Psycho Alley

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Just a brick wall, as far as I know.’

  Henry assessed the garage door. A common-or-garden metal up-and-over door, nothing special. It had a handle in its centre about two-thirds of the way up, and extra security was provided by a padlock on one edge of the door, which had obviously been removed to allow Callum to get in. He was contemplating how difficult it would be to rip the thing open if it was locked from the inside. With four pairs of strong hands, he sussed it would be pretty easy. Even if it was locked, they would be able to twist and wrench it open, he was sure. He guessed that, at best, it was secured with only a flimsy latch.

  He turned the handle slowly and pushed the door, found it to be unlocked. It moved easily and with one more heave, he opened it.

  There was a car inside with its engine on – a silver-grey Toyota – parked nose in. Two people were inside on the front seats. Immediately Henry noticed the hose coming out of the exhaust pipe, fed into the interior of the car through the rear side window. The inside of the car was clogged with dense exhaust fumes and there was music playing, that old funeral favourite, ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams.

  ‘Driver’s side!’ Henry yelled at Fawcett, whilst he himself dashed to the front passenger door and yanked it open, hoping he wasn’t too late. He had dealt with this type of suicide before and it always surprised him just how quickly the fumes killed.

  ‘Shit,’ he cursed. He wafted away the pungent smoke and plunged his head and shoulders into the car, grabbing the seemingly lifeless, naked, and trussed-up body of Kerry Figgis. Her wrists and ankles were bound by parcel tape.

  At the same time, from the opposite side, PC Fawcett had opened the driver’s door and was trying to manhandle Callum Rourke, the boyfriend of Kerry’s mum, Tina, out of the car. He had been affected by the fumes, but put up a fight and tried to punch Fawcett. Donaldson came in behind the young cop and helped subdue the man.

  Meanwhile, Henry eased his arms under and round Kerry’s naked body, her head flopping worryingly against her chest and his shoulder. He manoeuvred her carefully out of the car and down the side of the garage into the fresh air, where she started to cough horribly across his clothes, but he did not care, because the only thing that mattered to him at that moment in time was that Kerry was alive.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he said gently to her, then caught Troy Costain’s eye. They regarded each other with expressions on their faces that defied words.

  ‘Nice one,’ Henry said to him.

  Twenty-One

  It was nine fifty-five a.m. Henry Christie stood at the entrance to the FMIT block at police headquarters at Hutton, a large reinforced envelope in his hand. The campus was quiet, being Saturday morning, and no one else was to be seen or heard. He had not yet had any sleep since he’d nodded off and then been so rudely awoken in Louis Vernon Trent’s living room, but his mind was active, as the night since had been so frantic and stressful. Now he was all set to meet Dave Anger, as instructed.

  He was nervous but, at the same time, certain.

  Using his swipe card, he stepped into the building and trotted up the stairs to the first floor, walking along the narrow corridor until he reached Anger’s office. The door was open and the superintendent was at his desk. Anger did not look, even though he must have at least sensed Henry was there.

  Henry did not move, did not knock or cough, just waited.

  Finally Anger raised his head. His piercing, angry black eyes turned to Henry.

  ‘Come in. Sit,’ he said tersely. Henry did as ordered, sitting down primly on the low, pink-cushioned chair that was a feature of the whole complex. Someone must have bought a job lot of them years before, and they were ubiquitous. He placed the envelope on his lap.

  Anger made a weary, psychological one-upmanship show of finishing some report or other just to show Henry where his place was, closed the folder, tidied the desk, then rose and closed the door softly, before returning to his chair.

  Henry blinked dumbly.

  ‘Well, you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you?’ Anger said, ‘And I couldn’t be happier.’

  ‘If you mean I’ve caught Louis Trent and arrested someone else for the crimes I was originally investigating for you, and saved a young girl from certain death, then yes,’ Henry nodded enthusiastically, ‘I’ve done it. Good result, I’d say, despite the odds.’ Henry looked meaningfully at Anger, who sighed.

  ‘Not even that lot can save your sorry arse, Henry.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be transferred off FMIT. You’ll be starting work on some pen-pushing, half-baked project in Corporate Development starting Monday. Where you can’t do any harm.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ he said again.

  ‘Because officers who assault prisoners the way you do are not fit and proper to be on FMIT, nor or they fit to be police officers full stop. You assaulted a prisoner, namely Troy Costain, in front of a witness, then compounded this by allowing him to be released on bail. I suspect this was because you did a deal with him so he wouldn’t complain about you. Am I right?’

