Scarred

by Nick Oldham

  Henry gave her one of the whiskies, kissed her on the cheek and sat close beside her on the bench.

  He watched her profile as she sipped the spirit, briefly recalling how close he had been to losing her after she’d taken two bullets from a ruthless gunman. It had been touch-and-go for many hours, but the surgeons at Royal Lancaster Infirmary had been awesome and now, well into the pandemic, Henry had been one of the loudest Thursday-evening ‘clappers’ for the NHS.

  Henry said, ‘Ginny mentioned that you and she have had a conflab.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Air cleared?’

  ‘Boundaries defined,’ she said. ‘It’s been tough for her losing her mum, then me stepping into the breach. I get it, but I told her not to worry: I won’t be trying to step into Alison’s shoes as well, not least because I have a job to go to once I’m better and I’ll be out for most of the day – and because I don’t really live here. I have a flat of my own.’

  ‘You’re planning to go back to work, then?’ Henry hadn’t been certain what her plans were.

  ‘I am. I need to.’

  He nodded, understanding, but then said, ‘Your flat? You’re going back to it? You don’t have to. I love having you around here, you know.’

  ‘I appreciate what you’ve done for me and I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I’m not sure yet … depends on us, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Suppose so … but just so you know, I love you.’

  She sipped her whisky, didn’t respond to that declaration – which slightly worried Henry, but then said, ‘I think Ginny’s as worried about you as she is about me encroaching on her world, you know.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She doesn’t want you to get hurt – by me, or anyone.’

  ‘Are you planning on hurting me?’

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘I did tell her something that I probably should have kept under wraps, but it seemed to put her mind at ease.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘I told her I was in love with you.’

  It was gone midnight. Although Henry had access to some of the best champagne money could buy and could have had it for ‘free’, he thought it would be better to make a profit on it, so it stayed in the cellar. So he did the old-fashioned thing and took Diane by the hand, led her to the bedroom and tried his best to make long, slow love to her. The excitement coursing through his veins meant that long and slow became short and fast, but it still had the desired effect.

  ‘That was nice, thank you,’ Diane said huskily as Henry gently slid off her, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly to him.

  Had either of them smoked, that would have been the ideal time to light up, share a cigarette and blow smoke rings up to the ceiling.

  Instead, Henry shattered the moment by asking, ‘Mind if I ask you about child abuse?’

  Blackstone found it impossible to sleep even on the lounger she’d set out on her balcony, on which she’d spent many nights before. Usually, the chill helped to settle her, but not that night. Things were not helped by the noise of the boy racers charging up and down Mariner’s Way on the opposite side of the dock, engines screaming, voices screaming, sounds booming across the water, as they went unchecked by the cops. It was a constant problem.

  Finally, she gave up, grabbed her car keys, purse and phone, went down to the basement garage and fired up the Cooper. She drove out with tyres squealing and around to Mariner’s Way, expecting some form of harassment from the illegal racers, and wasn’t surprised to find a souped-up Subaru Impreza right on her tail with a few lads on board. She wasn’t intimidated by them, gave them the finger and turned into the McDonald’s drive-through. All of a sudden, only a burger would do.

  The Subaru kept on going with a scream of the engine, a blast of ‘La Cucaracha’ and a loud cheer from its occupants.

  She joined the short, after-midnight queue, and when she glanced in her rear-view mirror, she saw the shape of a big black Range Rover up close behind. Adjusting the mirror, she could just see two men in the front seats, but couldn’t make out their features.

  She dismissed them from her mind as she called her order into the intercom, then drove up to the serving window, reached out for her bag of goodies, and slowly drove around the perimeter of the restaurant back on to Mariner’s Way. Only then did she realize the occupants of the Range Rover had not ordered any food and were still close behind her when she turned out on to the road, intending to loop back around the port to her apartment.

  She went straight across the small roundabout into Pedders Way, taking it easy but still aware the Range Rover was close behind and now getting a queasy feeling about its presence.

