by Nick Oldham
Henry stopped for a moment as he computed the name, trying to discover if it meant something to him.
Blackstone noticed. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
To Risdon, Blackstone said, ‘Are we OK to have mooch around ourselves?’
‘Sure, help yourself. No guests to disturb. I’ll be down in reception … coffee’s going on if I can tempt you?’
‘Good plan,’ Henry said.
Henry leaned on the window ledge. It was a nice room, as modern as could be within the old fabric of the existing building which, however good the refurb, meant slightly squeaky, uneven floors, but it was good enough to match any of the budget chain hotels out there that Henry had had the misfortune to stay in over the years, although – and he felt just a bit smug on this point – they were not a patch on the rooms at Th’Owl.
Blackstone leaned on the door jamb so that they were standing opposite each other, the double bed between them.
‘This could well have been the room … I don’t know. I didn’t quite make it this far.’
As they were now standing further apart than two metres, they had removed their masks, although adherence to the social distancing rule had pretty much gone between the two of them.
‘So,’ Henry said. ‘Van?’
Blackstone blinked rapidly as she recalled finding the gap in the fence, contorting through it with her torch between her teeth, to find a black van with a sliding side door which was unlocked.
She had peered in. It was basic – nothing to see with the pathetic beam of the torch, other than builder’s materials. She pressed the flat of her hand on the bonnet lid: still warm.
And now, standing there across the room from Henry, she found she had to take a deep breath, that her throat, even four years later, had constricted and her heart was attempting to burrow its way out of her chest.
Beyond Henry, she could see the grey of the Irish Sea.
‘I made a rookie mistake.’
Henry licked his lips.
‘I acted too soon.’
‘In what way?’
‘All patrols were on the other side of town searching for the van the inspector had seen. Radio traffic was intense. I mean, a suspected snatching, kidnap, whatever. And my adrenaline was gushing like I was coming,’ she said. Henry raised his eyebrows at the comparison. ‘Then I heard a scream from inside the hotel. Girl screams. Horrific. Terror screams.’
Blackstone was in a trance as she spoke quietly.
‘Nevertheless, I should have waited. I should have called it in – but, y’know? Fuck! Would it have made any difference to have taken the vehicle number, then shouted up where I was, even though I didn’t know the name of the hotel, and then proceeded with caution? Nope. Raging bull, china shop. I heard that scream and it did something to me, something primal.’ She clutched a fist to her heart. ‘Then bam! I was gone … like a rookie, as I said.’
She had raced to a door covered with hardboard panels, yanked at them and they’d come off, and she’d stepped inside an unlit building. There was the smell of freshly planed timber – that stuck with her – and she found herself on a corridor on the ground floor.
Another scream – somewhere in the distance on an upper floor.
That drove her on to find a set of stairs, which she sprinted up. She came out on the first floor, all bare boards, freshly skimmed walls, doors either side, mostly boarded up and no lighting … other than from the door at the far end on the right-hand side. She saw shadows. She heard male voices. Then another scream and the sound of a slap and sobbing and a crashing noise. Underfoot, she remembered, the floorboards were bare, uneven.
‘Even at that point I was petrified,’ she told Henry. ‘I knew I was going to find something deeply unpleasant going on … I didn’t know how I was going to handle it, just that I had to.’
‘It’s what cops do,’ Henry said, ‘even in the world of today, which is something a lot of people don’t understand. They go forward when other people run for their lives.’
‘I moved down the corridor and, to be honest, I made a noise. Up to that point, I’d had my radio turned down, but I turned it up and then they knew I was coming. I was reckless … trying to protect a kid … number one in the reckless charts,’ she said.
‘Hmm, yeah, really reckless,’ Henry agreed. ‘Putting yourself in the firing line.’
