Critical Threat

Nine

Contacting the police these days could be a nightmare. Henry had heard some real horror stories about members of the public trying to phone in and either just never getting an answer or being passed from pillar to post with no one willing to take responsibility. One story, which might have been exaggerated over time, was that of an old-aged pensioner wanting to report a burglary at her house in Blackburn. Instead of phoning treble-nine — because she didn’t want to cause any bother — she phoned the number of her local nick. The phone rang and she waited for a reply. And waited. Ten minutes later, still no reply. She hung up and patiently tried again … and waited … then was relieved when a recorded message cut in and told her no one was available, but that her call was being forwarded and she was very important. The phone continued to ring out until another recorded message forwarded her on again … and again … until one hour later, the phone was answered — by a gruff, no-nonsense detective in Skelmersdale who told her she had the wrong number, try again, and hung up. She got through six days after the burglary, by which time she’d been done again.

Fortunately for Henry Christie, he could cut through all that crap. Even he, as a fully paid up member of the constabulary, often had problems making contact with people because no one seemed to want to answer their phones, preferring the non-confrontation of voicemail which meant that the recipient could decide when and if they should respond, and always did so at their leisure. Henry almost hated voicemail as much as mobile phones.

He had the direct, emergency number of the force incident manager, who was basically the boss of the Control Room at headquarters — and that night he used it, but even then it was not easy to get his message across.

‘No, I don’t know where she was calling from,’ Henry jabbered down his mobile whilst reversing out of the drive. With a squeal of tyres and a quick wave to Kate on the doorstep, he accelerated off the estate.

‘So, er, what exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Get someone round to her address for a start?’ he suggested.

‘In Blackburn?’

‘Yes, in Blackburn.’

‘What was the address again?’

‘Jesus — don’t you listen?’

‘I don’t think there’s any need to take that sort of tone with me, sir,’ the affronted FIM said. He was an inspector Henry did not know and guessed was fairly new to the job.

‘Look — sorry, OK … but there’s a pretty serious incident happening somewhere and I know this is all pretty vague, but we need to get patrols to her flat and for others to be made aware that something’s going down … the ARV crew need to be put on alert, too … authorize them to arm, please.’

‘On the strength of an iffy phone call?’

‘Just do it, OK? It’s a precautionary measure.’

‘Your name’s on the log.’

‘Whatever.’ Fucking jobsworth, Henry thought as he sped towards the motorway junction at Marton Circle. He was travelling through a forty zone and as he passed a speed camera he was doing sixty — and it flashed. The least of his problems, he thought, knowing he could get it written off under the circumstances.

‘Have you got your PR with you?’ the FIM asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Tune into Blackburn’s channel, will you?’

‘Will do.’

Henry hit the motorway at ninety whilst at the same time reaching across to the glove compartment to fish out his PR, which had been stuffed in there, hardly used since his transfer to a desk job. Somehow, he didn’t seem to need it all that often in the office. He switched it on, praying there was some charge left in the battery. There was, and as he reached a hundred, he was fumbling with the channel selector to find Blackburn’s wavelength. Once he’d done this, he helped himself to one of the cheese, ham and piccalilli sandwiches Kate had rustled up for him and stuffed into his sweaty mits as he ran out of the house, still unwashed. He devoured the food and felt an immediate benefit to his system.

As he drove, he listened to the deployments initiated by the FIM though actually carried out by a radio operator from Blackburn comms. Two patrols were sent up to the Kippax address, blue lighting it. Other patrols were asked to make to the area in readiness for something untoward happening and the ARV crew covering the division were given the authority to covertly arm. It is a fairly widely held belief that mobile firearms officers patrol with their weapons on their persons. In fact, their guns are secured in a safe in their vehicle, which they can only unlock in certain tightly controlled and authorized circumstances.

Henry’s mobile rang.

‘What’s going on?’ It was Angela Cranlow. He was going to ring her personally once he’d finished his snack, but the FIM had beaten him to it. With a mouthful of sandwich, which he tried to swallow as he talked, Henry briefed her.

