Harte

by Robert Innes

  “I’m sorry,” Blake replied, starting to get annoyed, “but can I remind you that the victim’s family could be watching this?”

  “You were in charge of the original investigation into Frost’s murders, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you then moved away from Manchester, is that right?”

  Blake frowned. “Yes?”

  “Moved to a village, I believe, a place called Harmschapel?”

  “What does that have to do –”

  “And now you’ve been, what? Invited back in order to personally bring Frost to justice once more? It will sound to some of our viewers that this is more of a pet project for you than anything else.”

  Blake stared at her in bemusement. “A pet project?”

  “You have absolutely no proof that you can provide to us that Frost was involved in the murder today, is that right?”

  “Yes, we do!”

  “Such as?”

  “I can’t discuss it, you’re a news reporter, you should know that.”

  “So, nothing solid that you’re prepared to confirm to us that Frost has actually killed anybody else. Is that not just going to scare the public unnecessarily?”

  “There was a note!”

  As soon as the words had left his lips, Blake knew that he should not have said it. He dared not even glance at the three officers across the studio.

  “A note?” Theresa repeated. “Saying what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? You’re claiming that this is your strongest piece of evidence proving to us that Frost is killing again. The public surely deserve to know. What did the note say?”

  “I cannot discuss that. I think it’s best we bring this to a close.”

  “So, in conclusion, a serial killer has clearly escaped, that’s not in question. But as to whether he has actually killed since escaping, you can’t actually say? And you can’t really confirm why you’re the officer back investigating it? Are the police really taking this as seriously as they should?”

  “Yes,” Blake exclaimed hotly. “Of course we are.”

  “And you haven’t just come back to Manchester to try and repeat the greatest hits of your career?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  Theresa pulled a disdainful expression, though to Blake it did not seem to alter too much from her normal facial features. “We’ll have to leave it there, DS Harte, thank you.”

  By the time Blake arrived back at his parent’s house, it was past midnight. The street was in darkness and Stephanie and Colin’s house was one of the only ones with the lights still on.

  “They stayed up for you then,” Sally commented as she pulled the car up by the side of the house.

  “Mum will have done, Dad will be unconscious by now,” Blake murmered. “When I walk in, she’ll be sitting in her armchair attacking that crochet pattern, pretending she hasn’t been standing at the window for the past two hours waiting for me since that bloody interview aired.”

  “Is she still on that crochet? You’d think she was recreating the Bayeux Tapestry for all the time it takes her.”

  Blake smiled weakly then closed his eyes and put his head back. “Jesus. What a day.”

  “Welcome back,” Sally replied dryly. “Bloody Theresa Bowen. What an absolute cow.”

  Blake shook his head. He was still reeling slightly from the ferocity of the telling off he had received off Gresham the second they had been out of earshot of the news crew.

  “Don’t worry,” Sally said, for the fourth time since they had been driving home. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Hardly reassuring to the public though,” Blake replied. “Now they think that I’m only investigating Frost for my own gain.”

  “None of them think that,” Sally said soothingly. “Theresa Bowen has as many detractors as she has fans. The type that like her are the ones with issues with the police anyway. Don’t let her get to you. Have a look through social media, I’ve seen a lot of comments from viewers saying that she acted completely unprofessionally. So, go on then. I can tell you’ve been pushing stuff around your brain since we left the prison. Care to share?”

  Blake groaned. “I dunno. I keep thinking of possibilities but then immediately discounting them. One thing we do know is that Frost didn’t leave Manchester. In fact, I’m starting to think that he didn’t even leave the prison grounds. Not straight away anyway. Not that I’ve got any proof of that. One thing Theresa did get right, we’re certainly low on evidence.”

  “Well then, where the hell is he?” Sally asked. “Unless…”

  “What?”

  Sally bit her lip thoughtfully. “You don’t suppose somebody else could have murdered Helen Beauchamp? I mean, think about it, even if we believe everything that’s we’re clearly supposed to, that he disappeared from that van at about nine o’clock this morning, it gives him about eight hours to find Helen’s apartment, murder her, and then escape from her apartment to wherever he’s hiding now, all without being seen. That first report was live, it took no less than an hour for the news to spread to anybody who wasn’t watching it. Everybody in this city would have been on high alert. How has he not been seen? We’ve not had a single person report anything suspicious.”

  Blake stared out of the window, his brain feeling like it was compressing. “It’s possible. I just can’t get past those three pieces of footage that we saw. The first one, he’s being put into the van by these two prison officers that nobody seems able to trace. He’s then hidden from view as the doors at the back are opened. That is surely the only time he has to escape? If we assume that those two officers are somehow in on it, paid off or whatever, they could have snuck him out of sight while the doors were still hiding him and then closed them.”

  “Where though? And what about the police that were escorting him? None of them saw anything?”

  “No idea,” Blake replied. “That’s the other fun thing. Nobody seems to be able to tell me who was actually on duty this morning. Nobody. I know there’s a hell of a lot of police that work in Manchester, but for something this big, why the hell are none of them coming forward to tell us anything? Unless, of course, they’re keeping their heads down because they know that Frost escaped under their watch, but that doesn’t ring true to me either. Plus, something else that’s annoying me. That driver I spoke to briefly who was sorting out the van we checked out. He didn’t even know anything about it. All the guards that must be in that prison, you’d think getting rid of Frost would be the talk of the town.”

