by Nick Oldham
Undaunted, the officers had stuck to their task and found the car parked in the West End area of Oswaldtwistle, about a quarter of a mile from the house of a woman Clovelly was supposedly seeing.
‘They’re not one hundred per cent,’ Rik warned, ‘but he has been seen to enter and leave the woman’s house on a few occasions recently and they guess he’ll be there now. They reckon he was just being ultra-cautious about surveillance and they’re certain he didn’t actually clock them.’
Henry looked carefully at the photograph of Clovelly attached to the paperwork. He hadn’t personally come across the man before, but as he racked his brains and put himself back in Cromer’s house a couple of nights earlier, he was almost sure that Clovelly was one of the men glimpsed in the dining room when the door had been opened by mistake by Iron-man Grasson.
‘Right, good call,’ Henry said. ‘Let’s move as quickly as we can on this. Can you get someone in a plain car to keep nicks on Clovelly’s motor and keep the two surveillance bods on the girlfriend’s house, if possible. Front and rear ideally.’ Rik nodded. ‘Let’s convene at Accrington nick and put a quick plan together based on who we have available.’
‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ Tope muttered from behind them. Henry shot him a look. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ Tope said, holding up his hands in mock defeat.
The semi-detached council house stood in a small cul-de-sac off Thwaites Road in Oswaldtwistle. Clovelly had left his car on a nearby estate and it was still there when Henry, Rik and the small team they had managed to pull together arrived at the end of Thwaites Road. They were still working on the assumption that Clovelly was at the woman’s house.
It was almost two hours later. Henry had spent the time poring over intelligence reports, re-checking addresses, confirming the girlfriend’s address, and looking at maps and floor plans of similar types of council houses. He wasn’t expecting any surprises in the layout, but it was best to be certain.
‘I want to try and keep this low key,’ he’d explained to the officers he had cobbled together. This not being a public holiday, he had a few more to look at than over the last two days. ‘It’s not a racing certainty he’s there, but that’s what we’re working on. His car is parked nearby and he’s been seen coming and going at the address. We haven’t got the staff to go piling in, but if he is there – and he could be armed – I want to be in a position to deal with it.
‘I want a discreet perimeter using the support unit, but with every officer in a safe position. The firearms officers’ – Henry had two pairs of AFOs to deploy – ‘will be ready to move as necessary, once contact has been made and we know what the subject’s reaction is going to be.’
‘Who’s going to knock on the door?’ someone piped up.
As much as Henry Christie, detective superintendent, a senior manager in the force, had promised himself that he would delegate everything today, he could not stop himself from blurting, ‘That would be me.’ And then, internally, he called himself a complete arsehole.
Once they were all in position, Henry drove to the open end of the cul-de-sac, parked the pool car and climbed out. His colleague did the same and Henry watched DC Jerry Tope walk around the car to join him.
At the best of times Henry would have described Tope’s facial expression as hang-dog, but now he looked more like a dog that had been hanged.
‘Henry, I’m a desk jockey,’ he moaned. ‘You know, a headquarters shiny-arsed bastard that operational officers despise . . . from the Dream Factory . . . I interrogate computers, then the rufty-tufty squad go and kick down doors based on what I tell them. I don’t do dirty work, knocking on the doors of suspected armed killers.’
Henry grinned at him. ‘Yeah, me too.’
Both men wore Kevlar bullet-proof vests under their jackets, which bulked out their chests by a few inches.
‘You love it, you pervert,’ Tope said.
‘You’ll learn to love it again,’ Henry reassured him.
‘I won’t. My lair is my desk, my jungle the internet.’
Henry put his arm around Tope’s shoulders. ‘Stick with me,’ he said and ushered the DC ahead of him, along the pavement and up the cul-de-sac.
This was Henry’s jungle, had been for over thirty years. Council estates and houses. Some boarded up. One or two with well-kept gardens, but many with rubbish piled up, fridges and other white goods, old bikes and prams. Scruffy kids in the middle of the road, all with very new-looking bikes and mobile phones and designer trainers, scowling at the two intruders walking past them. Most of his business had come from places like this, most of the murderers he had arrested had grown up in such places, and most of the thieves. He knew that criminals were in the minority, but their influence was disproportionate to their numbers and they made others’ lives miserable. And sometimes the police didn’t help matters.
