Bad Blood

by Nick Oldham

  Henry chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. ‘What defence lawyers?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rik was confused.

  ‘You know, you have the skills and abilities to become one of the best detectives this force has ever had, I shit you not. But at the moment, you’re awfully naive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rik asked, hurt.

  ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Henry, what are you getting at?’

  ‘This will never, ever, in a zillion years go to trial. I even doubt that Jack Marsh, or whoever we decide to call him, will make it as far as a police car. His brains’ll be splattered all over the copper unlucky enough to be cuffed to him. He’s too dangerous in too many ways and RedFour or The Unit will just take him out – and then you’ll be in a whole new ballgame.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Rik said. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I am right … So, how’s it going?’

  It wasn’t going spectacularly well. At that moment Jack Marsh, aka David Jones, had covered his tracks too well and the police were stone-walled. Henry hoped the debit and credit card details would lead somewhere. They were an easy source of money and Jack definitely needed cash to keep operating. Henry guessed he would try and bleed them dry before his old bosses realized he was still drawing on them. Even if he had emptied them already, the locations of his withdrawals and spending could be followed up to at least give an idea of the area he might be in.

  There was also a lot of legwork and telephone work to be done. There was a possibility he might have rented a property somewhere in Lancashire either before or after he struck and detectives were contacting estate and letting agencies to follow up any recent lets, as well as scouring newspaper columns for private lets. It was all slow, tedious work.

  Rik had gone national with photographs of Ginny, appealing for anyone who might have seen her to come forward. That was getting little response.

  It seemed Jack Marsh had gone to ground.

  Henry left Rik’s office feeling depressed on top of everything else, and slid into his Mondeo Estate.

  He drove out of Preston onto the M6 and let the Rolling Stones blast out his brain for the whole of the journey back to Kendleton, killing all his bleak thoughts for half an hour or so with a concert from 1975. He drew up outside the Tawny Owl to see the pub open and, with Anna Niven at the helm, business was thriving. He would have found it preferable to slink in unobserved and put his feet up in the living room but was spotted as soon as he walked in and greeted with a cheer by a group of locals by the main bar.

  He fixed a smile and dragged himself to them and if he was honest, they did cheer him up with their good, compassionate humour and support, plus a couple of pints of Stella, the taste of which, having flowed through pipes he himself had meticulously cleaned, was excellent.

  After an hour he made his excuses and retired to the living room after having a chat with Anna, promising to speak to her about future plans tomorrow.

  She gave him a hug and he let himself into the owner’s section.

  It was deathly quiet as the heavy door closed behind him. He stood looking along the corridor off which were all the rooms. He swallowed and pushed himself off the door and walked slowly along and into the bedroom he had shared with Alison, sat on the edge for a moment then slowly lay back and felt the tears roll out of his eyes, down his temples and on to the covers.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The long shower refreshed him and he stepped out feeling almost human, towelling himself down. There was a full-length mirror in the bedroom, which Alison used regularly, but which Henry usually avoided.

  But he caught sight of himself, stopped and stared at his naked reflection. He had lost so much weight, so quickly, which in some respects was good but in others, not. Skin now hung loosely around his man-boobs and the backs of his upper arms. ‘Batwings’ Alison used to call them. His neck was scrawny, eyes deep-set, lines etched at the corners of his mouth, his skin pale and drawn, the colour of old parchment.

  That was all underneath what remained of his facial injuries.

  He twisted to look at his wounded arm, having just bathed it, and was surprised to see a bruise spreading like lichen across his shoulder.

  He touched his skull, letting his fingertips run slowly across his close-cropped hair.

  Felt OK. He wondered if he had been lucky or whether there would be repercussions from the fracture.

  At the moment he thought his brain was probably OK, although he still could not remember anything beyond seeing Lord Chalmers shot to death. He still had no idea why he’d crashed the Navara other than from what Jake Niven had explained. Nor did he have a clue as to how he had got out of the car and gone behind a rock. That whole part was blank.

