Bad Tidings hc-19

by Nick Oldham

  ‘How old would they be?’

  ‘We’re talking about the late 1970s, so eleven. . just before they moved on to whichever high school they went to. I haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Two things. First, well done, Jerry. Second, why didn’t we know this already?’

  Tope did not reply. In the background Henry heard a phone.

  ‘Just let me get that, Henry,’ Tope said, giving Henry a moment to take in this information. It was a relief of sorts: at least Lisa hadn’t been born in Belthorn, if that was the connection between the victims, even though she was in the right age group, and she hadn’t been at school in Belthorn, either. Like Henry, she’d been to school in Accrington. Not far away, but far enough.

  Tope returned to the phone. ‘Henry, that was the FIM just bringing me up to speed with mispers. . I think we might have one that fits the bill. . let me get back to you.’

  SIX

  Henry realized he could say adios to what little remained of his day, but for the life of him he couldn’t bring himself to spoil Rik’s and Tope’s day any further, after having told them they could go home. He asked Tope to email details of the misper to his Blackberry and set off eastwards from Blackpool after first checking on his mother’s condition: no worse. Then he called Alison but she was too busy to get to the phone, so he left a message with the word ‘sorry’ in it numerous times.

  A few minutes later he was gunning the Audi east along the M55 out of Blackpool, his phone connected to the hands-free and a mike clipped to his ear, making him feel ridiculous as always.

  When he did retire, one of the things he promised himself was to ditch technology updates for ever. He would keep what he had, but stuff the upgrades. It bored him. Rigid.

  The Audi responded superbly on the virtually empty motorway, Henry keeping the speed around the eighty mark and trying to enjoy the drive, the feel of the car under his arse and through his hands and feet, and trying not to think about leaving his mother with his daughters, his sister still not having surfaced. . and Alison getting further and further away in Kendleton, hoping she didn’t lose the engagement ring in the soup of the day. The ring he had bought from Astley-Barnes jewellers, a fact he didn’t have the bottle to admit to Rik.

  ‘Jeez,’ he sighed. A train wreck of a day.

  He had soon joined the M65, heading east as the day continued to darken, clouds thickening like broth. Within thirty minutes of leaving Blackpool, the Audi was climbing up through the village of Belthorn. At the top of the village, he bore right into Tower View — so called because a few miles across the hills to the south was Darwen Tower — though as Henry glanced in that direction there was no way the structure was visible that day.

  The tarmac road petered out to become a gravel track, but he only had to travel a hundred metres further to reach his destination, pulling in to the side. He got out, feeling the bitter cold up-here, high on the moors. He walked to the closed wrought iron gates of the large detached house which lay at the end of a curved driveway.

  The house was new, large and garishly decorated, festooned with Christmas lights, illuminated reindeer and several huge inflated figures, including Santa himself, Rudolph and a sleigh.

  He had been told to use the intercom set into the gatepost and not to enter because of the dogs, and a red-lettered sign on the gatepost proclaimed he had to beware of them.

  He pressed the talk button, which buzzed. Then he waited. . and although he knew his day had already been ruined in more ways than one, this might just make up for it. He could not help but be excited by standing there in the chill of the approaching evening.

  After all, it wasn’t often a cop got the chance to visit the lair of one of the county’s biggest and most ruthless crime families.

  ‘Run that by me again,’ Henry had said to Jerry Tope, amazement in his voice.

  ‘I know — incredible, isn’t it?’ Tope had chuckled at his news.

  ‘You’re telling me that one of the Cromer family has gone AWOL and they’re reporting him missing? To the police?’ The rising inflection in Henry’s voice reflected his disbelief.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you: Freddy Cromer has gone missing and yeah, they’re reporting it.’

  Henry pouted thoughtfully at the news.

  ‘Accrington section have reported it,’ Tope explained, filling in the silence. ‘All they’ve done is send a response patrol and the PC took the report and circulated it. Just treated it as an adult gone missing, as they would, and not really attached much significance to it yet — as they would,’ he said again. ‘Obviously they don’t know what we’re up to, which is why they’ve done the normal thing. But the FIM spotted it, as it fits our missing person criteria.’

