Psycho Alley hc-9

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Both true,’ she agreed.

  ‘But you don’t want to tell me those things?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fire away, then.’

  ‘I had an argument with my husband. A real humdinger. Said some things I shouldn’t have. Hurtful things, y’know?’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We’d — I’d — probably had too much to drink.’

  ‘It’s always the case, isn’t it?’ Henry’s body was turning slowly to ice. It crept up from his feet, up his shins, just about reached his groin and squeezed. A curious sensation. One you get when you know the hammer’s about to fall.

  ‘Things haven’t really worked out between us,’ she exhaled sadly. ‘The child thing never happened and sometimes I think that was just a ruse by both of us to save a failing relationship. Y’know, have a kid, save the marriage crap?’

  Not deliriously happy about the way this was heading, Henry’s left hand sneaked automatically to the door handle, wondering if he could perhaps eject himself at the next junction and run like hell, never to be seen again. Fight or flight, the latter won hands down.

  ‘I really didn’t want to hurt him,’ she continued, now on a roll, constantly checking on Henry as she drove. Henry braced himself and pointed urgently through the windscreen.

  ‘Lights!’ he said, the word emitting strained from his constricted throat. Not only did he not like what he was hearing, they might be the last words he ever heard unless she concentrated on her driving.

  She slammed the brakes on. Henry jerked forwards, his hands slapping the dash, seatbelt ratcheting on.

  The screech to a halt did not seem to affect Jane’s verbal momentum. ‘Oh God, Henry,’ she blabbed on, ‘it was an awful row, one of those you never want to have. He was mortified.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop myself.’ She inhaled, then exhaled heavily, a huge sigh, shaking her head. ‘I was so wound up. Too much to drink, tired, pissed off, unhappy,’ she concluded softly, and looked Henry in the eyes again, peering straight into his soul, terrifying the life out of him with a stare that made him quiver. Here it was again, he thought: emotion. The thing I do not do any more.

  ‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said inadequately, then pointed urgently ahead again. Traffic had started to move, and Jane was oblivious to the fact. She was fast becoming a hazard.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t said it, honestly I do.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’

  This time Henry stared at her, waiting for the bombshell. ‘No,’ he squeaked.

  ‘It just came out.’ Henry saw a tear form on the lip of her eye, then tumble down her cheek. ‘But I was so unhappy … and all because of you,’ she accused him.

  He scratched his forehead, feeling as inadequate as Stan Laurel.

  ‘I told him about us,’ she announced.

  ‘You did what?’ he spluttered, though he suspected this was what was coming.

  ‘Told him we had an affair.’

  Suddenly he felt emptier than the Gobi desert — and frightened — but before he could respond in any meaningful way, two things happened, one immediately following the other.

  They were approaching the roundabout at Gynn Square from the north. Jane slowed, her attention veering from Henry, as she waited for his reaction, and the road ahead, a split of about eighty/twenty in favour of Henry.

  ‘Blackpool to all patrols … regarding the earlier incident of attempted abduction, the PNC check run against the partial number plate has come up with one possible match with a grey Audi A4, no current keeper, previously registered to a male from the Manchester area. The full registered number is …’ The operator reeled off the number. ‘A further PNC check reveals that the driver of this vehicle is suspected of indecency offences in the Greater Manchester area. Details of stop-checks to be forwarded to CID in Rochdale.’

  ‘Ooh, could be our man,’ Henry said.

  ‘Could be,’ Jane said with disinterest.

  Henry looked up. ‘Slow down, we’re coming to a roundabout.’

  ‘I am doing, I am doing,’ she cried, and slammed on the brakes.

  ‘And my lord, there it is,’ Henry said, pointing to a grey Audi saloon ahead of them, pulling off the roundabout and heading down Dickson Road towards town, one occupant on board. ‘Yep, I’m sure it is,’ he confirmed, ‘before you ask.’

  ‘Shit,’ she uttered, and sped after the vehicle.

