Instinct

FOUR

They returned to the murder scene in Henry’s Mercedes, in which Rik had driven him to the police station in the course of the panic attack, or whatever it was that Henry had suffered. Rik coveted the coupe but Henry, a bit meanly, had always denied him the opportunity of driving it. Henry therefore suspected that Rik had seized on the chance when his brain had gone into free-fall.

Back at the crematorium, the mechanics of running a murder scene were well underway. The road past the cemetery was sealed off other than for essential traffic, and a diversion put in place. The scientific support vehicles were there, as were several paper-suited and booted individuals carrying out their tasks. Henry parked up in much the same place as on his first visit, this time drawing up behind a beautifully restored E-Type Jaguar that made him smile a little. He knew who owned it.

A little away, leaning on an unmarked police car, was PC Driver, the officer who had found the girl’s body on his travels. He was drinking coffee, looking forlorn. Henry walked across to him.

‘Are you OK?’

The officer, a man in his mid-forties, shook his head. ‘No, boss, still can’t get over it.’ His left hand massaged his neck continually in a motion that Henry associated with shock.

‘No — not your usual occurrence in Poulton.’ Henry gave him a wan smile. ‘Why don’t you get yourself home? You’ve done a good job here, no need to stay on.’

‘Thanks. I’ll just get my statement done, first.’

‘OK, do what suits.’

Henry and Rik were logged back on to the scene, clambered into new paper suits, ducked under the tape and approached the ten foot high screen that had been erected around the body to keep out prying eyes. A tent was due shortly.

During the journey Rik had batted about a few ideas about what might have happened to the girl. Henry had tried to concentrate on what he was saying because he didn’t want another brain-freeze attack. He began planning his investigative strategy so as not to lose track. He’d stuck to the formula many times before so it was imprinted in his grey matter — under normal circumstances, that was.

Henry parted a gap in the screen like he was stepping through stage curtains, but in front of him was the scene of a real tragic death, not some country house murder with men in tennis shorts, ladies in twinsets and pearls, and dour mustachioed detectives solving the crime, often without evidence.

There was, however, the stereotypical comic character to lighten proceedings, who, at that moment, was on his haunches, down by the side of the girl’s head, his back to Henry and Rik, instantly recognizable by the large ears sticking out at right angles from his narrow head. Henry walked up behind him and cleared his throat.

The man did not react. He was focused, his latex-gloved hands touching the side of the victim’s head, talking softly into a microphone fastened to his head, the recording being made digitally on a machine in his shirt pocket. This was the owner of the E-Type Jaguar.

Henry coughed again.

Still the man did not turn round, but instead said patiently, ‘Henry, I know it’s you. If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish off what I’m doing, then I’ll be right with you.’

Henry grinned at the admonishment, slid his hands into his pockets — by sliding them through the gaping holes in the sides of the zoot suit — and let his eyes wander around the scene.

Although the crematorium was on the outskirts of Poulton, it was rural and quite isolated, certainly not overlooked. The girl’s body had obviously been dumped here from a car, and as there was nothing overlooking the gates, that deed could easily have been carried out unobserved. Making things much more difficult in terms of finding witnesses.

The man with the ears stood upright and turned slowly to Henry as though a huge wing nut was being twisted.

‘Hello Doctor-Professor,’ Henry smiled.

‘Henry Christie! My God, feels like years since we met over a dead body.’ Professor Baines, the Home Office pathologist, beamed at Henry. The two men had known each other for many years and developed a good relationship, often cemented by a trip to a local hostelry following a messy post-mortem in order to discuss the case informally. And, usually, to pass comments on ladies. Baines was the Home Office pathologist for the area, but over the last couple of years, because of other work, stand-ins had covered for him. Henry was relieved it was Baines today, though. Locums were OK, but they sometimes came with their own peculiar problems. Baines thrust out a bony hand to shake Henry’s and Henry noticed, not for the first time, how narrow Baines’s body was, accentuating the effect of the ears.

‘Good to see you back at the sharp end,’ Henry said, as they shook. ‘I hear you’ve managed to wangle yourself an OBE. Services to teeth, or something.’

