by Nick Oldham
The sergeant’s throat rose and fell visibly as she seemed to swallow something approaching the size of half a house brick. ‘Why?’ she whispered huskily.
‘We’re taking him out … so he needs to be booked out, released with no charge,’ Runcie explained.
‘OK,’ Calder said weakly. It was now clear that her mouth had dried up as she swallowed and licked her lips.
Runcie reached across and gripped the woman’s shoulder, grasping her epaulette, which displayed the shiny sergeant’s stripes. ‘Don’t worry, lass … it’s all under control.’ She arched her eyebrows and nodded reassuringly. ‘Get his property out and his custody record and get it signed out to him.’
‘I’ll need his signature.’
‘Just mark it, “refused to sign”.’
DC Saul appeared from the back office and gave Runcie a quick thumbs up: the CCTV cameras covering the custody suite had been dealt with.
The sergeant unlocked and opened the prisoners’ property cupboard and removed a large, sealed polythene ziplocked bag with the name Sowerbutts on the label. She broke the seal, tipped the few contents on to the desk and made the entry in the record as instructed.
Runcie watched her calculatingly. ‘On the custody record itself, put an entry to the effect that the prisoner has been interviewed, denies all offences and, until further evidence is uncovered – or otherwise – has been released without charge. You know the wording.’
The sergeant nodded and complied with a shaking pen.
Runcie looked at Saul. ‘Two-pence pieces?’
Saul shuffled a handful of the copper-coloured coins out on to his palm, four of them and a small ball of Blu-Tack. Runcie smiled conspiratorially. ‘You know what to do with them.’
He disappeared into the cell corridor.
Runcie followed a few moments later, then both entered the cell of the injured man. Saul hoofed him over on to his back and recoiled slightly at the vision of the man’s smashed and flattened face, damaged beyond recognition.
‘Shit. He’s a mess.’ He blew out his cheeks.
‘And a rapist, a child molester and murderer,’ Runcie reminded him.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he conceded.
‘You take his shoulders, I’ll do the legs.’
Saul was a very long-in-the-tooth detective, just short of the fifty mark, but was still a big, handy man with good strength across his chest and shoulders. He slid his hands under the prisoner’s armpits and heaved him up while Runcie grabbed his ankles. They began to manoeuvre him out of the cell and down the corridor, carrying him between them like a roll of carpet, leaving a smear of blood the full length of the passageway.
As Runcie shuffled along, she checked each occupied cell and saw that Saul’s two-pence pieces were still in place, effectively blocking each peephole in which the coins were a perfect fit, held in place by the Blu-Tack.
Best, she thought, to have no hostile witnesses.
Detective Sergeant Eric Silverthwaite looked accusingly at his iPhone, which had gone dead in his hand when Jane Runcie had abruptly ended the call.
‘Bitch. Boss bitch, but bitch nevertheless.’
He slithered down low in the driving seat of his Vauxhall Insignia and glanced at the man sitting alongside him.
His name was Hawkswood, a black man from the deep reaches of Leeds, who Silverthwaite had pretty much loathed for a long time until Hawkswood proved that he was just as crooked and corrupt as the rest of them on Runcie’s team.
‘What?’ Hawkswood asked.
‘Sort it, sort them, she said,’ Silverthwaite told him.
Hawkswood slithered low and deep into his seat too, and swore.
‘So we need to find out who he’s visiting and why,’ Silverthwaite said.
‘We pretty much know the why,’ Hawkswood said, ‘so it doesn’t really matter who, does it?’
‘Suppose not, but let’s do it anyway.’
They settled into their seats, their eyes on the detached house some one hundred yards along the avenue with the ‘For Sale’ sign erected in the front garden. Silverthwaite raised his phone, focused the in-built camera on the sign and took a photograph, which he enlarged with his thumb and forefinger so he could read the number of the estate agent. ‘Could give these a ring, maybe,’ he suggested.
