by Nick Oldham
She cocked her head slightly, still wearing the same grin, and allowed Henry more than a moment to evaluate her. Even seated, he could tell she was tall and slim and elegant, with a quite long, pointed nose and long, shiny auburn, almost red hair that cascaded down her shoulders and back. Her shoulders were square with a masculine edge, and her body was slender rather than shapely, but Henry being Henry did notice that her bosom was pleasantly ample as her silk blouse was unbuttoned to her cleavage. Her eyes were steel grey with a hint of the Far East about their shape. She wore a tight, knee-length skirt. Henry estimated she was in her early forties.
He swallowed and found the power of speech. ‘Just to check all is well, as I’m sure it is – not to investigate as such.’
‘To poke around, then?’
‘Where any poking is necessary,’ he said, seeing her eyes sparkle with the mirth of the exchange, and he knew he needed to quit with the double meanings right now, so he did.
‘Sad news about your chief,’ he said. ‘Your force must be reeling.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He thought she seemed strangely unmoved or concerned.
‘I never really met him,’ she added. ‘The news hasn’t really gone in yet. But I think he was a good man.’
‘I visited the scene this morning. It was very nasty.’
‘Really? You were there? It sounded grim from what little I know. However,’ she shrugged, ‘life and the cops still goes on and we will do our best to ensure you can do your job while you’re here. We’ll offer as much assistance as possible.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Can I buy you a drink? Home turf and all that?’ she offered.
‘Er.’ He looked at his lager. ‘I’ll finish this first, thanks.’
‘OK.’
Henry did just that and the lager seemed to clear away the grit of the journey across the country. Runcie ordered another for him and a Martini for herself, olive included.
‘Shall we sit in one of the booths?’ Before he could answer, she collected her drink and clutch bag and led Henry across to some empty seats. They settled across from each other. ‘Hope your journey was OK, all the way across the country.’
‘Fine,’ he said, not wanting to share the tyre-slashing experience. ‘Longer than I thought it would be.’
‘Any idea how the investigation into Mr Burnham’s murder is progressing? Early days, I know. Early day, in fact.’
‘The SIO has some leads, I think,’ he said vaguely.
‘Good, good,’ she said – and not really sounding genuine to Henry. ‘Anyway, how do you want to proceed? What can I get ready for you?’
‘I’ll just have a look at everything, slowly and surely, from the discovery of the bodies onwards and including victim profiles, forensics, post-mortem results. All I want to do is tick boxes and, if there’s anything I feel you might have missed – not saying there is, by the way – I’ll let you know. That’s all. As far as I can tell, everything seems to have been covered … I’ve read through the murder books.’
‘I believe so.’
‘And it all seems fine.’
‘But sometimes murders don’t get solved. Rarely, but occasionally.’
‘I understand that.’ Henry paused. ‘There are two of us, by the way. Me and my colleague, DC Daniels. Just freshening up. Be down shortly, I guess.’
‘DC Daniels. Man or woman?’ Runcie teased.
Henry grinned at the jibe. ‘Woman.’
‘Ah, right … I believe your chief, Fanshaw-Bayley, is taking over the helm of Central Yorkshire for the short term?’
‘He is.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Ruthless.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Interesting.’ Runcie sipped her drink, her eyes playing over Henry’s face, and he had to admit that if he had been doing this ten years ago, he would probably have followed his erect penis and tried to bed this woman sitting opposite him. Nowadays, he just thought about it for a while, then forgot it. Time had moved on, and Henry’s desire now was to ditch his bad old days and be and remain a better man. He had spent too much of his past life putting his wife, Kate, through hell, and there was no way he would repeat his shenanigans with Alison.
Runcie’s gaze shifted, looking beyond Henry’s shoulder, and suddenly her shoulders seemed to tense, her eyes narrowed and a hard-edged mien came on to her face, transforming the soft lines into harsh ones.
Henry glanced around to see Daniels coming in from the bar door, making Henry blink. She had more than freshened up, had re-braided her hair and changed into a blouse which was tied underneath her breasts, leaving a gap of skin before the waistband of a colourful knee-length skirt.
