Hidden Witness hc-15

by Nick Oldham

  TWELVE

  There was nothing subtle about the way in which Mandy Carter had died. She had been gaffer-taped to a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen floor, over the exact spot, Henry noticed, where her daughter Beth had died of a drugs overdose. Her ankles had been strapped to the front chair legs, her wrists to the back legs.

  Then she had been tortured and beaten to death.

  Henry stood at the kitchen door and surveyed the scene. She had been stripped down to her panties, but there was nothing sexual about this assault. Her head lolled pathetically on her chest, blood and liquid dribbling from her mouth, at such an angle that Henry wondered if her neck had been broken. The final, killing act.

  Dressed in a crime scene suit, Henry stepped carefully into the room using the path decided on by the first officer at the scene, one that every person must now take. He walked around Mandy, carefully avoiding the blood splatters, and when he was in front of her, he eased himself slowly on to his haunches and gazed at her pulped face.

  He looked at it for a long, long time.

  It was an awful mess, her features beyond recognition.

  He looked at her feet. They had been smashed flat. Then her shins, which had been broken probably by the force of a sledgehammer, then her knees, pounded to nothing.

  The fingers on both her hands had been snapped backwards. And her face destroyed. Henry’s eyes took it all in. Then he stood up and left the room.

  He ripped off the paper suit and boots, signed it back in, and the constable in charge of the comings and goings from the scene re-bagged it and dumped it in a container.

  Rik Dean, Alex Bent and Karl Donaldson were outside the house and Henry approached them. They broke off the conversation they’d been having and waited with anticipation for the detective superintendent.

  ‘I thought this place was being given a visit at four a. m?’ he demanded of Bent. ‘To try and catch Mark?’

  ‘I checked, it was, but there was no reply.’

  Henry emitted a muted grunt. ‘Right — Rik, scene manager, please. The pathologist will be here soon. It’s Keira O’Connell by the way. Alex, you continue as office manager and general dogsbody, please. Get a DC up here ASAP with some uniforms and get them knocking house-to-house. Somebody must have seen something.’

  ‘We’re pretty stretched,’ Alex said. ‘The scene’s still being worked where Costain was shot and we’ve still got people at the scene of Rory’s and Petrone’s death. We’re running out of monkeys.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I’ll sort out the staff… but let’s get things moving here, now, quickly.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Karl, let’s go and hunt down a teenager.’

  ‘What do you know about this kid?’ Donaldson asked as he settled in the passenger seat of Henry’s Mondeo. ‘Is he a hoodie?’

  Henry chuckled. ‘Decent lad, crap upbringing, a wonder he hasn’t taken the left-hand road before now. And none of this is helping keep him on the straight and narrow. But every cloud has a silver lining

  … at least because he and his mother didn’t communicate, she couldn’t tell anyone where he was.’

  ‘And you think that’ — Donaldson jerked his thumb — ‘is why she was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t need anyone to tell me she was tortured, do you? And that’s a rhetorical question.’

  ‘OK, where are we going now, buddy?’

  ‘They always go to their mates and girlfriends, don’t they?’

  ‘Is that rhetorical, too?’

  Bradley wasn’t at home, no one was, so Henry’s next stop was Shoreside High School where Henry demanded an audience with the head teacher, a man called Stirzaker who Henry knew vaguely and who was only too willing to have a chat. A cop at Shoreside High was always welcome. He was a modern type of head, flashy suit, stubble, but very child orientated. He let Henry and Donaldson into his office where Henry explained the situation leaving out the gory bits.

  ‘Let me see.’ Stirzaker sat behind his desk and tapped the keyboard on his computer, checking the attendance register. ‘No, Mark’s not in. Not been in for four days now, so he’s a cause for concern — educationally, that is. Computer’s flagged him up for further attention today, actually.’

  ‘Have you done anything about him so far?’

  ‘Two phone contacts with mum — no help. Next up was a home visit from Mark’s head of year. That’ll probably be tomorrow, now.’

  ‘Is Bradley Hamilton in?’

