by Nick Oldham
I’ll bet he did, Henry thought. His mouth twisted in a similar way to Kate’s — whose face hadn’t changed its expression. She looked as though she’d been given a bowl of fried whitebait when she’d been expecting Dover sole: very annoyed.
‘What’s the job?’ Henry asked.
The DS, who hadn’t yet turned out to it himself, explained what he’d been told. Henry listened, sitting up as he did, paying close attention. He clarified a few points, asked some pertinent questions and issued some instructions. ‘I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,’ he promised and ended the call. He placed the phone down slowly and looked at Kate. ‘Sorry love,’ he said ruefully, giving her a pained expression. ‘Sounds a bit of a messy one. There’s no one else nearby to cover.’
She held his gaze, then said, ‘This better not screw up my holiday.’
‘It won’t. I’ll just cover it, then hand it over. Promise.’
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Same old story.
Henry stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, glanced sadly at the JD, and was aware that the warm fuzzy atmosphere had just turned cold and icy.
The police moved the public further and further away from the scene until they’d sealed off a good two hundred metres either side of the incident and completely closed the road, as well as the whole length of the alley.
Rain started to fall heavily as Henry, having parked his car almost a quarter of a mile away, pushed his way through the dwindling crowd of onlookers, their enthusiasm for the grisly tempered by a downpour. He always preferred to walk up to outdoor murder scenes. It gave him more time to take in things, assimilate matters, rather than racing up and leaping out of cars like the Flying Squad. He hunched up the collar on his raincoat, ducked under the cordon tape and flashed his warrant card at the on-guard constable, who had scuttled up to him thinking he was a member of the public trying it on. After a close inspection of the ID, Henry was allowed through, pulling a knitted cap out of his pocket and tugging it down on to his head, over his ears, cursing the rain. It was one of the worst things that could happen to an exterior crime scene. Nature’s way of swilling away evidence for good. He hoped the first cops on the scene had acted swiftly and professionally to protect and preserve evidence.
The local DS, Alex Bent, the one Henry had received the phone call from on this murky night, hurried towards him, head down against the rain that was now a torrent. Henry looked past him to see a lighting rig and a crime scene tent being erected. Good, he thought. DS Bent briefed Henry quickly, then led him up to the body.
The younger of the two boys had noticed Henry Christie’s arrival and slid into the shadow, not wishing to be spotted. Rory backed off too. Both boys knew Henry, but for different reasons, and neither wanted to come face to face with him.
‘There’s nowt to see now,’ Rory said.
‘We saw it all anyway,’ Mark said.
‘Pity we couldn’t find that phone,’ Rory said. ‘Anyway, let’s bog off… down to the arcades, eh?’
Mark screwed up his face. He wanted to go home, although there wasn’t anything to go home for. His mother would be out and there was no one else. He just wanted to get back to his room, curl up in bed and rid his mind of the image of the murder.
Rory took his arm. ‘Come on, or we’ll get pissed wet through.’
‘I don’t know,’ Mark whined.
‘Stop being arsey… let’s check out what’s happening in town and if there’s nowt, we’ll hike it home. The chippy’ll be open — and hey — we can afford the full hit. You could take it home from there.’
The prospect of taking home fish, chips and mushy peas was mouth-watering.
‘OK then.’
It was an old adage: you don’t get a second chance at a crime scene. So Henry quickly ensured that everything was done to protect it, particularly when its seriousness became apparent when he saw the poor mangled body of the old man, crushed under the wheels of a car, and the bullet wounds to the head that had left horrendous exit wounds. Standing underneath the hastily erected tent against which the rain pounded incessantly, Henry took it all in, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, letting his brain start to work on hypotheses.
He inhaled, asked Bent, ‘Any ideas who he is?’
‘Not as yet. I haven’t allowed anyone to go through his pockets. Didn’t want to spoil anything.’
Henry nodded. ‘We’ll save that for the mortuary. Witnesses?’
