Bad Tidings hc-19

by Nick Oldham

  Henry read through the pathologist’s report on Peters’ post-mortem.

  The body had been discovered on farmland on the outskirts of Poulton-le-Fylde, near Blackpool. Two bullets to the brain had been what had killed him.

  But his body had also been badly burned, set alight having been doused in petrol. The difference between the discovery of his body and that of Christine Blackshaw was that Peters had been found in an unused chicken coop in a secluded copse on the edge of a farmer’s field. It was a wooden building that hadn’t been used for years, but had been well constructed. It looked as though Peters had been held in this location — in the space underneath the floor — since his disappearance and had spent a week of terror at the hands of the perpetrator before being killed. The coop was then razed to the ground, Peters’ body being found in the ashes.

  Initially the death was treated as another standalone, but as the forensics, ballistics and scientific teams got together, the links to Blackshaw became clear.

  First there was the tie-up with the bullets. The same gun had been used to murder both victims, a.22 calibre which shot bullets into the brain that rattled around the skull like the Tasmanian Devil, but did not exit. Good news for the cops, bad for the offender.

  Next link was the general MO. Both victims kidnapped on the same day, a year apart, Christmas Eve. Both held for a week and their bodies found on New Year’s Day.

  Blackshaw, the female, had been dumped and set alight in a wheelie bin, but Peters was burned where, it was believed, he had been held captive all week. It had never been discovered where Blackshaw had been held.

  Both victims were approximately the same age, mid forties.

  Both had been born in the borough of Hyndburn. . but that may just have been coincidental, because thousands of people were born there — though Henry always liked to see coincidences in murder hunts, as they often led to clues. As far as he was concerned a clue in a murder hunt always meant that the killer had made a mistake.

  The icing on the cake, though, discovered on the post-mortem slab by the pathologist as he inspected every crevice and orifice, was that the mouths of both victims had been stuffed with chicken feathers.

  Henry closed the murder books. He stared vacantly at the wall in front of him, then shook his head and looked at the time. Almost 11 p.m. . Christmas Eve, and he hadn’t even had a drink.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, his mind turning all this information over and coming back to the feathers. Because not only had there been feathers in the victims’ mouths, an examination of their stomach contents revealed that they had been forced to eat the feathers, too.

  Henry felt unwell at the thought as he worked through this pivotal piece of information. He was spitting feathers at that moment, desperate for a drink.

  Force fed chicken feathers, he thought. He shuffled out his mobile phone and despite the hour dialled a number, which went through to answerphone. He left a curt message, then called another number, also not answered, and left a message on that one too.

  Then he stood up and stretched. He walked back towards the cardiac unit, but was almost hurled out of the way as a white-coated doctor shot past him. Henry’s insides did a back-flip.

  He found a team of doctors and nurses working with urgent efficiency on his mother, one of them desperately pumping her frail chest, inside of which her heart had stopped.

  Another nurse stepped forward brandishing the defibrillator paddles which had been powered up.

  Incredibly she survived the pounding, then the defib — which jarred her meagre body terribly — and the infusion of drugs, the doctors and nurses doing wonderful work whilst Henry watched wordlessly, an empty feeling inside him.

  After they had all gone, Henry sat by her bed and clasped her hand again, stroking it gently, knowing this time she wouldn’t be leaving hospital alive.

  At 2 a.m., after doing a nodding dog impersonation for several minutes, he knew he had to get to his own bed.

  He texted Lisa and his daughters to bring them up to speed with the latest news and noticed that he had also received two texts. Having responded to both, he collected the murder files from his newly acquired office, returned the key to the nurse with grateful thanks and headed home.

  It was strange to see the lights on as he drove down the avenue towards it. But it was also good to know that the woman he loved was waiting there for his arrival.

  He was up by eight on Christmas Day, having had five hours of dead-black sleep. Alison was already up and making breakfast for them from the paltry resources available. Since being with Alison he had spent less and less time at the house and as a result, fresh food and drink was almost non-existent. Alison managed to find a frozen loaf of bread and a pack of bacon in the freezer, and some ground coffee in a sealed container which still smelled fresh. The tasty Christmas Day breakfast she fashioned from the ingredients was waiting for Henry when he appeared downstairs after a long, invigorating shower.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Alison declared. They hugged, a move that still sent a shiver of pleasure through both of them.

