Backlash

Twenty-One

The detective inspector from Cheshire was better than his word. A police motorcyclist dropped a thick file off at the front office at Blackpool police station with Henry Christie’s name on it at 7 a.m. It was in Henry’s hands five minutes later because, try as he might, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He had dropped off for about an hour at 5 a.m., but awoken with a start at 6.15 when one of Fiona’s patients started howling down below.

The police station was hectic. Seven was the turn-around time for officers working on the conference.

Henry collected the package from the front desk and gravitated to Jane Roscoe’s office which, not long ago, had been his own. Not much had changed in it. His own personal belongings and mementoes had been replaced by Roscoe’s. Everything else was as it had been. He eased himself behind the familiar desk — under which he had found Jane Roscoe searching the other night with her bottom swaying provocatively in the air, trying to reach a piece of paper. Briefly, the memory made him smile.

He ripped open the package from Cheshire, while thinking that the DI down there must have been another early riser. He shuffled the contents out.

‘Graveson: Lucinda and Thomas. Murder’ the file was headed.

Inside were several bound books of crime-scene photographs which Henry flicked through, then put to one side. He picked up the written materials and started to scan them. He had read many murder files. On some murders he had worked specifically in the capacity of statement reader, dedicated solely to reading and rereading statements for clues, connections, leads and discrepancies. He could read a murder file quickly and be certain at the end of it he knew as much about it as anybody.

There were many statements to go through here.

With a note pad by his side, pencil in hand, he started.

Three-quarters of an hour later he picked up the crime-scene photos again. Shots of the Graveson house in Wilmslow, Cheshire, a very different part of the world than South Shore, Blackpool. This time he looked closely at every picture. When he had finished he knew he had something, but did not know what. It was something from the photos. Something that did not quite gel properly.

At 8 a.m. he did not have the answer. He got on the phone to Cheshire and spoke to the DI again.

As soon as Donaldson and Makin arrived, Henry hustled them down to the garage without any explanation and hurried them into a plain, traffic enforcement car. It was a Vauxhall Omega, the fastest and best car he could blag at short notice with the promise to the traffic sergeant that, honestly, he would bring it back in one piece.

He almost had his first accident speeding out of the garage doors, but managed to avoid the bread delivery van.

‘Oops,’ he said, giving the white-faced van driver an apologetic wave.

‘Oops, my ass,’ Donaldson growled, taking his hands slowly away from his face. ‘Is it safe to look now, you reckless son of a bitch?’

‘Sorry,’ Henry said, jamming the brakes on at the first junction, then accelerating left to put the car into a slot in the early morning traffic which did not look wide enough for a mini. ‘Here, have a look at this.’ He picked up the envelope from his lap and tossed it across to Donaldson. ‘The murder of Louise Graveson and her husband.’

Donaldson picked it out of the footwell and extracted the contents. As he read each statement he passed it over his shoulder to Makin in the back seat.

Henry pushed the car hard and unlike most police cars it revelled in it. He enjoyed the experience, whizzing past every other car on the motorway and not caring whether or not he was caught on a speed camera. This was a business trip. The firm would have to write off any fixed penalties that came his way. He motored along the M55, then south on the M6, through Lancashire and down into Cheshire.

His two partners were silent as they ingested details of the double murder, each giving the occasional exclamation of horror, particularly when they got to the crime-scene photos, which were appalling in their depiction of the violence suffered by the victims.

‘Poor people,’ Makin said sympathetically. ‘What a way to die.’

She handed the file back to Donaldson who repackaged it neatly into the envelope.

‘Well?’ Henry said. He had stayed quiet while they had read the file. He glanced at Donaldson, then quickly over his shoulder at Makin.

‘Well what?’ she asked. ‘Looks like it could be the same offender.’

‘Anything else strike you?’

‘She could’ve been a target for right-wing extremists,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘Looking at her line of work — bit OTT, though.’

‘But a possibility,’ Henry said. ‘Anything else?’

They each put forward several thoughts, none of which seemed to satisfy Henry. Eventually Donaldson became irritated. ‘Look, buddy. I think you’d better tell us what you’re thinking, because it’s darned obvious something has hit a note with you and neither of us two idiots seem capable of seeing it.’ He leaned across to Henry. ‘So tell us, put us out of our misery, or I’ll smash your face in, one hundred miles an hour or not.’