Hawkswood had his own phone out and was punching a number into it, holding the phone to his ear while looking sideways at Silverthwaite, who he continued to despise even though both were equally as corrupt as the other. ‘Or this,’ he said as the call connected and he spoke. ‘Hi, DC Hawkswood here, Portsea Serious Crime Team … Yeah, yeah … I’m currently doing some work in Blackpool, part of an ongoing investigation … Yeah, I know,’ he chuckled and rolled his eyes, ‘all the good places. Just wondering, could you go online and do a check on the electoral register for me for an address out here? You can? Great.’ Hawkswood gave the address, then waited. ‘Yeah … still here … go on.’ He jammed the slim phone between his shoulder and ear and, using a pen from his jacket, wrote on the palm of his left hand. ‘OK, thanks so much … got it … yeah … It’s Andrea, isn’t it? Thought so. Yeah, seen you about too … Yep, gotta go, thanks so much.’
He ended the call and turned triumphantly to Silverthwaite.‘One simple call reveals all.’
‘And leaves a trail,’ the other detective said warningly.
‘Doubt it.’
‘Anyway, what’ve you got?’
Hawkswood read his palm. ‘A family, it would seem. Could be mum, dad and daughter, I’m guessing.’
‘Name?’ Silverthwaite said with impatience.
‘Two females, Katherine and Leanne, and one male, who is probably the one we’re interested in. Name: Henry James Christie.’
At the revelation of Detective Superintendent Culver’s death, Henry James Christie thought, Shit. However, to Burnham, he said, ‘Do you have any reason to think that is connected to either of these outstanding murder enquiries?’
‘I’d like to believe not,’ Burnham said warily, then seemed to reach a conclusion. ‘No … unlikely … just a wrong place at the wrong time scenario, although neither the stolen car, nor its driver have been found as yet … sadly, it’s just one of those things, I hope. A coincidence.’
‘OK,’ Henry drawled, the word ‘coincidence’ not being one he particularly liked, especially in relation to serious crime.
‘So where do we stand, Henry?’ FB interjected, having glanced at his chunky Rolex. ‘You up for this or not? A few days of your time, that’s all that’s being asked.’ FB was perched on the edge of his chair and now apparently in a hurry to get going.
Burnham had come in bearing a fairly heavy-looking briefcase, which had been at his feet. He raised it on to his lap, flipped the catches and opened it. Henry noticed Burnham’s initials – JB – in gold leaf in the leather. He delved into it and extracted two thick, ring-bound files.
‘I copied the murder books without anyone else’s knowledge. Thought you might like to peruse them out of interest anyway. Even if you decided not to physically go over to Central Yorkshire, I’d be interested in your thoughts … if you don’t mind?’ He placed them on the glass-topped coffee table.
Henry regarded them with his mouth askew.
Murder books were the documents that senior investigating officers were required to keep and record all decisions made – and just about anything else of interest during a murder investigation. They very much related the story and progress of an enquiry, and could either be very boring or make good bedtime reading – as good as any thriller, depending on the literacy level of the SIO.
Henry eyed both men over the bait.
‘Why come to Lancashire?’ he asked Burnham.
‘Your reputation as a force. Bob and I go way back. And you come highly recommended,’ he explained succinctly.
Henry nodded. ‘I’ll have to convince my fiancée and then my doctor,’ he said, noting FB’s roll of his eyeballs. ‘And in that order – and if I c
an do that, I’ll let you know first thing tomorrow. I’m not playing hard to get, but someone did shoot me. I’m healing well, but I don’t want to overdo anything.’
‘Wimp,’ FB coughed.
Henry just grinned at him.
‘I can assure you, it’ll be non-physical. Just have a look at how they’re going on and, if you think all is OK, that all that needs doing is being done, then fine,’ Burnham said. ‘We’ll even put you up in a decent hotel for the duration.’
‘OK,’ Henry said again.
‘Thank you,’ Burnham said.
‘I told him you were a soft touch where murder is concerned.’ FB grinned.
‘I’ll let the lead investigator know you’re coming once you give me the nod,’ Burnham said. ‘Just as a courtesy, and I’ll get my secretary to book a room at a hotel.’