‘This must be your colleague,’ Runcie said in a way that chilled Henry.
‘It is,’ he said, rising to his feet, hardly able to take his gaze off Daniels. ‘This is DC Daniels.’ He made the introduction. ‘Diane, this is DCI Runcie, the SIO in the two cases we’ll be having a look at.’
‘Hi, boss,’ Daniels said brightly, and offered a hand to shake Runcie’s, who did not respond, other than with a curt nod. She did not get to her feet and Henry almost felt a wave of unnecessary antagonism radiating from Runcie like a force field via her posture and expression, both of which had changed subtly. Henry wondered where it was coming from.
Daniels looked at Henry, showing how unimpressed she was in a more obvious way. However, she smiled and said, ‘Can I get either of you guys a drink?’
Runcie’s eyes were half-lidded and contemptuous. ‘Not for me,’ she said brusquely. She tipped the remains of her Martini down her throat, then rose to her feet and seemed to tower over the slightly shorter Daniels, who had to look up into her face. Henry then realized that Runcie could be very intimidating. ‘Tomorrow at nine,’ she said to Henry. ‘Just come to the public enquiry counter and announce yourselves. I’ll send someone down to fetch you … You do know where the police station is, don’t you?’
‘We’ll find it,’ Henry said, and then she was gone.
The two Lancashire detectives watched her leave.
‘What’s that thing in the Harry Potter films?’ Henry asked. ‘You know, when someone can change from one thing into another?’
‘What, like from a cougar into a bitch?’ Daniels suggested.
‘Mmm, sort of. There’s a word for it … trans something.’
‘Let’s not go there … I’m going to get a glass of wine. Do you want anything, boss?’
Henry glanced at his second beer and shivered. ‘Not just yet, thanks.’
He did not drink any more alcohol other than a nightcap at ten p.m. They had a good meal in the hotel dining room and chatted about the way forward, how the review should be handled and other personal stuff about families and loved ones, with Daniels revealing that her engagement ring was a relic from a broken relationship and couldn’t really say why she was still wearing it.
He hit the ‘wall’ at ten p.m. and decided he needed to get to bed as his aches and pains were worsening. He needed painkillers and sleep.
Daniels said she would have another glass of wine before retiring.
In his room, Henry stripped, cleaned his teeth and slid into the cool double bed where, from his prone position, he called Alison again. This time he got through. For once, she was having a fairly easy night at The Tawny Owl, with only a handful of diners in and few regulars. She and Henry had a pleasant conversation, after which he sat up again, reached for his laptop and logged into the free Wi-Fi to check his emails. He had expected a response from the security guy at the motorway services, but there was nothing, which he found frustrating.
‘Well, he’s definitely going to make connections with this,’ Runcie said, shaking her head in utter disbelief at Silverthwaite and Hawkswood. Both had showered, changed and managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep before coming back in via a McDonald’s drive-through. Silverthwaite, in spite of his earlie
r stomach problems – dealt with by means of Imodium – had happily bought burger and chips and a large milkshake, which he wolfed down with gusto, stuffing the food into his mouth.
‘You can’t really see me properly,’ Hawkswood said.
Runcie’s mouth sagged open as she looked at the two detectives. ‘Oh, let me think … no, you can’t, but you can see a Vauxhall Insignia drive on to the service area and you can clearly see what appears to be a black man – you,’ she pointed at Hawkswood, ‘slashing the tyres. A bit of enhancement and the number plate will be read and your mush’ – again she pointed at Hawkswood – ‘will be on bloody Crimewatch.’
They were in their ‘private’ room within the police station, which, other than the areas occupied by uniformed patrols, was quiet, all the office staff having gone at five p.m. They were sitting around a laptop computer watching the footage obtained from Newsham, the security manager of the motorway services.
‘It’s a bloody good job I had the foresight to get hold of this guy before he sent these images to Christie, isn’t it, boys?’ Runcie said sarcastically. She had shed the glamorous veneer she’d tried with Henry and reverted to her more comfortable persona. She’d realized that any detective worth their salt would have been in contact with the security company to get footage from the cameras on the service area forwarded to them for scrutiny. ‘Not rocket science,’ she’d told her two detectives. ‘Common bleeding sense, that which you two don’t seem to have much of.’