Henry felt sharp, but also at ease in this environment.
The house was sixth up on the right. A semi, quite substantially constructed, 1960s pedigree.
The two detectives sauntered up to the front door.
‘What were you so keen to tell me back at the office?’ Henry asked Tope. They had reached the door. Through the earpiece fitted snugly inside Henry’s earlobe he heard confirmation that everyone was in position, including two cops who had sneaked into the back garden in case Clovelly tried to do a back-door run. Something not unknown in these circumstances – a villain trying to leg it.
‘Oh, nothing.’
Henry rapped on the door using the back of his hand. ‘No, tell me,’ he insisted.
Tope pouted childishly. ‘Just found your serial killer for you, that’s all.’
Henry was about to smack the door again but stopped with his hand half an inch from the door. ‘Really?’
‘Possibly,’ Tope said, amending his claim slightly.
Henry beat on the door again. ‘Do tell.’ He heard some movement from within the house. He put this over the radio and knocked again.
‘One of the classmates,’ Tope said.
‘The kids from the school?’
‘Out on licence as we speak . . . been out for two years now.’
‘Wow,’ Henry said.
‘Yeah, what about that?’ Tope said proudly.
‘Double brownie points,’ Henry said. He squatted down, flipped up the brass-plated letterbox and peered into the hallway. He saw nothing, just a bare, uncarpeted hall and stairs. ‘Hello – open up, please. Police.’ He let the flap drop a couple of times, making a metallic rattle, stood up and thumped the door again, this time with the side of his fist.
The door had a nine-inch square panel of frosted glass in it at about head height. Tope put his face to it, shielding his eyes with his hand, and he saw the outline of a figure tearing down the stairs, skidding along the hall towards the rear of the house.
‘Doing a runner,’ Tope said excitedly, his voice suddenly high pitched.
‘Patrols at the back of the house,’ Henry said into his radio, ‘he’s heading for the back door.’
Tope ran towards the edge of the house but Henry grabbed him and raised his eyebrows.
‘Subject emerging from rear door,’ one of the officers at the back said.
‘What are we doing here?’ Tope hissed to Henry, who still had hold of him.
Henry said nothing, just gestured with his hands: stay put. Then he pushed Tope to one side of the front door and flattened himself against the wall on the opposite side, still gesticulating for Tope to stay where he was. Tope got the message as the next transmission from the officers out back went, ‘Subject exiting, running across the garden towards us.’
‘Is it Clovelly?’ Henry asked. So far, no one had confirmed that little detail.
There was no time for a reply, because the front door of the house was yanked open and Clovelly himself came out in jeans, T-shirt and trainers. He held a sawn-off shotgun diagonally across his chest, his right hand holding the stock, right forefinger in the trigge
r guard, left holding the barrels.
Stunned, Henry watched as Tope pivoted, moving hard and fast.
He hit Clovelly on the side of his face, just at the point where the jaw joined the skull in front of his ear.
Henry thought it was one of the hardest punches he had ever seen thrown. Clovelly’s face distorted with its power.
Clovelly emitted a roar. His lower jaw jerked sideways, upper and lower sets of teeth grating. The shock of the blow reverberated throughout his body. His head cricked sideways and for a moment, complete blackness engulfed his brain, followed by a dazzling whiteness – and stars. His knees ceased to function and he did a willowy fall.
‘I’ll have that,’ Henry said and deftly snatched the shotgun from Clovelly’s non-existent grip as he slumped to his knees, then onto all fours, shaking his head, mumbling and groaning, spitting teeth and blood.
Tope stepped smartly behind him and slammed him down onto his chest, then pulled his arms behind his back, stacking his wrists and fitting a pair of rigid cuffs on him.
‘Jeesh, that was pretty exciting,’ Tope said in a matter-of-fact way.
Open mouthed, Henry said, ‘Told you you’d get to love it again.’
