by Nick Oldham
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was never his pal. I did what I had to to rub along. He is very violent, he hurts people … know what I mean? I don’t. I love people and they love me. I treat people right.’
Henry felt Jane squirm next to him. He glanced at her and saw her face was seething with disgust at what Pearson was claiming.
‘He is a very bad man,’ Pearson said.
‘And I want his address.’ Henry persisted. Pearson touched his swollen face gingerly. ‘And I want to know who he’s running with.’
Pearson gasped, his eyes suddenly filled with terror. He began breathing rapidly and held his hand over his chest. Henry had hit a nerve. ‘I don’t know that. I don’t know who he’s with, honest.’ His rapid breathing continued as he wound himself up.
‘OK, just the address then … think of the difference between a five and a ten stretch.’
Pearson gave him what he wanted.
Henry checked his watch, quickly ripped the wrapping off the tapes and inserted them into the recorder. ‘Now let’s have a quick interview,’ he said.
With Pearson back in his cell, Henry, Jane and Debbie stood in one corner of the custody office having a scrum-down.
Henry was excited, something concrete in his hands at last: an address.
‘Good bloody result,’ Jane said. ‘You dealt with him well.’
‘I lied … because I’ll actually do my best to get him fourteen years, not five or ten … it’s the least he deserves … and I don’t know anyone in the judiciary, except a few local JPs.’
‘And I didn’t know you were a mason,’ Jane teased.
Henry just winked at her and touched his nose mysteriously. ‘Still, good result, but what a creepy bastard.’
Jane shivered in distaste as though she was chewing something sour. ‘All that talk about love.’
‘One thing’s for sure, we’re dealing with the grubby end of policing. Give me a good old drug dealer any day.’
‘Course of action?’ Debbie interrupted, annoyed by the intimate exchange between Jane and Henry.
‘Let’s get a team together and hit this house.’
MONDAY
Seven
00:05 hours. Fortunately the adrenalin was rushing, and despite the fact he’d been on duty since early morning Sunday, Henry was feeling elated, even though he knew it was a sensation that would be short-lived.
The last two hours had been a flurry of activity and he was now revelling in being at the middle of things, unlike earlier when all he wanted to do was hide his head in a bucket. Such were the vagaries of being a cop. Feelings often contradicted themselves within the blink of an eye, and this was often how officers burned out. Lows, followed by highs, followed by lows, then seeking the next high. It was like being on crack cocaine, only it was legal, and far more addictive.
So for the moment, Henry was loving it, but he realized when it was over he would be exhausted and not in receipt of any overtime payments.
He looked at the faces in the briefing room. A dozen blue-overalled Support Unit officers, all mean-looking with close-cropped hair (even the women), wearing steel-toe-capped boots, everyone eager to go and smash down some doors. They lounged around indolently, sipping free hot drinks from polystyrene cups and helping themselves to mounds of biscuits Henry had managed to source. A dog handler, minus dog, chatted with them, anticipating the use of his dog in a search. Three crime scene investigators in white overalls hovered behind the uniforms and two local jacks leaned against the wall, annoyed they were here so late.
Henry coughed the cough of the person wishing to bring chatter to an end and draw attention to themselves.
‘Evening folks,’ he said amiably, getting a muted, but fairly friendly response. ‘Thanks for coming … hopefully tonight we are going to catch ourselves a murderer.’
By calling in a couple of favours, Henry managed to turn out two members of the surveillance team who lived locally. Following a quick telephone briefing, they pinpointed the address Pearson had divulged and were keeping discreet obs on it.
The house was a four-storey terrace in Blackpool’s North Shore, in the streets behind the Imperial Hotel off Dickson Road. It was a substantial building, like thousands of others in town, having been through a series of uses, now split into eight units, or bedsits. Henry had managed to get as much information about it as possible, but in the time available, he struggled to get very much. All he had was what Pearson had given him: Uren lived at that address in one of the flats, but which one he did not know.
A check in the voters register was inconclusive, so up to a point the police would be going in blind — but what was new about that? It just meant a slow, systematic raid, going to each flat in turn as quietly as possible, with a secure cordon around the perimeter so that if Uren was spooked and did a runner, he’d be caught in the net.
As a plan it was flawed, but it was the best he could do.
He RVd with one of the surveillance officers, together with Jane and Debbie, at a pre-arranged point just behind the Imperial Hotel.
‘All we can say is that the place is occupied, Henry,’ the constable informed him. ‘It’s obviously split into flats and we haven’t seen Uren enter or leave the place. We haven’t seen anyone, actually.’
Henry considered the information, still wondering what the best way would be to search the place. He concluded that low key was the answer.