‘Whatever.’ She wanted to smile but couldn’t. ‘Just before I reached the doorway’ – she tapped the doorframe in which she was standing – ‘someone stepped out – a guy, I think … a shadow, a silhouette, no features. Believe me, I tried to see who it was.’ She paused. ‘And his hand jerked towards me. He had some sort of container in it and I felt a splash across my neck and on my thin blouse at my chest.’ She placed the flat of her hand on the place. ‘My first thought was that he’d chucked water at me, or turpentine – a lot of it, y’know? I staggered back, more from shock than anything. And it was really cold and then itchy and then, fuck, Henry, it set my skin on fire. I was the one screaming then, clawing at my blouse and my neck, my skin. I went down on my knees and then, whack! Some bastard cracked me across the back of my head, and that’s all I remember until I was on a stretcher between two paramedics being sluiced with painkillers and chucked into an ambulance, and Inspector Clarke was holding my hand, stroking it, saying everything would be OK.’
THIRTEEN
‘What happened to the girls, Ruby and Kelly?’ Henry asked.
The hotel owner, Risdon, had filtered wonderful coffee for them, got a couple of chairs out and let them sit in the conservatory at the front of the hotel to drink it while he went about his business.
‘Never seen again. Ruby must have done a runner from my car, I suppose, and as for the other one, Kelly – who I presume was in the room, and I presume was being assaulted or whatever – no idea. As far as I know, missing-from-home reports from all over West Yorkshire were checked, but nothing was found. They might not even have been called Ruby and Kelly. It’s common for mispers to change their ID, and easy.’
‘And you? What happened to you?’ Henry asked.
‘Ta-dah!’ she said, opening her arms in a gesture of Here I am. Then she sighed and seemed to withdraw into herself. ‘Six months off sick … not long enough really, but I had to come back to work or get my pay cut to half-salary.’
‘That old chestnut … bastards.’
‘I had a nervous breakdown … shaved my actual head, basically changed myself as a person because I couldn’t come to terms with what I saw in a mirror. Got dumped by my a-hole of a boyfriend, and at work I got dumped, too … first on to some half-baked special projects group full of waifs, strays and the sick, lame and lazy …’
Henry swallowed. ‘Been there, done that.’
‘Well, I couldn’t handle that lot; ended up in the control room and couldn’t handle that pressure either – members of the public ruin this job, always calling in, moaning about crap … then the Intel Unit and now the CCU for my sins, which are aplenty. Powers-that-be seem to think I’m better off dealing with the long dead, and I’ve done OK with it, though I think I’m a nightmare to work with.’
‘You’re a good detective,’ Henry said. ‘I’d tell you if you weren’t, whether you’re my sergeant or not.’
She shrugged modestly. ‘I took up kung fu, for goodness’ sake – I’m a blue belt now. And I did that Mini up off my own bat – from books and YouTube videos; found it gathering rust in a garage. Now, that was therapeutic.’
‘It’s a great job,’ Henry complimented her. ‘Seats are a bit tight for me, though.’
The conversation stalled as each pondered things. Henry’s face screwed up as he thought through everything Blackstone had told him, then said, ‘Looks like my saviour was your saviour, too.’
‘Julie Clarke?’
‘I woke up with my head on her lap.’
‘Same here, pretty much. I owe her.’
‘Would it be worth chatting to her,
see if she remembers anything more … I’m thinking about your incident rather than mine, or maybe both.’
‘She’s retired now.’
‘Oh, OK. Any idea where she is, what she’s up to?’
‘Funnily enough I do.’
‘But before we talk to her,’ Henry said, ‘can I ask you one thing?’
Blackstone looked at him warily. ‘Go on.’
‘Do you want revenge?’
She thought about that for a long time, then answered, ‘No, I don’t. I want my life back.’
After thanking Risdon, they jumped into Henry’s Audi, and Blackstone directed him to the town centre, slouching back as she did.
‘Nice motor,’ she said, letting her fingertips brush the dashboard. ‘All mod cons, I see.’
‘I’ve only just learned that I can actually ask the hi-fi for a particular song and it’ll play it. Most other stuff remains a mystery – satnav, GPS, all that kind of stuff … I just like driving it.’
‘Bit fancier than my Mini,’ she said and directed Henry to Granville Street, where he parked up. They got out and walked along a row of shops until they came to a door which led up to a small complex of offices for different businesses over the shops.
