Unforgiving

by Nick Oldham

  Henry’s eyes were tight shut as she did this; she then applied a plaster and dressing.

  ‘Done,’ she added. ‘A work of art.’

  ‘Even if you say so yourself.’

  ‘Even that.’

  Henry had been at the Accident and Emergency unit at Lancaster Infirmary for four hours. He’d had his head, literally, examined by the on-duty consultant (who looked about nineteen, Henry thought) and an X-ray machine that confirmed nothing was broken. Though the blow had been hard and heavy and had floored him into unconsciousness, it had glanced off his head at an angle like a tennis player’s slice, as opposed to a straight down smash. Had it been the latter, the doctor assured him, he might well be on a mortuary slab now. He had been lucky.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed in the cubicle.

  His head was still swimming under water.

  The nurse said, ‘Really, we should keep you here for twenty-four hours’ observation with a wound like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But we have no bed space, so …’ She handed him a leaflet. ‘If you have any of the symptoms listed in this, you must come back. You know – nausea, vomiting, dizziness, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Got ya.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, you’ve been great.’

  ‘Just one last thing.’

  Henry hoped for a kiss – just to make him feel extra better – but instead she fitted a crêpe bandage skull cap over the dressing for extra protection and said, ‘That’s a nice look.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  The cubicle curtain rustled, and Jake Niven’s face appeared in a gap. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, I think we’ve finished here.’ The nurse left, giving Jake an appreciative glance of the type Henry rarely got from members of the opposite sex these days.

  Jake stepped in, and Henry looked at him. His suit and shoes had been ruined, and it looked doubtful that any type of cleaning would rescue them. The trousers were torn and filthy, and his shoes were sodden.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Jake asked Henry.

  ‘Unless the X-ray missed a fractured skull, I think I’m OK.’

  ‘Good.’ Jake perched next to Henry on the bed and looked sincerely at him. ‘Haven’t had a chance to say this properly, Henry – but thank you.’

  Henry frowned, and his stitches constricted painfully.

  Jake, seeing that expression, said, ‘For doing what you did – going over to see Overwall with Danny, then going back after you dropped him off. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘I never liked Overwall, something sleazy about him; always thought he was lying about the night Laura went missing, but just couldn’t prove anything … and Emma was missing, Jake. Anyone would have done what I did.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Jake said. ‘And because of what you did, two very dangerous men have been caught.’

  ‘And by the way, your girl packs a punch,’ Henry said with admiration. ‘She can kick ass.’

  ‘I know … Her karate lessons came good,’ Jake said.

  Henry nodded. ‘What’s happening with Overwall?’

  ‘He’s in custody down the road at Lancaster nick. I’ve done all the initial processing, and he’ll be interviewed by detectives in an hour or two. From what I’ve heard from him so far, they won’t be able to shut him up.’

  Henry sighed. ‘Things that go on under your nose.’ He shook his head in disbelief, though the truth was that over the span of his career Henry had often found out what went on under people’s noses, and nothing surprised him any more. This worried him slightly, because sometimes he wanted to be surprised.

  ‘I thought Kendleton and district was supposed to be a quiet backwater?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Henry slid off the bed on to his feet, staggering slightly as he put his zip-up jacket back on, threading his arms stiffly into the sleeves with Jake’s assistance. The front of the jacket was a bloody, snotty mess: a combination of fluids from a dead horse and Spencer Bartle and his own blood.

  They stepped out of the cubicle and made their way along the A&E ward to another cubicle with the curtain drawn across, containing Laura Marshall. Both men stopped and hesitated here. A uniformed cop sat twiddling his thumbs in the empty cubicle, opposite.

  Further down the ward, in another cubicle, was the other young woman who had been one of Bartle’s prisoners. She was being spoken to by a detective, and her family had just arrived at the hospital. She had been identified as Rebecca Merryweather.

  The curtain opened, and the young-looking consultant who had treated Henry emerged, clipboard in hand, stethoscope dangling from a pocket in his housecoat, his hair a tousled mess.