The RV for everyone else was the forecourt of a deserted filling station on Dickson Road, plenty of room on it for the Support Unit personnel carrier, dog van, as well as Henry’s, Jane’s and Debbie’s cars. He looked at the two DIs, thinking that there was nothing like a dynamic operation to keep the grey matter churning. After licking his lips thoughtfully and pulling a few pained expressions, wondering what the hell else he could do, he said, ‘I think the best way to go about this is …’
Based on the information from the surveillance guy, Henry and one of the Support Unit constables wearing a civvy jacket over his overalls simply walked up to the address, opened the insecure front door and stepped through a tiled vestibule into the ground floor hallway. It was wide and spacious, two doors off it and stairs leading up to the first floor. Henry could have had an educated guess at the floor plan based on past experience, and been confident at getting it right. The two doors would open into the ground floor flats, and he wondered fleetingly if there was a basement flat, but there didn’t seem to be any entrance to it from this level.
‘We’re inside,’ he said into his PR. ‘Next pair please, nice and easy.’
Jane Roscoe and another Support Unit officer walked smartly down the street and entered the building.
‘OK?’ Henry said. They nodded. ‘You stay at the foot of the stairs and we’ll do these two.’ He thumbed at the doors down the hallway. Into his PR he said, ‘Everyone in position?’
‘Four-eight-five and one-one-three-one at the rear,’ came one response.
‘Four-oh-nine, eight-one-oh covering the front.’
‘Roger,’ Henry said, not entirely comfortable with radio jargon even after so many years of coppering. It always felt a bit daft to him. However, it meant that two officers were sat at the front in a car and two were on foot in the back alley, avoiding shit and trash, covering the rear of the premises, all ready to nab anyone doing a runner. In addition, it was Jane’s job to cover the stairs while Henry and the constable dealt with the first two flats at ground floor level. Under the circumstances, it was as good as it gets if this was to be as low key as possible.
He knocked on the first door. Hard, loud. His warrant card was at the ready and next to him, the SU constable had a ‘door opener’ in his hands — basically a solid metal tube with handles — just on the off chance the door needed battering. He could hear muted TV inside and the door opened fairly quickly, secured by a chain.
A woman answered, peering through the crack.
Henry held up his ID and smiled the good smile. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of d
ay, love,’ he began apologetically.
Pleased that, so far, his powers of persuasion had not diminished, he was now about to knock on the fifth door, the third flat on the first floor, and had managed to gain entry and search every flat he’d tried without too much of a problem.
The first one had been a lone, single female with a baby, who had been more than happy to have a couple of big blokes nosing around her sparse bedroom; next was a smackhead couple, both of whom Henry had locked up in his dim, distant past. They’d been too spaced out to know what was going on, and would probably wake up later believing it had just been a bad trip. Henry could have busted them, but he didn’t have time to be derailed by inconsequence, so he let it go.
He and Jane and their accompanying constables went to the first floor after ensuring that another pair were stationed at the foot of the stairs. It was a bit like a military operation: taking and securing ground, bit by bit. Slow and steady and a bit boring, but Henry struggled to see any other way of doing it, other than by blitzkrieg, which he didn’t really want to do because of the lack of planning time.
The first two flats on this level had been a doddle too. Henry marvelled at how easy it was to gain entry to other people’s homes. The flash of a card which no one really read. A few persuasive words and, of course, the addition of an evil-looking henchman bearing a mini battering ram did help matters. The first flat on the first floor had been a teenage couple with a foul-smelling baby; the second was another of Henry’s old customers, a guy who was a prolific shoplifter in order to feed a drug habit which had spiralled out of control. Entry had been easily gained and a cursory search — with permission — carried out swiftly. Henry was certain that a more detailed search could well have uncovered the guy’s stash, but again, Henry did not need that distraction.
Before leaving, as he had done on all his visits, he produced a photo of Uren and asked if the occupant knew him. Up to that point they had all looked very fleetingly at the image and shook their heads. Henry knew not one of them had looked properly — but the guy in the fourth flat said simply, ‘He’s next door.’
‘Cheers,’ Henry said, hoping to hide his rush. He’d been beginning to think he was on the road to nowhere.
There was a hushed conflab on the dimly-lit corridor — dimly lit because there were no light bulbs in the sockets.
Two more officers were called in from the street and the two from the bottom of the stairs were summoned up to join Henry and the three already on the first floor, six of them altogether.
‘I know you all have, but I’m still checking,’ Henry whispered. ‘You’re all kitted out in body armour, yeah?’
There was an affirmative from everyone. ‘Right, I’ll knock. If he comes to the door, we grab him, overpower him, ask questions later … let’s go.’
Henry raised his hand, about to bang it down on the door, but then paused. He glanced round at the officers behind him. ‘Change of plan.’ He reached for and tried the door handle, turning it slowly and putting his weight against the door, but it was locked. ‘Shit,’ he mouthed.
He knocked, rapping with his knuckles.
There was no response. He glanced down, saw no light from underneath the door; listened, but there was no sound. He glanced at the constable with him, then down at the weighted door opener. ‘Pint of Stella if you open this door in two.’
The constable, clearly experienced in such matters, eyed the door. ‘I’ll open that door in one,’ he proclaimed proudly.
‘OK, go for it in one.’
He stepped into position, braced himself, swung the opener back with the easy flow of a grandfather clock pendulum and smashed the flat end of the opener over the Yale lock. Hard, accurate, and in keeping with his promise, the flimsy door clattered open without need for a second blow. The smirking officer stood to one side and allowed Henry to stride into the flat, shouting, ‘This is the police!’
