Psycho Alley hc-9

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Jesus,’ Henry said, remembering playing tig with the Astra in Fleetwood. ‘How’s the officer?’

  ‘Died after being in a coma for six months.’

  ‘I might just have that JD chaser … be rude not to, wouldn’t it? We can always catch a cab home.’

  ‘The murder investigation got nowhere?’

  ‘Nah … it stalled with Mark’s death. Some thought it could’ve been connected with the murder of a guy who owned a sex club, but only because Mark had been sniffin’ round seedy clubs in Lauderdale after the girl’s body had been found … prob’ly not connected.’ Donaldson was starting to truncate and slur his words now, a sure sign that his second lager and accompanying chaser were having an adverse effect on his brain. The landlord had called time, and most of the clientele had drifted out.

  The landlord called time again.

  ‘We could have a lock-in,’ Henry said. Somehow his weariness had evaporated under the influence of alcohol. He felt quite sprightly. ‘The guy who owns the place knows me.’

  ‘I could test another JD,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Consider it done.’ Henry, slightly ahead of his friend in the drinks stakes, wobbled towards the bar and returned bearing glasses.

  Donaldson leaned forwards. ‘Re our earlier chat, it’s just come to me, the name of the person Mark Tapperman might have visited before his untimely death was John Stoke. We don’t know anything more than that, never traced anyone of that name. Miami PD got that from Mark’s wife. He’d been talking to her about it, but hadn’t passed it on to his colleagues. He was a bit of a loner, Mark.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Henry said, not really taking the information in; a distraction had arrived in the form of a text message on his mobile.

  ‘What is it?’ Donaldson noted the expression on Henry’s face. Henry handed the phone across. It read, u n me again, H. ull nvr ctch me.

  ‘Time to go,’ Henry declared, feeling uneasy. The number from which the text had come was not the same as the one from which the earlier texts had been sent. ‘C’mon Karl, let’s be having you.’ He turned to the bar. ‘Ken, can you bell a taxi for us?’

  As ever after Donaldson had been drinking, it took a lot of manoeuvring to get him out of the pub. Rain lashed down outside, but as Henry stepped into the porch at the front of the pub ahead of Donaldson, he hardly had time to take in the weather.

  Two hooded men came at him, wielding the think ends of sawn-off pool cues.

  He didn’t even see them properly. They were just a blur in the rain. He felt the first blow across his right shoulder and immediately sagged down to his knees. He covered his head with his hands, instinctively expecting a flurry of blows.

  But something miraculous happened.

  Karl Donaldson seemed to sober up in an instant. Maybe it was the conditioning his training had drummed into him, maybe it was the instinct of defending a friend, but unlike Henry, he instantaneously computed what was happening and with a roar Samson Agonistes would have been proud of, went into action.

  Like an American football player (Donaldson did not understand the ‘rugby’ nonsense) — he powered into the attacker who had smacked Henry down. He drove his shoulder into the guy’s guts and lifted him off his feet, depositing him on his back six feet away from where he was originally standing. With that player out of the game, Donaldson twisted and, like a Trans-Am express train, charged the other attacker, who was about to drive a cue down across the back of Henry’s head. Donaldson roared as he ran, closing the distance in a split second and repeating his first move. This time the man was slightly quicker than his mate and managed to whack Donaldson across the back, a blow which had no discernible effect on the American, other than to get his ‘mad up’.

  Donaldson’s shoulder went in low, driving a groan of pain and expelled air out of the man as Donaldson lifted and deposited him across the bonnet of a parked car, smashing the back of the man’s head against the windscreen.

  With the second man dumped, Donaldson turned to the slowly arising Henry.

  The attackers did not need a second hint. The first one picked himself up off the ground, the second rolled off the car, and both fled into the night.

  ‘Henry, pal.’ Donaldson swayed slightly as the alcohol came back into play. ‘You OK, buddy?’

  Henry rose creakily, grateful to his friend who had saved him from another battering. He tested his body and found he’d been particularly lucky: nothing was injured.