‘And that’s it? Not much to go on.’

‘I agree.’

‘Could it be a wind up? Just to annoy you?’

‘She sounded genuine enough … definitely needs bottoming, though. Even if she’s just pissed up and drowning her sorrows and maybe got hold of a gun.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. I take it you’re on the way?’

‘Yep. Are you turning out?’ Henry asked.

‘Would you like me too?’

‘That’s not the issue.’

‘In that case, no … keep me updated and it might be that you have to personally debrief me after.’

Henry’s heart sank. How the hell did he get himself into such predicaments? He shocked and amazed himself sometimes … most times. His phone beeped, indicating there was another incoming call.

‘Speak soon, boss, got another call.’ He thumbed to it and saw it was from a withheld number. ‘Hello, Henry Christie …’ There was nothing, just a rustling sound as though the other phone was in someone’s pocket. ‘Hello?’ he said hopefully. Still nothing. He glowered at his phone as though it was offending him, then put it back to his ear and lodged it on to his right shoulder, realizing he should have plugged it into the hands-free. At one hundred miles per hour, that would have been the safer option. Then the phone went dead. He looked at it again, this time in frustration, then concentrated on the transmissions from his PR.

‘Echo Romeo Seven, just arrived at the address.’ That, Henry knew from the call sign, meant that the ARV had arrived at Jackie Kippax’s flat, the first patrol to get there. The comms operator acknowledged him and Henry waited impatiently, nervously, for any developments, although he doubted whether Jackie would be there.

‘Echo Romeo Seven to Blackburn,’ the ARV chirped up after a few minutes.

‘Go ahead.’

‘No reply at the flat and it’s all in darkness. Any further instructions?’

‘Standby … DCI Christie, are you receiving?’

‘Receiving,’ Henry said.

‘Did you hear Echo Romeo Seven’s transmission?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything further for him?’

Henry cogitated for a moment. ‘Just tell him to hang fire there, will you — or at least in the vicinity of the flat. I’m, about fifteen minutes away, just on the M65 now.’

‘Echo Romeo Seven, I received that.’

‘Blackburn to DCI Christie — what about the other patrols? Can I stand them down? I’ve got a lot of jobs outstanding which need to be allocated.’

‘Yeah, carry on,’ Henry said, feeling a little foolish he’d got so many people rushing round. He slowed as he reached junction 4 of the motorway and turned on to the A666 whilst continually looking at his phone, willing it to ring again. ‘C’mon Jackie,’ he urged. He would only be happy when he had seen her face to face and assured himself she hadn’t actually blown someone’s head off.

He drove past Ewood Park, retracing the journey he’d made when he had turned out for Eddie Daley’s death. He dropped the phone and picked up his PR as an idea struck him.

‘DCI Christie to Echo Romeo Seven.’

‘Go ahead, boss.’

Henry thought he recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Bill?’

‘Certainly is — doing my duty on division.’

It was Henry’s old friend, Bill Robbins, the firearms trainer who he’d bumped into at the training centre a while back and who’d given Henry a blast down the firing range with a.44 Magnum. Henry remembered him moaning about having to turn out for regular operational duty as well as doing his ‘day job’.

‘I’m sure everyone in Blackburn will sleep safer in their beds knowing that,’ Henry said. ‘However — you’re certain there’s no one in at Jackie Kippax’s flat?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Do you know where the Class Act is?’

‘Yeah, Mincing Lane?’

‘Meet me there in a few minutes. I’ve an idea where this woman might be.’

The A666 squeezed into Blackburn town centre, morphing into Great Bolton Street under the massive railway bridge at Lower Audley, then for a short stretch became Darwen Street before the one-way system kicked in and Henry was obliged to bear left into Mincing Lane. It was an area he knew well, mainly because this was the section of town, including Clayton Street, where most of Blackburn’s on-street sex trade was plied.