  “Well, top of my list is Nigel Hawthorne,” Sally told him. “Maybe he’s told everyone to play dumb. He’s definitely hiding something.”

  Blake nodded, deep in thought. It felt like there was a huge wall blocking his view to any sort of sensible answers. He shook his head and unclipped his seatbelt. “I dunno. No matter how he escaped, there’s no ignoring the fact that he’s out there somewhere.”

  “Look, forget Frost for now,” Sally replied, pulling her cigarettes out of her pocket and pulling two out. “Let’s concentrate on something more important for the minute.”

  “Like what?” Blake asked, accepting the cigarette she offered him.

  “Like the fact that Harrison is in a mood with you. Have you heard from him since he hung up on you?”

  Blake lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, hating how relaxed the hit of nicotine threatened to make him feel. “No. Can’t say I blame him to be honest. He puts up with so much from me. Too much. Someone like Harrison deserves so much better.”

  “Better than you?” Sally exclaimed. “Come on, Blake.”

  “I’m serious, Sal,” Blake replied. “Why should I expect him to just sit and wait for me whenever I decide to run away to catch a serial killer? Let’s be blunt here, Frost’s after me. There’s one of two ways that’s going to end. Either we find him or he finds me.” He sighed heavily as he realised that he was now vocalising a
thought that he had previously forbidden himself from giving too much consideration to since returning to Manchester. “It’s like I’m addicted to this. It’s driving me crazy, but I am. It’s like a drug. I’ve missed this. I know that sounds insane considering where we’re at with this, but all this high-octane policing, I can’t deny it’s giving me a buzz. I have to find Frost, I can’t leave Manchester till I have, not that Fox would let me anyway, but even if I had a choice, I don’t think I’d want to. This job is too important to me, it always has been, I always put it first. Is there any wonder Nathan cheated on me?”

  “Nathan is a complete arsehole,” Sally told him. “You know that. Harrison would never do that to you.”

  “Because he’s the kindest, most sensitive guy I’ve ever met,” Blake replied. “Maybe too kind and too sensitive to do what he needs to do.” He stared out of the windscreen distantly. “I’ve told nobody this, but I was thinking of proposing to him when I got back.”

  Sally gasped. “Are you serious? Blake, that’s amazing!”

  “Yeah, and now I think I can guess exactly what the answer would be. I’m honestly starting to wonder if…” His voice trailed off as his eyes glanced at the side mirror next to him. Then, his heart felt like it had stopped beating.

  Thomas Frost was standing right behind the car.

  “Shit!” he cried.

  Ignoring Sally questioning what was wrong with him, he flung the car door open and stepped out, looking around, his eyes darting in all directions.

  The street behind him was empty. Frost was nowhere to be seen.

  “Blake, what the hell is wrong with you?” Sally asked, climbing out and staring at him in bemusement.

  “Frost,” Blake snapped. “I saw him, he was standing right behind the car!”

  Sally turned to face the street. “Blake, there’s nobody there.”

  “I saw him!” Blake exclaimed.

  Quick as a flash, he strode to the bushes on the side of the road and pulled them apart, his eyes scanning quickly around. All was dark and quiet.

  “Blake, you must be imagining things,” Sally said, coming up behind him. “Come on. You need some sleep. Your brain must be fried.”

  “I saw him,” Blake repeated, though he was quieter now as doubt began to creep in. “I’m sure I did.”

  Sally rested her hand on his shoulder. “Look, it’s been a long day. Just go in and get yourself to bed. You need sleep. Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier. And as for what you were just saying about Harrison, you listen to me and you listen good. That man loves you and you love him. There are weaker relationships than yours in this job that have lasted for years and years. You just need to get over yourself and realise that you’re just as good as Harrison clearly thinks you are.”

  Blake was barely listening as he continued to look around the street for a few seconds. He was so sure he had seen Frost, a few feet behind the car, glowering at them. Now, as he stared around the silent street, the only thing he could see was a cat running across the road and then disappearing behind some bushes.

  “Sleep,” muttered Blake. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not going to be easy tonight?”

  Sally gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know. It’ll get better.”

  “Blake!”

  They both spun around to see Stephanie standing in the doorway of the Harte’s house. She was wearing a long flowing dressing gown, her glasses fixed on the edge of her nose as usual. She glanced down at the still smouldering cigarette in Blake’s hand.

  “Blake, are you smoking?”

  Blake groaned and chucked it down the drain by the side of the road. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed Sally on the cheek and pulled her in for a tight hug, before remembering that it was now past midnight. “Oh, by the way. Happy birthday.”

  Sally chuckled. “Thanks. We’ll see if we can squeeze in a drink tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Definitely.” Blake turned back towards the house and glanced at his mother who was still glaring at him over the top of her glasses. “Oh, give me a break, Mother, I’m thirty-five.”

