Psycho Alley hc-9

by Nick Oldham

  ‘No, I’m not, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll order you to go,’ he said finally, holding up his hands. ‘I’m trying — we’re trying — to solve a particularly nasty murder of a young kid. You told me that Granny had been the victim of a bogus official job a few days before Jodie was snatched.’

  ‘And?’ Her face was set hard.

  ‘It’s something I want to follow up. I have a feeling that Uren could have been committing this sort of crime to fund his lifestyle. It’s a hunch, just one of those old-fashioned cop things. Please,’ he finished.

  ‘Right, OK, I’ll do it,’ she relented. ‘But on one condition.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘A drink … and I promise not to get arseholed this time.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  The next hour was spent trying to arrange an urgent meeting with SIOs from surrounding forces so they could discuss the possibility of a joint investigation and work out protocols and procedures. Times like this, Henry wished he had a lackey to run around for him, or was the correct term a ‘PA’?

  In the end he left messages with all the relevant detectives, none of whom he managed to contact personally, leaving him no further forward in the respect of setting up a cross-border enquiry. Such a meeting, though, was beyond urgent.

  He sat back and the photograph he’d looked at in Dave Anger’s office flashed into his mind. The wedding photo, bride and groom, both happy and blushing. He tried to recall the detail of the woman, the one he was supposed to have slept with, but it was only really a blur. He had not studied it carefully. So Dave Anger thought Henry had ‘shagged’ his wife. Why the hell did he think that? It was preposterous. Surely it would be something he would have remembered? Wouldn’t it?

  Henry had little time to ponder for the remainder of that day. In fact he had hardly time to take a breath and scratch his backside. There were so many facets to deal with, most of which revolved around dealing with a complex investigation which needed managing and leading.

  He lorded it over the MIR all that afternoon, deciding to take a hands-on approach for a change. Much work was done with the family of Kerry Figgis, although the elusive real father remained that — elusive. House-to-house enquiries were expanded on Shoreside and Preston Road for other witnesses. Nothing much seemed to be coming, though, and Henry was more concerned than ever about Kerry.

  More was done with Jodie Greaves in terms of enquiries about the Vauxhall Astra that Uren had been driving, in an effort to find out who he had bought it from.

  Everyone was kept busy, doing the routine stuff associated with such investigations, and Henry controlled it all, sitting there like Captain Kirk on the bridge of the starship MIR.

  His next disagreement came with the appearance of DC Sheena Waters, something he had expected earlier, was prepared for, but not looking forward to. She marched into the MIR, all revved up and steaming to go.

  ‘Why the hell did you bail Troy Costain?’ she demanded. ‘After all the kerfuffle about you being so upset because he’d stolen from your mum, and you go and let the little shit go! Now what’s all that about, Henry?’

  ‘Calm down, calm down,’ he said, using the palms down gesture, ‘he’s only a crim.’

  ‘He robs and terrifies old people,’ she protested.

  ‘Look.’ Henry stood up. He had been sitting at the Allocator’s Desk, sifting through actions. ‘Try not to get upset … let’s go to me office and have a chat.’

  ‘No,’ she said, clearly upset. ‘He has a string of allegations to answer and I’ve spent all day gathering evidence to put to him, only to discover you let him go last night. And I was wondering why the custody officer hasn’t been chasing my tail all bloody day. It’s because there’s no prisoner … so here, in public,’ — she looked round the MIR and at everyone in the room — ‘give me your reasons for letting him go.’

  Henry tightened up, wishing he’d dealt with this earlier. ‘When I said my office, it wasn’t an option, Sheena,’ words which, again, did not sit comfortably with him. Ordering someone to his office again. Not good.

  ‘OK,’ she relented, ‘but it better be good, otherwise this is going further.’ She marched out, Henry behind her, wondering whether he should leave his face set in a thunderous expression because it seemed to be its default position these days.