  ‘How is she?’ Henry asked.

  The consultant did a quick calculation. ‘Exhausted, emaciated, damaged in so many ways … a victim of rape, abuse – psychological and physical – torture. To be honest, I’m amazed she is still alive, but, having said that, she is still very, very strong inside herself, and although I’m no psychiatrist, I’d say she will do well. Eventually.’

  ‘Can we see her?’

  ‘One second.’

  The doctor disappeared back into the cubicle. There was a muted conversation, then he stuck his head out a moment later. ‘She’ll see you, but only for a few minutes. At this moment in time she needs rest, recuperation and to feel very safe.’

  Henry nodded. He knew her family were on their way, which would be a great help for her.

  The doctor stood aside, as did the nurse who was still inside the cubicle, and Henry looked at the tired, haggard, beaten face of Laura Marshall. An X-ray had confirmed her jaw had been broken and had meshed back together crookedly. It would need to be broken again and reset surgically.

  ‘Hiya, Laura.’

  ‘Sir,’ she said, through unmoving lips. She was able to talk – just.

  ‘It’s Henry,’ he said, correcting her gently, and sat down on the chair next to the bed. Jake stood back. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  She gave a short laugh, and Henry could see a twinkle in her eye. ‘Glad to be out of that, thank you.’

  Henry swallowed. He still did not have a full idea of what she and the other young women had been through in the last few months – and others, maybe, over years … Laura would be interviewed by highly trained detectives, and he would not find out anything, anyway, because he was out of it now. But he did have an imagination, and the thought of her imprisonment, torture and abuse sent a cold shiver of revulsion rippling down his backbone.

  ‘I thought he was going to kill me on the night he took me,’ she whispered. ‘He held one of those captive bolt guns to my head … I thought I was dead then. I spent the next six months wishing he had killed me … and he would’ve done eventually … He killed all the others after he’d finished with them.’ She said, sobbing, ‘When I saw the young girl he brought in today, I knew it was only a matter of time before he killed me, and you know what? I was glad.’ A tear rolled slowly down her face. ‘It felt so good sticking that knife into him … Will I get done for that?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘No … and you’re safe now, Laura, and you saved my life, so I thank you for that.’

  ‘Thank you for finding me,’ she said quietly.

  Henry blinked away his own tears.

  ‘Gents? Time’s up,’ the consultant interrupted. ‘Can we call it quits for now?’

  ‘Yeah, sure … There is just one more question,’ Henry said to Laura, ‘if you don’t mind?’

  ‘It amazes me how she managed to miss every vital organ,’ Jake said, getting into the Land Rover.

  Henry eased himself up and into the passenger side, wheezing with effort and pain. ‘People like him often have luck on their side, and I’ve known people get skewered through the skull with a sword and survive. It happens.’

  ‘One lucky bastard.’

  ‘But the beauty of it,’ Henry said, ‘is that he gets to face the ignominy of going through the justice system … I quite like that
phrase, you know? Killing’s too good for ’em, because it is. I’m glad he’ll survive, actually. If nothing else, his life in prison will be hell.’

  ‘You really believe in the system, don’t you?’ Jake queried.

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Actually, I think the system stinks – it’s as flawed as hell, there’s too many loopholes for the bad guys to climb through – but nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing someone like Spencer Bartle never see the light of day again.’

  Jake nodded and started the beast that was the ageing Land Rover, which had done him proud that night.

  He and Henry were discussing the fact that, unbelievably, Spencer Bartle was still alive – just – after having a very long, sharp knife thrust into his back and through his chest cavity. It had somehow missed his heart, spinal column and all major arteries and had just nicked a lung. It had caused a whole lot of bleeding, but had not killed him. He was presently undergoing emergency surgery to repair him, and two burly cops were waiting outside the operating theatre for him when he came out.

