Bad Tidings

SIXTEEN

‘You let me in now,’ Henry demanded angrily of the intercom, feeling stupid shouting at a wall. There was no response. He continued, ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll come back mob-handed and tear the fucking house apart in pursuit of a wanted criminal, namely Terrence Cromer.’ With that, he lifted his finger off the speak button and stared through the wrought-iron gates at the Cromer house up the driveway. Lights burned. A couple of cars were parked outside. He squinted to see the numbers, but couldn’t make them out.

Petulantly he jabbed his thumb three more times on the button. He could be very nasty with his thumb if riled.

A moment later, with a hiss of static, came a tinny, female voice he recognized. ‘Wait there. I’ll be out in a moment.’ Janine Cromer.

He leaned, arms folded, on the front wing of the Audi, next to Rik.

‘I’m now getting sorely pissed off with this lot,’ Henry said through gritted teeth. ‘Not least because I haven’t had enough sleep.’

Rik remained silent, brooding. His evening of flesh-based pleasure with Lisa had been rudely interrupted by events and he too was a teensy bit cross.

The front door of the house opened. The two German Shepherd dogs surged out and bounded towards the gate ahead of Janine, who was pulling on a top coat.

The dogs reached the gate and patrolled back and forth, criss-crossing each other’s path with a sinuous movement, all the while looking through the railings, teeth bared, growling under their breath at the back of their throats.

‘Yes?’ Janine demanded. She gripped the gate and the loose sleeves of her coat fell back down her arms, revealing the pale skin of her inner forearms.

Henry pushed himself off the car and strutted across. ‘Who’s in charge?’ he demanded.

‘Of what?’

‘The family business.’

‘We don’t have a family business. It’s in your imagination.’

‘OK, OK,’ Henry relented, not wishing to get into an argument on the semantics of the organization of a crime family. ‘I need to pass a message to whom it may concern. . so if it gets to your dad, all the better. Two messages, actually.’

Janine continued to grip the railings, one dog either side of her. Henry glanced briefly down at the dogs, then as he lifted his eyes, saw her white forearms.

‘And they are?’ she asked.

‘First — give yourself up, Terry. We’ll get you sooner rather than later.’

Janine yawned mockingly.

‘Second, this shit stops. Right fucking now.’

‘And that shit would be?’

‘Turf wars. Guns. Killings. Blood. Your lot and the Costains. It stops now,’ Henry reiterated. ‘Before anyone else gets killed. We’re going to take a very hard line against you as it is, don’t make me step that up any further. Because I will, I promise you, Janine. We will not take any more crap and we will do everything to keep the streets safe from scumbags intent on violence. If there’s even a hint of anything further, we will screw you to the floor. . do I make myself clear?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

Henry glared at her, then shrugged. ‘And I thought you were different, Janine.’

She did not respond, but held his gaze with her head tilted, and Henry saw a look in her eye and an expression on her face that reminded him strongly of someone.

‘Whatever,’ he said with exasperation. ‘Pass the message, dearie,’ he added coldly, ‘and don’t be surprised when we come knocking.’

She turned and walked away.

Rik sidled up to Henry and said, ‘Have you properly checked out little Miss Black Widow?’

‘No. . but I’m going to.’

Henry could have ranted until his face turned a horrible shade of puce. But it would only have served to wind him up even more and put more stress than ever on his heart, which he felt was becoming even feebler by the minute.

Instead, he withdrew from the gates and skidded away in the Audi, flicking up grit as he went. He was en route to Blackpool to deliver the same message to the Costains. The only problem being, who was now their head? Who had the power now? Who should he target his warning to?

By the time he hit the slip road onto the M65, he had settled into his driving, taken a few steadying breaths and his mind was starting to work again.

‘Notice anything about her?’ he asked Rik.

‘In what respect? Fit and dangerous, like I said all along? Fuckable, but rather like knobbing a black widow spider? Dangerous as hell?’

‘Other than that.’

