by Nick Oldham
Whilst filling his face with a chunk of Cumberland sausage, Debbie appeared in the dining room, slumping down opposite him with a groan. She spotted what was on his plate and swallowed. For a moment nothing happened, until she started to sway, eyes bulging.
‘Go be sick,’ Henry ordered her, folding a forkful of fried bread and dribbling egg into his mouth.
With her complexion rapidly changing to a luminous green, she nodded, pushed herself back up and exited quickly.
They were at Harrogate Police Station at nine thirty a.m., finalizing details of the working arrangements between the police forces. Henry wanted to set up an incident room that day and the local DCI agreed. As the two male detectives talked strategy, Debbie observed from the world of a bad hangover. She was a mess, looked it, was contrite about it.
Henry shook hands with the DCI, hoping that this cross-border working would pan out well for a change. Historically, two or more forces trying to get their acts together with one common aim was a recipe for disaster. He hoped that by getting in early at ground level, most of the problems would be ironed out, but he knew he’d have to suck it and see.
He turned to Debbie. ‘How do you feel about staying over here for a day or two as Family Liaison Officer? Or would that cock you up?’
She stared blandly at him, not a single word having penetrated. ‘What?’ She blinked, making a clicking sound with her tongue in her dry mouth.
For the purposes of full comprehension he repeated the request in slow motion, adding, ‘We’ll put you up at the same hotel, which is a pretty nice one.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she acquiesced, not totally understanding what she’d agreed to.
The local DCI watched the exchange with a smirk.
‘Er, what about transport?’ she asked, a cog or two starting to turn at last.
‘I’ll arrange a hire car,’ Henry said. He turned back to the DCI. ‘Well, that’s that, then. I need to get back across the Pennines, so if I can leave Debbie with you, I’ll sort out staffing for the incident room from our end.’
‘No probs.’
Henry walked out to the CID car in the yard and as he climbed in, Debbie appeared behind him, still looking desperately unwell. He got in, fired up the engine and opened the window.
‘Have I made a fool of myself?’ she asked, expecting the worst.
‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘But get yourself sorted out now and go round to see the Greaves family. You need to get under their skin, because they might know something they think they don’t know, if you see what I mean?’
Debbie looked totally perplexed.
‘Maybe another hour in bed,’ Henry suggested.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply. ‘We never got to make love.’
‘No, Debs, we didn’t, and we never will.’
‘Oh God,’ she blurted. For a moment Henry thought she was about to become all emotional and blubbery. He was relieved when she retched, covered her mouth and declared, ‘Gonna be sick again,’ and legged it back into the police station. He reversed out of his spot and began the journey back west.
Henry wondered where Jodie Greaves’s abductors had taken her. He, they, whoever, had lifted her from a street in Harrogate, and five hours later they had been in Fleetwood. He was sure they would have used the A59. It made sense. It ran close to where she had been taken, all the way across to Preston; once they reached the outskirts of Preston it was likely they had gone on to the M55, then off on to the A583 into Fleetwood. He knew he had to get a team to work the route, visiting pubs along the way, doing house-to-house on all roadside dwellings. It would take a long time, but it had to be done, even if it was a long shot.
He’d only just reached the outer limit of Harrogate when he mobile rang. Using his hands-free kit, he answered.
‘It’s me – Dave Anger.’
‘Mornin’ boss,’ Henry said guardedly. He would rather have said something more piquant.
‘How’s it going across there?’
‘OK. The deed’s done, the family know; Debbie Black’s staying over here for a couple of days, they’re setting up an MIR, chucking some resources at it … everything’s going OK.’
‘Good. Glad to hear it. Speak when you get back.’ Click. The line went dead. Anger and Henry had little to say to each other and there was no chance of small talk, which suited Henry.
He put his foot down as the A59 rose out of Harrogate and on to the moors. It would take about ninety minutes to get back to Preston, maybe another twenty to get back to the coast, two hours tops.