  Henry knew that if he had died, his sordid story might have died with him, and a number of families would have remained in a terrible, emotional limbo, and possibly might never have learned what had happened to their loved ones. From his experience in dealing with grieving families, Henry knew they would rather have bad news than none at all, because as cruel as this was, it was ‘better’ than a lifetime of false hope.

  ‘Shall we go back to the village?’ Henry said.

  Henry remained blank for the journey, sucked up in a swirl of his own thoughts, still wondering what it would have been like to bleed out, having his throat cut while his heart pumped away. Maybe he would have felt nothing if Bartle had stunned him first, but the thought made him feel sick.

  About halfway back, his phone rang. It was Alison.

  ‘On my way back from hospital,’ he said immediately, pre-empting the question. ‘Sewn-up, patched-up, head shaved, wearing a bob cap, sort of.’

  ‘Henry …’ she said, then hesitated.

  He steadied himself for the tirade. The: ‘You can’t let go! You’ll always be a cop!’ lecture, which might well be the straw that broke the camel’s back of their relationship.

  Instead, he wilted internally when she said, ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Eh? Come again?’

  ‘You heard, daft bloke.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If it’s OK, I just want to nip back over to Thornwell to get the Audi and see what’s happening over there. Jake’s driving me back.’

  ‘That’s OK. Can’t wait to see you … I love you so much.’

  He glanced self-consciously at Jake and said, ‘Ditto.’ The call ended, and Henry said, ‘She still loves me,’ with incredulity.

  ‘Nice one.’

  Henry slid the phone half into his jeans pocket.

  Fifteen minutes later Jake drew up outside the gates of Bartle’s abattoir in Thornwell, now a very busy hub of policing activity. There were marked cars, plain cars, CSI vans and major-incident vans with lighting rigs and – ominously, Henry thought – a very nice Jaguar belonging to the new chief constable of Lancashire Constabulary, one Bernard Ellison.

  The big nobs are out, he thought.

  He twisted stiffly and lowered himself from the Land Rover, hearing a dull thud as he did so, but thinking nothing of it because Jake was also getting out the opposite side and had caught his torch on the steering wheel. Henry winced as a result of two things as he placed his feet on the ground; firstly from the soreness, and secondly from the approach of the chief constable, even though he had nothing more to be worried about from the man who had ‘eased’ him out of his job. He could even call him by his first name, if he so wished – which is what he decided he would do, just to wind him up.

  ‘Henry, Henry, Henry,’ the chief said, beaming. He had recently been confirmed as the new chief, FB’s successor. He was dressed in a heavy tweed overcoat and reminded Henry of a character from a fifties film, but without the trilby.

  ‘Bernard,’ he said, avoiding the outstretched hand.

  ‘You’ve done incredibly well, Henry,’ Ellison said, recoiling slightly at the sight of Henry’s blood splattered frontage.

  ‘You mean for somebody with their head up their arse?’ Henry asked with a fake, impish smile.

  ‘Mm,’ Ellison muttered. ‘That was then, and it was a justified comment.’

  ‘One I would very much have liked to have seen on an appraisal form. “This employee has his head up his arse,”’ Henry said. ‘Very objective.’

  Ellison gave him a steely look. ‘That said, you’ve done a brilliant job here, uncovered a real lair. So, so nasty and perverted.’

  Henry glanced at Jake, who was standing nearby but trying to keep his distance.

  The chief turned to him and said, ‘I’m so glad your daughter is safe.’

  Beyond Ellison’s shoulder, Henry spotted Rik Dean marching purposefully towards him, now garbed in a forensic suit and shoes.

  ‘My replacement, if I’m not mistaken,’ Henry said, like Stanley meeting Dr Livingstone.

  Ellison glanced back, then turned to Henry. ‘Someone had to replace you.’

  ‘You could’ve let me get out of headquarters before you did the deed, though,’ Henry bleated. ‘There was no respect, and I think that is what pissed me off as much as having my brother-in-law-to-be as my replacement.’

  ‘Your …?’ Ellison said.

  ‘Yep.’