  “Don’t you get petulant with me, young man,” Stephanie snapped. “Anyway, get in there. We’ve got company.”

  Blake raised his eyebrows. “Company? You? At this time of night?”

  “We have late night company sometimes,” Stephanie replied curtly.

  Blake shook his head to empty his mind of the connotations that statement brought up and followed his mother inside the house, briefly turning to wave goodbye to Sally, who was just climbing into her car, before the front door closed behind him.

  When they entered the living room, Blake was surprised to see the Harte’s neighbour, Samuel sitting on the sofa, deep in conversation with Colin, the newspaper in front of them on the coffee table, open at the horse racing pages.

  “Evening,” Blake said.

  “Evening, son,” Colin replied, briefly looking up. “Samuel’s just here, he’s got a tip for me on the races tomorrow. Don’t tell your mother.”

  “Don’t tell me what, Colin?” Stephanie asked, from the hallway.

  “Nothing, love! Nothing!” Colin called, indicating to Samuel to hide the newspaper from view. “She hates gambling,” he whispered. “You know what though, it’s kept my family together. My old man, he won on the horses and was able to get him and my mum an engagement ring. Happened just in time as she was about to leave him if he didn’t pop the question. I’ve still got his in a box somewhere. I tell you, Samuel, if Hoof Hearted hadn’t won the race that day, I wouldn’t be sitting here now telling this story.”

  Blake rolled his eyes and took his mobile out of his pocket. “I’ve just got to call somebody. Nice to see you, Samuel.”

  “And you, Blake, and you,” Samuel called as Blake walked up the stairs to the spare bedroom where his suitcase had been placed by his mother the second he had agreed to stay. He closed the door to the bedroom and threw himself on the bed, exhaling deeply and staring at the ceiling.

  “You imagined it,” he told himself, the image of what he thought he had seen through the passenger mirror flashing briefly into his mind. “You just need more sleep.”

  He stood up and peered through the bedroom curtains to the streets below. All was still quiet and just as it should be. Although he knew there was no logic to it, he comforted himself with the thought that no street could surely appear so peaceful if Thomas Frost was lurking around it.

  Blake closed the curtains and pulled up Harrison’s number, before putting the phone to his ear and nervously waiting for an answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “Blake, I’m so sorry,” Harrison said quickly. “My phone went completely dead when I was out earlier and I’ve only just got back to the cottage to charge it.”

  “You mean you didn’t hang up on me earlier?”

  There was a pause.

  “No,” Harrison said. “Of course I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I came pretty close. I wanted to reach through the phone and shake you.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t get sulky,” Harrison told him, sounding as if he was smiling. “I just mean that I don’t think you realise what it’s like going out with someone who insists on putting their life on the line as much as you do, especially when you’re supposed to be on bloody holiday.”

  Blake rubbed his eyes. The notion that his visit to Manchester was supposed to feature him actually relaxing seemed like a distant memory. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t walk away now though. I’ve got a new boss, did you hear?”

  “Who? Lisa Fox? Yeah, Inspector Angel told me. Matti seems relieved that she’s not here anymore, put it like that.”

  “How’s he getting on with Mini at the moment?”

  “They’re out as we speak. I have no idea which way it’s going to go, but she agreed to meet him to talk, so fingers crossed. Anyway, go on. How goes it in your hunt to find Jack the Ripper?”

  Blake groaned. “Did you see me
on the telly earlier?”

  “Yeah,” Harrison said slowly. “I’m no expert in police statements to the media, but I’m guessing that it wasn’t quite supposed to go like that. I’ve never liked that Theresa Bowen. She was awful to you.”

  “You think she was bad, you should have heard Gresham afterwards.”

  “Listen, I was with Tom when I watched it,” Harrison told him.

  “Tom? What the hell for? Is he still in hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You went to see him after all that he’s done?”

  “Yeah. Well, nobody else was going to tell me anything,” Harrison replied defensively. “I had to find out one way or the other about why he did what he did.”

  Blake chuckled. “You’ve been living with me for too long.”

  “I found out some stuff, Blake. If it helps, I think he’s having a crisis of conscious, ever so slightly.”

  “Go on then,” Blake replied, smiling. What did you find out?”

  Again, there was a pause.

  “I found out who killed the woman you found when you were a kid.”

  Blake’s expression dropped. For a few moments, he was incapable of speech.

  “Blake?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Blake said, sitting up. “What?”

  “Yep. And I’m sorry, Blake. I really, really am.”

  Blake frowned. “Go on.”

  About half an hour later, Blake wandered slowly down the stairs, the information Harrison had given him still processing in his head, making sure that he was right in what he was thinking. The more he thought about it, and remembered everything he had seen and heard from Samuel in his living room earlier that day, the more he became convinced.

  He opened the door and stood in the threshold.

  Samuel was still there, chatting away to Colin while Stephanie sat on the sofa with her crochet pattern, glancing at the clock on the wall occasionally and glancing disapprovingly at her husband, suggesting that the late-night company had clearly started to outstay its welcome.

  Blake merely watched them, not saying a word until, at last, Colin and Samuel’s talk died down and they turned to look at him.