Nightmare City

Chapter Two

Henry and Luton spent another two hours at the scene before finally handing everything over and returning to Blackpool Central to book off duty.

Henry was correct: he would not be forming part of the team assembled to investigate the murders. He’d been told by FB to continue with the reactive CID work which was his normal job. This was no surprise. Someone had to hold the fort. Other crimes did not stop being committed and they had to be dealt with. In truth he did not mind too much. As Acting DI he had the responsibility for running the CID office whilst the real DI was off sick. Henry intended to apply for promotion later in the year; his proven ability to manage a busy department was something positive to tell the Board.

Luton, however, was told he would be going on the squad. Henry smiled when he saw the young detective’s reaction. Although he had been involved in a couple of domestic murders and one night-club stabbing, this was Luton’s first major enquiry. Henry was pleased for him. It would be invaluable experience.

Henry patted him on the back and congratulated him. Inside he was envious. Having been on many major murder enquiries himself, he knew what a real buzz it was to be part of such a team.

In the car on the way back to the office, Henry asked Luton to keep him abreast of all developments. Luton promised he would.

Back at Blackpool, Henry declined Luton’s offer of a quick drink in the club on the top floor. He wanted to get home, shower, put his feet up and watch Match of the Day with the assistance of a large Jack Daniel’s and his wife, Kate.

Luton waved good night and left. Henry was alone in the deserted office. He sat down at his desk and quickly shuffled through the mountain of paperwork and scanned the array of yellow post-it stickers which desecrated his desk top. There was nothing that couldn’t wait.

Yawning, stretching, he stood up to go. The phone rang shrilly.

It was Eric Taylor, the Custody Sergeant.

‘ Glad I caught you, Henry. Thought I’d better let you know: that lad, the one with the flick-knife?’

‘ Shane Mulcahy,’ said Henry.

‘ You really should’ve written something on the custody record, like I told you to.’

Henry mouthed a swearword. An empty, achy feeling spread through his stomach. He hadn’t written anything in the record because he’d been so eager to get out to the robbery; it had completely slipped his mind. ‘Problem?’ he asked cautiously, knowing there would be, otherwise Taylor wouldn’t be phoning.

‘ You could say that. We had to get an ambulance out to take him to hospital- and he’s still there. Looks like he might have to have a testicle removed. If they can find it, that is. Apparently it’s somewhere up in his throat.’ Taylor chuckled.

Henry groaned. He slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes despairingly and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

‘ And there’s nothing on the custody record which covers what happened between you and him. I booked him out into your care so you could document him, then came along twenty minutes later to see him squirming on the floor, clutching his bollocks. And you gave me that knife and that’s all I know. I’ve had to write down what I saw and it doesn’t look good, Henry. Sorry.’

‘ Couldn’t you have left a line or two for me to write something?’

‘ Yeah, right, Henry. You know damn well I couldn’t do that. I asked you to write something and you didn’t. Now he’s in hospital with a double Adam’s apple. If he makes a complaint — and he’s just the sort of little shit to do so — you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Sorry, pal.’

Jack Daniel’s did not help Henry to get to sleep. His mind kept spinning from the sight of all that death, right round to his complete stupidity in not carrying out such a fundamental task as writing up an entry in a custody record. Bread and butter stuff. It was so easy not to do it, and detectives had a poor history where custody records were concerned. They were seen as something that got in the way of detection, some bureaucratic tool to be treated with contempt. But not by Henry Christie. Normally so diligent, careful… professional. He fully understood the possible legal ramifications of not being meticulous and recording everything. And he always stressed the importance of custody records to his detectives. They protected both officer and prisoner.

He tried to make excuses for himself.

He’d been busy. He was turning out to a multiple killing.

But if he were honest and critical, they were thin, paltry excuses.

Now he faced the possibility of an assault complaint, followed by a tedious investigation and maybe — he grimaced at the thought — a court appearance facing a criminal charge.

All because he hadn’t covered himself.

The thought appalled him, but it was the worst case scenario, he assured himself. He’d be very unlucky if it came to that.

His wife Kate turned over and draped an arm across his chest.

She smelled wonderful, having dabbed herself sparingly with Allure by Chanel after her bath. He stroked her arm with the tips of his fingers. She smiled and uttered a sigh of pleasure. She loved to be stroked. Like a cat.

‘ I forgot to tell you,’ she murmured dreamily. ‘We won ten pounds on the lottery.’

‘ Aren’t we the lucky ones?’

He purged all thoughts of death and prosecution from his mind, snuggled down into the bed, took gentle hold of Kate and felt himself harden against her belly.