by Nick Oldham
‘I’m lonely,’ she said simply.
‘And I’m very sorry, but I’m a cop investigating your husband’s murder and I’m also a professional. And I’m in a serious, happy relationship.’ The words sounded clumsy but were the best he could come up with.
‘I’ll fuck your brains out,’ she promised.
‘Excuse me.’ He reached for the door and squeezed past her, his face coming within inches of hers. He could see the glistening of tears in her eyes now. ‘That said, I’m very flattered. You’re a really nice lady.’
‘OK,’ she gasped and relented. ‘You don’t know how hard that was for me.’
‘I think I do.’
He opened the door and sidled out, not even daring to glance back, trying his best to walk in a straight line. As usual, his penis seemed to be acting in contravention of his thoughts, and the subsequent unheralded erection was caught at a very obtuse angle in his underpants.
Henry was speaking to Jerry Tope via the Bluetooth connection in his car. ‘Can you see if you can find the name of the headmaster or headmistress of the school in Belthorn at that time? Find out if they’re still alive or whatever and if we can get round to see them as soon as. And it was a church school, wasn’t it? What’s the name of the church it was connected to? And is the vicar still the same one. . you know the score.’
Tope, who was at home now, swigging his home brew, said, ‘Yes — and are we still on for Liversage tomorrow, too? He’s definitely in Accrington.’
‘You want to go for him?’
‘Yes please.’
Henry grinned at the thought of the change in Tope, who had suddenly turned into an adrenalin-fuelled super cop. He ended the call and readjusted his underwear again.
He arrived at BVH at nine thirty and took over from Lisa. His mother was asleep after an unsettled day with lots of chest and stomach pains. She had tried to eat but could not keep anything down. A nurse said she was deteriorating after the rally and her body was closing down, organ by organ.
He had a long talk with Lisa about the DNR issue without coming to a conclusion. then, sitting down next to the bed, and in spite of his determination to get back to Kendleton that night, he closed his eyes and was asleep within moments.
The vibration of his mobile phone in his pocket roused him groggily from the deep slumber he had instantly fallen into. He fumbled for the device, blinking rapidly, standing up and stumbling towards the corridor to take the call. By the time he got there, it had cut off.
He saw that he had slept through three other missed calls and the arrival of two texts. He cursed, saw it was only 10.45 p.m. — he’d thought it was much later — and scrolled through the phone to find out what he’d missed.
The texts were from Rik Dean. One read: ‘THINGS R KICKIN OFF — CROMER V COSTAIN.’ Another just ‘CALL ME!!!’
‘It’s like a Fast and Furious film,’ Rik said as he and Henry hurtled in Henry’s car towards Blackburn.
‘Just tell me,’ Henry said.
‘OK — two cars pull up outside Shady Lady’s club in Blackburn, which is operated by the Cromers. Four guys get out, tooled up, shotguns, handguns, bats. They open up at the doormen, who are Cromer employees. Big shoot-out. One guy is hit in the leg. The visitors pile back into their car — stolen, incidentally, from Blackpool, duh — and there’s a bloody big baddies’ car chase. Guys hanging out of car windows, shooting. One pedestrian clipped, plus loads of parked cars. Next, an unsuspecting cop car gets embroiled and has shots fired at him. Then there’s a foot chase through Blackburn centre, like bloody Jason Bourne. .’
Henry held up a finger. ‘Cut the cinematic references please. . where do we stand now?’
‘All seems to have quietened down for the moment.’
‘Injuries.’
‘Just the doorman, a pedestrian flipped over but OK. .’
‘Arrests?’
‘None.’
‘Brilliant.’ Henry’s mouth twisted.
They had reached the outskirts of Blackburn from the M65 side. Henry came off at the exit, but instead of heading towards town, he went to Belthorn.
He was going to pay the Cromers a visit. It was time to crack some heads together.
