by Nick Oldham
Bill nodded. ‘OK.’
‘And I won’t promise to get you on this or that department this time. You know I can’t . . . but I’ll do my best for you.’
Bill continued to nod.
‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘I’m screwed with guns, aren’t I?’
‘Do you want the truth or a fabrication?’
‘I can handle the truth.’
‘Then yes . . . and that includes your own shotgun certificate.’
A huge sigh rattled through Bill’s chest. He raised his face to the dawn sky.
‘Give me the gun, Bill.’ Henry reached over for the shotgun and took it from Bill’s grip.
THIRTEEN
Consummate professional that he was, no one would have guessed that Detective Superintendent Henry Christie had only had two hours’ sleep in the last twenty-four.
He was back at work at 12.30 p.m., after having got home just before ten that morning and dropped like a block of lead into bed. He had been sensible enough to set his alarm, and as soon as he had done that and snuggled down into bed, alone, and assumed his number one sleeping position – on his right side, left leg drawn up, hands clasped together under his pillow – he fell asleep instantly. When the alarm clock woke him he felt more drained than ever, could easily have turned over and gone back to sleep.
He dragged himself unwillingly into the shower, trying to keep the water from swilling away the butterfly strips that Alison had applied to his head wound, yet wanting the powerful hot water jets to massage life back into his dead face.
His reflected image in the shaving mirror almost made him want to smash the glass with his fist. Then he realized he probably didn’t look much worse than normal – an unedifying insight. He looked old and haggard. His eyes were heavily bagged, bloodshot and red raw in the corners. He raised his chin and rubbed his neck, feeling where Freddy Cromer had attempted to throttle him last night. It hurt more now than it did at the time, or perhaps he just hadn’t had time to notice it previously. It had all got just a bit frenetic afterwards, and the attempted strangulation seemed tame in comparison to the events that followed.
He shaved and applied moisturizer, something he’d only recently and reluctantly begun to do as his face started falling apart. Then he dressed casually and went downstairs.
Jenny and Leanne were in the kitchen. Lisa was nowhere to be seen and he already knew that Alison had gone back to Kendleton. It was going to be a busy day at the Tawny Owl. It was a special curry day and every table had been pre-booked throughout the day. Henry hoped to be able to make it later. The chef’s Indian food was as authentic as it could be without him actually being from the sub-continent, and Henry always hated the thought of missing out on a good curry.
Jenny was going to spend a few hours with her grandmother, reports from the hospital being positive. Leanne would take over later and Henry planned to be there around teatime for a few hours, too . . . not planned – intended. Lisa would do her bit somewhere along the line, too, Henry had decided.
Today, he also decided, other people were going to do the work. He was going to do what a superintendent was supposed to do: delegate. Apart from anything else, he just didn’t have the energy to get strangled or shot at again.
Not that he had many staff to play with or order about.
Which meant that today – still, unbelievably, Boxing Day – would be a day of consolidation and forward planning.
The crime scenes needed to be sorted properly, both at the hospital, on Shoreside and at the club in South Shore. That would be the focus of the day, together with working out which relatives needed to be informed and when the post-mortems would be carried out. Tomorrow, when there were more staff, he would think about tracking down Terry Cromer and his mate and getting the bastards arrested – unless something came to light today which required immediate action. He wasn’t really pleased by this because he would have liked to go hunting for Cromer, but without staff it wasn’t an option. So, all in all, it would be a day of boxing off some of the fundamentals before the investigations really got going next day.
He briefed his handful of staff at FMIT, then retreated to his office and opened the murder book.
Rik Dean appeared a few seconds later and sat down, uninvited, across from him. The two men regarded each other.
Henry said, ‘You OK?’
Rik’s face broke into a wide beam. ‘More than OK, pal.’
‘Good,’ Henry said and looked down at the empty pages of the murder book that needed to be filled. He picked up a pen.
