Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  Here he would be alone, with the exception of contact with Jane Roscoe, whatever use that would be, and his own resourcefulness.

  He felt like he had been stripped.

  And it was not comfortable.

  His coffee gave him an extra kick. He looked around the café, the people inside it. He took in their faces and returned to one, that of a woman who kept staring at him.

  He caught her gaze. She frowned and looked away. Henry was sure he did not know her, but got the impression she thought she knew him. But a lot of people knew him. It came with the territory of being a cop, or, he laughed to himself, a private eye. Henry Christie PI. It had a certain, discordant ring to it.

  The woman was staring at him again, transfixed. Henry looked out to sea and sank some more coffee.

  Firstly he would give Tara Wickson a ring. Check out how she was feeling. See if she wanted anything more from him . . .

  ‘You don’t know me, do you?’

  Henry’s head swivelled. He was not surprised to see the woman from the nearby table standing next to him. Henry put her about his age, but she seemed older for some reason. There was a great sadness around her eyes which immediately touched Henry. He had seen it before. It was the look of loss.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he admitted.

  ‘I don’t actually know your name, but I know you, I recognize you.’ Her eyes were watery, almost tearful. ‘I’m sorry, but could I have some of your time?’

  ‘Uh – sure.’ She took a seat without further invitation. ‘What can I do for you?’ His brow was deeply furrowed.

  ‘Six years ago, it was, maybe a little longer, I’m not sure . . . yes, it would be a little longer. Time has lost its meaning for me. I’m just floating around now, treading water until I die.’

  Henry’s warning signals blared out. Oh-oh, nutter. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ The woman smiled a sad smile. Henry relaxed. He knew his first assessment had been correct: loss, bereavement, but not mad. She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think I am going bonkers, but I’m not. Going mad would be a release from the hell I’m in.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked again.

  ‘Six years ago you were on a stand at a careers convention at the University of Central Lancashire.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ Henry recalled it vividly. Two days of sheer hell, inundated with hundreds of rude students asking him about life as a plod. It was not something he had volunteered for, but FB – then a chief superintendent – had volunteered him. Two torrid days of smiling and pleasantries at students who were mostly shits, with the occasional one showing real interest.

  ‘You changed my daughter’s life,’ the woman said.

  Henry began to feel uneasy.

  ‘She’d been drifting, really. Not a clue what she wanted to do. She was due to get her degree and she simply had no idea what to do with her life, so she went to the careers convention and dragged me along with her. The woman scratched her chin and gazed over Henry’s shoulder, seeing something. ‘You changed her life and I don’t even know your name.’

  Henry told her.

  ‘I think you were a detective sergeant then. I remember that, too.’

  There had been representatives from all walks of Constabulary life: uniform foot patrol, dogs, horses, support staff and many others including himself, the only detective on the stand, the only one foolish enough to get snared into it. Even in plain clothes he could find nowhere to hide.

  ‘My daughter was called Jo Coniston.’

  Henry blinked. He knew no names from the convention, could hardly even recall any of the faces, was just glad to get away at the end of it.

  ‘She spoke to every one of the people on the police stand, and you know what? It just captured her imagination. You were the last one she spoke to and you told her all about being a detective, told her all about your career . . .’

  He continued to wrack his brains. One of the things he prided himself on was his memory. Names, faces, cars, houses . . . usually related to crims.

  The woman opened her handbag and took out a photograph. She showed it to Henry.

  Then he recognized her. Tall and gawky, just on the verge of turning into a lovely young woman. Long brown hair constantly falling into her eyes, which were wide, blue, innocent, yet knowing. Yes, there had been something special about her.

  ‘I remember the face now,’ he said, frowning. He asked the next question with a sense of dread. ‘You said she was called Jo Coniston. What do you mean by that?’

  The woman seemed not to hear him. ‘She joined the police six months later . . . GMP . . . always talking about the conversation she had with you.’ She fished out another photograph. It was one of Jo in uniform, probably on the day of her passing-out parade at Bruche, the police training centre down in Warrington. Hair now short, figure slightly fuller, a look of no-nonsense on her face but coupled with a wonderful smile filled with sunshine.

  ‘What happened?’ Henry asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know what happened to my beautiful daughter.’ She caught back a sob, inhaled deeply to control herself and slid the photos back into her bag. ‘She got a job on the surveillance branch eventually. Loved it, just loved the job. One night she and another officer simply disappeared,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Disappeared.’

  ‘No bodies were found, were they?’ Henry said. It was really a statement rather than a question because now he remembered the job. It was one which made the news across the north quite extensively for a while. ‘About two years ago. Lots of speculation about it, even that she ran off with her partner, if I recall right.’

  The woman snorted. ‘If she had done that, she would have told me. We spoke on the phone every day. I saw her twice a week. I would have known if something like that had been going on.’

  ‘Parents often say that,’ Henry said gently. ‘Often they’re wrong.’

  ‘Not with me and Jo,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Er . . . sorry . . . I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Brenda Coniston.’

