by Nick Oldham
Outside there was a good deal of uniformed police activity. The front of the house was cordoned off and uniformed officers guarded the scene closely. Roscoe and Baines ducked under the crime-scene tapes and strolled to a nearby café. Roscoe bought the brews and an Eccles cake each.
‘What do you think then?’ she asked Baines. She had a lot of her own ideas but wanted to see if his matched hers.
He chewed pleasurably on a mouthful of currants, swallowed and had a swig of tea from a cracked mug. ‘He was murdered by a maniac – sorry I don’t have the correct psychological terminology to go with that rather obvious conclusion.’
‘That’s OK – nor do I.’
‘A maniac, but someone who is cold, calculating and very prepared. I think this attack was pre-planned. I’d also hazard a guess that the victim knew his attacker well or at the least trusted the attacker.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Roscoe’s mug stopped halfway twixt table and lip.
‘Unless I’m mistaken, there is no sign of forced entry to the flat, no sign of any defensive wounds on the victim’s hands or forearms, although when I get the poor sod on a slab, such wounds might become apparent, though I doubt it. My cursory examination of the skull shows a massive concave dip around the crown, consistent with something like a ball hammer. Joey had been comfortable enough to have turned his back on his killer, so he wasn’t expecting trouble.’
‘Unlikely to be a member of the Khan family then.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing, just musing out loud. Go on, please.’
‘Little more to add at this stage. I think he knew his killer and I also think this killer has killed before.’
‘Two issues there,’ Roscoe picked up quickly. ‘Him? How do you know it’s a him?’
‘A man or a very strong woman. I think the victim had been dragged and placed where he was. I don’t think most women could have achieved that. It’s not a sexist remark, it’s factual.’
‘I’ll go with that. Now why do you think he might’ve killed before?’
‘I’ve been to a lot of murder scenes. Murders committed by first timers are always rushed and messy. This one was done by someone who took his time, was supremely confident, who knew what he was doing. Probably one of a series, I’d guess.’
‘I’ll look into that, thanks, Dr Baines.’ Roscoe picked up her Eccles cake and bit into it, experiencing a moment of pure, unadulterated joy as the sugar and fruit burst onto her tongue. How could anything that tastes so good be so bad for you, she thought – ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’. Sod it! She took another bite.
‘I believe you know Henry Christie quite well,’ she said through the mouthful.
Baines perked up visibly at the mention of the name. ‘Henry? Yes – we go back a long way. Haven’t seen the old libertine for some time. How is he? I’m surprised not to see him, actually. This kind of thing is right up his street.’
‘He’s OK. Sends his regards. He’s been transferred into uniform.’
Baines almost choked on his cake. ‘Uniform? Well I never.’
‘I came here directly from seeing him. We’d been discussing the murder. He has some views on it. He was the first officer on the scene.’
Baines looked languidly at Roscoe, a hint of knowledge in them.
She thought abruptly, He thinks Henry is shagging me. She could tell from the look on the good doctor’s face. Something inside her said she should be angry, but she wasn’t. Instead she wished it were true and, fleetingly, she imagined making love with Henry.
‘You OK?’ Baines asked with a slight smile.
‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured, trying to disguise the flush up her neck.
They chatted further about the murder, finished their food and drinks and decided to get back.
Next thing on the agenda was how best to transport Costain’s body to the mortuary while disturbing as little evidence as possible. Roscoe was also starting to think about the Costain family who had to be informed of Joey’s demise. There would need to be a formal identification before the post-mortem could start. It would be an uncomfortable time. She was not looking forward to it. Not just because of the unpleasantness of having to deal with the family, a responsibility which rested firmly on her shoulders as senior investigating officer, but also because of the knock-on effect as far as the streets of Blackpool were concerned.
There would be a war unless she could convince the Costains that the Khan family had not killed little Joey.
Evening was fast approaching as Baines and Roscoe walked back to the murder scene; with it came a very Blackpool chill tasting of salt, directly from the Irish Sea. They were about to cross the road when there was an ‘Excuse me, excuse me’ from behind. They turned.