‘Services to dental pathology,’ Baines corrected him. He specialized in teeth and had built up a database over the years of all things connected to teeth, including the various methods dentists from all over the world used to carry out their work. This was all with a view to help identify dead people. He had been particularly busy in Central Africa as well as Bosnia, where mass graves were still being dug up to this day. It just wasn’t news any more.

‘Well, congratulations. Did you meet the Queen when you got your gong?’

‘Nah, some royal lackey or other. Guy called Charles. Had ears like mine.’

‘Ah, a minor royal.’

‘And you,’ Baines said, moving closer to Henry. ‘I heard about Kate. I’m truly sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘However,’ Baines said, standing back, ‘it frees you to work the field again, eh?’

Henry blinked, then smiled. ‘Y’know, I think I needed someone to say something like that to me.’

‘Henry, if I can but help,’ Baines said solemnly.

‘Yeah — you’re a great counsellor.’ Baines had always been intrigued by Henry’s often convoluted love life and had been severely disappointed when he’d remarried Kate and it had ground to a halt. ‘However,’ Henry said, ‘back to more pressing matters.’

‘Ah, yes, this young lady.’

‘What can you tell me?’

Baines pursed his lips. ‘Dumped here from a car. Beaten about the face, but looks like strangulation, could be with a scarf judging from the indentations in her skin. I’ll have a clearer idea later, obviously. Female, sixteen to nineteen years, white, well nourished

… sad.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Hmm, always a bit of a finger in the wind at the scene, but I’d say she’s been here about six or seven hours. Could have been killed up to seven hours before that.’

Henry totted up the figures. ‘So, maybe dumped here around midnight and murdered sometime between six p.m. and then?’

Baines shrugged. ‘Best guess at the moment. More conclusive tests at the PM.’

‘Fair enough. Are you available to carry that out today?’

‘Yes.’ Baines glanced around. ‘Based on what I still have to do here… three o’clock this afternoon OK?’

‘Splendid.’ Henry turned to Rik, who had listened to the conversation and said, ‘Mother?’ Rik nodded. ‘Then we pull a team together.’

‘What was all that about?’ Bill Robbins threw the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia around the streets of Blackpool north.

‘All what?’ Donaldson gripped the hinged handle above the passenger door.

‘I half-heard something between you and that Beckham guy. I was lurking,’ he explained.

‘Interdepartmental rivalry, I guess. Which I don’t mind in the least, but not at the expense of safety.’

‘You mean the added-on bit.’

‘Yep — but even then you weren’t told everything.’

‘Nature of the beast,’ Robbins said. ‘We accept it to a degree. It’s the way spooks operate. Anyway, how come you’ve turned up for this charade? Us arresting a couple of would-be terrorists on what appears to be a purely speculative basis — uh, nothing new there — seems pretty low down the ladder for a guy like you. I thought you went after the bigwigs? Like the man himself, old OBL, cave dweller.’ He glanced sideways.

‘Ahh, briefings,’ Donaldson said fondly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like we said, they don’t always reveal all.’

‘As far as I can tell we’re pulling in a couple of lads who are up to no good, then had an extra warning they could be dangerous.’

‘More complex than that. Sometimes the little-wigs open up the path to the bigwigs.’

‘Explain yourself.’

Donaldson regarded Bill. He had known him a while now, been involved in various investigations with him and found him sound and reliable. Dour, but likeable. ‘If I do, and you blab, I’ll have to kill you — you know that?’

‘Only if you get in the double-tap first.’

‘OK — for your ears only. The two men — lads really — that you’ve been told to pull in have just recently returned from an extended trip to Yemen. They’ve been on extensive training and indoctrination courses.’

‘Brainwashing?’

‘Fundamentalism… so, yeah, brainwashing. Also probably trained to use a variety of weapons and how to make bombs.’

Bill swerved at this revelation like a cat had just leapt in front of the car. ‘They didn’t quite tell us that.’

‘No.’ It was a wistful word.

‘So really they’ve told us fuck all.’

‘Because if it comes to nothing, it’ll all be played down…’

‘Which is why it has to look like a routine stop-check.’

‘And if something is found, then they’ll be whisked down to Paddington Green police station in London and interrogated.’

‘Interviewed, you mean?’ Bill said.

‘Interrogated.’

‘OK.’ Bill got the less than subtle hint. ‘So they’ve been trained — does that answer why you’re here, Karl?’