SIXTEEN
‘You let me in now,’ Henry demanded angrily of the intercom, feeling stupid shouting at a wall. There was no response. He continued, ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll come back mob-handed and tear the fucking house apart in pursuit of a wanted criminal, namely Terrence Cromer.’ With that, he lifted his finger off the speak button and stared through the wrought-iron gates at the Cromer house up the driveway. Lights burned. A couple of cars were parked outside. He squinted to see the numbers, but couldn’t make them out.
Petulantly he jabbed his thumb three more times on the button. He could be very nasty with his thumb if riled.
A moment later, with a hiss of static, came a tinny, female voice he recognized. ‘Wait there. I’ll be out in a moment.’ Janine Cromer.
He leaned, arms folded, on the front wing of the Audi, next to Rik.
‘I’m now getting sorely pissed off with this lot,’ Henry said through gritted teeth. ‘Not least because I haven’t had enough sleep.’
Rik remained silent, brooding. His evening of flesh-based pleasure with Lisa had been rudely interrupted by events and he too was a teensy bit cross.
The front door of the house opened. The two German Shepherd dogs surged out and bounded towards the gate ahead of Janine, who was pulling on a top coat.
The dogs reached the gate and patrolled back and forth, criss-crossing each other’s path with a sinuous movement, all the while looking through the railings, teeth bared, growling under their breath at the back of their throats.
‘Yes?’ Janine demanded. She gripped the gate and the loose sleeves of her coat fell back down her arms, revealing the pale skin of her inner forearms.
Henry pushed himself off the car and strutted across. ‘Who’s in charge?’ he demanded.
‘Of what?’
‘The family business.’
‘We don’t have a family business. It’s in your imagination.’
‘OK, OK,’ Henry relented, not wishing to get into an argument on the semantics of the organization of a crime family. ‘I need to pass a message to whom it may concern. . so if it gets to your dad, all the better. Two messages, actually.’
Janine continued to grip the railings, one dog either side of her. Henry glanced briefly down at the dogs, then as he lifted his eyes, saw her white forearms.
‘And they are?’ she asked.
‘First — give yourself up, Terry. We’ll get you sooner rather than later.’
Janine yawned mockingly.
‘Second, this shit stops. Right fucking now.’
‘And that shit would be?’
‘Turf wars. Guns. Killings. Blood. Your lot and the Costains. It stops now,’ Henry reiterated. ‘Before anyone else gets killed. We’re going to take a very hard line against you as it is, don’t make me step that up any further. Because I will, I promise you, Janine. We will not take any more crap and we will do everything to keep the streets safe from scumbags intent on violence. If there’s even a hint of anything further, we will screw you to the floor. . do I make myself clear?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
Henry glared at her, then shrugged. ‘And I thought you were different, Janine.’
She did not respond, but held his gaze with her head tilted, and Henry saw a look in her eye and an expression on her face that reminded him strongly of someone.
‘Whatever,’ he said with exasperation. ‘Pass the message, dearie,’ he added coldly, ‘and don’t be surprised when we come knocking.’
She turned and walked away.
Rik sidled up to Henry and said, ‘Have you properly checked out little Miss Black Widow?’
‘No. . but I’m going to.’
Henry could have ranted until his face turned a horrible shade of puce. But it
would only have served to wind him up even more and put more stress than ever on his heart, which he felt was becoming even feebler by the minute.
Instead, he withdrew from the gates and skidded away in the Audi, flicking up grit as he went. He was en route to Blackpool to deliver the same message to the Costains. The only problem being, who was now their head? Who had the power now? Who should he target his warning to?
By the time he hit the slip road onto the M65, he had settled into his driving, taken a few steadying breaths and his mind was starting to work again.
‘Notice anything about her?’ he asked Rik.
‘In what respect? Fit and dangerous, like I said all along? Fuckable, but rather like knobbing a black widow spider? Dangerous as hell?’
‘Other than that.’
‘No. I’m a simple man,’ Rik conceded.
‘Her arms?’
‘Still no.’
‘Her inner forearms, the soft bit from wrist up to elbow. . when her sleeve slid back?’
