by Nick Oldham
Henry seemed to have inherited the inspector’s office at Rawtenstall police station. He knew it was only a temporary state of affairs but even so it was useful to have a little bolt hole where he could retreat to and get his mind around things, not just in relation to the murder investigation.
Inwardly he seethed about Anger and Carradine. Old buddies, one looking out for the other. Promising things and then having the temerity to flounce around, sneering at Henry, going out for lunch, then returning together and asking him how things were progressing.
Henry could have punched Anger. He didn’t, remaining cool, calm and bubbling.
‘Twats,’ he muttered in the confines of the inspector’s office, then repeated the word for emphasis.
He sat back in the swivel chair again, staring out through the narrow window, watching the public go about their day-to-day business.
‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Brain in gear, please.’
SIOs do not exclusively run one investigation at a time. Quite often they are required to steer two or three murders at once, which can be difficult and stressful. At the moment, Henry was fortunate in having only the one, but he still had a watching brief to perform over the fatal accident at Blackpool. In truth he had let that slip a little, knowing that the DS to whom he had entrusted it was more than capable of cracking it without Henry’s assistance.
However, Henry needed to keep in touch.
Using an internal phone he called Rik Dean on spec and amazingly managed to get in touch.
‘Anything happening?’ he asked after the pleasantries.
‘Roy Costain has definitely gone to ground,’ Dean informed him. ‘We’ve had one or two sightings – he’s managed to evade us so far, but he’s definitely in town.’
‘Have the family helped at all?’
‘Bunch of shits – no they haven’t. Very obstructive, nothing coming from them at all. I put an FLO in with them, but they’re not having it. Still reckon they’re going to sue the cops.’
‘Not surprising. They don’t know right from wrong,’ Henry said wearily. ‘I definitely need to come and see Troy again. I said I would, but I got side-tracked.’
‘Actually I haven’t seen Troy for a day or two.’
‘Right, OK,’ Henry said, winding up the conversation. ‘If I get a chance I’ll be over later.’
Henry hung up.
Next job was to chase up the DNA results and the firearms analysis. The former should be done by now, the latter, he knew, could take longer. He got on the phone to Jane Roscoe in the MIR down the corridor to ask just exactly what had been done.
‘Seen that ad on telly?’ Tony Cromer asked Spinks. They were in the Bentley, Cromer at the wheel, Spinks in the rear. Jackman was following behind as they drove away from Whitworth down into the Rossendale Valley. Spinks sat hunched over, hurt and frightened. He knew better than to attempt anything with Cromer. Instead he responded miserably.
‘What ad would that be?’
‘Oh, God, it’s for some car or other. Anyway, this guy sees an advertising hoarding for this car . . . I think it’s a Peugeot or something . . . then he looks at his own car, which is a pile of shit . . . gets in his car and starts bouncing it off walls, y’know, ramming it, reversing it, scraping it, until eventually it kinda takes on the shape of the Peugeot in the hoarding . . . do you know which one I mean, now?’ He glanced over his shoulder.
‘Can’t say I do . . . anyway, why’re you telling me this? What interest is it to me? I want to know what’s going on, what’re you two goons playing at?’
Henry was back in the MIR chatting to one of the detectives on the squad who was reporting in about the status of the actions he had been allocated. Roscoe and Carradine were huddled together at a desk, ostensibly discussing MIR management issues, though Henry believed they were gossiping about him. Not good. He definitely was becoming paranoid.
‘OK, good stuff,’ Henry said to the DC. He looked up as the support-unit sergeant came into the room, dressed in her search overalls and looking like a cat with a mouse. ‘Hello, Hannah,’ Henry said, noticing she had a small, clear plastic bag in her hand and a video cassette in the other.
‘Can I have a word?’ she said. Roscoe and Carradine’s eyes turned to her as they stopped their little scrum down. ‘Think I might’ve found something.’
They drove into an old mill yard in Stacksteads, a township situated on the long stretch of road in the valley bottom between Bacup and Rawtenstall.