An elderly gentleman, waving a walking stick at them, shuffled towards them at a fair pace. ‘I take it you are in charge of the investigation?’ he said to Baines. His accent, though northern, did have a trace of plum-military to it. He sounded like someone used to getting their own way.
‘No, I . . .’ stammered Baines, but was chopped off mid-sentence.
‘I,’ said the man huffily, ‘have been sitting and waiting for someone, preferably a detective superintendent, to come and speak to me. I was expecting house-to-house enquiries would be commenced. That is usually what happens when a murder occurs – am I correct, officer?’
‘Er – yes,’ said Baines unsurely, eyeing Roscoe for some support.
She stayed quiet, smirking. It was often the case that members of the public assume that a man would take charge of any investigation, even in this day and age.
‘So why haven’t they begun yet?’ the old man demanded. ‘I’ve been sitting at my front window waiting. It’s no dashed wonder the police can’t solve anything these days when they don’t even ask the questions.’
‘Yes, sir, you’re absolutely correct,’ Roscoe said assertively, stepping forward. ‘May I introduce myself?’ She offered her right hand. ‘Detective Inspector Roscoe. I’m the senior investigating officer. This is Dr Baines, the Home Office Pathologist – and you are?’
The man shook Roscoe’s hand formally and almost clicked his heels. ‘Please excuse my faux pas – understandable error, wouldn’t you say? It’s a man’s job, after all.’
Roscoe stared coldly at him. ‘Is it?’
‘I’ll get back up there,’ Baines said to Roscoe and moved away.
The old man cleared his throat. ‘Ah hem . . . anyway, I am John Blackthorn, Captain John Blackthorn, Durham Light Infantry, and I am the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator for this area and let me tell you – there’s not much goes on around here without me knowing about it.’
‘Resources, you see,’ Roscoe said, tutting apologetically and explaining at the same time, ‘or lack of them. House to house would have come sooner rather than later, I can assure you, Captain Blackthorn, but we are very stretched at the moment, with the party conference and all.’
‘Yes, resources and money are always a problem these days,’ Captain Blackthorn said. ‘But it astounds me that two million can be spent protecting politicians, yet hardly anything is spent protecting the public who put them in power.’
‘Quite,’ said Roscoe.
They were sitting in the lounge of his well-appointed flat on Withnell Road. The wide bay window overlooked the street and was about fifty metres away from the entrance to the converted terraced house in which Joey Costain’s flat was situated on the opposite side of the road. There was a good view across to it.
Roscoe tried to stay cool, but inside she was shimmering with excitement at what Blackthorn might be able to tell her because it was the early leads which often led to solving a case. If things dragged beyond seventy-two hours, the likelihood of a result lessened dramatically.
From the look of things, Captain Blackthorn was a widower. Photos of a dignified old lady were all around the room on windowsills and on the raised hearth where a solid brass companion set with brush, tongs, s
hovel and poker stood ornately by the gas fire. He probably spent a lot of time at his front window, secreted behind thick lace curtains watching life go by. There was a high-backed reclining chair in the bay which looked extremely comfortable, next to this was a small coffee table on which was a monocular, telephone, note pad and pen. Underneath the table was a stack of quality daily newspapers. In all, the perfect nosy-parker outfit.
People like this could be gold to the police. People who sat, observed and made notes. Roscoe was the first to admit that they were not used effectively enough. She nibbled her fruit cake. Slightly damp and musty, but OK. She sipped tea from a delicate translucent China cup with a large black crack in it.
‘You have some information, then?’
Blackthorn got up from the settee and hobbled across the room, using his walking stick for support. ‘Bad hips,’ he explained, ‘soon to be plastic ones.’
He picked up his note pad, returned to the settee next to Roscoe and handed it to her.
‘Yesterday afternoon, pretty early, one p.m.,’ he said in a clipped tone, ‘that little good for nothing Costain arrived on foot.’
Roscoe read his notes. ‘“Mon.1. Cost app.” What does this mean?’