  He suddenly didn’t care. It would all get swept under the carpet anyway and sitting there alone on that bed, he didn’t have the will to fight that one or make a stink about it, even though he had ended up injured because of it. It would be a losing battle.

  What he would fight for, though, was Alison’s death, Ginny’s death (if that was how it was to be), Tod Rawstron’s death, the CSI’s death and even Tod’s dog’s death, all at the hands of Jack Marsh.

  Henry would never give up, even if Marsh ended up dead before a trial. He would embarrass Whitehall, he would parade and protest outside number 10 Downing Street with a placard. Might even get himself arrested,

  ‘Fuck The Unit and fuck RedFour,’ he said. ‘Shit, what a mess.’

  A loud knocking came from the connecting door into the pub. He wrapped a large towel around his midriff and slid his feet into his slippers and went to answer it.

  Anna Niven stood on the other side. ‘Henry, sorry to bother you, someone to see you … I said you wouldn’t mind.’

  He glanced over Anna’s shoulder to see Debbie Rawstron standing there.

  There followed one of the longest hours in Henry Christie’s life, holding himself together whilst having to deal with the tsunami of despair pouring out of Tod’s mother. By the time she left, he was mentally scarred and bruised and with a stone-like face he went into the bar, picked up a clean whisky glass and pushed it up twice under the optic containing Bell’s whisky. It wasn’t his favourite, but he wanted its sharpness.

  He took it back into the living room where he settled on the settee, lifted his ankles onto the coffee table and held the glass under his nose to inhale the aroma and prepare his tastebuds for the assault they were about to experience.

  Debbie Rawstron was in a place beyond grief and desperate to share it with someone who was feeling it as much as she was. Through her body-jarring sobs, she told Henry how her husband had withdrawn into himself, become cold and aloof and put up a barrier she was too weak to cross or understand.

  Henry had dealt with all forms of grief over the years.

  He had learned stuff about it. That everyone was different. That no one should be judged negatively just because they didn’t cry or cried too much, too loudly, or threw crockery across the kitchen or rearranged the kitchen cupboards to make them tidier.

  What he hadn’t learned, though, was what bereavement was like when it hit home.

  When it hit you in the gut.

  How should you feel? How should you deal with it when it’s affecting you, not someone else?

  He had lost his wife, Kate, to cancer, now he’d lost Alison and maybe Ginny.

  And he wasn’t managing it greatly.

  He told Debbie that her husband was dealing with his son’s death in his own way and if she loved him (‘Yes, yes I do, he’s my world’) then she should give him time and he would do the same for her.

  Slowly she calmed down and began to talk more rationally about Tod, what a little rogue he had been, how he loved the outdoors and the job he’d just been given and how he had turned himself around from being a petty criminal to a life full of possibilities.

  She finished the tea Henry had made for her, then stood up.

  ‘Thank you, thanks for
listening. I know Tod liked and respected you and Alison and I’m so sorry for your loss.’ She wiped away her tears and took a deep, jerky sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry for you, too. He was a good lad, and don’t be too hard on your husband.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Henry got to his feet and showed her to the door where she turned.

  ‘Would you hold me?’ she asked. ‘No one’s held me yet, not John, not me mum …’ Her voice trailed off weakly.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Henry, aware his bottom lip was beginning to quiver.

  He held her tightly, she held him back, then they pulled apart.

  ‘Will they ever find the man who did this?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah, they will,’ he said confidently.

  ‘Thank you.’ She pecked him on the cheek. He opened the door for her and she stepped out into the pub.

  A man sitting on one of the comfy chairs by the door rose quickly, awkwardly, to his feet on seeing her, then he stood with his hands at his sides looking helpless and very, very lost.

  Debbie rushed across to him and embraced her husband.

  Henry played all this through in his mind with the whisky held tantalizingly under his nose.

  The phone rang. He almost ignored it.

