Psycho Alley

Five

It came in black, like a thundercloud, hanging over Henry’s brain, fuelling a deeply unsettled mindset as he drove across Lancashire from west to east. Not only was it the seventy-five pounds it had cost him to replace the tyre (‘Surely you would like one that matches the rest?’), it was the fact he felt he was being stalked. Maybe they could have been unrelated incidents — the scrape down the car, the damage to the tyre — just coincidences, perhaps, but he did not see that as being the case. A queasy sensation of vulnerability crept over him.

‘If I’d known you were going to be a boring old fart, I’d’ve stayed in Blackpool,’ Rik Dean remarked as, so far, apart from the occasional grunt, Henry had not spoken. He’d been deeply engrossed in running through the suspect list in his head, but try as he might, he could not begin to accept he was a target for anyone other than some aggrieved cop, relative or friend of a cop from Manchester. He had put a lot of noses out of joint, shaken some reputations, angered many. He was not popular over the border.

‘Sorry, pal,’ he said, breaking out of his reverie.

‘Something troubling you?’

‘Nah, nothing.’

‘Women problems?’

Henry chuckled. ‘Always have women problems.’

Rik Dean sighed. ‘Moi aussi.’

‘Oh?’ Henry said, suddenly interested in the scandal of someone else’s life. ‘And who is your most recent conquest?’

‘It would be ungentlemanly to reveal a name,’ Rik said mysteriously. ‘Other than to say she’s in the job and she’s a bit jangled. Went a bit far one night, now I can’t get rid. She keeps wittering on about love … wouldn’t mind, but she’s hitched, though separated.’

‘Dangerous.’

‘You said it. And all that baggage — ugh!’ He shivered

Henry’s mood had brightened a little as he hit the M65, continuing a journey that was all motorway.

‘So what are we looking at?’ Rik asked, refocusing on the job.

‘George Uren was released from prison to a probation hostel in Accrington eighteen months ago. He did a bunk from there and hasn’t been seen since. Bit of a long shot, but the staff there should remember him and you never know.’

‘Why did you need a sidekick? It’s not exactly a two-man job.’

Henry looked coldly at him. ‘I get scared on my own.’

Dean laughed.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the motorway and drove down the dual carriageway into Accrington town centre. The place had changed considerably over the years since Henry had spent time there. He had done a lot of teenage drinking, carousing and courting around Accrington, and had loved the place at the time. He’d touched base with it on and off during his police career and seen it evolve, seen the population become much more multicultural, and grown to dislike it. Very different from the town he had known as a youth, now with multi-storey car parks, big shopping centres, car-free zones and blue disc parking — what was all that about, he often wondered.

Although much had changed, the basic layout of the place hadn’t, and Henry threaded his way easily across town on to Manchester Road, where the hostel was situated. He drove past the police station, an old building, connected to the magistrates court, which should have been flattened years ago. As cop shops went, Accrington was pretty much the pits. Whilst acknowledging that some officers might have warm feelings for the building, Henry wasn’t one of them.

Less than half a mile further, he pulled up outside a large double-fronted house on Manchester Road which had once been a palace, could have easily belonged to a mill owner in days gone by. Now it was a bail hostel, badly maintained and, no doubt, deeply unpopular with its neighbours. It was one of those not-in-my-back-yard things, and Henry felt a great deal of sympathy for people who suddenly found such an institution on their doorsteps — and often inmates from that institution in their front rooms. Pinching the telly.

‘Here we are,’ he announced.

Both detectives looked at the building, once a spacious home, now probably divided up into a dozen pokey bed sits in which a dozen criminals resided, supervised by the Probation Service.

‘Let’s do it,’ Rik said.

They climbed out and walked up the flagged garden, up a set of concrete steps to the front door. Henry pressed the bell which rang somewhere deep inside. They waited.

‘I never asked how you got that eye,’ Rik said, nodding at Henry’s still-swollen, beautifully-coloured shiner.

‘Hit in the face by an irate woman,’ he said mock-proudly.

‘Hm.’ It was a doubtful sound.

Footsteps approached from within.

‘Bets?’ Henry said quickly.

‘Er, big, overweight guy, been living in his shirt for a week, BO to die for.’

‘Dominatrix. Leather clad. Whip in hand. Eats a lot of pies,’ Henry said, and shut up as the big door opened to reveal someone who proved them both wrong.

She led the two detectives along the ground floor hallway to a couple of rooms at the back of the house, one an office, the other a room for staff to chill out in. She motioned them into the latter, then disappeared, leaving them alone.

‘Both wrong,’ Rik hissed

‘Only by a mile.’

‘She’s very …’ Rik began, but stopped abruptly as she came back in. His whole manner changed to one which Henry would have described as ‘fawning’. ‘Hi,’ Rik said. Every feature on his face lifted and his smile put the sun to shame.

Her expression was disdainful. She gave Rik a withering look and turned to Henry, her face set hard, which he thought was a shame, because she was extremely pretty. Though she was dressed in a severe, businesslike way in a grey trouser suit which did nothing for her, it was screamingly obvious to the two testosterone-filled males that underneath the outer coating there was a curvaceous, wonderful body. Her hair was scraped tightly back and clipped at the back of her head, but that accentuated the delicate features of her face, which were slightly offset by a crooked nose that made her outstanding. She was dressed for work, for practicality, and Henry could see that, scrubbed up and ready to rock, she would be stunning.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Henry Christie … DCI Henry Christie.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘The Force Major Investigation Team, based in Blackpool … er, sorry, I didn’t catch yours, either.’

