by Nick Oldham
A creeping sensation snaked down his spine, one of those feelings that tell you you’re not alone.
He spun.
A dark figure – a man – stood behind him, a balaclava pulled over his face and a baseball bat in his hands which was arcing through the air towards the side of Henry’s head.
His mind instantly computed what such a blow would do to him were it to connect. He reacted by throwing himself at the figure, basically rugby-tackling, driving his shoulder into the man’s lower intestine underneath the sweep of the bat which swung harmlessly through the air.
Henry rolled on top of the figure, grappling with him. The bat came out of his hands and clattered away across the concrete, and both men fought desperately across the hard ground. Henry punched hard, trying to hit any part of him, but with no great effect. He’d been so surprised by the attack that he hadn’t quite got a mental or physical grip of what was happening. He did a sideways roll and tried to get to his feet, feeling his knees crack, but as he got up his legs were hacked from under him and he went down again on to the palms of his hands.
The hooded figure got up, turned and kicked Henry’s hands from under him, then started to boot Henry around the face and upper body. Henry grabbed a foot, hung on grimly, twisting it sideways and knocking the assailant off balance. The man fell and Henry clambered to his knees and sprung at him. He missed as the man rolled away and, in a flowing move, picked up the baseball bat and tore away across the mezzanine. He was down the steps which dropped on to New Bonny Street before Henry could recover.
Breathless and slightly battered, but in much better condition than he might have been had he not reacted so quickly, Henry loped after him without much enthusiasm, reaching the top of the steps only to see the man legging it towards the town centre.
Henry watched, trying to steady his breathing, his lower jaw jutting out.
‘Bastard,’ he panted. A quick physical check revealed nothing untoward. He’d banged his sore leg, grazed his palms on the ground and banged the knee on his right leg, but apart from that he was unscathed, though there was a tear in his trouser leg. ‘Who the hell were you?’ he wheezed.
Fourteen
He was back in his miniature office by six thirty a.m., attempting to stay awake by means of strong black coffee and to keep focused by making lists. Unfortunately the lists were all over the place, no sequence to them, no structure. There was just so much to be done.
The priority was to keep the momentum going with the Kerry Figgis disappearance. She’d been missing twelve hours and he was gravely concerned about the situation, so finding her was his number one priority. What he didn’t like to add was ‘dead or alive’. He’d decided that he would spend the morning fighting for more resources, and if he didn’t have a hundred cops working on it by lunchtime, he would chuck himself off the tower.
Jane strolled in at six thirty-five, shocked by Henry’s appearance.
‘Jesus!’ she gasped.
‘Where was your hubby last night?’ he asked accusingly.
‘I don’t know … what the hell …?’
‘I got jumped,’ he said and explained his encounter, which had, in the cold light of day, resulted in scratches on his forehead to add to the still-discoloured black eye. He didn’t mention the hidden scrapes and scratches underneath his clothing which he had discovered when naked.
‘I can’t see him doing something like that,’ Jane said, but not too convincingly. ‘But he wasn’t home when I got in, admittedly.’
‘Well, whoever it was got away …’ His voice trailed off. ‘I am so pissed off with being the target for mad people … but today is about Kerry Figgis and Jodie Greaves and all the other young girls who have gone missing in the region in similar circumstances. I want to start catching bad men today.’
Jane nodded, though she was clearly affected by Henry’s assault.
‘Listen hard, because I’ll only say this once.’ He picked up his notes and apologized. ‘No particular order to this, just a melting pot of ideas at the moment, others welcome, but here goes …’
The motley crew of world-weary detectives who paraded on at seven were briefed, tasked and duly dispatched.
Next were the Support Unit officers, who came in at eight. They were tasked to search the route Kerry Figgis had taken from home, through Song Thrush Walk and to the car park behind the convenience store; they were also asked to start house-to-house enquiries. By eight fifteen they were out. Henry was eager to get bodies out on the streets.
His next heads-down was with Jane in his office, together with Jerry Tope.
Just as he was about to launch into his discussion, his mobile phone rang. He almost ignored it because there was no caller ID, but habit more than anything made him thumb the green phone icon.
‘Hello …’ He glanced round at the people in the office and shook his head, irritated because there was no response from the phone. ‘Henry Christie here.’ Then he could hear breathing, then the choking sob of a woman, then the line went dead. He placed the phone down on his desk, troubled by the call, the second of its nature. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘Right … let’s get our heads round this: Jodie Greaves dead in a car after being abducted from Harrogate; George Uren, who we are sure was one of the kidnappers, is murdered with the same weapon that killed Jodie. He may have killed her, let’s not forget that. The car was set alight, as was Uren’s body, using incendiaries. Was he murdered by his accomplice? That’s rhetorical, by the way,’ he said to Jerry Tope who had opened his mouth to utter something. ‘We’re sure Morrison isn’t the man we’re looking for, thanks to your analysis, Jerry.’ He took a breath. ‘The circumstances of Jodie’s abduction fit with the disappearance of at least three other girls in the region, yeah? You can nod, or murmur if you concur,’ he said to the lifeless couple. Jane and Jerry nodded. ‘Good, I like yes-men and -women. Bottom line, we have a cross-border investigation to start to manage, which includes us and four forces. That needs to get off the ground today. We’ve also got the addition of Kerry Figgis, snatched on us last night, which doesn’t fit the pattern … but you never know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Good enough summary?’
