by Nick Oldham
Table of Contents
The Henry Christie Mystery Series
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
The Henry Christie Mystery Series
A TIME FOR JUSTICE
NIGHTMARE CITY
ONE DEAD WITNESS
THE LAST BIG JOB
BACKLASH
SUBSTANTIAL THREAT
DEAD HEAT
BIG CITY JACKS
PSYCHO ALLEY
CRITICAL THREAT
SCREEN OF DECEIT
CRUNCH TIME
THE NOTHING JOB
SEIZURE
HIDDEN WITNESS
FACING JUSTICE
INSTINCT
FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD
SUBSTANTIAL THREAT
Nick Oldham
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2002 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2002 by Nick Oldham
The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Oldham, Nick, 1956-
Substantial threat
1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character) - Fiction
2. Police - England - Blackpool - Fiction
3. Detective and mystery stories
I. Title
823.9’14[F]
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0079-2 (epub)
ISBN 0-7278-5874-2
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
One
There was a particular combination of words that gave Henry Christie a very special thrill and sent a shimmer of unadulterated pleasure all the way down his spine. They were words Henry had been privileged to read out loud to about forty people in the course of his career as a police officer. Henry did not care what sort of person it was who had to listen to what he said, they could be the hardest, toughest, meanest bastard in the world – and some of the recipients of his words had been pretty near to that description. No, Henry did not care who they were because he was certain that the words would, inwardly at least, make anybody brick themselves.
Henry ran the words through his head once more. They were clear and recent in his memory. He had only spoken them two hours before.
‘You are charged that between the sixteenth and seventeenth of March this year you did murder Jennifer Walkden, contrary to common law.’
The murder charge.
Yes! Henry thumped his steering wheel with glee. He did not care a damn who the person was because no matter who the hell they were or what they purported to be, those words meant they were going to prison for a life sentence . . . all things being equal. That is if Henry did his job right, if the prosecution brokered no deals, if the jury believed the evidence . . . yeah, okay, all those things, but even that uncertainty did not detract from the feeling of utter triumph he felt when slowly reading out the charge.
Henry yawned and shook his head as he drove his car into the Lancashire police headquarters at Hutton, just to the south of Preston.
It had been a long day, but one which had been deeply satisfying. It was 9 p.m. by the time he parked in the car park near his office, fourteen hours after first coming on duty. It did not matter that he was physically and mentally exhausted, that the day had stretched his skills, abilities and personal resolve to their ultimate. None of that was important. What was crucial was that the suspect had been charged with the gravest offence, bail had been refused and he would be appearing at court in the morning.
Temporary Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie had nailed the bastard and the feeling of elation that fact gave him over-rode anything else.
It had been touch and go. It could so easily have gone the other way and the suspect, by the name of Sherridan, could have walked. Henry knew the evidence against him was paper thin, but as he was totally convinced in his own mind that the guy was guilty of sticking a ten-inch kitchen knife into his girlfriend’s heart and skewering her to a kitchen table, Henry had been grimly determined to take it to the wire.
The whole thing had hinged on the interview: on clear, persistent, incisive and clever questioning. The suspect had to be made to admit the job because there was nothing else to tie him to the murder: no witnesses, no forensic, no weapon. Maybe a little circumstantial evidence and a pretty creaky alibi . . . and, of course, Henry Christie’s cold-blooded gut-wrenching belief that Sherridan was a killer. The man needed to be pushed and pushed to the limit, but not intimidated or frightened; there was a fine and dangerous line between the two. A line Henry was very good at treading.
Henry had been up at three that morning, planning his interview strategy. He went on duty at 7 a.m. and talked the whole thing through with the local detective sergeant who was to be ‘second-jockey’ in the interview. At nine he put the plan into effect, talking to Sherridan, who had been in custody since the previous evening.
Eight hours later, after many furious, fractious and heated verbal exchanges (but with plenty of rest and refreshment breaks to keep suspect and solicitor happy), Henry truly thought he was on the verge of losing it. The clock on the wall behind Sherridan seemed to be ticking double time. Twenty-four hours was almost up, only sixty minutes to go, and Henry already knew that he would have major problems convincing the very cynical and pedantic on-call superintendent to grant an extension to the period of custody. Sherridan would either have to be charged or set free. And at that point – 5 p.m. – charging him was not even a remote option.
Then it came.
The chink of light. The opening. The lie that Sherridan had forgotten he had told . . . or maybe not forgotten, so much as forgotten in which context he had told it.