‘Uniform are knocking on doors, but nothing yet.’
He nodded again, trying to piece it all together. His instinct was to go through the pockets for an ID, but there was a lot of stuff to do before that stage was reached. He needed the CSIs and a forensic team to do their job; he wanted the Home Office pathologist on scene, too. He didn’t mind speculating, but didn’t want to be drawn to any firm conclusions that could lead him down a blind alley. The man had been run over and shot, and though he was pretty certain in which order that had happened, he didn’t want to get it wrong, as the sequence of events would have a fundamental bearing on the investigation.
Then the tent flap was drawn back and a rain-drenched constable said, ‘Can I have a quick word, boss?’ to Henry. He went to him, but stayed under cover.
‘Fire away.’
‘Might be nothing, but I’ve been having a look down this alley.’ The PC turned and pointed to the alley that ran at right angles to the road. Henry poked his head out of the tent and squinted through the rain into the passageway.
‘And?’
‘Dog shit — right up by that wall.’
‘Dog shit,’ Henry said.
‘There’s a footprint in it, but it’s sort of tight up against the wall and not generally in a place where someone would step in it. Just wondered if it was worth preserving…’ His voice trailed off uncertainly, as if preserving a mound of canine excrement was as ridiculous as it sounded. ‘Y’know, before it gets washed away.’
That’ll be a popular one to get a cast from, Henry thought, already visualizing the CSIs tossing a coin over who drew the shit end of the stick. He nodded. ‘Cover it up. You never know.’
‘OK, boss — I already got a seed tray from a resident,’ the officer said triumphantly.
‘Good man,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’
The boys ran down to the promenade through the rain and into one of the amusement arcades they frequented, where they mingled with a few of their mates for a while. Rory’s head injury caused a stir of interest. He kept it vague as to how he got it, making up a cock and bull story about a cop whacking him with a baton that no one believed, until all interest dwindled and the two lads stood at a one-armed bandit, feeding it change from a fiver they’d cashed.
Finally, they lost it all and decided to call it a night, emerging into the rain and heading back up to the estate they lived on, which was about a twenty-minute walk away.
‘We should nick a car,’ Rory suggested.
‘That would be pushing our luck,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve robbed three people, not been caught, and watched an old bloke get murdered… nuff’s enough,’ he went on, clearly uncomfortable with the whole evening. Rory picked up on his friend’s tone of voice.
‘You can’t go to the cops, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, course.’
‘More friggin’ trouble than they’re worth. Do not get involved. They hate my family as it is, especially that Henry Christie.’
Mark looked quizzically at him. ‘Christie?’
‘Yeah, that detective who turned up.’
‘I know the one you mean. You know him, do you?’
‘Bastard — always mixing our family a bottle. You know him too?’
‘He dealt with my sister’s death.’
‘Ahh,’ Rory said sagely, knowing a touchy subject when he came across one. ‘What are you having from the chip-hole?’
‘Going for pie, chips and peas, me,’ Mark said, having reviewed his options, ‘covered in th
at stodgy gravy they do.’
‘Sounds good… come on.’ Rory plucked Mark’s sleeve and they ran on in the rain, deliberately crashing through puddles so they couldn’t get any more wet if they tried, reverting in many ways to the adolescent carefree kids they really should have been.
They arrived at the fish and chip shop about ten minutes later, soaked and breathless, and bought their food. The shop was on a small row of retail outlets in a block on the edge of their estate. Behind the row was an unlit, underused car park, strewn with debris and the burnt-out shell of a car. The lads had to walk across this piece of land, then cut into a high-walled alley that dog-legged and came out on to the estate proper.
Crossing the car park and going into the alley was the quickest way on to the estate, but as Mark came out of the chip shop, his food wrapped in paper and placed in a thin plastic bag, and walked to the end of the shops, he paused and looked across the dark car park. An unpleasant sensation flitted down his spine. A bad memory came back to him. He shivered.
