by Nick Oldham
And in this case, his defenceless mother’s property.
He was seriously looking forward to the door swinging open and scaring the living shit out of the two shites on the other side who dared to invade this home.
He was almost rehearsing the words in his head. Something Clint Eastwood-like, he thought.
More splintering.
The old door actually moved up a little on its hinges.
And then the mortice was worked free.
The door was pushed open.
Burnham decided not to go for anything clever and simply said, ‘Got you, you cunts. You’re under arrest.’
He saw two dark shapes – men, not kids as he’d anticipated.
But that was all his mind really processed.
That and the blur of speed as the twenty-four-inch T-type wrecking bar (with a double-clawed head) used to gain entry whooshed through the air and was imbedded in his skull. With a blinding flash of light and pain, it penetrated his brain and killed him instantly.
Henry did not recall closing the murder book but he must have done because, when he awoke, Alison was sliding wearily into bed alongside him and the book was on the bedside cabinet, closed.
He was lying on his right-hand side in what he called his ‘sleep mode’, which was essentially the recovery position. Alison snuggled carefully into him and, as always, he felt a tremor of excitement as her breasts crushed softly into his back. Though battered and bruised, stiff and sore, her presence behind him overrode any of these drawbacks. The rush of blood to his genitals never seemed to be an issue – particularly when her hand snaked around him, slid over his belly and grasped him.
‘I will be gentle,’ she promised, breathing hotly into his ear. ‘I was a nurse, you know.’
‘Did you treat all your male patients like this?’
‘Every single one of them.’
SIX
Henry slept heavily, the combination of tiredness, drugs and sex knocking him into a deep, dreamless sleep. He woke briefly after five hours when Alison’s alarm rang and she immediately hauled herself out into the shower. He had a few moments of awe at her unceasing energy levels which put his to shame – then he closed his eyes and fell asleep again and did not even hear her come out of the shower and get dressed.
She did reappear at seven a.m. with a glass of orange juice for him. She perched on the edge of the bed as he sat up, rubbing his face and making a strange grunting noise.
‘I assume you are going to do FB’s bidding?’ she asked, knowing the way in which the chief constable used Henry. ‘You are going to review those murders across the other side of the Pennines, aren’t you?’
‘In enemy territory?’ Henry said, making reference to the centuries-old rivalry, sometimes murderous and bloody, between Lancashire and Yorkshire.
She nodded. ‘Nothing I can say will make a difference, will it?’
He shrugged guiltily. ‘I’ll get Doctor Lott to sign me back on to light duties today,’ he said.
Now she shook her head and said, ‘What’re you like?’
‘Lovely?’ he ventured hopefully.
He came back from Dr Lott’s surgery with the necessary documentation in hand, waving the forms like Neville Chamberlain returning from his business trip to Nazi Germany. While in the surgery, Lott had given him the once-over, prodding and poking him roughly, and also had a look at the bruises sustained from yesterday’s fall down the cellar steps, all of which had come out well.
‘You could have been killed,’ Lott muttered. ‘Fourteen concrete steps, you say? Quite a fall.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Henry found Alison behind the bar, polishing shelves and glasses.
‘Signed me back, knew he would,’ he told her. ‘Now I need to give FB a ring and confirm it.’
Alison rubbed a pint glass with a cloth. ‘You might not have to.’
‘Why?’
She gestured brusquely to the dining room on the other side of the entrance foyer. ‘Someone to see you,’ she said with a clipped tone. Then she gave Henry a meaningful look which he didn’t understand until she said, ‘I think your chaperone has arrived. Your very pretty chaperone.’
‘Man or woman?’
Her expression could have withered grapes off the vine. ‘Female.’
‘Sounds just my type.’
There were two couples from overnight having full English breakfasts in the dining room and just the one lone woman sitting at a table in the bay window overlooking the front of the pub. Her back was to Henry as he entered, and he realized she must have watched him return from the doctor’s.
