by Nick Oldham
Henry was about to protest.
Ronson held up a hand. ‘Do it.’
Henry backed off, knowing the DS was right: he was getting well and truly wound up.
He had spent several hours at the scene. That was taken away from him when two cocky detectives landed from headquarters, a DS and a DC, who declared they were the crime scene managers now and that Henry could piss off – the exact term used to dismiss him.
Back at the station, all access to the two prisoners was denied as more of the headquarters team were now circling, and Henry’s demand that he be allowed into the investigation fell on deaf ears.
And he had to accept it. His time would come, he knew it, but that didn’t stop his frustration.
He and Ronson had had their head-to-head in the CID office, so Henry retreated to the desk he had been allocated in the far corner. It was probably the oldest desk in the room, and even as he walked towards it, he could see it had a bit of a lean on it, and that it was stacked high with boxes and files that should have been in storage or the waste bin. The desk was pushed right back into the corner of the office and the chair that went with it had seen better days. Much better days. The location was also adjacent to the brewing table, stacked with unwashed pots on one side, and a toilet door on the other; it was not conducive to being able to concentrate on work.
Henry looked at it all and shook his head. Not that he was surprised, being the rookie, but the first day had not gone anywhere near as he’d envisaged. No generous welcome, no time to get his feet under the table, get to know a few of his colleagues and have his workload allocated.
Not that he had a problem helping out with a warrant, but it just didn’t fit with his hopes and expectations.
He took a deep breath, spun on his heels and left the CID office, went along the corridor, dropped down a level to the custody office and entered.
Amazingly, there was a lull in activity and Henry managed to get straight up to the desk, behind which the custody sergeant was hunched over a binder containing all the records of everyone currently in the cells – fourteen men, one woman.
The sergeant looked up wearily, pulled his glasses from the top of his head and refitted them on the bridge of his nose. ‘Help you?’
‘Hi – DC Christie, just started this morning.’
‘Congratulations,’ the sergeant said, clearly not meaning it.
‘I – uh – went on the warrant this morning … two people locked up, bloke and a woman … just wondered if I could see them?’
‘See as in interview? That would be a no.’
‘No … literally just see them. Look through the hatch at them. That’s all.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Curiosity. Want to see what two people look like who have murdered two kids.’
‘Morbid curiosity, I’d venture.’
‘Maybe,’ Henry conceded.
‘Hmm.’ The sergeant considered the request. ‘OK. You’ll have to go down the female cell corridor with the WPC who’s been brought in to supervise the woman prisoner.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘She’s down there now.’ The sergeant cocked his head. Henry nodded and went to the female section of the custody office which was completely separate from the male side.
The iron barred gate into it was slightly ajar. Henry pushed it open and stepped into the corridor. It was grim and unwelcoming, as he supposed cell corridors should be, and the atmosphere was a mix of the usual aroma of cells probably the world over, but with the addition of cheap perfume.
He walked towards the ninety-degree turn, hearing a low whispering voice somewhere ahead. He turned into the actual cell corridor and looked along to see a uniformed policewoman bending over at one of the cell doors with her fingertips wrapped over the bottom lip of the open inspection hatch and her face right up to the gap, saying something to the occupant, the only female in custody at that time.
Henry recognized her as the same WPC who had nursed him in the back alley after he’d been assaulted the year before, the one who had later visited him in hospital to see how he was progressing. He hadn’t seen her since but remembered her name was Julie Clarke.
Henry watched her for a few moments, quite liking the profile of her slim body, even in uniform.
She had her mouth up to the hatch and he could see her chin moving as she spoke quietly to the occupant.
Henry walked towards her, trying to eavesdrop, interested in what was being said in such hushed tones. His hearing was pretty good, but the sound was muffled as her voice was projected into the cell.
He was about six feet from her by the time she realized he was approaching. She drew her face out of the open hatch and looked at him, startled.
‘Hey, Henry Christie, what’re you doing here?’ As she turned, she slid the hatch up with her fingertips to close it, allowing the bolts to spring into place, ensuring it was locked. Her eyes took him in and widened. ‘Gosh! You look smart.’
‘First day CID.’
‘Welcome to the madhouse.’
‘Good to be here, even though it was a baptism of fire. Is that Cressida Leyland in there?’
‘Certainly is. Why?’
‘I was on the warrant this morning … not involved in how it’s all panning out now, though.’
‘Oh, God. Yeah, awful. What a bitch!’
‘I just wanted to have a look at her. The custody sergeant said it would be OK if you were here.’
‘Sure … just been talking to her … just had to change her cell because the one she was in originally had a duff toilet.’
‘OK … mind if I …?’ he asked. ‘I only saw her back as they locked her up.’
Clarke stood aside and let Henry open the cell hatch to peer in.
Cressida Leyland was forty, thin, scraggy, and had a drug-addled look about her. She was now kitted out in a forensic suit, having had the clothes she was arrested in taken away from her following the discovery in the cellar underneath her bed. She had wiry, blue-tinted hair and the expression of a terrified animal, and when Henry shoved his face into the hatch, she drew back into the corner of her cell.