  Stirzaker looked questioningly at Henry.

  ‘He’s Mark’s best mate, isn’t he?’

  ‘You know a lot about Mark.’

  ‘I dealt with his sister’s death.’

  ‘Ahh… that had a big effect on the lad. Let’s see.’ He checked the computer. ‘Bradley’s in.’

  ‘We need to speak to him.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Stirzaker’s voice tailed off.

  ‘I’ll come clean, Mr Stirzaker, Mark’s mum isn’t just dead, she’s been murdered.’

  ‘Do you suspect…?’

  ‘Mark? No. But we urgently need to find him, as you’ll understand.’

  ‘Poor, poor lad. I’ll get Bradley.’

  ‘We need to speak to him alone.’

  Stirzaker looked uncertain, but Henry’s stern face made the decision for him. ‘And while you’re at it, bring in Kate Bretherton, too. Mark’s girlfriend, as I recall.’

  Stirzaker checked the register again. ‘That’s odd, she’s not in. Very unusual. Just one second.’ He picked up the phone on his desk and dabbed in a number. ‘Yes, it’s me… Katie Bretherton? Not in today. Any idea why? Any phone call from the parents? Nothing. How odd. Thanks.’ He hung up and said, ‘Reception — all absences should be reported to there, but nothing in Katie’s case. Very odd. She’s one of our star pupils, a real achiever, never sick.’

  ‘OK, wheel in Bradley, then, please,’ Henry said.

  ‘Now then Bradley,’ said Henry after introducing himself and Donaldson, though the fact that Karl was an FBI employee seemed to fly over the lad’s head. He had been seated in one of the comfy chairs in Strizaker’s office, whilst Henry perched the cheek of his bum on the corner of the desk and Donaldson lounged by the door.

  The young lad’s eyes darted from one man to the other, clearly frightened and intimidated — just as Henry liked ’em.

  He smiled ingratiatingly and said, ‘I know we haven’t met before, but I do know you’re Mark Carter’s best friend.’

  ‘Was,’ Bradley corrected him.

  ‘Whatever… fact is, you know Mark well, don’t you?’

  ‘Look, am I in the shit, or something?’ Bradley reared. ‘Cos if I am you need to arrest me and caution me, and I need an appropriate adult present. I know my rights. I do Citizenship, you know.’

  ‘Let’s just forget that little outburst, shall we? Hm?’ Henry jiggled his eyebrows. ‘Mark came to see you last night, didn’t he?’

  ‘No,’ Bradley sneered.

  ‘I’ll go and ask your mum the same question, shall I?’

  ‘No,’ Bradley blurted. ‘Yeah, he came — so what?’

  ‘Bradley, you seem like a decent lad, so let’s drop the attitude, OK?’ Henry knew he sounded patronizing, but he was past caring. ‘What did he want? What did he say? And where can I find him?’

  ‘So I’m not in trouble?’

  ‘No, but Mark is, and not from the cops.’

  ‘He told me what had happened, the old man and Rory, and that somebody’d tried to run him down, too.’

  Henry hadn’t heard about that, but he let it go for the moment.

  ‘He said whoever’d killed the old guy was after him, too, and he wasn’t safe in town, so he was going to run, go to London, he said. Then he went.’

  ‘Did you hear about last night’s shooting?’

  ‘On the estate, yeah, course. Kids doing a drive-by. Not really news any more.’

  ‘Wrong… men attempting to kill Mark and killing an innocent person instead.’


  Bradley faded to ashen. ‘Is Mark OK?’

  ‘He did a runner, but Billy Costain is dead.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘I need to find Mark, I need to protect him.’

  ‘He said you couldn’t. He doesn’t trust you.’

  ‘That doesn’t change anything. There’s no way on earth he can protect himself. Has he got a mobile phone yet?’

  ‘Nah, he just doesn’t like them.’

  ‘You’ve been no great help.’

  ‘Well what do you expect? All I did was give him something to eat, a bit of cash, and then he went. Last I saw of him. I went to bed, y’know?’