At 10.30 p.m., Mincing Lane was quite busy traffic- and pedestrian-wise as there are a number of pubs in that area. The figures of the prostitutes were easy to spot; usually alone, sometimes in pairs, hanging around on the corners of their patches dressed in tight-fitting mini skirts and blouses. Henry had once dealt with the murder of one several years before.

As he drove slowly up Mincing Lane he wound his window down, allowing the symphony of the street to assault his eardrums. Music blared from quickly opened and shut pub doors; groups of youths moved around, shouting. There was a siren in the distance. And the smells, too, invaded his nostrils: chips, burgers, curry, the odd, strange waft of cheap perfume and above all, the aroma of hops from the beer being brewed by the giant brewery on the other side of town.

The Class Act, a name which belied the reality, was situated exactly where it should have been to attract the trade it did: just on the edge of the town centre and the cusp of the sleazy district of the sex trade, catering for the people who often crossed that line.

The place had been in existence for as long as Henry could remember, its reputation well known to most members of the constabulary. The name had changed a few times, but its nature, as in the spots of a leopard, had not. Even though Henry had never had any direct dealings with the place, he could recount numerous incidents off the top of his head which had taken place there, the most notorious ones being a double murder in the late 80s and a serious assault in which a man had had his left leg sawn off in the 90s. The Class Act frequently featured in the chief constable’s daily bulletin of news from around the county, but despite numerous efforts by the police to close it down, it remained stubbornly open.

And to be honest, Henry loved this sort of place.

It said so much about the town itself.

But it wasn’t open that night.

The Ford Galaxy with smoked out windows, which was the Armed Response Vehicle, was parked with two wheels on the kerb ahead of him on the opposite side of the road to the club, hazard lights flashing.

Henry drew his Rover in behind it, clicked on his hazards and looked across to the club, which was in darkness. The building stood alone, its front entrance opening directly on to the pavement, but the double wooden doors were firmly closed. Dark alleyways ran down either side of it, places where many people had been assaulted over the years.

Henry got out and was approached by Bill and his ARV partner, a female officer Henry did not know. They wore reflective jackets over their body armour and Henry could just see their holsters poking out below the hems of their jackets — including the muzzles of their pistols. They were both still tooled up and Henry realized that the authorization had not been revoked. Both were sipping coffee from polystyrene cups with lids on. Bill handed an extra one to Henry.

‘Hope you don’t mind, boss,’ he said. ‘We did a quick drive through on the way down from Fishmoor. Thought you’d appreciate one, too.’

‘No probs.’ Henry gratefully accepted the drink. He knew it all looked pretty slack, drinking like this in the eye of the public, but he was gagging after his sandwich and his adrenaline-fuelled dash across the county which had dried him up like a kipper. He broke back the seal on the lid and took a gulp, burning his mouth.

‘So, no sign of life up at the flat?’

‘Nothing, boss.’

‘Isn’t this place usually open by now?’ He pointed at the Class Act.

‘Too early,’ the WPC said. She was a local officer and Bill had been teamed up with her for the night. ‘Doesn’t usually open until eleven thirty-ish.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Henry said, realizing. ‘Of course, silly me.’

‘You think this Kippax woman might be in here?’ Bill asked.

Henry shrugged. He had some more coffee, which tasted amazingly good. ‘It’s something we were going to look into tomorrow as there might be some connection with the people who run this place and Eddie Daley’s murder … his girlfriend, Jackie Kippax, thought they might have some grudge against him, but we haven’t had the chance to make that inquiry yet.’

‘I take it you know who owns the place now?’ the WPC asked rhetorically.

‘I take it you do.’

‘Johnny Strongitharm.’

‘Really!’ Henry knew Strongitharm by reputation, though he’d never had any dealings with the guy. Strongitharm, an appropriately named crim from Blackburn, was one of a dying breed of violent armed robbers who specialized in money on the move. Security vans, in other words. It was estimated he had made millions from highway robbery over the years and Henry recalled several unsuccessful crime squad operations against him. He was finally convicted of a very brutal robbery-gone-wrong about ten years before at a Royal Mail sorting office when a security guard was maimed when a shotgun blew off part of his leg. A big NCIS investigation had finally nailed Johnny, but not the money, some?600,000. ‘I thought he was still inside,’ Henry said.

