by Nick Oldham
‘Well at least there’s one thing,’ Henry announced. ‘In cases like these it’s usually someone close to home, a relative or friend of the family, who’s done the dirty deed. Doesn’t appear to be here, unless,’ he said ominously, ‘the person accompanying Uren is said relative or friend, or Uren himself is known to the family … something we’ll have to explore.’
‘Yep,’ Debbie agreed. Everything had to be investigated.
He sighed heavily. ‘But this sounds more like a stranger … snatched at random, or maybe she’d been a target, been stalked before she was snatched … George Uren’s not gonna tell us, is he?’
‘No, but whoever he was with has got a lot of talking to do.’
‘Mm, that’s interesting,’ Henry said, leaning forward in his seat.
Debbie craned her neck to look for something. ‘What is?’
‘Something to follow up … if she was snatched at six, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And I spotted Uren somewhere around eleven-ish in Fleetwood … what went on during that intervening period? Five missing hours … say three at the most to travel back to Lancs.’ He shrugged. ‘All supposition, I know, but that leaves two hours unaccounted for.’ He shrugged again and gazed at the road ahead, his mind working overtime. ‘For argument’s sake, if she was alive when I first spotted Uren, she would have been tied up in that boot for five hours … poor kid.’ A surge of anger rolled through him. ‘Bastard.’ He pulled himself up short of going on a rant, concentrating on trying to formulate questions which would need answering. ‘Did Uren snatch her alone? Did he and his unknown mate do it together? Or what? Shit.’ He sighed with frustration. ‘And why did Uren end up dead?’ He tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘Will we ever know?’
‘It’s a real puzzler,’ Debbie acknowledged.
‘And … and … if she was alive when I saw Uren, which I suspect she was, because I think we panicked them and they killed her because they’d been clocked, what was going to be her fate?’
Debbie wriggled with an involuntary shiver of disgust. ‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘It’s something we need to know, because if she was going to be abused, or whatever, where was she going to be taken to? I wouldn’t say Uren’s flat was the location.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not practical or safe enough. Taking a kidnapped girl up through a block of flats. I know it’s populated by people who look like customers of that bar in Star Wars, but I don’t think so. Too many people on top of each other for that to go unnoticed. There must be somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere secluded, somewhere to do the business without fear of interruption, some prepared place.’
‘Reckon?’
‘Would you kidnap someone and not have somewhere ready to take them? I wouldn’t. Even if I took someone on the spur of the moment, I’d know exactly where I was going to go, because even if the abductee wasn’t known, I’d’ve done my homework beforehand, because I’d know I was going to get someone, sometime.’
They were travelling over a stretch of moorland known as Blubberhouses. A high, winding, narrow section of the A59 which Henry knew well from his police driving courses. It was a location often visited, as it stretched the nerves and abilities of the students to the farthest degree. Henry had more than once thought he was going to meet his maker on this stretch of road.
‘You don’t kidnap someone without a plan, unless you’re a complete nutter … and that’s what worries me. We interrupted that plan, so as far as I’m concerned, the plan’s still running and another victim is required. Just because Uren’s dead doesn’t mean the plan’s been shelved, does it? We need to do everything right here from the word go. We need to milk everything we can from Harrogate, because that might just give us the clues we need to stop another snatch.’
‘You paint a bleak picture.’
‘It is a bleak picture,’ he said seriously. ‘And you know what I’ll bet is a certainty … this road.’ He pointed through the windscreen. ‘It’s more than likely that Jodie Greaves was kidnapped and then driven back across to Lancashire along this road. It’s the most direct. So maybe the missing hours could be accounted for along here somewhere.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Another action to be followed up … not far now.’ He had seen a roadside telling him that Harrogate was twelve miles away. He stopped thinking about the possibilities and focused on getting ready to deal with a family who was about to hear the worst news imaginable.
Delivering the death message. First practised in the sterile environment of a police training centre, then for most recruits probably done for real within weeks of their first posting. Never easy, even when the news is expected, it always tests the compassionate skills of a cop, as well as their resilience.