‘No. I’m a simple man,’ Rik conceded.

‘Her arms?’

‘Still no.’

‘Her inner forearms, the soft bit from wrist up to elbow. . when her sleeve slid back?’

Rik continued to shake his head. ‘Best tell me. Not in the mood for guessing.’

‘She self-harms. Lots and lots of razor blade cuts up each arm, probably hundreds. And probably all over other parts of her body, too. A lot were old, but some looked recent.’

‘Oh. . and?’

‘Why do people self harm?’

‘Don’t know much about it. .’

‘Usually because of deep-rooted psychological issues and trauma. . it’s a kind of release, the pain, the blood flow,’ Henry explained.

‘Ugh. . you seem to know a lot about it.’ Rik sounded impressed.

‘Not really. Came across it once a while back and read up on it, that’s all.’

‘You think it’s significant?’

‘No idea,’ Henry admitted. ‘But it’s odd and there’s always a back story behind it. I wonder what hers is?’ The other thing that was odd, was what he had seen in Janine’s face as she’d stared daggers at him.

The car reached eighty-five and he pulled out into the fast lane.

Whether his words had any real effect, Henry could not be certain. He made sure that armed response units were very visible in and around Blackpool and Blackburn in order to get his message across, with orders to cruise by the clubs, and as far as the streets were concerned, everything seemed to quieten down.

What went on behind closed doors, he could not say.

But the lull in overt criminal activity gave him the chance to get a properly structured and staffed investigation under way as, suddenly, the commanders of the relevant divisions became ultra helpful in terms of staffing and resources. Henry didn’t know how true it was, but the rumour clinic stated they’d had a very big kick up their backsides from the chief constable’s jackboots.

Very quickly Henry had two Major Incident Rooms up and running — one in Blackburn, one in Blackpool — and a coordinating office at FMIT. He was lead SIO and Rik Dean was his deputy, having been promoted temporarily to chief inspector so he could pull rank if necessary.

The day after his visit to the Cromers and the Costains (where he had spoken in no uncertain terms to Cherry, Runcie’s girlfriend, who had listened in a very chastened way and did not offer up another view of her shaved lady-region), a very big police operation had begun.

Clovelly, Terry Cromer’s running mate, refused to admit to anything, but was placed before magistrates and remanded to police cells for a further seventy-two hours — a three-day lie down — so he could be interviewed further and more evidence found. Whether or not he admitted anything became less important as the scientific side of things put him in the Nissan at the time of the drive-by shooting. And at the scene of Runcie’s murder.

To coin a phrase, he was stuffed.

Terry Cromer was still at large, but Henry was relaxed about that. It would only be a matter of time before he was arrested. Several operations were in train to keep under observation addresses he was known to frequent and a surveillance unit was sitting on his house in Belthorn. Or rather lying, waiting and watching from cover in a nearby field, in the manner of an SAS team.

Other detectives and specialists were looking at the hospital shootings, and all in all, Henry thought he had it covered. It felt good. He was loving it. He’d had a couple of half-decent nights’ sleep, been well loved up by Alison, who seemed to have a surge of bedroom creativity and energy following the engagement. He also spent a lot of time with his mother, who — true to her nature — was rallying again, though she was still classified as very poorly.

Next morning he was in his office at FMIT, coffee in hand, carefully making up the murder book, having locked himself away successfully for a few hours, phones redirected and a big warning sign on his door.

Eventually he sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and for the first time in a while thought about the double murder, which had taken a back seat — again.

He snatched up his phone, jabbed in an internal extension number.

‘Thanks for your patience, Jerry old fruit,’ Henry said. ‘Fancy that look at Rafe Liversage?’

Although Liversage was in the school photograph, Henry didn’t really think he was responsible for murdering David Peters and Christine Blackshaw. He was one of the younger pupils, maybe six at the time of the photo, but he had to be dragged in and spoken to.

Jerry Tope landed in Henry’s office five minutes later.