  A bad feeling confirmed by a bang and a tup as the front of the big car shunted into the back of the Mini.

  Deliberately.

  And again, jerking her roughly forward with the crash, then slamming back in her seat as the five-point harness seatbelt grabbed her.

  Then another bang. This time harder. She heard the lion-like roar of the Range Rover’s big engine.

  Smack!

  Suddenly, she was scared. She put her foot down on the accelerator and the sprightly, finely tuned 1275cc engine responded instantly and put distance between the two vehicles, but not for more than a moment because the immense, modern and responsive engine of the big four-wheel drive surged forward like a lion pouncing on its prey – a weak, but agile gazelle, maybe – and even before Blackstone reached the swing bridge over the lock, she had been struck again, the back wheels of the Mini lifting off the ground. Blackstone tipped forward, but knew that because the Cooper was front-wheel drive, there was still power on the road even though she was up in the air. She applied full throttle as her back wheels crashed down, and despite almost slewing out of control, she raced ahead of the Range Rover across the bridge and cried, ‘C’mon, babe!’ to her car.

  As she reached the other side of the bridge, the Range Rover was looming ominously again, but Blackstone put her foot down, causing her engine to screech as she raced past the backs of the converted warehouses in which she lived.

  She was already thinking ahead: a game plan.

  She knew exactly where she was going to turn and outsmart the fast but less agile beast on her tail, but she had to get there first.

  She’d already dismissed going home.

  It took the automatic garage gates too long to open and she would have been trapped at them. That was a no-go.

  She weaved from side to side, relying on the grip of her wide racing tyres and then, at one point where she had veered across to the right, she timed it to the millisecond and yanked the steering wheel down to the left. She wasn’t sure, but she thought both offside wheels, back and front, rose off the tarmac as she swerved a sharp left into the entrance of the large car park at the rear of the cinema complex, knowing the Range Rover had little chance of following her so quickly.

  And indeed she caught sight of the vehicle slamming on and slithering to a halt past the opening and hurriedly going into reverse – giving Blackstone the crucial seconds she needed to put distance between her and her pursuer.

  She cut diagonally across the car park, down by the side of the cinema building against the one-way system, and then shot out through the opposite entrance before the Range Rover had even managed to manoeuvre into the car park entrance.

  ‘Wanker!’ she shouted triumphantly as she sped on to Parkway, leaving the dock area completely, right on to Watery Lane up towards Preston with no sign of the Range Rover on her tail.

  She was heading for the sanctuary of the cop shop.

  Diane had sat upright, but Henry stayed laid out, plumping up a pillow for his head. He was looking up at her, angling his face as she frowned.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘you spent a lot of years protecting kids before you moved on to CID and then FMIT. If I’m honest, that was only something I dealt with when it hit me in the fa
ce – murders and suchlike. It’s never been my day-to-day life.’

  ‘I know … but what you’re saying about organized abuse … well, yeah, some abuse is organized, for sure, but most I don’t think is in the way you’re insinuating – planned, controlled … but there are always rumours, of course, that the establishment is involved.’

  ‘Like the government thing?’

  ‘Yeah – which came to nothing in the end. Yes, there is trafficking and there is prostitution and girls sold or passed into slavery – that happens, we know it does. It is rife, almost unstoppable, and you take any little victories you can find – but generally it’s an imported problem. That said, there’s the Rotherham thing, the Rochdale thing and others where girls – mainly – were systematically abused, and the cops knew about it and didn’t thoroughly investigate. But here, while I’m not saying it doesn’t exist, I haven’t heard the rumours so much or come across evidence of it to the degree you’re on about. But the people behind it are very secretive and probably powerful and dangerous …’

  Henry’s mobile rang, interrupting Diane’s musings.

  He rolled sideways and picked it up off the bedside cabinet. ‘Debbie again,’ he said.

  ‘Well, this’d better be good,’ Diane warned him. ‘Strange women calling you at this time of night!’

