by Nick Oldham
‘You think Freddy is a serial killer?’ Her screwed-up face showed her complete amazement at this thought.
‘No . . . I thought he could be a victim. He fits the profile of the previous ones – right age, background, all of them killed and their bodies dumped over the Christmas period. And then, hey, Freddy gets reported missing. So yeah, I’m interested in him.’
Still incredulous, but in a different way, she said, ‘Are you saying someone’s killing off mentally deranged individuals?’
Henry grimaced. ‘So he’s been promoted to a mentally deranged individual, has he?’
‘That’s what he is.’ She shrugged. ‘Call him what you like.’
‘But with moments of lucidity?’
She shrugged again.
Henry said, ‘No . . . he’s just from the right age group and background . . .’ Then he suddenly didn’t want to say any more. ‘That’s why I turned up at Southfork, because I was investigating murders linked to missing persons . . . not because I was being nosy . . .’
‘Although that played a part, as we’ve already established.’
‘A little.’ He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘A teensy bit.’
‘I couldn’t even begin to imagine a serial killer wanting to nab someone like Freddy. A bit of a handful. If he had the nous it would be more likely to be him,’ she said, and stifled a yawn. ‘But he hasn’t.’
‘Let’s go and see him. Whatever, it looks as though someone did kidnap him, but for a different reason than to murder him.’
‘Which would be?’
‘To use him as bait.’
Before doing anything else, Henry ensured that the custody record was straight. Once, way back, he had fallen foul of the system by failing to make the correct entries at the correct times and had learned a harsh lesson. Once the paperwork was done, a gaoler brought Freddy up from the cells to an interview room.
He was silent, sullen and compliant, and sat across from Henry without making eye contact. One side of his face was badly scratched, the other bore the burn marks Henry recalled from all those years ago. Henry asked him what had happened since leaving the club in Knuzden the previous evening.
Freddy made no response. He was in no frame of mind to talk, but at least he wasn’t violent for the moment. Neither did he respond to any of Henry’s other questions. It was as though he wasn’t hearing a thing, like Henry was simply mouthing silently at him. It didn’t take Henry long to realize there was no profit in this.
He had Freddy put back in a cell, after which he and the custody officer chewed over the options available as regards Freddy’s disposal.
Then Henry went to talk to Janine, seated out in a visitors’ room.
‘Main problem I have is that he attacked a nurse,’ Henry explained. ‘Mental or not, I don’t want to brush that under the carpet.’
‘In reality, what would happen to him if he went to court?’ Janine asked.
‘Secure facility for a month or two, maybe.’
‘So he’d be out again in no time. Truth is, nothing’s really going to happen to him, is it? He might as well be free.’
‘I do want to get him assessed. I can’t just let him out, unless you’re willing to look after him,’ he suggested. That had been Henry’s plan all along: dump him on his relatives.
Janine pondered this. ‘I could . . . for a while, anyway.’
Henry knew that putting Freddy through the justice system would be futile. He would only end up in the social care system after that, and it had been pointless putting him there in the first place. In fact there was probably no answer to someone like Freddy, short of a captive bolt. Henry might as well kick him out of the door and hope for the best. At the moment he was just filling up a cell which could be occupied by someone more deserving.
‘I’m going to release him into your custody. How does that sound?’
‘Pretty shitty.’
‘I’ll take that as a nod.’
He led Janine to the custody office, and Freddy was brought back from the cells. When he saw his niece, his eyes widened with pleasure.
‘Hi, Freddy.’ She gave him a little wave.
His fat bottom lip began to tremble. ‘My darlin’,’ he said.
Henry leaned on the custody counter. ‘Freddy – I’m going to release you, but you have to go with Janine, OK?’ Freddy blinked at Henry. ‘You need to get a good kip and then I’ll come and speak to you about what’s happened. And you have to behave yourself and take your tablets, OK? Deal?’
‘OK,’ he whispered. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘We’ve met.’ Henry tugged at his collar, feeling the ghosts of Freddy’s thumbs on his windpipe, as well as their more recent incarnations. He glanced at Janine. ‘I’ll arrange for someone to drop you off.’
‘Not taking us in the Audi?’
‘No – I don’t want blood on the seats.’ His mobile rang. He stepped away and answered it. It was Rik Dean.
‘Couple of things come up I thought you should know about,’ Rik said.
‘Fire away.’
‘Speaking to the nursing staff on C10, it looks like Bill Grasson did all the shooting, no weapon seen in the hands of the guy with him. Grasson took out both of the Costains, it seems. It was chaos, as you know, but that seems to be the picture.’
‘OK – that simplifies things to an extent.’
‘Yeah. I’ve also been to the security office and checked some CCTV footage. I’ve ID’d the guy with Grasson, the guy who did a runner. You’ll like this, Henry.’
‘I’m champing at the bit.’
‘Terry Cromer.’
‘Yesss . . . thought as much.’
‘We going for him?’
‘Oh yeah, strike while the blood’s still hot.’ He checked out Janine and Freddy, standing by the exit door. Freddy was hugging Janine, and she was patting his shoulders lovingly, speaking softly to him, whilst looking sideways at Henry. Henry frowned slightly as he watched them, but it was only a fleeting thought, gone in an instant. He jerked his head for her to come to him and she detached herself from Freddy. Henry laid it straight on the line. ‘It was your dad with Grasson.’