‘Released last year and bunked off to Spain, but not before buying this shit-hole for some reason,’ the WPC said.

‘A bolt hole,’ Henry suggested. ‘Allows him to keep tabs on comings and goings in town.’

‘Maybe … anyway, he owns it, but someone else manages it.’

‘That someone is?’

‘Guy called Darren Langmead.’

‘Dear me, bad to worse,’ Henry exclaimed. He also knew of Langmead, a vicious low-life enforcer and tax collector who revelled in breaking people’s fingers.

‘The licence is in someone else’s name, of course,’ she explained. ‘Some clean-sheeted guy called Jones, who is never there. Way of the world,’ she shrugged. ‘That’s how they keep the licence.’

‘Right, OK,’ Henry breathed, taking in these facts and not being surprised that Langmead could well have been embezzling from a boss who lived two thousand miles away, whatever his ruthless rep might be. He looked across at the club. ‘Let’s check it out.’

The three of them crossed Mincing Lane and spent some time at the front door, getting no response from inside and finding the door well secured, so they entered the narrow, cobbled alley running down the right side of the club. They were hit by the immediate stench of rotting food from several overfilled wheelie bins and plastic bin bags which had burst, their contents scattered by the indigenous wildlife — cats, dogs, rats and tramps. It wasn’t easy to tell what was being stepped on and Henry tried not to think about it as he dropped his coffee cup on to a pile of trash.

They reached a door in a wall surrounding the rear yard of the club. Henry tried the handle, but it was locked.

‘I have an idea,’ the WPC announced, looking fairly repulsed by her present situation. ‘Why don’t I go and ring the bell again? And I’ll see if comms can get hold of a key holder. You boys have fun.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heels and picked her way carefully back down the alley.

‘She should be a sergeant,’ Henry sniffed.

‘She will be,’ Bill sniffed, too.

Henry tried the handle once more, confirming it was indeed locked. He put his shoulder to it, but it didn’t budge. Taking a step back he surveyed the height of the wall and wondered if he was capable of scaling all seven feet of it. He thought he could, but what bothered him was what might be on top of it, such as glass shards embedded in concrete or razor wire, and what might be lurking on the other side, such as something with sharp fangs, a bad attitude and hunger pangs.

He and Bill exchanged glances in the dark.

‘Is there anything to say she’s actually in there?’ Bill asked hopefully.

‘Nothing, a hunch, could be a million miles off the mark … but it needs to be checked out. Once we’ve eliminated this, we’ll try elsewhere.’

‘Better get over, then.’

‘It’s what we like doing best.’

Henry jumped at the wall, his fingers gripping the top of it, and found a purchase for his left foot on the door handle and, shakily, eased himself up so his elbows were on top of the wall and his head high enough to peer over.

‘No broken glass, anyway … doesn’t seem to be any wildlife in the yard, just junk and barrels.’

He scrambled on to the wall and perched there, one leg on either side, letting his eyes adjust themselves to the shadows beyond. He could see the backdoor of the Class Act reached by half a dozen steps. It looked like a reasonably easy door to break down, if necessary. He swung his legs over and dropped clumsily into the yard, jarring his knees, causing his right one to give unexpectedly, though he managed to remain upright, stumbling slightly.

Bill was with him moments later, landing heavily with all his kit on.

The yard was quite large and, as Henry had seen, full of discarded waste, wheelie bins, barrels and crates, all pretty typical of the back of a poorly managed licensed premises.

They walked towards the backdoor, stepping in and out of the mess, until they reached the foot of the steps — when Henry noticed something to his left, pushed up against the wall. As he realized what it was, he gulped and tapped Bill and at the same time thought he heard something behind which could’ve been a low, guttural growl.

He froze. ‘That’s a kennel,’ he hissed.