The security manager, Newsham, had initially baulked at Runcie’s request, but when she’d explained – lied – that the detective who had made the initial request was under investigation and was likely wanting the footage to attempt to cover up a crime he himself had committed, he’d been only too pleased to send the video to her instead. She’d warned him that Christie might call again and threaten him with grief. If that happened, she’d instructed him to tell the officer that the cameras had not been working correctly and had failed to record; he was then to immediately inform her of the harassing call. She’d assured him that he would not become embroiled in anything.
‘Where do we stand?’ Silverthwaite asked.
She sighed heavily down her long nose. ‘Well, we now don’t have a meddling Detective Superintendent Culver – dead – or a meddling chief constable – also dead – to worry about. But in their place we have a meddling Henry Christie with his glam sidekick.’ Runcie’s face twisted. ‘And, for some reason, Christie didn’t even bother telling me about the tyre-slashing incident, which I find odd and worrying … Anyway, somehow we have to deal with these two individuals, play them and send them off with a pat on their heads, having discovered nothing untoward. We have too much to lose on this, guys. Too much invested, too much to look forward to in our dotage.’ She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, meaning ‘money’. ‘Give ’em what we have, what they want to see, be nice and they’ll be gone before we know it. That’s the key – and I have an idea on that score. As for you two, you’ll have to keep out of the way because if Christie spots you …’ She drew her finger across her throat. ‘So you’ll have to leave them to me and Saul … OK.’ She looked at Silverthwaite folding the last of his chips into his mouth and jerked her head at him to get lost. He shook his head cynically, collected up the fast-food wrappers and left the room.
Runcie lit a cigarette, eyeing Hawkswood through the slowly rising smoke.
She turned down the lighting via the dimmer switch to just a glow, came across to him and eased herself in front of the detective. Their eyes seemed to grip each other’s gaze hotly. She grabbed his jacket and hauled him to his feet, tipping up his chair in the process. Then she stubbed out her cigarette on the table top and both her hands went to his belt and zip, unfastening both roughly and diving in behind his boxer shorts with her right hand, taking hold of his already engorged cock.
They pirouetted around. Hawkswood raised her on to the table, shook off his trousers and hoisted her legs around him as he bunched up her skirt, already knowing she was not wearing panties.
Henry took a call from Daniels.
‘Just checking you’re OK, boss. You looked a bit tired.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, tucked up safe and sound,’ he told her.
‘Me too.’
Despite knowing it was wrong, he could not prevent himself imagining her lying in a bed maybe less than twelve feet from where he was, thankfully separated by a thick stone wall and a locked door.
‘Have you heard from the security guy?’
‘No. I left a message, though,’ Henry said.
‘OK.’ Henry heard her yawn. She said, ‘You’re not like other bosses.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Yeah … I was talking to someone about you before I set off for The Tawny Owl. Jerry Tope; he’s a good friend of mine.’
‘Ah, the lovely Jerry.’ Henry knew Tope well – a gifted intelligence analyst and computer nerd whose habits of hacking through firewalls had almost once cost him his job when the FBI came knocking because he’d been interrogating their systems like a kid in a sweet shop. Henry used him often and relentlessly on murder investigations.
‘He speaks highly of you,’ she told him.
‘That’ll go to my head.’
‘And even though I’ve only just met you, I can see why people are prepared to follow you so keenly. I get it.’
Henry wasn’t sure what to say.
‘I know I will,’ she said softly. ‘I think the carrot cake is what did it for me.’
‘Always works. I do it with every member of my staff. Costs a fortune.’ He was still imagining her in bed but knew that if he asked her what she was wearing (secretly, he hoped nothing), her perception of him would change rapidly.
‘Anyway, thank you.’ Her voice sounded dreamy.
‘It’s a pleasure.’
‘Good night … see you at breakfast.’
