Bad Tidings hc-19

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I could show you. I know some places he hangs around.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Are we taking the dog?’ It was tempting to set off with the beast attached to the car.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll sneak Damian back in and be back in ten minutes.’

  While he waited, he selected a Miles Davis track on the car’s iPod. He’d been trying to get into jazz, but was so far failing. He liked jazz and blues singers, but couldn’t quite get to grips with instrumentalists, though he did appreciate their talent. He was becoming convinced it wasn’t for him.

  He was considering what he should do about the firearms he’d seen, which, he now assumed, would be hard to find. It wasn’t practical to go back mob-handed with a bunch of his hairy-arsed colleagues, at least not on Christmas Day, nor Boxing Day. Getting enough police staff together to do anything on these particular days would be almost impossible.

  The best thing to do, he concluded, was to hold on to the knowledge, because it might come in useful at some future date — if he needed a warrant, for example. Deep down he did feel he should be bursting in, kicking down their door, just for the hell of it. He hadn’t kicked a door down for ages and he was going through withdrawal symptoms. Maybe it was unbecoming for a man of his years — bursting into people’s houses was a young cop’s game — but it was addictive. However, it was now his job to step carefully over the resultant carnage after entry had been gained, not to lead the charge.

  The passenger door opened. Janine dropped in alongside Henry, no dog in tow.

  ‘You sure about this?’

  ‘Yeah — it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Head for Blackburn.’

  ‘So — home for Christmas?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Where do you live and work?’

  ‘Manchester,’ Janine said. Henry waited, but she made no attempt to give him any further information.

  ‘What is work?’

  She shrugged. ‘A law firm, dealing mainly with accident claims. Boring but necessary for the time being. I’d like to get into corporate law.’

  ‘You’re a solicitor?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, good for you. Criminal law?’

  ‘No,’ she said strongly.

  ‘Good for you,’ he said again, not sure if he believed a word of it, though she did seem genuine. That could have something to do with the fact she was a Cromer. As far as Henry was concerned, they were all pretty much liars.

  ‘Go right here,’ she instructed him. He scooped around a roundabout onto Shadsworth Road. ‘There’s a club in Knuzden he likes,’ she explained.

  Henry knew that Shadsworth Road dropped down into the area called Knuzden, on the eastern outskirts of Blackburn.

  ‘So what happened to Freddy?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In between the time he almost killed his aunt by dropping her out of a window, strangled me, and got sent to mental institutions, and now.’

  ‘Just that.’ She kept her face forward. ‘All I know is what I’ve been told, really. . I wasn’t even born when that happened.’ She gave Henry a sly, amused look. ‘Which must make you really old. . I mean, were you really the cop he tried to kill?’

  ‘I was.’ Henry could have said it proudly, but he didn’t. It was a long time ago and it still mortified him that a teenager had pinned him down. Even a big one.

  ‘Mm, I’ve heard about it, obviously. But he got moved from place to place. Got better, got out, went mad again, got locked up again. Vicious circle. Eventually they stopped taking him back when the secure units became more scarce with cutbacks and the drugs got better. He’s just another care in the community stat, I guess.’

  ‘How long has he been home?’

  ‘Couple, three years. Gran wanted to have him back, but he’s too much of a handful when he goes off the rails. And Dad doesn’t have any time for him. Usually just beats him up — Dad beats Freddy, that is.’

  ‘Out of curiosity, which one of those ladies I just saw was your mother?’ He tried not to put too much of an inflection on the word ‘ladies’.

  ‘None. . she went years back,’ she said, but did not elaborate.

  Henry drove on. To his right was the huge Shadsworth council estate, a grim sixties throwback that Henry remembered well from his early days as a uniformed cop, and subsequently on a few murder enquiries. And sat alongside him was the daughter of one of Lancashire’s best crims. He couldn’t resist asking again, ‘Come on, what’s going on? All the guns ’n’ stuff?’

  Janine remained silent as they reached the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill, at the junction with the main road that connected Blackburn with Accrington. She said, ‘Do a right here and the club’s on the right. . just called The Moss.’

