Hidden Witness

TEN

Henry treated the store manager to his nicest smile and said, ‘This officer will look after all your needs.’ He stressed the word ‘all’ and patted Rik Dean’s shoulder. The DI’s eyes drove daggers into Henry’s heart and Henry gave him a wink. Mr Gooden adjusted himself primly on the interview room chair and smiled seductively at Rik, who squirmed. Henry then left the both of them in the interview room so they could get on with the task of getting a statement down from Gooden, who seemed only too pleased to be assisting the police with their enquiries. Henry started to make his way back up to the MIR up on the sixth floor.

Time had dragged. It was almost ten thirty p.m. Henry still had a lot to do before calling it a day and leaving the investigation in a suitable state for someone else to take over.

At the moment it all seemed very bitty and incoherent.

Two murders, both connected, one witness out there to both killings — probably.

One of the bodies, that of a Camorra Mafia chief who had been lying low in Blackpool; the other, an innocent boy, a rascal, maybe, who had seen too much. Henry churned it over, shuffling his thoughts into order with a view to then getting them down in the murder policy book, the record he was obliged to keep — supposedly contemporaneously — of the investigation as it unfolded. Then he had to call the detective superintendent who was going to take over the reins tomorrow and give him a heads up. Henry had been told who this would be and had no doubt that the man, one of his FMIT colleagues, would do a stand up job.

He stepped into the lift. As the doors closed his mobile rang, but as the steel plates came together and sealed him in, they sliced off the signal and Henry was unable to take the call from the Chief Constable.

Henry shrugged. The little fat bully would have to wait.

The lift clanked upwards and the doors reopened on the sixth floor. As he came out, his mobile chirped annoyingly. In the short space of time he’d been in the lift rising up through the building, he’d had two more missed calls, one from Kate, one from a number he didn’t recognize.

He called Kate first, fearing her ire way above that of the Chief.

‘Hi, babe,’ he cooed, hoping he could soothe her savage bosom. It seemed such a long time since they’d had that morning quickie.

‘Don’t you ‘hi, babe’ me. Why the hell haven’t you called me? We go away tomorrow in case you’ve forgotten.’

He held the phone away from his ear, cringed and resisted the temptation to get back in the lift. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he simpered.

‘Have you handed it all over to someone else, like you said you would?’

‘Hon, I was just about to do that, honest.’

‘I’ve packed for us both. Everything’s ready. Money, passports, tickets.’

‘Hey, you’re a good gal,’ he said. ‘I should be home in an hour.’

‘I won’t hold my breath.’ She hung up.

Henry screwed his face up at his phone. Carrying it in his hand with an almost crushing grip, he walked into the MIR in which Alex Bent was hard at work in an otherwise deserted room. The DS acknowledged the superintendent with a nod and a ‘Boss’, and Henry wandered into the office he’d claimed, seething at himself after Kate’s call.

His desk was an array of sticky notes, reminders and ‘call-me’s’, including one from Keira O’Connell, the Home Office pathologist, giving a landline and mobile number. He inspected it and muttered, ‘Professor Baines, wherefore art thou?’ wistfully. It was so much easier working with a male pathologist who had stuck out ears and who he didn’t fancy the pants off. The time noted on the sticky was since he’d last seen O’Connell. For a moment Henry wondered if he could juggle getting the paperwork done, brief the superintendent who was taking over from him by phone, race over to O’Connell’s house near Kirkham, fuck her, and get home before midnight. Then go on holiday tomorrow with Kate.

It was a serious consideration but then he laughed. Days, times, like that, were long gone. He screwed up the note and tossed it in the bin.

He opened the murder book and held his pen aloft.

His phone rang again: the Chief Constable.

As Henry thumbed the answer button, Alex Bent appeared at the office door, pulling on a jacket, eager to tell Henry something. Henry shushed him with a finger across his lips.

‘Hello, sir.’