Excitement surged through Henry as his adrenaline sluices opened. Moments like these made life worth living. Henry even felt the detective sergeant next to him tense because he, too, had spotted the opening. The trick was not to let on to the suspect because he could have wriggled free, even at that point. He had to be manoeuvred into an ambush. It was all Henry could do to refrain from smiling, to prevent himself from fidgeting, to stop himself clenching the cheeks of his bottom and rising ever so slightly in his seat. It took every last ounce of restraint not to let on that
he was in and that the whole fabricated story that had been spun was about to be shredded word by word, lie by lie.
Henry felt like a chess grand master who had just seen the last six moves to certain victory. He was cold, ruthless and precise. His voice, however, remained calm and polite.
At first Sherridan did not see it coming. He prattled on blithely, smugly, digging his hole, well aware of the time passing in his favour, believing he would soon be walking free. Then, like a spectre, it materialized in front of him. Suddenly he clammed up tight and locked eyes with Henry for one chilling instant, the colour draining from his face.
His solicitor sat bolt upright and emitted a tiny gasp of despair.
Checkmate, you murdering bastard! Henry blinked innocently, face impassive.
‘Shit,’ mouthed Sherridan and dropped his head into his hands.
And from that moment on it was plain sailing. Despite his desperate back-pedalling and frenzied denials, he was like a fish caught on a hook. Henry revelled as he reeled the slippery son of a bitch in. After a fifteen-minute spirited, but ultimately useless fight, Sherridan cracked and caved in. Tears welled up as he finally unburdened himself and admitted committing murder.
Henry charged him with the offence five minutes before the twenty-four-hour deadline, milking each syllable of every word.
After this Henry and the local DS congratulated each other with a flurry of high fives and a few slightly hysterical, ‘Hey, yo de mans’ and an Irish jig around the CID office. After the brief celebration they quickly cobbled together the court file for the morning, then Henry left it with the local man to do the admin side of things – fingerprints, descriptives and a DNA swab of the prisoner.
Henry walked out of Blackburn police station feeling emotionally elated yet mentally drained from having concentrated so hard and so long. His temples were throbbing like pistons.
Before setting off back to his office at HQ, he gave his ex-wife Kate a call on the mobile. He let her know where he was and when he was likely to be home. They were taking things on a day by day footing, trying to get back together again, and regular communication had been part of the deal Kate had thrashed out with him. Henry told her he needed to get back to his office and clear up a few things before heading home.
Henry Christie was now a member of the Senior Investigating Officer team based at Lancashire police HQ. His temporary rank of Detective Chief Inspector and the move to what was in essence the murder squad had been the parting gift to him of an ACC who had gone to pastures new. The SIO team was based in offices in a building that had once been a residential block for students attending the training centre at HQ. It had been gutted and refurbished for the sole purpose of housing the team. Henry’s office was on the middle floor of the three-storey block and had a view through the trees to the rugby pitch in front of the main HQ building beyond. A nice, fairly peaceful location at the dream factory, – as headquarters was often referred to by cynical front-line coppers.
The corridor outside his office was quiet. A light shone out from an office at the far end, otherwise there was no sign of habitation. This did not mean that no work was going on. At present, including the murder Henry had been dealing with at Blackburn, the SIO team was involved in six on-going murders and assisting at least a dozen enquiries into other serious crimes.
Henry’s pounding headache had subsided. The drive from Blackburn to HQ with the car windows open had relaxed him, given him time to chill with David Gray on the CD. He could have done with a strong drink, but the days of having alcohol on police premises were long gone. He settled for a cup of water from the cooler, which he took back to his office.
After completing his housekeeping chores by about 9.45 p.m. he decided to call it quits for the day without feeling too guilty about it. The thought of the king-size bed and his warm ex-wife was very appealing. As he stood up, stretched and creaked, ready to head off, he heard steps approaching slowly down the corridor. Henry peered round his office door and smiled when he saw Detective Chief Superintendent Bernie Fleming, the head honcho of the SIO team. Henry admired him greatly, both professionally and personally. Although he was a career detective, Fleming was not narrow-minded and had a good head for strategy on his shoulders. He had supervised some extremely complex murder investigations in his time and been successful on every one. He was holding a thick box file and a video-cassette tape.
‘Henry, I thought it was you. Result?’
‘Coughed it . . . court tomorrow.’
‘Well done,’ Fleming said with genuine feeling. ‘Off home now?’
‘Yep.’
‘Can I just give you these before you go?’ He held out his hands. ‘Bit of a pressie for the new kid on the block,’ he added slyly. ‘A cold case I’d like you to review.’
Henry took the file and video eagerly. ‘Thanks, Bernie.’