‘Jackie Harcourt.’

‘And you are?’

‘The manager of this facility,’ she said haughtily. ‘And it’s obvious you haven’t liaised with your local colleagues, because police visits here are strictly by prior appointment and only when absolutely necessary. So,’ she sighed, ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave and make an appointment. I apologize for even asking you in.’

‘We’ve come a long way, Jackie. I’m Rik Dean, by the way … Detective Sergeant Rik Dean.’ He sounded like James Bond. He flashed his warrant card.

Her eyelids closed and opened slowly. She looked down her imperfect nose at him. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, but the fact is that police officers on the premises upset the residents. We are trying to create a positive atmosphere here, working to try and rehabilitate offenders, provide a secure environment in which they can thrive … So.’ She made a ‘shooing’ gesture, waving her fingers away.

‘What about inter-agency cooperation?’ Rik blurted, getting mad.

‘And what about procedures?’

‘You don’t even know why we’re here, do you?’

‘No, I don’t …’

Henry could see Rik bristling in front of him. ‘Look,’ he interjected, hoping to pacify things. ‘I know we’ve jumped the gun by turning up unannounced and I’m sorry about that, but if you’d just hear us out, maybe you’d make an exception in this case?’ He knew he had a habit of not phoning ahead, but he always liked to catch people on the hop, especially during a murder investigation, even if sometimes time was wasted. He gave her his best lopsided, boyish grin, which he knew was wearing thin at his time of life, but he believed there was still a few miles left in it.

Jackie Harcourt regarded him thoughtfully and for a tiny moment, Henry thought he had lost. But then her lips pursed, the shoulders dropped and victory was his. ‘Come into the office. I’ll give you a couple of minutes.’

‘Thanks, appreciate it.’

There was a male member of staff sitting behind a desk.

‘Can you give us a few minutes, Guy?’ Jackie Harcourt asked him pleasantly.

He scowled, but responded to the request without a murmur, collecting his papers and leaving them to their business.

‘OK, so which one is it?’ she asked. ‘Which one of my little angels had been doing wrong?’

‘Actually it’s not about one of your present residents. It’s about one who should be a resident, but isn’t,’ Henry explained none too clearly, though Ms Harcourt immediately understood.

‘An absconder? Which one? Carl Meanthorpe? Danny Livers?’

‘I take it they’re recent absconders?’

She nodded.

‘Neither,’ Henry said and saw Ms Harcourt’s lips pop open and a cloud quickly scud across her face; he saw something in her eyes which made him watch even more closely when he said, ‘George Uren.’

Her lips came together, tight. She blinked and swallowed, then coughed nervously. Her composure, for a brief but telling moment, had been lost. It was quickly regained. She said, ‘Ah, him. What do you want to know?’

‘Anything you got, love,’ Rik slid in, getting her back up again.

‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you. He was released from prison on licence, conditions to stay here until he settled back into society, received counselling, got himself a job … that sort of thing. He didn’t stay long.’

‘Have you got a file on him?’ Henry asked.

‘It’s confidential, can’t let you see it.’

Henry noticed her hand was dithering as she ran it across her face. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but before he could speak, Rik intervened like a panzer tank again.

‘We need to see it, love, and if you won’t show it to us, we’ll just get a court order.’

‘Rik,’ Henry snapped. ‘Just fuck off, will you?’ Actually he did not say it, but was very tempted. Instead he said, ‘Jackie … we’re investigating the murder of a young girl and we have reason to believe Uren was involved. Unfortunately we can’t find him. By coming here we hoped to generate some leads which might take us to him. I know it’s an imposition.’

‘I don’t know where he is,’ Ms Harcourt said.

‘I appreciate that, but maybe you know who he knocked about with, any residents past or present who might know anything about him, anything really that might be of use.’

‘OK, OK,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll get his file, but this is strictly against policy. All client information is confidential.’

‘I understand,’ Henry said, ‘but please trust us. This is a very fast-moving investigation and the quicker this man is caught, the safer the streets will be … and that’s not just rhetoric. It’s God’s honest truth.’

The file was fairly thin, containing details of Uren, his background, conditions of release and then a log of his time at the hostel which ran for a couple of pages, then ended abruptly on his unauthorized departure. Henry slam-read it, his eyes taking it in quickly, realizing that it did not actually tell him very much. He sniffed as he finished it and passed it over to Rik who started to peruse it. Henry regarded the hostel manager.

‘There’s a visitor referred to … who was that, do you know?’

She shook her head. Henry could tell her teeth were clamped tightly shut. He watched the muscles in her jaw pump as she tensed them. ‘He only came the once, a sort of rat-faced man, but he didn’t spend much time here. He and Uren spoke in the residents’ lounge for a few minutes, then he left. I don’t remember much about him. It was eighteen months ago.’

‘Yeah, yeah … so what sort of resident was Uren?’