Henry deflated visibly.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said hesitantly. ‘There’s something there, but I can’t quite see what it is — sorry,’ his voice was pathetic. ‘That’s why we’re going to visit the scene, see if I — we — can pull that “something” out of the ether.’

With the parcel tape over her eyes Roscoe could not see him, but she knew he was there. Nor could she speak to him, the tape having been wrapped under her jaw and over her head as well as across her mouth, sealing her lips, making her jaw immovable.

He had said nothing. He’d come into the room and remained silent.

Roscoe’s whole body was rigid with terror and she began to feel the loss of control again, this time down in her bladder and bowels. She had managed to hold on for all this time — somehow — but it would be impossible to do so for much longer.

She tried to speak. The sound was trapped at the back of her throat.

‘Are you trying to make contact?’ Gill asked brightly.

She nodded.

‘If I take the tape off your mouth, you will not scream, do you understand?’

She nodded again.

‘If you do, I’ll just kill you, OK?’

She could sense him moving nearer. She could smell him and then she felt him touching her face, trying to find an end of the tape.

‘I’ve wrapped you up too well.’ He laughed. ‘I’m going to have to cut a hole where your mouth is. At least where I think your mouth is. If I get it wrong, you’ll have two mouths. Then I’d have a real problem shutting you up, wouldn’t I?’

She felt a sharp point press onto her face. The tip of a knife. He jabbed it deliberately into her cheek.

‘Is your mouth here?’

She flinched.

‘Or is it here?’ He prodded her forehead with the instrument. ‘Or here?’ The knife jabbed the top of her head. ‘Or here?’ She sensed Gill moving, but this time he did not press the blade into her for a few moments. She waited, trying to anticipate whereabouts on her head it would be pressed next. Then jumped when she felt a sharp jab on her inner thigh and he dragged the knife upwards towards her vagina. Just then it did not matter any more because the abject fear she was experiencing made inner control impossible.

‘Oh, you fuckin’ bitch,’ Gill cried. ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’ Fuckin’ women! Fuckin’ bitches. I hate you all.’

This was it. Roscoe knew she was going to die. She waited for the blade to pierce her. Where would it enter her body? What would it feel like?

Gill placed the tip of the blade under her chin and pressed.

‘We appreciate this,’ Henry Christie said to DI Harrison who was waiting outside the Graveson house where the double murder had taken place.

‘Not a problem. We need to work together on this one,’ the DI said.

Henry introduced Donaldson and Makin, then they all turned and walked up the driveway to the house.

‘As a murder scene, we’ve finished with it, handed it back to the family and everything, but I know they haven’t been able to touch the place. Nothing’s been moved since we withdrew, I know that for a fact. The family are devastated and can’t bring themselves to do anything with the house,’ Harrison explained.

‘Understandable,’ Makin said.

‘And fortunate,’ Henry said, ‘for us, that is.’

At the front door the DI asked Henry, ‘What do you expect to find here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

No house which had been the scene of such tragedy could ever be the same again. The nature of what had taken place had seeped into the very fabric of the building and destroyed what was once a happy and loving environment. Now ghosts drifted around, demanding justice. Not revenge, but justice. And until it was achieved there could be no rest for them.

Henry walked around the house alone. From the kitchen where the husband had been murdered, into the lounge, then up the stairs to the bathroom where Louise Graveson had been butchered. Dried blood was everywhere. It was a mess.

He closed his eyes and wished both dead people peace, and made a vow to them, there and then, that he would do his best to find that justice for them. When he opened his eyes, the DI Harrison came into the bathroom.

‘Not pretty,’ he commented. ‘We’ve offered to get cleaners in for them, but the family have refused.’

Henry thought he understood why. ‘As gruesome as it is, it gives them some sort of lifeline to their loved ones. To get it cleaned up, wash the blood away, would be like washing their memories away.’

‘I suppose so.’ The DI shrugged. ‘So — found what you’re looking for?’

C’mon Henry, time to get operating, he told himself. ‘Let’s go back downstairs,’ he said, ‘I think it’s there, but I’m not sure.’

Makin and Donaldson were in the living room.