FIFTEEN
‘I read a book once,’ Jerry Tope explained after Henry’s question.
‘What – about punching people’s lights out?’
Tope snuffled a laugh. ‘No, not quite. It was about the Kray twins – you know, Ronnie and Reggie? Nice guys. One of the things they used to do was offer someone a cigarette and as that person was just about to put it into their mouth, at the exact moment when their jaw was slightly relaxed, they’d punch the unsuspecting stoolie on the side of his face at the jaw joint and break the poor sod’s jaw. They got it down to a fine art . . . they were both boxers, of course. I was always intrigued by it and I thought I’d give it a shot, especially when he came to the door with a shotgun. Obviously the Krays could hit harder than me, but I did pretty good, didn’t I?’ he finished proudly. He licked the tip of his forefinger with his tongue and gave himself an imaginary tick in mid-air.
Henry shook his head in amazement. ‘Yeah, you did good, Slugger Tope.’
‘Went down like a sack o’ spuds.’ Tope dropped back and started dancing on his tiptoes, throwing punches as though he was shadow boxing with Ali.
Henry watched him, amused. It was as if someone had lit his blue touchpaper and somehow brought him to life. Even though it was six hours later he was still pumped with adrenalin and Henry had never seen this dour man so animated. Now he wanted to fight the world.
‘OK, Jerry, time to wind your neck in,’ Henry said.
Tope threw one last punch, caught the wall by mistake and howled with pain, doubling over and cradling his fist under his armpit. ‘Ooh, that hurt.’
They were standing in the corridor outside Henry’s FMIT office at headquarters. Henry ushered Tope in and sat him down.
It was the first time they had stopped since Clovelly’s arrest. Henry slid behind his desk, sat down and took a breath.
It had been a hectic six hours and now Clovelly was trapped up in the Blackburn cells, having had a hospital visit during which he had become violent and had to be further restrained. When he arrived at the cells he was pinned to the floor, searched properly, then heaved head first into a cell after managing to assault the custody officer. Not the best of moves for a comfortable stay.
He wasn’t going anywhere for the time being.
In the meantime the house had been searched and his car seized. A couple of addresses he was known to frequent were also searched, as well as a lock-up garage in Oswaldtwistle where a very large chunk of evidential gold was discovered: the Nissan that had been used in the drive-by shooting and as a getaway car from the club in Blackpool where Runcie Costain had been shot to death.
Although it seemed unlikely that Clovelly would admit anything when he was interviewed, the forensic side was coming together nicely.
Henry had also arrested the person who had done a runner from the back of the house, hoping to fool officers into thinking it was Clovelly. This turned out to be his girlfriend, dressed in his clothes. Henry held her for harbouring a fugitive – a bit of a weak charge at the best of times – but he bailed her quite quickly when she revealed she was pregnant.
Now he was back at HQ, taking stock, seeing where everyone was up to and preparing for an 8 p.m. debrief.
He looked at Tope, still caressing his wall-scraped knuckles.
‘What have you got, Jerry? You told me you found a killer.’
‘Possible killer,’ Tope corrected him.
‘I’m listening.’ Henry consulted his watch. ‘At least for the next five minutes.’
Tope sat up, cleared his throat and got a grip of himself. ‘You remember that school photograph?’
Henry nodded.
‘Well – back then school records weren’t as good as they should be, it wasn’t exactly the age of the computer, but, with due diligence, extremely well-honed computer research skills . . .’
‘Hacking, you mean?’ Henry knew Tope’s skills were unsurpassed.
‘That, too,’ Tope acknowledged. ‘I managed to find out the names of all but two of the people in the photo and did a bit of delving. Some of course were of no interest. Two were dead, not including our victims, that is. Natural causes and a kosher accident. But one was very interesting – and I don’t mean Freddy Cromer.’
Henry knew when to say nothing. He waited.
Tope went on. ‘Remember a rape and murder quite a few years back? In Darwen? Young girl abducted on the way home from school. Body found a few days later in an industrial dustbin?’