Blackstone looked down the list of names on the intercom and pressed the button next to Blackpool Children’s Charity.
A tinny but friendly female voice sounded over the intercom. ‘BCC – can I help you?’
Blackstone introduced herself and Henry, and asked if Julie Clarke was available for a chat. They were immediately allowed in and told to go up the steps and along the corridor to the office at the far end – the door of which was opened as they approached.
Julie Clarke greeted them with a huge smile of welcome, giving Blackstone a tender hug and shaking hands with Henry before also pulling him towards her for a hug, all against COVID guidelines.
‘Wow,’ she said, gently pushing him away and giving him a once-over.
Despite himself, he stepped back and said, ‘Wow!’ too.
When Henry had first encountered her, his head being cradled in her lap in a grotty back alley, he had been in his mid-twenties and she had just turned twenty. Back then, she had been very attractive and now, unlike himself, he thought she still was. It felt patronizing to think she’d ‘aged well’, but there wasn’t a better way of describing it. Now in her mid-fifties, she was still slim and quite stunning.
‘Come in, come in – welcome to my humble abode,’ she said and ushered the two detectives in like a mother hen. She took them through an outer office where a young girl was working at a desk, into a slightly larger main office which was hers. ‘Tea? Coffee?’ she asked, beckoning them to sit on a suite of comfortable chairs set to one side as an informal meeting area.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Blackstone said. She was coffee’d out.
‘I’m OK, too,’ Henry said.
Clarke took a seat and leaned towards Blackstone, concern in her eyes. ‘How are you, Debbie?’ obviously asking about the acid incident and its aftermath.
‘I’m not too bad. All the better for working with this old fogey,’ she said and jerked a thumb at Henry.
‘And how are you, Henry?’ Then she looked puzzled. ‘But you retired, didn’t you?’
‘Civilian investigator now. I was tempted back. The lure of the hunt, I guess.’
‘That’s good.’
‘But what of you, Julie?’ Henry gestured around the office.
‘Well, I retired, of course. Most of my service was around the Fylde coast in and out of uniform, a lot of roles relating to vulnerable children – even the patrol inspector role is a lot about kids. It just seemed right that when I finished, I kept involved, so I set up this charity, helping kids on the streets, kids from broken homes – that kind of thing.’
‘That’s amazing – such valuable work,’ Henry said genuinely. He’d had no such vocation in mind when he retired; mostly his thoughts were about sun-drenched beaches, drinking cold beer and not doing anything much for society.
‘I’m impressed, too,’ Blackstone said.
‘There’s no money in it and COVID has meant we have really struggled, but so has every other charity from the really big ones down.’ She smiled. Formalities over, catch-up done, she asked, ‘So, what brings you guys here?’
The pair exchanged a glance and Blackstone nodded at Henry.
‘Two things, really, Julie. First of all, I presume you recall me being assaulted in that back alley way back when?’
‘I’ll say. The shoplifter, little lad who went missing, supposedly, and never got prosecuted? You were badly injured.’
‘And if it hadn’t been for you …’
She waved the compliment away with a modest gesture.
‘Anyway … the lad’s mother, who, apparently, every day since his disappearance, has searched for him, was found dead yesterday … she’d been murdered.’
‘Oh my God,’ Clarke said. ‘Has the killer been caught?’
‘No, but we arrested a guy for rape yesterday, unconnected with the woman’s murder, and in his flat we found a photograph … this one.’ Henry took out his phone, with which he had taken a snap of the photograph of the boy he believed was Tommy Benemy being sexually assaulted. He found the file and then hesitated. Blackstone shot him a stunned look, wondering what he was doing. ‘Erm, this is a tough one to look at and I apologize,’ he warned Clarke.
‘I’ve seen some terrible things in my time, Henry.’ She took the phone and looked, emitting a little gasp of shock. She licked her lips. ‘What about it?’
‘You see the tattoo on the lad’s forearm, the square with a triangle on top? Looks like a house?’
She nodded.