  ‘DCI Christie to Blackpool,’ Henry said into his PR. ‘Regarding the circulation, this vehicle is now heading along Dickson Road towards the town centre, just passing the rear of the Imperial Hotel.’ He ended the transmission, then said to Jane, ‘Come on, speed up, lass.’

  She emitted a snarly growl and jammed her foot on the gas.

  Henry gave an update: ‘Passing Claremont Community Centre.’

  The comms operator was deploying patrols to the area.

  In a few seconds the car would be in the one-way system which threaded around the old cinema which was now Funny Girls nightclub.

  Henry rubbed his hands excitedly. ‘Told you I was feeling lucky.’

  ‘After what I’ve just told you. You must be nuts.’

  ‘Mm, OK, not lucky in that respect.’ Once again Jane looked square-on at him. ‘Watch the bleeding road,’ he yelled.

  ‘Sorry.’

  The Audi drove round on to Talbot Road, stopping at the red lights by the bus station, Henry and Jane two cars behind. Henry updated comms whilst peering through the windows of the car ahead in an effort to get a better view of the Audi driver. He was speaking into his PR when he saw that the driver of the Audi was adjusting his rear view mirror. The lights were still on red, one car between them. The Audi driver adjusted his mirror again.

  Then, lights still on red, the Audi surged through them.

  ‘He’s clocked us,’ Henry snapped.

  Jane recovered some of her composure, her cop instincts slotting back into place. She pulled out and sped past the car in front, coming up behind the Audi, which swerved through another red light, left into King Street, then a tight right, followed by a right-angled left into Edward Street, shooting past the Post Office into Cedar Square. Without stopping, the Audi screeched across the very congested thoroughfare that was Church Street, angling across into Leopold Grove, the massive Winter Gardens complex on the right.

  Henry held tight as Jane, now concentrating on her driving — or so Henry thought — pursued the Audi.

  ‘He’s definitely clocked us,’ Henry confirmed into his PR, giving comms the details of the chase.

  ‘The pursuit policy must be adhered to,’ the operator warned Henry. ‘You should back off now.’ Which was all very well, but by the time an advanced driver, pursuit trained, in a fully-liveried traffic car appeared on the scene, the Audi would have disappeared.

  Henry said, ‘Roger,’ but to Jane he said, ‘Like hell … shit!’ He ducked instinctively as she swerved across Church Street into Leopold Grove, causing a bus to anchor on and two old biddies to call on all their reserves and leap out of the way, using Zimmerframes for purchase.

  ‘Don’t for a moment think you can forget what we were talking about,’ Jane said through grating teeth. She held the steering wheel tight, foot to the floor, and cornered into Adelaide Street, right up the Audi’s ‘chuffer’, having no regard for the pursuit policy. This was one suspect who wasn’t going to get away because of bureaucracy and Health and Safety.

  The Audi was a fast car, sticking to the road well, and pulled away from Jane down the straight stretch which was Adelaide Street.

  ‘Suspect vehicle, fast speed down Adelaide Street,’ Henry said understatedly to comms. ‘Pursuit policy being adhered to,’ he added, lying through all his teeth.

  ‘Roger,’ the operator said doubtfully.

  Traffic congestion at the next junction with Coronation Street ensured Jane was up behind the Audi again. The driver was all over the place
in his seat, head revolving, body jerking as panic swept through him. He went right on to Coronation Street, closely followed by Jane and a cacophony of angry horns from other cars. Then the Audi went left and Henry said, ‘Got him!’ He had turned into Hounds Hill car park, a multi-storey monstrosity built up over a shopping centre. In 1985, during the Conservative Party Conference, Henry had been positioned on the top floor of this car park, where he spent a week freezing, with a bad tummy, wondering when the IRA were going to strike, as this was the conference the year after the Brighton bombing. ‘He’s just driven himself into a dead end,’ Henry said.