He helped himself to a coffee from the ‘serve yourself’ filter machine on the table next to the Continental breakfast selection, then approached her, noting the lines of her tightly braided hair, slim shoulders underneath a well-fitting suit jacket, then, as she turned, the amazing complexion of her black skin, the stunning beauty of her face and dark brown eyes, wide lips and perfect teeth as she smiled and stood awkwardly when Henry said, ‘I believe you want to see me.’
‘Oh, Mr Christie, yes, yes,’ she said hurriedly, thrusting out a fine, long-fingered hand.
Henry transferred his mug of coffee to his left hand and shook hers.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, my name’s Diane Daniels, er, DC Daniels, that is …’ She pulled out her warrant card for Henry to see. ‘I’ve just been transferred from Preston CID on to the Serious and Organised Crime Unit at HQ and Mr Bayley, the chief, asked me if I’d be interested in accompanying you over to Central Yorkshire. Apparently you’ve been asked to review two murder cases. He said you needed some assistance … like a driver … even though I’m not anyone’s driver,’ she babbled on.
Henry had been holding on to her hand as she spoke – rather liking the texture of her skin, and gripping a tad longer than absolutely necessary – but he disengaged as she finished talking.
His eyes narrowed. ‘What? A driver?’
‘I’m not a driver,’ she insisted. ‘I just jumped at the chance, that’s all. Sounded interesting.’
‘Not sure I need an assistant.’
‘Mr Bayley was just concerned about you,’ she said, unable to prevent her eyes dipping to Henry’s shoulder. ‘You’ve been shot … I know all about that, sir. He did also say you’re a bit of a technophobe … I’m pretty good with all that kinda stuff.’
Henry was feeling uncomfortable. ‘Mr Bayley, as you call him – let’s call him FB, by the way – has never given a toss about me. Now he wants to nanny me?’
‘I’m not a driver and I’m not a nanny, Mr Christie. I’m a detective and I just think this is a good opportunity for me to learn something. I’ve been on the Child Protection Unit and the local CID and now I’m on SOCU. Ultimately I’d like to be a murder detective on FMIT … It’s just an opportunity,’ she finished. Then re-started. ‘I know you’ve been injured and, actually, I don’t mind driving you.’
‘But you’re not a driver?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Fancy a coffee?’
As an SIO on FMIT, Henry knew many detectives across the force of all ranks, but somehow he’d missed Diane Daniels along the way. It happened. It was impossible for him to know every single one.
Henry handed her the two murder books and a mug of coffee, then, with his own brew in hand, he left her to scan the documents while he went outside and drank his on the front terrace, working out in his mind’s eye what The Tawny Owl might look like in the future. At the moment, the terrace was underused – just a couple of old picnic benches and a place for smokers to sneak out to – but ultimately he and Alison wanted to extend the whole thing so customers could sit out and eat.
He sat on the low wall, looking across the wide expanse of the village green and over the stream to the rising woods beyond, once more realizing how much he loved this spot and how fate had made him stagger into the village a few years earlier with his FBI friend, Karl Donaldson. H
ere they had found themselves in the middle of a blood-soaked standoff between two dangerous gangs. At the same time, he had met Alison, and circumstances, though tragic in the extreme, had led him eventually into her arms.
He waved at one of the villagers trudging past with a couple of gun dogs foraging ahead of him and a broken shotgun over his shoulder.
‘Oh, Kate.’ He sighed sadly when speaking his dead wife’s name.
‘Who’s Kate?’
Henry spun at Diane Daniels’ question. ‘No one,’ he said guiltily.
‘Oh, OK.’ She had the murder books tucked under her arm.
Henry nodded towards them. ‘Any thoughts?’
She settled on the wall next to him. ‘Uh … two very different types of killing … both brutal in the extreme, both against lone males. One could simply be bad luck, wrong road, wrong time; the other was very definitely premeditated, attacking a man in his office in the early hours. Both could be robbery motivated.’
‘MO says that Salter’s office was ransacked, though it’s not known what, if anything, was taken; likewise the other guy, Wright, can’t say if anything was stolen from him either.’
