by Nick Oldham
‘No, I’m not after any advice along those lines,’ Henry chuckled, ‘and if I was, you’d be the last person I’d ask. No, look, I want something to happen very quickly …’
The next phone call he took was from Jerry Tope, who’d been able to do some background checks on the two murder victims. Henry took a few notes and asked Tope to email him details he could scrutinize at leisure.
For a while, Henry felt like he was operating in a call centre, making and taking calls, but the final one he made was to FB to bring him up to date with the state of the review and to ask him to intervene in something else, and also to share some of the doubts he – Henry – was already beginning to have, although he warned FB that none were really founded in anything other than arse-twitching gut feeling – that ‘thing’ he got that had served him well over many years. That thing called instinct.
FB listened, hummed and hawed in all the right places and said yes in the right places too, and finally, after a pause, said, ‘Henry, there is one thing you do need to know …’
She knew that when she wanted them to be, Jane Runcie could make her eyes into orbs of pure evil. As they scanned the faces of the three people sitting across the desk from her, each one shifting uncomfortably under their glare, she knew she was having the desired effect.
Her eyes took in the three detectives, Saul, Silverthwaite and Hawkswood. She was certain the skin on the back of their necks was crawling just a little.
The power she could muster gave her a good feeling.
They were seated in her actual office, door locked, and the three men under her scrutiny sitting like little boys on plastic chairs while she remained high and regal on the leather chair behind her desk.
She had listened to their reports.
The one from Saul detailed his interactions with Christie and the gooey-eyed lady detective, DC Daniels, and their insistence on copying the murder files and wanting a key to the room they had been allocated, plus Christie’s pathetic attempt at being the big ‘I am’ superintendent after Saul had purposely kept him waiting that morning.
‘So he’s liable to pull rank,’ Runcie sneered. ‘The last bastion of a weak manager.’
‘I wouldn’t say he was weak,’ Saul responded, but clamped his mouth shut tight when Runcie’s eyes seemed just about to fire a death ray at him and evaporate him where he sat. As he crumpled, she looked at the other two. ‘And what have you idiots been up to?’
‘Keeping out of the way, like you said,’ Silverthwaite told her.
She considered something for a moment. ‘Tell me about their early morning runs.’ Silverthwaite told her again: Daniels was up first and away, Christie almost an hour later. ‘So they didn’t set off together or come back at the same time?’
‘No, her first, and she was back before he set off.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘OK. What route?’
‘How would I know that?’ Silverthwaite asked. But, under her stare, he said, ‘Down the river, I’m presuming.’
‘OK.’
‘What are we going to do, boss?’ Hawkswood asked worriedly. He was also wondering if she would be expecting him to perform again for her. Not that the sex wasn’t fantastic, just that he didn’t enjoy being dominated so overpoweringly. He felt like a dog on a leash, being jerked around by a nasty owner, and it made him squirm … yet acquiesce at the same time.
The three underlings exchanged glances.
‘Firstly,’ she said, looking directly at Silverthwaite, ‘Tullane arrives in Manchester just after four p.m. tomorrow. You need to be there to pick him up and bring him across. He’s booked into the Metropole. Look after him and I’ll make arrangements to see him sometime in the evening.’
‘Tullane?’ he said.
‘Tullane,’ she confirmed.
‘OK. Transport?’
‘Hire a decent car.’
He nodded.
Her attention moved to Hawkswood. ‘You keep our two friends under surveillance tonight … yes, all by yourself … but there is one thing extra.’ She paused for effect. ‘You know how you didn’t manage to put Henry Christie out of the game?’
Hawkswood shifted uncomfortably.
‘I need you to make amends.’
‘How, exactly?’
‘If the pretty little lady goes for her early morning jog, you go along too – yeah? And put the bitch in the river.’
A half-smile of anticipation brightened his face. ‘With pleasure.’
Runcie said to Saul, ‘While we indulge in a great deal of subterfuge and misdirection at the same time as solving a murder.’
She opened a drawer in her desk and removed a clear plastic bag, which she laid on the desktop.
It was the Makarov pistol.
‘A gun with provenance.’
After a contact call to Alison, assuring her he wasn’t overdoing anything and that all was well, Henry changed into his jeans and a T-shirt and went to meet Daniels in the bar, where she was already a few sips into a glass of white wine, sitting in one of the alcoves and reading the murder files.
Henry joined her after buying a pint of Stella and another wine for her. After a clink of glasses, he took a long draught of his lager and enjoyed the cool sensation of its ice-cold fingers reaching down into his chest.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.
‘I’m good,’ she promised him. ‘You?’
‘Apart from taking the weight of a hanging woman which hurt my poor shoulder, I’m good too.’
They sipped their drinks.
‘I don’t like these people,’ she declared. ‘Runcie, Saul … not the most helpful of folk.’
‘Maybe they’re just feeling under pressure. I always get jumpy and defensive when one of my cases is under review. Human nature.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Daniels said, ‘unless I’m just being over-suspicious. An undercurrent. I can’t work out if it’s something sinister.’