  Sheena left his office not remotely satisfied. Henry’s cooing, ‘You’ll just have to trust me on this one,’ was not going down well at all. He realized that by letting Costain go, it would be impossible for Sheena to gather important evidence, because Troy would simply destroy it. What she did not know and what Henry did not tell her was, of course, that Troy was an informant and the reason why he had let him go. ‘You’ll have to trust me on this one,’ did not do the trick. She was rightly miffed, because Costain was a good prisoner and there was the possibility of clearing up some serious crime on her patch.

  As she left the office, Henry knew he had not heard the last of this. ‘Oh to be a DC on NCIS,’ he thought. ‘Life would be so much simpler.’

  A knock on the door made him jerk up his head. It was the one-man intelligence cell, DC Jerry Tope, who had so nearly invoked Henry’s misplaced wrath earlier. He bore his usual sheaf of papers.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ He was clearly afraid of Henry

  ‘Come in, Jerry, it’s OK. Sorry about earlier — wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘No probs, boss.’ He waved his papers triumphantly. ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Thrill me.’

  ‘Your … er … hypothesis about burglaries?’

  ‘Yep — shot to shit, I take it?’

  ‘No — spot on, actually. I’ve looked at each of the disappearances in the other forces, and in each case there were several bogus official-type burglaries in the weeks prior to their abductions. I’ve hacked into the crime recording systems of each force, GMP, West Yorkshire, Cheshire — don’t ask, but it’s easy — and there’s about forty burglaries in total, all very similar, all directed at old women.’

  ‘Carried out by one man?’

  ‘Two men. White males, thirty to forty years. All descriptions tie up. One could easily be George Uren. A ponytail is mentioned in some descriptions.’

  ‘Any arrests?’

  ‘Not a one. All undetected.’

  ‘How much have they made?’

  ‘Close to a hundred grand, mainly cash.’

  Henry whistled. ‘You’ve hacked into police systems that are not our own?’

  ‘Basically, yes. Saves time, bureaucracy.’

  ‘Brilliant. Illegal?’

  Tope nodded. ‘Extremely.’

  ‘Can you be traced?’

  ‘No,’ he said confidently.

  ‘Now we need those forces to do that trawl themselves and get each scene revisited for a full forensic hit, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’ll be something for the big SIO meeting to action,’ Henry said. ‘If I ever get them off their lardy arses. OK, well done. I think we’re on to something here.’

  The debrief was at nine p.m. A round-up of the day’s events and progress, or otherwise. Kerry Figgis was still outstanding and concern continued to grow; they were still no closer to catching the mystery man. He thanked everyone for their efforts and asked them to be back by eight next morning. They were all whacked after a lengthy day of graft, and they left a little subdued and dispirited by the lack of progress. Henry sensed a growing despair, one he was beginning to feel himself.

  He spent the next hour with the policy book, going over everything that had been done, satisfying himself he’d covered all bases. He closed the book, knowing there were no obvious gaps in the investigation, but realizing there was every possibility this was going to be a long haul.

  Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. A combination of a day of bad food, too little sleep, not enough water, and stress. Henry was always close to the edge and had, through the years,
been over it. He was determined that it was a place he would never visit again. It wasn’t the stress of the investigation that was worrying him this time, though. It was the other things. If he could get rid of all that peripheral shite and be left with a complex murder investigation, he’d be tickety-boo.

  He rolled his head, neck creaking. Why did everything creak now? Neck, knees, back. He was beginning to feel like a car that had reached that time in its life when things started to go wrong, when it became more expensive to maintain and run that it was actually worth. When a trip to the showroom was called for to trade it in for a new model.

  Four years short of fifty.

  The prospect of the half-century struck him like a rampaging elephant.

  ‘Oooh, no, no, no,’ he admonished himself, placing his hands on the desk to assist him stand up. ‘No navel gazing for me,’ he announced to his empty office. ‘I’m going right now to increase my water intake for the day — disguised as a pint of Stella — then I’m going home, have a JD nightcap, leap into bed with my ex-wife and make hot lurv. She’ll think all her birthdays and Christmases have come all at once, when in fact it’ll be me.’ He giggled, a noise which stopped abruptly as a large figure appeared at the office door, making him jump.