Henry sniffed. He was staring blankly into the middle distance. Some might say ‘away with the fairies’, but his thoughts were one hundred per cent with the grieving family of Jodie Greaves. He had a double Jack Daniel’s in his hand, two chunks of ice in it, sitting in the bar of an hotel in Harrogate, alone. A grim expression was set on his face as he tried to imagine the monumental task facing the Greaves family. Just to keep going, taking one hour, one day at a time, knowing their treasured daughter had been brutally taken from them, kidnapped, driven for miles in the back of a car, then murdered.
Henry had tried to be gentle, sparing them the horrific detail, but at the same time firm and as truthful as possible. They had to know she was ‘dead’, not ‘passed away’, because the use of anything other than the word ‘dead’ always gave false hope.
And he had to convince them there was no mistake in the identification of Jodie. DNA, he told them, was utterly reliable; the dental records simply confirmed the science. Their daughter had been murdered. Their daughter had been found in the back of a burned-out car on the bleak Lancashire coast at Fleetwood. Murdered.
Then Henry had had to stay with them. To try and be their rock, the only thing they had to cling to, their only hope of justice, the man who would speak for their dead daughter.
His words had not been empty when he reassured them he would catch the killer. It was a solemn promise, one he would not break unless Lancashire Constabulary made him do so.
He and Debbie Black were with the family for three tough hours, together with a local detective inspector, before they could make a withdrawal. The experience drained Henry and though he felt grubby and in need of a shower, the first thing he did when he hit the hotel was find the bar. Debbie went to freshen up, saying she’d be down in half an hour.
The first JD had sailed neat, un-iced, down his throat, doing something that only that old-time sour mash could do. He bared his teeth as it spread through his chest and into his stomach. Number two was much more considered, sipped thoughtfully, as he sat at the quiet bar, ruminating, watching life go by, but not really seeing anything.
Passing that death message had affected him. It had knocked him for six, hit him deep somewhere, made him wonder if he was up to this sort of thing any more.
He fished his mobile phone out of his jacket, called home. Kate was surprised, but pleased to hear from him. He needed to hear her voice, the woman who had supported him through thick and thin over the last twenty years, who had put up with everything he had thrown at her and stayed with him, even through their divorce. She had been amazing, and Henry hated himself for repeatedly letting her down. He knew he could not ever do it again if he wanted any sort of contented life in the future.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hiya handsome, what’s up?’
‘You’re so intuitive. I’ve only said one word to you, so how do you know if anything’s up?’
‘I know you only too well.’
‘Mm, you do,’ he admitted. He held out his empty glass and waggled it at the barman, indicating a refill was required. ‘Just been to see the girl’s family,’ he said. ‘It’s hit them real hard.’
‘And you, by the sounds of it.’
‘Er, yeah,’
he said, nonplussed with himself. ‘Could be because of the girls … y’know … thinking what life’d be like if-’
‘Henry, don’t even go there,’ Kate cut in. ‘It’s not a good place to visit.’
‘I know, you’re right.’ He wiped his face with his hand, scrunching his eyelids with his fingers. ‘Need to snap out of this,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine … the girls are tucked up in bed, believe it or not … my little babies.’
‘Even though they’re well into their teens and one’s nearly twenty,’ Henry laughed.
‘Always my babies, though,’ she said tenderly.
‘About bloody time they left home,’ Henry joked. ‘Costing me a fortune.’
‘They can stay forever.’
‘Yeah, yeah, they can,’ Henry murmured. ‘So what are you doing?’
‘Reading a trashy book, sipping red wine, nibbling Nobby’s nuts.’
‘The bastard.’
There was a pause.
‘Wish you were here,’ Kate said simply.
‘Me too … when this is sorted, things are going to change,’ Henry vowed — but not for the first time.
‘Yeah … love you to bits,’ Kate said.
‘Love you, too.’
‘Take care.’
