by Nick Oldham
The activity was satisfying. Henry was sure that if Trent was in town, he’d be flushed out or cornered soon. He had to believe that.
His mobile roared like a jet as an incoming text landed. He looked at it: ctch me if u can.
Donaldson and Jane watched Henry’s expression alter.
‘Problem?’ the American asked.
‘No,’ Henry said, stern-faced. He walked out of the room.
Could it be that Trent was taunting him? He could not be sure, but from what he knew of the child molester, this was not something that fitted his behaviour pattern. Trent liked to assault and kill. That was his bag. It wasn’t a game for him. He didn’t like to leave clues, to play cat and mouse with cops. Cats usually caught mice, and he would not wish to jeopardize his freedom by playing silly buggers with mobile phones that could possibly be traced. He had been out and at liberty for a long time. Why would he want to lose that just for the sake of one-upmanship? He would not, Henry convinced himself. Trent wanted to stay free, not get caught. The more Henry thought about it, the less he believed Trent was the texter. But maybe the next twenty-four hours would reveal the culprit. Maybe.
In the corridor outside his office, he bumped into a constable coming out of the office. Henry did not know the officer’s name, but recognized him as a member of the Support Unit, the bish-bash-bosh squad, as they were known, because of their somewhat hard-edged approach to policing. He was clutching a photograph in his hand.
‘Help you?’ Henry said.
‘Yeah, boss … you got a mo?’
‘Come in.’ Henry led him into the salubrious interior of his office and plonked down at his desk, waiting for the officer to sit down opposite. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘PC Fawcett … John Fawcett,’ he said.
‘What can I do for you, John?’
‘I was at the briefing earlier,’ he began hesitantly. He showed Henry the photo he was holding – one of the many Henry had hurriedly produced of Trent. Fawcett did not go on immediately. Henry waited for him to fill the gap. ‘I’ve been looking long and hard at this photograph.’ He waved Trent’s face at Henry. ‘And, well, I don’t want to appear stupid or anything and I’m not a hundred per cent, but, do you remember when you busted into Uren’s flat?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘I was one of the Support Unit officers covering the stairs.’ Henry nodded, recalling him now. ‘Just as you went into Uren’s flat, a guy came down the stairs from the floor above.’ The officer shrugged helplessly. ‘I mean, it obviously wasn’t Uren, so when he asked if it was all right to go past, I just said no probs. Took his name, let him go.’
Henry saw Fawcett’s Adam’s apple rise and fall.
‘I think it was this guy.’ He held up Trent’s photograph.
It was a statement greeted by stony silence. For a moment, tumbleweed could have blown through the office on a whistling wind.
‘You think?’
‘A bit different-looking … but the eyes … yeah. I mean, we weren’t actually given instructions about what we should do, so I let him pass, boss.’
On such simple things are suspects allowed to go free, and investigations are completely fucked up.
‘How certain are you?’
Fawcett ummed and ahhed, then said, ‘As I said, not a hundred per cent, but as certain as I can be in the short time I saw him in the crap lighting in the building. And,’ he went on, dropping the bombshell, ‘he told me his name was John Stoke, the name you said Trent uses as an alias.’
There was an extra long moment of dreadful silence as Henry digested this, then said, ‘He came from the upper floor, you say?’ trying to keep hysteria out of his voice.
Fawcett nodded.
‘He could’ve been in one of the flats above?’
‘Could have.’
Henry held back from standing up, towering over the PC and shouting him into a quivering mess because ultimately, it was he, Henry, who was to blame. Going gung-ho into the block of flats, not properly resourced, with only an ‘on-the-hoof’ plan put together, had meant he’d missed a simple thing: don’t let anyone out until I’m happy as to who they are. It was one of those things the public would never believe the police would make a mistake on, but they did, often. The easy bits were the bits the cops got wrong, made themselves look stupid over. The building should have been tighter than a duck’s buttocks and anyone should have been stopped, checked and verified. All the outer-perimeter people were looking for was someone doing a runner, not someone strolling out, having walked through police lines, passing the time of day along the way.