‘Your sister has one helluva hot—’
‘Whoa!’ Henry threw the pen down and held up his right hand, palm out. The police stop sign. ‘Certain things I do not wish to know.’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ Rik said awkwardly. ‘So, anyway – thanks, H.’ Then his eyes glazed over and he said, ‘Oh, mama.’
‘She just needed a nudge in the right direction.’
The door opened and this time Jerry Tope appeared, a thick manila file tucked under his armpit. Henry waved him in and pointed to the spare seat.
‘What are your plans for the day, Henry?’ Tope asked.
Henry pouted. ‘This’ – he pointed to the blank murder book – ‘crime scene revisits, liaison with the pathologist, see my mum, then I’m going to get a curry at my favourite pub in Kendleton, with my favourite landlady.’
‘In that case, what do you want me to do about the original reason we were all summoned together? Something that’s been a bit lost with everything else that’s happened.’
‘The Twixtmas Killings?’ Rik said.
‘Oh yeah . . . have we had any other missing persons who fit the victim profiles?’
‘Not had the chance of a proper sift yet,’ Tope admitted. ‘Had a quick chat with the FIM, but there’s nothing he can see.’
Henry churned it over. He had intended to do nothing that day, apart from direct others, but something nagged at him faintly. ‘I might go and have a chat with Freddy Cromer . . . he’s sort of a bridge between both incidents, isn’t he? That is, the murders and last night’s shootings. I wonder how lucid he is today? He might inadvertently give up Terry’s whereabouts with a bit of careful questioning.’ If Henry had had a handlebar moustache, he would have been twirling it. ‘Talking of which, Jerry, can you pull everything together we have on the Cromers and the Costains?’
Jerry nodded. Henry looked at Rik. ‘You sort out the crime scenes, will you? And the post mortems . . . I’ll follow up Freddy, see what he has to say.’
Henry realized he didn’t have Janine Cromer’s phone number, but he had a brainwave. When Freddy was released into her custody she had to give the custody officer her mobile number. A quick internal call got him the number and he dialled it from his office phone. It went straight onto voicemail, so he left a short message. He wasn’t too concerned.
What had happened overnight was complicated and far reaching, so he took the opportunity to make himself a filter coffee, settle down behind a closed office door – which would remain closed – get the murder book up to date, as he had already tried to do, and put together an investigative strategy. It was invaluable time, an opportunity to step above everything for an overview. The thing was many stranded, a bit like dealing with an excitable octopus, and even if a quick arrest was made, it wouldn’t stop there. Because Henry had decided that once and for all, he was going to dismantle the crime empires of the Cromers and the Costains – and have great fun doing it.
It would be his pièce de résistance before retiring. Kind of a swansong. He would do it brick by brick. He would go for everything. The clubs. The supply lines. The protection rackets. The finance. The bank accounts. He was sure it would just be like pulling a thread on a woolly jumper.
Clearly it wasn’t something he would achieve on his own. It would take many agencies and departments and would require them to pool their knowledge, information and resources.
And probably,
he guessed, the first tug of that metaphorical thread was to arrest Terry Cromer and get into his ribs. The threat of a murder charge hanging over the head of even the world’s meanest gangster was a very effective bargaining tool.
Then the Cromers would start to crumble.
At the same time he would lean heavily on the Costains. With their head man and two of their hard men lying in mortuaries, this was an ideal time to move in on them and crush the bastards whilst they were running around with no family head to steer them.
Energized by the thought of this little project, Henry spent two solid hours and four coffees planning, from the strategy downwards. (God, aren’t I good at this leadership and management stuff, he thought at one point.) He wrote down what he wanted to achieve and how he would go about it – strategy to tactics. (Oh yes, I’m good.) Plus he had an urgent run to the toilet, because the coffee had a less than desirable effect on his bowels.
He knew he would have to pitch his idea to the chief constable. If he could get FB’s backing, it would be a goer.
He sat back smugly, placed his pen down and rubbed his hands together, wondering what he could call the operation.