An hour after the phone call, Henry and Tope were at the hostel in Accrington, where they learned from the shifty manager that Liversage hadn’t been seen for over a week. When asked why this hadn’t been reported to the Probation Service, the manager shrugged and said he would do it in the New Year. Residents often went walkabout, but usually returned, no harm done. It made work to report it, then un-report it.

Unimpressed by the lack of professionalism — and his odour — the two detectives left the hostel, a large, old detached house on the outskirts of town, and went to stand by Henry’s car.

They looked at one another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.

Henry voiced them. ‘He’s a lying bastard.’

Tope nodded. Their heads swivelled back to the premises, seeing a curtain twitch at a ground floor window, catching a glimpse of the manager.

‘I’d say so.’

‘Let’s go back in,’ Henry decided.

The manager and Rafe Liversage were arrested in the hostel. Henry and Tope basically forced their way back in and insisted that the manager show them all of the rooms, including his own accommodation.

The man’s bolt for the door whilst trying to get his mobile phone to his ear was a bit of a giveaway. Henry spun him round and dragged him to the floor, pinned him face down and spoke into his dirty, hairy, waxy ear.

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Henry cuffed his hands behind his back, then stepped him back up to his feet and propelled him to a door marked ‘Private — Staff Only’. This led through to an office and then, via another door, down some steps to the basement flat where the manager lived.

The lack of any resistance, the man’s total submission, told Henry what he needed to know. This was confirmed as the three of them clattered through into the lounge of the flat — empty — through the kitchen and into the bedroom to find Liversage dressed only in a grubby grey string vest, sitting on the edge of an equally disgusting grey bed, one hand masturbating his own flaccid cock, his other hand doing the same to a young boy who was tied, spreadeagled to the bed with leather straps, a look of abject terror on his face.

As good an arrest as it was — one of those lucky chances that often come along as a by-product of a large investigation — Liversage was soon discounted as a suspect in the double murder. But he was charged with kidnapping and a multitude of sexual offences, all of which would ensure that his prison licence would be revoked and he would be sent back where he belonged. Both Liversage and his accomplice, the hostel manager, were handed over to detectives at Accrington when it became clear they might be responsible for a series of undetected sexual assaults in the area over the last two months.

‘Ah well, it was a good try,’ Tope sighed.

‘Are you getting to like operational duties again?’ Henry teased him as they set off back to HQ.

‘No chance. . when my arse twitches it’s because I’ve found a way into a website I shouldn’t even be on in the first place. I’m not really cut out to be knocking on doors any more.’

Henry laughed. He knew that Tope definitely did his best work for the Constabulary by looking at a computer, although he also knew that the clock was ticking for such people. It was cheaper to employ civilians to do the work and some were already trained, which Henry found sad. Cops brought an indefinable instinct to jobs like Tope’s and Henry was firmly of the school of belief, no matter how outdated his stance, that civilians would never have that same intuition. But the world was constantly changing, and not always for the better. For the ‘dollar’, maybe. And in that respect, Henry also believed that TJF: The Job’s Fucked.

Tope showed his value again as they headed towards the motorway.

‘Ooh, got something.’ He pulled a few neatly folded pieces of paper from his inner jacket pocket and opened them out. ‘A vicar and a teacher. . you asked me to see if I could find them. . re the school?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘The vicar who was attached to Belthorn School is called Bateson — but he’s retired now. . But his son is also a vicar and the school is still linked with the same church — and Bateson junior is the vicar. The church is in Oswaldtwistle. Looks like a family business.’

‘The son’s taken over from the father, dog collar and everything?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about the teacher?’

‘No luck so far. . but we’re not far off Oswaldtwistle now. If you fancied, we could call in on spec and maybe the son could direct us to the dad — if he’s still alive, that is.’

‘I fancy,’ Henry said, and at the next set of lights he turned towards Oswaldtwistle instead of heading for the motorway.