Rory barged into him purposely. ‘Hey, watch it,’ he said, elbowing Mark out of the way. Then he stopped and looked into his friend’s face. ‘You OK?’
Mark snapped out of it. ‘Fine.’
Rory scrunched up his face and shook his head. ‘You’re too much in touch with your girlie side,’ he taunted and punched Mark’s upper arm. ‘Gay boy.’
‘I’m not, I’m fucking not,’ Mark protested, rising to the bait as only a sensitive teenager can. But his moment of reverie had gone. They set off across the car park, leaving the well-lighted place behind them, plunging into darkness.
Locally, the alleyway they were walking towards was known as Psycho Alley, so named because of the high number of criminal incidents that had taken place there over the years, from rapes to robberies. The council were always promising to demolish it and put some lighting in, but never seemed to manage to do either. It had become a no-go area for law abiding people at all times of day and night, being easier and safer to take the long way around rather than risk becoming a crime statistic.
For two streetwise mid-teens, though, it was a place that held no fear.
And in fact, if they had reached Psycho Alley, real name Song Thrush Walk, it was possible both of them could have survived. As it was, only one did.
‘I am really starving,’ Rory said, lifting his plastic bag up to his nose, inhaling the wonderful aroma of his supper, that combination of hot chips, vinegar, curry sauce and fish. ‘I could eat it now — that new lot at the chippy are really good,’ he said, referring to the new owners of the business.
‘You’ll enjoy it better in front of the telly,’ Mark said.
Rory gave Mark a curious glance. ‘Not with my lot of grabbing gits. Be nowt left. I’ll have it in my room, unless our kid’s there
… or, I could always come to your house, couldn’t I? Your mum won’t be in, will she?’
Mark hesitated. To have Rory around and inside the house was perhaps taking things a step too far. Mark wanted to keep his home life — what there was of it — separate from his so-called friendship with this lad, at least for the moment. Rory had a terrible reputation on an estate renowned for bad reputations, was often known to steal from his mates and then intimidate them with threats of violence if they complained. It wasn’t that Mark had a lot to protect, but what he had he wanted to keep.
‘Mm,’ he began doubtfully, wondering how to phrase the rejection tactfully — but before he could say anything, a figure loomed up in front of him and Rory.
‘Hi guys,’ the man said. He was in dark clothing, against a dark background.
The lads stopped.
A feeling of deja vu — and complete and utter dread — coursed through Mark’s body, like razor wire being drawn through his veins. History repeating itself.
The man stood in front of them, the entrance to the alley maybe ten metres behind him.
In that instant Mark knew exactly what this was about.
‘Scuse me,’ Rory said, not getting it. He split away from Mark, sidestepping the figure with the intention of simply walking past. But the man moved into Rory’s path.
‘Don’t think so,’ he said.
Rory peered at the man’s face and then, even in the dark, just the slightest glint of light from the lamp posts way back at the fish and chip shop, a hundred metres behind them, he recognized him.
‘Shit,’ he uttered, ducked low and tried to run to the man’s left. Not quick enough. The man pivoted. There was something black and bulbous in his hand. There was a dull double-‘thwuck’, accompanied by a silver-white flash as the man managed to touch the muzzle of the gun on to Rory’s temple and fire. It was as if the teenager had been hit by the right hook of a heavyweight boxing champion. He staggered sideways, then his legs crumpled underneath him.
The man contorted away from Rory, Mark being his next target. He was moving quickly, but there was something unhurried, calm and efficient in the way he swivelled.
By contrast, Mark moved by instinct and fear, which gave him the slightest of edges as he swung the plastic carrier bag containing his newly bought feast into the man’s face. The bag — possibly the cheapest and flimsiest plastic bag ever made — burst on impact, showering the attacker with an inferno of pie, chips and peas. He screamed and reared away, tearing at the hot food with his hands.