‘The investigators seem to think Salter’s was a robbery gone wrong and the other could have been a road-rage incident gone wrong.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Could be that they’ve been tunnel-visioned into those lines of thought, which may be why both jobs have stalled.’ Henry scratched his head. ‘Did you see Jack Culver’s scribble – What is going on here? – in one of the margins?’
‘Jack Culver?’
‘The dead SIO.’
‘Oh, yeah – yes, I did.’
‘Maybe he died before he got the chance to start opening up the enquiries.’
‘Could be,’ Daniels agreed.
‘Anything else?’ Henry asked.
‘Lots of things, I suppose.’
‘In that case, let’s chat about them on the way over, driver.’
‘So I’m still going, then?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
She gave a fist-punch gesture. ‘I booked a hotel, by the way.’
‘Really? So it was a done deal?’
‘Well, uh, no, maybe … FB said I should.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘I’ll give him a ring, then.’
Alison watched Henry packing a small holdall and hanging two suits and shirts in a suit carrier.
‘So you’re going away with another woman?’
He smiled and wriggled his eyebrows.
‘Suddenly your injuries don’t seem quite so serious or debilitating,’ she chided him. Her arms were folded underneath her cleavage. Henry wondered if this was a deliberate ploy just to remind him what he was leaving behind. Surely not, he thought. Alison went on, ‘She’s very pretty. And young.’
‘And, apart from anything else, wearing what looks suspiciously like an engagement ring.’
‘You noticed. You checked her out.’
‘’Course I bloody did. I’m a man with red-hot blood coursing through my veins – although most of it did belong to someone else previously,’ he said, joking about his transfusion.
She sighed. Her face cracked into a cheeky grin.
‘I almost thought you were being serious,’ Henry admitted.
‘As if … look, I just don’t want you to get hurt by going back to work too soon, that’s all. Don’t want you overdoing it.’
‘I won’t, promise.’ He drew her tenderly towards him, nuzzling her neck with his nose. As ever, despite being on the go for hours, she smelled amazing. ‘Besides which, I’ve got a driver now – and if necessary, she can double up as a masseuse.’
Alison punched him hard on his good arm.
DC Daniels’ car was a rather battered-looking but serviceable and comfortable green Peugeot 406, probably fifteen years old, with a diesel engine that fired up first time but still sounded like a tractor.
Henry slumped into the well-worn passenger seat and looked at Daniels.
‘It was my father’s,’ she said apologetically. ‘I inherited it when he died and don’t have the heart to get rid of it … it’s only done one hundred and fifty thousand miles.’
‘A mere baby,’ Henry said. Then, ‘Sorry to hear about your dad.’
‘It’s OK … He was only sixty-two … Dementia, unbelievably … Bastard disease,’ she said, and Henry saw the wounds were still raw.
‘Your mum still around?’
‘Oh, yeah, fit as a fiddle. On the council, busybody, nosy parker …’
‘So that’s where you get it from?’
‘Quite possibly. Anyway …’ She took a breath and gripped the steering wheel. ‘How do we get to Yorkshire?’
‘Head east. Aim for Kirby Lonsdale, then drive down to pick up the A59, which should just about take us in the right direction.’
‘I was kidding.’ She reached for something in the door pocket and revealed a satnav with a flourish. She turned it on, then looked expectantly at Henry. ‘Destination postcode?’
‘Don’t have one,’ he confessed. ‘I was just going to head east until I hit the coast. When we get going I’ll give Central Yorkshire a call and ask for one. In the meantime, let’s just get going?’
‘Have you heard back from FB yet?’ Daniels asked, putting the car into gear.
Henry shook his head. ‘Apparently he’s been turned out to some job or other, which must be pretty serious to get him out of bed.’
Daniels reversed out of the parking space. Henry gave Alison a wave and then they were on the road, heading out of Kendleton.
Henry directed Daniels back along the twisty road away from the village and on to the main A683. Without even consulting a map, he knew the best way would be to aim for Harrogate and York first. After that, he hoped to have the postcode in his possession.