The Chief Constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known as FB to friends and enemies alike, had known Henry over twenty-five years. For some reason Henry had started calling him ‘Bobby Big-nuts’. He couldn’t explain why, but he’d said it once and it just seemed to fit. He would never say it to his face, of course, not if he wanted to live. Their relationship had begun when Henry was a mere PC working the crime car in Rossendale and FB was a lording-it-over-everyone DI back in the days when detective inspectors were ferocious Gods. Since those early days, FB had used Henry ruthlessly to achieve his own aims, then discarded him coldly when it suited. That said, Henry would not be in the position or rank he was if it wasn’t for his involvement with FB, so the hate-hate relationship continued to this day.

‘Do you never answer your phone?’ the increasingly portly Chief whinged to his subordinate.

‘I got cut off in the lift.’

‘What’s that a euphemism for?’ FB asked, no amusement in his voice.

‘Just losing the signal.’

‘Anyway, you should’ve called me back immediately. I shouldn’t be the one chasing you up, Henry. I’m the friggin’ Chief Constable, after all.’

‘Point well made, sir.’ Henry watched Bent jigging excitedly at the door. He gave him a hang fire gesture.

‘How is the murder inquiry going?’ FB asked.

‘Good. Things happening all the time.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. You can give me a full update in the morning.’

‘I’m handing over to Dave Cottam,’ Henry said. ‘He’ll be i/c tomorrow.’

‘Well, there’s a thing,’ FB said. Henry’s heart sank. ‘I take it you haven’t heard about the murder-suicide over in Burnley?’ FB said.

‘No,’ Henry replied cautiously, drawing out the single syllable. His eyes narrowed.

‘It’s Dave Cottam’s territory,’ FB said, a fact Henry knew well. There were four detective superintendents on FMIT and each had a geographical area of responsibility. Henry’s was the Fylde coast and the northern part of the county. Cottam covered the east, the other two central and south, but these divisions were often blurred. No detective superintendent would refuse to cover a job just because it happened off his allocated patch, because each of them loved dealing with murders and other serious crimes. And they always covered for each other in cases of leave, sickness and other unavoidable commitments. However, Henry knew what was coming: Dave Cottam was just as snowed under as he was and to expect him to take on Henry’s complicated double murder and a murder-suicide would be a very big ask. ‘I’m going on holiday tomorrow,’ Henry said firmly.

‘Leave’s for wussies,’ FB said. ‘There’s no way you can go away at this moment in time.’

‘Boss, I’m going.’ He stood his ground bravely.

‘Cancel it — it’s just a mini-break, as I understand.’ FB’s voice was as cold as stone.

‘And lose almost a grand? Don’t think so.’

Silence came on the line.

‘Boss?’ Henry said. ‘Let’s put a chief inspector in — at least until Dave Cottam can get free.’

‘You need to think about what you’re saying here, Henry,’ FB warned him. ‘You’re a superintendent now, and I put you there.’ The line clicked dead.

‘Hell,’ Henry uttered, looking at Alex Bent. ‘I’ve just seriously pissed off the Chief.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘What is it, Alex?’

‘Mark Carter… up on Shoreside.’

Before Alex could finish, Henry’s phone rang again. He answered it without thinking.

‘Mr Christie, it’s Billy Costain… I phoned you a few minutes ago, you didn’t answer, so I phoned your incident room and spoke to that Bent guy.’

‘What is it, Billy?’ Henry rose from his desk, and closed the murder book and put his pen away.

‘You said you wanted me to find out who Rory was with?’

‘Yep,’ Henry said, not letting on that he now knew this fact.

‘It’s that little shit, Mark Carter — and I’ve got the little twat here in my hands…’ In the background Henry heard scuffling sounds. ‘You’d better hurry up, he’s struggling to get away. I might have to punch his lights out.’

‘Don’t do that. Where are you?’

‘Shoreside Drive, near the old shops on the square.’

‘On my way.’ Henry ended the call and didn’t add, ‘Oh, you mean the shops your family vandalized and destroyed?’ He looked at Bent. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Henry picked up his personal radio and called into Blackpool comms, telling them to get patrols up on to Shoreside urgently.