Mark ran for the alley, knowing he had only seconds at most.
‘Goddam little bastard,’ the man bellowed.
Mark reached the first right of the dog-leg in the alley. The brick wall above his head exploded with silent missiles: the man was shooting at him. Mark ducked low, threw himself around the corner, not even allowing himself a micro-peek over the shoulder. That would have slowed him down. Even so, he was aware that the killer had recovered and was giving chase, could hear footsteps pounding.
The young lad ran towards the next corner, a left, just metres ahead. He skidded around it, feet sliding in the gravel, careening into the wall, then pushing himself upright and running hard, arms pumping. He was fast and lithe — a good sprinter — and he hoped that his recent cigarette habit wouldn’t slow him down too much.
Still the footsteps were behind him. The man was fast and determined.
The alley opened up on to one of the roads on the estate. Mark did not pause to check for traffic, running across the road, bounding over a low hedge into a garden, then down the side of a house into the back garden, noisily kicking over some tins stacked next to a wheelie bin. They clattered loudly. Mark cursed, then abruptly changed direction by ninety degrees and ran parallel along the back of the house, across a paved area, then leapt across a broken fence into the next garden along, landing awkwardly but using his momentum to keep going.
A dog barked hysterically nearby. Someone shouted an obscenity.
Mark kept going, changed direction again and clambered over a back fence, dropping into another garden, ran through it and came out on another road, this time a cul-de-sac.
He stopped, wheezed for breath, in the middle of the road, his eyes wild.
An engine revved. A car swerved into the street, lights blazing.
Mark knew his cars and instantly recognized it as the Volvo that had struck the old man.
Terrified, trapped by the onrushing car, Mark remained transfixed by the headlights — then his survival gene kicked in. He spun, ran, the car only feet behind him, catching him, bearing down, trying to mow him over.
The cul-de-sac opened into a turning circle.
Once more Mark changed direction, cutting across the headlight beam, his shadow long and distorted. He swooped behind a parked car, then cut down a tight public footpath running along the side of a house, hearing the car swerve and stop behind him.
He kept going, never looking back. Pushing himself on, forcing more out of his being than ever before, using his intimate knowledge of the estate he’d lived on all his life to duck and weave, to lay false direction in case he was still being followed. Down a
lleyways that strangers would have mistaken for dead ends, but which Mark knew he could cut through. Along streets, through gardens, on to the fields surrounding the estate, until he reached the back of his house.
But he didn’t just barge in. He secreted himself right at the back of the garden, sitting on a damp patch of weed. Here he caught his breath and with the patience of a deer knowing it was being hunted, waited still in the grass, unmoving, watching until he was positive it was safe to go home.
Five minutes passed. Nothing moved, other than the usual. This was one of the quiet avenues on the outer edge of the estate.
Then a car drove slowly past. Mark craned to see. Not the Volvo, one he recognized as belonging to a guy from the next avenue.
Another three minutes. Then another car, cruising. This time it was the Volvo.
His whole being tightened up.
It went by, two shapes inside it.
Then it was gone. He gave it five more minutes before crawling to the back door, kneeling up to the lock and inserting his key, letting himself in. He switched no lights on. Moved through the house on his hands and knees, along the hallway, checking the front door was bolted from the inside, then slithered upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. He edged to the window where he drew the curtains slowly and then, the light still off, he flopped on to his bed, exhausted.
Then he began to shake.
FOUR
The old man had been stripped and tagged. His arrival had been entered on to the database at the public mortuary and the computer-generated reference number — there was no name at present — scribbled on to the big-toe tag and in big figures on to his left shin in black felt tip.
Henry, having assisted the mortuary attendant with this procedure, was now wearing a surgical gown, latex gloves and a facemask pushed up on to the crown of his head. He walked slowly around the body, now laid out on a stainless steel mortuary slab. Henry’s hands were clasped behind his back as he inspected the body, as though he was walking the beat at regulation pace.