His phone rang to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Mr Christie, it’s Janine Cromer. You rang, left a message.’
‘Thanks for calling back.’ Henry sat upright, focused.
Immediately she said, ‘I hope you’re not going to ask me any awkward questions about my family, because I won’t drop them in it.’
‘Assuming you know what happened last night in Blackpool, it would be remiss of me not to ask about your father’s whereabouts, for obvious reasons. So where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said shortly, ‘and even if I did . . .’
‘Point taken . . . that said, I do need to speak to Freddy. That’s a given. He alleges he was kidnapped last night and he ended up assaulting a nurse – and me.’ Henry rubbed his neck. ‘How is he today?’
‘He’s fine. He slept quite well and at the moment, he’s content.’
Henry screwed his nose up at that description. Content? ‘I want to see him. I could have kept him in custody very easily last night, but I didn’t.’
‘I know, I know, and I’m grateful you didn’t. When and where?’
‘Blackburn nick, one hour.’ Henry had already decided to see Freddy on home turf. ‘I want to interview him, get a statement from him and process him properly. I won’t re-arrest him unless I have to. He won’t be seeing the inside of a cell unless he has to. Do you get my meaning? He behaves – and that is me being very generous.’
‘So we have to play along with you, otherwise you’ll become a bully?’
‘Yep.’
She sighed.
Henry said, ‘You can have a solicitor or social worker, or both, present if you wish. And I’ll let you stay in the interview, too.’
‘How very generous,’ she said caustically.
‘Yep. One hour, Blackburn police station. If not, I’ll come and lock him up.’
Interview rooms in police stations are sparse. A table bolted to the floor, jutting out at ninety degrees from a wall. A cassette tape recorder, affixed to the table because in the early days of tape recording interviews, a lot of less acquiescent prisoners tried to brain officers with the machines if the interviews weren’t going their way. Up behind a mesh grille in one corner of the room was a video camera to record particularly important or sensitive interviews, or to allow other officers to watch and listen to interviews through an A/V feed. Henry didn’t plan on starring on the small screen that day. Audio tape would suffice.
The Cromers were on time and Henry started the interview quite quickly in the presence of a duty solicitor he knew well, a guy called Richmond who made a great living defending crims. But he was an upright operator, simply playing his part in the criminal justice system.
And Freddy was lucid, friendly, open and quite charming.
Except he claimed he could not recall what happened the night before. The last thing he remembered was going to the club in Knuzden, having a drink there, and walking out of the place. Then nothing. Until he was thrown into a cell. Everything in between was a blank and Henry could not budge him. Freddy had his head bowed and simply shook it as Henry probed until finally sitting back with a despairing glance at Janine, sitting in the corner of the room. He drew the interview to a close and said he now needed to take Freddy’s fingerprints, DNA and descriptives.
‘I thought you said he wasn’t under arrest,’ Janine complained.
‘He isn’t, but whether he recalls it or not, he committed some serious offences last night and I need to process him.’ Henry looked at Richmond for support.
Richmond got the message and looked at Janine. ‘It’s just procedure.’
‘I’m not happy with it.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Henry said.
Richmond said to Henry, ‘Are you going to charge my client?’
‘I’m going to report the circumstances, let CPS make the decision.’
‘OK, that’s fine.’
‘Freddy – you need to come with me . . . have you had your DNA taken before?’
He shook his head. ‘Will it hurt?’
‘No . . . it’s just a swab to get some spit from your mouth.’ Henry collected his paperwork and stood up, as did Freddy. Henry moved to the door of the interview room and Janine stood in front of him, a concerned look on her face.
‘Henry, is this really necessary? The DNA and all that? And reporting him? Can’t we just let it go? Look – I’ll make sure that nurse gets compensated . . . a grand, eh? And you – how about a donation to the police widows and orphans fund?’
He shook his head. ‘He has to go through the works, Janine. That’s how it is. But if you offered up some compensation anyway, that would be a good thing.’