‘Yep,’ said Bill, also having seen it.

‘Did you hear what I heard?’

‘Yep.’ Bill was never the most chatty of people.

They rotated slowly and in the shadow between two wheelie bins stood a beast which had cunningly allowed them into its lair, stalked and trapped them. It stepped forwards, revealing itself, its powerful head and shoulders protruding from the darkness.

‘Shit.’ Henry swallowed, experiencing fear like nothing before. A kind of desolate emptiness, a panic of epic proportions.

‘Pit bull,’ breathed Bill quietly. His right hand moved slowly to his holster.

‘If you shoot it, it’ll get mad,’ Henry said seriously.

‘It already looks pretty mad.’

The dog took a few more steps and became clearly visible to the two officers. It was a magnificent creature, even Henry had to grudgingly admit, scared as he was and ambivalent towards canines in general. Basically they did nothing for him. He could see no further than eating, shitting and biting and costing money, which is why he had always declined his daughters’ pleas for one.

This animal looked the business. A good twenty-two inches high, probably weighing in about fifty-five pounds, all of it rippling muscle, under a thick, short coat of shiny hair, the colour of which could not be made out in the light available, but was probably a light brown. On top of that, there must also have been a brain inside its thick skull which was intelligent enough to allow two idiots to climb into its den without letting them know it was waiting with bared teeth.

Its ears lay back, its hackles up, head thrust forward, lips drawn back revealing a set of dentures that would do a good job of tearing these intruders apart.

‘Bugger,’ Henry said weakly, already imagining his face being ripped away.

The dog took a few more steps in their direction, moving more like a leopard than a canine.

Henry swallowed. Bill slowly withdrew his Glock, his hand shaking, desperate not to make a sudden move.

‘Think it’ll let us go back the way we came?’

‘Only minus our balls,’ Bill said.

His dithering hand came out with the gun.

Henry laid a hand on his forearm. ‘Back up slowly to the door,’ he said. ‘It might be open. One step at a time.’

As they stepped back one, the dog stepped forwards one. It was like some ritualistic dance of death. They dog knew it had them, had all the time in the world. Henry could see its eyes as it looked from one, then to the other human, deciding which to savage first.

Henry caught his heel and nearly tumbled over on to his arse, but steadied himself, knowing that a quick movement could precipitate a charge.

Bill had slowly raised the Glock, easing his left hand under his right to support the weapon, aiming at the dog’s head, somewhere at a point where a cross drawn between the eyes and ears met — centre skull.

About ten feet separated them from the animal. If it leapt towards them now, it would be on them in a flash.

Each man stepped carefully back, tension coursing through them.

‘It’s fuckin’ playing with us,’ Henry said, his terror growing. Why couldn’t a back yard be guarded by some knife-wielding maniac, or someone with a machine gun? Both would have been preferable to this.

The dog growled again, a primeval sound expertly designed to turn would-be prey into immoveable lumps. It worked.

Then Henry heard something from behind, inside the Class Act. The sliding of a bolt. Yes, he almost jumped for joy; the WPC had obviously managed to get inside. She had made her way through to the back of the premises to let them in.

There was further noise from inside. Keys being turned. More bolts sliding.

Bill removed his left hand, the supporting hand, from underneath the gun and it went to his PR transmitter button and mike affixed to the outside of his jacket on his left shoulder.

‘Get the door open, Carly,’ he said urgently, without preamble. ‘Get it open now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re about to be attacked by a pit bull.’

There was more noise behind the door, something being dragged away, a scraping. ‘It’s stuck,’ she said. ‘This bolt is stuck.’

Henry could sense the dog was about to launch itself. It quivered, collecting itself, bracing itself and then it happened and it was hurtling towards Henry.

He saw it rise up into the air, ears pinned back, teeth bared, like a beast from hell. He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The height it reached was incredible and it could easily have latched its jaws on to Henry’s face, but at the last moment, when Henry believed he could smell its deathly breath, his survival instinct cut in and made him move. He twisted desperately away, raised his forearm in self-defence and at the same time, Bill lashed out and kicked the animal in the stomach with his steel toe-capped boots, sending it sprawling across the yard.

