Psycho Alley

MONDAY
Seven

00:05 hours. Fortunately the adrenalin was rushing, and despite the fact he’d been on duty since early morning Sunday, Henry was feeling elated, even though he knew it was a sensation that would be short-lived.

The last two hours had been a flurry of activity and he was now revelling in being at the middle of things, unlike earlier when all he wanted to do was hide his head in a bucket. Such were the vagaries of being a cop. Feelings often contradicted themselves within the blink of an eye, and this was often how officers burned out. Lows, followed by highs, followed by lows, then seeking the next high. It was like being on crack cocaine, only it was legal, and far more addictive.

So for the moment, Henry was loving it, but he realized when it was over he would be exhausted and not in receipt of any overtime payments.

He looked at the faces in the briefing room. A dozen blue-overalled Support Unit officers, all mean-looking with close-cropped hair (even the women), wearing steel-toe-capped boots, everyone eager to go and smash down some doors. They lounged around indolently, sipping free hot drinks from polystyrene cups and helping themselves to mounds of biscuits Henry had managed to source. A dog handler, minus dog, chatted with them, anticipating the use of his dog in a search. Three crime scene investigators in white overalls hovered behind the uniforms and two local jacks leaned against the wall, annoyed they were here so late.

Henry coughed the cough of the person wishing to bring chatter to an end and draw attention to themselves.

‘Evening folks,’ he said amiably, getting a muted, but fairly friendly response. ‘Thanks for coming … hopefully tonight we are going to catch ourselves a murderer.’

By calling in a couple of favours, Henry managed to turn out two members of the surveillance team who lived locally. Following a quick telephone briefing, they pinpointed the address Pearson had divulged and were keeping discreet obs on it.

The house was a four-storey terrace in Blackpool’s North Shore, in the streets behind the Imperial Hotel off Dickson Road. It was a substantial building, like thousands of others in town, having been through a series of uses, now split into eight units, or bedsits. Henry had managed to get as much information about it as possible, but in the time available, he struggled to get very much. All he had was what Pearson had given him: Uren lived at that address in one of the flats, but which one he did not know.

A check in the voters register was inconclusive, so up to a point the police would be going in blind — but what was new about that? It just meant a slow, systematic raid, going to each flat in turn as quietly as possible, with a secure cordon around the perimeter so that if Uren was spooked and did a runner, he’d be caught in the net.

As a plan it was flawed, but it was the best he could do.

He RVd with one of the surveillance officers, together with Jane and Debbie, at a pre-arranged point just behind the Imperial Hotel.

‘All we can say is that the place is occupied, Henry,’ the constable informed him. ‘It’s obviously split into flats and we haven’t seen Uren enter or leave the place. We haven’t seen anyone, actually.’

Henry considered the information, still wondering what the best way would be to search the place. He concluded that low key was the answer.

The RV for everyone else was the forecourt of a deserted filling station on Dickson Road, plenty of room on it for the Support Unit personnel carrier, dog van, as well as Henry’s, Jane’s and Debbie’s cars. He looked at the two DIs, thinking that there was nothing like a dynamic operation to keep the grey matter churning. After licking his lips thoughtfully and pulling a few pained expressions, wondering what the hell else he could do, he said, ‘I think the best way to go about this is …’

Based on the information from the surveillance guy, Henry and one of the Support Unit constables wearing a civvy jacket over his overalls simply walked up to the address, opened the insecure front door and stepped through a tiled vestibule into the ground floor hallway. It was wide and spacious, two doors off it and stairs leading up to the first floor. Henry could have had an educated guess at the floor plan based on past experience, and been confident at getting it right. The two doors would open into the ground floor flats, and he wondered fleetingly if there was a basement flat, but there didn’t seem to be any entrance to it from this level.

‘We’re inside,’ he said into his PR. ‘Next pair please, nice and easy.’

Jane Roscoe and another Support Unit officer walked smartly down the street and entered the building.

‘OK?’ Henry said. They nodded. ‘You stay at the foot of the stairs and we’ll do these two.’ He thumbed at the doors down the hallway. Into his PR he said, ‘Everyone in position?’

‘Four-eight-five and one-one-three-one at the rear,’ came one response.

‘Four-oh-nine, eight-one-oh covering the front.’

‘Roger,’ Henry said, not entirely comfortable with radio jargon even after so many years of coppering. It always felt a bit daft to him. However, it meant that two officers were sat at the front in a car and two were on foot in the back alley, avoiding shit and trash, covering the rear of the premises, all ready to nab anyone doing a runner. In addition, it was Jane’s job to cover the stairs while Henry and the constable dealt with the first two flats at ground floor level. Under the circumstances, it was as good as it gets if this was to be as low key as possible.

He knocked on the first door. Hard, loud. His warrant card was at the ready and next to him, the SU constable had a ‘door opener’ in his hands — basically a solid metal tube with handles — just on the off chance the door needed battering. He could hear muted TV inside and the door opened fairly quickly, secured by a chain.

A woman answered, peering through the crack.