‘Nasty, unpleasant,’ she said with feeling. ‘Glad to see the back of him, to be honest.’

‘Are there any people here now who were resident when Uren was here?’

‘We have an ever-changing clientele, but old Walter Pollack was here, still is and probably will be this time next year. He’s institutionalized.’

‘Did he have any dealings with Uren?’

‘Not specially, I don’t think.’

‘Is he in now?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘We’d like to chat to him, please,’ Henry said firmly. Ms Harcourt backed off, still flustered underneath her smooth veneer. Henry could not make out what was troubling her, but something was bubbling.

‘He’s in his room — upstairs, number three.’

Rik, who’d had his head in the Uren’s file, looked up and snapped shut the ring-binder. ‘Bugger all in here,’ he announced, words which drew an expression of condemnation from Ms Harcourt.

‘What’s Pollack in for?’ Henry asked.

‘He feels up little boys.’

He was sixty-four years old, thin and wiry, had the hook nose and eyes of a predator, which is exactly what Walter Pollack was. Henry recognized a dangerous individual when he saw one and Pollack was one of those horrendously dangerous people who pick on the young — and destroy them. Ms Harcourt had been obliging enough to show the two detectives his file, including his list of previous convictions. They stretched back over thirty years, many with a common theme: indecent assaults on young boys, gross indecency with some, and stealing to subsidize his lifestyle. Pollack was obviously a lost cause, his perversions not mellowing with age, and the best thing society could think to do with him was keep an eye on him until he slipped away and re-offended, and then jail him again. It was something Henry would have bet his last week’s lottery winnings on happening, all ten pounds of it.

His room was neat and tidy with a metal-framed bed, wardrobe, sink and desk, reminding Henry of the rooms at the police training centre at Hutton where he’d spent many a sleepless night over the years. Pollack was sitting at his desk, smoking, emptying his lungs out of the open window overlooking Manchester Road.

Pollack’s head turned slowly as the detectives entered, Ms Harcourt in their wake.

‘Walter, these men are-’ she began.

‘-the filth,’ Pollack finished for her, a sneer of contempt on his face. He stumped out his cancer stick and coughed, a rasping harsh noise which sounded as though a lot of fluid was gurgling around inside his chest. Henry hoped it was nothing minor. ‘I clocked you walking in and made you straight off. I’ve done fuck all.’

‘Never said you had,’ Rik retorted.

‘They want to ask you about George Uren, Walter,’ Ms Harcourt said over Henry’s shoulder.

‘Why, what’s he done?’ There was smirk on Pollack’s face.

‘We just need to talk to him. You don’t need to know what he’s done,’ Rik said.

‘It’s that Fleetwood job, isn’t it?’ he guessed correctly. He tapped his ear. ‘Radio Lancashire.’

Henry regarded the man’s face. Wrinkled with age, grey hair, bald on top, permanent curl on his lips and piercing cold eyes. Paedophilia had never been Henry’s field of expertise, though he had dealt with a few offenders, mainly via murder enquiries. He had found that he had always despised the offenders he came across, usually men, probably because he always had to fight against the images of his own children and the thought of what he would do to anyone who hurt them. He detested Pollack immediately and his right hand balled into a fist at his side.

Pollack saw the movement, smiled. ‘Want to hit me? All cops do.’ He raised his wiry eyebrows. ‘Except for the ones who molest kids like I do.’

Henry did the quickest count to ten ever, still felt like kicking the living shit out of this old paedophile, but got a grip, relaxed … c’mon … relax … ‘Have you got any idea where George Uren is?’

‘Why should I know?’

‘You were here when he was,’ Henry said. ‘Presumably you talked to him.’

‘Not specially. I practise talking to the little people … that’s my speciality.’

Rik Dean reacted instantaneously. Before Henry could stop him, he’d blurted the words, ‘Sick bastard!’, crossed the room with one stride, heaved Pollack out of his chair and pinned him up against the wall by the open window. His face was centimetres away from Pollack’s. ‘I’m going to throw you out of this window, you perverted git.’

Pollack’s expression remained unchanged, as though this was something that always happened to him.

‘You let that man go!’ Ms Harcourt screamed. ‘And you get off these premises now.’ She pushed Henry out of her way and tried to drag Rik off Pollack.

Dean was a strong, burly man, and he did not flinch. Instead, he almost shrugged Ms Harcourt off and slammed Pollack against the wall once more, inducing a further scream from her: ‘Get off him! I knew this was a mistake, letting you two in here.’

‘Rik, put him down,’ Henry said.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know where this piece of shit’s been, do I?’ He released Pollack with a flick and stepped away. Pollack sniggered, unshaken by the event. He brushed himself down disdainfully. Hard-faced bastard, Henry thought. Love to meet you in a back alley.

‘Come on.’ Henry touched Rik’s shoulder.

Rik’s teeth were grinding, his whole being coiled up tight. He gave Pollack a last look which would have killed him if there had been any justice, then strutted out of the room. Henry also shot Pollack a last glance.

‘Expect a complaint of assault and police brutality,’ Pollack said coolly. He sat down and tapped a cigarette out of the packet on the desk top, placed it between his curdled lips. Henry reached out, snatched the cigarette and ground it to pulp in the palm of his hand, allowing its content to flake on to Pollack’s lap. He leaned in close.