They drove through the main street of the little town and soon found the vicarage and church — St Catherine’s. Henry knew where it was, having lived in the area many years before. It was early evening when they pulled up on the long gravelled driveway outside a magnificent, but crumbling vicarage, and knocked on the door. It was already dark and cold, and snow was a probability.

‘I wonder if the Addams Family is at home?’ Tope whispered as a bat flitted above their heads.

From inside they heard the approach of ominous sounding footsteps. The heavy metal-panelled door creaked open, but it wasn’t Lurch who answered, but a boyish-looking man in his late forties, with an open dog collar hanging around his neck.

‘Mr Bateson?’ Henry asked.

‘Reverend Bateson,’ the man corrected him with a smile.

Henry showed him his warrant card and introduced himself and Tope.

‘May we come in?’

Puzzled but welcoming, the vicar stepped politely aside and gestured for them to enter. The entrance hall was huge and ancient, with a tiled floor and a dark wood-panelled wall. ‘What can I do for you two gentlemen of the law?’

‘Are you still the vicar responsible for Belthorn School?’

‘Responsible is too big a word. We’re paternalistic, maybe,’ he said. ‘These days, the phrase “church school” doesn’t really mean very much.’ He clearly wanted to launch into something more about modern times, and the way that religion was viewed in society and the church’s lack of influence in education. Instead he said, ‘I try my best.’

‘I believe your father held the same position?’

‘I took over the parish when he retired, which includes Belthorn School, of course. . and others.’

As delicately as he could, Henry said, ‘Is he still with us?’

Bateson laughed. ‘Very much so. Eighty-five and still as strong as an ox, though his mind is. . you know.’ He made an ‘eek-eek’ sound.

‘Oh, great. . we’re investigating the deaths — murders, actually — of some of the pupils who attended the school in the late seventies and I’m speaking to people who might have known them back then, just to see if they remember anything that might give us a hint as to why they were murdered.’

‘You mean murdered recently?’

‘Yes, over the last three years. It’s just too much of a coincidence they all went to the same school, so I need background on them, even though it’s so long ago. Someone like your father might know something.’

Bateson looked doubtful. ‘You may certainly speak to him. Whether he’ll know anything, or be able to recall anything, is a different matter.’

‘Alzheimer’s?’ Tope asked.

‘Old age, bad temper and awkwardness and general disagreeability.’

‘Could you give us his address?’ Henry asked. ‘We don’t have to disturb him tonight, but maybe we could arrange to see him tomorrow. And if you wanted to be present, that would be fine,’ he explained.

‘No need for that — he lives here.’

The vicar led the detectives through the house, via what Henry would guess was called a drawing room, to a huge Victorian-style conservatory jutting out into an overgrown garden at the back, though now the trees and shrubs were bare. It was cool, but not chilly, and an old man sat on an armchair, his feet up on a stool, a blanket draped over his legs, reading a large print hardback book. He laid this down and looked at his visitors through thick-framed spectacles.

‘Dad, these gents are from the police. They’d like to have a chat with you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Ahh. . my years of rape and pillaging have caught up with me then?’ He laughed croakily, adding, ‘I wish.’

Bateson junior shot Henry a short, warning glance and laughed nervously. ‘They want to talk about Belthorn School. . when you were there.’

‘What is Belthorn School?’

Henry thought, Oh-oh, not a good start, but then the old man said, ‘Just kidding.’

He gave his son a look of scorn. ‘He thinks I’ve lost my marbles, so I just humour him. My mind is as sharp as it’s always been, it’s the body that’s letting me down, particularly my liver. Take a pew,’ he said to Henry and Tope, smiling wickedly, and Henry warmed to him. He made an expansive gesture towards a cane sofa for two opposite him. To his son he said, ‘Brews all round — and make mine a double.’

The vicar smiled good-naturedly. ‘Can I offer you two gents a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?’

‘Tea for me,’ Henry said. Tope said he would have the same.

‘I thought you said you were cops?’ the old man said.

‘On duty cops,’ Henry said.