‘You’re pretty heartless.’
‘No I’m not . . . and nor do I believe he can’t remember anything.’
Freddy submitted to the processing and Henry quite enjoyed it. Taking fingerprints, a DNA sample, descriptives and a photo were usually things that more junior officers did. It had been a long time since Henry had rolled someone’s fingertips in fingerprint ink and admired the result. There was certainly a skill to it and he was glad to see he hadn’t lost it – but the size of Freddy’s dabs, large enough to fill each square on the form from edge to edge, top to bottom, made Henry realize just what big fingers the man had. Great for strangulation.
Whilst he did it, Henry made small talk.
‘Do you remember junior school at Belthorn, Freddy?’
‘Uh?’
‘Did you enjoy it? Do you remember any of the kids you went with?’
‘Sorta . . . some,’ he said.
‘How about David Peters? He was your age, wasn’t he?’
‘Dunno.’
‘How about Christine Blackshaw? She was your age, too. Or Ella Milner?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .’
Henry detected a hint of panic in Freddy’s response.
‘Plonk yourself there,’ Henry said and pointed to a chair. They were in the fingerprint room in the custody suite. Freddy sat. Henry rifled through a drawer and found a DNA kit, basically a cotton wool bud in a sealed tube. He completed the name stickers before putting on a pair of latex gloves, twisting the cap off the tube and holding up the cotton bud. ‘Just open your mouth and I’ll take a swab from inside your cheeks and that’s it.’
Freddy complied. Henry leaned towards him and started to take the sample.
‘Do you know that David Peters and Christine Blackshaw and Ella Milner have all been murdered? There, done.’ He stood back, slid the swab into the tube, sealed it, then placed it in the clear envelope which he also sealed. ‘So – do you know that? About those murders?’
Freddy shook his head. ‘Why are you asking me questions? You’re not allowed to.’
‘Just having a chat, Freddy, that’s all.’
‘Liar.’ Freddy’s mouth clamped shut.
He led Freddy out to the foyer at the front counter where Janine was waiting, a severe expression on her face. The solicitor was nowhere to be seen.
‘He asked me questions,’ Freddy blurted to Janine.
‘You’re just like all the rest,’ Janine snarled. ‘I’ll be making a complaint.’
‘Freddy is a witness to what happened last night, and maybe a victim, but so far he’s conveniently forgotten everything. Now, call me a cynic, but I think that’s bollocks, whether he’s got some acute psychological condition or not. I think you told him to say nothing. That’s what I think.’
‘Yes, you are a cynic, Henry. Something as traumatic as last night could easily have put up the barriers in his weak brain, so he blocked out the unpleasant, terrifying memory of it all.’
Henry shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I definitely need to get him assessed by a shrink.’
‘One employed to do the cops’ dirty work? Think again,’ she sneered.
‘And I didn’t ask him anything about last night – actually,’ he sneered back. ‘I asked him about his school days and what he remembered about them . . . which, if you recall, was the reason I turned up at your house in the first place. I was concerned about him possibly being the victim of a serial killer. And, make no mistake, Janine, I’ll be coming back to talk to him about that very soon.’
She shook her head hopelessly.
‘So where’s your dad, love?’ Henry chucked in. ‘He was a busy man last night.’
She glanced quickly at Freddy, then turned on Henry. ‘Love? Fuck me, you’re beyond belief, Henry.’
‘Where is he? Don’t tell me you don’t know. You are his daughter.’
‘I don’t know, and—’
‘Even if you did, you wouldn’t tell me? And in response to your assessment of me, you, it turns out, are just like the rest of your family. Nice, pleasant, middle class, hard working, honest.’ He made a farting sound with his lips. ‘You tell me where Terry is and it’ll stop a lot of doors being battered down.’
‘Fuck you, Henry . . . come on, Uncle Freddy, let’s get out of this shit hole.’ Her last glance at Henry was almost as cutting as a laser beam in a James Bond movie.