‘Don’t,’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll revisit.’ He winked and left it at that, easing past the trembling Ms Harcourt.

By the time Henry got to the front door of the hostel, Rik had already reached the car. He waited for Ms Harcourt, who came down the stairs and walked angrily toward him.

‘I’ll be reporting this,’ she said.

Henry shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t go the way I’d intended.’

She held Henry’s eyes for a few moments, some internal wrangling going on behind her eyes. Then she relented slightly. ‘I’ll see what Pollack wants to do.’

‘He won’t do anything.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because if he does, he’ll get investigated. I’ll get a surveillance team on him and I guarantee he’ll re-offend — and he knows that.’

‘Are you saying I’m not doing my job?’

‘I’m saying he’ll never change.’

Henry was about to leave it at that when Ms Harcourt said, ‘Just hang on there a sec.’ She spun away down the hallway, disappeared into the staff rooms and was back a minute later, a piece of paper in hand. She waved the paper. ‘Look,’ she said unsurely, ‘don’t think I don’t want George Uren caught. I do. He’s an evil man … This is the name and address of a previous occupant who did spend some time with him. He’s moved on to the coast now and this is the address we have on file here. It may not be current. If it isn’t, he should have registered with the Probation Service on the Fylde. He might know where Uren is.’

‘Thanks.’ Henry took the paper.

‘I heard what you whispered to him up there,’ Ms Harcourt said. ‘That sort of thing can be very scary, the threat to return.’

‘And? I meant it.’

‘That’s what makes it scary.’ She looked into Henry’s eyes. He saw fear there, terror maybe. Henry was puzzled, but did not have time to pursue it because his mobile phone rang. He gave her a business card and Ms Harcourt opened the door for him to leave.

He answered the phone as he trotted down the front steps of the hostel. It was Debbie Black calling from Harrogate. ‘Got anything?’ Henry asked, doubling into the driver’s seat of the Mondeo.

‘Could have,’ she replied. ‘Obviously we can’t be a hundred per cent, but the young girl went missing last night from an estate on the outskirts of Harrogate. Would be about the right age and height as the dead girl in the Astra. Won’t know for sure until we get the forensic matches back, but I have a feeling about it.’

‘Where are you up to with it?’ Henry slotted the key into the ignition, fired up the engine.

‘Just off to the parents with the SIO. We’ve brought some DNA kits, so we’ll take swabs and also turn out the family dentist for those records, too.’

‘Good stuff,’ Henry said, raising an eyebrow at a po-faced Rik Dean, who was still smarting from his recent encounter. ‘Get the kits back over here and we’ll fast-track them tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, no probs with that.’

‘How are they treating you out in the sticks?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Good — and how’s Jane?’

‘Being a first-class bitch as ever.’

Debbie cut the connection, leaving Henry with a dead phone at his ear and a twisted grin on his face. ‘Could be some progress,’ he said to Rik.

‘Was that Debbie Black?’ Henry nodded. ‘Hm,’ Rik grunted.

Henry turned squarely to the DS and looked disappointedly at the grim-faced officer. ‘Two things: first off, I thought you were a wow with the chicks?’

Rik shrugged. ‘Sometimes things just don’t gel … not that I wouldn’t give her one, all things being equal. Actually, she was pretty bloody tasty. And secondly?’

‘Your temper could get you in the shit. I always thought you were a pretty placid sorta chap.’

‘Got it wrong on two counts, then, haven’t you, boss? The temper’s an experience thing,’ he explained. ‘The more experience I have, the less patience I have for crims, pervs in particular.’

‘Hm, going by that logic, my temper should be just about at ground zero.’

‘From what I’ve heard, it is.’

The two men eyed each other for a moment, then Henry waggled the note Ms Harcourt had given him, the Ms Harcourt he could not quite figure out. ‘She relented a bit — gave me this name and address as one of the previous inmates who knew Uren and may know where he is now.’

‘How did you manage that?’ asked an astonished detective sergeant.

‘Boyish charm … crumbled under my aura of male sexuality … a combination of things.’

‘Hardly,’ Rik muttered, snatching the note. ‘Bloody hell!’ he blurted on reading the name. ‘Percy Pearson — Percy Pearson the perverted person from Preston — now living on us, that is. He was locked up on sus of gross indecency last week sometime … luring boys into public toilets, then introducing them to the delights of his donger. Enticed one kid back to his flat, I think.’

‘Oh,’ said Henry, not quite slapping his forehead. The penny had not dropped when he had read the name. Now it had. ‘He’s the one who said where Uren might be in the first place. We were in Fleetwood because of something he’d said during an Intel interview. Could’ve saved us an eighty-mile round trip if I’d remembered.’ He pulled an agonized face, annoyed.

‘You wouldn’t have had the pleasure of the frigid Ms Harcourt, though.’

Henry pulled away from the kerb. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever have that pleasure,’ he admitted sadly, ‘but something tells me that behind that chilly veneer she isn’t frigid.’

Rik gave a wistful, ‘Mm, quite fancied her, actually.’