  ‘And you,’ he said.

  They stepped apart and suddenly there was a small box in Alison’s hand, wrapped in golden Xmas paper. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said again and urged Henry to take the present.

  ‘Shit,’ he said guility.

  ‘Go on — open it.’

  He did so under her gaze. It was a Breitling watch, which made Henry gasp with admiration. ‘You shouldn’t have. . I mean, really you shouldn’t.’ He slid it onto his wrist after removing the battered Casio digital one he wore for work and admired it. ‘It must have cost-’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ she warned him.

  Their eyes locked. Henry said, ‘Thanks,’ swallowing.

  She gave a petite shrug.

  ‘Look. . I. . er. .’ he stuttered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does, actually.’ He held up a finger and dashed into the living room, returning a moment later, a crooked grin on his face and a present of his own in the palm of his hand, his hand clasped tight around the package.

  He spoke hesitantly, feeling awkward. ‘I didn’t quite envisage Christmas Day being like this — two murders and Mum almost in her grave. . but what is, is,’ he shrugged philosophically. He held out his right hand, palm up. .

  FOUR

  Two pairs of eyes glowered at Henry Christie. They belonged to police officers of much lower rank than he — a detective inspector, a detective constable — but this disparity in position did not prevent either man staring malevolently and insubordinately at him. Because at that moment in time, both hated him with a vengeance.

  ‘Whaaat?’ Henry said innocently as he entered his office and slid behind his desk, slapping down the two murder files on his ink blotter.

  At 9.30 a.m. on Christmas Day, Henry already knew the answer to his somewhat rhetorical question.

  He had left a text message for both men the night before, outlining his requirements — that both of them parade for duty the following morning in his office and brace themselves for a tough week ahead.

  Christmas Day. A public holiday.

  Henry knew that no one else was on duty in FMIT, or covering the Intelligence Unit at headquarters, the departments to which these men were attached. Obviously some staff were on standby call-out rotas, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen in either department.

  The DI was Rik Dean, his old friend and colleague, and possibly his future brother-in-law, although the recent conversations he’d had with his sister Lisa made him think that union might not be happening — but to be honest, he’d lost track of where they were up to. Henry had fought to get Rik onto FMIT and been successful in his manoeuvrings.

  The other was Jerry Tope, a DC from the Intel Unit. Tope, a curmudgeon of a man, grumpy to the extreme right of the dwarf of the same name, had worked for Henry on several occasions over the past few years.

  Henry could forgive them their expressions of hatred
. He knew how good both were at their jobs — and he knew, of course, he had seriously interrupted their Christmas celebrations.

  Neither man responded to his ‘What?’ question, because they also knew the answer. Both should have been off work that day and the next, and they were none too chuffed about the summons. Financially it wasn’t too bad for Tope, because as a DC he could claim double time for the public holiday. But that didn’t hold for Rik. Inspectors and above didn’t get paid extra for overtime or public holidays, though he would be entitled to time off in lieu, as would Henry. Reality was, though, that neither man would ever find the time to take it off.

  ‘Henry, I’m not being funny, but this better be good,’ Rik grumbled. ‘I checked the pads this morning for the last twenty-four hours and nothing’s happened to interest FMIT.’

  ‘Yuh, I checked too,’ Tope flared up. ‘Bugger all’s happened — just run-of-the-mill crap. Certainly nothing for a desk jockey like me.’

  Henry laid his hands flat on the two files and pushed them forward in much the same way that FB had done the night before. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Nothing has come in overnight — not yet, anyway. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have murders to solve, or prevent.’

  The four surly eyes opposite dropped to the thick files, both men now with puzzled expressions on their faces.