  There was a knock on the door. Donaldson opened it to find the head teacher, Stirzaker, there, hopping about worriedly. ‘I thought you should know. It’s about Katie Bretherton. I’ve just spoken to her mum. Apparently, she did set off for school this morning as usual.’

  Mark had landed hard under Henry Christie’s body as the detective shoved him over the garden wall just a second before the bullets started flying. Mark had seen the car approaching, like some terrible bug in a sci-fi movie, and he’d recognized its outline immediately — because he’d seen it before when it had tried to flatten him just after Rory had been murdered.

  The breath went out of him under the detective’s crushing weight and everything became a visual blur.

  He heard the dull firing of the automatic weapon, then saw the slow-motion dance of Billy Costain under the street lights as the slugs ripped into him and tore open his chest.

  Then Christie’s weight came off as Henry peered over the wall, at which point Mark took his chance. Scooping up his sleeping bag, he rolled away, up on to his feet, running hard down the side of the unoccupied house without a backward glance. He realized that distance was the most important thing for him at that moment in time.

  So he ran. Vaulted fences, stumbled blindly through gardens. Powered across roads without looking until he was on the complete opposite side of the estate, where he stopped, then walked casually up someone’s footpath, down the side of the house and into darkness where he slumped down exhausted and tried to control his breathing.

  Eventually, his heart rate subsided and he found he was sitting by the side of a garden shed in someone’s back garden. He crept to check the back of the house. Lights were still on and a TV blared loudly in the living room at the front. He sneaked back to the shed and tried the door. Locked. He tugged at it and it rattled in its frame. Not very secure, but Mark was no burglar, knowing nothing about locks. He could ease the tips of his fingers inside the door, which he pulled back. He paused, took a look around, then braced himself and pulled hard. The hasp and lock came away from its mounting, the tiny screws ripping out of the wood.

  He went rigid, expecting the householder to appear with a machete. Thirty seconds passed. All he could hear were the sounds of the night and police and ambulance sirens in the distance.

  He stepped into the shed and pulled the door closed, hoping it would not sag open. It stayed closed.

  It was a fairly big shed with all the usual gardening equipment. Mark made out a set of four folded-up patio chairs stacked next to an old mountain bike. He took one and eased it open. There was just enough floor space in the shed for him to place it down and sit on it.

  He leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, then started to cry.

  He’d folded the chair away, unrolled his sleeping bag and curled up inside it in the space on the shed floor where the chair had been. It was warm and almost pleasant, smelling of wood and humus, and he’d slept well for a few hours before waking up desperate for the toilet. At first he did not want to move. The floor was hard but he was comfortable and it felt safe. But he had to. Dawn was approaching and he could see light around the edges of the door. He had to be gone before the household came to life.

  His bones creaked as he moved, having been in the same foetal position all night. He rolled up the sleeping bag tightly, then took a careful look through the crack in the door at the house, now in darkness. As silently as he could he opened the door and manoeuvred the old, heavy mountain bike out and propped it up against the side of the house.

  He needed the toilet, could not wait. Not wanting to take the chance of being spotted by an early rising neighbour, he crept back into the shed, dropped his trousers and did what he had to do, apologizing silently for the mess someone would find in due course. He wiped his arse with an oily rag, dropped it on to his excrement and smiled proudly. There was a lot of it.

  Then he was out, riding the bike away.

  Shitting and thieving, boy, great start to the day, he thought.

  Next he needed some food, so he pedalled furiously to the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s on Preston New Road, opposite the KFC where he’d eaten the evening before, and cycled into the drive-thru. He bought a breakfast with orange juice, then hid around the back and scoffed the meal behind two huge metal trash cans.

  It was almost seven — he’d seen a clock on the wall of the drive-thru — and he had to keep hidden for about an hour and a half before he could see the next person he had to talk to.

  Katie Bretherton was now sixteen and evolving into a beautiful, willowy young woman. She had good brains, good ambitions and up until about six months ago, had been Mark Carter’s girlfriend. She’d stuck with him through his sister’s death and his brother’s jail term, and for a long period of time after that she and Mark had a wonderful time together. They had been good mates to begin with. This had become a ‘relationship’ and they’d discovered sex together.