‘Good night.’ Henry thumbed the end call button and said, ‘So what are you wearing?’ only to realize his thumb had missed the key and the line was still open. ‘Holy shit,’ he said, fumbling with the phone. He heard her chuckle. ‘Oh, God, you didn’t really hear that, did you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her voice was now mischievous and husky. ‘Nothing, by the way.’
This time Henry’s thumb did find the correct button, even though his digit was dithering.
‘So that’s my career done,’ he muttered as he tabbed through the menu of his phone: one last call to make. He found the number and dialled.
‘This better be good,’ the grumpy voice at the other end of the line answered.
‘Evening, Jerry,’ Henry said.
‘Evening? Middle of the night! And anyway, you were supposed to be off sick, but I hear the chief has coerced you to come back in.’
Henry was speaking to Jerry Tope, the aforementioned detective who was an analyst within the Intelligence Unit based at Lancashire Constabulary’s headquarters. Henry always accepted that Jerry was a curmudgeon, old and grumpy beyond his years, but because he was so good at his job (so good Henry had had to talk the FBI out of headhunting him after finding out he had been hacking their mainframe) he gave him some leeway, but not too much.
‘Yes, I’m back,’ Henry declared, ‘and I’m on the wrong side of the Pennines.’
‘I believe so. Anyhow, what can I do for you? I’m just disinfecting my materials,’ he said – giving Henry a mind’s eye picture of Tope in his spare bedroom where he home-brewed his own beer and wine.
‘I need you to do some background checks, Jerry.’
‘I’m not at work.’
‘But I know you can access the Intel database from your home.’ Henry also knew that Tope had the skills and knowledge to access the computer systems of virtually any police service or law-enforcement organization the world over from his battered-looking laptop at home.
‘Go on,’ he said resignedly.
Henry gave him the names and dates of birth of the two murder
victims, Tom Salter and Mark James Wright. ‘Just see what you can pull out on these guys, will you? All I’ve got is the murder books at the moment, so not much background. Hopefully I’ll get more in the morning, but see what you can find.’ Grudgingly, Tope said he would try. As an afterthought, Henry added, ‘Will you have a look at DCI Jane Runcie, too … she’s the SIO in charge of the two cases.’
‘Why?’ Tope asked dubiously.
‘Just do it … Oh, and Detective Superintendent Jack Culver. He was the SIO on both murders before he got wiped out in an accident. See what you can discover about the circumstances of that, will you?’
‘Don’t Central Yorkshire have an Intel Unit?’
‘Yeah, but not as good as you, pal.’
Henry rung off, only for his phone to ring again almost immediately. It was Rik Dean.
‘Rik, I was going to call you,’ Henry said, though it was going to wait until tomorrow.
‘Hi, Henry, how’s it going?’
‘Nothing to report just yet. You?’
‘I’m at Blackburn Police Station custody office and I’ve just been talking to one of Rossendale Valley’s most prolific burglars. I’ve cleared up about three hundred jobs and I’m absolutely certain this isn’t the guy who killed John Burnham.’
NINE
Since the body of Chief Constable John Burnham had been discovered murdered early that morning at his mother’s address in Bacup, DCI Rik Dean had been working flat out, as is expected of an SIO in charge of a murder enquiry.
Rik would one day probably become Henry’s brother-in-law as he was engaged to Lisa, Henry’s wayward sister. The relationship was topsy-turvy at best and Henry wasn’t at all certain it would reach wedded bliss, but he knew both parties were good for each other. Since Henry had taken the bullet in the hospital storeroom, Rik had been covering for him on FMIT but not as a temporary superintendent, just in his rank of DCI. Henry suspected, even though he and Rik were close friends, that Rik would also one day happily step into his shoes if the opportunity presented itself.
However, until that day came …
Rik had worked and controlled the murder well and, having ensured he got the scene under the firm hand of a crime-scene manager he trusted, he started to fast track the investigation which led to him exploiting local intelligence to identify burglars believed to be active in the area and deploying two pairs of keen detectives to haul in the ones most likely to have committed the numerous burglaries that had taken place in the Bacup area over the last few months.