  Henry nodded. ‘OK, Brenda . . .’ He shrugged, then squinted at her. ‘We’ve bumped into each other . . . coincidences happen . . . I’m really sorry about Jo, but I can only assume that everything was done at the time to trace her. The police just don’t let their staff disappear. They try to find them. Cops are actually very good at finding folk – unless your daughter didn’t want to be found. Could that be the case?’ It sounded highly unlikely, but he asked anyway.

  Brenda did not look remotely convinced. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for the last two years, Mr Christie, and it’s been tearing me apart. If she had decided to elope with this guy, I know, I just know that sooner or later, she would have made contact with me . . . at least in a little way. We were so close.’

  Henry kept silent.

  ‘I’m sure she’s dead. The police think she’s dead. All right, there’s no bodies been found.’ Her lips began to tremble. ‘She’s been murdered, hasn’t she, Mr Christie?’

  ‘You’re my contact, you come and pick me up,’ Henry whined down the phone to Jane Roscoe.

  ‘I’m not your anything, officially, and besides which I’m running a triple murder, so I don’t have time to kow-tow to your every whim.’

  ‘But I’m one of your leading operatives.’

  ‘No, you’re not – not officially, so bog off and either walk home or get a taxi. FB offered you a lift and you declined, so tough!’

  ‘But I came out without any money,’ he lied.

  ‘Shanks’ pony, then, innit?’ said stiffly, ending the call abruptly.

  Henry stared at his dead mobile and sighed.

  Mrs Coniston had gone; accompanied by the woman friend she was with, leaving Henry feeling as though he had kicked off a chain of events, which had subsequently led to her daughter’s disappearance. That was all he needed, a guilt trip on top of all his other
woes. That had been the reason he had phoned Jane to cadge a lift home. Guilt. Guilt about dumping her. He wanted to know how she was really getting on.

  He stood up, feeling that he had imbibed too much caffeine now. His hands were shaking, as though with DTs.

  All of a sudden he felt he could not win at anything.

  He decided to clear his head by walking into St Anne’s town centre and hopping into a taxi from there.

  The staff in the café waved him off, glad to see him go.

  Outside, he trotted down the steps as Jane Roscoe drew up in her car. She lowered her window and forced a reluctant smile on to her lips. ‘Get in.’

  ‘I’ll make this perfectly clear to you, Henry. I am not going back down the road of our relationship. It’s over. Zip. Kaput. Done. OK? No post-mortems, no recriminations, no further involvement. Got that?’

  Henry nodded numbly.

  ‘You did what you did and I got over you and let’s leave it at that. I miss you, OK, but that gets less each day.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said thinly.

  They rode in silence.

  ‘Why come and pick me up then?’

  ‘Because FB has put me in charge of the investigation into the deaths of two police officers and a nurse. The trail leads firmly back to John Lloyd Wickson and if we – the police, that is – can’t open his can of worms, then I’m hoping that you – not the real police, that is – might at least prise the lid off. It’s a purely selfish thing. I’ve got a job to do, I need your help and you won’t help by sitting in a café all day drinking milky coffee. Although you couldn’t have paid for it because you didn’t come out with any money.’

  ‘I fibbed.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what’s you plan, unofficial boss?’

  ‘I’m going to drop you off at home, I’m going to go and see John Lloyd Wickson, then you’re going to see Mrs Wickson and hopefully keep your dick out of her gob, and get her to spill some beans.’

  ‘Oooh, good plan.’

  ‘Got a better one?’

  ‘Yes, but it involved me, you and sex.’

  Jane’s head remained dead straight. Henry saw redness creep up her neck. She was easily embarrassed and driven to anger. She did not respond, but gripped the steering wheel tighter. Henry was very sorry he had said it. Once again he knew his forefinger was hovering over the self-destruct button. He apologized – and meant it.

  She relaxed, allowing her shoulders to droop.

  ‘Y’know,’ she said wistfully, ‘the sex was the best ever . . . but it’s never going to happen again.’

  Henry knew she meant it. ‘By the way,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘by the way, I haven’t got a car to use, as mine is in dock. How can I be expected to get out and about on all this unofficial business without one? Hm?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  It was approaching midday when Jane dropped him off at home. He watched her drive away, but she did not look back to see him all forlorn. Once her car had gone, Henry let himself into the house, which was quiet and empty. It was good to be alone.

  He sat down by the phone in the lounge with his Filofax. It was a dog-eared specimen, almost ten years old, which he updated regularly, unable to grasp any of the benefits of having a palm-sized computerized personal organizer. He preferred the substance of pen and paper, could trust it more. He opened the leather-bound book and rooted out the card Tara Wickson had given him. He dialled her home number: engaged. Then her mobile: no response. He hung up and riffled through the Filofax to find another number he wished to call, that of a Detective Inspector in Greater Manchester Police called Brindle. He knew this would be a long shot, because cops work numbers change with the wind. He was not disappointed. It came back unobtainable. It was a number the guy had given him six years before.

  This made him move to the number of another officer in GMP with whom he’d had dealings recently. This was a successful connection and he gave Henry the new number of the DI, who, he was told, was now a DCI.

  Before phoning, he tried the Wickson numbers again. They were as before.

  Then he tried the DCI’s number, which, he had been told, was a direct line to his desk.