  ‘Mmm, normal except it’s the Cromer clan and Freddy Cromer isn’t the full shilling, as I remember,’ Henry said.

  ‘And it’s a bit odd they’re telling us,’ Tope mused. ‘Perhaps because Freddy isn’t all there, maybe they’re concerned.’

  ‘Should we be?’

  ‘On the face of it, not really. He’s apparently stable enough to go out on the lash, which he did last night, and he just hasn’t landed home. And he hasn’t got his keep calm tabs with him.’

  ‘Does he fit our victim profile?’

  ‘Totally. . right age group, the Belthorn link — although I think he was actually born in Preston — and he’s even sitting in the class photo I told you about, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, although we all know he eats car parts. You’d never guess how he turned out. Looks like an angel.’

  ‘Shit,’ Henry said, thinking. ‘Runt of the litter.’ He made his decision at that point. ‘I’m going up to speak to them.’

  A distorted, tinny voice spoke on the intercom and Henry responded by introducing himself. There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Cromer please. About Freddy. I believe he’s missing.’

  ‘And you are?’

  Henry repeated his name and rank.

  ‘Wait there.’ The intercom clicked dead.

  Henry took a step back and looked through the wrought- iron gate at the house, which was about a hundred metres away. A new build, with various outbuildings, garages and a small stable block, it looked a very nice house, with a view from the rear across the hills to the south which on a clear day must have been outstanding.

  Four cars were drawn up outside: an old Jaguar XJS (a real gangster’s motor, Henry thought), a new Kia Sportage and a couple of smaller, older saloons, a Mondeo and a van.

  The front door opened, light flooded out, and then two dogs rushed out and pelted towards the gate, a figure following them.

  They were German Shepherds, big, good-looking, well cared for, mature dogs. They skidded up to the gate, snuffling their wet snouts through the iron railings, but neither barked at Henry. They stood side by side and looked balefully at him through golden eyes.

  Henry took a step back and swallowed. Not a great fan of dogs. He could recall the incident over thirty years ago when as a probationer constable, he and his training class had been shown around the police dog training facilities at Moor Farm, Hutton, where the dog unit was based. Being nineteen and stupid he had foolishly volunteered to be a ‘robber on the run’ from a police dog and after being well briefed, had set off like a hare, convinced he could outrun a well-trained German Shepherd. He had even been given a hundred-metre start, but the dog caught him in a flash. Fortunately a padded protective sleeve had been fitted over his left arm, which he had been told to present to the dog, for it brought him down with the force of a small truck and sank its fangs into the many-layered protection. Even now, Henry could feel the fangs sinking in, causing him to shiver at the memory.

  ‘They won’t bite. They’re softies,’ a female voice came from the darkness behind the two dogs. Henry looked up and saw that the figure who had accompanied them from the house was a young woman, maybe early twenties, dressed in tight jeans, co
wboy-style boots, a figure-hugging roll-neck sweater. She was also astoundingly pretty with a rounded jaw, full lips, nice eyes. Her hair was cut into a well-trimmed bob that framed her face.

  Henry thought he had come to the wrong property.

  The Cromers were a northern English version of a hillbilly criminal family and Henry expected to be greeted by — yes, two hounds from hell — but also pitchfork-yielding rednecks.

  The woman stepped between the two dogs, easing them gently away, and placed her face between two perpendicular bars, so it looked as though she was looking out of a prison cell.

  Henry fished out his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie.’

  ‘Janine Cromer,’ she responded.

  Henry squinted at her, maybe seeing some family resemblance. She looked second generation.

  ‘I’ve come about Freddy. I’m informed he’s gone missing.’

  ‘We’ve already reported him. A police constable has been up to take details.’

  ‘I know. I’m just doing some follow-up.’

  ‘A detective superintendent?’ she questioned, amused.