‘Well, you’re good at reading people,’ Henry complimented her. ‘You did well with Mrs Salter … it’s a good job we went back.’
‘She doesn’t think so.’
‘She will, in time.’ He had another mouthful of lager, then nodded at the reading material Daniels had slid to the edge of the table. ‘Anything more?’
‘No. Still the gaps and the mobile phone issue …’
‘I’ve been sent some information from Jerry Tope to peruse. Maybe later, if I forward it to you, perhaps we can have a look at it – after we’ve eaten.’
‘Sounds like a plan. I’m famished.’
‘Me too.’ He hesitated. ‘I also asked Jerry to look at anything concerning the accident Jack Culver was involved in – the stolen car thing. Turns out, and it wasn’t revealed to me at the time I spoke to Burnham – and FB has only just seen fit to tell me – that Culver was on his way to see Burnham having told him he had misgivings about two murder investigations he was overseeing. Kinda wish I’d known that when we went into bat here.’
Daniels sat upright. ‘What misgivings?’
‘I don’t have the answer to that.’
‘Coincidence?’ Daniels punted.
Henry shrugged. ‘Anyway, let’s eat. I think we have a busy night ahead.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘Oh, did I not mention?’ he said innocently. ‘There is every chance we might be attending a post-mortem in the next few hours. I’m not sure of the collective noun for a number of autopsies on the same person. A “cut-up”, maybe?’
Before he could explain, his phone rang. It was FB calling. There was a short conversation and straight after Henry made another call, which was also short, then looked at Daniels and gave her the thumbs up.
‘FB came up trumps,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat and I’ll reveal all.’
They ate steadily, no rush, at a pub further along the waterfront. Henry explained his plans and what he hoped to achieve over the next few hours (just to put his own mind at rest, he told her). After this, they fell into a
n easy conversation again about their personal lives, though not in any great depth.
Henry found her to be pleasant company, funny and incisive. He got the impression she did not know how good looking she was, and he noticed a lot of sidelong glances from the men in the pub. Part of him wondered if it was just curiosity – seeing a black girl with an older, white man, and them drawing the wrong conclusions.
They were back at the hotel two hours later. After a drink in the bar, Henry suggested they went to his room, that she brought her laptop and he sent her what Tope had sent him, so they could spend time examining this information and rereading the murder files.
Daniels looked coyly at him. ‘Will I be safe?’
‘As houses, trust me. I’ll sit at the desk and you sit on the bed.’
Hawkswood was pleased that Silverthwaite had been given another job, even if it meant he was alone in the back of the old surveillance van on the quayside. At least it meant he would only be troubled by his own farts instead of having to inhale the odious clouds that seemed to continually seep out of Silverthwaite from both ends.
This time he had repositioned the van almost directly across from the George Hotel and, by peering through the side-vent peephole, he could see straight through the front window into the bar. Though there were quite a few people coming and going, he clearly saw Daniels arrive in the bar and take a drink over to an alcove, then Christie join her a short time later. He watched both leave on foot and saw them walk down to a pub a little further away. He would have liked to follow them but knew his cover had been blown by his and Silverthwaite’s ill-considered appearance at The Tawny Owl; plus, though he hated to admit it, his skin colour didn’t help matters.
He had set up the van to have a few more creature comforts by way of cushions, a flask of coffee and one of soup, some nice bought prawn sandwiches, crisps and chocolate.
It was going to be a long night.
The two detectives strolled back a couple of hours later, chatting and laughing amicably, the sight of them turning Hawkswood’s lips into a snarl of hatred and concern because he was grudgingly afraid of these two people who, if allowed, could topple a very lucrative enterprise meticulously built up over several years. Not to mention his unofficial pension pot.
‘Bastards,’ he hissed, watching them through the one-way glass.
He saw them in the bar again, taking up a couple of empty chairs right in the big window.
Hawkswood itched for a Heckler & Koch MP5 to strafe the window and take them both out.
That would be the end of the story – a blood-soaked drive-by shooting.
Part of him thought it might actually come to that.
When they’d finished their drinks, they stood up and went out of sight. Hawkswood checked his watch. It was still quite early.
He called Runcie, who speculated. ‘Henry Christie, by all accounts, finds it hard to keep his cock in his pants. See if you can find out what they’re up to … maybe they’re going to fuck.’
Hawkswood slid unobtrusively out of the back of the van, jogged over to the George and flashed his warrant card at the young lad manning Reception. Hawkswood had been wondering how best to get information on the guests, and when he immediately recognized the lad, his heart began to sing melodiously.
He had arrested him twice before for being in possession of cocaine in one of the city centre clubs and, as the lad looked up at Hawkswood, his face dropped while Hawkswood’s grin was evil.
‘Evening.’