Henry knew it. Even knew the little girl’s name – Tina Makinson. Twelve years old. Even though he hadn’t been directly involved in the investigation, Henry recalled it being a heartbreaking case. The murderer, found by good, solid detective work, had been one Rafe Liversage, a man whose offences against children had been growing increasingly serious and violent. He had been released from prison only days before he took Tina.
Henry leant forward and tapped his computer mouse. His monitor came to life, still on the school photograph he had been inspecting before turning out to deal with the arrest of Clovelly. He looked at it closely. His jaw sagged as he focused on one particular boy in the class.
‘Shit,’ he whispered, raising his eyes to look at a smug Jerry Tope, who licked his finger and ticked the air again.
‘He was released on licence seven days before Christine Blackshaw’s body was found. They must have known each other,’ Tope said. ‘Same school, everything.’
Henry thought back, recalling the media coverage of Tina Makinson’s murder. The angst of the parents. The massive police searches and an equally big investigation, some seventy detectives grinding on it full-time. Then her tiny, broken body being found behind a factory in Darwen, and soon after, Liversage’s arrest. Then his conviction for life – but, such are the vagaries of the criminal justice system, the man was already legitimately back on the streets.
He looked through narrowed eyes at Tope. ‘MO?’ he said.
‘I knew you’d rain on my parade,’ Tope said, but not seriously. ‘I know it doesn’t quite fit what we’re looking at, but maybe he has some pent-up, festering grudge against these people. Peters and Blackshaw.’
‘Mm,’ Henry mumbled. ‘What about the Milner woman who was killed in West Yorkshire the year before Blackshaw was killed? Where was Liversage then? In prison, or what?’
Tope had a pained look. ‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’d been out on Christmas leave.’
‘See if you can find out.’ There could be a grudge thing going on, but he wasn’t convinced Liversage was involved, certainly not as an offender. Just a gut thing. ‘Whatever, he needs looking at. Have you got a current address for him?’
‘From the Probation Service. A room in a bail hostel in Accrington.’
‘Right.’ Henry pondered this new infor
mation. Without doubt Liversage was a cruel and violent man, but he didn’t somehow fit what Henry had in mind as the Twixtmas Killer. But he had been known to be wrong on occasion. Liversage needed careful attention. ‘OK – tomorrow we pull him, how about that?’
‘Can I?’ Tope pleaded.
‘Got a taste for blood now, have you?’
Henry conducted the debrief in a way, he hoped, that would be clear and logical to all concerned.
The detectives now dealing with the shootings at Blackburn went first, followed by those sorting the drive-by on Shoreside, then Runcie Costain’s death in John Rider’s old club. There had been lots of people to see, grieving, angry relatives to deal with and keep calm; post-mortems, forensics, crime scenes and a deteriorating public order situation on Shoreside, which was keeping the uniform branch busy.
With Clovelly’s arrest, things were going well – although he was still acting ‘like a shithead’ in custody, it was reported. Terry Cromer was still at large, but Henry was convinced he would be found soon.
In all, he was pretty happy. Next day he had negotiated for more bodies to be drafted in and it would all surge ahead nicely.
He didn’t keep the murder squad any longer than necessary, thanking them and telling them to be back for a briefing at nine next morning.
Henry had used one of the classrooms at the Training Centre for the debrief, and as he walked back to his office his mobile phone rang, cutting into his thoughts.
‘Mr Christie, it’s Bernadette Peters.’
‘Oh, hi Mrs Peters, how are you?’
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked hopefully.
‘You called earlier, remember?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘You asked about infant school. I might have something for you.’
It was 9 p.m. when Henry drove into Blackpool and around to Bernadette Peters’ home. She was waiting for him this time, and although Henry didn’t want to be sexist in his thoughts, he had to admit that she scrubbed up well and looked much more with it than when he’d interrupted her on Christmas Day. She was still dressed sloppily, in a baggy T-shirt and tight-fitting Lycra bottoms, three-quarter length, that showed her shapely legs to good effect. Her hair was pinned back, but touches of subtly applied make-up gave her face a pleasant look – and she was smiling this time. And she smelled nice.