Henry stood by the hi-fi, a modern Bang and Olufsen contraption which would have looked more at home in an operating theatre. ‘The cleaning lady found the bodies, yeah?’ Nods all round. ‘She doesn’t mention any music playing in her statement. I think she needs asking if there was any.’ Henry was musing out loud. ‘She came in the front door and though her statement doesn’t say it, I’ll bet she came into the lounge before she found the husband in the kitchen.’ He looked at Harrison. ‘You say this crime scene hasn’t been touched, nothing been moved?’

‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.

Henry switched on the hi-fi and pressed ‘play’ on the CD. Immediately and automatically the haunting opening chords of ‘Midnight Rambler’ began. He bent down and inspected the controls. It was on repeat play.

‘This is a connection with our job. I’ll bet the cleaner came in, switched this off and then found the husband. She probably totally forgot about the music with the shock of finding him, and who could blame her?’

‘Well done, H,’ Donaldson said.

He took a small bow. ‘But that’s not all.’ He looked round the room, with the exception of some newspapers spread around, it was all very neat and tidy.

‘Have you taken eliminatory prints off everybody? Family, friends?’

Harrison feigned offence.

Yet, still, Henry did not know what it was that had drawn him to the scene of this murder. ‘C’mon, it’s staring us in the face,’ he mumbled. His eyes roved around the room as he mused out loud. ‘They spent the morning with friends, dossing around, having brunch, whatever.’

One Sunday newspaper, the Mail, was on the floor by the sofa, its separate sections spread around. Another, the Telegraph, was on a chair, having obviously been opened and read. Then it hit him, yet it seemed so pathetic and minor that it did not seem enough but, he tried to assure himself, it was the little, inconsequential things that often solved murders. He pointed at the newspaper on the coffee table. The Sunday Times. ‘That’s it,’ he declared. ‘I think.’

‘Better explain yourself,’ Donaldson cut in.

‘OK. The Gravesons have two friends round on a Sunday morning, yeah?’ Nods. ‘They doss about. Chat. Have brunch. Read the newspapers?’ Nods again. Henry jabbed his finger towards the newspapers in disarray. ‘These ones look like they’ve been read,’ he said, trying to work out what message he was trying to get across. ‘Yet the Sunday Times here looks almost pristine. Why?’

‘Tidy people?’ suggested Makin.

‘Who only tidy up one out of three newspapers?’ Henry was as frustrated with the process as anyone else in the room. ‘It just doesn’t sit right with me. Why do two newspapers look as though they’ve been read and one doesn’t?’ He addressed Harrison. ‘Is it possible for you, or me, to talk to those friends now? See if they recall reading the Sunday Times, see if they remember anything at all, what they did with it. Did they refold it?’

‘I’ll do it now.’ The DI pulled his mobile phone out from his jacket and went out of the house to get a good signal.

Henry sat on the sofa and looked down at the newspaper which had attracted his attention. He did not touch it. Then he smiled at Makin and Donaldson. ‘Nice here, innit?’

Makin shivered. ‘Gives me the creeps.’

‘It’s spooky,’ Donaldson agreed. ‘Feels like walking through spiders’ webs or ectoplasm.’

‘I think the bastard sat here and read the newspaper then folded it up nice and neat. Because he’s a pretty neat operator. The bodies he leaves are a mess, but everything else is neatly tidied up. No loose ends. He’s very in control of everything.’

‘And if he did read a newspaper, so what?’ Makin asked.

‘Then the fingerprint people go through every single page and pick off any fingerprints and smudges they find, because maybe the guy made a mistake here.’

Makin hid a look of disappointment. ‘Bit thin, isn’t it?’

Henry smiled. ‘Wedges have thin ends.’

Harrison returned. ‘Just spoke to one of the Gravesons’ friends. They read all the newspapers and when they left they were pretty much scattered around.’

‘I won’t say “bingo” yet,’ Henry said, ‘because he probably wore gloves, but can you get your SOCO people down here now, please?’

Through the slit Gill had kindly cut in the tape covering her mouth, Roscoe said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Gill had calmed down. Roscoe wanted to keep him sweet. Did not want to do anything further to upset him. Wetting and soiling herself had been bad enough. The smell was atrocious, the discomfort unpleasant, but she was past caring. That was unimportant. Staying alive and breaking free by whatever means were what mattered now.

‘What was that?’ he teased.

‘Sorry — so sorry.’

‘You messy bitch.’ Gill shook his head sadly. ‘You’re the second one who’s done that to me. I mean, really, it just confirms everything about females, doesn’t it?’