Although there was a feeling of being railroaded, Henry was warming to the job now. A few nights in a half-decent hotel appealed to him, and also seeing part of the country he wasn’t familiar with. Inside, though, he knew the hurdle he would have to jump wouldn’t be the doctor … it would be Alison.
FB and Burnham rose to their feet. Burnham shook Henry’s hand.
‘Are you off back now?’ Henry asked as he walked the men through to the front door.
‘Some further business with Bob here, just chatting about efficiencies and effectiveness, neighbourhood policing … then I think we’re out for a meal. I’m staying overnight at a relative’s house, then back first thing tomorrow.’
At the front door, Burnham shook Henry’s hand again. Henry saw a look of relief on the man’s stressed-out face. ‘Glad to have you on board, Henry. I won’t pat you on the shoulder.’
Henry opened the door, thinking that Burnham might be jumping the gun a bit.
Burnham filed out, followed by FB who, when he came face-to-face with Henry on the threshold, stopped momentarily and said, ‘Thanks, mate.’
He did slap Henry on the shoulder.
Rubbing and rolling his arm and joint, Henry glared at FB’s back as the two men got into FB’s Jaguar. He watched them drive away with a grimace on his face and swear words spoken behind his gritted teeth.
As he stood watching it disappear, he did notice the car parked further down the road and thought he could make out two shapes sitting inside it, but nothing about the vehicle made him suspicious.
He sighed and walked down the driveway where the ‘For Sale’ sign was implanted in the front flower bed. Even though Henry’s house was two miles inland from Blackpool promenade, the wind from the Irish Sea had whipped through the cuts and ginnels of the resort and knocked the sign sideways. Henry pulled it upright and looked at it.
For Sale: the notice that truly meant he was moving on with his life now – practically at least. Emotionally, he was still in a bit of turmoil. He was only staying here, at the house he had shared with his now-deceased wife, Kate, in order to show a couple of potential buyers around and sign some papers at the solicitor’s.
He swallowed. He knew he had met someone very special in Alison Marsh, the landlady of The Tawny Owl, someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, but that did not make the transition easy. He sighed, gave his moist eyes a rub, stamped on the soil in which the sign was planted to firm it up and walked back to the front door, noticing the car again, which he thought could have been a Vauxhall, but attached no significance to.
Just a car. Two people on board. That was all. Lots of cars parked around here.
‘You got him?’ Silverthwaite glanced at Hawkswood.
‘Certainly did.’ Hawkswood looked at the photographs he’d taken with his phone of the three men emerging from the house, then two of the men driving away in the fancy Jag, leaving the other man – presumably the householder – watching the car go, then that man looking directly at him and Silverthwaite in the car while Hawkswood clicked away. They watched him realign the ‘For Sale’ sign, then go back indoors with just another glance in their direction. ‘Got some good ones,’ he said, gleefully expanding one of them with his fingertips. ‘Old guy. Think it’s this Henry Christie character?’
‘Not going to make any assumptions, but I’d guess so,’ Silverthwaite said, leaning over to see the image on the screen. ‘Send her one of them,’ he said.
FOUR
‘He’s dead. I’m fucking certain,’ DC Saul said desperately.
DCI Runcie shrugged as she looked into the boot of the stolen car at the unmoving body of the prisoner they had managed to sneak out of the custody suite into the back of her car and then, still unseen, transfer into the back of a stolen car which Saul had then driven out to Salterforth Cliffs, a very rugged section of coastline, difficult to access either by car or on foot. The high cliffs overlooked jagged rocks below and beyond lay the harsh North Sea. Several miles out, two large container vessels ploughed through the water, one heading north, the other south.
Once more, Runcie felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, pressing her fingers into his soft flesh.
This time, there was nothing.
She rose up and looked at Saul. His face was ashen as she confirmed, ‘Yep, he’s dead.’
She glanced down into the boot again. While still alive, the man’s body had been folded untidily to fit into the space, which was fairly generous, but he’d been left face up rather than in any sort of recovery position.
‘Looks like he drowned in his own blood,’ she said.