  ‘A detective superintendent,’ he confirmed. ‘You going to let me in, or not?’

  She surveyed him thoughtfully up and down, her eyes narrowed, weighing him up.

  ‘Because,’ he continued, ‘I’m not going to stand out here for much longer.’

  She unlocked the gate, took hold of each dog by the collar, then turned and manually guided them back towards the house. Henry followed at a respectful distance, knowing he was much slower than he’d been at nineteen, but with his bottom twitching again at the thought of entering the domain of the Cromers. That said, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he would see or find anything of interest inside. He guessed that business and home life were kept separate. It wasn’t as though he would be shown into a room where the cocaine was being diluted with talc and bagged up or where the cannabis was being grown. That would be something that happened elsewhere — though he had no idea exactly where. The Cromers were rumoured to have at least a dozen cannabis farms, but the police had yet to find even one of them.

  Janine led the dogs and Henry up to the house, the dogs constantly pulling at her as they looked over their shoulders at Henry, tongues lolling, lots of slavering going on, pointy teeth visible. At the door, she held the dogs to one side and indicated for Henry to go into the house ahead of her. He gave them a wide berth and stepped inside, into a wide hallway. A moment later she was with him, having left the dogs outside.

  ‘Nice dogs,’ he commented.

  ‘Through here.’ She pointed up the hallway to a door on the left which led into a large kitchen. Henry passed another door on his left, from behind which he heard raised male voices.

  He went into the kitchen, which was expansive and expensive-looking. There was a double-sized range cooker and a large island unit in the centre of the room on which were the remnants of a buffet. A few plates with sandwiches, bowls of crisps, breadsticks and dips and a wide array of bottles, wine, beer and spirits. Looked like a family Christmas get-together, Henry thought, and maybe the family was in the other room he’d walked past — at least the male members, because here in the kitchen were four ladies. One looked old and wrinkled, two were perhaps mid forties and the fourth in her twenties. All sat at the table, each with a glass of wine in hand.

  Their eyes spun to him, this interloper. He flashed a thought: crims’ wives, crims’ mums — crimwags — then forced a thin smile and said, ‘Merry Christmas, ladies.’

  Not one of them looked either happy to see him, or happy in themselves. Their faces were all deadly serious, as Henry had seen in the moment before they had turned to him. Each had anger and concern across their faces, but that didn’t stop them from regarding him like prey.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Christie,’ Janine announced. ‘He’s come about Freddy’ — and the tone of her voice meant that she didn’t need to add, ‘If you believe that!’

  One said, ‘Well fuck-a-doodle. Just what we need — a cop. Shall we gobble him up?’

  Henry’s forced smile remained fixed as he quickly tried to work out who was who. The oldest woman was easiest — Granny Cromer, clan matriarch, all-round vicious cow. He knew her face because he’d seen the mug shots a few times, but not recently. She had a long history of violence and debauchery. Knocking seventy, her hell-raising days were over, but only just. This, Henry thought, was Freddy’s mother.

  The other women were not so easy to pinpoint. One had a Cromer look about her: angular, dark eyed, pretty in an austere sort of way. Henry thought she could be Lizzie — who had once been convicted of attacking another woman with an axe and was known as Lizzie the Blade — but he was not certain. She looked like Granny, maybe was her daughter, maybe Janine’s mum. He would have to look at the family tree on his next visit to the Major Crime Unit. The others didn’t have any family resemblance and Henry could not place them. Maybe they were friends of the family.

  So he thought Janine could be Lizzie’s daughter. Janine certainly had a similarity, but now that Henry saw her in proper light, she had a softer edge to her features.

  ‘So why’ve you turned up?’ Granny Cromer asked, interrupting his recollections. She was smoking and blew out a lungful as she spoke, her voice rasping like sandpaper. ‘Snoopin’? ’Cos this isn’t a job for a detective superintendent. My son’s gone missing and I’m worried about him because he hasn’t taken his freakin’ psycho tablets with him. That’s all.’ She scowled like a witch.