  ‘I’m not so bad,’ he grunted, even though he was doubled over, hands on knees, snot dripping out of his nose, looking up at his concerned American cousin, who staggered slightly.

  ‘Amateurs,’ Donaldson said dismissively. Then he staggered backwards, lost his balance, caught his leg on the low wall of the porch and tipped over spectacularly into the small, neatly- tended garden, landing on his backside in a bed of flowers. He stared up, unable to keep his head steady, a ridiculous grin on his face.

  In the shadows by bushes at the far end of the car park, a man hidden in blackness snorted and breathed in frustration, then melted away into the night.

  FRIDAY

  Sixteen

  Both men had banging headaches the following morning, but there was no time to brood over hangovers. They were up at six thirty a.m., staggering around like zombies, until they emerged from Henry’s house like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to face the onslaught of the day.

  Deciding to collect Henry’s car from the Tram and Tower after the morning briefing, they jumped into Donaldson’s Jeep. The American drove them to the police station accompanied by the heart-tugging refrain of country music, making Henry feel inclined to suicide. He was relieved to arrive at the nick without a rope around his neck.

  He briefed the team at eight a.m., and by eight thirty everyone was on the road, the whole investigation having gone up a notch. Once the MIR had quietened down, Henry and Donaldson scuttled to the canteen for black coffee and bacon sandwiches, that well-known cure for crapulence.

  ‘Almost alive,’ Henry said.

  Donaldson’s eyes were drooping, but he nodded. ‘You’re a bad influence.’

  Henry shrugged. It was still nice to be considered such at his age. ‘I try,’ he said modestly. He folded the last of his toasted sandwich into his mouth and washed it down. ‘Need to collect my car, then we need to get looking at a link between Uren’s murder and Mark Tapperman’s. Ironic, innit?’ Henry snuffled a laugh. ‘I can get a joint investigation up and running with the FBI, yet I can’t get SIO’s from surrounding forces to ring back with the possibility of putting a cross-border job together? It’s obviously not what you know …’

  The two men regarded each other.

  ‘I drank far too much last night,’ Donaldson admitted.

  ‘Hm hum. Let’s go and get the incendiary from the car and hand it to Scientific Support.’ He drank the last of his coffee. ‘Any leads on it?’

  ‘Could be linked to a white supremacy group in the southern states,’ Donaldson began. ‘They’ve been active over ten years, here and there.’

  Henry’s mobile squawked and a text landed. He read it with trepidation. Ull nvr ctch me. She ded. It had come from the same number as last night’s taunting text.

  He showed it to Donaldson, then decided to reply to it.

  Who are you? he asked simply and sent it.

  old frend, came the response, which he again showed to Donaldson.

  ‘Crank?’ he suggested.

  ‘Or kidnapper?’ Henry took a deep breath, wondering what he should be doing about the texts. If they were from a pay-as-you-go number, there would be little hope of tracing them. SIM cards were easy to register in false names. If they were from contract phones, which he doubted, there was a good chance of locating the source. ‘I’ll see what I can do about tracing these now,’ he said. ‘It’s getting beyond a joke. But first let’s get my car from the pub, then get your device checked out, then I’m going to see the Figgis family.’

  ‘Ho
ly shit!’

  ‘Must’ve happened after we’d left.’

  ‘You really have upset someone, Henry.’

  They were standing on the Tram and Tower car park inspecting Henry’s Ford Mondeo. The pub landlord, Ken Clayson, was with them.

  ‘You not see anything?’ Henry asked Clayson.

  The bearded landlord shook his head. ‘Not a sausage.’

  The Mondeo, once a lovely shiny blue colour, had been the first brand-new car Henry had ever owned. He’d got a good deal on it and, though dubbed ‘Mondeo Man’ by his colleagues, had been pleased with it and looked after it well. Now, with a metal pole smashed through the windscreen, four tyres slashed, deep gouges scarred along each side and the headlights shattered, he did not really like it very much. He rubbed his tired face and groaned. He walked round the car and saw that the pole through the windscreen was actually a metal bar, possibly a piece of railing, with a spike on the end now embedded in the driver’s seat. A warning? Threat? You next?