Sitting back in his creaky chair, Henry glanced out through the narrow window at the shark. Dave Anger would love to get hold of this one. Henry Christie, the incompetent bastard, had allowed one of the country’s most wanted men to slip through his fingers. Literally. He could see the look of triumph on Anger’s ‘fizzog’, as his dear mum would say, corrupting the French word ‘visage’ into a Lancashire speciality. Most definitely, Dave Anger had a ‘fizzog’. Bile rose in his throat. Jane Roscoe’s words, which summed Henry up, came to haunt him. ‘Henry “Wing” Christie’. He looked at Fawcett, said, ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Sure it’s him?’
‘More or less.’
‘OK – no problems, only solutions. Have you got anything on now?’ Fawcett shook his head. ‘Got a car?’ He nodded. ‘Let’s go the MIR first and see what we’ve got on the other residents in the block of flats.’ Henry rolled out of his chair. ‘Onwards and upwards,’ he said, none too energetically.
Henry checked the records detailing what had been done at the block of flats in which Uren’s body had been discovered. The occupants of all but one flat had been accounted for and spoken to. A flat on the top floor was found to be apparently unoccupied, although it was rented out.
‘What enquiries have been made with the landlord?’ Henry asked Jane, whose job it was to keep up to date with everything that was going on.
She looked over his shoulder. ‘Why?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘The landlord has been spoken to,’ she told him, ‘but mainly about Uren’s occupancy, nothing else. Uren rented the flat and lived there alone, by all accounts.’
‘There’s an unoccupied flat on the top floor – have we done anything about that? Found who was in it most recently? Have we asked the landlord who was in it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said cautiously.
‘OK,’ said Henry, tight-lipped. ‘Who’s the landlord?’
Jane flicked through some sheets of paper on her desk and handed one to Henry. ‘That’s him.’
‘Ugh,’ Henry said, reading the name, and wishing someone had told him who it was. ‘Why was I not told this?’ he demanded of Jane. She half-shrugged. ‘Right.’ He turned to Fawcett, who was standing behind him. ‘Got those car keys?’ Fawcett nodded.
‘What’s going on?’ Jane asked.
Henry tapped his nose and pointed a finger at her. He did not want her to know he had probably made one of the biggest policing cock-ups in history. Nor did he trust her not to run to Anger and tell tales. He turned to Karl Donaldson, who was sitting at Jane’s desk. ‘Fancy a jaunt out to see some of Blackpool’s scum?’
‘Sure,’ he said, rising. ‘What is it?’
‘That kinda scummy stuff you find floating in stagnant water,’ Henry said as a joke, which no one got. Donaldson just looked perplexed. ‘Come on,’ Henry said.
In the lift going down, Henry said, ‘We missed Trent,’ to his good-looking friend, using the royal ‘we’. Not that he was ducking blame, but it was always good practice to spread it about where possible. He had always been contemptuous of bosses who were known to have Teflon-coated shoulders – meaning that no shit ever stuck. Now he wished he was one of them. He had clicked on to self-survival mode, and unless he could somehow pull this one back, questions would be asked in the corridors of power at HQ and he
would be found wanting. He explained the situation to Donaldson.
‘Shit happens,’ the American said understandingly. ‘Admittedly more often to you than anyone else, but it does. The secret is to hide it without causing a bad smell.’
The lift jarred as it reached ground level, the doors opening. Fawcett led them into the garage and to his car, an unmarked Vectra, which was still quite blatantly a police car. The missing hubcap was always a bit of a give-away. Fawcett jumped in behind the wheel, Henry next to him, Donaldson in the back.
‘This is Karl Donaldson, by the way’ he said to Fawcett. ‘He’s an FBI agent.’
‘Ho hum,’ the laconic cop said, unimpressed.