‘Monday, 1 p.m., Costain arrives.’
‘And “Cost ent”?’
‘Costain enters the building,’ he said proudly. ‘Here,’ he indicated he wanted the book. She handed it back. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . . right, he goes inside. Two minutes later another chappie arrives in a van and goes into the building, though I’m not saying this is connected with Costain’s death, you understand? Obviously he should be questioned. He was carrying what looks like a tool box.’
‘How do you know Joey Costain?’ Roscoe asked, just holding Blackthorn back a touch.
‘Ever since he moved in a couple of weeks ago he’s been round to people in the area offering insurance – if you know what I mean?’ Blackthorn winked. ‘Bloody protection racket in other words. Got short shrift from me. Sorry to say he won’t be missed in the neighbourhood.’
‘Can you describe the man who entered the building after Costain?’
‘Well, I didn’t get that close a look at him.’
Roscoe tried to hide her disappointment.
‘But to be honest, seeing the van the man came in was enough for me.’
‘Why?’
‘As I said, there’s not much I don’t know around here. I always keep my eyes open for anything suspicious or any toerag good for nothings. I make it my business to know them and their vehicles.’ He sat back, smiling.
Roscoe felt something shoot down her body, a living thing inside her. She stopped herself from screaming, Well fucking tell me who it is, you stupid old bastard! Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m nearly wetting myself here. Instead, she kept her cool and smiled sweetly.
‘Another scumbag lives at 33c Larkside, Boscome Avenue, the flats. He’s called David Gill.’
Hallelujah! Just around the corner.
‘Come on please, we know there’s someone in there. Just come to the door. We’d like to ask one or two questions.’
The first voice had been a woman’s, the second a man’s calling through the letterbox.
Is there just the two of them, Gill wondered. Or were they backed up by a bunch of big, hairy-arsed coppers looking for a rumble? It was a calculated gamble, but that was what Gill was about. He reckoned just the two, otherwise why hadn’t they kicked down the door? He picked up his bike helmet and pulled it on. He had one chance and one chance only. The cops continued to bang on the door. It was about time to answer it.
Fifteen
Henry Christie was not a political animal. He did not give two stuffs about councillors and politicians and their sad, power-hungry egos. This was probably why he had not progressed any further than the rank of inspector – as well as being unable to pass the promotion-assessment centres, which was in itself a bit of a stumbling block. He thought it was ludicrous that the police service kow-towed to politicians and found it a huge joke for the claim to be made that the police service was apolitical. Of course it was political.
The truth was that ever since the miners’ strike of 1984 and probably before that, the police had been used as blunt instruments by whatever party happened to be in power to do their dirty work. And to align policing divisions with local political boundaries seemed to Henry to be the ultimate act of self-sacrifice. He waited for the day when there would be an office in each police station for councillors to use.
But that was the way things had progressed and though he hated it with a vengeance, Henry accepted the harsh realities. The government set the policing agenda, chief constables were mere puppets with no real clout whatsoever, and police forces had to remain placid and compliant to keep Whitehall happy. If they were foolish enough to upset the home secretary they went right to the bottom of the queue when the yearly budget begging bowl was rattled under his nose.
So he hated all politicians and resented their continual intrusion into everyone’s private lives as well as the constant nosying into operational policing. All he wanted to do was solve crime, put offenders before courts and hope they got their just desserts – then lock up some more. An old-fashioned concept, he knew, but it was why he joined the police in the first place but somewhere down the line the idea of catching criminals seemed to have been forgotten by high-ranking officers who simply wanted to further their careers by simpering up to politicians.
As in the case of FB.
Henry was extremely displeased to see Basil Kramer in the former officers’ mess where he had been told to report to FB at 5 p.m.
Kramer and FB were deep in conversation, FB nodding furiously, agreeing with everything, eager to please, feathering his nest. Henry hoped it contained vipers.
Also in the room were Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin. They were drinking coffee, idly chatting, both dressed in casual gear.