The return journey across the county was tedious. They joined queues of the great unwashed masses heading into Blackpool. It only dawned on Henry he would have been better going back by another route than the motorway when he hit a tailback of slow-moving traffic as he left the M6 and joined the M55. He began to zigzag through the crawling morass, but to no real avail. Progress was tortoise-like at best. The section of the journey which would normally take about fifteen minutes took almost an hour on a day that was becoming hotter and hotter, and every driver seemed fractious.

Rik Dean chuckled when Henry middle-fingered a guy and his family who unintentionally cut him up in their people-carrier. ‘You were right about your temper,’ he laughed. ‘Mr Road Rage personified.’

Henry uttered a ‘Harrumph!’ and his mouth tightened as another car veered across his bows, causing him to brake hard. He said nothing more, bottled up his frustration and decided to ease off, get back in one piece.

There were definitely no crowds of day-trippers on Shoreside, Blackpool’s largest council estate, one of the most deprived areas in the country. A place where unemployment ran to a staggering percentage and drugs and crime all but dominated an estate where kids ran riot and the cops trod very carefully. Whole avenues of houses were boarded up, abandoned by tenants who had lost all hope; rows of shops that had once provided essential local services had been destroyed and burned down, with the exception of one which, steel-grilled and CCTV-protected, somehow continued to trade.

‘Fuckin’ dump,’ Rik commented as Henry drove on to the estate.

Henry made no response. On and off for many years he had policed Shoreside and seen some terrible things. He knew, however, that the blight was caused by just a few individuals who brought misery to the majority, who were decent, law-abiding folk wanting peaceful lives.

‘Sink-hole,’ Rik added, his eyes roving.

‘Made your point,’ Henry said bluntly. ‘You’ve become very cynical.’

‘Haven’t you?’

Henry considered the question, brow furrowed. ‘Possibly,’ he said in an unconvincing way.

‘So you haven’t become cynical?’ Rik peered at him.

‘I’d like to think I haven’t.’

Before he could continue, Rik said, ‘We police the shits of the world who are all out to lie and cheat and hurt you; all they’re concerned about is themselves and a fast buck; we get treated like shit by the organization, we deal with the dross of society and you say you’re not cynical. I mean, you’re on the bloody murder squad, Henry …’ His voice trailed off hopelessly.

Henry remained silent.

‘I mean — look.’ Rik pointed to a group of youths lounging indolently at the roadside. One of them stuck a middle finger up as the car drove past. Rik shook his head sadly. ‘Shits.’

Henry had had enough introspection, because he was feeling strangely uncomfortable with Rik’s allegation. Something inside was telling him that being a cynic was a ‘bad thing’, and he was agreeing with it, even though the evidence which pointed to him being the biggest cynic of all time was overwhelming. ‘What’s the address again?’

Rik gave him a sardonic sidelong glance, then read it out from the note, realizing the conversation had come to a grinding halt.

Henry drove through Shoreside, the progress of the car monitored by many pairs of suspicious eyes. Henry felt a shiver of menace. He knew the estate had become an increasingly dangerous and intimidating place for cops, or anyone from the authorities. Although some government money had been tossed at it, it was to no avail. Henry believed the local authority saw it as a lost cause and would have loved to ring fence it, which saddened him. Even the police seemed to keep it at arms’ length, though they would deny this. Henry knew the post of community beat officer was vacant and had been for a few months. No one wanted it.

‘Psycho Alley,’ Rik said.

‘What?’

He repeated the words. ‘That’s what they call that rat run these days,’ he said, pointing to a high-walled ginnel which ran between two sets of council flats. It threaded from one side of the estate to a pub on the outer edge where many locals drank, and a row of shops which were not on the estate. It was actually called Song Thrush Walk.

‘Why Psycho Alley?’

‘The place where sane persons fear to tread,’ Rik said spookily. ‘Not unless you want to be raped, robbed or battered.’

‘Go on,’ Henry urged.

‘Two old biddies robbed and beaten; three assaults and one indecent assault in the space of six weeks … hence it being christened Psycho Alley. All the street lighting has been smashed, and even on a good day it’s a menacing walk.’

Having been based at HQ until recently, Henry often missed out on local crime hotspots and he had never heard of the problems here. ‘What’s being done about it?’

Rik shrugged as if to say, ‘Who knows?’

‘It’s a problem to be solved, isn’t it?’

Rik guffawed. ‘Problem solving. Our policing panacea? We’re so fucking busy, Henry, we don’t have time to solve problems. All we do is respond, respond, respond. Every bugger is driven by the brick around their necks,’ — he was referring to the personal radio — ‘or just by sheer volume of work. Do you know,’ he began to rant, ‘there are over five thousand crimans outstanding for Lancs PCs?’ Crimans were the follow-up enquiries doled out by supervisors to their officers. It was a statistic Henry did know. ‘We’re running round like bluearsed flies, chasing our tails all the time. It’s horrendous. We don’t have time to solve bloody problems!’

‘Finished?’ Henry said, unimpressed.

‘Finished.’

‘Now where’s that house? Down here somewhere.’

Henry drove into a cul-de-sac with three-storey blocks of flats on either side of the road, one of which contained the flat Percy Pearson lived in.

Peering through the windscreen, Rik pointed. ‘That one up there.’