  ‘No comment,’ Henry said, realizing who had grassed on him. Sheena Waters, the woman DC so aggrieved that Henry had released Costain, had gone straight to the big cheese. Henry didn’t bear her a grudge, though.

  ‘And there’s more … it just gets better and better. Allowing a member of the public, ie your friend Karl Donaldson, to be an unauthorized part of a police operation and – and! – to allow him to use a taser. Fuck me, Henry. Hanging offence. You are well and truly stuffed. Try and wriggle out of that one. Any comment now?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘However, you’re not suspended, but you’ll be working in the Best Value department of Corporate Development, just for the time being.’ Anger smiled nastily. ‘I knew that if you had enough rope, you’d eventually throttle yourself and give me a legitimate reason to bin you.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  ‘Jane Roscoe’ll be taking over your investigation. She’ll be given temporary DCI and you’ll be returned to your actual rank of inspector.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Professional Standards will be getting my report first thing Monday morning.’ He tapped the file he had been working on. ‘Expect an early visit from them.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘You can’t believe what this means to me, Henry,’ he gloated.

  ‘Huh, don’t bank on it.’ Henry inspected his nails, raised his head and looked levelly at Anger. ‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about? I think I’ve a right to know, because it’s not really about my lack of professionalism, is it?’ His eyes roved the desk and he clocked that the Anger wedding photograph was no longer there. The Bruche passing-out parade was still on the shelf behind him.

  ‘Believe what you want. I think you are a crap detective, not fit to be on FMIT; you’re a loose canon, and certainly not chief inspector material, and as long as I’ve got a hole where the sun don’t shine, you’ll never achieve that rank if I have anything to do with it. Then again, there’s every chance you won’t be a cop any longer when PSD have finished with you, so that won’t be an issue anyway. And I don’t like you, you’re right – but my report will be purely objective, based on fact.’

  ‘That’s nice to know.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘Any chance of you reconsidering?’

  Anger almost bayed with laughter. ‘When the devil’s home freezes.’

  ‘Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind?’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Anger spat derisively. ‘Now get the hell out of here, take the weekend off – enjoy it – and come back into the big house on Monday morning and tootle up to Corporate Development.’

  Henry made to stand up, then sat back. ‘There are a couple of things, actually. I won’t beat about the bush.’ He had practised this in his mind a few times, but he knew this was one of those occasions when he’d just have to wing
it. ‘I’ve been receiving text messages over the last week, threatening and taunting ones, from two different numbers. I don’t suppose you have any ideas about them, do you?’

  ‘Why the hell would I?’

  ‘I’ve tried to ring the numbers back, but haven’t got any replies. I’ve sent texts to each one, too.’

  Anger shrugged.

  ‘I tried this morning, too – but still got no reply, though the phones did ring out.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Henry?’

  ‘Thing is, sir, as you know, it’s possible to get cell-siting approved to trace the location of mobile phones, which is accurate to a matter of metres. And, so long as the phone is switched on, it doesn’t matter whether the phone is being used or not; the phone companies have the technology to pinpoint them from the pulses they emit. Amazing stuff. But you know all that.’

  Anger remained motionless, his facial expression revealing zero.

  ‘The chief has authorized us to get Orange to do a cell-siting for the two numbers this morning. They’re both pay-as-you-go numbers, you see, so there’s no contract address or anything for either of them.’ Henry forced a smile and took a breath. ‘I phoned both numbers this morning from a withheld number and hung up when they went to ansaphone,’ he said. ‘Other thing is, my car got damaged a few times over the last week, which was a real pain, so I did something about that, too. Called in a favour from a guy in tech support. Like I said, technology is amazing, innit? I got him to fix up a couple of them mini cameras inside my motor, so that if anyone damaged it, they’d get filmed. And then, would you believe it?’

  ‘Believe what?’ Anger’s face had gone slightly green.

  ‘My car gets smashed up in a pub car park and we get some fantastic pics of the offender in full flight.’ Henry took the envelope and pushed it across Anger’s desk. ‘Want to look? They’re very clear.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His mouth had turned down at the corners. He looked as though he was going to puke.

  ‘The cell-siting pinpointed the offending mobile phones to this building. I know it’s expensive and only usually used for life and death situations, but the chief made an exception in this case. He believed it money well spent to catch a high-ranking officer harassing and threatening lower-ranking officers. That and the damage thing.’

  He and Anger stared at each other across the expanse of the desk. Henry’s face remained impassive, even when he said, ‘Touché.’ Anger’s face tensed continually at the jaw line, but something in his eyes said, ‘Beaten.’