Having watched the coppers leave his house after annoying his mother, Mark retreated back into the coal-hole where he’d stashed crisps, chocolate, some packed sandwiches and a bottle of Coke from an easy shoplifting venture earlier. He settled back into the blackness, which was warm and comforting, to wait until his mother left the house, as he knew she would. She was seeing a guy who owned a pub out on Preston New Road, and as soon as she’d showered and changed, she would be out on the razz.

It didn’t take her long. The lure of booze and sex made her hurry. She didn’t spend a lot of time getting tarted up, and she was teetering down the front path on her high heels within half an hour, as spruced up as she would ever be.

Mark sneaked into the house by the back door. He did not turn on any lights and moved furtively through the house and upstairs, where he had a hot shower in the dark and changed his clothes. Then he went into his mother’s bedroom and helped himself to ten pounds from her secret stash tucked away at the back of one of her drawers. He let himself out of the house and moved through several adjoining back gardens before emerging on to one of the avenues.

He was famished, despite his food supply. It was intention to head to the KFC on Preston New Road for a boneless chicken feast.

Like most teenagers, he didn’t really have any plans beyond the immediate, although he did try to think through his predicament. But it muzzed his brain, and he decided to leave those thoughts until he was in the restaurant and the southern fried chicken was making him feel a bit better.

He made it to KFC without a hitch, bought food and drink and tucked himself behind a corner table from which he had a view over the restaurant and passing traffic on the road.

As unhealthy as it might have been, the hot, tasty chicken made him feel good again. He wolfed his meal down, then went back for a chicken burger that he munched at a less frantic rate, and tried to get a grip.

Fact — he’d witnessed two murders. The old man and Rory Costain. The images from both tumbled around his mind.

Fact — he’d got a damned good look at the old man’s killer — and Rory had also managed to get off some shots of the guy on the stolen mobile phone that he’d then dropped as they legged it from the scene.

The killer had assumed the boys could identify him and that was why Rory had been killed and he, Mark, had narrowly escaped with his life thanks to a bag of hot chips and a meat pie.

At first, Mark had thought no one would know who he was, but that had been a mistake. The cops obviously knew — and if they knew, there was every chance the killer would if he had anything about him.

Suddenly he stopped eating the burger and placed it down on its wrapping. The horrific realization had taken away his appetite and he wasn’t hungry any more. He now felt nauseous. His hand shook, he started to sweat and he was certain the whole world was staring at him, knowing his secret.

God, if only he could speak to Jack, his brother. But Jack was in jail for ten years, so that wasn’t an option.

Then Mark knew what he had to do — and it certainly didn’t involve the cops and being a witness.

Appetite returned, he finished the meal, drank his cola and left the restaurant. Hunched down in his hoodie, he flitted his way back to the estate, using short cuts and routes only kids would know, ending up back at his house. This time, in his mother’s bedroom, he wasn’t content to take a tenner, but took the whole amount of her hidden cash, just short of fifteen hundred pounds. He pocketed it, then in his bedroom he filled a rucksack with clothing and a spare pair of trainers, before going to the kitchen for a couple of packets of biscuits, crisps and some cheese from the fridge. He also found a rolled-up sleeping bag under the stairs.

He was in the house less than five minutes, going out the back again and making his way through the nooks and crannies of the estate, keeping low in the shadows, to Bradley’s. He didn’t dare knock on the front door of his friend’s house, but sidled around to the back, scaring the life out of Bradley’s mum who was working away in the kitchen, oblivious.

Still hooded, Mark tapped on the condensation streaked kitchen window. She looked up and Mark immediately saw her eyes widen with shock at the figure at the window. He quickly yanked off the hood to show his face. Her shoulders slumped with relief and she opened the back door, shaking her head.

‘You scared me.’

‘Sorry. Is Brad in?’

She regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why? I thought you two weren’t friends any more.’ She knew of Mark’s decline and wasn’t best pleased to have him on the doorstep. Bradley was a good, honest, hard-working lad, as Mark had once been, but now she didn’t want her son associating with him, even though deep down she quite liked him. She peered more closely at him. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Right,’ she said cynically, making the assumption his pallid complexion was a result of drug taking.