  The Audi bounced up the ramp and into the first level of the car park, Jane sticking close as he sped along that level and veered into the tight ramp for level two, tyres screaming in complaint. Jane almost smashed her car by overshooting the turn, anchored on, found reverse with a crunch — ‘That’s it, get rid of all them nasty cogs,’ Henry said, getting a snarl from her — finding first and accelerating up. By this time the Audi had reached the far end and had swung up the ramp for level three.

  It was abandoned, door open, driver legging it, when Jane and Henry reached three. Jane screeched to a classic Sweeney-style swerving, rubber-burning stop an inch behind the Audi and Henry was out after the suspect who was fleeing toward the stairwell.

  Henry’s current level of fitness — low to zero — hit him as he ran, suddenly aware of the extra weight around the middle. Too many crap meals over the last six months had taken their toll. He was breathing heavily within fifty metres, wanting to stop within fifty-one.

  But he didn’t. He followed the Audi driver into the stairs, glad to see the guy going down in the direction of the shopping mall. Henry flung himself down the concrete steps four at a time, landing awkwardly at the foot of each flight, jarring his knees, but not stopping, using the wall to propel him onwards whilst breathlessly shouting down his PR.

  He was catching up with the guy. If there had been another couple of flights down, he would have leapt on his back. Unfortunately the next stop was ground level and the suspect burst through the doors into the shopping centre, running into a crowd of people.

  Henry stayed with him, dodging and weaving past happy shoppers, trying to imagine he was back on a rugby pitch. Until, that is, an old woman he was bearing down on panicked, went the same way as him, making him suddenly switch direction, crash into her and send her flying, probably to heaven. He lost his balance, stumbled, shouted, ‘Sorry!’ and executed a spectacular forward roll from which he recovered brilliantly, but which gave the man on the run an extra five metres.

  But there was no way in which Henry was going to be outrun by a suspected child abductor. Personal and professional pride saw to that.

  He accelerated, everything pumping, closing the gap.

  The suspect ran into the revolving doors which opened out on to the main shopping street. Henry managed to squeeze in the door behind him.

  ‘Got you, you bastard. You’re under arrest.’

  In the confined, triangular space, the man turned on Henry, pure hatred in his face. A hand emerged with a screwdriver in it, which flashed as it rose in an upward arc towards Henry’s guts. He blocked it with his radio and bundled himself up close to the man so there was no room to move. They were face to face, sweat to sweat, eye to eye, breath to breath — and then the door got to its opening and they spilled out on to the street, giving Henry the chance to swing with his radio and smack the guy hard across the head.

  They fell in an untidy heap, rolling across the paved street. Henry was vaguely aware of shoppers and screams and legs, but acutely aware that the screwdriver was still in the man’s hand: did all these child abusers carry weapons? Before the guy could take advantage of the space, Henry hit him again with the radio, bouncing it off his temple. It had no discernible effect, as once again the screwdriver arced up towards Henry’s face. He saw it had a Philips head. He blocked it, the two men parted, both getting to their feet, completely exhausted by the exertion.

  ‘As I said,’ Henry panted breathlessly, ‘You’re under arrest and you need to drop that screwdriver — now!’ He finished with a shout. Henry’s hand disappeared under his jacket and emerged holding his CS canister. ‘I’ll CS you if you don’t.’

  The man considered his options as people gathered. Henry kept focused on him, aware of the build-up of bodies, which could prove advantageous to the suspect. He spoke into his radio, which he’d swapped to his left hand, and gave comms his current position.

  Still the man kept hold of the screwdriver and maintained a threatening stance, undecided about his course of action.

  Suddenly his face contorted with rage and he leapt at Henry, screwdriver raised. He screamed as he bore down on the detective.

  Henry didn’t have the time or the inclination to warn him. He simply raised his hand, pointed the CS canister, and pressed. He was always amazed at how weedy and ineffectual the spray looked when it came out. A bit pathetic, really. But the effects were immediate and devastating on the suspect. His scream of anger turned to one of pain as the spray hit him square in the face. The screwdriver went flying and he clawed desperately at his eyes, nose and mouth, which burned fiercely under the acid-like substance.