  Henry knew it. It had been there for as long as he could remember and didn’t look as though it had ever seen any decoration. It was a single-storey, detached premises, constructed of Accrington brick with metal grilles on all the windows which were never removed, and a roller-shutter that covered the door when the place was closed. Henry knew it must have been refurbished at least a couple of times over the years because it had been firebombed twice. It was basically a very grotty working men’s club.

  He pulled into the almost empty car park.

  ‘Freddy likes this place. They don’t mind giving him booze, but they know when to stop — mainly because he trashed it single-handed once after too much.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said and reached for the door handle.

  Janine laid a hand on his arm. ‘Mr Christie, whatever my family is involved in, I can’t help. I don’t have any part in it, but I’m not going to grass on them either. They’re my family and I care about them. I won’t betray them.’

  ‘Fair do’s.’

  Henry got out and, with Janine beside him, he walked to the front door of the club and entered.

  He stood inside the threshold and surveyed the geography and clientele. One long bar served the whole place. There was a small raised stage in one corner with a tatty-looking drum kit on it. Bench seats clung to the outside walls and battered-looking brass-topped circular tables and chairs were scattered throughout. Music played from speakers hung up high and there were eight middle-aged men, in four pairs, sitting either at the bar or the tables, or playing the gaming machine. They all looked to be drinking mild, a type of beer Henry hadn’t tasted for a long, long time. For good reason.

  Smoke hung in the air. It appeared that the non-smoking legislation did not apply to this particular enclave of society, and each man, without exception, was smoking. That included the barman, who watched Henry and Janine approach with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  For a brief moment Henry’s feet got completely stuck in something on the sticky carpet and he thought he might not make it across the floor. He had to stop and roll his shoes out of whatever it was. Very sticky.

  With his face a picture to behold, he carried on up to the bar.

  The man behind it could have been aged somewhere between forty and sixty, but many years of serious drinking and smoking had taken its toll on his complexion and his pock-marked face, bulbous red nose, veined face and watery bloodshot eyes told the story, as did his rasping voice.

  ‘Can I do for you guys?’ he asked his new customers. He took a deep drag on his fag and blew a thick cloud up amongst the rows of cleanish glasses that hung above the bar.

  ‘I’m looking for Freddy Cromer,’ Henry said, wafting a path through the haze of smoke.

  The barman regarded him. ‘Who might you be?’

  Henry revealed his warrant card and county badge. ‘A cop.’

  The barman remained unimpressed. ‘Don’t know him.’

  Henry said, ‘He’s a regular, apparently.’

  The barman shrugged, replaced the cigarette between his lips, inhaled and exhaled again.

  ‘What’s this? Licensee-customer confidenti
ality?’

  ‘No. Just don’t know the guy. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Can I get you the local authority?’

  ‘Already had ’em. Didn’t make much difference.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Janine eased Henry gently aside and stepped into the breach. ‘I’m Janine Cromer. Freddy’s my uncle. Terry Cromer is my dad.’ She allowed those names to permeate the barman’s smoke-addled grey matter, knowing they carried great weight. ‘Was Freddy in here last night? Simple question.’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered instantly, a changed man.

  Janine waited for more information and when it didn’t come, she opened her palms in a gesture designed to encourage him.

  ‘Yes, he was here.’

  ‘Times? Was he drunk? When did he leave? Who was he with?’

  ‘Uh. . landed about seven, left at midnight. He’d had a few and was alone,’ the barman blurted. ‘Just normal, I’d say.’

  ‘He left here in one piece?’

  ‘No one messes with him,’ the barman said. ‘He gets left alone, he leaves others alone. That’s how it works with him.’

  ‘I assume you actually spoke to him?’ Janine said.

  ‘Only to get him drinks. Other than that he just sat in his usual place — over in that corner by the drums.’ He pointed to the spot by the stage.

  ‘How did he seem?’ Henry asked.

  The barman shrugged. ‘Like I said, just usual.’