  It was answered on the first ring. ‘DCI Brindle, can I help?’

  ‘Hi, John, it’s Henry Christie from Lancs Constab.’ Henry determined it was more appropriate, if slightly deceitful, to let the man think Henry was still officially a cop, even though doing so made Henry feel nervous. ‘Didn’t know you’d moved up a rank. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry.’

  They exchanged the usual pleasantries before the DCI asked what he could do for Henry. He explained about bumping into Jo Coniston’s mother and what she had said.

  ‘Obviously I don’t know anything about it, so I was just curious and felt a bit of an obligation to ask a few questions. Quite clearly Mrs Coniston believes that not enough was done at the time.’

  ‘Hm. I wasn’t involved in any way, but it was a strange one. A MIR was set up and ran for a few months, but nothing came of it. There was no actual evidence of foul play, but yeah, it was an odd one. No bodies, nothing really. I don’t know if there’s anywhere you can go with it, to be honest.’

  Henry asked, ‘Is there any way of looking at the file papers?’ He did not want to push things, knew he really had no right to ask, whether he was a real cop or not. ‘Fresh pair of eyes?’

  ‘Are you offering your services?’

  ‘I am an SIO and whilst my workload is crippling –’ here Henry winced – ‘I wouldn’t mind having the chance to have a glance through the stuff if at all possible. Just as a favour to this woman.’

  The DCI considered the request. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  Henry gave him his mobile number and thanked him. When he hung up he found he was sweating and his hands were still shaking a little. The result of lying. And lots of coffee.

  He was unsure what to do next, having retried the Wickson number and still getting no response.

  So having found himself with some time on his hands and being such a good new man, he did some cleaning up, got the washer working (with washing in it, even) and after a short wrestling match with the recalcitrant ironing board, did some ironing too.

  It was one of the most therapeutic activities he had ever done. He could quite easily have bragged that he had never ironed clothing very much during his life, other than when he had no choice in the matter. Now he loved it. Smoothing clothes down with a hot, steaming iron, putting razor-sharp creases into things, transforming crumpled items into nice, presentable, lovingly pressed clothing: from knickers to shirts. He was amazed at what he had been missing all his life.

  He was half-way through the pile of clothing, lost in thoughts, when his mobile rang. It was the DCI from GMP.

  ‘Henry, done a few minutes digging on Jo Coniston. It’s still an open murder/missing person’s file. Her team leader at the time, a sergeant called Al Major on the surveillance branch, might be worth having a chat with. I’m sure he’d be able to give you some initial background. I don’t really know more than that.’

  ‘Is he still on surveillance, based in Prestwich?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I’ve had a word with the SIO who ran the initial investigation and he’d be more than happy for you to take a look at it.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s good. But it is unofficial, though if I do find anything, things could change.’

  ‘Understood . . . Bye, Henry . . . Speak again soon.’

  And let’s just pray that you or the SIO don’t phone Lancashire and ask to speak to me, or I’m goosed, Henry thought. He plugged his mobile phone into the charger and resumed ironing, wondering if he could make some sort of living by taking in other folks’ washing. It could supplement his meagre income from the private eye business.

  Half an hour later, ironing done, he put his feet up.

  The house phone rang. It was Jane Roscoe.

  ‘Got off your lardy fat ar
se yet?’ was her opening salvo.

  ‘I’m doing telephone enquiries in between washing, ironing and general household duties,’ he came back haughtily.

  ‘I’ve seen Wickson.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. He claims all innocence. No idea why anyone would want to take a pop at him or burn his stables down. No one has any grudges against him. He’s as white as a white person can be.’

  ‘And a liar.’

  ‘A big fat one,’ Jane confirmed. ‘But he’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want any police rooting around him or his business.’ Jane snorted. ‘No chance of that. Do you think you’ll be able to get into Tara?’

  ‘I’ll try . . . I’ve been trying . . . no reply on the phone. Where did you speak to Wickson?

  ‘A huge building site is being cleared off Bloomfield Road, near to the footy ground. He’s got a site office there, got a few machines on it, crushing the stone and tidying the place up.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know if missus was at home then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘OK, I’ll try her again, but only if I can claim the cost of my calls back.’

  ‘Henry – just fucking do it. You still get paid an inspector’s wage, don’t you?’

  ‘You sound like FB––’

  He was left holding a dead phone, which he placed back in its cradle, then lifted back to his ear. It was only then he heard the peculiar tone that indicated a message had been left on the answerphone service. He had been called whilst on the line to Jane. He dialled 1471 first.

  It had once been a huge factory which had fallen into disuse and over the years had become an eyesore. John Lloyd Wickson had seen its development potential years earlier and had kept close tabs on the progress of the building, which had gone through several hands before coming on to the open market earlier in the year. He had bought it for a snip because the owners were desperate to get rid of a useless piece of land.

  Wickson knew he could develop it and make money at every stage of the process, from demolition to disposal of the hardcore, to eventually building on it as per his vision: a site combining a housing estate, some retail outlets, a hotel, a small business park and, as far as the council was concerned, the icing on the cake: Wickson’s promise to build a new primary school for free.