‘Bollocks.’ To his son he said, ‘You know what I want.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He turned away muttering, ‘Burying in your own graveyard.’

‘My hearing’s good,’ his father said, tapping the discreet hearing aid curled behind his right ear. ‘And this thing’s turned right up.’

Bateson junior walked away, still muttering, his head rocking from side to side as though he was having an animated conversation with his father.

‘Gay, you know,’ the old man said. ‘Well, not married. . makes you wonder. My wife’s dead, by the way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said.

‘Don’t be. She was an ultra-bitch.’

Henry chuckled and shook his head.

‘Whaddya want, guys?’

‘I just thought you might be a good port of call for some gossip, maybe.’ Henry started to explain why he was here, but before he’d even got into telling the story, the old man held up a gnarled hand.

‘Let me stop you there. Funny, I always wondered if there’d be any future repercussions. Just a feeling. . you’re right, I was the vicar for that school and to be honest I found that Belthorn itself was a hive of nefarious activity, shall we say? A mass of secrets. . adultery, inbreeding, abuse and violence. . satanic worship. . oh, yes. . but mostly behind closed doors. It’s a place with many dark secrets, or was. Just like anywhere else, I suppose. Probably not the same now, because it’s more like a little town than a village these days. And I think I can guess what you’re going to talk about — or at least, who.’

He stopped talking as his son shouldered his way into the conservatory bearing a tray with two mugs on it, a plate of chocolate biscuits and a glass containing a large whisky. He set it down on the coffee table and rubbed his hands.

‘OK — bog off,’ his dad said.

He turned, left without a sound.

‘Names,’ the old man said. ‘Cromer, Peters, Blackshaw, Milner and some others. But they were the main ones. All kids from school. And like kids, very, very cruel to each other. And the cruellest of them all. . Terry Cromer. . and the main object of his cruelty, his slightly younger brother, Freddy. Just because they were brothers, it didn’t mean they loved each other, quite the opposite. Now hand me that whisky.’

Christmas Eve.

On this special day, the last day of term, the school closed at 1.30 p.m. after the turkey dinner and Brussels sprouts. The children, excited and keyed up for the day after and the holiday ahead, rushed out on the bell. They poured into the playground, screaming and shouting. All thirty of them.

Strolling casually out behind them all was Terry Cromer and his little band of cronies: David Peters, Christine Blackshaw and Ella Milner. These were the kids who ruled the school when the teacher wasn’t looking — and only when Terry deigned to attend. His truancy was already legend.

Freddy Cromer had run out ahead with the bulk of the other children, about twenty-five of them. But although he was with them, he was alone because of his difference. His size, his low intellect, his weirdness, his unpredictability.

Most of the kids dispersed and Freddy stayed at the school gate, waiting to go home with Terry.

He and his gang were still in the playground, huddled together, discussing something. The huddle broke up and they started walking towards Freddy.

‘You comin’, Tel, or what?’ Freddy called to Terry.

‘Do you want to come with us?’ Terry responded secretively.

‘Why, why, where you going, Terry?’

‘Come with us, we’ll show you. . it’s a secret.’

Doubt crossed Freddy’s face. ‘But where?’

‘You like kittens, don’t you?’

Freddy’s face brightened. ‘You know I do. I love kittens. . why, Terry?’

‘Want to see some?’ The words could have been spoken by a stereotypical child molester. Terry didn’t really know what a child molester was back then, but he understood the temptation behind the words, the lure of expectation. . the trap.

‘Where are they, Terry, where are they?’ Freddy jumped up and down. He loved little animals so much.

He was fourteen months younger than Terry, who was eleven then. But there was something about him that hadn’t quite developed, something missing that ensured he wasn’t just right and stayed more childish than he should have been, even at that age.

‘Follow us.’

They dashed across the quiet, narrow road in front of the school and vaulted the stone wall with Freddy following, so excited he wanted to pee. And he did so, cringing as he ran, unable to stop himself, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the stain on his short trousers.

