Scarred

by Nick Oldham

  ‘You should take time off,’ Henry suggested. ‘Sort your flat out.’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘It’s all locked up now and it’ll still be there when I get home.’ The police had turned out an on-call joiner who had done a good job on her front door which was now heavily padlocked and probably as impenetrable as Fort Knox. A crime scene investigator was scheduled to arrive at four that afternoon, giving her a window to interview Clanfield if all went according to plan.

  Even so, Henry could sense the effect the invasion of her home was having on her. She was jittery, unfocused, angry and scared – all those things people who’d been burgled felt. Henry knew this was the sort of crime that was currently out of favour in terms of being properly investigated by the police, although they would not openly admit it. They had been side-tracked into dealing with other types of activity such as internet hate crime which meant little to most members of the public. Most people, he knew, wanted good, efficient, empathetic, reassuring cops to turn up on their doorsteps when they needed them and be a shoulder to cry on. Few members of the public got that these days.

  Henry sighed resignedly. ‘OK, whatever.’ He sat back and watched the court proceedings, now very stilted and slightly unreal because of COVID. The public were not now allowed access and press numbers were restricted; in fact, no one from the press was there that morning. Everyone had to wear a face mask, although because the distance between the solicitors’ tables and the magistrates’ bench was over two metres, they were allowed to address the bench without masks.

  Henry glanced sideways as a woman he thought he recognized – in spite of a face mask – entered the court and deposited her briefcase on the defence solicitor’s table. When she removed her mask, he was certain he knew her, not least because he’d done more than his share of verbal jousting with her over the years.

  ‘That’s Hortense Thorogood,’ Henry whispered to Blackstone.

  ‘I know! What’s she doing here? She’s well off her beat.’

  Blackstone also knew Thorogood from her time as a detective in Blackpool. She was notorious for defending suspects. She was devious and quick-witted, had the ear of some gullible magistrates and occasionally used her sexuality and appearance – she was a stunning, statuesque woman – for gain. Henry knew people like her were all part of the rich tapestry of justice, but she made his flesh creep and blood boil all in one cauldron.

  And then Henry’s heart almost failed when the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor walked in, dropped all his papers on the floor when his briefcase flipped open and had to scrabble around on his hands and knees to collect them before taking his place alongside Thorogood, who was wearing a smile of contempt right across her handsome face.

  ‘Jesus, a schoolboy,’ Blackstone said. ‘David and Goliath. We’re fucked before we even start if she’s here for Clanfield.’

  ‘Do you know the CPS guy?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Never seen him before, but I’m not picking up good vibrations on this one.’

  ‘Nor me.’ Henry had never seen him before either, but he too was already expecting the worst, particularly when he saw Thorogood’s supercilious expression as she watched her counterpart try to sort out his mixed-up files.

  The clerk to the court strolled in from a side door and took his position at the desk in front of the bench below the magistrates, facing the court.

  ‘All rise,’ he said wearily. Henry knew this clerk, and whatever the magistrates might think, it was he who controlled proceedings.

  Three magistrates shuffled in from a door behind the bench, all wearing face masks, and sat down two metres apart from each other.

  The clerk announced, ‘First case, your worships, a remand-in-custody application … Ellis Clanfield …’ He rang a secret buzzer. Henry heard a door being opened somewhere down below the dock, which was separated from the court by a high Perspex screen.

  ‘Actually, I’m surprised he’s appearing in person,’ Henry muttered, ‘with this COVID shit going on.’

  But there was a very good reason for the magistrates to see him.

  Clanfield was now wearing a smart suit and had been cleaned up, but his face was still a very damaged mess from Blackstone’s retaliatory punch.

  Henry made a quick guess. ‘Thorogood’s going to use the broken nose, cite police brutality, say that he’s been threatened, intimidated and, I’ll bet, interviewed unlawfully, and that he will gladly respond to any police request for him to attend the station; she’ll flower it up, stick it to the beaks and they’ll crumble, I know they will.’ Henry was beginning to feel even more concerned about this.

  And the ultra-smoothie that she was, Thorogood twisted the magistrates around her little finger and rode roughshod over the CPS solicitor who flailed like a drowning man. After only a few moments’ of consideration, Clanfield was a free man.

  ‘Fuck that!’ Blackstone shot to her feet. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ she screamed at the bench. Her move had been telegraphed, but Henry didn’t react quickly enough to grab her and stop her from jumping up. ‘That man is a fucking rapist and you’re going to let him walk free? This is an absolute joke, you set of snowflakes!’

  Henry managed to get to his feet at that point and twisted himself round so he half stood in front of her.

  ‘Debbie, shut it,’ he hissed through his teeth.

  But, having none of it, she tried to jump up to see over him, gesticulating with a finger, ‘You useless set of twa—’

  Henry clamped his hand over her mouth to prevent the last word from coming out and with his other hand he tried to restrain her. ‘Calm down,’ he said and turned his head to the magistrates, all of whom were looking on askance. The CPS solicitor stood open-mouthed, while Thorogood had a wicked grin on her face as her submission to the bench was effectively given the final seal of approval by Blackstone’s outburst. There was nothing better than a cop losing it in court.