But this was no lapdog, which would go away cowering and whining.

As it landed on the concrete, it immediately regained its feet and launched itself back at the cops, its claws scratching the floor for leverage.

In that moment, the WPC wrenched back the sticking bolt and yanked open the door.

Bill scrambled in, leaving Henry still outside to face the oncoming savagery of the dog, which had now got ten degrees madder.

Henry’s instinct for self-preservation took over. A slight slip of the pit bull as it clawed its way to him gave him an instant to do something. Stacked up next to him in a precarious pile were a dozen plastic beer crates. He grabbed them and toppled them into the gap between himself and the pooch, pushing them over the dog as they fell. In terms of hurting the dog, they were ineffective, but they impeded its charge and gave Henry that extra moment to turn and throw himself through the open door, which was slammed shut behind him by the WPC.

Henry dropped his hands to his knees, gasping for air, almost retching. Bill had adopted much the same position. They traded glances, blowing out their cheeks, a connection between them having just avoided a mauling. Outside, the dog howled in frustration and clawed at the door like a monster from a horror movie.

Henry stood up.

Bill holstered the Glock. ‘That was fuckin’ close.’

Everything on Henry was shaking. He took several deep breaths.

Eventually both got their breath back, and their manhood.

‘Thanks,’ Henry said to the female officer. ‘Carly, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah — no probs,’ she said — but the expression on her face told a different story.

‘How did you manage to get in?’

‘Member of staff turning up for work,’ she said, unsteadily.

‘Hey — it’s all right,’ Henry said, picking up on her voice. ‘We’re OK.’

‘I’m not bothered about you,’ she said. ‘Back there.’ She pointed down the corridor into the building. ‘Blood everywhere.’

‘Bodies?’ Henry asked.

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone, but it’s a blood bath.’

‘Let’s go see.’

Carly led them through to the main body of the Class Act by way of a storeroom, through another door and they emerged into the main bar room, coming in behind the bar itself, which was long and wide. The lights had been turned on and Henry could see the place was an unkempt dive. It reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, which was only to be expected, perhaps; but it was also a dirty mess with hundreds of uncollected glasses on the bar top and tables, all the ashtrays full to overflowing. There was a small dance floor to one side, next to which was a raised circular stage from which a pole rose to the ceiling. Henry could visualize the customer base immediately: the best of Blackburn.

A thin blonde woman sat at one of the tables, smoking, looking at them nervously.

‘That the staff member?’ Henry asked.

‘Yeah, she’s the pole dancer. I told her to stay put.’

‘Where’s the blood?’

Carly showed the way across the bar, weaving through tables over sticky carpets, crunching with broken glass and savoury snacks, through another door leading to the tiled entrance foyer behind the front doors. Henry could hear the traffic passing on Mincing Lane. Carly held out an arm to stop them going any further. ‘Here,’ she said. Bill peered over her shoulder. Henry was by her side, maybe half a step behind her, her raised arm preventing him from going any further. His jaw literally dropped. Blood was everywhere inside the foyer. All over the floor, up the walls, runny and congealing. ‘I came in, slithered a bit, saw what I’d been standing in and after I’d dumped the dancer in the bar, I ran through to the back door. I know my way round the place,’ she explained. ‘Been to a few jobs here in my time.’

There were two more doors off the foyer. One, closed, had the word ‘Private’ stamped on it and another, slightly ajar, had a sign with the word ‘Snug’ on it.

‘That’s the posh bar in there, I take it?’ Henry said.

‘And kitchen,’ Carly said, missing Henry’s stab at irony.

Henry took a few seconds to look at the blood. Something major had taken place here and he would have bet his underwear it was connected to the phone call from Jackie Kippax.

‘Looks like someone’s been dragged through there,’ Bill said, pointing to the ‘snug’ bar. There was a smeared trail of blood leading towards the door.