  ‘Did anyone else talk to him?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Y’know, we were pretty busy last night, Christmas Eve and all that.’

  ‘Yeah — the place looks well festive,’ Henry said. The barman shot him a look.

  ‘OK,’ Janine said, ‘let’s go. There’s other places he could’ve gone to.’ She took Henry’s arm. Henry nodded at the barman but refrained from threatening the local authority again. Like the man said, it probably wouldn’t be much use.

  Outside it was chilly. Snowflakes wafted gently down from the heavens.

  ‘White Christmas,’ Henry said, catching a few flakes in his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be too heavy a snowfall otherwise the journey to Kendleton would be a nightmare. They walked over to his car and got in.

  ‘Right,’ Janine said stiffly, turning to him. ‘Can you now tell me why you’re interested in Freddy’s disappearance? It isn’t a job for a detective superintendent, is it?’

  ‘It could be,’ Henry said defiantly.

  ‘Only if he’s gone missing in suspicious circumstances — or, God forbid, turns up dead in suspicious circumstances. At the moment none of those things apply. So — were you just being nosy, or is there another reason?’

  ‘Well, I’d be a poor cop if I didn’t take the chance to look into the house of a big bad gangster, wouldn’t I?’

  Janine uttered an exasperated gush of breath. ‘I bloody thought so.’

  ‘Actually,’ Henry began — just as his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out and answered it. ‘Jerry. . you still not gone home?’

  ‘No — too engrossed,’ Jerry Tope said. ‘Just had the FIM on again. . are you still in Belthorn?’ Henry said yes, as good as. ‘In that case you might want to get to the A amp;E department at Royal Blackburn Hospital. Shit’s hit the fan. . there’s an ARV on the way. . and Freddy Cromer’s turned up saying he’s just escaped from a kidnapper. He’s also waving a kitchen knife about and has taken a nurse hostage.’

  EIGHT

  Sending up a satisfying shower of dust and grit in his wake, Henry gunned the Audi off the club car park and accelerated towards the hospital, which was less than two miles away. In fact, on the journey down from Belthorn, they had been within sight of the huge complex for a substantial part of the way, as it was situated high on a hill, overlooking Blackburn.

  As he drove, he reached across to the glove compartment, flicked it open and fumbled in it for his personal radio.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Janine demanded, gripping her seat belt tightly.

  Thumbing the PR on with his left hand and steering with his right, Henry said, ‘Freddy’s at A amp;E, causing a rumpus.’

  ‘Shit,’ Janine uttered.

  ‘And he’s got a knife.’ Henry tabbed through the PR to tune it to Blackburn division’s radio channel, announcing that he was on his way to the disturbance, ETA four minutes. Then he asked for an update.

  ‘Unclear at the moment,’ the operator told him. ‘No patrols have arrived there yet, but a treble-nine came from the hospital staff saying that a patient had gone berserk and was holding a nurse hostage.’ At that, Henry glanced at Janine, who screwed up her face in agony. ‘And he’s got a knife to her throat, but we don’t have much more than that at the moment, other than it’s supposed to be Freddy Cromer who was reported missing earlier. Apparently he’s a nut job.’

  Henry groaned inwardly at the last phrase. Not that it was off the mark, but it was perhaps a little non-PC — and Freddy’s niece was sitting alongside him, listening in.

  ‘Who is attending?’

  ‘An ARV and two section patrols. I’m trying to get supervision up there too, but I know they’re busy in custody.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take charge,’ Henry said as a flush of adrenalin hit his system. To himself he muttered, And doesn’t this day just keep giving. .

  He braked at the red lights, sneaked carefully through them, then stood on the gas. The car almost lifted off and it felt good. He looked at Janine again.

  She said, ‘A nut job?’

  ‘It’s a medical term.’

  She glowered at him, unimpressed. ‘Doesn’t give him much of a chance in the eyes of the cops then, does it? Already labelled.’