  Henry answered, ‘Can’t you sleep or something?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Henry, so sorry to disturb you.’ Blackstone’s voice was shaky.

  Henry sat upright. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone just tried to kill me by running me off the road and I’m too terrified to go back home. I’m at Preston nick and eating a Big Mac.’

  FIFTEEN

  A traffic cop in a liveried car escorted Blackstone from Preston nick up to junction 34 of the M6 and, happy she hadn’t been followed, he came off the motorway, looped around, came back on and headed south; meanwhile, Blackstone also left the motorway at the same junction – Lancaster north – and took the eastbound A683, following Henry’s instructions on how to get to Kendleton. On reaching the village of Caton, she took a right and found herself driving through narrow lanes, presently picking up a sign for Kendleton and descending the steep road into the village, crossing the stream and drawing into the car park of The Tawny Owl.

  Henry was standing on the front patio in a baggy T-shirt and shorts, with old-guy slippers on his feet.

  ‘So, this is your pad?’ Blackstone said admiringly.

  ‘Partly,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  He led her through to the owner’s accommodation where Diane, wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown, said a cautious hello. The two women knew each other but only in passing. They had heard much about each other and would have met properly in FMIT if Diane hadn’t been wounded before she could even get her feet under the table.

  Diane, though, had probably heard more about Blackstone than vice versa. Mainly whispers, rumour and innuendo, and most of it, as was still often the case in police culture concerning women, negative. She’d heard words bandied about like ‘feisty’, ‘OTT’, ‘emotional’, and ‘fucking hard work’, and taken them with a pinch of salt. Had Blackstone been a man, the adjectives would have been more complimentary, although ‘weak’ men were also derided within the macho culture.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Diane asked as Blackstone dropped like an exhausted rock on to the sofa.

  ‘I could murder a vodka tonic if I’m honest.’

  ‘Coming up.’ She glanced at Henry who asked for Scotch.

  As Diane went out to the bar, Henry sat down opposite Blackstone in an armchair.

  ‘Look, mate, I really don’t want to intrude, but thanks for the offer. Home didn’t seem safe.’

  ‘You’re welcome; now tell me what happened.’

  When she’d finished – now with a very large, chilled vodka in hand – Henry asked, ‘You’re sure it wasn’t a boy racer?’

  ‘Boy racers don’t have big, eff-off Range Rovers, Henry. These guys were intent on … I don’t know … forcing me off the road and God knows what. I’m surprised there isn’t more damage to the back of my little car.’

  ‘And you didn’t get the reg number?’

  ‘I was kinda busy, y’know, avoiding death.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Do you think there’s a connection to what we’re – haphazardly – looking into?’

  ‘You’re the one always blithering on about coincidences: you tell me.’

  ‘Fair enough … no point taking chances, is there?’

  ‘I was going to inform Rik Dean, just to keep him in the picture, but I guess I’ll do it in the morning; I’ve left a message for him and asked him to come and see us at Preston nick first thing if he can.’

  ‘That’s good … and he can let us know what his plans are for running a murder enquiry into Trish Benemy’s death. He might want us on the team.’

  ‘Maybe. Whatever … we’ll have a good long chat with him,’ she said and necked the vodka with a long swig and a satisfied, ‘Ahh.’

  ‘Are you OK now?’ Henry asked her.

  ‘I need a bed, unless you want me to crash out on this.’ She stroked the sofa.

  ‘There’s a guest room down the hall,’ Diane said. ‘Better than being up alone in the hotel. I’ve sorted some towels for you.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Blackstone said sincerely to Diane. To Henry, she said, ‘And you’re not so bad yourself.’

  Henry and Blackstone checked in with Rik Dean at seven a.m. in the CID office at Preston. He confirmed he was going to instigate a full-scale murder investigation into Trish’s death and that both of them would be part of the team, which made Blackstone shudder with delight.