‘So, is he in?’

She sighed, relented, allowed him inside. The aroma of her cooking almost knocked him out. It smelled wonderful. He knew she made a meat and potato pie to die for, and although he had just eaten Mark suddenly had a craving for it. Bradley’s mum went to the kitchen door and called upstairs. ‘Bradley, someone here to see you.’ There was a muffled response, then a door closed and footsteps came downstairs.

When Bradley appeared, he was stunned to see Mark.

‘What d’you want?’

‘Just a chat. That all right?’

‘What about? We’re just going to have tea.’

Bradley’s mother was back at the oven.

‘Bit late, innit?’ Mark commented.

‘My mum and dad work late, and we always have tea together. You know that.’

Mark’s nostrils flared at the thought of a family eating together. Neither concept, the family or eating together, was a part of Mark’s life and he felt a surge of jealousy at Bradley’s normal existence. ‘I just want a few minutes,’ Mark said, trying to keep a pleading tone out of his voice.

‘Mum, how long before tea?’

‘Ten minutes, love.’

Mark swallowed. His mother had never called him love. Bradley twitched his head and turned upstairs. Mark followed.

Bradley’s room was cosy and decorated nicely, done by his dad. He had all mod cons, including the obligatory TV, Xbox and laptop, all bought and paid for. There was a small desk and office chair on which Brad sat, swivelled and motioned Mark to perch on the bed. He swung his rucksack and sleeping bag on to it, then sat.

‘You off somewhere?’ Brad sniggered.

‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you,’ Mark said. He sat squarely on the bed, clasped his hands between his thighs. ‘I know we’ve not been proper mates for a while, and I know it’s all my fault. But I need to tell someone…’

Brad’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Tell someone what?’

‘I’m going, I’m leaving,’ Mark blurted. He angled his face to Bradley’s and said, ‘I’ve witnessed two murders and I think I’m the next victim.’

‘Shit,’ Bradley said, stunned by Mark’s story. At first he hadn’t believed a word of it, thought it was just some fantasy playing out in Mark’s increasingly convoluted mind. But as he spoke and Bradley linked it to what he’d heard on the news and at school, his bottom lip sagged even further and further. He snapped his mouth shut. ‘You need to go to the cops, Mark.’

‘No, effin’ way.’

‘They’ll protect you.’

He shook his head derisively. ‘They can’t even protect old people from yobbos; how are they going to protect me from a killer?’

‘We need to talk this through.’ Bradley leapt from his chair. ‘You fancy some food?’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ll see if mum’ll plate up a couple of dinners for us — meat and potato pie, peas, red cabbage. You know you love it.’

In spite of his earlier KFC, Mark almost salivated. He said yes please. Brad dashed out of the room and returned bearing two dinner plates crammed with steaming, heavenly smelling food. ‘She always makes too much,’ he said, putting the plates and cutlery from his pocket on the desk. He disappeared again, returning with brown sauce, salt and pepper, and two cans of Coke.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Mark said. He edged along the bed and wolfed the food down. It tasted superb. Simple but exquisite.

‘What exactly are your plans?’

‘Dunno exactly, but I couldn’t tell you even if I knew. The fewer people who know, the better, if you get my drift?’

‘Jesus, man,’ Bradley uttered.

‘But probably London. I can make a do there. Just disappear, y’know?’

Bradley shook his head.

‘I can get a job. I’m a grafter, you know I am.’

‘You were,’ Bradley corrected him doubtfully. The two boys eyed each other. ‘Despite everything in your life, you were.’

‘I got a crap deal,’ Mark whinged. ‘Beth dying, Jack getting sent down… Mum…’

‘I know.’

‘How are you going on with Katie?’