Five minutes later, Hawkswood was on the phone to Runcie as he sat in a small office at the back of the hotel reviewing security footage from the camera on the first-floor corridor where Christie’s and Daniels’ rooms were situated. He slowed down the image to one frame at a time, saw Christie’s door open and allow Daniels into his room.
‘She’s in his fucking room,’ Hawkswood said gleefully.
‘Capture it, download on to a disc if you can, just for safekeeping. I have a phone call to make.’
‘You old dog, Henry,’ Hawkswood said appreciatively, then looked sideways at the very scared hotel receptionist.
Runcie found the number for The Tawny Owl from the internet website and rang it after firstly withholding the number on her phone.
It seemed to ring for a long time, then it was answered by a woman.
‘Hello, Tawny Owl, Kendleton, can I help you?’
‘I’m after Alison Marsh, please.’
‘Speaking,’ Alison said brightly.
‘Oh, great. Alison, you don’t know me, but I need to tell you something.’
THIRTEEN
Henry stretched, yawned and stood up from the uncomfortable chair at the desk in his room, arching his lower back to get movement into it. Daniels, sitting propped up on the bed with her laptop on her lap, had fallen asleep after nearly two hours of reading.
The time had been fairly productive in terms of getting more understanding of the murder victims, but they still had no real understanding as to why either had been killed. Henry was pleased that a possible affair had been discovered in relation to Salter, and he would point Runcie in the direction of re-interviewing the suicidal Karen Salter in greater depth because now, in Henry’s eyes, she had to be a suspect.
Mark James Wright’s murder wasn’t much clearer, but to be honest, Henry’s mind wasn’t completely focused on that one just yet.
Daniels’ eyes flickered open. ‘Did I fall asleep?’
‘Yeah. Maybe time to hit the sack now.’
She closed her laptop, collected all the various documents and stood up. Henry followed her to the door, leaning on the door frame as he watched her walk along the corridor to her room. She gave a little wave, then was gone.
Henry reversed into his room and quickly undressed, eager to rest his bones for a while, and slipped under the duvet in just his underwear.
For a moment, he considered calling Alison, but instead sent her a lovey-dovey text, placed his phone on the cabinet and switched off the light.
Before he could even close his eyes, the phone rang.
‘Hi, sweetie.’
There was a pause. Henry wondered if the signal had dropped off, but somehow sensed Alison was still on the line.
‘Babe?’
‘Where are you, Henry?’
‘Uh, in bed. Why?’
‘Who’s with you?’
It was his turn for a pause. Then: ‘What do you mean?’
He was sitting up now, not remotely liking the tone of Alison’s voice. It was giving him the creeps.
‘Who is with you is what I mean.’
‘No one. Why would there be?’
‘OK, who has been with you?’
‘What are you getting at, Alison?’
‘Has she been in your room with you?’
Henry heard a sob catch in Alison’s throat. She went on: ‘I’m giving you the chance to tell me straight, Henry.’
By this time Henry was fully upright and his skin was crawling with dread. His stomach felt like worms were wriggling in it. ‘I have nothing to tell you,’ he said, though this wasn’t strictly true.
‘Yes, you fucking do,’ Alison said, reverting to her aggressive level of vocabulary to which she descended when enraged. Also – scarily – she did not raise her voice.
He swallowed. ‘Yes, DC Daniels has been in my room.’
‘I fucking knew it! It is true!’
‘Hang on a minute – there is nothing to know here. Yes, she has been in my room – we were reviewing the cases. It was more practical and private than sitting in the public bar and doing it. She’s gone to her own room now.’
‘Did you fuck her?’
He knew he should not have hesitated with his answer because that tiny gap made him appear truly guilty. It just did.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ Alison cried.
‘No, I did not. I’m here to work. I’m here to do a job and not screw some woman I’ve only just met. I’m certainly not here to screw up my
relationship with you. I love you. I’m going to marry you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you – bottom line. Why would I jeopardize that? Not only that, I’m a superintendent and she’s a DC … I’ve been stupid in the past, I’ve told you about it all, but now I’ve got the most beautiful, most wonderful, most caring woman in the world … Jeez! So, no, I didn’t, Alison. Got that?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK, but you know what my next question is, don’t you?’
‘An anonymous phone call from a woman. The number was withheld.’
‘I’ll bet it was.’ Henry’s heart was thudding hard against his chest.
His mind swirling, Henry did not get to sleep quickly. He spent some time doing what he called tiger-pacing the room, wondering if he should phone Daniels or knock on her door.
In the end, he did neither.
After a quick raid on the minibar where the best thing on offer was two miniature bottles of Bell’s whisky (combined price as much as a seventy cl bottle), he poured them side by side into a glass, added a few drops of tap water, then sunk them in a couple of gulps.
Sitting upright on his bed, he then dozed off.
The persistent knock on the door at two a.m. just about roused him. Groggy, he lurched to the door, almost expecting to find Daniels there looking sexy with a fingertip on her lips.
This pathetic male fantasy was doused by the gangly figure standing in the corridor, dressed rather like Sherlock Holmes.