She swallowed and nodded numbly as though this was not unexpected. ‘Guessed so.’
‘I need to speak to him – on my turf. Here.’
‘Are you going for him now?’
‘Yes, I need to.’
‘Did he shoot either of those men?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Henry lied a bit.
‘But it’s possible.’
‘You know it is.’
She sighed tiredly. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘To go and get him now.’
She laughed harshly. ‘That won’t be easy.’
‘Could be with your help. But if you’re not willing, I’ll go in with a bunch of cops wearing Doc Marten’s size elevens in front of me. This is a hot operation and I want to move with the momentum. Easy or hard.’ He didn’t tell her that the gang of size elevens he was referring to would take about eight hours to pull together. ‘What if I get Freddy taken home in a police van and I take you back in the Audi? That way I can exchange Terry for Freddy.’
‘Suppose I warn him you’re coming?’
‘You won’t . . . me getting hold of him now will make his life much easier.’
‘Are you going up with armed officers?’
‘Should I? I’d rather keep it low key.’
‘OK – you drive me back. Take Uncle Freddy in a van – and I’ll see what I can do. I promise nothing . . . cops coming for him are an occupational hazard.’
‘All right . . . tell you what, though, we’ll all go in the van. I’ll commandeer one.’
Freddy was placed in the back of a section van, reassured by Janine. Henry and Janine sat up in front and Henry started the engine, a little shot of excitement zipping through him. It was a long time since he’d driven a marked police vehicle and there was always something good about it, no m
atter how crappy the vehicle itself. A million memories flooded back.
He reversed out of the car park and set off towards Belthorn. Alongside him, Janine sat pensively, fingers interlinked on her lap. Henry didn’t interrupt her thoughts, which he guessed were conflicted. He did look at her when he heard her chuckle. ‘What?’
‘Where do you get a phrase like “move with the momentum” from? Sounds like a line from a bad rap song.’
‘I’m just good with words. Got an O level in English . . . grade C.’
She laughed, but then her face turned hard. ‘I don’t think this’ll be easy, you know. I may be his daughter, but I have no influence on him whatever. If he kicks off you’ll have more than a handful.’
‘I’ve got a chum with me.’ Henry jerked his thumb backwards.
They had travelled up Shadsworth Road, the hospital over to their right, and then turned onto Haslingden Road towards Belthorn, at which point a vehicle had taken up a following position behind them.
Janine peered into the side mirror, saw the headlights.
‘Just the one,’ Henry assured her. ‘If it does go all wrong, I’ll call for further assistance. Let’s hope it stays amicable.’
Janine shook her head, and Henry crossed his fingers. Getting more officers to back him up would be a bit of a conjuring trick, because there weren’t any. If Terry got upset, Henry would back off and return later with a mini army.
They drove in silence, up through Guide, across the motorway junction, then right towards Belthorn.
At the top of the hill Henry turned onto Tower View and stopped the van outside the Cromer residence. All the lights were on at the house.
Henry and Janine alighted, and he went to the back of the van, opened the back doors, then the inner cage, and let Freddy out.
Janine took Freddy’s arm and steered him to the gate, saying nothing to Henry, who turned and looked at the car that had followed him. It pulled up and Rik Dean got out. The two detectives watched the pair paused at the gates as Janine entered a key code, then pushed through and walked up to the house.
‘Beauty and the Beast,’ Rik commented.
Henry said nothing; he felt shattered. He was always amazed at his ability to keep going through exhaustion. Years of practice is what he put it down to, but lately he was starting to get more tired more quickly. He needed a real coffee boost. Either that or speed.
At the front door, Janine glanced over her shoulder before she entered, then was gone.
‘Have you ever thought how dangerous it would be to shag her?’ Rik pondered out loud. ‘Dangerous but exciting.’
Henry narrowed his eyes but didn’t want to admit his thoughts on that subject. He found it remarkable that, even at times of great stress or life-changing moments, where the most serious things were happening or being discussed, the indomitable spirit of cops meant that there was always time to think about humping – and not to be sexist, he was pretty sure that applied to female officers, too. Henry couldn’t actually remember being implanted with this chip when he joined the job, but it was definitely still functioning in him. He wondered if it would deactivate when he retired. He hoped not. It was one of life’s great comforts, just to know that when all about you was crumbling and going to rat shit, your thoughts gravitated to your penis. He grinned.
‘Think he’ll walk out and surrender?’ Rik asked.
‘Nope,’ Henry said absently. ‘Not in his nature.’
The two detectives stood side by side at the wrought-iron gates and waited.
The front door opened.
‘Here we go,’ Henry said.
It wasn’t Terry Cromer who emerged, hands held high. It was Janine – alone. She ran towards them and Henry could read from the body language that things weren’t great. She ran up to the gates and clung to the vertical ironwork.
‘He’s not here,’ she gasped.
‘Where, then?’
Her mouth constricted. ‘He’s heading to Blackpool.’