Bradley screwed up his face. ‘OK — ish. On the whole she’d rather be with you, I reckon,’ he admitted wistfully. They were talking about Mark’s ex-girlfriend who had ditched him unceremoniously when he’d started hanging around with Rory Costain and started going out with Bradley. It was a situation Brad obviously wasn’t completely comfortable with. ‘You lost a good ’un there,’ Bradley said.

‘Whatever… look, I need to be making tracks, mate. You are my pal and I know I’ve been a complete cock and I’m probably getting what I deserve, but I thought I’d just try and make it up to you a bit before I did a runner.’

Bradley’s right hand shot out. Mark eyed it, confused. ‘Shake, you tosser.’

The boys shook hands.

‘Hey, look, this might help a bit.’ Bradley stood up and took an old biscuit tin down from his bookshelf and prized it open. He pulled out a couple of ten-pound notes and offered them to Mark.

‘What?’

‘Take them. You’ll need some dosh.’

‘No, no, it’s right. I’ve got some. I’ll be OK.’

‘Every bit helps. There’s like three days’ food here if you’re careful… and you are my mate, Mark.’

Fighting back a tear, Mark took the money. ‘I’ll pay you back, honestly.’

‘Yeah, you bloody will.’

Mark stood up and embraced Bradley, then Bradley said, ‘Hey, if you’re not in a rush, how about a game on the Xbox — Call of Duty or something? We haven’t played for ages.’

‘Uh, yeah, OK,’ Mark said lugubriously.

Later, after an embarrassed thank you to Bradley’s mother for the food, he was back out on the streets of the estate, planning to head to the railway station. He was going to jump a train to Preston, the nearest mainline station, and from there get on the first train through, north or south, Glasgow or London. He wasn’t that bothered.

He jumped over a couple of backyard fences and emerged on to Shoreside Drive, aiming to cross that and go via the back streets into the town centre.

That was when the arm went around his throat.

‘Got yu, yu little bugger.’

For a moment Mark expected to feel the muzzle of a gun at his head, to have his brains blown out, to die in the middle of the streets, never having achieved a damn thing in his life.

Instead, beer-loaded breath wafted into his face from Billy Costain’s mouth.

‘Cops’re after you — an’ so am I,’ Costain growled. ‘You were with my Rory when he got murdered, weren’t you?’

Mark gagged. The crook of Costain’s arm crushed his windpipe and he could not have answered if he’d wanted to. Costain bent Mark double in a chokehold and it was as if his head was trapped in one of those seaside exhibits where punters poked their faces out through some cartoon character or other. He gurgled. Costain held tight as Mark attempted to prise his head free — without success. Billy was a big, strong guy and he’d battled and held bigger brutes than Mark.

Without much of a problem, Costain fished out his mobile with his left hand and made the first of three calls to the police. The first was to Henry Christie, which the detective didn’t get because he was in the lift. Costain had pre-programmed Henry’s number and that of the MIR phone line into his mobile.

Mark continued to struggle valiantly, gouging and kicking, but old man Costain was impervious to his assaults and clung easily to the lad.

After he’d spoken to Alex Bent in the MIR, then to Henry, Mark had sagged with the effort of trying to escape. His energy drained out of him and he hung in the crook of Costain’s arm like a bonfire night Guy.

Henry tutted at his PR, but held his tongue. Comms had told him there were no patrols available to make to Shoreside, all were busy. Sorry. There wasn’t much Henry could say to that. If the town was lucky, there might be about four patrols out there firefighting, and Blackpool was a busy place for cops.

Bent screwed the CID Ford Focus through the gears and streets, and only a few minutes after leaving the cop shop he was turning on to Shoreside, then on to Shoreside Drive which was the main spine running through the estate.

Henry spotted Costain and the figure of Mark Carter about fifty metres ahead. Bent drew the CID car in alongside them. Both detectives climbed out, Henry with a triumphant grin on his face. He shone the beam of his penlight torch into Mark’s face as he looked up from the headlock.

‘It were only a matter of time before I caught him,’ Costain said.

Henry put his hands on his knees and looked at Mark. ‘Now then, young fella me lad, I’m going to ask Mr Costain to let you go free, OK? And if you even think of doing a runner, I’ll flatten you. Got that?’