  Henry drove onto the car park of the multiplex cinema complex on Portway on the eastern edge of Preston Docks. The place was virtually empty and he had some qualms about leaving his Mondeo Estate there at this late time of day – almost eleven thirty p.m. – but he had little choice. He got out, leaned on it, folded his arms and waited.

  Headlights appeared and a car sped towards him, stopping with a sudden lurch. One of the rear doors was flung open and Henry ducked in and slammed the door. The car shot off, rocking him against the seat.

  The man in the front passenger seat turned.

  ‘We might have him,’ Rik Dean said.

  There was a bank of three ATMs on the external wall of Morrison’s supermarket on the retail park next to the old Albert Edward Dock.

  Henry knew them well.

  When he was an SIO based at headquarters but living in Blackpool, driving past Morrison’s was a twice-daily occurrence, on the way to work and on the way home. He often used the ATMs to grab some cash. In fact he knew this whole area well, the Riversway Docklands as they were known. The big dock itself with the big retail units on the north side and all the former warehouses, now converted into apartments, lining the southern edge. The dock itself fed out into the River Ribble, which flowed to its estuary at Lytham.

  He had been to many incidents here in his time.

  And raided quite a few of the apartments for drugs and guns.

  Rik’s driver pulled onto the car park outside the McDonald’s restaurant further on than Morrison’s.

  ‘What have we got?’ Henry asked. He had been patient so far, but now it had worn thin.

  Rik turned again.

  ‘I’ve had analysts looking at the usage of the debit and credit cards Jack Marsh had access to, and the banks’ve been great too. He’s been using all of them since he walked out of the nut house, almost all around here. The last one was used two days ago on Blackpool Road. He seems to have been rotating them and taking out money every two days, just before midnight and just after to get the maximum for each day. He’s withdrawn thousands. There are four he uses around here – the NatWest ATM at Morrison’s just here, one up on Blackpool Road, one at the Spar Shop on Water Lane and another near the university on Fylde Road. All within easy walking distance of each other, if that’s what he’s doing. We’ve got people on them all right now and we’ve got the banks looking at this in real time, we’re set up in the MIR and comms to relay information immediately … but this one here, at Morrison’s, should be the next to be used if he sticks to the pattern.’ Rik was speaking quickly, easily.

  ‘Which could mean he might be renting around here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rik said. Even in the darkness Henry could see the glint of excitement in his eyes. ‘And on that note, a basement flat under a house in Tulketh Brow was rented two weeks ago by a mystery guy, paid cash up front, no name, no pack drill, description fits our man.’ He paused, almost breathless. ‘We cover the ATMs and if nothing comes of that, we go knock-knockin’ mob-handed through the flat door. Teams are ready as we speak.’

  ‘You moved quick.’

  ‘Got lucky quick.’

  ‘Nah, you make your own luck in this game.’

  ‘As soon as a debit card goes in, we’re on it,’ Rik said.

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ Henry sat back in the knowledge that in most cases nothing ever comes of stakeouts like these other than boredom or frustration – although he did recall one years ago when he ended up getting shot in the chest in Marks & Spencer in Lancaster. Saved on that occasion by a bullet-proof vest, he still had the mark on his sternum where the bullet had struck.

  ‘You can’t get involved,’ Rik warned him. ‘You’re just observing.’

  ‘I’m too poorly anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Rik said through the corner of his mouth.

  Rik contact-called all patrols via the dedicated radio channel for this operation. There seemed to be an awful lot of people, all sat waiting, hoping something would happen. Henry didn’t even bother to try and imagine where or how they had been secreted, but he half-imagined an ARV unit abseiling down from Morrison’s roof like the SAS.

  Then he heard, ‘Alpha Golf 4.’ It was whispered.

  Rik held up a finger for quiet.

  ‘Golf 4 – lone male, hood up, just appeared on Morrison’s car park. Not certain where from but crossing east to west … possibly came through the hedge by Homebase. He is crossing towards the front of the superstore.’