  ‘Professional service,’ Henry said.

  ‘Have we ever had anything to do with you?’ she asked, peering suspiciously at him. ‘Personally, like?’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ Henry said, and caught the look of realization on Granny’s face.

  ‘You’re the bastard who put Jimmy away!’ she accused him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what my past involvement with you was,’ Henry said equably, aware that he had entered a nest of vipers. ‘I’m here to help now, that’s all.’ He opened his hands in a gesture designed to say that he was here to offer peace, not war. All he was short of were the butterflies.

  Granny’s old head shook and her thin corrugated lips sneered at him. ‘Yeah, fucking right.’

  ‘So who can I talk to?’ Henry asked. ‘I mean, you’re clearly concerned about Freddy. .’

  ‘No we’re not!’

  Henry rotated slowly at the voice and looked at the man now framed in the kitchen door.

  Terry Cromer, undisputed head of the Cromer family.

  ‘We’re un-reporting him,’ he said firmly. ‘Thanks for your concern but we don’t need any police involvement. We’ll find him ourselves.’

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Henry said, knowing who he was speaking to and aware that, not two years ago, Henry had put his son away for life on a murder charge.

  Henry Christie had been a member of Lancashire Constabulary for over thirty years and he had known about the Cromer family and their activities for most of those years.

  Henry’s first posting had been as a PC to Blackburn and, at nineteen, he’d had plenty of run-ins with the wild, out of control Cromer family. They had various homes throughout the east of the county and although the core of the family came from Belthorn, some were based on the Shadsworth council estate in Blackburn, an area they ruled with intimidation and havoc, continually at war with other families and criminal factions. Henry had come face to face with a few of the younger Cromers, usually for minor offences and public order incidents.

  As they had matured, their activities became more subtle and old father Cromer — Granny’s husband — took a grip of the family and realized the potential of drug dealing, especially as he could call on some of the more dumb, but violent members of the family to act as enforcers. He harnessed one of his two sons and they moved into the nightclubs of Blackburn and other towns, taking control of the doors — and therefore the drugs trade — and eventually some of the clubs them
selves.

  The business expanded quickly, but even old man Cromer could not stop the onset of cancer, which killed him as ruthlessly as any bullet, leaving the son — Terry — in charge of the business.

  Terry was the favoured son because the other, Frederick, was always a liability. Weak-willed, mentally unstable and prone to outrageous violence, even against his own family. Nor did it help that he was built like a brick shithouse. Freddy was farmed out of the way to live in Rossendale with an aunt, but his isolation from the family only increased his paranoia.

  Henry had come across Freddy in the mid eighties when, as a teenager, he tried to strangle his aunt, then attempted to kill Henry. It was during Henry’s days in uniform, working on the crime car in the Rossendale Valley before he moved on to CID

  Frantic neighbours had called in the job after every window of the council house in Rawtenstall was smashed from the inside, closely followed by items of furniture being jettisoned into the garden — and, as Henry drew up in the police car, Freddy’s aunt joining the broken furniture from an upstairs window.

  Henry was alone, not unusual for a cop down the valley, and he just missed catching her as she slammed down hard and awkwardly onto her pelvis, which he distinctly heard go crack, and which he later learned had shattered into six brittle pieces. He had been doing the obvious, caring thing and bending down on one knee to check out the moaning lady, when Freddy leaned out of an upstairs window and fired an air rifle at him. The pellet thudded into his chest, hitting the personal radio swinging around his neck, one of those Burndept things made of tough plastic, about the size of half a house brick slit lengthways.

  Incensed, the younger, angrier Henry kicked open the front door and barged through, only to meet Freddy leaping down the stairs like a silverback gorilla, uttering a terrible demented scream. He launched himself at Henry from the fourth step, landing on him and driving him backwards out of the door, catching the raised threshold with his heel. Henry tipped over, cracked the back of his head — which split — and Freddy straddled and started to strangle him with big, thick thumbs and fingers, about the circumference of pork sausages.