  ‘Officer!’ the clerk of the court said firmly. ‘You are in contempt of court.’ He turned to the magistrates.

  Henry quickly said to Blackstone, ‘Apologize now or you’ll be reflecting on this from a cell.’

  ‘Fuck ’em!’

  Henry clamped his hand back over her mouth and could feel the burning rage within her. It was like putting his hand on a boiling pan.

  The chief magistrate – one Henry had interacted with many times over the years – adjusted his glasses. ‘Officer, we find you in contempt of court and order that you are taken down to the cells below to reflect on your outburst. If, by the end of the day, you come to apologize to the bench, we will accept this. If you cannot do that, you will spend a night in police cells and will be fined a hundred pounds. Do I make myself clear?’

  Henry spoke for her. ‘Yes, your worship.’

  The clerk signalled for a court usher who approached Blackstone. ‘Come with me, please.’

  She squirmed angrily out of Henry’s grip with very special glares for the magistrates and the defence solicitor and the wimpish CPS solicitor. Then, with her shoulders drooping, she meekly followed the usher.

  Henry shot the magistrates and solicitors an apologetic glance and made his way down to the cells.

  At least Blackstone hadn’t been thrown into a cell. She was sitting forlornly in the usher’s office below the court with her head in her hands.

  As Henry made his way from the bottom of the stairs, he upped his pace because he saw Rik Dean burst in through the secure outer door and storm across ahead of Henry. Rik had a fully formed raging storm on his face and didn’t look as though he was going to take any prisoners. Henry knew he had to intercept.

  He began to jog. Rik noticed him and gave him a glower which warned him to stay back.

  But Henry was having none of it. He and Rik Dean went too far back, were too intertwined in so many ways to be constrained by niceties. Henry grabbed his arm just a few feet from the office door.

  ‘Fuck off, Henry.’ Rik shrugged himself out of the gras
p. Both men were acutely aware they were being observed by the people around, which included police officers, private security personnel and court officials.

  ‘Come – speak,’ Henry cajoled him, taking a gentle grip of Rik’s arm again. He could see fury in his friend’s face. ‘Come on.’

  In spite of himself, Rik relented and allowed himself to be escorted to a dark corner.

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on her,’ Henry said.

  ‘Oh, boo-hoo, has she had a bad day?’

  ‘Yes: as you know, someone tried to kill her and she’s had her flat burgled, and on top of that a rapist has somehow been released from court.’

  ‘Shit happens, Henry. In the space of about one minute, she’s brought the whole force into disrepute, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know, and she’ll beg the court’s forgiveness.’

  Rik’s angry eyes played over Henry’s face like a bagatelle as he considered Henry’s plea. ‘She better had. But whatever, it won’t stop here. I’ll make sure she’s carpeted in front of the chief, and for the time being at least, she’s on restricted duties in the office until I decide what to do with her. She’s too unhinged to let loose!’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘You make sure that apology happens, Henry.’

  Rik stormed out of the holding area. Henry watched him leave, then went back to the usher’s office to see Hortense Thorogood being escorted to the secure interview room in which, presumably, she was going to have a private consultation with her client, Clanfield.

  Henry changed tack and went for another intercept. Thorogood saw his approach and her expression of smugness altered to one of apprehension.

  Henry stepped in front of her, very aware she was the same height as him, and shot a look at the usher who was showing her to the interview room. The usher backed off.

  ‘I’m here to speak to my client before he’s released.’

  ‘He’s a rapist and you know it. I hope you’re proud of yourself. It might be just a game to you, Hortense, but I am livid.’

  ‘Just doing my job, Henry.’

  ‘Good on you … and anyway, how come Blackpool’s premier hotshot scum-protecting brief is over in Preston defending low life like Ellis Clanfield?’

  There was a shimmer of something in Thorogood’s eyes that Henry did not quite understand, but it was gone in a flash to be replaced by the usual contempt for people on the other side of the game. ‘I wasn’t defending him, Henry, simply ensuring his rights were protected, that’s all … which is what I did and the lady cop didn’t like it. So sad.’

  ‘But why are you over here?’ Henry wanted to know.

  ‘Because I’m good at my job. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ She shouldered her way into the interview room, giving Henry a whiff of very expensive perfume.

  He gave up, walked over to the usher’s office and sat next to Blackstone, still with her head in her hands.

  Without raising her eyes, she could obviously tell it was Henry.

  ‘Say nothing. Please say nothing,’ she said to the tiled floor.

  ‘Sorry, but I need to: you’re a jackass.’

  ‘I don’t even know what one of them is.’

  ‘Use your imagination.’

  He saw her nod.

  ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, you’re in detention at work, so I suggest you grovel to the magistrates, then either go into the CCU office and play Candy Crush for the rest of the day, or go home and sort your shit out.’

  ‘My shit?’

  ‘Yep – whatever your shit might be.’

  ‘And what does all that mean?’

  ‘You’re off the investigation either way. You’ll probably get a dressing-down from the chief and you’ll need to keep your head down for a while.’

  ‘They can’t do that!’