  ‘Roger,’ Rik said.

  Other patrols acknowledged.

  Henry waited tensely.

  ‘He’s at the machine,’ a patrol called up.

  ‘Need to wait,’ Rik told everyone. He looked at Henry. ‘I think we’ll check out this monkey even if he doesn’t trigger an alarm.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Henry agreed.

  Then control room cut in. ‘Patrols on Morrison’s – it’s confirmed. Money being withdrawn from the highlighted account.’

  ‘Hit him!’ Rik said almost before the transmission ended.

  With a flurry of voices and acknowledgements, all patrols shouted up and rushed from their positions to surround the person at the ATM.

  Rik held back for just a moment. ‘We’ll let them nail him.’

  It was quick and efficient. Less than a minute later a patrol shouted up, ‘Suspect detained Morrison’s car park.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Rik said.

  As much as Henry wanted to believe this was true, he didn’t, even though his heart was slamming quickly as the car raced to the arrest scene.

  The suspect was laid out, splayed on his front, face down into the cold ground. His hands had been cuffed behind his back and two cops were standing with a foot each on his ankles. Two AFOs pointed guns at his head.

  As Rik’s car lurched to a halt, he jumped out and shouldered his way through the ring of cops and squatted down by the man’s head and pointed a torch beam into his face.

  Henry watched the quick interview take place on an audio/video loop feeding from the cells complex to an office in the MIR.

  Rik was carrying out the interview.

  The prisoner was a young man called Allan Roache.

  Not Jack Marsh. Nothing like Jack Marsh.

  ‘I tell you man,’ Roache was whining, ‘I don’t know the dude. He was just very fucking scary but he said I could have fifteen quid for every two hundred I drew out for him, so I weren’t gonna argue wi’ that, were I? I’d a bin on thirty fat boys tonight for doing nothin’.’

  ‘And you didn’t wonder why it was such easy money?’ Rik asked.

  Roache shrugged. ‘Dosh is dosh.’

  Henry didn’t even listen to any more of it. Roache was simply a local toe rag, a druggie,
living off the state but eager to take any other money coming his way. He would not care one iota what was behind it all. Draw money, take your cut and no more (Henry knew the consequences would have been spelled out to him) and leave the balance in a plastic bag in the equivalent of a dead-letter drop, behind some bricks in a designated wall or in a litter bin. The location of the drop would be texted sometime in the early hours, so he didn’t exactly know where it would be until then. He told police a different phone was used every time for this, and he was instructed to delete all traces on his phone.

  Roache had also been shown a photograph of Marsh, but had just shrugged a ‘Dunno,’ at it.

  Henry stood up and paced the MIR, believing that finding Ginny was getting further and further from his grasp.

  He slumped on a chair in the SIO’s office just as Rik came back from the cells looking stressed out.

  ‘We should’ve just followed the fucker,’ he said despondently.

  ‘Maybe you still could, maybe he’ll still text.’

  ‘I’ll bet you anything Marsh watched all this happen and he’s laughing like fuck at us. He’s not going to just let someone like Roache draw money for him unsupervised. He’ll have been watching us and we’ve blown it. Now he’ll just change location, hit other ATMs until his accounts are stopped.’

  ‘Hey, you had to arrest him, you did right, save the post-mortem. Sometimes you have to show your hand. It’s all a gamble … unfortunately it’s a gamble with an innocent girl’s life.’

  They looked miserably at each other.

  ‘Boss?’

  Rik turned. The custody sergeant was at the door, a man Henry also knew of old.

  He had a mobile phone in his hand, covered up by the palm of his right. He mouthed, ‘Roache’s phone … it’s for Mr Christie … Jack Marsh.’

  Henry took the phone from the sergeant, his eyes on Rik Dean. Henry now mouthed, ‘Can we trace it?’ Then he put the phone to his ear and said politely, ‘This is Henry Christie, who is this, please?’

  ‘You should be dead, Henry,’ a male voice informed him.