‘What do we do?’
‘What we planned to do in the first place. Drive this car to the edge of the cliff, put him behind the steering wheel and push him over. The suicide of a deranged child killer wracked by remorse … we’ll make it fit.’ She smiled grimly. ‘It’s what we do.’
Saul nodded.
Her car was pulled up behind the stolen one, having followed Saul to this isolated spot.
They drove both vehicles across the field to the cliff and parked them side by side.
Runcie walked to the cliff edge to check the almost perpendicular drop of nearly 200 feet down on to sharp, jagged and dangerous rocks. Satisfied this was the best place, she returned to the vehicles and, together with Saul, they heaved the dead man out of the boot and manhandled him into the driver’s seat of the stolen car. The body slumped sideways, but Runcie dragged him upright and balanced him carefully. She closely inspected his facial injuries, having been caused by slamming his face repeatedly into the floor of the cell, flattening his features. Not really consistent with the accident he was about to have.
She grabbed his hair at the back of his head and looked thoughtfully at the damaged face for a few moments, her brow furrowed. ‘This won’t do.’ She looked around at Saul, who was hovering nervously behind her. ‘So … just in case.’
She stood back slightly, tightened her grip on the man’s hair, braced herself and then pounded his face into the rim of the steering wheel, adding further to the dead man’s already catastrophic injuries. Then she forced his head between the spokes of the steering wheel and wedged it there sideways. He seemed to be looking through one half-open eye at her, the other one being clamped tightly shut.
Runcie winked back at him. ‘This is what you call comeuppance, Mr Sowerbutts.’
She threaded her arm through the folded ‘V’ shape formed between the dead man’s chest and his thighs and released the handbrake. Backing off, she closed the driver’s door and she and Saul together pushed the car towards the edge of the cliff, through a broken section of fencing through which another vehicle had once careened, killing two drunken teenagers on a joyride.
The two detectives got some momentum, particularly as the last fifteen metres or so sloped towards the edge.
The dead man’s head, jammed into the steering wheel, kept the car going straight on.
Five metres short of the cliff edge, the detectives gave one final heave and watched the van hurtle over the cliff, out of sight. They heard it crash down with a tearing, rending of metal, and they just made it to the edge to
witness it smash into the rocks below. By the time it reached that point it was a wreck anyway.
Runcie rubbed her hands together. ‘Sorted,’ she said. ‘Agreed?’
Saul said, ‘Agreed.’ They high-fived each other.
That was the moment at which her phone vibrated as a message landed. She fished the device out as she and Saul went back to her car.
She opened the message and saw that a photograph had landed, together with some text. It was from Hawkswood, sending one of the photos he had taken of the man that Burnham and FB had been visiting. The text read, We think the guy is called Henry Christie. Mean anything to you?
Runcie shaded the screen with her hand, then angled it for Saul to see. ‘Guy called Henry Christie. You know him?’
Runcie saw Saul’s expression change as he recognized the man and muttered, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
Having bagged a few things into a holdall, Henry locked up the house, then, a few minutes later, having taken one last glance as ever in his rear-view mirror as he drove away, he was powering east along the M55 away from Blackpool. Less than ten minutes after that, he had joined the northbound M6 and relaxed slightly, steering the Audi with just a fingertip while glancing repeatedly and longingly at the two murder books lying tantalizingly on the passenger seat.
He could not deny it. They were exercising an almost mesmeric pull on him.
He knew he would weaken.
It was in his DNA.
Yet he did know someone who would be less than enamoured with the prospect of him going across the country to review two stalled murder investigations.
His speed remained around the seventy mph mark until, less than ten minutes later, he was slowing down to exit the motorway at junction thirty-four, Lancaster north. He did not head towards the city but turned right on the A683, through the village of Caton, which straddled that main road, then shortly after took a right and plunged into the network of narrow, winding country roads until he picked up the signpost for Kendleton, one of those small, picturesque, hidden-gem Lancashire villages nestling in a small valley through which a tributary of the River Lune trickled – and which few people knew existed.