Henry pulled into the kerb, looking up at the block, which made his mouth turn down at the corners. The sort of place he had been into, it felt, a zillion times. One of those 1970s experiments in housing which looked good on the plans, but when built turned into a social nightmare. A crumbling concrete balcony ran along the front doors of all the first and second floor flats, and one or two kids leering over were already interested in the appearance of an unknown car in the area. Henry was uncomfortable at leaving the Mondeo which had been the victim of enough damage recently, thank you.

Wondering whether it would be on bricks when he returned, he did leave it and walked toward the flats, up the stairwell which ran up the gable end. He was not surprised to step over what he had to step over on the way up, and this made him think that not being surprised by anything any more equated to cynicism. Or was it pragmatism? Some sort of ‘ism’ anyway.

All the while next to him, Rik Dean chunnered away about druggies and shits and no-hopers and low-class denizens of the jungle in general. He was having a bad day. It was about to get worse.

The pair emerged on to the balcony which clung to the upper floor, pausing to check on the car, which had attracted the attention of two snotty kids who were standing close to it, rather like a newly-born antelope found by ravenous wolves. They looked fearlessly up at the two detectives.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Henry called through hands cupped like a loudspeaker.

Both kids shouted something back and stuck their fingers up at him, but sauntered away. Henry watched them a while longer until he was satisfied they’d gone for good.

The detectives walked along the balcony until they reached Pearson’s front door, which had been repaired by boards and had graffiti sprayed across it. Henry looked for anti-paedophile slogans, but saw none. Rik banged on the door, hard and clear: a copper’s knock. He caught Henry’s eye, then thrust his hands into his pockets. There was no response, so he kicked the door instead with his toe cap, then bent down and tried to peer through the letterbox. He found he could not push up the flap. He rapped on the door again, put his ear to the wood and listened. Henry raised eyebrows at him.

‘I think I heard something …’ Rik stood back, knocked again, but not so dramatically. Just another door to add to the hundreds he’d knocked on in his career. He waited for a reply with a certain amount of diffidence.

Henry folded his arms patiently and glanced toward his car. Still OK.

There was a shuffle behind the door. The security chain was either slid back or slipped into place. Then it opened, and the chain was on: a face peered through the four-inch gap. ‘Yes?’

‘Afternoon, Percy, I think you know me.’ Just in case he didn’t, Rik extended his arm and thrust his warrant card into Pearson’s face.

Pearson didn’t even look, but a big, frightened eye — the only one they could see — flicked from one detective to the other.

‘DS Rik Dean from Blackpool nick, as you know. This is DCI Christie from the Force Major Incident Team.’ Rik wasn’t having any misunderstandings here, even though he knew Pearson did know him.

‘Well I don’t know what you want with me. I was locked up last week and now I’m on conditional bail, which I haven’t broken.’ It was a very whiny voice.

‘I know, I know,’ Rik cooed reassuringly. ‘We’re not saying you have done anything, but we’d like to have a chat with you all the same.’ His hands spread wide in an open gesture. ‘You might be able to help us.’

‘I doubt it,’ Pearson said, ‘and if you haven’t got a warrant, you’re not coming in here.’

He was about to slam the door. Rik managed to step in and wedge his shoulder against it, preventing it from closing. Henry came in behind his colleague and over Rik’s shoulder said, ‘Red rag to a bull, Mr Pearson. You chose to say some very poor words, because when we get told we need a warrant, that makes us very sus indeed, usually meaning that we don’t bother getting one, we just come in anyway.’

‘I’m hiding nothing,’ he protested.

‘Open the door then, and let us in,’ Henry said reasonably.

‘OK, OK, but you need to step back.’

‘And if you lock us out,’ Rik warned, ‘we’ll kick the door in and think of a reason after, got that?’

Pearson nodded. Rik and Henry took a step back. The door closed. For a moment they thought they were going to have to make good their promise about forcing an entry, but then the chain slid back and the door opened slowly. A wary sex offender said, ‘Come in,’ and led them through to the living room. It was a bare, basic place. Cheap furniture, big TV, DVD and video, and a computer in the corner, which attracted Henry’s attention.

‘You lot’ve got my hard drive,’ Pearson said.

Henry looked at him properly for the first time. Saw a middle-aged man with pockmarks cratering his face and a look in his eyes which showed fear. Pearson was breathing shallowly, and Henry could have sworn he heard the man’s heart beating.

‘No need to be nervous,’ Henry told him with a wicked smile, making him even more tense. There was something wrong, Henry sensed. His eyes narrowed. ‘Just want a chat, Percy, that’s all.’

‘D’you want to sit?’

‘I’ll stand,’ Henry said, not wishing to lose any advantage. ‘Move around a bit, if you don’t mind.’

‘Me too,’ said Rik, also sensing Pearson’s unease. The detectives circled like hawks.

‘What d’you want?’

Maybe it was simply the fact that two cops had arrived unannounced and were invading his space that made Pearson nervous; the fact that it was hugely apparent they immediately disliked him and that here he was, alone with two big guys who might want to do him damage. Maybe that’s why he’s all jittery, Henry thought.

‘I believe you’re on the sex offenders register,’ Henry put to him. Pearson blinked, swallowed, looked pale, nodded. ‘How long for?’