They were on land owned by a farmer called Jacques. Grazing land for sheep and cattle, although none were present that cold afternoon as flecks of snow started to drift in the air and dark clouds scudded across the sky from the east. The famer didn’t really mind kids on his land. These were the days when health and safety legislation, or at least its implementation, was just a pipe dream and kids on farms, doing dangerous things, were not unusual.

Led by Terry, the gang raced across the large, wet field, mud splashing.

The field dropped steeply towards a perimeter wall and soon they were out of sight and hearing of the road, the farm buildings and nearby houses, in a secret world of their own with no witnesses.

A place that had been carefully prepared by Terry. At the age of eleven he was already a villain — like his father — who terrorized local old people, openly stealing from them and promising violent retribution should they grass on him. His criminal planning was quite advanced.

Beckoning them on, he knew he was taking them to a disused chicken coop on the edge of the farmer’s land. It was a place they’d hung out on many occasions and used as a den. Although virtually abandoned by the farmer it was structurally still quite sound, a warm place to go and have a secret cigarette, or get a girl to show her fanny. Some hens still roosted there and laid eggs fertilized by the huge rooster that strutted around the farm.

Terry had found some eggs in the coop that he had hidden and cared for, kept warm in a cardboard box packed with straw. They had hatched into healthy chicks.

In another part of the coop — quite a large, sectioned off building — a feral cat had given birth to a litter of four kittens, away from the chickens.

It was to these newborns that Terry led his little gang — and his brother. His stupid, hated brother.

‘Come on, come on,’ he urged them all.

Terry had stolen a padlock and key from elsewhere on the farm and had used it to keep the coop secure. He opened the door to let everyone in ahead of him and they crowded in excitedly, having to almost crawl because of the low roof.

With a flourish, Terry revealed the chicks in their box. He had rigged up a lamp to hang over them to provide extra warmth. They were only days old, chirping healthily, gorgeous little creatures, tiny, frail, easily broken or crushed.

The girl Christine made motherly noises.

David Peters sneered, not taken in by them at all. He preferred action men and cars.

But Freddy was entranced, dropping to his knees and gently scooping one of them up, feeling its warm fluffy body in the cupped palm of his big hand. He was mesmerized. ‘Ahh, baby hens.’

Terry tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Over here. Look at these.’

Freddy replaced the chick carefully and followed his brother, who slid open a hatch to reveal his next treasures. Four mewing kittens, bundles of fur, big eyes, only weeks old.

Freddy gasped in wonderment and reached for one of the tiny cats. This time he could feel the delicate bones throughout its body, its shoulder blades and rib cage. He lifted it gently and started to stroke it.

Terry stood behind him, head lowered, a terrible look on his face and a three-foot plank of wood in his hands. He gestured for the others to stand back. He needed room, an arc, and he drew back the plank, gripped it tight with both hands and smashed it across the side of Freddy’s head, sending him sprawling.

Unconscious for a short time, Freddy came to with Terry straddling him, the three other kids holding down his body and legs.

In Terry’s right fist was a handful of dirt, dust, bird shit and hen feathers that he’d scooped up off the floor of the shack. With his left hand he held Freddy’s face rigid and tried to force open his mouth. Freddy was still stunned and uncomprehending, aware only of Terry’s blazing, hate-filled eyes and the look of determination as, successfully opening Freddy’s mouth, he forced the handful of muck and feathers into it, ramming them down with the palm of his hand.

He spoke no words.

Then Freddy started to writhe and fight and he choked on the foul-smelling, germ-laden mixture, until a wave of sheer panic made him buck Terry off and break free, like a wild bear from chains, from the grip the other kids had on him.

On all fours he gasped and spat and cried and snuffled, inhaling the horrible dust and debris.

Terry bent low and spoke into his ear. ‘I hate you,’ he whispered. He jerked a come-on gesture to his mates and they left Freddy wheezing in the shack.