  ‘I’m having marital problems,’ Anger said simply. ‘After over twenty-five years of marriage, she’s left me … it all started going horribly wrong just about the time I transferred here from Merseyside.’ He wiped his face with his hand. ‘Then when she found out you were on my staff, she started taunting me about … about, well, you can guess.’

  ‘We had a one-night fling at Bruche,’ Henry said. ‘I’ve never seen hide nor hair of her since. I didn’t even know you then.’ He didn’t mention he’d been into Anger’s office on two occasions recently inspecting his treasured photos. Nor did he mention that she was a one-night fling that had ended up with him on top of her on the bonnet of the Commandant’s car.

  ‘You’d think you two were still at it, the way she talks,’ Anger said sullenly. ‘I hate you, Henry. It feels like you’re responsible for my marriage collapsing.’

  Henry did not go into counselling mode. He simply said, ‘Are the phones in your desk?’

  Anger opened the top drawer and took out two mobile phones, which he dropped on to the desk with a clatter. They were old handsets, bulky, but still serviceable. He pushed them away from him.

  ‘Did you organize my beatings, too?’

  He sneered. ‘Henry, if anyone’s going to have the pleasure of kicking the shit out of you, it’s me. I wouldn’t sub-contract that to anyone.’

  ‘Fair do’s.’

  ‘Can we do a deal?’

  It was Henry’s turn to stifle a laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances in Corporate Development and with PSD. And anyway, it’s not up to me.’ He stood up and opened the office door to reveal Chief Constable Fanshaw-Bayley standing in the corridor. Behind him was John Walker, the tech support detective. ‘Did you get all that?’ Henry asked.

  Walker said, ‘Yep – it’s all on tape.’

  Henry opened his jacket and slowly removed the wire he had been wearing, which he bundled up and gave to Walker. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said. Then to FB, he said, ‘I’ll leave it with you, boss.’

  He walked out without looking back at Dave Anger. FB stepped into the office and closed the door softly.

  At Blackpool Vic, Rik Dean was awaiting one last visit from the consultant. He was expecting to be discharged later that afternoon. Henry had been with him about half an hour, bringing him up to speed with the investigation he had missed out on.

  ‘… Looks like Callum Rourke has been abusing little Kerry right under Tina’s nose, or maybe she knew, I don’t know. Something we’ll have to delve into. Seems Kerry wanted it to stop, Callum continued the abuse, so she threatened to tell the police, which panicked him, which is why he flipped, abducted her and then tried to kill himself and her. He spun us a pack of lies on the night she disappeared, but I got lucky,’ Henry admitted, not mentioning Troy Costain. ‘I mean, I’d definitely got tunnel vision, and though I hadn’t really liked young Callum, I was convinced Trent had snatched her, even though it didn’t totally fit the pattern. But he doesn’t abduct all the girls in the world, does he?’

  ‘Just a coincidence, huh?’ Rik was sat upright on his bed, fully clothed, waiting for the almighty consultant. Bandages showed around his neck and shoulders, and his arm was in a sling to ease the pressure on his neck. He still looked pitifully weak, however. ‘You did a good job, H,’ Rik said.

  ‘Almost got you killed along the line, though.’

  ‘The routine ones are always the ones that bite your arse. Don’t blame yourself. One o’ those things. At least I live to fight and love another day.’ He paused. ‘You still don’t know who’s out to beat you to a pulp, though, do you?’

  ‘Nah,’ Henry answered absently. ‘Gotta be someone from Manchester, I reckon. I’m pretty much running out of suspects – though there is one irate husband still on the prowl.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘Threatened,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to take more care, be ready.’

  Henry excused himself after a few minutes, stating he had a lot of work to do, which was true. He wandered slowly through the hospital, feeling pretty happy with things until he reached the main entrance foyer at the front of the hospital. There, eyes raised up to the information and direction boards, stood a spectacular-looking Debbie Black, dressed to maim, if not kill. Before she spotted him, Henry dived into the newsagents and grabbed a magazine from the shelves. He hid behind it as he saw Debbie find what she was looking for on the boards, adjust her clothing with an all-over quiver of her body, and set off down the corridor. It was clear to Henry where she was headed – to Rik Dean’s ward. There was no other reason for her to be here.

  Henry replaced the magazine on the shelf and scuttled quickly out of the hospital, hoping that Rik Dean would not hate him too much.

  As he drove away, the figure who had been watching Henry, also got into a car and began to follow, slotting in two cars behind. The person’s breathing, as ever, when Henry Christie was in view, was shallow and juddery. One day, that person thought, Henry Christie would get more than just deserts for all the suffering he had caused. He would get dead.

 

 

 
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