The Kramer-FB conflab broke up with a raucous laugh and a pat on the shoulder. They looked round guiltily as Henry came in.
‘Come on, take a pew.’ FB waggled his fingers, beckoning him like he was a servant. ‘Managed to get some sleep?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Henry stonily. He felt like a sloth. No energy. No commitment. Not happy. His eyes sported luggage like saddle bags. He flicked his thumb behind him. ‘I’ve brought Sergeant Byrne in. He’s night-patrol supervision. I thought he should be here.’ He was going to add, ‘Hope that’s OK,’ but refrained. He wanted to remain assertive.
‘Sure,’ FB said.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Basil Kramer said. ‘Nice to see you again.’ He nodded to Byrne. ‘Sarge.’
Henry and Byrne sat down.
FB glanced at Kramer, who took the lead and spoke. ‘Just to put you in the picture, Inspector, the PM is in town, staying at the Imperial Hotel tonight.’
Henry nodded, repressing the urge to say, ‘Woopee doo! Bully for him.’
‘And I think he would like to sleep soundly,’ Kramer added, smiling thinly.
‘Which is where you come in.’ FB emphasised the word ‘you’. ‘So what are your plans to keep the peace tonight?’
Twenty minutes later, Henry and Byrne were walking towards the parade room on the ground floor.
‘I think we got through that OK-ish,’ Byrne commented.
‘Surprisingly,’ Henry said. ‘The problem we now have is making our promises come true with the small number of staff we have available. Not easy, Dermot.’
‘We’ll have to be creative, won’t we?’
‘And pray we don’t have another riot to deal with. God give us rain – lots of it.’
Their radios blasted out. ‘Blackpool to DI Roscoe or DS Evans receiving – DI Roscoe or DS Evans.’
Both Henry and Byrne twisted the volume down on their sets.
Dermot Byrne paraded the twelve-hour night shift, due on just before 6 p.m. Henry stayed for the briefing which was short and precise. The team looked haggard from the previous night’s
fun, but they seemed raring to go. A riot gave them something to do. Henry was surprised to see PC John Taylor in the line-up, he had expected him to be off sick. He looked as though he had not slept all day and had watery eyes and a sniffy nose. Henry admired him for coming in.
To keep Taylor out of mischief for a couple of hours, Byrne gave him the relatively painless task of visiting all the licensed premises in town known to attract gays. He was to speak to the licensees about suspicious parcels and stick up one or two warning posters which Henry and Byrne had quickly run off the computer before the parade.
After the briefing Henry walked back to the inspectors’ office. He needed to catch up with some paperwork, then find out how Dave Seymour was progressing and about the two murder inquiries. After that he intended to hit the bricks with Byrne. He was keenly anticipating the night ahead now that he was at work.
‘Blackpool to patrols,’ communications shouted over the radio again. ‘Does anyone know the present location of DI Roscoe or DS Evans?’
No one replied.
‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ Henry called up. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ the operator said hesitantly. ‘The DI should be at the mortuary for a post-mortem. The pathologist is waiting for her to turn up, but she hasn’t shown. He’s been on the phone.’
‘Roger.’
Odd, thought Henry. He turned into the inspectors’ office and bumped into Burt Norman who was on his way out, his motorcycle helmet in his hand.
‘Burt,’ Henry said pleasantly.
‘Bye,’ Norman said, brushing past and was gone. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, suddenly putting his head back round the door. ‘Tea fund – need to speak to you – tomorrow, maybe – bye.’ Then he was really gone.
Henry smiled to himself. He kitted himself up with all his equipment and picked up a set of car keys. He decided to visit a friend.
Henry had spent many a gruesome hour at the public mortuary, presiding over post-mortems carried out on murder victims. There had been times when the place had been like a second office to him, but instead of being surrounded by stationary and in-trays, he had been surrounded by hearts, livers, dissected brains, entrails and stiffs. He had become so immune to the process that these days he even failed to recoil at the smell of death, that peculiar, all-clinging odour which escapes from the dissected human body. But he could recognise it immediately.