  ‘You have pissed on your chips, love,’ Henry said. ‘You lost it in the magistrates’ court. You were lucky there were no reporters in there at the time, or you’d be hung out to dry in the Lancashire Post tonight and the whole force would look unprofessional.’

  At the office door, the young and ineffective CPS solicitor appeared, a little breathless. ‘The court is in recess for twenty minutes. The chief magistrate has said if you wish to speak to him in private now, you can. Otherwise, you’ll be here all day.’

  Blackstone nodded and stood up.

  ‘You want me to come?’ Henry offered.

  ‘I’ll fight my own battles.’

  Blackstone decided to call it quits and go home to get her head together while sorting out her apartment and organizing repairs to her Mini Cooper where the Range Rover had shunted her from behind.

  In the CCU office, Henry watched her get her things together like a kid who’d been expelled from school. When she’d got her bag sorted – including taking her work laptop with her – she stood up and looked at him.

  ‘Lost it, didn’t I?’

  ‘And then some.’

  ‘I’m so fragile.’ She sighed.

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is volatile.’

  She nodded. ‘Volatile. I’ll have that.’

  Henry kicked his heels listlessly for a few hours. All his enthusiasm had drained from him like sluice gates opening as he’d watched Blackstone leave the office with her tail between her legs. In theory, he probably should have gone across to Blackpool to parade in front of whoever was running the Trish Benemy murder.

  But he had a serious case of CBA.

  Can’t be arsed.

  Instead, he hovered at his desk, which at least gave him time to take stock of how much had happened over the last three days.

  As was his wont, he got a sheet of A4 paper from the printer and began to jot a few things down, not in any sort of order.

  The arrest of Ellis Clanfield for rape.

  Finding the photograph of a kid who could’ve been Tommy Benemy.

  The visit to Julie Clarke and watching her squirm a bit, which might mean nothing.

  Clanfield’s tattoo. House. Similar to Tommy’s. Got it when he was in Blackpool!!

  Similar to the Hindle logo?

  Trish’s murder. Desperate woman. But what about the suicide note?

  Was she meddling? Did she find some truth?

  Reliance on making Clanfield crack under interview.

  Hortense Thorogood? From Blackpool. Why?

  Not much happening in brain here.

  Blackstone’s incidents. Similarity to mine – i.e. the presence of Clarke.

  Fuck knows. Speak to Clanfield again, maybe?

  His sigh was long and deep.

  He rocked back in his chair, which creaked worryingly, either from old age or his weight, and let his mind run on a little.

  Way back to 1985. Such a long time ago.

  Chasing a very lithe Tommy Benemy through the streets of Blackpool, finding him in the alley, then not much else – a bang on the head and years of not being able to discover the whereabouts of Tommy, who, if Henry was being honest, was probably dead.

  That was something that gave Henry an overwhelming feeling of worthlessness: not having found Tommy for Trish. When kids went missing and were murdered, the two events were usually close timewise, but Tommy had allegedly been spotted in Manchester from time to time, according to the file and to Clarke who had taken the anonymous calls. If this was true, then it looked as if Tommy had either gone on to make a life for himself or met his maker in Manchester, neither of which sat easily with Henry.

  Henry wracked his mind over the incident in the alley that had put him in hospital. Tommy sharing or handing over his spoils to another older lad … Henry had been able to ID Tommy from the mugshot book; if he’d seen a photograph of the other lad in the photo album, he felt sure he would have been able to identify him too, but his face wasn’t in there, which intimated he didn’t have any previous convictions, certainly in the Blackpool area. Henry pondered this, reliving the incident, seeing the other lad turn to him and glance over his should
er at the person who undoubtedly hit Henry over the head. Henry wished it was one of those moments in a film where one character looks into the eyes of another and sees a reflection of someone else approaching. But it wasn’t. He had never looked anyone in the eye and seen someone else, ever.

  His mobile phone rang: Blackstone.

  ‘Debs,’ Henry said.

  ‘I’ve had a home visit from your mate, Ricky boy.’

  ‘Not too unpleasant, I hope.’

  ‘It was for him. I played the wounded female card.’ She paused. ‘Nah, I didn’t really. I was too busy sweeping up the broken screen of my TV for that.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘That I was a naughty, naughty girl and deserved to be spanked.’

  ‘No surprise there.’

  ‘It really is what he said, but not in quite such a sexist way; however, he told me he’d spoken to the court clerk who said the magistrates were happy with my apology.’

  ‘You never told me what you said.’

  ‘I told them I was a naughty, naughty girl and that—’

  ‘OK, I get it,’ Henry interrupted her.

  ‘Anyway, Rik then spoke to the chief constable who isn’t interested in bollocking me, so Rik’s visit was the bollocking, and if I want, I’m good to go. Got my gun and badge back. Officially off the bench.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘But I’m going to chill tonight, surrounded by broken things. What say we meet up in Blackpool in the morning and tag along with Trish’s murder investigation?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, and …’ She hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Just … thanks … you know?’

  ‘I know. See you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be you.’

  The call ended, but immediately Henry’s mobile rang again, this time number withheld. Fearing it was a nuisance caller, he almost cut it off, but decided to answer.