Henry ended the call, eyes moist, looking thoughtfully at the phone, thinking about himself, what he had become, wondering if he could change.
He raised his head and glanced toward the bar entrance through which a well-groomed, manicured and very dolled-up Debbie Black slinked. She wore a tight red dress and sheer stockings which glistened in the lights. She had obviously changed her underwear, too, as a push-up bra did a major job on her breasts; Henry looked and failed to see a panty line and guessed that a thong was now in place, or maybe nothing at all. She’d let her auburn hair down, applied copious make-up … and Henry gulped. She smiled gorgeously as she approached, walking like a cat, and the eyes of all the people in the bar stayed with her on her journey from door to stool. It was as plain as day that there was only one thing on her mind: Henry Christie and several bouts of depraved sex. Two things, actually.
Strangely, the latter was a thought that crossed his mind, too.
She paraded on in front on him and he caught more than a whiff of perfume.
‘Who was that?’ she demanded, nodding at his phone.
‘Kate.’
‘Ah,’ she said, slightly cast down. She looked him straight in the eye, hers twinkling with the sparkly drops just applied to them. Her face was serious at first, then it cracked into a depraved grin. ‘Still, you’re not married, are you, so it won’t be adultery.’
What worked for Henry was that Debbie had not eaten that evening, something which did not seem to dawn on her as he imbibed three WKDs in quick succession. Her subsequent visit to the toilet told Henry that she could not hold her drink: in total juxtaposition to the classy entry earlier, Debbie’s walk to the loo was a complete mess, her shapely legs seeming to have developed a mind of their own. They wanted to go in completely different directions to the rest of her, like a newborn fawn.
Seeing his chance, Henry immediately presented her with another bottle of WKD on her return. He bought himself a tonic water, ice and lemon, letting her think it had gin in it.
At one point Henry thought, God, this is sad — getting a woman drunk so I don’t have to sleep with her. What is my world coming to?
She deteriorated rapidly, ably assisted by Henry’s plying of alcohol. Her next trip to the toilet resulted in near disaster as she walked into the edge of the bar door, staggered backwards and landed in the lap of an ageing gent who could hardly believe his luck.
Henry apologized to him, heaved her back to her feet and steered her to the lift, into which she teetered, plugging herself into one corner to prevent a further fall.
‘You bashtard, Henry,’ she slurred. Her previously shimmering eyes were now red and bloodshot, her lipstick smeared. ‘You done this on purpose.’
At first Henry thought she had sussed his plan.
‘Gettin’ me pissed so’s you can ’ave yer way wi’ mi.’ Her head lolled uncontrollably as the lift lurched upwards. Her stomach must have done the same thing. ‘Feel sick,’ she announced.
‘Well hold it back till you’re in your room.’
‘Jeez, everythin’s goin’ up,’ she slurred.
Their rooms were adjacent on the second floor. Henry hurried her to her door, rooting for her key in her handbag. Once inside, he pushed her into the bathroom, just in time.
She was horribly sick in the toilet, sinking to her knees, retching, the noise amplified by the acoustics of the bowl. It sounded disgusting. She groaned and twisted her disarranged head to look up at him.
‘Yev lucked out,’ she admitted. ‘Can forget that shag, don’t feel like a fuck. Head’s spinning … urgh!’ She hurled up again, the stench turning Henry’s nose.
‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered.
In his room, after a room-service club sandwich and chips, he undressed and showered, then raided the fridge bar. He consumed a Glenfiddich miniature with ice whilst he watched TV and thought about how to find Uren’s unknown friend, who he believed would be the true key to ending this investigation, a man who had to be captured, whatever the cost.
At one thirty a.m., dozing, eyes getting heavier, his mind planned the day ahead. He exhaled and sank under the duvet, his toes reaching for those cold places. He wished Kate was next to him and as he thought about her, his phone made a noise like an incoming aircraft: a text landing.
He reached for it and read it, smiling. It was from Kate. Good nite. Luv u v much xxx.
‘Mm,’ he pondered, knowing how close he’d come to being next door with Debbie, phenomenally relieved he wasn’t.