  ‘First sign o’ madness,’ the man said with an American accent. ‘Talkin’ to yourself.’

  Karl Donaldson stood there, his wide frame completely blocking the door. ‘Mind if I come along for the drink, but I’ll pass on the lovemakin’, if you don’t mind?’

  Fifteen

  ‘Sounds like you’re havin’ a great time.’ Karl Donaldson took a sip of his mineral water and regarded Henry with a smirk of amused contempt.

  Henry had just regaled his friend with the story of the last week, bringing him bang up to date, keeping everything in for Donaldson’s delectation and delight.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Henry pleaded, ‘but I’ve obviously missed out on something. Having been accused of sleeping with a woman, I would at least have liked the pleasure.’

  Donaldson chuckled. ‘Your cock gets you into some scrapes.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Henry said fervently. ‘He’s barking up the wrong tree.’ He took a deep, slow swig of his Stella, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘You could take control of the situation, be proactive,’ Donaldson suggested.

  ‘What, sidle up to Anger and say, “I believe you think I screwed your wife?” I don’t think so. Anyway, what drags you up to these parts, Yank? IEDs you say.’

  They were sitting in the lounge bar of the Tram and Tower, Henry’s local pub. They’d dropped Donaldson’s Jeep off at Henry’s house after Henry insisted the American should bed down at his house for the night, then adjourned to the pub for a couple of drinks. Henry noticed Donaldson wasn’t drinking alcohol, remembering that last time they were in here, Donaldson had imbibed far too much. He was a big guy, but couldn’t hold his liquor.

  He looked at the American. Henry had good reason to suspect that this affable man was much more than he purported to be. Although Henry could never prove it, nor want to, he believed that Donaldson was involved in the sudden and violent departure from this life of some top-level international criminals, something that Henry had only recently started to realize; that he could actually be an assassin for the American authorities was never far away from Henry’s thoughts. He certainly had the ability to kill, as Henry had experienced years before, when Donaldson had saved Henry’s life by shooting a mafia hitman who was about to kill Henry.

  One thing Henry did know for sure, though, was that Donaldson was a handsome swine. Women went gooey-eyed in his presence, and the fact he hardly seemed to notice women swooning all around grated Henry. Even now, in the Tram and Tower, every woman in the place was giving him sidelongs, making Henry green with envy.

  ‘Yep — incendiary devices,’ Donaldson confirmed. Since he had expressed an interest in them, Henry had sent him further details of them, as described in depth by an explosives expert from the forensic science lab.

  ‘Why are they of interest to you?’

  ‘Might have a link for you from across the pond,’ Donaldson said, referring to the Atlantic Ocean and that big chunk of land three thousand miles away. Henry waited, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his pint glass which was against his lips. ‘I spend my time looking at crime reports from around the globe,’ he explained, ‘but one in particular has been with me up here,’ — he tapped his temple — ‘for a while now; the murder of a Miami PD detective called Mark Tapperman.’

  Henry took his drink away from his mouth. ‘Tapperman? That name rings a bell.’ His mind began the Rolodex shuffle.

  ‘Let me save you time: Danny Furness.’

  Immediately Henry remembered and as he did so, his mind recalled Danny Furness … Danielle Louise Furness … someone Henry hadn’t consciously thought about for a long time now, but who he would never forget.

  Danny Furness had been a wonderful cop and Henry had been happy to have her on his team when, several years earlier he had been involved in the hunt for a man called Louis Vernon Trent. Trent had escaped from prison in a most murderous and terrifying way and had returned to his old roost of Blackpool, determined to wreak revenge on all the people responsible for getting him sent to jail in the first place. Danny was the officer who had originally arrested Trent for a series of serious and escalating assaults on young children and got him sent down. Trent’s skewed mind had determined that one of the people who would suffer for his incarceration was Danny.

  Danny had been part of Henry’s team which eventually tracked down and rearrested Trent, but not before he had murdered several people, including a uniformed cop who’d had him cornered. Trent had subsequently escaped from police custody and had never been heard of since.