Rik continued to shake his head. ‘Best tell me. Not in the mood for guessing.’
‘She self-harms. Lots and lots of razor blade cuts up each arm, probably hundreds. And probably all over other parts of her body, too. A lot were old, but some looked recent.’
‘Oh. . and?’
‘Why do people self harm?’
‘Don’t know much about it. .’
‘Usually because of deep-rooted psychological issues and trauma. . it’s a kind of release, the pain, the blood flow,’ Henry explained.
‘Ugh. . you seem to know a lot about it.’ Rik sounded impressed.
‘Not really. Came across it once a while back and read up on it, that’s all.’
‘You think it’s significant?’
‘No idea,’ Henry admitted. ‘But it’s odd and there’s always a back story behind it. I wonder what hers is?’ The other thing that was odd, was what he had seen in Janine’s face as she’d stared daggers at him.
The car reached eighty-five and he pulled out into the fast lane.
Whether his words had any real effect, Henry could not be certain. He made sure that armed response units were very visible in and around Blackpool and Blackburn in order to get his message across, with orders to cruise by the clubs, and as far as the streets were concerned, everything seemed to quieten down.
What went on behind closed doors, he could not say.
But the lull in overt criminal activity gave him the chance to get a properly structured and staffed investigation under way as, suddenly, the commanders of the relevant divisions became ultra helpful in terms of staffing and resources. Henry didn’t know how true it was, but the rumour clinic stated they’d had a very big kick up their backsides from the chief constable’s jackboots.
Very quickly Henry had two Major Incident Rooms up and running — one in Blackburn, one in Blackpool — and a coordinating office at FMIT. He was lead SIO and Rik Dean was his deputy, having been promoted temporarily to chief inspector so he could pull rank if necessary.
The day after his visit to the Cromers and the Costains (where he had spoken in no uncertain terms to Cherry, Runcie’s girlfriend, who had listened in a very chastened way and did not offer up another view of her shaved lady-region), a very big police operation had begun.
Clovelly, Terry Cromer’s running mate, refused to admit to anything, but was placed before magistrates and remanded to police cells for a further seventy-two hours — a three-day lie down — so he could be interviewed further and more evidence found. Whether or not he admitted anything became less important as the scientific side of things put him in the Nissan at the time of the drive-by shooting. And at the scene of Runcie’s murder.
To coin a phrase, he was stuffed.
Terry Cromer was still at large, but Henry was relaxed about that. It would only be a matter of time before he was arrested. Several operations were in train to keep under observation addresses he was known to frequent and a surveillance unit was sitting on his house in Belthorn. Or rather lying, waiting and watching from cover in a nearby field, in the manner of an SAS team.
Other detectives and specialists were looking at the hospital shootings, and all in all, Henry thought he had it covered. It felt good. He was loving it. He’d had a couple of half-decent nights’ sleep, been well loved up by Alison, who seemed to have a surge of bedroom creativity and energy following the engagement. He also spent a lot of time with his mother, who — true to her nature — was rallying again, though she was still classified as very poorly.
Next morning he was in his office at FMIT, coffee in hand, carefully making up the murder book, having locked himself away successfully for a few hours, phones redirected and a big warning sign on his door.
Eventually he sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and for the first time in a while thought about the double murder, which had taken a back seat — again.
He snatched up his phone, jabbed in an internal extension number.
‘Thanks for your patience, Jerry old fruit,’ Henry said. ‘Fancy that look at Rafe Liversage?’
Although Liversage was in the school photograph, Henry didn’t really think he was responsible for murdering David Peters and Christine Blackshaw. He was one of the younger pupils, maybe six at the time of the photo, but he had to be dragged in and spoken to.
Jerry Tope landed in Henry’s office five minutes later.
An hour after the phone call, Henry and Tope were at the hostel in Accrington, where they learned from the shifty manager that Liversage hadn’t been seen for over a week. When asked why this hadn’t been reported to the Probation Service, the manager shrugged and said he would do it in the New Year. Residents often went walkabout, but usually returned, no harm done. It made work to report it, then un-report it.