‘Yep, if a bit simplistic,’ Jane said.
‘I like simplistic,’ he said defensively. He looked at Tope. ‘Contact the relevant Intel officers in the forces where the other missing girls have disappeared from – which I know you already have done – but this time get a summary of all the crime committed in the two-week period leading up to the date of these abductions, OK?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Patterns. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
‘Gotcha.’
‘And, I want to know how Uren made his living. He was on benefit, but it wasn’t enough to sustain his lifestyle. See if you can find more.’
‘Will do.’
Henry sat back. ‘OK, then – at the risk of repeating myself, this is the strategic hypothesis driving this investigation as of today, bearing in mind it could change at any time: we are investigating the possibility that the four girls who have gone missing from surrounding forces have all been taken by the same person or persons, who could well be living in Lancashire. George Uren is one of those people, now deceased. His companion is the man we are now trying to urgently trace.’
‘It’s sounding good, Henry. Did you swallow a dictionary?’ Jane teased.
He gave her a stern glance. ‘And I continue: whilst the disappearance of Kerry Figgis does not totally fit in with this series of crimes, we believe it may be connected, though we are keeping an open mind about that. And that’s my hypothesis, for what it’s worth – and that’s what we’re sticking to at the moment.’
Jane looked slyly at him, ‘You couldn’t be rehearsing for the press conference later this morning, could you?’
Henry gave her his best expression of innocence. ‘As if – but most of what I’ve said isn’t for their consumption, especially speculation about series crimes. The last thing the
y need is to get hold of the possibility we might have a serial killer at large. They’d run us ragged with it.’
There is a feeling of realization, a palpable sensation, that comes over people when it suddenly dawns on them that they are being set up. It is a feeling of creeping dread. It doesn’t always come quickly, indeed, it’s usually the opposite, but when it arrives it’s accompanied by a churning and twisting of the pit of the stomach.
The exact feeling Henry experienced at ten thirteen that morning: thirteen minutes into the press briefing.
Up to that point, things had gone well enough. They rarely go as planned, but that’s the way it is with the media, and Henry accepted that. But other forces were at work that morning.
All disciplines of the media had been wheeled into the tiny press room at Blackpool nick, and Henry had taken up position behind a lectern on a raised dais at one end of the room. He was reading from a statement he had prepared that morning, which was designed to keep the hounds at bay – tell them not very much, but get them on side at the same time. It had seemed to be going pretty well and they were all up for it – until the guy from the local rag, a short-arsed individual called Eddie Skirvin, who described himself as crime correspondent (as well as cookery, travel and anything-else-he-was-chucked- at correspondent), raised his hand languidly.
Suspecting nothing, Henry nodded at him. He knew the guy had his knives into the police and had a lot of sport with them, but as he permitted him to speak, he had no reason to think anything was other than well.
‘DCI Christie,’ he said, sort of chewing the name. ‘Temporary DCI Christie,’ he smugly corrected himself in a way which made Henry’s eyes squint and set off a distant alarm bell. ‘It’s actually true to say that Blackpool is now in the grip of fear of a homicidal, child-killing maniac – wouldn’t you say?’
Taken aback, Henry said, ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Parents are actually in fear of letting their kids out on the streets now, aren’t they?’
Henry stiffened. His fingers tightened on the edge of the lectern. He had never really enjoyed dealing with the media, despite going on the course. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Oh, really?’ Skirvin said, raising his eyebrows. He paused, then posed and pounced at the same time. ‘It’s true to say that you’ve been running an investigation into the abduction and attempted abductions of a number of young children, haven’t you?’
Henry nodded dourly. Where was this going?’
‘I believe it was a number of months before the police even connected the incidents … by which time a number of youngsters had either been abducted, assaulted, or attempts had been made on them. And all the while, the people of this town were kept in the dark about this. Is that true?’
‘It’s not always easy to make connections,’ Henry started to explain.
‘A monkey could have put two and two together and made that connection,’ the journalist said. A roomful of media bods tittered, enjoying the floorshow. ‘The press were not told about these incidents and we could have done a valuable community service by letting the townsfolk know about the dangers to their children.’
Henry started to splutter.
‘And now,’ he ploughed on, ‘within the space of a few days, one girl is dead, another is missing and the police fear for her safety. Yes, I would go as far as to say the town is now in the grip of fear.’
‘The fear of crime is often worse than the reality,’ Henry said stupidly, realizing immediately he had said the wrong thing. This room was hot now. He was sweating.
Skirvin made an expression of mock horror, as though he could not believe what he was hearing. ‘Is that something you’d like to repeat to a grieving family and an extremely anxious one, Temporary DCI Christie? The fear of crime around here exists because crime happens and people suffer. Serious crime happens. Violent crime happens … and I’d like to know what you’re doing about it, as would my colleagues.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the assembly.
