no response.
‘Hello, can I help …?’
A gasp came down the line, then the sound of a female sobbing, but no words were spoken.
‘Hello … who is this, please?’
The line suddenly went dead. He stared at his phone with mystification. So now women were calling him up just to cry, he thought, but put it down to another of those rogue calls, a wrong number or a misdial. He seemed to be getting an awful lot of them these days. Perhaps he was just unlucky.
Before he could put his phone away, a text landed.
Watch ur bak, it said.
Henry froze and swallowed. He tabbed on to the display which showed the number the text had come from – and saw it was the same one from which the previous texts had emanated. He chose the call option and pressed the green phone icon on his keypad.
The number rang out, but no one answered. When the call cut through to the ‘Orange ansaphone’, he cut the connection, holding his phone in his hand, staring accusingly at it. How did people make threats before the advent of the text message, he thought. By phone or by letter or in person … three ways in which he would have preferred to be threatened.
Who was sending these texts? There had been too many now for it to be a mistake, surely.
And who was damaging his car?
He had a feeling he would find out soon, one way or the other.
He walked back through the garage, up the stairs to the first floor and left the police station from the door of the old enquiry desk and walked across to the multi-storey car park. He paused at the door, searching his pockets for the swipe card which would let him through.