  Henry glared back. ‘Sometimes it’s best to go in prepared.’ He spoke into the PR. ‘If any patrol gets there ahead of me, tell them to take extreme care. Cromer is prone to serious violence and is very unpredictable. Understood?’ He looked at her again. ‘A label plus ingredients.’

  The operator relayed this over the air, but said to Henry, ‘You could well be first on the scene. Other patrols are some distance away.’

  ‘Roger,’ Henry said, imagining them having to be torn away from their Christmas puddings.

  They had reached the point where Shadsworth Road levelled out and Blackburn Royal Hospital was visible across to their right, illuminated by lights in the car parks and spotlights, angled up to the buildings, as well as by the lights showing from the windows.

  Less than a minute later Henry pulled in close to the ambulance bays outside A amp;E. He jumped out and dashed to the boot, in which he kept his equipment, including a lightweight Teflon stab vest which he slid on underneath his zip-up jacket.

  With Janine at his heels he ran through the A amp;E entrance and skidded to a halt at the reception desk. The place was busy and he shouldered his way to the front of the queue, saying ‘Police’ to the harassed-looking woman on duty there.

  Before she could say anything, a white-coated Asian doctor appeared at his side, grabbed his sleeve and pulled. ‘This way.’

  Henry followed the man, having a rushed conversation as they strode hurriedly along.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘A patient is holding one of the nurses hostage in the X-ray department. Come, come,’ the doctor urged him to speed up.

  ‘Why is he doing it?’

  ‘We don’t know. . he just became very violent.’

  ‘OK. What’s the current situation?’

  ‘They’re in the X-ray waiting area. We managed to clear everyone else away, staff and patients.’

  ‘Right,’ Henry said, knowing there wasn’t time for an in-depth discussion here. He needed to get to the scene and assess what was really going on.

  They turned into the corridor leading to the X-ray department and Henry was impressed to see that a couple of porters had placed trolleys across the width of the corridor, either side of the entrance, creating — ironically — a sterile area. Henry giggled inwardly at the notion.

  Fortun
ately there were not many people around here.

  The doctor slowed to a walk and pointed to the double swing doors leading into the X-ray waiting area. ‘In there,’ he breathed.

  Henry nodded. He turned to Janine and held up his hand for her to stay back. ‘Let me see what’s going on.’

  She nodded uncertainly.

  He sidled past one of the trolleys to the door and peeped into the waiting area through the porthole window. He could see several rows of chairs, the reception desk, and at the back, in one corner, Freddy Cromer sitting next to a young nurse. His left arm was draped loosely around her shoulder, whilst his right hand held to her throat what looked like a paring knife. He was whispering into her right ear, mouth right up to it, lips almost brushing her lobe, and the girl, no more than nineteen, sat there with a stiff, terrified expression as she nodded in response to something Freddy had said.

  The point of the blade dug into her throat, by her windpipe.

  Freddy’s left hand slid back and grabbed her hair, bunched it in his fist and jerked her head back, exposing the whole of her throat.

  Henry could see that the left side of Freddy’s face was badly grazed, looking like he’d been dragged along a cinder track. The smooth burn marks on the other side of his face were still visible, the ones Henry had noticed all those years before when Freddy was trying to strangle him. He was wearing a torn shirt, jeans, socks, but no shoes. The jeans were also ripped. And although Henry hadn’t seen him for many years, he hadn’t aged beyond recognition. Henry vividly recalled his wild eyes. They hadn’t changed, rolling in their sockets in an almost comical loony-guy look.

  Freddy placed the blade of the small knife across the girl’s throat and continued to speak to her in hushed tones, mouth to ear.

  Henry wondered what he was saying.

  He saw the knife make an indent in her neck.

  ‘Shit,’ Henry thought. He opened the door and stepped through. ‘Freddy,’ he said.

  Freddy Cromer’s rage-contorted face twisted towards Henry. ‘I told everyone to fucking get out,’ Freddy growled, ‘or I’ll kill this bitch.’ His lips exaggerated the words he spoke.

  ‘Freddy, what’s going on?’ Henry said reasonably. He took one step forward.