Once outside, Terry quietly locked the door then hurled the key across into the next field, trapping Freddy inside, although at that moment, Freddy did not realize this.

He lay there in a foetal position, sobbing massive, chest-juddering breaths. A chick walked around him. A kitten mewed in his ear. It took a few minutes for the sobbing to subside, then he sat up slowly, drawing his big knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth.

He picked up a kitten and stroked it. Then a chick. ‘You didn’t know about this, did you?’ he asked the yellow ball. Then he scooped up another kitten and posed the same question to it.

The floor of the coop was constructed of roughly hewn planks, nailed together to form floorboards. Not a great job — sturdy, as was the rest of the construction, but there were gaps of varying width in the floor, and the whole shed-like building rested on a series of breezeblocks to keep it off the cold, wet ground.

Freddy didn’t blame the animals at that moment. They were not part of the conspiracy. He held a kitten in one hand, a chick in the other, rubbing his face with their soft down and fur, feeling their vulnerability.

His anger rose at the thought of Terry.

Next moment, somehow, the kitten was dead. He dropped it onto the floor in disgust. And so was the chick, squeezed to death in his huge hands. He dropped it too and stared blankly at the two corpses.

Then he sniffed something and saw smoke curling up through the gaps in the floorboards. Freddy watched it, again not quite understanding what he was seeing.

Smoke. It rose. Then he felt heat underneath his bottom. And there was a glow and a flicker of flame, licking up through the gaps. The heat became intense. Freddy threw himself at the door, expecting it to be open, as the fire, set from below — the stuffed paper, dried straw and firelighters, all prepared in advance by Terry — quickly engulfed the chicken coop.

‘I was at the school that day. Took a short service for the kids, as it happened,’ the old man explained, as Henry and Tope sat back, stunned by the story. ‘Back then I was a bit of a twitcher, though they didn’t call birdwatchers twitchers back then, just anoraks. And, as I’d finished my work at the school, my dog collar came off, my anorak went on, with my boots, the bins went around my neck, and I went birdwatching on the moors. I wanted to see if I could clock some harriers that had been seen up there. No luck. As I trudged back I saw smoke rising from the old coop and heard Freddy banging and screaming in terror from inside. I managed to prise the door open with a bit of old piping, I think. He got some minor burns, his face and the back of his legs, I think. . but he could have died very easily.’

‘And was this reported to the police?’ Henry asked.

‘No. Hushed up.’

‘Really?’

‘It was put down as an accident. . the reality being I actually saw Terry running away from the coop with his friends and I’m convinced he tried to burn his brother to death.’ The old man looked at Henry. ‘Freddy might be the mad one, but Terry is the evil one. His family said they would deal with it. They were a criminal family even back then and Mr Cromer told me he would burn my church down if I said anything. Even a man of God can be a coward,’ he admitted. ‘But at least I saved Freddy’s life, although from what I gather, he’s not had much of one since.’

Henry exhaled. ‘Possibly explains Freddy’s more extreme behaviour. . that on top of his mental health problems. Not a good combination.’ Henry thought back to the dead animals he had found strung up and laid out in the bedroom at his aunt’s house in Rawtenstall on the day Freddy had had his first attempt at strangling Henry. A gruesome, unsettling find.

‘Would you give a statement about it now?’ Henry asked.

‘I would. Chances are I’ll have turned my toes up by the time it gets anywhere near a court anyway, so what have I to fear? Just an audience with the Lord, which I’m kind of looking forward to.’

Henry twitched his eyebrows at Tope, who said simply, ‘Revenge.’

‘Simmering for years,’ Henry agreed. ‘One thing for certain, we need to speak to Freddy properly now and make sure we pre-plan everything, see what he has to say about it. I’ll bet he’ll be an easy can of worms to pry open.’

Already Henry was mentally rubbing his hands together.

‘I’m just surprised he hasn’t gone for Terry yet.’

‘Maybe saving the best till last,’ Henry said. ‘Who knows. . let’s find out.’