Henry simply looked at her long and hard, wondering what was in her mind.
Finally, he withdrew.
‘Have you any idea what this is all about? I mean, dead kids – Christ alive,’ Clarke said. ‘What sick mind …?’
‘Yeah, absolutely. Anyway, I’ve seen her … and now I’m going to have a look at her partner.’
‘Husband, you mean?’
‘Terry Leyland, is it? I just want to see his face, look into his eyes. I’d like to punch him out, obviously; do him harm.’
They were ambling back down the corridor towards the custody office.
‘But you might get blood on your nice new suit,’ she said.
‘After this morning, it already needs a dry clean. Reeks of death.’
Clarke stopped and turned to face Henry, taking hold of his jacket lapel and bringing him towards her. She tilted down a little and sniffed at the material. Then from that angle she looked up at Henry who was watching her, enthralled and perplexed at the same time.
‘All I smell is you,’ she said.
Henry’s mouth went dry as he looked down into her eyes, which looked up at him from an angle that made them appear bigger and rounder and more seductive than they probably really were.
‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ he croaked.
‘Yes, it is.’
With a wicked grin, Clarke released the lapel and pushed him playfully away from her, and, with a strange, unsettling undertone, said, ‘Men! So easy.’ She gave him a wink, then set off ahead of him.
The custody sergeant allowed him to go down the male cell corridor along with a stern warning not to say even one word to the prisoner. He went to cell number ten, dropped the hatch, looked in.
Terry Leyland was very much the mirror image of Cressida, his wife. He was scrawny, untidy, unshaven and had a scraggy neck. He too wa
s in a forensic suit and was sitting on the bed, backed up tight into the corner of the cell. He raised his eyes and stared sullenly at Henry.
In spite of the sergeant’s warning, Henry said, ‘Just wanted to look into your face.’
‘Well, now you can fuck off.’ Leyland’s voice was as harsh as his appearance. He laid himself out on the reinforced plastic mattress, clasped his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling of his cell.
Henry didn’t trust himself not to say anything out of order. He slammed the hatch shut and stalked away.
He took Ronson’s advice and went to let the seafront breeze blow some of the cobwebs – and the smell of death – away.
He walked from the police station to the promenade. The afternoon had turned chilly and his suit wasn’t really the right clothing to protect him from the icy wind now coming in from the Irish Sea. He walked with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and meandered to the sea wall, leaning against the railings with his lower belly, looking out across the white-topped grey sea which was coming in.
He had calmed down, which was one thing, and he wasn’t sure what he’d achieved by going in to look at the two prisoners. Perhaps it was just to gloat, to sneer, knowing that, all being well, neither would ever set foot outside a prison cell again. He visualized once more the sight that had greeted him in the cellar, then skipped to his minor skirmish with Ronson when he’d tried abysmally to explain his desire to be part of the investigation into the double murder.
Leaning on the railings, he attempted to iron out that concept in his mind.
Suddenly, he knew what it was: having seen those dead children, he knew what was driving his desire to become a detective.
The search for truth. And maybe justice, though he doubted his ability to achieve that every time.
He wanted to be the one who did that for the victims, any victim, even if it was ‘only’ victims of burglary.
Yet, as he stood there with his face in the wind, he knew he had a lot to learn. This was his first day as a detective. He had skills to acquire, knowledge to apply and attitude and behaviour to sharpen. Some of that would come with the residential detective course he was due to undertake, but mostly it would be learned by dealing effectively with the bread and butter of being a detective on the ground.
Be the steady detective who came on duty and dealt with overnight prisoners in the cells; the one who attended the day-to-day sordid crimes that had significant effect on the victims, even if they were low-level offences. He needed to catch those burglars and thieves who stole cars, and scummy robbers who picked on the vulnerable in the streets. And even if he couldn’t realistically catch every villain, he had to be the detective who listened to and reassured and fought for the victims of crime, no matter how small and inconsequential the crime might be.
Then, when he’d learned his trade, when he’d experienced different avenues of detective work – maybe getting on the Regional Crime Squad, which he quite fancied – he knew that ultimately he wanted to be a Murder Squad detective.
That, to him, was the ultimate role.
He knew it wouldn’t be an easy route. He knew that life would chuck up obstacles and he would have to work hard to achieve that aim.
But that day, standing on Blackpool promenade, he determined he would take the first baby steps towards it. That was his vague plan as he turned away from the sea and walked inland into the resort centre because he needed a coffee.
He didn’t quite get one.
It was a nice coffee shop, an old established business which had yet to embrace the creeping culture of the cappuccino and latte, but still served hot, frothy, milky coffee that was a delight. Henry ordered a large one and took it to a seat close to the window so he could watch life tootle by. Which it was doing by the bucketload in Blackpool.
He had taken a couple of sips of the coffee, leaving a foamy moustache on top of his real one, when he noticed a woman who seemed to be a homeless tramp walking down the street, deliberately stepping in front of people, stopping them while she showed them something about the size of a postcard. Henry assumed it was one of those Help me I’m homeless/penniless kind of cards, begging for money, which tended to infuriate people when such things were shoved under their noses.