As he talked he moved around the room. Through a minute break in the tape over her eyes, Roscoe could see a chink of light, nothing more.

‘I mean, what the fuck, eh? What the fuck, for example, are you doing pretending to be a detective inspector? That is a man’s job. It’s not something a woman should even be contemplating. Being a cop is man’s work. White man’s work, at that. I mean, what member of the public would want a woman or a blackie turning up at their door? No one in their right minds. They want to see healthy, fit, big white guys. Not Pakis or split-arses.’

Roscoe listened to his ravings. The final phrase he used sent a message to her. ‘Split-arses’ was a derogatory phrase, used very little now, to describe policewomen. She wasn’t aware of any other profession which used the term.

‘Are you a policeman?’ she asked.

Gill stopped. He did not respond for a few moments. ‘Why ask that?’ he said suspiciously.

‘Because of what you just said — split-arses.’

‘Hm. No. Good try, detective.’

Something in the way he had responded made Roscoe wonder if she had hit a nerve.

‘So why me? Where do I fit in?’

‘You don’t fit in. You just came along and I reacted. Otherwise I’d now be sitting in a cell, contemplating suicide.’

‘Where do the other people you’ve murdered fit in?’

‘Good question — and it sounds grand, this, but it’s all part of the master plan. It’s like a big chessboard, except it’s for real. I’m with white, of course. And there are little battles going on all over the field. Pawn takes pawn. In this real world, pawn kills pawn. I kill people, the black team. Part of a strategy. Guerrilla warfare. A strike here, a strike there, then withdraw. But this is the week when it all changes. Up to now I’ve been picking them off one by one. The ones who have played their part in the downfall of the fabric of British society. Yes, I’m doing this for the sake of the country, Britain, the heritage.’

‘For Britain? You’re murdering people for Britain?’ Roscoe was losing it again as she had to listen to the ranting of a mad man.

‘Yes,’ he said in total belief. ‘I’m a patriot. I’m going to be part of a movement that saves this country from itself and restores its pride.’

The sea can never be trusted. Sometimes it will keep its victims to itself and they will never be found, sometimes it will return them immediately and other times it will play with them like a cat with its prey, tossing them up, reclaiming them, having fun.

In the case of the body which had been bundled dead over the sea wall, for reasons known only to itself the sea decided to deposit him in almost the exact same spot from which it had taken him when offered. The body was found by a man walking his dog along central beach. The body was wrapped around the foot of one of the stanchions of Central Pier.

There was nothing that could be done to speed up the process. A scenes-of-crime officer was at the house within fifteen minutes, ready to roll. With gloved hands she began to leaf through the newspaper but found nothing to excite or interest. No smudges, nothing. The Sunday Times magazine was more interesting and when she held the back page up to the light there were some clear prints in the black ink of an advertisement for an Alfa Romeo car. She found other prints throughout the magazine on its shiny surface and carefully lifted and transferred them onto glass plates, logging each one carefully.

Henry watched, desperate for her to get a move on. He also knew that if he pushed her she would either do a poor job or would fall out with him. He wanted neither to happen. Outwardly, therefore, he remained patient. Inwardly he was paddling like a demented duck.

After finishing with the magazine, she bagged it up, logged it and placed it with the prints inside her bag of tricks.

‘I’ll take them straight to fingerprints,’ she said. ‘They’ll be expecting me.’

‘And you might as well head off back to sunny Blackpool,’ Harrison said. ‘I’d love to offer you my hospitality but I do have a murder inquiry to run.’

‘Understood. Thanks for everything,’ Henry said dully, wondering if this had all been a waste of time and effort. Do killers sit down and read newspapers? He kept on the positive side by telling himself that if someone can kill another person, in itself a very weird thing, they are capable of doing anything. ‘We’ll tootle back.’ He looked at Donaldson. ‘And to kill a bit of time, maybe we can start rattling those cages we were talking about.’

‘Yeah — I need some action,’ the American responded.

Gill was sitting next to Roscoe, knees drawn up, arms folded round them. He had become quiet, reflective. ‘You see, essentially, this country is white through and through. Dominated by white men with their women tagging along, supporting them.’

Had Roscoe been able, she would have bitten her lip.