‘Life,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ve signed on and done everything I’m supposed to do.’

‘That’s good, even though you still are committing offences,’ Henry pointed out, happy to continue to make Pearson squirm, even though he knew he was being a bit naughty.

‘Allegedly,’ he retorted primly. Then, ‘What do you want?’

‘You were in a probation hostel in Accrington,’ Rik said.

‘Which you already know … look, what is this?’

‘You were there with a guy called George Uren.’

Pearson’s mouth closed tightly. ‘And?’

‘We want to know where he lives,’ Henry said.

‘I already told you lot last week. I’ve seen him knocking about in Fleetwood, but I don’t know where he lives. God, I wish I’d never opened my trap.’

‘According to the hostel records, you were pretty pally with him.’

‘Hm! That bitch Harcourt tell you that? Well she’s wrong. He was a bloke I talked to, that’s all. Nothing more.’

‘Sharing experiences?’ Rik cut in with a sneer. Pearson’s eyes turned to Rik. He licked his lips.

‘We talked … that’s all. He wasn’t a man I particularly liked, OK?’

Suddenly, the heads of all three men turned to a door off the living room which Henry guessed led to the bedroom. Was it a scratching noise?

‘Someone in there?’ Rik demanded. ‘You not alone?’

Henry focused closely on Pearson, himself now tense, wondering if they’d stumbled on to something. There was a faint meow. Pearson crossed the room with an angry look on his face and opened the door six inches, allowing a tiny kitten to tumble through the gap. Pearson lifted it up in the palm of his hand and closed the door. The expression on his face morphed into one of triumph tinged with … Henry attempted to work it out, then got it: relief.

‘Just my cat, Nigel.’

‘So, nothing more than a passing acquaintance with Uren, then?’ Henry said, resuming the conversation.

‘Exactly. He is not the sort of person I wish to be associated with.’

‘Why not?’ Rik queried.

‘Erm …’

Henry’s head jerked toward the bedroom again, his whole concentration on it, a tingle of static crackling through him as his senses clicked into overdrive. He was certain he’d heard something else, not just a cat. His head revolved slowly to regard Pearson. ‘Who’s in that room?’ he asked quietly.

‘Nobody,’ he snapped defensively.

The cold, hard eyes of the detectives picked up Pearson in their glare, deeply suspicious.

‘Another cat?’ Henry said. Pearson’s mouth stayed clamped shut. ‘Have you anything to hide, Percy?’

‘No.’ It was just a whisper of denial, no strength in it.

‘Then you won’t mind if we have a glance,’ Rik said, taking a step to the door. Cat still in hand, Pearson made a sudden move toward him. Rik came up sharp. ‘Yes?’ he said. Pearson stopped, his countenance desperate with indecision.

‘You need a warrant.’

‘Like hell,’ Rik said. ‘I need fuck all.’ His hand reached the door handle and rested on it, then pushed it down and pushed the door which swung open on its hinges, revealing a dimly-lit bedroom beyond, a double bed up against the back wall and an indistinguishable shape upon it, under the duvet.

The detectives shared a quick glance, then Henry looked at Pearson whose shoulders dropped in a gesture of defeat. ‘You fibbed.’

Rik took a step into the bedroom, his broad frame filling the doorway, his back now to both Henry and Pearson.

Pearson moved with sudden violence, catching both men off guard. His right hand, the one holding the kitten, swung in Henry’s direction and with all his might he hurled the poor feline at him, a tiny bundle of fur and claws flying across the room and slamming into Henry’s face, a squeal emitting from both man and beast with the shock.

Then Pearson lunged at Rik’s back, his right arm raised.

Henry scrabbled the kitten away, sending it sprawling into the safety of the settee; at the same time he saw a flash of silver in Pearson’s raised hand and immediately realized it was a knife — where the hell had it come from? — and it was plunging toward Rik’s unprotected back.

A primitive roar of unintelligible sound uttered from Henry’s throat as he tried to warn his colleague, whilst at the same time he dove at Pearson. But even then, in that nanosecond, he knew Pearson had the advantage. He was close to Rik. Henry was too far away. And Henry knew he could not stop the arc of the blade, which he now saw clearly was thin, narrow, about seven inches long. A knife which could easily kill.

At the last moment, Rik twisted, but the knife was thrust into his shoulder, drawing a gurgling, inhuman scream.

In the surreal way in which incidents like this unravel in the gap between vision and thought, it all slowed down to an agonizing speed and clarity as Henry saw the tip of the blade touch Rik’s shoulder, enter through the fabric of his jacket and disappear a millimetre at a time into his flesh.

Then real time clicked back in.

Rik bellowed in agony and stumbled down to his knees.

Pearson shrieked with rage.

Henry Christie yelled as he went for Pearson, contorting toward him and looping his left arm across Pearson’s chest, but not in time to prevent him from going for Rik again, this time angling the knife into his neck and forcing it into the unprotected flesh just below his ear. Rik screamed again, fell, clutching the wound which spurted a fountain of crimson, causing Henry to think, ‘Shit, he’s hit his jugular!’