This woman was annoying almost everyone – and that included Henry who watched with growing irritation as she moved herself into the path of yet another shopper and stuck the card into the woman’s face.
Henry took a quick sip of his coffee, rose from his seat, calling to the lady behind the counter and pointing to his drink. ‘I’ll be back for this.’
He left the café and went directly to the woman who was brandishing the card at another unsuspecting victim. Henry fished out his warrant card and he got to her as the latest shopper sidestepped the tramp.
From behind, Henry said, ‘Excuse me.’
The woman’s shoulders slumped; she turned.
From a distance, Henry thought she looked oddly familiar, and when he saw her close up, he recognized her immediately. Although she was dressed in rags and had let herself go, she was not a tramp, nor was she homeless.
‘I come into town every day,’ Trish Benemy said to Henry. ‘Every single day. To do this because I don’t know what else to do.’
She and the tyro detective were back in the café in which Henry had left his milky coffee. He’d bought an additional one for her and they were now sitting at a table at the back, Henry ignoring the snooty looks of the owner who had baulked at Henry bringing an apparently homeless person in. There was no doubt that beggars and the homeless were a problem on the streets and many places wouldn’t tolerate them, but Henry had flashed his warrant card and the owner backed down, grumbling.
Trish slid the crumpled card across the table to Henry. It was face down. Henry slowly turned it over.
It wasn’t a plea for money or food.
It was just a photograph.
Of her son. Thomas James Benemy.
‘He’s never, ever, ever come back home,’ Trish said.
‘You’ve never heard from him?’
‘Not a peep – which is why I think he’s dead.’
If Henry was honest with himself, he hadn’t really given much thought to Tommy Benemy over the last year, ever since he’d visited the house when he’d been expecting the lad to answer bail, only to be told he had gone missing from home. He’d treated the news from Trish with a large dose of salt. Maybe Tommy had done a runner from justice, which wasn’t quite the same as going missing from home. Henry had scoffed at Trish and demanded to be allowed to search the house, which he did and found nothing.
Tommy certainly wasn’t there at that time.
Henry had been pretty annoyed and left the house in a huff, telling Trish to report him officially missing if he wasn’t back home in a few days.
From that point on, as frustrating as it was for Henry, he didn’t get the satisfaction of dealing with Tommy and putting him before a court and identifying the other people involved in the assault. The nature of his work with the Support Unit did not really give him the chance to spend much time trying to track Tommy down. Henry was all over the county, having huge amounts of fun, and only checked in occasionally at Blackpool to look at the missing-from-home (MFH) report that Trish made.
The report was kept in the sergeants’ office on a pro-forma with additional forms attached on which all further enquiries were logged in longhand.
It seemed clear that after the initial flurry of activity by the local officers, Tommy’s file wasn’t revisited very often and not a lot was being done to trace him. Occasionally, a patrol sergeant would allocate a PC to go and visit Trish, but that was about as far as it went.
Kids went missing in Blackpool. Most turned up, but some never did – and after a year it looked like Tommy was on the latter list.
Henry frowned at Trish.
‘Are you seriously telling me that Tommy never contacted you?’
‘Never.’
He looked at Tommy’s crumpled photo, one of those school ones with him wearing a shirt and tie and a blazer, hair neatly trimmed, looking smart, smiling.
‘That was last year,’ Trish said. ‘Didn’t spend much time in school after that.’
‘Where do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know, but every day I come into town and show people this picture. Someone must have seen him. Someone must know where he is.’ She was starting to get distraught. ‘He couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. That’s why I think he got in with the wrong people. I think he’s …’
She didn’t complete the sentence. Henry watched her face wracked by emotion and he was touched by this brash, harsh woman who was the product of a tough environment, had brought up a kid by herself, tried hard and possessed true love for the lad.
‘So here I am. Every single frickin’ day,’ she said simply.
Henry nodded thoughtfully and let it all run through his mind. A thirteen-year-old boy missing from home for a year or more? Unusual and extremely worrying, but not unheard of. If he was still in town, Blackpool was a great place to lie low in the shadows of the underworld. It was crowded with other kids, holidaymakers and an itinerant population surging through year on year. So many possibilities, most of them unpleasant, and the most unpleasant prospect of all, the one Trish feared the most, that Tommy was dead.
‘So you’re a detective now, are you?’ she asked Henry, appraising him.
‘First day.’
‘And you’re finding time to have a brew?’
‘Long story, Trish.’ He encircled the coffee mug with his hands and leaned towards her slightly and picked up a reek of body odour – even over the whiff he could still smell coming from himself – which meant she really did need a shower. ‘You still at the same address?’
‘Till I get booted, yeah. Not paid rent for a while.’
‘Look – go home, OK? I can’t tell you how to live your life and certainly can’t tell you how you should deal with Tommy being missing for this length of time – must be very tough, must eat you up. But go home and let me have a look at his file, let me do some digging, and I’ll get back to you in a few days. I promise, now that I’m here full time, I’ll keep him on my radar – not least because I want to arrest him myself for what he did to me.’