‘Just think what we have achieved as a nation. The empire. Subjugating India, almost ruling Africa — and where are we now? The standard of living is shite, we hardly produce any goods and blacks and women are taking over. What’s happened?’ His voice rose, quivering with hysteria. ‘Everything has been turned on its head, but now it’s time to make a stand. Look at you, as a case in point, how the hell did you get to be a detective? And look what they did to the guy who got shoved out for you.’

‘How do you know about that?’ Roscoe mumbled. ‘How do you know this?’

That stopped Gill again. ‘Because I do,’ he said inadequately.

The journey back was less hectic than the one south. It lacked the imperative. Henry stuck to the speed limits, lost in his thoughts. Once on the M55, heading west, he switched on his radio to hear anything of interest that might be going on in Blackpool. This was how they managed to come into a conversation halfway through between a patrol and communications.

The patrol was saying: ‘. . white male, mid-thirties. Could have been in since last night. Looks as though he’s been beaten up before hitting the water. I’ll need CID here, please.’

‘Any ID?’

‘Standby.’

‘It might be the guy who went in last night,’ Henry said to his travelling companions. ‘Someone reported seeing three men dumping what could have been a body into the pond, but when the patrol arrived there was no trace of the informant or a body.’

The patrol in Blackpool transmitted again. ‘Found a wallet. Money still in it — driving licence in the name of Terry Baxter.’

In the back of the car Andrea Makin emitted a squeak. She had not been listening to the radio, particularly, but the name made her sit upright.

‘What was that name?’ she asked.

‘Baxter — Terry Baxter,’ Donaldson said.

Makin slumped back with a groan. ‘Oh my God.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Donaldson asked.

‘Terry Baxter was the undercover identity of Jack Laws, my DC who was undercover with Hellfire Dawn.’

The body was still on the beach when they arrived in Blackpool, so Henry drove straight to Central Pier and parked on the inner promenade alongside other police cars.

Makin did not hesitate about going down onto the beach. She was a hardened detective and the sight of a body was nothing new, even if it was a colleague. With Henry and Donaldson at her heels she pushed her way through the onlookers, flashing her badge to make them get out of the way. She knelt at the head of the body, curled down and looked at the face of a man who had been seriously battered. It was her officer. She stood slowly, head shaking, then elbowed her way through the crowd and stamped away down the beach, terribly upset. She had no specific destination in mind and found herself walking towards the water’s edge, several hundred metres out. Here she stopped, head hung low.

She thought she was alone, but Henry had trailed her at a discreet distance, then come up behind her.

‘Stupid question, I guess, but I take it that’s him?’

‘Yeah, stupid question.’ She did not look at Henry, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes.

‘Who knew about him?’

She gulped. ‘Me, you, Karl, FB — God, how the hell did they find out, Henry? Who told them? He was a bloody good operative. If he knew he’d been compromised, or suspected it, he would’ve pulled out pdq. He can’t have been expecting it — so it must have happened quickly, without warning. Somebody must have blabbed.’ She spun defiantly on Henry. ‘So who was it?’

David Gill paced the room. Roscoe could hear his footsteps circling her. Around and around. Making her head spin.

‘It’s a statement of intent that I’ll be making,’ he said, very matter of fact. ‘From the people to the government. To the prime minister. He must be made to see the error of his ways. But he is a weak man, it must be said. Swayed left and right, depending on who shouts the loudest. Misguided idiot. I’ll be taking the game right to his bedroom door, literally.’

‘Are you going to kill him?’

Gill snorted. ‘I wish. It’d save the country some bloody grief. No, it’s much better than that, Janie, I’m going to hit him where it really hurts.’

‘Where’s that?’

Gill stopped moving. Suddenly Roscoe could no longer hear him, place him. Had he gone?

Then she felt his hot breath over her nose as he kneeled over her and held his face over hers. His breath smelled awful. There was garlic in it. There was also the odour of his stomach contents.

‘I’ll tell you where,’ he whispered. Roscoe twitched as he pushed the point of his knife into her chest. ‘And when I’ve done it, I’ll come back and share the victory with you, and then I’ll kill you, ever so slowly and delicately.’

Roscoe held her nerve. ‘Where are you going to hurt him?’ she asked again.

‘Why, Jane,’ he said, pressing the point of the knife into her chest, ‘in his heart, of course — I’m going to kill his wife and unborn child.’