  ‘It’s got to be someone from GMP,’ Henry said, shaking his head. Donaldson knew what he was talking about because he had been involved with that too. ‘Or maybe an irate husband,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Or maybe even my boss.’

  ‘What you gonna do?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Report it as a crime, get CSI out, then get it towed to a garage and get it repaired. Claim on the insurance,’ he finished. ‘Going to have to get a runabout from work, I suppose. Bugger,’ he blasted. ‘Just what I need.’

  Donaldson patted him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, old chap.’

  ‘Cheer up? Fuck off, Karl,’ he said. ‘And you can fuck off as well, Clayson,’ he said to the landlord. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d only feel horrendously bad; as it is, your trade, the way you insidiously force drink down unwary men who should know better, is making me feel like my head’s stuck down a bog.’

  Clayson took it all in good part and invited the pair of them in for a coffee, gratefully accepted.

  A cleaner, accompanied by an extremely loud Dyson vacuum, was working her way round the empty pub, ensuring that Henry, Donaldson and the landlord had to shout to make themselves heard. They had a general conversation about how crime had got out of hand and considered options for a new car for Henry; Henry also asked Clayson questions about the possible identities of his assailants last night, but he did not have any ideas. When his mobile rang, he excused himself and went to stand outside the pub in the spot where he’d been attacked.

  ‘Hello … sorry … Henry Christie.’ It was not a good line, lots of echo and fading signal.

  ‘Mr Christie, this is Jackie Harcourt from the bail hostel in Accrington.’

  ‘Oh, hello Jackie, sorry, Ms Harcourt.’ Henry remembered her well. He had never heard her voice over the phone, but there was something strangely familiar about it.

  ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Bit of a chilly woman, he recalled. It was only a few days earlier he’d met her, but it seemed an eon ago. She had not been too impressed by Henry, and Rik Dean in particular.

  ‘I’d like to see you,’ she said quickly, as if, if she hadn’t been quick, the words would not have come out.

  ‘OK, when and why? I’m pretty busy at the moment.’

  ‘Look … look …’ Suddenly she sounded fraught. ‘It has to be today, this morning, it has to be, otherwise forget it.’

  ‘Are you OK? You sound upset.’

  ‘I need to see you today. I need to see you about George Uren. Please. If not today, forget it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, mystified. This did not sound like the in-control, businesslike woman who had expelled him and Rik from the hostel for stepping out of line.

  ‘It’s important,’ she stressed, gasping back a sob.

  ‘Where and when?’ Henry said. Something told him it was more than important. ‘Bearing in mind I’m in Blackpool. I can set off in a few minutes, though.’

  ‘Right … er … not at the hostel … er.’ It was obvious she couldn’t think of anywhere.

  ‘Do you know the Dunkenhalgh?’ Henry cut in, realizing her thought process was addled for some reason. The Dunkenhalgh was the name of an hotel just off the M65 motorway on the outskirts of Accrington.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She sounded relieved.

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour, traffic permitting. We can have a coffee there.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, that’d be good.’ She hung up. Henry checked and saw the number she had dialled from was withheld.

  ‘Thank you too,’ he said to thin air. Before going back inside the pub, he made a call to John Walker, the detective from technical support, had a quick conversation, then headed indoors.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen someone fried,’ Donaldson was telling Ken Clayson, the landlord. Their discussion had moved on to the death penalty. ‘Jump about like catfish on a pole — zzzz!’ Donaldson demonstrated, twitching in his chair.

  Clayson winced uncomfortably. ‘Ugh!’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt such an intellectual discussion,’ Henry said. ‘Work to be done.’

  ‘You really seen someone burn?’ Henry’s curiosity had got the better of him. They were on the M55, heading east into Lancashire, away from the flat coast towards hill country. Henry had commandeered Donaldson and his Jeep to drive him across to the industrial hinterland and Donaldson had agreed without a murmur of dissent. Now the big vehicle was ploughing its heavy way through a torrential downpour with the assuredness of a tank.