Henry scratched his head, tugged his tight collar and fixed the journalist with a defiant stare designed to burn him all the way to hell. ‘With regards to the series of incidents concerning approaches made to young children, there is now a man in custody for these offences. He will be appearing at court today.’ He really then wanted to add, ‘Nah-nah-ne-nah-nah,’ and pull out his tongue.
‘And the dead girl and the missing girl, Kerry Figgis?’ the journalist harried Henry. ‘Are they connected?’
‘It’s too early to say for sure,’ Henry said evenly. He was thinking, You’ve been fed stuff, you bastard. ‘My analysts are looking at the possibility as a matter of routine.’
‘And what about the three girls abducted in surrounding forces?’
Henry blinked and tried to keep surprise out of his face. At the back of the room he saw the time on the clock: ten thirteen. ‘What about them?’ Henry said.
‘What I want to know is – is there a serial killer at large who is operating from inside Lancashire? Is that the hypothesis you’re working to, one which you’d rather keep from the press?’
‘That’s not something I can answer. We always look at the possibility that crimes are connected, maybe committed by the same people, but as yet there is nothing to connect the crimes which I believe you are referring to.’ Oh God, this was poor bullshit, he thought, a rage creasing through him like a great fire. Bitch, he thought, as he speculated at who could have told Skirvin about the other incidents in surrounding forces. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind, this briefing has concluded.
‘Actually, actually,’ the offensive little journalist stood up. ‘Just one last question, temporary DCI Christie.’
Henry’s shoulders dropped. Bad body language.
‘Do you actually think you are the best officer available to deal with such a complex, emotionally charged investigation? After all, you do have a history of, how shall I put it?’ He feigned a wince. ‘Stress?’
‘How can it be?’ Henry was shaking from head to toe following the encounter with Eddie Skirvin. He paced up and down his office, three steps one way, three steps back. ‘How can it be,’ his index finger pointed angrily, ‘that within minutes, almost, of me using the word hypothesis, a journalist throws it back at me? And how did he know we didn’t connect the earlier abductions? That never went to press as such.’
He knew he looked dreadful, but didn’t care. He wanted to come across as the baddest, nastiest thing Jane Roscoe had ever encountered in her life. She was sitting in his office, her legs drawn up tight to the chair to allow Henry the room to rant and rave. Now he stopped and towered over her, fuelled by anger, probably about to lose it.
‘Honestly, Henry, I don’t know,’ she said croakily, intimidated. ‘I didn’t tell him, didn’t tell anyone.’ Henry glared disbelievingly at her. ‘I didn’t, honestly.’
‘There’s only you and Jerry Tope who knows what I’m thinking.’ His teeth ground loudly. He pushed past her legs and she drew them further back. ‘Must be him, then. I’ll sort the little shit out,’ he growled and spun out of the office. He had been gone a few seconds when an almost audible thump landed in Jane Roscoe’s stomach. She gave chase.
Henry was well ahead of her. He had reached the MIR and was striding across to Jerry Tope, now having lost his rag completely. ‘You!’ he bellowed across the busy room, full of detectives, uniforms and police staff. Work stopped instantly, everyone turned and shut up. ‘You!’ he shouted again and the meek DC realized it was he who was being singled out. He sat up, shock on his face, and pointed at himself.
‘Me?’
‘Yes – you,’ Henry reiterated for the third time and used a phrase heard in countless police dramas, something he had never uttered in his life before. ‘My office – now!’ Even in the mist of his red rage, there was something naff about saying it, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
‘But … I … I’m …’ stuttered the DC.
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t effin’ care what you are,’ Henry said. ‘Get into my office, you little snitch.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Henry!’
He turned as Jane ran in behind him, his head twisting, his expression contorted, lips a-snarl like a werewolf. ‘What?’ he barked.
‘It’s not him,’ she panted. Her shoulders fell. ‘It’s not him.’
They were back in the office, door closed, Henry leaning on it to ensure they were not disturbed. Jane was sitting demurely in a chair on the ‘public’ side of the desk, knees together, hands clasped on her lap, shoulders hunched. Her tongue was visible, the tip of it touching her top lip. Her eyes were closed.
‘Do tell,’ Henry invited.
‘After our conflab this morning,’ she said after a pause, ‘you know?’
‘I know the one.’
‘I did speak to someone about what had been said,’ she confessed, tugging down the hem of her skirt. She paused again.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Dave Anger wanted an update.’
Not for the first time that morning, Henry’s teeth ground together. ‘Dave Anger?’
‘He, er …’ Jane’s body language – shrugs, little jerky hand gestures, tight facial expressions, clothing adjustments – all testified to the feelings of guilt she was experiencing at being disloyal to Henry. She gulped. ‘He wanted me to keep him informally … up to date with progress … to get a true picture.’
Henry’s head snapped back against the door with a bang. ‘So you are spying for him?’
Speechless, Jane held out one hand, then the other, as if trying to balance something.
‘I’m the SIO. I’m the one who updates him.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said desperately. She covered her face with her hands and drew them down, dragging her features.
‘Basically you’ve been giving me bullshit.’ He sounded wounded.