It was in darkness.
Henry stood still, awaiting some response perhaps, and at the back of his mind aware that someone was coming down the steps from the third floor, but that fact was just there, of no note, no importance, because Henry could smell smoke in the room.
Jane and his door opening PC were right behind him.
Voices came from the corridor. ‘Yeah, no probs,’ he heard someone say — still of no consequence to him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What is it?’ Jane whispered.
‘Smoke.’
He flicked on his Maglite torch, one he’d bought himself, more powerful, sturdier and better for hitting people than the tiny personal-issue penlight provided by the firm.
He was standing two feet over the threshold, right in the living room of the flat. The torch played over everything in the room. A settee, armchair, TV, DVD, all basic stuff. No sign of anyone in that room, nothing untoward — just the smell of smoke. The beam crossed to the kitchen area.
‘Why aren’t you going in?’ Jane hissed.
‘Not happy.’
‘Fancy that,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You never are.’
He fought the urge to retort with a classy ‘Fuck off’. Instead he stayed where he was, drawing the torch beam across the room, back over the furniture on to two doors, one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom, he guessed. Still he did not move.
‘Something’s burning,’ he said.
Then in the torchlight he saw wisps of smoke rising from the gap underneath one of the doors — the bedroom.
‘Call the fire brigade,’ he said over his shoulder to anyone who was listening. ‘Just in case. We can always cancel ’em if necessary.’
‘Should we put the light on? Might help,’ Jane suggested.
‘No,’ he said. He slid his foot forward and moved further into the room, caution screaming at him. The smoke from under the door increased in volume. Something crackled behind the door. A sound Henry knew well: flames.
‘Trumpton on the way,’ someone called from behind him.
He still could not get to grips with his reticence to move forward and could feel the impatience of the officers behind him, particularly Jane. The trouble with cops was that they liked the feet-first approach, and in the past — the simple, straightforward world he used to inhabit — that was a pretty acceptable way of working. But no longer. Everything had to be pre-thought because people were out to get cops these days. They made good trophies.
And here he was, entering the flat of a man suspected of murder. The lights in the corridor had been tampered with, something he had not really thought about until now, and not long ago he’d been in a flat when a fellow officer had been stabbed and almost killed by someone who was not suspected of violence towards police. He was feeling very jittery here, because this did not sit well with him and he didn’t want any other casualties. Things did just not seem to be right. Could this be more than just a house fire? Shit. He was dithering, and feeling a bit stupid, too. At some stage you had to either go in, or retreat … Henry had to do the business, despite his reservations. It was always possible that someone might be on the other side of the door that needed help.
‘I want everyone out into the corridor.’ He turned. No one had moved. They were lined up behind him like actors in a farce. ‘Out,’ he ordered, ‘and keep away from the door.’
One by one they left, albeit with reluctance, though none questioned him. Once he was sure they were gone, he crossed to the bedroom door and touched it: warm. He bent low, reached for the handle and turned it, knowing the possible consequences of opening the door. He’d seen enough episodes of London’s Burning to know that fanning the flames with an input of oxygen could result in a fireball.
‘Is there a fire extinguisher out there?’ he called.
‘Not a chance in hell,’ came the response.
‘OK, here goes,’ he yelled.
Then, all caution to the wind, he threw the door open, stood quickly to one side just in case there was a backdraft, knowing in his mind that if there was, he’d be fried, but
also believing in the naive way that human beings do, that he would be quick enough to save himself.
Flames did lick out of the door momentarily, but died back almost immediately. He waited for a second blast — none came — before peering into the room, fully expecting his clothes to be burned off.
It was a bedroom, and the bed itself had been pulled into the centre of the room and was almost encircled in flame which rose from the carpet. The body of a man sprawled untidily across the single, metal-framed camp bed. Henry’s torch beam played across the figure from head to toe, finally resting on the man’s ghastly face through the flames — the very dead face of George Uren.
‘Shit,’ he uttered.
Then there was a crack, like a bullet going off, making Henry duck instinctively, and more flames began to rise from beside the body. This was followed by another crack, then flames, then two more until the body was amass with fire, like a funeral pyre.
‘Incendiaries,’ Henry shouted. This time he threw caution to the wind, pulled the corner of his jacket over his nose and mouth and dived into the room, stepping through the gap in the flames and sweeping the four recently-ignited devices off the bed with his torch. They landed on the floor, breaking up as they hit, flames scattering across the carpet like mini firecrackers.
‘Get in here,’ he screamed, then began dancing like a maniac as he attempted to stamp out some of the less nasty-looking flames, ‘but don’t turn the lights on … Ow! Ow!’ he yelled as the heat penetrated the soles of his Marks amp; Spencer slip-ons, footwear not designed for walking on hot coals.
Jane and two PCs crowded urgently into the room and began a stamping dance with him, then two more PCs barged in with fire extinguishers they’d sourced from somewhere. ‘Out the way, out the way,’ they shouted and started using them, spray going everywhere.
Within moments, they had done the trick, amazingly.