Once there had been many mills in the area, now most had been demolished; those remaining were either derelict or had been converted into factory units. None produced cotton any more.
This particular mill had a long, proud history, but it was now deserted and falling to pieces. Rufus Sweetman had bought it at a knock-down price with the intention of converting it into classy apartments. It stood by the trickle of the River Irwell and may have had some development potential, but Sweetman had owned it for three years and had done nothing with it.
The yard at the rear of the mill was bounded on three sides by twenty-foot-high stone walls and on the fourth side by the mill itself. The entrance to it was by way of a gap in the walls which had once been a proper gate.
Cromer drove the Bentley into the yard, stopping in the middle, gawking up at the multi-storey mill which in its day had produced millions of yards of cotton material. Behind, Jackman parked up the second car at the entrance to the yard.
‘Ahh, some history here,’ Cromer said. He shook his head sadly. ‘All gone now. Everything produced by chinks and wogs these days . . . sad . . . what do you say, Spinksy?’
Spinks sat upright and tight in the back seat, mouth clamped shut, a premonition of horror to come shuddering through his veins. He could not speak.
Cromer patted the steering wheel. ‘This is a lovely bus, y’know? Really smooth. Can’t quite hear the clock ticking, though . . . ahh, no wonder, it’s digital!’ He laughed at his joke, twisted his head and looked over his shoulder at his captive with an evil smile.
There was complete silence between the men, the only sound being the gentle, very muted rumble of the huge powerful engine under the bonnet.
‘What’s going on?’ Spinks squeaked, his mouth a dry cave.
‘Someone’s taken something that doesn’t belong to them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Something that belongs to me boss.’
‘Like what?’ Spinks asked desperately.
‘Like a lot . . . I mean a lot . . . of drugs.’
With that, Cromer snapped the automatic gearbox into drive. He rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The heavy car surged forward like a sports car half its weight, the front end lifting regally as power transferred to the wheels. Cromer held on tight, bracing himself.
Spinks let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream as he saw the mill-yard wall getting closer and closer as the car sped towards it.
‘Jesus fucking . . .!’ he uttered. Something inside him did not believe that Cromer would do it. No one, no one, in their right mind would, whatever the reason, drive such a beautiful piece of machinery head first into a three-foot-thick stone wall. Surely.
Cromer did.
The car, still accelerating, hit the wall with a sickening thud, throwing Spinks out of his seat, sending him sprawling through the gap between the front seats. Before he could recover himself, Cromer selected reverse and the wheels were skidding as the car began a journey towards the opposite wall.
‘You idiot!’ screamed Spinks.
The Bentley connected.
Then Cromer was in drive again, but instead of going for another straight-on hit, he went for forty-five degrees, slamming the car into the wall so as to destroy the front offside headlights.
Then back in reverse.
‘This is my fucking car, you prick!’ Spinks shrieked.
To no effect.
Smack! The car hurtled into the wall behind again.
‘Jesus, this
is fun!’ Cromer yelled with a whoop. ‘It’ll be a Peugeot when I’ve finished with it.’
‘You bastard!’
Cromer found drive again, but anger, fear, horror, self-preservation all combined in Spinks and he went for Cromer’s neck and head. He reached over the seat and his right forearm went under Cromer’s chin whilst his fingers went to gouge out Cromer’s eyes.
A grim smile came across Cromer’s distorted face. He twisted his head downwards and tried to evade Spinks’s probing fingers, trying to protect his eyes. The arm across his windpipe he could endure for a few moments, but he needed his vision. He pushed his right foot down and the car sped on, taking a swerving, tyre-squealing course across the mill yard until it rammed into the opposite wall again, smashing the radiator grille. The impact threw both men forward and Spinks lost his grip for a millisecond, just long enough for Cromer to twist and turn away from his attacker, shoulder open the driver’s door and roll out of the car.
He hauled open the rear door and snarled at Spinks. ‘Out.’