‘Yeah,’ Henry agreed. ‘Let’s take a look and do your best to keep your feet out of the blood if at all possible.’

Henry moved in front of Carly and tiptoed across the foyer, trying his best to place his toes in spaces where the blood hadn’t splashed, which was incredibly difficult. The two firearms officers followed with equal care.

He stopped on the threshold of the snug and, using the knuckle of his right forefinger, pushed the door fully open, revealing a small bar, but no more appetizing than the larger one on the other side. It was smelly and unappealing. The blood smear continued across the carpet, making Henry wonder who was dragging who. He thought it unlikely to be female dragging male. The trail went through a double swinging door at the back of the room marked ‘Kitchen’.

‘What do you think, Henry?’ Bill asked in his ear.

‘Keep your hand on your weapon and don’t shoot me in the back.’ He moved off, walking alongside the trail as it snaked its way across the carpet to the kitchen door. He held his breath as he pushed open the left side of the swinging door, then stepped in, just knowing this was as far as it went. Here would be answers, he thought — and more questions.

‘Hell,’ he said dully at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Behind him, Bill pushed to get a look. Henry heard the breath gush out of his colleague’s lungs. He turned when he heard a further groan to see Carly, whose knees had buckled under her, pirouette away in a faint. Henry lunged for her and managed to get his hands under her arms and ease her to the floor, ensuring she didn’t smack her head on the descent. He left her in a swoon and regarded the tableau in front of him.

A terrible scene. Two people lay sprawled on the floor in a kitchen aisle between a sink unit and a large fridge-freezer. A single-barrelled sawn-off shotgun was discarded next to them and it was that weapon that had caused the damage.

Henry approached carefully, thinking ‘evidence’ all the time, and even though he knew instinctively that this was a tragedy that would go no further than a coroner’s court, it still had to be dealt with as though it were a murder, which in part it probably was.

The first body he came to was that of a male, maybe forty years old, dressed in what had once been a white T-shirt and jeans. There was a massive shotgun wound to his neck, a whole chunk of it as big as an apple having been blown out; there was another horrific wound to his lower abdomen, just above the groin area.

He swallowed and glanced at Bill, who rose from attending the woozy Carly.

‘I don’t know this man,’ Henry said. ‘Could turn out to be Darren Langmead, maybe?’

‘I think Carly knows him.’

Henry stepped carefully past the dead male. ‘I do know this one, though.’

‘Jackie Kippax?’

Henry nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth.

She was a mess, and on the face of it, it was obvious what had happened to her: she had committed suicide.

There was a perfect hole in the soft, fleshy part underneath her chin. Henry knew it would be the exact size of the barrel of the shotgun, which had been held there before being discharged. The shot had entered her at a slight angle, leaving her face virtually intact, or as intact as it could be when the back half of the head had been blown off and was stuck on the ceiling as though a pan of Bolognese had exploded. Henry looked at it and sighed.

More awake than he should have been, Henry sat opposite Angela Cranlow in the deserted canteen at Blackburn police station and handed her a black coffee from the machine. He had worked out that coffee to him was like blood to a vampire — the only thing that kept him going. Their kiss, only a few short hours earlier, was a distant memory, one he was trying to forget completely, pretend it hadn’t happened. Unfortunately, he had to admit that despite her tired eyes and hair scraped dramatically back off her face, his boss looked pretty damned good — even at two in the morning. As though she’d just rolled out of bed, which she had.

He reckoned what she was seeing wasn’t quite so alluring, though.

‘Thanks, Henry. Reckon you’ll ever get to bed again?’

‘I think I’m capable of living without sleep from now on. Sleep’s just a bad habit. All you need is a bit of willpower … and amphets, obviously.’ He swigged his own coffee and winced. ‘Just kidding.’

‘Where are we up to, then?’

Henry took it to mean the investigation into Eddie Daley’s death and the subsequent double deaths of Jackie Kippax and Darren Langmead, erstwhile manager of the Class Act, now closed down for the foreseeable future. He hoped she did not mean him and her.