Eighteen
Blackpool had its full share of sleazeball landlords, and Larry Cork was no exception. Unkempt, unshaven, unwashed and whiffy, he was the stereotypical snivelling landlord, money-grabbing, back-stabbing, penny-pinching and priceless. Henry knew Cork of old. In his younger days the man had been a pretender to the crime throne of Blackpool, but hadn’t really had the physical toughness to make good his threats. He had gradually disappeared from the mainstream crime scene, emerging as a landlord and buying up property left, right and centre around the resort. He and his sons – amazingly called Barry and Harry, who muscled for him – had made a killing in the 1980s on the back of DSS lodgers. That bubble burst, but Cork had made his dough. Now he ticked over nicely, owning a string of ramshackle flats, including the block containing Uren’s, plus houses and a two amusement arcades in South Shore.
Henry had once locked him up for gross indecency in some public toilets on the prom, which added to Cork’s sleaze. He enjoyed the company of other men and the excitement of meeting in public toilets. Henry held Cork in very low regard.
Detectives had interviewed Cork quite thoroughly about Uren, but he had not offered the police anything more than they asked. He told them that he did not know Uren well, that he was a good paying tenant, and he wasn’t interested in his comings and goings. The perfect landlord. He wasn’t asked any questions about the unoccupied, but rented, room on the top floor of the block of flats. Time to change that, Henry thought as he waited for Cork to answer the door of his flat on the ground floor of another block in North Shore.
Barry, Cork’s eldest son, came to the door. He was a wide, strapping guy in his early thirties. He was as hard as nails, and as gay as his dad.
‘Hello, Barry,’ Henry said, holding out his warrant card. Fawcett and Donaldson were at his shoulder. ‘Need to see Larry, please. Name’s DCI Christie, but you know that already, don’t you?’
Barry opened the door fully, revealing himself to be dressed in a tight-fitting vest and leather jeans, body hair sprouting from all round the vest. Henry tried not to show his disgust. ‘Dad’s not in and anyway, he’s already talked to the filth.’
‘Need to talk more. Where is he, then?’
On the last word, Henry heard a toilet being flushed, a door opening and a growl of, ‘Fuckin’ piles playing me up again,’ coming from the brown-toothed mouth of Barry Cork.
Henry gave Barry a blank stare.
Barry shrugged, eyed Henry’s two companions – his gaze fluttering over Donaldson – and conceded defeat. ‘OK, he’s in.’ He turned. ‘Dad! Cops!’
Larry Cork came into view, zipping up and tucking his shirt into his loose pants. A cigarette dangled from his lips as though it had been stapled there.
‘Can I help you guys?’ he smiled. Then the smile fell and he scowled at Henry. ‘You, you bastard!’
‘Yep – how’s it hangin’ Larry?’
There was fire and caution in Cork’s bloodshot eyes. His treatment at Henry’s hands all those years ago had stayed with him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a chat about your tenants.’
‘Don’t like you, never have.’
‘Feeling’s mutual, Larry, but maybe it’s time to move on. Let’s not let the past colour the future, eh? There’s been a murder on premises owned by you and by virtue of that you can’t expect us not to be round to see you regularly, can you?’
‘What do you want? I’ve already given a statement.’
‘More depth … can we come in?’
Ten minutes later Larry Cork drove round with them to the block of flats where Uren’s dead body had been found. Cork had identified Trent as one of his tenants, but said he didn’t know of any connection between Trent and Uren. They had come as separate tenants, and Trent didn’t use the name Trent anyway. He used the surname Stoke. He said he saw very little of him, and had certainly not seen him since Uren’s body had been found.
Cork led them up from the front door, pausing at the floor on which Uren’s flat was situated. The flat was still sealed as a crime scene.
‘When the hell’s that comin’ off?’ Cork asked, pointing at the tape stretched across the door. ‘Money going to waste there.’
‘Until our scientific people are happy there’s nothing else we need,’ Henry told him.
‘Not good,’ Cork said.
He took them up the next flight.
‘How does Mr Stoke pay his rent?’
‘Cash. Leaves an envelope for me in the lockable post box at the bottom of the steps.’
There were only two doors on the landing on the top floor. ‘It’s that one,’ he said, ‘and this is the spare key.’ He handed it to Henry, who walked to the door and knocked on it. No reply. Last time he caught Trent, Trent was in a guesthouse in Blackpool. That was when Trent had tried to stab Henry, but instead the tables were turned when Danny Furness clobbered him with her baton and laid him out.