Valuable thinking and planning time.
His phone rang again, the curse of an SIO running a murder. Everybody wanted a piece of you. It was Jane Roscoe.
‘Henry – how’s it going?’
He filled her in succinctly, then asked, ‘How did the PM go?’
‘That’s what I’m ringing about … Professor Baines did it … God, he’s weird, but I do like him … Uren was stabbed to death and had his throat cut, no surprise there … but we’ve had the puncture marks analysed and compared to those in Jodie Greaves’s body … it looks like the same knife was used, a slim knife with a serrated edge, the sort found in most kitchens, so yeah, the same knife for both murders … also did a comparison with the one Percy Pearson stabbed Rik with … it’s not a match …’ Speaking via the hands-free, she sounded as though she was talking in a barrel. ‘The forensic people also looked at the incendiaries. They’re the same as the ones used to set alight to Uren’s Astra.’
‘Thanks for that … how did this morning’s briefing go?’
‘Good, everyone’s busy and up for it.’
‘Right … I should be back mid-afternoon, so I’ll see you then.’
For a moment he thought the connection had been broken, but when she spoke again he realized it had simply been a pregnant pause.
‘Henry?’ Posed as a question, the word sounded dubious.
‘Yeah?’ His word was suspicious.
‘I need to talk to you … on a personal matter … about us.’
His throat went as dry as Debbie Black’s had been. He gritted his teeth. ‘We’ll make some time when I get back.’
‘OK, thanks. See you later.’
Thinking and planning time gone tits-up, he thought wryly. Replaced by worry and panic time. Why, he castigated himself, why have I continually screwed up my life?
He was going to think and plan his worried and panicky answer when his phone rang again. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, not realizing he’d pressed the answer key after he’d said the word.
‘I don’t think that’s an appropriate way to greet an old pal, do you?’
The voice was instantly recognizable. The deep, East Coast Yank accent, now watered down with just a smidgen of southern England.
‘Hey, Karl, how you doing?’ Inadvertently Henry found himself speaking with a mid-Atlantic twang, and also feeling better on hearing his buddy.
‘It’s good, I’m real good.’
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Henry said.
Karl Donaldson was an FBI agent, seconded to the legal attaché at the American Embassy in London for about the last eight years. Ever since he and Henry had met whilst Donaldson was investigating American mob connections in the north of England, they had become good friends on a personal level and had found themselves working together on several investigations since. Most recently, they had been together during the murder and corruption enquiry in Manchester. There had been links to a Spaniard named Mendoza who had been under scrutiny by Donaldson, suspected of murdering two FBI undercover operatives. Henry was aware that Donaldson had been fully tied up with the fallout of this investigation, so he was surprised to hear from him.
‘Can you talk?’
‘I’m driving across the backbone of England as we speak, but yeah, I’ve got hands-free and it’s nice to hear from someone I actually like.’
‘A simple “yep” would have sufficed,’ Donaldson laughed.
‘So, go on.’
‘Even though I’m up to my balls with the Spanish stuff, I still have time to read bulletins and circulations.’
‘My, what a professional.’
‘Up yours … and I’m always interested in anything that comes from your neck of the woods, buddy.’
‘We like to keep you amused.’ Henry could not even begin to imagine the amount of bulletins and reports which landed on Donaldson’s desk. A major part of his job was to liaise with the forty-three police forces in England and Wales, as well as dozens of police organizations across Europe, and because of this he was kept in a circulation loop of a wide range of intelligence and criminal activity reports. Henry guessed he could only skim read most of what came across, binning the majority of it.
‘Incendiary devices,’ Donaldson stated.
Henry’s interest suddenly perked up. The details of the fire-bombs found on Uren’s bedside and those in the car with Jodie Greaves had been circulated far and wide. Details would only have gone out that very morning, so hearing back from anyone so soon was a surprise. ‘Incendiary devices,’ Henry echoed.