‘Tommy Benemy had one just like that, and I think the lad in this photo is Tommy.’
‘Really? That’s awful.’ She handed the phone back.
‘I was wondering if you remembered anything more about the incident in the alley. Obviously, I found Tommy handing over his stash of perfume to another, older youth and then I got whacked. I wondered if you could remember anything more about it. I know memory’s a funny thing at best.’
Clarke shook her head. ‘No … I have thought a lot about it since, but there was no one else around when I found you … Sorry.’
‘What about Tommy’s fate?’ Blackstone asked.
Henry said, ‘I kept in touch with his mum for years after and every so often I re-checked the MFH file on him. I remember you put in the occasional entry on the log regarding information received from anonymous sources that he had been seen in Manchester.’
‘Vaguely remember that,’ Clarke said. ‘We did one or two appeals for him on the press and local TV, but nothing ever came from that. I did send officers to Manchester to make enquiries a couple of times, but they came to nothing.’
‘Fair enough,’ Henry said. ‘Oh, does the “house” tattoo mean anything to you at all?’
‘Should it?’
‘Just wondered if you’d seen something similar on other kids?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Clarke said. ‘So what are you going to do with the rapist you have in custody – and that photograph?’
‘Question the shit out of him,’ Blackstone said vehemently. ‘With the rape accusation hanging over him, his back’s against the wall.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Clarke said. She eyed Blackstone. ‘You said you wanted to ask me two things?’
‘Thing is,’ Henry said, ‘because both of us have, shall we say, “unresolved issues”, we decided to look into each other’s unsolved cases, if you will. Me – the fact I got my head kicked in and no one was locked up …’
‘And me,’ Blackstone said, picking it up, ‘because I got a vat of acid poured over me and a whack on the head, and no one got prosecuted for that either.’
‘So you’re here unofficially?’
‘Both unsolved, serious cases, so not really,’ Blackstone said. ‘I suppose it’s the same question for you, Julie �
�� do you remember anything more about the night I was assaulted? Anything that could help us now – because we’re on a bit of a roll here.’
Clarke sighed deeply. ‘Not really. Wish I did have something. I do think about it a lot, actually, like your incident, Henry.’
‘How did you actually find Debbie that night?’ Henry asked. He looked at Blackstone. ‘You said you heard screams from inside the hotel and you ran into the place without radioing in your position.’ He looked back at Clarke, his forehead creased.
‘Just luck. Saw her car which was parked up at the side of the hotel … The Belmont, was it?’
‘Was the car empty?’
Clarke nodded. ‘There was no one in the car … then I went looking and found you inside, in that corridor, unconscious.’
‘Did you notice the black van in the back yard of the hotel?’ Henry asked her.
‘No, no van and no one else in the hotel. Whoever had thrown acid at you and knocked you out had gone. I’m sorry I wasn’t on the scene quicker.’
‘Can’t be helped … I’m just thankful you did show up – otherwise that acid would have done even more damage to me … as it is, it just did “lasting damage”.’ She grinned crookedly and rolled her eyes.
There was an awkward silence, broken when Henry said, ‘You worked the mean streets of Blackpool for a long time, at the cutting edge from PC to inspector … Did you ever come across any suggestion that someone was running an organized gang – y’know, targeting and using kids, maybe abusing them too, to steal to order? I seem to recall we had a bit of a chat about it back then.’
‘Kids are always stealing to order – that’s what they often do,’ Clarke said thoughtfully. ‘But organized as such? Not to any great extent – nothing that I came across other than kids getting together and stealing. Now, if you’re talking about organized shoplifting teams coming in from out of town, that was – is – happening all the time.’
‘What about kids being preyed on in an organized way?’
‘Same answer, Henry – as you’ll know from your time in CID. Kids get preyed on. It’s Blackpool, for goodness’ sake. They get sucked into unsavoury things, but mostly it’s just individuals who are doing it – occasionally like-minded groups, I suppose – and just occasionally a kid meets a killer, as you know. But if you’re suggesting something more, I don’t think so. Just doesn’t ring true.’