‘Do you recall the bombing of the American Embassy in Kenya in 1998?’

Bill scratched his balding dome. ‘One of many, but I recall it.’

‘A guy named Jamil Akram is one of the principal bomb-makers affiliated to certain terrorist organizations. First made his name making car bombs, more recently he’s been mass producing body packs for suicide bombers. Also a weapons expert, particularly small arms.’

‘And your interest is?’

‘He had a major hand in that embassy bombing — with others, of course. I lost two good friends in that blast and I don’t forget easily.’ His voice became brittle.

‘And somehow he’s connected to these guys today?’

‘In Yemen they were at a camp at which Akram is known to be a facilitator. The thinking is, I guess, although I can’t be sure, that something will be uncovered by arresting these two today that will lead us closer to Akram. Nailing him, even with a missile fired from a drone, would be a major scalp, one which MI5 would like to claim for their own.’

The door opened as Henry and Rik walked up the pathway to the house. The woman standing there, maybe only in her late thirties, looked haggard and exhausted, a tatty dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, hair scraped and pinned carelessly back.

‘I know you’re the police,’ she said shakily.

Henry flipped out his warrant card to confirm her suspicion. ‘Mrs Philips, I’m Detective Superintendent Christie from the Force Major Investigation Team and this is Detective…’

Her face froze in an expression of horror. She had been able to recognize that two plain clothes cops were at her door, but when the first one introduced himself and stated his rank… that was when she knew, and it was as if an invisible weight had struck her. She sagged, swayed, her hand sliding down the door jamb. Henry lurched forwards to catch her before she hit the ground.

‘You’re going to be bored,’ Bill said to Donaldson. They were parked up in a street about half a mile away from where the targets had their flat, the street on which their car was also parked. The purpose of the operation was to sit on that car, which was being observed by two cops in the back of a van, wait for the subjects to get in and drive off, then stop them in an appropriate place. Four other plain cars, each with two armed officers on board, a police dog van and a personnel carrier with six uniformed support unit officers were also placed in well thought out, discreet locations, ready to move and pounce once the target car was rolling.

There was nothing to say that the car would move that day. However, the operation would continue until it did.

Donaldson yawned, folded his arms and sank low in his seat, closed his eyes, felt his stomach rumble and said, ‘Possibly.’

‘How good do you think the Intel is?’ Bill asked.

‘Hard to say.’

‘Who will have done all the legwork?’

Donaldson opened one eye and squinted through it at Bill. ‘I always thought you were the laconic type, not loquacious.’

Bill frowned, decided it was a compliment and said, ‘Thanks.’

‘And in answer to your question, I don’t know. MI5, MI6, SIS, Special Branch, Counter Terrorism…’

Bill was used to acting on intelligence received from unknown sources, usually crims with a grudge or a debt to repay. It was the way things were done these days, with many firewalls between informant and the officers who then acted on the information. It protected people and he guessed that in this case, the firewalls were pretty much impregnable. He yawned, too. Then said, ‘Not much of an Asian population around here.’

‘No, but plenty of white holiday-makers,’ Donaldson replied and snapped open his eyes as a horrible thought struck him.

Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn’t like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool’s most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work — as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up — and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry’s own guess, but he’d be happy to lay down money — ‘a pound to a pinch of shit’ — it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.

But none of that mattered.

What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.

‘I’m truly, truly sorry,’ Henry said gently.

Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.

‘The thing is,’ Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie’s description, we can only be certain after formal identification.’ Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.’

‘I know.’ She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?’

‘Later today. We’re not exactly sure when.’

She nodded again. Henry eased the photograph from her fingers and looked at it, a posed picture of Natalie, smiling up at the camera, wearing a grey and pink silk scarf.

Henry and Rik exchanged glances. Henry said, ‘I know this is a terrible time, but we really need to ask you some questions about Natalie and her…’ He was going to say ‘life’, but changed the word, realizing the girl hadn’t really had one to speak of yet. Instead he said, ‘Y’know, the things that were going on for her, who she knew, boyfriends if any, her mates, comings and goings. It’s vital we build up a detailed picture of her.’ Clare nodded numbly. ‘Can I just ask a quick question, first?’ Henry indicated the photograph. ‘This scarf, was she wearing it when you last saw her? It’s not mentioned in the clothing description on the Missing from Home forms.’ He did not recall seeing it at the murder scene either.