  During the investigation to arrest Trent following his initial escape from prison, Danny had visited Florida on a related matter concerning a missing girl. There she had encountered Mark Tapperman.

  Subsequent to all of this, Henry and Danny had embarked on a serious affair, which had ended when Danny had tragically died on Spanish soil.

  ‘You OK, pal?’ Donaldson waved at Henry, who had slipped into a trance of reminiscence.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, snapping out of his reverie. ‘Just thinking about Danny.’ He sipped his beer.

  Donaldson eyed his friend sympathetically. ‘Don’t go there,’ he warned.

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised. ‘But I do remember Danny talking about Mark Tapperman. He helped her out over there. Big guy, I believe. Built like a shithouse wall. I never met him.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘You say he was murdered?’

  ‘A few years ago … the day before the Twin Towers came down.’

  ‘The tenth of September, then?’

  ‘Yeah. He was investigating a homicide and, uh, he was murdered.’

  ‘As a consequence of the murder investigation?’

  Donaldson shrugged, frowned. ‘Who can say? But there are some similarities between Mark’s murder and your guy, Uren?’

  ‘How similar?’

  ‘Until we do a full scientific comparison, I’m only going off what I’ve read. Mark’s body was found in a trailer park, a real trash trailer park, near Fort Lauderdale.’

  ‘Uren’s body was found in a bedsit.’

  ‘Mark had been stabbed repeatedly and his throat had been cut open, his head almost severed.’ Henry saw that the words were difficult for Donaldson to say, that he seemed to be choking on them. The American saw Henry’s curious look. ‘Mark was a good friend,’ he explained. Henry nodded, understanding. Donaldson went on: ‘So, stabbed, throat cut — and set on fire.’ He paused for effect then added, ‘Yeah?’ to Henry’s unasked question. ‘Incendiary devices.’

  ‘Bugger,’ was all Henry could think of to say.

  ‘From what I’ve seen, the devices look similar to the ones you found here in Blackpool.’ Donaldson sat up, making Henry draw back instinctively. ‘In fact
, they look so similar I got Miami PD to send me one from the scene of Mark’s death via the diplomatic pouch. It’s in the back of the Jeep. Maybe tomorrow we could get a comparison?’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Henry said excitedly.

  Donaldson relaxed. ‘Last time I was in here with you, I got — as you so quaintly put it — bladdered.’ Donaldson was collecting and using what he called ‘quaint English terms’, because he found them highly amusing.

  ‘Pissed as a fart, I’d say.’ So bad that he and Kate had had to put Donaldson to bed. ‘And?’

  ‘It won’t happen again tonight, but I’ve had my fill of mineral water and as I’m not driving, I’ll have a pint of Stella and a JD chaser. Your round, I reckon.’

  ‘Big jump.’

  ‘Big revelation coming … when you get back from the bar, I’ll intrigue you further.’

  Henry bought himself a pint, no chaser, two being his absolute maximum when driving, even though he realized that, as a cop, that figure should be nil. He carried the drinks back to their table where Henry saw that Donaldson was engaged in conversation with a woman, one of Henry’s neighbours, who ‘happened’ to be passing the table on her way to the ladies, which were actually on the other side of the bar. She smiled at Henry, gave Donaldson a lascivious leer, then bounced off.

  ‘She fancies you,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘As if.’ He pushed the drinks across. ‘You know, you could have any woman you wanted, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Guess so.’ It wasn’t an egotistical answer. ‘Problem bein’ I got a wife who’d kill me, and a wife who I also love.’

  ‘Romantic fool.’ Henry’s face crunched up disgustedly. ‘What’s the revelation?’

  Donaldson drank the beer deeply, said, ‘Ahh,’ then took a sip of the JD. ‘The murder Mark was investigatin’ … was the murder of a nine-year-old girl, found stabbed to death in the back of a car and the car had been found burned out after … guess what?’ He was clearly revelling in the old saying that knowledge is power.

  ‘What?’ Henry said eagerly.

  ‘Before being found abandoned, the car in question had been pulled over by a highway patrol who had been mown down by the driver. Does that scenario ring any bells?’