Spinks launched himself at Cromer, leaping out, arms like a pincer, going for the waist.
Cromer sidestepped easily. Spinks crashed to the ground, hurt, humiliated.
There was nothing clinical about what Cromer did next.
He knew it was childish, but even so he took great pleasure in it. With the highly curious eyes of both detective inspector foes on him, Henry ushered the support-unit sergeant out of the MIR, down the corridor into the inspector’s office. As he left the MIR, he could not resist a supercilious glance in Roscoe’s direction. Nor could he hold back a smirk at Carradine. He almost gave them both the swivel finger, but that would have been one step too far.
Hannah laid out the two items on the desk. ‘It’s a good job you made us search the scene again,’ she said gratefully. ‘We were all for packing up.’ Henry nodded as he listened, his heart hammering. ‘We did the whole area around the scene and found this about twenty-five feet away from where the body was found.’ She pointed to the clear plastic bag with a waterproof seal on it – a Lancashire Constabulary evidence bag. Inside it was a piece of crumpled paper which Henry recognized immediately as a sales receipt. ‘It’s for petrol.’ Hannah’s eyes caught Henry’s. ‘And for a petrol can,’ she added wonderfully. Henry uttered a short guffaw and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s for the purchase of petrol and a petrol can at a twenty-four-hour garage on Bury Road, timed and dated. I took the liberty of calling into the garage on the way back here and found they videoed the forecourt and the shop continuously with two cameras, giving a split screen. This is the video tape which covers the relevant period relating to the sales receipt . . . paid for in cash, by the way. One of the lads is taking a statement from the garage owner and we’re trying to track down the cashier who was on duty at the time.’
‘Have you viewed the tape?’
She shook her head.
‘OK, let’s get both items booked into the system. Get the sales receipt off to fingerprints immediately – get a motorcyclist to do it – and then let’s you and me sit down and watch a video together . . . well done, by the way.’
‘Thanks . . . but down to you, Henry.’
He blushed.
‘But then again,’ she added, ‘it might be nothing.’
It would have been totally unprofessional of Henry to have kept the discovery of the tape to himself. Whilst it irked him, he invited his office managers into the refs room at the station and commandeered the TV and video for the first screening. Time and date were stamped on the bottom of the screen, so it was simple enough to fast forward to the right spot on the tape to link it in with the receipt.
The split screen was very grainy, hazy and in black and white. A cheap system, but better than nothing at all. As he reached the right place on the tape, he slowed it down to normal speed, waiting with anticipation.
The left half of the screen was the forecourt, the right the interior of the shop.
A car drove on and stopped at a pump. A man got out, filled the car. Not the one they were interested in, but even so Henry was slightly disappointed because it was impossible to read the registered number of the vehicle. He frowned. Make and model, yes. Colour would have to be guessed at. But number, no.
The man approached the cashier’s window and then disappeared out of shot, before reappearing a few moments later, getting in his car and driving away.
‘The shop’s locked at midnight, apparently,’ Hannah said. ‘Everyone pays at the window up to eight a.m.’
‘And the camera picks people up on the forecourt, but not at the payment window,’ Carradine said. ‘Not well sited,’ he added.
Then, on the periphery of the screen, another car drove on to the forecourt, but did not stop at the pumps. Other than a shot of the wheels as it crossed the far side of the forecourt, there was nothing.
‘Wonder if this is the one?’ Roscoe asked.
The time stamp on the screen said three fifty-five a.m.
The detectives waited. The split screens stayed empty.
Henry mussed his face with his hands, impatient.
A man walked into shot on the right side of the screen, walking down the aisle in the shop, reaching up to a shelf for something, then walking back holding a petrol can.
‘The cashier,’ Henry said.
He disappeared off screen, probably taking up his position behind the counter.
A figure of a man then appeared on the left half of the screen, walking towards the pumps, his back to the camera, holding the petrol can.
‘This is the guy who bought the can,’ Henry said.