‘Yes — couldn’t get it off her. She loved it. I thought I’d mentioned it, mustn’t have done.’

‘OK,’ Henry said. ‘Is there anyone we can contact for you? Anyone to be with you?’

This time she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said thinly.

Henry’s chest was becoming heavy. He was on the settee alongside her, a couple of feet away, knees angled towards her, offering comforting body language. The tension in the room was incredible and he was being affected by it all. He had to breathe in, catch himself. He’d done this sort of thing dozens of times before, got through it, never let it affect him. But he found himself staring at Clare Philips, feeling her pain.

Not good. Empathy — OK. Sympathy — OK. Going to hell with the victim’s mother — not OK.

He breathed out, rubbed his face.

‘Henry?’ Rik asked worriedly. He’d noticed Henry’s change in demeanour.

Henry gave him a wave of dismissal. He was all right now. Had almost lost it, but had yanked himself back from the abyss.

‘What I’m going to do is get someone up here for you now, OK? A family liaison officer…’

‘What family?’ she demanded. ‘I have no family now. She was all I had. And now she’s gone.’

Henry reached across to place a hand over her nicotine-stained fingers.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing the word was ineffective. ‘But one thing I promise is that I will track down whoever did this and I will catch him. It’s what I do, what I’m good at.’ He spouted the claim confidently, but underneath he wasn’t certain he truly believed it.

His eyes blinked sadly. Henry knew she was in shock. The news had hit her like a steam hammer even though she might have been expecting it, and may well have mentally tried to prepare herself for the worst. At the moment she was being scarily calm but Henry knew grief intimately and that this stage was unlikely to last. However, she did give him a nugget when she spoke.

‘I know she had a big fall out with her ex-boyfriend,’ she whispered. ‘Had some horrible rows with him.’ Henry remained silent, and despite how he was feeling emotionally — on edge, likely to crumble — the old ring piece did the dance of excitement, the bum twitch that meant he was on to something. ‘It’s that little shit, Mark Carter. You’ll know him, I’ll bet.’

As much as Henry would have liked to march out of Clare Philips’s house and grab Mark Carter, who he did know, events in murder investigations rarely happened just like that. And in some respects Henry was glad he didn’t rush out, because the nugget that was Mark Carter actually just became another coin in a handful of loose change as he and Rik Dean talked further to Clare.

Other names came into the frame and Henry realized that quite a few individuals needed to be interviewed very carefully, not just Mark.

Natalie’s current boyfriend was one. A guy by the name of Lewis Kitchen (and at the mention of the name, Henry and Rik exchanged a knowing glance). They didn’t delve at that point and they guessed that Clare possibly didn’t know that Kitchen was known to the police as someone with a conviction for assaulting a female.

Next there was Natalie’s real father, a lowlife called Scott Newton, again known by the detectives. He was someone who had reappeared recently in Clare’s life after eighteen months inside for robbery. By Clare’s own admission the ‘family’ had had some violent rows and Natalie had taken her mother’s side and found herself taking a slapping from a pissed-up Newton, who threatened to kill them both. He needed to be tracked down and interviewed p.d.q.

Then there was a succession of previous boyfriends — a bit of a who’s who of petty crims in Blackpool — that Natalie seemed to have succeeded in upsetting by ruthlessly dumping all of them. One had bombarded her with threatening texts and indecent Facebook entries and had been stalking her.

On top of that, one of the lecturers at Shoreside College, where she attended the hairdressing course, had shown an unhealthy interest in her. Clare suspected that Natalie and this guy had had sexual relations at some stage, but Natalie had been very secretive and Clare had only discovered him by accident — by looking in her diary which had disappeared after Natalie found this out. Diaries were always useful and Henry made a mental note to ensure it was searched for thoroughly.

As she spoke, Henry realized that unless there was a quick breakthrough, this could be a long slog of an investigation.

They left the house two hours later, with Clare being attended to by a female constable until a fully fledged FLO could be briefed. Both men were ravenously hungry and Rik suggested a KFC drive-thru, to which Henry agreed; then they could eat and drink on the move, which is what they guessed they would be doing for the next few days. Might as well get used to it.