Another text landed. Smiling, he read it, expecting another from Kate.
All it said was, Gess who?
He scrolled down the screen to look at the number from which it had been sent, but did not recognize it. He frowned and put the phone down on the bedside cabinet, shrugging. It was not unknown for an occasional rogue text to come in.
But then the plane landed once more.
This time the text read, UR DEAD.
TUESDAY
Nine
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Henry ensured that — as the firm was paying — he had a hearty full English breakfast at the hotel. Normally he ate a rushed bowl of bran flakes, or maybe a croissant, but today in Harrogate he filled his plate to overflowing and tucked in.
He had knocked on Debbie’s door to ensure she was still in the land of the living before coming down to eat. There had been a muffled response, and she refused to open the door. Henry let her be, smirking at how his plan not to sleep with her had worked so well.
Whilst filling his face with a chunk of Cumberland sausage, Debbie appeared in the dining room, slumping down opposite him with a groan. She spotted what was on his plate and swallowed. For a moment nothing happened, until she started to sway, eyes bulging.
‘Go be sick,’ Henry ordered her, folding a forkful of fried bread and dribbling egg into his mouth.
With her complexion rapidly changing to a luminous green, she nodded, pushed herself back up and exited quickly.
They were at Harrogate Police Station at nine thirty a.m., finalizing details of the working arrangements between the police forces. Henry wanted to set up an incident room that day and the local DCI agreed. As the two male detectives talked strategy, Debbie observed from the world of a bad hangover. She was a mess, looked it, was contrite about it.
Henry shook hands with the DCI, hoping that this cross-border working would pan out well for a change. Historically, two or more forces trying to get their acts together with one common aim was a recipe for disaster. He hoped that by getting in early at ground level, most of the problems would be ironed out, but he knew he’d have to suck it and see.
He turned to Debbie. ‘How do you feel about
staying over here for a day or two as Family Liaison Officer? Or would that cock you up?’
She stared blandly at him, not a single word having penetrated. ‘What?’ She blinked, making a clicking sound with her tongue in her dry mouth.
For the purposes of full comprehension he repeated the request in slow motion, adding, ‘We’ll put you up at the same hotel, which is a pretty nice one.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she acquiesced, not totally understanding what she’d agreed to.
The local DCI watched the exchange with a smirk.
‘Er, what about transport?’ she asked, a cog or two starting to turn at last.
‘I’ll arrange a hire car,’ Henry said. He turned back to the DCI. ‘Well, that’s that, then. I need to get back across the Pennines, so if I can leave Debbie with you, I’ll sort out staffing for the incident room from our end.’
‘No probs.’
Henry walked out to the CID car in the yard and as he climbed in, Debbie appeared behind him, still looking desperately unwell. He got in, fired up the engine and opened the window.
‘Have I made a fool of myself?’ she asked, expecting the worst.
‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘But get yourself sorted out now and go round to see the Greaves family. You need to get under their skin, because they might know something they think they don’t know, if you see what I mean?’
Debbie looked totally perplexed.
‘Maybe another hour in bed,’ Henry suggested.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply. ‘We never got to make love.’
‘No, Debs, we didn’t, and we never will.’
‘Oh God,’ she blurted. For a moment Henry thought she was about to become all emotional and blubbery. He was relieved when she retched, covered her mouth and declared, ‘Gonna be sick again,’ and legged it back into the police station. He reversed out of his spot and began the journey back west.
Henry wondered where Jodie Greaves’s abductors had taken her. He, they, whoever, had lifted her from a street in Harrogate, and five hours later they had been in Fleetwood. He was sure they would have used the A59. It made sense. It ran close to where she had been taken, all the way across to Preston; once they reached the outskirts of Preston it was likely they had gone on to the M55, then off on to the A583 into Fleetwood. He knew he had to get a team to work the route, visiting pubs along the way, doing house-to-house on all roadside dwellings. It would take a long time, but it had to be done, even if it was a long shot.