‘Your bulletin is only brief, but the description and photograph of the devices are interesting … any chance of more details? A technical description, maybe? More photos?’
‘Consider it done … but why?’
‘Maybe nothing. I’ll let you know.’
‘Come on, you rogue – spill!’
‘OK – murder and intrigue, will that suffice?’
‘I guess it’ll have to,’ Henry conceded as he gunned his car down a stretch of coroner’s corridor – the middle lane of a three-lane stretch of road – to overtake a slow-moving HGV. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Good, good … let me know soon, will ya?’ The conversation ended and Henry returned to his thinking, planning, worrying and panicking – only for the phone to announce an incoming text. Despite the danger of reading a text whilst driving, Henry did so.
Having dismissed the ones he’d received last night as missent texts, it was unsettling to read the content of the newest one as he hurtled past another lorry at 70 and sped toward a roundabout. It read: Have u chkd ur brakes?
His first port of call was Blackpool Victoria Hospital, where he went to see Rik Dean, still in intensive care but due to be transferred on to a ward. After a couple of days observation, he expected to be allowed home. Henry found him in good spirits.
‘Screwed up your chance of going on the murder squad.’
‘Don’t, it hurts when I laugh and think all about that lovely overtime.’
‘What overtime would that be?’ Henry asked wistfully. ‘Still, think about the criminal injuries compensation … I’ll make sure you get it, so long as you split it with me.’
‘Deal.’
Henry updated Rik on the investigation, telling him about the jolly to Harrogate and Debbie Black’s drunken excess.
Rik shook his head. ‘You need to watch her, she’s a bit bonkers, I think.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s said that.’
‘I should know – I’ve been there.’ Rik groaned as he made himself more comfortable.
‘Oh,’ Henry said sharply.
‘Remember me saying I’d dallied with a hitched but separated colleague?’
Henry did recall this. It was during their discussion on the way to the hostel at Accrington. He nodded.
‘It was her – and I wish I hadn’t.’
‘And I thought you were talking about a man,’ Henry teased him, making him laugh again. ‘What’s her problem?’
‘She’s on a big manhunt, on the rebound from a crap marriage, wants to get laid by every cop she sees.’
‘She told me she’d never kissed a cop before,’ he said, affronted.
‘My hairy arse!’ Rik eased his head back on to the pillows and closed his eyes, clearly in pain despite the drug relief. ‘Having said that, she was rather good in a sort of manic way.’ His voice drifted off dreamily, all his energy evaporating. Henry realized he was asleep.
He stood up and quietly tiptoed out.
Fourth floor, Blackpool Police Station, Major Incident Room: Twenty minutes later a few chosen members of his team surrounded Henry. Jane Roscoe, DC Jerry Tope the Intel cell, a DS called Jackson, and two local DCs who had been interviewing Percy Pearson. These two were given the floor first, bringing everyone up to date on their progress: Pearson was amenable to interview, had admitted stabbing Rik Dean and the gross indecency and false imprisonment of a boy of twelve. Increasingly it looked as though Pearson operated alone and, although he knew Uren, was not particularly involved with him.
‘So in terms of him helping us find Uren’s accomplice?’ Henry posed the question.
‘I think he knows who he is,’ one of the DCs responded, ‘but he ain’t saying anything.’
‘OK,’ said Henry, accepting what was being said. The two DCs were first-class interviewers and he had to trust their judgement, even though it was hard for him not to go back down to Pearson himself and wring the bastard’s neck.
His attention turned to Jerry Tope. ‘I want you to keep digging on all associates of Uren, Pearson and Walter Pollack, the old sex offender who’s still at the hostel. I want everything on them, way back to their time in prison. Who they shared cells with, who visited them, anything.’
‘Sure boss, but I’ve already done loads,’ the DC said.
‘Do more.’ Henry made a shooing gesture and Tope sloped back to his desk. Henry looked at Jane. ‘So the knife that killed Uren matches the one that killed Jodie Greaves and the incendiaries are the same type?’