The nearest Kentucky was on Preston New Road and Henry, at the wheel of his Mercedes — which he’d been dubious about driving into Shoreside in the first place — headed off the estate in relief. All four wheels were still on it and there were no key scratches down the sides.

‘Opinions?’ Henry asked.

‘Lots to go at… Natalie sounds like a hot-headed promiscuous young lady who liked moving from lad to lad. We’ll get a result sooner rather than later.’

Henry nodded. He did not want to get blinkered into thinking Natalie’s death was definitely down to one of her circle of acquaintances, but the chances were it was. He knew he had to keep things wide open and there was still a possibility she could have been murdered by an opportunistic stranger. The fact her body was dumped out of town skewed things a little that way. However, it would all be part of his investigative strategy which he would have to work out in the next few hours. Already his mind was ticking over, relishing the prospect of concentrating on something other than self-pity.

He mulled over the things he would have to think about: location, victim, offender, scene forensics, post-mortem, and all the factors that could link them together. And the need to think logically as to what had happened, why it had happened, and who committed the crime. It was all pretty fundamental stuff for a murder investigation, but had to be done. Keep things logical, answer the questions, work the knowledge.

‘But the most important thing,’ Rik said thoughtfully, ‘is whether I should have a boneless box or a two piece meal.’

‘Some things,’ Henry conceded, ‘just take precedence. I’m on chicken burger and coffee.’

‘Sounds good.’

Henry eased the Mercedes into the drive-thru lane at the KFC, three cars ahead of them. When it was his turn, he came alongside the speaker and placed the order, the tinny voice of the server then read it back to him, asking if any sauces were required — yes, mayo — quoted the cost and told Henry to drive up to the window.

He paid, took the bagged-up meals and drinks and passed them over to Rik. The KFC server did not once catch his eye, acting like he was on a Brave New World production line, which in essence was almost true.

Henry drove out and pulled into one of the grill bays on the car park by the side of the restaurant. Rik frowned. He’d been deeply engrossed in sending and receiving text messages — presumably to and from Lisa — and hadn’t even raised his eyes at the drive-thru, even when he’d been given the food to hold. Now he had a quizzical look on his face.

‘We’re eating here?’

‘How do you feel about striking while the iron’s hot?’

Rik shook his head, no idea what Henry meant.

‘Mark Carter — you didn’t see him?’ Rik shook his head again. ‘He’s the moron who served us.’

Rik pouted. ‘Can’t do any harm, I suppose. Let’s play it by ear, see what he says about Natalie. We don’t have to mention she’s dead, do we? It’s not common knowledge yet.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘Let’s eat first. I hate cold KFC.’

‘Er — no,’ Henry said, as much as he wanted to devour his food. If Mark was linked to Natalie’s death and he had clocked Henry in the drive-thru, he could well be spooked and ready to run. Rik emitted a sound of great disappointment.

Henry knew Mark for a few reasons, none of them good. Firstly, Henry had dealt with the death of Mark’s sister from an overdose of a lethal drug concoction and Mark had helped Henry track down the supplier. Secondly, Mark had witnessed a murder and this had resulted in Mark’s mother becoming a target for killers who’d actually been trying to track down and silence Mark.

Henry had always thought Mark was a fundamentally decent lad, struggling against a crap upbringing. His father had disappeared many years before and he’d been raised by a mother more concerned with a fraught love life than giving Mark the attention he deserved.

Henry also had a bit of his own baggage with Mark. Truth was that Henry had used Mark for his own ends when tracking down the aforementioned dealer, making fake promises before cutting him loose. And Mark still bore that grudge, rightly, even though Henry had been instrumental in keeping Mark out of the hands of social workers after his mother’s brutal death.

Henry hadn’t had contact with Mark for months now. And here he was again, turning up like a bad penny, half-suspecting that Mark might have committed a murder without any supporting evidence.

Inside the restaurant there were two vague queues up to the counter and Henry spotted Mark, capped and uniformed, at the drive-thru window, taking orders via a headset, collecting money and dispensing food. He did not once look up at anyone in the cars.

Henry and Rik walked to the gap at the right of the counter and waited to catch Mark’s eye. But it was as if the lad was on autopilot, everything blanked out bar his task.