  ‘Two, to be precise,’ Henry went on. He looked at Rik, whose expression changed to one of understanding. Rik had been one of the team working with Henry on Joe Speakman’s mess and obviously knew about the unsolved murders still on file. The expression then became one of horror and Henry said, answering the look, ‘Foisted on me just before I could sneak out last night. FB’s Christmas present — the wonderfully christened Twixtmas Killings.’

  ‘And how come we’re involved?’ Tope enquired, pointing to himself, then Rik.

  ‘Because. . because I say so,’ Henry returned petulantly, thinking, I’m a fucking superintendent, that’s why! He could have got narky at that point but instead he softened, not wanting to lose these two guys. ‘Look — you’re two cops I trust to do a brilliant job. . I know it’s inconvenient. . Christ, I’m supposed to be off this week,’ he said, looking into their eyes, expecting and getting no sympathy. ‘The problem is, we — the cops — picked up on it too late that there’s a connection between these two murders and, I know it’s shit, but I want to be in a position to run instantly with anything that comes in this week. .’

  ‘Disappeared Christmas Eve, turned up dead on New Year’s Day,’ Jerry Tope said. He knew the cases, too.

  Henry nodded. ‘Both of them. Hence the name.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Tope said resignedly.

  ‘You didn’t work either murder for Joe, though, did you, Jerry?’

  ‘No. Speakman always used the same crew. . Jenny Goodwin was his usual Intel cell leader.’

  Henry understood this. SIOs liked to use people they knew and could trust and work with, breaking in newbies bit by bit. Henry was the same, that’s why for intelligence issues he always went straight to Jerry Tope.

  ‘It’s a bit hit and miss, though, isn’t it, Henry?’ Rik whined.

  Henry’s gaze turned slowly to him. ‘In what way?’

  Rik kind of shrugged. From his face Henry could tell he’d had a heavy night and wondered, briefly, if Lisa had fitted in anywhere in the festivities. Henry hadn’t a clue where she’d got to.

  ‘Well, as I understand it, from what little I know of these two murders. . as Jerry said, they went missing on Christmas Eve-ish, then turned up dead a week later. . so, y’know. . what’s the plan?’

  ‘To work the cases as they stand,’ Henry said. ‘Two victims related by gunshot wounds and MO. . plus I want us to be on hand to react immediately to anyone who is reported missing from last night up to New Year’s Eve. .’

  Rik’s face sagged. ‘Do you know how many. .?’

  Henry stepped in and picked it up for him. ‘. . how many people go missing over the Christmas period in Lancashire alone? Funnily enough, I do. Last year three hundred and fifty were reported. . ball park figure.’

  ‘So what do we do? Check everyone?’ Rik said.

  ‘No, not quite.’

  ‘So what is the plan, boss?’ Tope asked.

  ‘OK.’ Henry sat back — trying to think of a plan. ‘You work from here, Jerry. I want you to look at the two victims we have and see what you can really uncover about what links them. There must be something, and I’m not convinced that Joe did a bang-up job in that respect. He got lazy and distracted because of what was going on in his life.’ Henry knew that a murder investigation rarely came up trumps if the SIO wasn’t fully committed to it. ‘We know some things, but there must be others like. . I don’t know. That’s your job, Jerry. Also I want you to keep an eye on the mispers that come in. Let’s see where we are now, discard any that don’t fit our victims’ profiles and any that are obviously not of interest to us. Rik, you and me will do the follow-up enquiries. In the meantime’ — he glanced at Rik again — ‘we do victim family revisits.’

  ‘On Christmas Day?’ Rik bleated.

  ‘Crime doesn’t take a holiday,’ Henry said glibly, like an advertising slogan.

  Rik shook his head in despair.

  Henry looked back at Tope. ‘I’ve already been into the control room and checked the chief’s daily log,’ Henry said, referring to the record compiled by the FIM that highlighted the most interesting and unusual occurrences in the county over the previous twenty-four hours. It was done primarily for the chief’s information but was also put on the intranet for anyone else to read. ‘There are some mispers who could possibly fit the bill. Check them out first and see what you think, then get back to me. If they’re good possibilities as victims, then Rik or me will have a look. Possibility is, though, that if our killer has taken someone, if there’s going to be another crime, that is, it’s likely that their disappearance won’t be remarked on or reported for a day or two, or even later.