All four cops hunched closer to the screen, watching as the man went to a pump and filled up the can, all the while keeping his back to the lens.
‘He knows he’s being filmed,’ Roscoe said.
Unknowingly, all four of them were holding their breaths, collectively waiting for the man to turn and walk back to the window.
The figure on the screen stood up, slotted the petrol-pump nozzle on to its holder and screwed the cap on the can. He picked up the can and then walked away from the camera, across the forecourt, and out of shot.
‘Cheeky bastard. He paid for it before he served himself.’
They continued to watch the screen for a few moments before Henry fast-forwarded it, but there was nothing else to see.
‘Shit,’ breathed Carradine. ‘Doesn’t give us much.’
‘Gives us something,’ Henry said. ‘If this is our man, and there’s a good likelihood it is, we’ve got height, build, clothing, gait . . . good stuff . . . breakthrough. Let’s get it copied,’ he said to Carradine and Roscoe, ‘then I want it sent to technical support to see if they can do anything with the images. I know we only get the bottom edge of a car, but we need to put a make to it, if possible . . . OK, back on your heads,’ he said, pushing himself out of his seat, ejecting the video from the player and handing it to Roscoe.
‘Well done,’ he said to Hannah. ‘My gut feeling is that we’ve just had our first glimpse of a murderer.’
The support-unit sergeant left the room feeling very pleased with herself.
Roscoe looked at Henry as though he were pathetic. ‘Another of your conquests, Henry? She looked all gooey-eyed . . . is it the overalls that do it for you?’
Henry exited without comment.
Roads and tracks of varying quality criss-cross the bleak moorland which rises between Bacup and Todmorden, a town nestling just within the boundary of West Yorkshire. Other than the A road which straps across the gap between the two towns, these other roads are not ones on which a Bentley, which when new cost somewhere in the region of £140,000, should be driven. However, the Bentley driven by Tony Cromer was the exception. He purposely picked rough tracks, bouncing the battered luxury car over and into pot-holes and ditches, bottoming it, tearing the ultra-expensive exhaust from its mountings. He spent a good ten minutes enjoying a kind of off-road experience. Eventually he met up with Teddy Bear Jackman, w
ho was waiting patiently in their own car near to the small, hilltop hamlet of Sharneyford.
Cromer pulled in, climbed out and stood back to admire his handiwork.
The Bentley had been trashed, but he was impressed by the way in which it kept going. It was undoubtedly a fantastic car and it hurt Cromer to have had to do what he had to do. But business was business.
He walked around to the boot, which he had to force open.
Inside, curled up in a foetal ball, was the equally battered Spinks, who had also just enjoyed an off-road experience. He peered up with eyes surrounded by a face pulped and disfigured and broken by Cromer’s merciless beating. He cowered and whined, terrified.
‘Got good suspension, your motor.’
Spinks nodded, then coughed blood.
‘Well? Change of heart?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ he said weakly.
Cromer nodded. He tossed the Bentley keys into the boot, then leaned in close. ‘You have any thoughts about a follow-up, a return match, and you’re dead – understand?’
Spinks nodded.
Cromer slammed down the boot and climbed into the waiting car, next to his colleague. ‘One down, nine to go.’
It was the end of a long day. Some progress had been made – such as the video from the petrol station. The cashier had been located and was being interviewed, later to be visited by the e-fit expert. It was a good lead and there would be some good actions from it. In the morning Henry fully expected the DNA results to be through, one way or the other, and maybe something from the firearms people at Huntingdon.
But now he was shattered. The nine o’clock debrief had gone well and everyone involved was still very much up for it. The following day’s actions had all been allocated and Henry decided to skip a morning briefing so everyone could get working early.
After the debrief, Henry spent half an hour making up the policy log and then, confident he was hitting all bases, he got ready to hit the trail home. The thought of an hour in the car did not fill him with glee, but his bed was calling, and cancelling the morning briefing meant he could laze in it until eight a.m. A lie in!