  For good measure, Henry gave him another blast. The suspect went down on to his knees, screaming in agony

  Henry rehoused the canister, whipped out his cuffs and got to work on the suspect, careful not to contaminate himself in the process. He grabbed his arms and cuffed him around his back.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ the man cried as he shook his head, desperate to claw at his face and rub his eyes to relieve the pain.

  Henry knew that this was the worst thing to do, actually. Henry turned him to face the breeze and told him repeatedly to open his eyes. This was the only way in which the CS would dissipate.

  ‘Try to keep your eyes open … keep blinking … keep your face to the wind … eyes open … I know you want to rub them … that makes it worse … just look into the wind …’

  Henry was standing by the kneeling man when Jane pounded on to the scene followed by a lump of hairy-arsed cops, eager to do business.

  ‘Well?’

  It was eight p.m. Another long day … weren’t they all, Henry thought … and now he was face to face with Dave Anger again who, quite rightly, wanted to know where the investigation was up to.

  Henry paused for thought.

  A girl found dead in a car. The main suspect found murdered. One guy in custody charged with a serious assault on a cop and other serious offences. Another in custody following an attempt abduction. One still outstanding, but a good few days’ work in some respects … yet in others … His mind flitted to the interactions with Debbie Black, Jane Roscoe’s revelations — she’d told her husband! — plus the damage to his car. Henry’s brow furrowed on that point. Could those two things be connected? An embittered husband out for revenge? Maybe it wasn’t some embittered detective from GMP after all.

  And on top of all that, the icing on the cake, was Dave Anger’s unremitting downer on Henry.

  Henry gave a twitch of the shoulders. ‘A lot of things have progressed,’ he said in a non-committal way.

  ‘Are you any closer to finding out who killed Jodie Greaves?’

  ‘That depends on the outcome of the interviews with the bloke I arrested this afternoon … his MO fits in with the original investigation, y’know, the one I was foolish enough to say yes to?’ He watched Anger’s face as it remained impassive. ‘On top of that he was carrying a screwdriver which he tried to use on me, and while it’s not a knife with a serrated edge, it shows he uses blades, so we’ll just have to see how it pans out.’

  ‘How are the interviews going?’

  ‘At the moment, there’s very little. He’s refusing to speak, being very awkward. Early days.’

  The boss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Keep me informed,’ he said, clearly unimpressed by the progress. He lumbered out of the office.


  Henry sat back, breathed out, still speculating as to why Anger hated him so much. He gave Anger a few minutes to disappear, then picked up his phone and dialled the number of a detective constable called John Walker, who worked on the technical support department. Walker owed Henry a few favours and Henry was leaning on him to pull them in — all in the name of justice, of course. After this he rose from his chair and strolled to the MIR, which was buzzing with activity, albeit fairly muted. People were having ‘heads-togethers’ in a few locations in the room.

  DS Jackson and DC Tope were chatting quietly. Two detectives just back from enquiries were sipping coffee, chatting. Two HOLMES indexers were busy entering data on to the system. Another pair of detectives, the two Henry had tasked with the initial interviews with the Audi driver, were also taking a brew. Henry, surprised to see them, approached.

  ‘Boss,’ they said in unison greeting.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Just a break … but we’re not doing right well. He’s clammed up tight, saying nowt.’

  ‘Can we prove today’s attempt abduction?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ one of the DC’s said.

  ‘Do we know where he lives yet?’

  ‘Over in Rochdale. A Section Eighteen search has been authorized, but that’s going to take some time.’

  Henry squinted, trying to get his head round the best way. He suspected they probably had the man who had committed the series of abductions he had originally been investigating, and maybe he was the missing link in the Jodie Greaves/George Uren scenario. Was he Uren’s mystery companion? So many questions, so much to do.

  ‘I think I’ll have a word with him,’ Henry said.

  The two jacks exchanged a worried look. ‘Is that wise, boss?’ one had the courage to ask. ‘After all your fisticuffs with him?’