‘Get this ugly git off me,’ Mark growled.

‘Only if you say you won’t run.’

‘I won’t bloomin’ run, OK.’

Henry raised his head to Costain and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a car cruising down the road towards them, but did not give it much credence. He gave Alex Bent a ‘Grab him’ gesture and the DS took hold of Mark’s right arm. Costain slowly released his grip when he was certain that Bent had got hold of the lad.

‘I found out who Rory was hanging about with,’ Costain said, sticking a roll-up into his mouth and lighting up. ‘Then it were just a matter of nabbin’ him.’ He chuckled. ‘Make a good cop, me.’ He inhaled then brew out acrid smoke.

‘What d’you want me for?’ Mark protested, still squirming in Bent’s grasp. ‘I’ve done nothing. This is not fair.’

Henry sighed. ‘Fair? Fair is a place where you go to ride on rides, eat cotton candy and step in monkey shit, and, as corny as it sounds, Mark, you can do this the hard way or the easy way. Whichever you choose, you’ll be coming with us.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Mark responded impertinently.

‘Don’t give me a hard time.’ Henry wagged at finger at him. ‘I need to talk to you about some serious crimes, don’t I? Not least of which are two street robberies.’ Henry gave him a pointed look.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘And the fact you’ve witnessed two murders, one being that of your mate, Rory.’

‘Crap. Still don’t know what you mean.’

The car that had been crawling along accelerated. Everyone’s head jerked in its direction as the engine screamed.

It was a Volvo. With the passenger side nearest to the kerb.

Henry ingested it all in a split second.

The big car hurtling towards them. Two dark figures in the front seats, both bulky, definitely male, their features unrecognizable because of the main beam of the headlights putting them in shadow. And the man in the front passenger seat leaning out of the fully open window with the evil black shape of a Skorpion machine pistol in his hands, aimed at the foursome.

Henry, Mark, Bent and Costain were on the footpath, maybe ten metres ahead of where the CID car had been parked. Immediately behind them was a pair of semi-detached houses, both unoccupied and boarded-up.

Even then, a simultaneous thought in Henry’s head said, ‘Thank God for that. At least no residents will be caught in the shooting. No innocent person sat watching TV will get shot by accident.’

Henry knew they were about to be the victims of a drive-by shooting.

The car was closer now. It was a big, heavy estate, but no slouch. It was moving fast, now almost level with the CID car.

Henry twisted to Mark and Bent. With a yell, ‘Get down, get down,’ he powered into Mark, tearing him from Bent’s grip and drove him over the edge of the low wall that formed the boundary of one of the boarded-up houses. He heard the rake of gunfire, saw the flicker of flame from the muzzle of the Skorpion as the two of them went head first over the wall.

He saw Bent drop like a stone where he was. In another thought he hoped his colleague hadn’t been shot. But the same could not be said for old man Costain. He hadn’t reacted, other than to jerk his head from side to side, wondering what the hell was happening, his roll-up still between his lips.

There was a second burst of fire, a quick ‘Drrrrh’ sound and a line of four bullets sliced across Costain’s chest, flicking him like a demented puppet, driving him backwards.

Then a third burst. Henry kept Mark pinned down. The bullets ripped into the low wall that protected them and just above their heads. Henry felt them go by, their slipstream almost parting his thin hair. He knew that if the car stopped and the shooter got out, they would all be dead.

But the Volvo accelerated past and was gone.

Henry raised his head cautiously. He saw Alex Bent kneeling over Billy Costain. Henry crawled over the wall to them. Bent’s face rose, terrified.

‘He’s dead,’ the DS said, a wobble in his voice.

Henry bounced down on to his haunches. Costain had been wearing a white tee shirt, now soaked in blood. Amazingly, the cigarette was still wedged at the corner of his mouth, bent double but still lit, smoke rising from it. Henry removed it.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked Bent, who nodded.

Then Henry stood up and looked over the garden wall for Mark.

But the teenager wasn’t there.