She nodded.
‘And until we find the person who was with Uren, we’ll never be anywhere near the truth of what happened that night?’
‘Very much doubt it.’
Now Henry turned to DS Jackson, who had been given the task of liaising with other forces to check on all similar disappearances of young people. ‘Where are you up to, Ralph?’
Jackson picked up the sheet of paper on his knee. ‘Good response … and quite a few similar disappearances, abductions, whatever you want to call them. Some high profile, some never even made the news. I’ve concentrated on the ones where the kids haven’t turned up, though I’ve a list of all the others, too. Just working through everything, really.’
‘Any missing, not returned, from adjoining forces?’
‘Yeah, one girl about a month ago from Rochdale in GMP; one a couple of months ago from Crewe in Cheshire and another one a bit before that from West Yorkshire, Leeds. There are others further afield.’
‘OK, stick with the recent ones from the local forces for the moment. Check to see if they could be linked. I don’t want to teach you to suck eggs, but look at times, days, dates, localities, anything you can think of. I’ll leave it to you, Ralph, but use Jerry Tope as well. Sooner rather than later.’
‘OK, boss.’ He stood up, sensing he was dismissed and walked back to a free desk.
‘How was Harrogate?’ Jane asked frostily, doing her famous cat’s bum disapproval impression with her pursed lips.
‘Interesting.’
‘And how did you get on with Debbie?’ A cold question.
‘Well enough,’ he nodded, not being drawn into dodgy territory. ‘Anyway, I need to bring the policy book up to date. There’s a lot to put in it. I’m going to retire to my telephone box if you don’t mind.’
She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better. Henry gave a quick smile, collected his belongings and headed off.
Dogged persistence, routine police work, procedure, careful analysis, problem solving, use of the National Intelligence Model, diligent enquiries, leaving no stone unturned – all good stuff, Henry thought. The way most murder investigations are solved, without a doubt. But when all those things failed, it was always nice to have a stroke of luck, that piece of good fortune that made everything else fall into place … that anonymous phone call, the informant who came good, the
guy arrested on some other matter who goes, ‘Oh, by the way, I also murdered so-and-so.’
‘Lady Luck, where the fuck,’ Henry muttered, ‘are you?’
He put down his pen, having reread the long entry he’d just made in the policy book, clasped his fingers behind his head and swivelled in his chair. The killer shark stared up at him, a cruel glint in the eye.
‘Hi, Dave,’ he said.
There was a horrible feeling in his gut that despite all the good work going on, the mystery man would remain a mystery unless something broke soon. If his identification dragged on for a long time, it would get harder and harder.
An urgent rap on the door made him spin round. A flustered and breathless Jane Roscoe stood there.
‘Have you got your radio on?’ she demanded.
‘No, should I?’
‘There’s been an attempted abduction in North Shore.’
Lady Luck, he almost screamed, surging to his feet.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
He virtually leapt over his desk and he scurried out behind her, grabbing his switched-off PR as he went. She hurried to the stairs – ‘We’ll be waiting for the lift forever,’ she called over her shoulder – and began to descend them two at a time, Henry right on her heels like an obedient dog. She talked as she went. ‘Kid walking home from school … car pulls up alongside … male occupant tries to drag her inside …’ She jumped four steps, twisted and hurled herself down the next set. ‘Screamed, fought, kicked …’ She took a breath. ‘Got free … ran off … passer-by got a partial registration number and vehicle colour … patrols making their way now …’ They landed on the ground floor, hurried into the garage. ‘I’ve got some keys,’ she said, dangling them for Henry to see. She ran across to a blue Ford Focus and seconds later they hit the street. By this time Henry had managed to switch on and tune in, listening to the deployments from comms.
‘Alpha Four, with the complainant,’ one officer called up.
‘Roger,’ the operator replied. ‘Alpha Six, current location?’
‘Dickson Road, en route to scene.’
‘Alpha Nine – dog van – also en route … any further details?’