  But Mark had slowly evolved. His relationship with his mother got even worse, he had no male role model to look up to, and although Katie tried to keep him on a leash she sensed he was drifting away from her, becoming wild. When he struck up a friendship with Rory Costain, she cut Mark loose. There was only one direction to go by hanging around with a Costain and that was spectacularly downwards. Notwithstanding her pleas, Mark did not listen.

  That morning, as usual, she set off for school from her house on the opposite side of Preston New Road, the posh side, where she lived with her very functional family. Mum, Dad, brother, sister, dog, cat, two cars.

  Mark Carter was a long way from her mind. She was looking forward to a day at school, including English, French and PE, her favourite subjects, and she excelled in them all. At her age and year, school uniform was optional, but she usually chose to wear it for most of the week, but not today. She and some mates planned to go into town after school, so she was dressed in a tiny skirt and a blouse.

  She kissed her mum, patted the cat, kissed the dog — who licked her face sloppily — then she was on her way.

  Mark knew her route to school well. Indeed he had walked with her there and back on many occasions. He knew she had to walk from her house to the underpass that ran under the main road, so that kids could avoid the heavy, dangerous traffic on the dual carriageway. It was a well-lit facility and well used, but it was the best place for Mark to confront her.

  From the cover of a hedge, he watched her walk on to the slope leading to the underpass, then came up behind her on the stolen bike. He whizzed past and swerved in front of her, trapping her between the underpass wall and the bike.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She eyed him angrily. ‘You’re in my way.’

  ‘I know. Like I said, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ She started to back out of the trap.

  ‘Katie — please.’

  ‘Mark, I’ve said all I need to say to you. You want to hang about with Rory Costain, that’s fine. Just don’t include me-’

  ‘Rory’s dead. You must have heard.’

  ‘What?’ Her face screwed up.

  ‘He was murdered — and I was there.’

  ‘No surprise, then.’

  ‘Katie — I was fucking there!’

  ‘I’d heard some lad got shot,’ she admitted, ‘but I’m not interested. That world’ — she
pointed in the direction of Shoreside — ‘has nothing to do with me. And even though you live on the estate, it had nothing to do with you, either — or so I thought. It’s all about choices, Mark.’

  ‘OK, fine, whatever… but I just want to tell you they’re after me, the people who did it, and I’m leaving for good. I have to get out of town. I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Mark, you live in a dream world, guns ’n’ robbers. You’re pathetic. I can’t actually believe we were ever together. I mean, look at you. You’re a mess.’

  ‘They killed Rory’s dad last night — Billy Costain. They were trying to get me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Check the news, I’m sure it’ll be on — but of course you don’t listen to the news, do you? It’s all friggin’ Mamma Mia and Strictly Come Dancing to you, isn’t it?’ Mark kept his voice low but harsh. People were passing. Other kids on their way to school. Adults, too.

  ‘I’m not interested in being a lout, Mark. Nor were you.’

  ‘OK, I should’ve guessed you’d piss me off. I just wanted to tell you I was going and ask for a bit of help, that’s all.’

  ‘Mark, we’re not even mates any more.’ She shook her head sadly, wishing the opposite were true.

  ‘But I still love you,’ he blurted. His bottom lip began to wobble and big tears formed in his eyes.

  She grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t be embarrassing.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he blubbered. ‘Let’s go somewhere — please.’ She shook her head as if this was madness, in two minds as to what to do. A big part of her said dump him and walk away. The other part knew she still really liked him and that, underneath it all, he was a good guy.

  She led him back up the slope, away from the underpass, on to her estate. The little row of shops on this estate was thriving, unlike its counterpart on Shoreside. A newsagent, hairdresser and a small bakery in which was a tiny area set aside as a cafe, about ten seats. It was here she took Mark, sat him down and ordered a couple of Cokes.

  Then, with growing horror, she listened to his story, snippets of which she had heard on the news and from friends, never realizing Mark was in any way involved.