  ‘The briefing’s at ten in Blackpool … but I know you guys won’t be able to attend that, so make it across when you can. I’ve got enough to kick off a few detectives doing some groundwork. You need to interview Ellis Clanfield first of all, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a long queue of folk who want to do the same,’ Blackstone said. ‘Detectives from GMP are due to land sometime this morning after his remand hearing, but we’ll sneak in ahead of them, all being well.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ Rik said. To Henry, he asked, ‘How’s it all going, being a civvie?’

  ‘It’ll do. Obviously, I miss the power of rank.’

  Rik left, and the pair then set about putting an interview strategy together for when they began questioning Clanfield, who would have a solicitor present this time.

  By eight thirty, they were happy with their plan and had a little time to kill before Clanfield appeared at court. Blackstone decided she needed a change of clothing even though she had showered at The Tawny Owl. Henry offered to take her to her flat in his car.

  ‘You don’t have to. I’m a big girl now.’

  ‘I know I don’t have to, and I know you are … but going off the fact someone tried to run you off the road last night not very far from where you live, I think it might be a sensible thing for me to tag along.’

  ‘Back-up, you mean? From a sixty-odd-year-old bloke?’

  Henry stared at her until she relented. ‘OK, OK.’

  It was less than a ten-minute drive and Blackstone used the remote fob on her key chain to open the basement garage for Henry to park underneath the warehouse.

  On the top floor, they stepped out of the lift and walked along the short hallway to her apartment. She was just ahead of Henry and stopped abruptly, causing Henry to stumble into her. He had to grab her shoulders to prevent himself from barging her over, and in so doing saw what had brought her to a sudden halt.

  Her apartment door was open.

  There were jemmy marks around the lock, which had been prised open, causing quite a lot of wood-splitting damage to the substantial frame and door.

  Blackstone spun to Henry. ‘Shit,’ she said, her face very close to his. ‘I’ve been screwed.’ She looked at him, terrified, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

 
; She turned back and went to the door. Henry was fairly sure he could hear her heartbeat.

  She toed it open, not touching anything with her fingers, and cautiously stepped across the threshold and walked down the short hallway to the living room which had been well and truly – maliciously – ransacked. The sofa had been slashed and overturned, the TV smashed, every ornament broken on the floor, every painting ripped from the wall and destroyed.

  Henry looked at the devastation over her shoulder.

  ‘Bastards,’ Blackstone hissed in fury. Then, ‘Oh, shit.’

  She spun round to Henry, who saw dismay on her face. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘When I went out, I’d been on my laptop, Googling, and I was also logged remotely into the force computer network. I left the computer open, unlocked. I only expected to be away for ten minutes while I got a burger.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Laptop’s gone.’

  It was easy enough to sort: with just one call, the IT department changed her password and security clearance. It was also easy enough to check if whoever had stolen the laptop had gone surfing on the Lancon intranet, but there didn’t seem to be any activity beyond what she had logged on to. However, she told the IT department to contact her if anyone tried to use her details again.

  The computer had also been open on Google and would have shown her search history, which included delving into the accounts of Hindle’s Builders.

  ‘If the break in is connected to what we’re investigating, they’ll now be aware of it,’ Henry said unnecessarily.

  They were back in his car en route to the police station after nipping to the McDonald’s on the docks to see if they could access any security footage from when Blackstone had driven through followed by the Range Rover. The staff were hesitant about handing anything over because of data protection laws. Fuming, Blackstone said she’d be back with a warrant.

  Henry parked at the police station and they walked down to the magistrates’ court on Ringway and made a cheeky bid to see a magistrate who gladly signed a warrant for release of the CCTV footage.

  They hung around the court, expecting that Clanfield – being an overnight prisoner – would be one of the first to be brought up before the magistrates. They sat at the back of the appropriate courtroom chatting quietly, with Henry quite concerned about Blackstone’s state of mind. Edgy at the best of times, as Henry had learned over the last three days, her experiences the previous night and that morning were obviously weighing heavily on her.