‘Seems that Jackie believed Langmead was Eddie’s killer and she’s taken the law into her own hands, gone out to challenge him about it before we got the chance to do it properly. A quick PNC inquiry showed that Eddie was the holder of a shotgun certificate, which accounts for her access to the weapon, though I doubt it should have been a sawn-off one.’ He paused. ‘Trying to put it all together isn’t easy, but looking at the scene, it seems she’s gone to see Langmead at the Class Act, they’ve had a discussion which has obviously gone pear-shaped. I’m guessing he probably denied killing Eddie, she disagreed and produced the shotgun and blasted him in the gut. They were upstairs in the living quarters at this point. Probably mortally wounded even at that point, Langmead has managed to do a runner and she’s gone after him and pumped another into his neck in the foyer, which killed him outright. Somehow and, for the moment, for reasons unexplained, she has managed to drag his body all the way into the kitchen then topped herself. How she had the strength and why she dragged him I don’t know. A tragedy on top of a tragedy. But she had nothing to lose, I suppose. She said she was dying of cancer, Eddie had gone and she had nothing left to live for. I’m guessing …’ Henry shrugged uncertainly.

‘All supposition at this stage?’

‘It’s called hypothesis in the world of investigation, ma’am.’

‘Guessing, you mean?’

‘Absolutely. She didn’t trust me to bring in Eddie’s killer, so she did the job herself.’

‘What about the phone call?’

‘Er, well, perhaps she had him bang to rights, admitting everything under the duress of a shotgun, then he went for her, although I did hear a man in the background say “You got it wrong” when she phoned me …’

‘Do you think Langmead killed Eddie?’

Henry leaned back and gazed at the high roof above. ‘I don’t know. I’m not convinced, but it’s something I need to follow up.’

‘You’ve still got a few days left before it all gets handed back to Anger. Use the time constructively.’

‘I will, boss.’

She yawned, covering her mouth and saying, ‘Sorry,’ in a girlish way. ‘I need to get some sleep … got meetings all day from eight … no rest for the wicked … no chance to be wicked, actually.’ She grinned. ‘I’m off. Night.’

She left and Henry was still buzzing. He toyed with his plastic cup, knowing that the journey home would give him time to wind down, but something still nagged at the back of his mind.

He picked up his PR and called Bill Robbins, asking him to ring back on the mobile phone facility on the PR, which he did.

‘Bill, thanks for tonight.’

‘No probs, boss,’ he said laconically.

‘How’s Carly?’

‘Shaken, but OK. Gone home.’

‘Did you fix up the RSPCA for the Hound of the Baskervilles?’

‘Done.’

‘What time’re you finishing?’

‘Round about now … why?’ he enquired cautiously.

‘Fancy a quick peek round at Jackie Kippax’s flat?’

There was a pregnant pause. Then, ‘You authorizing the overtime?’

‘Yeah, why not. See you at the back door of the nick in ten.’

Henry entered the flat using the key found on Jackie’s body. It was a typical council flat, plain, functional, not modern, but quite well looked after by Jackie and Eddie. They seemed to have had everything they needed and although not luxurious, there was a nice suite, TV, DVD and video player/recorder, a computer, a decent CD player and lots of discs. The kitchen was basic and clean. Henry imagined they rubbed along all right, despite the fact he had allegedly ruined their lives all those years before.

Henry let his eyes wander as Bill drifted through the flat, but not touching anything. Later in the morning the CSI team would be in doing a full job on it.

‘Owt in particular?’ Bill asked.

‘Dunno.’ Henry scratched his head, aware that he did that far too often. He flattened his short hair down and wandered around the flat, feeling that the visit was probably useless. The he went round it again, that ‘something’ nagging at his mind.

On the third sweep, he had a Eureka moment, one of those moments that can affect the whole direction of a murder investigation when there is a realization that the most simple thing has been missed. Henry gave himself a contemptuous mental kick up the arse.