  ‘And while you’re on with that, start delving into the victims we already have, like I said before.’

  ‘Today?’ Tope said, still unable to believe he was at work.

  ‘Yes — today.’

  Tope uttered a very hacked off sigh. ‘Till when?’

  ‘We’ll call it a day when I say so,’ Henry said — and gave him a superintendent’s look.

  Tope’s lips twitched as though he’d been wired up to a car battery, but he said nothing, just sighed heavily again, big chest heave, head shaking.

  Henry’s eyes returned to Rik, then flicked back to Tope. ‘There’s a coffee machine in the secretary’s office, Jerry. . can you do the honours? There’s coffee and everything, even fresh milk.’

  Tope blinked. ‘Me? Get the brews?’

  ‘Yes, you.’ He raised his eyebrows with significance and Tope got it.

  ‘Duh — OK,’ he grumbled and left the office.

  Henry clasped his fingers in front of him and waited for the door to click shut. He and Rik were left facing each other.

  There was an uncomfortable hush.

  Then Rik said, ‘Is this the bollocking from big brother?’

  ‘You know me better than that. . plus, I don’t actually know what’s going on, but it’s obviously eating you up.’

  ‘We’ve split, OK? It’s over. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Fine,’ Henry said. ‘I’m not a relationship counsellor.’

  ‘So what’s this?’ Rik made helpless gestures with his hands indicating the office, the location, his presence. ‘Called in on Christmas Day. Is it punishment time? I’ve split with your sister, so you’re pissed off with me?’

  It was Henry’s turn to heave a sigh. ‘You’re here because you’re a good jack and I think we need to be ready to move on this. OK, nothing might happen. It’s a waiting game. The killings might be over and if so, good. In the New Year I’ll kick-start both investigations and work from scratch. But if you think for one mome
nt you’re here because you and my kid sister have fallen out of love, then you don’t know me at all, Rik. I’m just surprised it lasted this long in the first place.’

  ‘Thanks for that vote of confidence,’ Rik mumbled.

  ‘Your reputation preceded you,’ Henry said. He knew Rik had been a serial womanizer and Lisa was much the same where men were concerned. But Henry had come to think they were a match made in heaven, or thereabouts. They had been scheduled to trot down the aisle next summer, but something had gone seriously wrong. The philandering gene seemed to have resurfaced in Lisa. ‘That said, I’m truly sorry. I honestly wanted it to work out for you both.’

  Rik’s shrug was noncommittal. ‘Presume she stayed at yours last night?’

  ‘Presume wrong,’ Henry said, and looked thoughtfully at Rik. ‘I take it you haven’t heard about our mother. . hospital and all that?’

  Rik frowned. ‘No.’

  Henry brought him quickly up to speed, adding that Lisa had been visiting their mother when she’d had her heart attack. ‘But I haven’t seen her since, Rik.’

  ‘I thought she’d been staying at your place?’

  ‘Not a permanent thing. Sometimes she’s there, sometimes she isn’t. I always assumed she was back at your flat.’

  ‘She certainly wasn’t there last night,’ Rik said. ‘Not when I rolled in.’

  ‘Which was at. .?’

  ‘Three-ish. Probably around at her lover’s shag-pad,’ Rik said bitterly, doing the speech-mark finger tweak on the word ‘lover’s’.

  ‘Right, whatever,’ Henry said, not wanting to get involved, other than to be a brother to Lisa and offer her somewhere to crash if she needed it. ‘I hope you work it out, but you are here because of your skill as a detective, not because I want to punish you, OK? I was up till gone two this morning and, trust me, I don’t want to be here either — but I have to show willing.’

  ‘Point taken, and sorry about your mum. I hope she pulls through.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She won’t, Henry thought.

  The office door opened and Tope reversed in, clutching three mugs of steaming, freshly filtered coffee. He placed them on Henry’s desk, then sat down. Henry and Rik grabbed a mug each and sipped the brew gratefully.