‘Fancy a swift one at the Anchor before you hit the road?’
Fleming asked hopefully.
Henry declined with a sad shake of the head. ‘Love to.’ He shrugged. ‘But y’know . . .?’
‘Yeah, no probs,’ Fleming said with a trace of disappointment. Henry knew that the Chief Super did not have anyone to go home to and felt slightly mean at refusing the offer of a drink. Now that he did have someone to go home to, he was not going to jeopardize the relationship.
Fleming trudged back down the corridor towards his office and Henry watched him go. Then he glanced down at the thick package and video in his hands. Cold-case review was one of the functions of the SIO team, it involved looking again at unsolved murders and other serious crimes which came under their remit. This was the second one Henry had been given since joining the team two months before. The prospect of it excited him. He was very tempted to open the file there and then, sit down and start work on it. But that would have been as bad as going for a drink with the boss. That was another condition of the package with Kate: come home when you can.
He called her from the office phone and announced his imminent departure.
Twenty-five minutes later he was sitting next to her in the lounge of their house on the outskirts of Blackpool, sipping Blossom Hill red, discussing each other’s day. They hit the sack at just gone eleven, both bushed. They cuddled and kissed for a while but did not make love and fell asleep quickly.
About 4 a.m. Henry woke up groggily, dying to pee. After relieving himself, sleep would not return. He tossed, fidgeted, began to sweat and could tell he was affecting Kate, though she did not wake up. Eventually frustration got the better of him: there was no point staying in bed. He slid out, wrapped his dressing gown tightly around himself and stepped quietly on to the landing.
He checked on his daughters, Jennifer and Leanne, soundly asleep in their rooms. Good kids, good to be back with them . . . almost back with them. He experienced that overwhelming sense of love he always felt when he was with them, then sneaked downstairs, knowing exactly why he could not sleep.
He had brought home the cold-case review.
It had been a frenzied attack. The girl had been mercilessly beaten, battered to death by an assailant who had lost total control. Blood had splashed everywhere around the dingy basement flat – floors, walls, ceiling – indicating she had been pursued relentlessly through the premises, desperately trying to defend herself from the onslaught.
Her life had come to an end in the tiny, grubby bathroom. Here, it seemed, she had been cornered by her killer. Trapped. Her head had been repeatedly smashed on the rim of the toilet bowl until she died from massive internal bleeding in her brain. Her face was a gory, unrecognizable pulp. The killer had probably continued to pound her head against the toilet long after she had died.
She had been found on her knees, slumped over the toilet, her head hanging into the bowl as though she might have been vomiting. It was estimated she had been there for forty-eight hours. And if that was not bad enough, rats had gnawed her buttocks, legs and feet.
Henry sighed. His nostrils dilated. He rubb
ed his gritty eyes. He paused the crime-scene video, holding it on a framed shot of the dead female’s bare back – she was completely naked – which was latticed by a network of wheals, abrasions and cuts. She was thin almost to the point of emaciation, resembling an inmate of a concentration camp. Not that her gauntness had prevented her from being a prostitute. Semen from four different men had been found inside her during post-mortem.
Henry pressed the stop button on the remote control and the TV screen went blank. He had seen enough for the time being. He took his mug, stood and walked quietly through the silent household into the chilly conservatory. The house backed on to agricultural land and a pale dawn was approaching. He gazed across the field and jumped with pleasure when he saw a big dog fox bouncing through the grass. Then it was gone. Elated by the sight, he sat on one of the cane chairs, shivering a little and holding his hot mug of tea between the palms of his hands, drawing heat from it into his body.
He placed the mug down on the glass-topped coffee table, reached out and flicked on the fan heater, gazing unseeingly into the garden. He sighed again, interlocked his fingers behind his head, but did not allow his mind to go blank. His inner concentration was absolute as he tried to imagine himself as a fly on the wall at the scene of the particularly brutal and senseless murder he had been asked to review.
This thought process was a vital part of the job of the murder detective: making assumptions, constructing hypotheses to be tested, retested and most probably discarded en route to the truth. Then maybe one or two lines of enquiry eventually turning up information, facts, evidence, and then, hopefully, a suspect.
There was not much to go on here. The flat the girl had died in was located in a poor area of Blackpool’s North Shore. It could easily be accessed directly from the street down a set of steps from the pavement. This, unfortunately, meant that visitors or customers, or the killer, could come and go without having to enter the main building above, which was a large terraced house converted into a warren of tiny flats. The main point about this, and what made it particularly frustrating from a police point of view, was that people could enter her flat unobserved and very quickly. All they had to do was slip in from the pavement.