‘Police – open up,’ Henry called. Again, no reply. He put the key in the lock and opened the door to reveal a poorly-lit, dingy room which made the word ‘basic’ sound luxurious. A camp bed, a couple of old armchairs, rickety coffee table and nothing else, other than a kitchen sink.
‘Nice,’ Henry said, stepping over the threshold. The flat was empty, devoid of anything, including signs of recent habitation.
Donaldson was behind him. ‘Could just be a bolthole,’ he said.
‘Did he ever have anything more here?’ Henry asked Cork.
The landlord shrugged. ‘How would I know?’
‘Because you sneak around when your tenants are out … look, don’t mess us about, Larry. We’re chasing a murderer.’
Cork held up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine, OK, it was always this empty. Never saw clothing, or food, or anything. I don’t think he spent hardly any time here. Just paid his rent, which is all that bothers me. I wish all my tenants were like him.’
Henry, Donaldson and Fawcett exchanged a three-way glance. Henry sighed, dispirited. ‘Let’s get CSI up here to give it a once-over,’ he said to Fawcett. To Cork he said, ‘Thanks for your cooperation, Larry, but I have to say your choice of tenants is pretty fuckin’ lousy.’
‘I resent that,’ he said haughtily, his cigarette bobbing on his lip. ‘I check ’em all personally, references and everything. I run a tight ship here, despite what you might think, you homophobic bastard.’
‘I’m not homophobic, Larry, but no one, and I stress, no one tries to put their cock into my hand. A mistake you made, if you recall? Little wonder you got bounced from here to kingdom come.’ Henry’s voice was rising at the memory of the little thing that had triggered his treatment of Cork when he’d arrested him.
‘Boss?’ Fawcett said.
‘What?’ Henry snapped.
‘What references did Trent provide? Or Stoke, as he called himself?’
The three waited for Cork to respond. He scratched his dandruffed head, skin flaking on to his shoulder like a snow shower.
‘Did he actually have any references, or did he just cross your palm with silver?’ Henry asked him.
‘I can’t recall. Need to look at my files.’
‘Larry, does it even bother you that a man’s been murdered in one of your flats?’
‘Not specially. Obviously I won’t be getting an
y more rent off him, and I could do with the flat back to re-let it, and the fire damage has to be paid for, but no.’
After locking the empty flat, Henry pocketing the key, they all traipsed back to the Cork flat where his two sons were slumped on the settee watching TV, which was flicked off as the visitors returned. Both sons were smoking, had beers in their hands and neither moved. They were the antithesis of the stereotypical gay man, nothing remotely effeminate about them at all. The aroma of body odour hung unpleasantly in the air. Cork senior crossed to a desk on which was an expanding file jammed full of papers. He rifled through it, his grubby fingers emerging with a tatty sheet of paper.
‘He filled this one out.’
Henry crossed the room and looked at it, some generic tenancy pro forma agreement, probably bought from W. H. Smith.
‘Did Uren do one?’ Henry asked.
‘Yeah, it’s in here, I think.’
Henry read the document carefully, touching only its edges, but it seemed to hold nothing further for him in the hunt for a killer and saving the life of a young girl which might already be lost. He passed the agreement over to Fawcett for his perusal.
‘What you lot after?’ The voice came from one of the couch potatoes, the most junior member of the family, Harry Cork. He was slumped like a piece of blubber across an armchair, beer resting on his gut and as much body hair showing as his elder brother.
‘That fucker Stoke,’ his dad replied. ‘Him in the top flat.’
‘Oh aye,’ Harry said, losing interest. He broke wind, making Henry wonder how he, or any of the other two, managed to cop off with anyone else. They were gross and unpleasant and why anyone would chose to have dealings with them was beyond his ken.
Cork looked at Henry, shrugged.
‘What’s he done?’ said Harry, surfacing again, a bit like a whale coming up for air.
‘He did that murder,’ Dad Cork informed him.
‘Oh, right.’ Disinterest returned. He slurped his beer.
‘Well, if anything comes to mind, let us know, will you?’ Henry said to Larry and handed him a business card. ‘Call me, OK?’