Henry understood at once. ‘Tooled up? Costains?’
She nodded.
‘How many?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Vehicles?’
‘Don’t know, either.’
Henry closed his eyes. ‘Shit.’ All he needed to ice the cake that was the best Christmas Day he’d ever spent was a shoot-out between rival gangs.
‘And I haven’t told you,’ Janine said, spinning away and striding quickly back to the house.
TEN
Even allowing for the time taken to swap the police van for his own Audi, Henry still managed to get to Blackpool within twenty-five minutes – some going, even on roads virtually devoid of traffic. He seemed to be making a habit of breaking all world land speed records across the county.
He exited the M55 at Marton Circle and headed into Blackpool along the A583. His house was on an estate over to his right; more importantly, the council estate that was his destination was on his left.
He turned, slowed right down, his heart still pounding at the memory of the 140 mph he had managed to coax out of his car. Both he and the Audi had loved it – until he lost his nerve and slowed to a more respectable ninety. He entered the estate and slowed to a crawl as a police patrol car came slowly towards him. He flashed it and the cars stopped alongside each other, the drivers opening their windows for a chat. Henry had already asked for an immediate high-visibility presence on the estate to discourage anything that might happen, but Blackpool section was as strapped for staff as everywhere else in the county, especially now – in the early hours of Boxing Day. One car was as much as could be mustered: one cop, one car, police sign illuminated. Still, better than nothing.
The PC driving the car knew Henry. ‘Boss.’
‘Pete – happy Christmas . . . anything doing?’
‘You too, boss . . . not so far, all quiet on the western front.’
‘Anything happening at the Costains’?’
‘Party time. Banging music. Youngsters hanging out the door and windows, flashing Vs at me, usual shite. But not the only party on the estate. Whole place is heaving.’
‘Let’s loop around and have a drive past.’
Shoreside: an estate Henry knew well. It had a terrible reputation for public disorder, criminality and unemployment. Some figures claimed that seventy-five per cent of adults on the estate were out of work and that a benefits culture was endemic. Despite many initiatives, most of which involved throwing truckloads of cash at the place, nothing seemed to change.
The only row of shops on the estate had been systematically destroyed and was now a memory. A community centre was first firebombed, then resurrected only to be completely flattened by kids using a stolen bulldozer, driven two miles onto the estate from a building site.
It was as if the estate was cursed by a death wish.
And lording over it all by means of terror and intimidation was the infamous Costain family. Claiming, spuriously, descent from Romany gypsies, they had landed in Blackpool almost fifty years earlier and settled into a life of crime which grew from almost honourable thieving and burglary through to drug dealing and armed robbery.
Henry had dealt with them for more years than he cared to remember. Perhaps his greatest victory over them was that one of their number – Troy, now sadly deceased – had been Henry’s informant for a good number of years prior to his demise. Henry had also dealt with the deaths of other members of the family, including old man Costain who had died in a drive-by shooting completely unconnected with his position as the family godfather. But they survived and prospered. To the best of Henry’s knowledge, old man Costain’s younger brother – Runcie Costain – had taken over at the helm and piloted them to new levels of criminality. This obviously included expanding their empire across the county.
Henry drove slowly past the Costain home, two semi-detached council houses knocked into a single huge one. It was alive with festive cheer. A group of alcohol-fuelled teenagers in the front garden jeered at Henr
y and the police car behind. One of them threw a bottle of WKD at them, which landed and shattered between the two cars with a pop. Henry dipped his accelerator automatically and the police car behind swerved to miss the broken glass.
They drove out of sight and pulled up for a chat, leaning against the police car.
‘Heard you’ve had a busy night, boss,’ the PC said.
‘Understatement,’ Henry said.
‘Reckon there could be repercussions over here?’
‘Every chance. But where, I’m not certain . . . if there are a few higher level Costains here, this could be a target.’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘I think I need to go and knock on the front door.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, you just hang on here and watch the cars. I don’t want to wind them up unnecessarily . . . but come like the wind if I yell, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
He strolled around the corner, wondering if he should have kept his stab vest on. That would have been like a red rag to a bull and someone would have had to try it out.
He walked confidently to the house, passing the group of teens – or were they kidults these days? – who’d lobbed the bottle. They watched him with snake-suspicious eyes. Henry wished them the season’s greetings, and was told to fuck off in reply.
The front door was wide open, but Henry was canny enough to stay outside. He knocked. Youngsters pushed past him rudely in both directions.
A couple on the stairs in front of him were locked in an embrace. The lad’s hand was down the girl’s panties, hers down the front of his jeans. Some very frantic rubbing was going on, more likely to ignite a real flame than produce unforgettable orgasms.
Henry knocked again, the sound lost in the thump-thump of the music and sounds of revelry emanating from the house. The second time in only a few hours that he had turned up unannounced on the doorstep of a criminal family, both for good, honest reasons. Mostly.
First time because he suspected one of them might be a victim of a serial killer. This time to warn of the possibility of some very nasty reprisals. He then had a thought: the news that two of their family had been taken out in Blackburn might fire an uncontrollable reaction from the Costains, either against him as the messenger or in retaliation against the Cromers.