Unimpressed by the lack of professionalism — and his odour — the two detectives left the hostel, a large, old detached house on the outskirts of town, and went to stand by Henry’s car.
They looked at one another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.
Henry voiced them. ‘He’s a lying bastard.’
Tope nodded. Their heads swivelled back to the premises, seeing a curtain twitch at a ground floor window, catching a glimpse of the manager.
‘I’d say so.’
‘Let’s go back in,’ Henry decided.
The manager and Rafe Liversage were arrested in the hostel. Henry and Tope basically forced their way back in and insisted that the manager show them all of the rooms, including his own accommodation.
The man’s bolt for the door whilst trying to get his mobile phone to his ear was a bit of a giveaway. Henry spun him round and dragged him to the floor, pinned him face down and spoke into his dirty, hairy, waxy ear.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Henry cuffed his hands behind his back, then stepped him back up to his feet and propelled him to a door marked ‘Private — Staff Only’. This led through to an office and then, via another door, down some steps to the basement flat where the manager lived.
The lack of any resistance, the man’s total submission, told Henry what he needed to know. This was confirmed as the three of them clattered through into the lounge of the flat — empty — through the kitchen and into the bedroom to find Liversage dressed only in a grubby grey string vest, sitting on the edge of an equally disgusting grey bed, one hand masturbating his own flaccid cock, his other hand doing the same to a young boy who was tied, spreadeagled to the bed with leather straps, a look of abject terror on his face.
As good an arrest as it was — one of those lucky chances that often come along as a by-product of a large investigation — Liversage was soon discounted as a suspect in the double murder. But he was charged with kidnapping and a multitude of sexual offences, all of which would ensure that his prison licence would be revoked and he would be sent back where he belonged. Both Liversage and his accomplice, the hostel manager, were handed over to detectives
at Accrington when it became clear they might be responsible for a series of undetected sexual assaults in the area over the last two months.
‘Ah well, it was a good try,’ Tope sighed.
‘Are you getting to like operational duties again?’ Henry teased him as they set off back to HQ.
‘No chance. . when my arse twitches it’s because I’ve found a way into a website I shouldn’t even be on in the first place. I’m not really cut out to be knocking on doors any more.’
Henry laughed. He knew that Tope definitely did his best work for the Constabulary by looking at a computer, although he also knew that the clock was ticking for such people. It was cheaper to employ civilians to do the work and some were already trained, which Henry found sad. Cops brought an indefinable instinct to jobs like Tope’s and Henry was firmly of the school of belief, no matter how outdated his stance, that civilians would never have that same intuition. But the world was constantly changing, and not always for the better. For the ‘dollar’, maybe. And in that respect, Henry also believed that TJF: The Job’s Fucked.
Tope showed his value again as they headed towards the motorway.
‘Ooh, got something.’ He pulled a few neatly folded pieces of paper from his inner jacket pocket and opened them out. ‘A vicar and a teacher. . you asked me to see if I could find them. . re the school?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘The vicar who was attached to Belthorn School is called Bateson — but he’s retired now. . But his son is also a vicar and the school is still linked with the same church — and Bateson junior is the vicar. The church is in Oswaldtwistle. Looks like a family business.’
‘The son’s taken over from the father, dog collar and everything?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about the teacher?’
‘No luck so far. . but we’re not far off Oswaldtwistle now. If you fancied, we could call in on spec and maybe the son could direct us to the dad — if he’s still alive, that is.’
‘I fancy,’ Henry said, and at the next set of lights he turned towards Oswaldtwistle instead of heading for the motorway.
They drove through the main street of the little town and soon found the vicarage and church — St Catherine’s. Henry knew where it was, having lived in the area many years before. It was early evening when they pulled up on the long gravelled driveway outside a magnificent, but crumbling vicarage, and knocked on the door. It was already dark and cold, and snow was a probability.