  Then he said sharply, ‘Oh, fuck off whingeing, Henry. I came out all this way to congratulate you.’

  ‘Well, you can stick your—’ He stopped, realizing the road he was just about to go down was one from which neither man would come up smelling of roses. ‘Well, you know what? Some words are better left unsaid …’ Then he paused and said, ‘No, changed my mind. Sometimes a cathartic release is absolutely necessary. Stick your congratulations up your arse … Bernard.’

  He flounced past the open-mouthed Ellison, with Jake scurrying after him, and went to meet Rik.

  ‘How are you, Henry? You look a mess.’

  Henry winked at him. ‘Cheers … How’s it going? I’ve come to pick up my car and have a look around, if I may?’

  ‘Oh … uh … we need to keep the Audi for forensics, actually.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said. He turned to Jake. ‘Can you take me back after I’ve had a nose round?’

  Jake nodded.

  ‘Er, look, mate, I see you’ve spoken to the chief, yeah?’ Rik said awkwardly.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Did he mention anything about the crime scene?’

  ‘Our conversation did not quite get that far.’ He looked suspiciously at Rik. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s not told you?’

  ‘Rik, spit it out, or I’ll kick your arse.’

  Tight-lipped, Rik said, ‘He said he doesn’t want any civvies messing up the scene.’

  Henry blinked. ‘Meaning me?’

  Rik jerked around with his hands and shoulders like a marionette, displaying his nervousness. His face was suddenly a mass of tics, as if an electrical current was being forced through it. ‘Well, you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Too many big-footed cops trampling all over the scene … You don’t get a second chance at a crime scene … All that shit?’

  ‘Standard procedure,’ Rik said defensively.

  ‘Let me put a suit on, and you walk me through what you’ve got, once,’ Henry said. ‘Suited and booted, one walk through, and that’s it. I won’t touch a thing. Then I’ll go home and practise making shamrocks in Guinness.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s the least I deserve, and you know it.’

  ‘If the chief finds out, he’ll eat my bollocks.’

  ‘That,’ Henry said, putting a patronizing hand on Rik’s shoulder, ‘is an everyday occurrence for a superintendent: get used to it.’

  Rik cl
osed his eyes, feeling the pressure. ‘OK then, but we do it sneaky.’

  They looked around and saw the chief had stalked off somewhere. Henry followed Rik to the back of the CSI van from which the forensic suits were dispensed. Rik signed one out for Henry, and he pulled it on over his clothing behind the van, slipping the paper shoes over his own and pulling the hood over his head. He pulled the hood’s drawstring tight, and then covered his face, bar his eyes, with a surgical mask. When he was ready, not even his eyebrows showed.

  Rik watched him, as did Jake.

  ‘Unrecognizable?’ Henry asked, doing a twirl.

  ‘Whatever,’ Rik mumbled glumly.

  ‘Let’s go then.’ To Jake, he said, ‘You keep nix.’

  Rik opened the gate in the fence surrounding the abattoir and walked Henry across to another gate that led into an outdoor animal enclosure. This was essentially a very large holding area, where livestock was unloaded from trucks. There was a system in place reminding Henry of a queue at Disneyland: a series of corridors formed by interlocking, flexible fencing, into which the unfortunate animals could be herded to form a line, one behind the other, which led into the killing area inside the abattoir itself.

  This enclosure was also large enough to park several lorries, but at the moment there was only the one in there: the tractor and trailer unit belonging to Bartle that Henry had seen passing through Kendleton on a couple of occasions, driven by Bartle. The trailer had been crammed with pigs or sheep when Henry had seen it. The rear of the trailer was open, the ramp into it down. Henry saw two suited CSIs in the back of it and wondered what was of interest in there.

  ‘Let me show you this first,’ Rik said and steered Henry up the ramp into the foul smelling trailer. It was illuminated by a small, but powerful lighting rig, powered by a portable generator that hummed softly.

  Henry stopped at the top of the ramp and looked in, his mouth popping open behind the mask.