  ‘Nah. Seen videos. Never been up close and personal, though.’

  ‘Thought as much, you bullshitter.’

  They lapsed into silence as they came to the end of the M55 and joined the M6 south, a stretch of motorway spanning the River Ribble, which held some shaky memories for Henry. Since those days the motorway had been widened and looked nothing like the carriageway on which he’d seen a bomb explode with devastating consequences.

  ‘What does this broad want?’

  ‘Hard to say. She sounded upset by something. I do think she knows more than she let on originally, though, but something held her back from blabbing. I could tell.’

  Donaldson powered on to the M61. The rain continued to drive hard, the road surface running like a river, the day black. His headlights cut through the wall of water thrown up by other vehicles. He took a quick glance at Henry. ‘Someone means business with you, Henry,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘I know.’ He was glum, worried.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Henry made a raspberry sound. ‘I’ve already speculated with you.’

  ‘You think the guys who went for you last night are the ones who did your car?’

  ‘Stands to reason, I suppose.’

  ‘Or could it be someone else?’

  ‘Fuck knows — but I’ll find out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll find out — trust me.’

  Silence descended again. He could have told Donaldson he had something up his sleeve to identify the car wrecker(s), but it was something he wanted to keep to himself for the time being.

  Donaldson joined the M65, heading in the direction of Blackburn and Accrington.

  ‘It’s over three years since I spoke to Mark Tapperman’s wife,’ Donaldson said thoughtfully.

  ‘You never told me he’d been murdered.’

  ‘No real need. I knew you didn’t know him, so he would’ve meant nothing to you. I don’t tell you everything I know, pal.’

  ‘And I thank God for that … but there was the Danny Furness connection.’

  Donaldson shrugged. ‘He helped her out, is all.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘He was a good cop, Tapperman. It must’ve taken someone very evil to get the better of him.’

  ‘It’s always the routine jobs that catch you out,’ Henry said. ‘Next junction.’

  The Dunkenhalgh was a nice hotel, set in lovely wooded grounds close to the motorway. It had even been the location of seve
ral of Henry’s drunken excesses during the earlier years of his service. He’d been to quite a few police functions there. He’d even had to work there on police business occasionally. Once, during the mid-eighties when he was on Support Unit, he’d spent a night there policing the local annual hunt ball at a time when anti-hunt protesters were causing a lot of problems. In the end, nothing happened that night, except that Henry and a couple of his wilder colleagues got drunk on duty and, to his everlasting kudos, Henry actually ended up getting a blow job from one of the lady hunt members on a four-poster bed in her room. It had been an exciting indiscretion, made all the more hazardous because her husband was on the dance floor and Henry’s sergeant, a vindictive little man who despised Henry, was trying to find him.

  Heady days, very special times, he thought as Donaldson drove up the long driveway to the hotel. How the hell he got away with some of the things he did he would never know. It was a classic notch on his headboard, one he occasionally relived with much pleasure and, sometimes, a cold sweat.

  In those days of pre-marriage, he had often been wild and reckless. So what’s changed? he asked himself, then realized at that exact moment, on a complete tangent, why Jackie Harcourt’s voice was so familiar over the phone: she had been the crying woman.

  Ms Jackie Harcourt was waiting in the conservatory, a mineral water in front of her. She looked perplexed when she saw Henry had brought a colleague with him, and Henry saw her face drop. He introduced Donaldson and explained he was simply the taxi service, and that seemed to appease her. Donaldson took the hint.

  ‘I’ll get me a coffee,’ he said, backing away.

  ‘Do you want one?’ Ms Harcourt asked Henry. He nodded. A waiter came over and took his order as he sat down on the opposite end of the comfortable sofa on which she was seated.

  Her eyes did not meet Henry’s, but she asked, ‘Can we wait for the coffee to come before we start?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Henry, wishing he’d asked for a water now. He’d had so much coffee that morning, he was starting to shake.