As Daniels drove, Henry asked her a few questions and she talked a little about her background. Her grandparents had come from Nigeria in the fifties with her father and settled in Preston, where her grandad worked as a coffee trader as, subsequently, did her father, building up a moderately successful import and wholesale business, together with a popular café in Preston. Her dad met her mother, who had emigrated with her parents from Kenya, although there was some Asian blood in her, she explained.
‘Hence,’ Daniels said, taking both hands off the steering wheel and framing her face with them, thumbs touching, ‘my beautiful complexion.’ She smiled broadly and re-grabbed the wheel just before the car swerved off the road.
‘No comment from me on that score,’ Henry said, and saw her smile shyly.
She told him she had no desire to go into the family business and it had been sold to a local chain of supermarkets as her dad’s Alzheimer’s became more apparent.
‘Always wanted to be a cop and got into Lancashire dead easy, I suppose. Then I became a DC on Child Protection and now I’m on SOCU.’
She never revealed her age, but Henry guessed it to be around the thirty mark.
As they reached the junction with the A683, Henry’s mobile phone rang.
‘Detective Superintendent Christie,’ he said. ‘Yeah … just about to go to Central Yorkshire … What? Really?’ Henry glanced at Daniels with a worried expression. ‘Yeah … say that address again … yeah, we’re on our way, boss. We? Me and DC Daniels … yep … forty, forty-five minutes … We’re not far off the M6 now … OK, bye.’ He ended the call, then turned to Daniels, who had stopped at the junction. She had waited there, picking up the gist of the conversation. ‘Change of plan,’ he said.
It took just under fifty minutes for Henry and Daniels to get to Bacup and find the address on Todmorden Road, which was fairly easy. Henry had spent part of his early career in Rossendale and retained a good memory of the geography of the valley, also having returned over the years to deal with murders, and he certainly knew the main routes through without a satnav, Todmorden Road being one of them.
The road rose from the roundabout in the centre of the small
town and instantly began to climb. On a straight, rising incline about a quarter of a mile out of town, Henry saw a lot of police activity ahead. That half the road had been cordoned off and temporary traffic lights erected.
‘Pull in here,’ Henry told Daniels. She stopped. ‘We’ll walk in the rest of the way.’
Henry knew this was not going to be his job, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t approach it in his usual way. ‘Upwind, with the sun at my back,’ he often quipped. Wherever possible, he liked to stroll up slowly from a distance to any murder scene, giving himself time to get his brain into gear and make early assessments.
The front of the terraced house at the centre of the police activity was screened off from rubberneckers and he could see a tent-like awning had also been erected around the front door.
‘What’s happened?’ Daniels asked.
‘I know as much as you, which isn’t very much,’ he told her. Then he frowned, about to ask her if she had ever been to a murder before. But he stopped himself, not wanting to appear patronizing or sexist. What would be, would be. ‘Let’s stroll.’
They crossed the road and walked slowly towards the property, Henry starting to get a feel for the location, which was very rural and quite wild. Less than a minute’s drive from Bacup town centre, they were essentially on the moors.
The house was a stone-built mid-terrace, built over three storeys, the ground floor and first floor accessible from the road, with a third level, basically a basement, accessible from a driveway at the rear. It was a good, solid house, common in this area.
Henry walked slowly – still stiff from his fall – noting the line of police cars, vans and personnel, both uniform and plainclothes, and several in forensic suits and masks. The entry to the scene was through a slit in the screen, guarded by a PC in uniform armed with a clipboard noting all comings and goings, signing people in and out and also distributing the protective suits.
He noticed FB’s Jaguar parked a little way down the road. As he and Daniels approached the screen, it slid open slightly and FB himself, dressed in one of the plastic suits, stepped out, followed by another cop Henry knew, also similarly besuited, DCI Rik Dean, one of Henry’s friends and also a member of FMIT. The two men saw him at the same time and approached him with very sombre faces.