Henry managed to wrap his left arm across Pearson’s chest and yank him backwards, frighteningly aware that the knife was now searing toward his own face. Henry’s only thought was to overbalance Pearson and dodge the blade at the same time. He was bigger, heavier and stronger than the out-of-shape offender, and he used this to his full advantage, pulling him backwards and sticking out a leg, over which he dropped Pearson who, realizing he was falling, tried to keep upright, failed, and let out a yell as Henry slam-dunked him to the floor.

All the while, Rik’s predicament was there in his mind.

He knew he would have to deal quickly, efficiently and ruthlessly with Pearson.

As the man hit the carpet, Henry reached out and grabbed his right wrist, then dropped his full weight on to the guy, landing across him and pinning him down. Henry’s other hand went for the wrist too, and he bashed the knife hand down on the floor repeatedly. The grip gave almost immediately and the knife rolled away just out of reach. At that exact point, Henry knew he now had the power … particularly as Pearson simply went weak and lost the will to fight. He began to sob.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …’ he blubbed.

Henry kept him held down as he readjusted his own position, straddling his chest, trying to control his own breathing and temper — two things which did not happen. He glared down and bunched the fist of his right hand, nostrils flaring, shaking angrily. Then he had a thought and checked himself.

Instead of punching him, he slapped Pearson hard across the face, employing the technique he had learned from his recent defensive tactics training, then slapped the other way, then the other, and kept going until his anger had dissipated.

It was satisfying to see Pearson’s face swell and hear him whimper.

Then he spun him over on to his front, dragged his arms behind his back and cuffed him tight so the ratchets ate into his flesh, right on the wrist bone.

He stood up, kicked the knife away, growling, ‘Do not fucking move,’ and turned his attention to Rik, who was lying across the threshold of the bedroom, clutching his neck and shaking uncontrollably as though he was being jabbed with a cattle prod. Blood pumped through his fingers. Lots of it.

‘Jesus, Henry, Jesus …’ he gasped. ‘Oh, God, I’m gonna die.’

‘Are you fuck,’ Henry said reassuringly, wondering when he’d last seen so much blood flowing; not in a long time. It was everywhere. ‘Come on,’ he said, bending over Rik. ‘You need to get up and sit on a chair, keep the wounds high up for a start, OK?’ Rik tried to respond, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyelids fluttering like a doll’s as he went into the first stage of shock. Henry panicked internally, but outside stayed calm, forceful. ‘I’m going to help you get up and sit down, OK? Then we’ll sort out the wound.’

‘Whatever.’ For a second, Rik took his hand from the cut and a fresh spurt of bright blood shot out across Henry’s trousers.

Henry instinctively squirmed away, then overcoming his squeamishness said, ‘Get your hand back over that wound and keep pressing.’

Rik nodded, no colour, only deathly grey in his face. He put his blood-soaked hands back on to his neck, clamping them there. Henry quickly searched around for something else to put on the wound, his eyes settling on a grubby tea towel thrown over the side of a chair. He grabbed it, folded it and eased it under Rik’s hands. ‘Keep that there. Hold it on tight. You’ll be OK, promise. Now come on.’

He eased Rik into a sitting position, then gradually up on to his knees, then up on to wobbly feet before steering him into an armchair. All the while, the blood flowed incessantly, filling the towel, drenching it, and Rik’s condition deteriorated.

Then Henry got on to the radio, and moments later comms at Blackpool had contacted the ambulance and other patrols were en route to assist.

After that he gave Pearson a cursory check. He was still secure, lying there uttering blubbering sobs, watching Henry nervously. His attention returned to Rik. He found some more towels in the kitchen, folded them and placed them on top of the one already there and pushed Rik’s hands back on. ‘Pressure, keep pushing.’ He sat on the chair arm.

Rik shivered.

Henry checked his watch: two minutes since he’d called in.

Time crawled with unbelievable slowness in situations like these. He’d experienced it many times before, but took comfort because he knew his colleagues would be tear-arsing to the scene, putting their own lives in danger, and the paramedics would be doing the same because they were as mad as cops.

‘Henry,’ Rik rasped worryingly, blood bubbling from his lips. ‘I’m gonna die.’

‘Are you fuck,’ Henry repeated, aware his bedside manner wasn’t what could be called overtly caring, but he knew it was pitched right for Rik. The new towels were filling with blood. It looked like the jugular had been severed as Henry suspected. ‘Why … why …’ Rik continued, ‘why attack me?’

Henry got to his feet and walked to the bedroom.

A strained, ‘No,’ came from Pearson’s lips.

Henry gave him a sneer and stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. In the distance his ears caught the welcome sound of sirens approaching. There was the aroma of sandalwood from a number of candles dotted around the room. The curtains were drawn, almost no light chinking through them and though there was light from behind, it was not easy to see.

He paused one foot beyond the threshold, his instinct as a detective telling him this could be a crime scene.

Henry flicked on the light using the switch by the door. Even that wasn’t much of a light, just a low wattage bulb. Henry’s eyes adjusted and saw the shape in the bed underneath the crumpled duvet. He drew back the cover and revealed the reason why Pearson had reacted with such astounding violence.

At his feet, Nigel the kitten rubbed its head on his ankles, purring loudly, having recovered from its subsonic flight.