Another server, bearing a manager’s badge, stepped up. He was nothing more than a mega-spotty lad.

‘Help you guys?’ he asked. ‘Queue’s there,’ he said authoritatively.

Henry saw his name was Marlon. ‘Need to speak to that lad.’ He pointed a finger at the still oblivious Mark.

‘I’m afraid he’s a bit busy. May I ask what it’s about?’ Marlon asked, doing well to string the words together. Henry showed his warrant card and Marlon squinted at it.

‘Mm, OK.’ The manager turned to Mark who was handing a bagged-up meal through the serving window to a passing motorist. He tapped him on the shoulder and spoke into his ear. It was quite noisy in the restaurant with piped music, voices, cooking sounds, traffic. Mark leaned sideways slightly, his eyes came into focus and he recognized Henry, who gave him a little wave. Mark’s face wilted. In his short life — he was now seventeen — the appearance of Henry Christie had always spelled trouble.

Mark muttered something to Marlon, who nodded and returned to Henry.

‘I’ll let you have five with him, pal,’ Marlon said. ‘He just needs to fulfil these orders and I need to deploy someone to stand in for him. That’ll be me, I guess. So if you want to grab a seat.’

‘OK, no probs, Marlon,’ Henry said. The detectives backed off and found an empty table.

Henry did not sit, though. ‘You hang on here,’ he told Rik. ‘I’ll just mooch out back.’

‘Think he’ll do a runner?’

‘He’s programmed for it.’ Henry glanced over the counter. Marlon had already stepped in for Mark who was nowhere to be seen. Henry walked quickly out, made his way to the rear of the restaurant, and leaned casually on the wall next to a fire exit. He started to count, and as he reached five, the fire door opened outwards and Mark Carter stepped through, zipping up his jacket. Although he glanced both ways, Henry, flat against the wall, was just outside his field of vision for a moment — until the detective pivoted, grabbed Mark by the jacket and slammed him against the wall.

‘Shit,’ Mark uttered, taken completely by surprise.

‘Naughty boy,’ Henry said, pinning him back with one hand, his elbow locked straight. Mark struggled for a few seconds, realized the futility of it and then sagged in acceptance of the situation.

‘What do you want, Henry?’

‘Hey — didn’t realize you’d got a job as a chef.’

Mark eyed him. ‘I’m at college. It just about keeps me afloat. Like I said, what do you want?’

‘Natalie Philips.’

‘What about her?’

‘When did you last see her?’

Mark shrugged, pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Couple of days ago — why?’

‘Been reported missing. Her mum’s worried.’

Mark snorted derisively.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘About as worried as my mum used to be about me. Look,’ Mark was still stuck to the wall, ‘let me go, eh? Won’t run. Promise.’

‘How can I believe that? You’ve already tried.’

‘Only cos I don’t like you. You bring fuckin’ trouble all the time.’

Henry released his grip. ‘When did you last see Natalie and under what circumstances?’

Mark shrugged again. ‘Like I said, couple of days ago.’

‘Where?’

‘College. She does hairdressing there.’ Mark’s eyes played over Henry’s face, trying to read him. ‘Why do you want to know anyway? I know what you do…’ Mark faltered. ‘You investigate murders,’ he said slowly. His lips pursed into an unspoken question as his mind tried to pull the fragments of his knowledge together. And he hit the jackpot. ‘You don’t investigate missing persons.’

‘I hear you were her boyfriend,’ Henry probed, ignoring Mark’s conclusions. Mark suddenly withdrew into himself. Henry sensed that the promise about not running was about to be broken. His hand shot out again.

‘Were you?’ he demanded.

‘I… I might’ve been,’ he stuttered.

Suddenly Rik Dean skidded around the corner of the KFC, a harried look on his face, his personal radio gripped in his right hand. Henry looked at him, annoyed, his face saying, ‘What?’

‘We need to go — now.’ Rik waved the PR, from which could be heard shouts and general noises of mayhem.

‘Why?’ Henry released his grip on Mark’s jacket. Mark didn’t hesitate. He saw the opportunity and fled, ducking sideways, vaulting over a low fence and away, leaving Henry faffing in thin air. He turned on Rik, almost apoplectic. ‘Why?’

‘Officer down,’ Rik said.