Henry held up his ID and smiled the good smile. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of day, love,’ he began apologetically.

Pleased that, so far, his powers of persuasion had not diminished, he was now about to knock on the fifth door, the third flat on the first floor, and had managed to gain entry and search every flat he’d tried without too much of a problem.

The first one had been a lone, single female with a baby, who had been more than happy to have a couple of big blokes nosing around her sparse bedroom; next was a smackhead couple, both of whom Henry had locked up in his dim, distant past. They’d been too spaced out to know what was going on, and would probably wake up later believing it had just been a bad trip. Henry could have busted them, but he didn’t have time to be derailed by inconsequence, so he let it go.

He and Jane and their accompanying constables went to the first floor after ensuring that another pair were stationed at the foot of the stairs. It was a bit like a military operation: taking and securing ground, bit by bit. Slow and steady and a bit boring, but Henry struggled to see any other way of doing it, other than by blitzkrieg, which he didn’t really want to do because of the lack of planning time.

The first two flats on this level had been a doddle too. Henry marvelled at how easy it was to gain entry to other people’s homes. The flash of a card which no one really read. A few persuasive words and, of course, the addition of an evil-looking henchman bearing a mini battering ram did help matters. The first flat on the first floor had been a teenage couple with a foul-smelling baby; the second was another of Henry’s old customers, a guy who was a prolific shoplifter in order to feed a drug habit which had spiralled out of control. Entry had been easily gained and a cursory search — with permission — carried out swiftly. Henry was certain that a more detailed search could well have uncovered the guy’s stash, but again, Henry did not need that distraction.

Before leaving, as he had done on all his visits, he produced a photo of Uren and asked if the occupant knew him. Up to that point they had all looked very fleetingly at the image and shook their heads. Henry knew not one of them had looked properly — but the guy in the fourth flat said simply, ‘He’s next door.’

‘Cheers,’ Henry said, hoping to hide his rush. He’d been beginning to think he was on the road to nowhere.

There was a hushed conflab on the dimly-lit corridor — dimly lit because there were no light bulbs in the sockets.

Two more officers were called in from the street and the two from the bottom of the stairs were summoned up to join Henry and the three already on the first floor, six of them altogether.

‘I know you all have, but I’m still checking,’ Henry whispered. ‘You’re all kitted out in body armour, yeah?’

There was an affirmative from everyone. ‘Right, I’ll knock. If he comes to the door, we grab him, overpower him, ask questions later … let’s go.’

Henry raised his hand, about to bang it down on the door, but then paused. He glanced round at the officers behind him. ‘Change of plan.’ He reached for and tried the door handle, turning it slowly and putting his weight against the door, but it was locked. ‘Shit,’ he mouthed.

He knocked, rapping with his knuckles.

There was no response. He glanced down, saw no light from underneath the door; listened, but there was no sound. He glanced at the constable with him, then down at the weighted door opener. ‘Pint of Stella if you open this door in two.’

The constable, clearly experienced in such matters, eyed the door. ‘I’ll open that door in one,’ he proclaimed proudly.

‘OK, go for it in one.’

He stepped into position, braced himself, swung the opener back with the easy flow of a grandfather clock pendulum and smashed the flat end of the opener over the Yale lock. Hard, accurate, and in keeping with his promise, the flimsy door clattered open without need for a second blow. The smirking officer stood to one side and allowed Henry to stride into the flat, shouting, ‘This is the police!’

It was in darkness.

Henry stood still, awaiting some response perhaps, and at the back of his mind aware that someone was coming down the steps from the third floor, but that fact was just there, of no note, no importance, because Henry could smell smoke in the room.

Jane and his door opening PC were right behind him.

Voices came from the corridor. ‘Yeah, no probs,’ he heard someone say — still of no consequence to him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘What is it?’ Jane whispered.

‘Smoke.’

He flicked on his Maglite torch, one he’d bought himself, more powerful, sturdier and better for hitting people than the tiny personal-issue penlight provided by the firm.

He was standing two feet over the threshold, right in the living room of the flat. The torch played over everything in the room. A settee, armchair, TV, DVD, all basic stuff. No sign of anyone in that room, nothing untoward — just the smell of smoke. The beam crossed to the kitchen area.

‘Why aren’t you going in?’ Jane hissed.

‘Not happy.’

‘Fancy that,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You never are.’

He fought the urge to retort with a classy ‘Fuck off’. Instead he stayed where he was, drawing the torch beam across the room, back over the furniture on to two doors, one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom, he guessed. Still he did not move.

‘Something’s burning,’ he said.

Then in the torchlight he saw wisps of smoke rising from the gap underneath one of the doors — the bedroom.

‘Call the fire brigade,’ he said over his shoulder to anyone who was listening. ‘Just in case. We can always cancel ’em if necessary.’

‘Should we put the light on? Might help,’ Jane suggested.

‘No,’ he said. He slid his foot forward and moved further into the room, caution screaming at him. The smoke from under the door increased in volume. Something crackled behind the door. A sound Henry knew well: flames.

‘Trumpton on the way,’ someone called from behind him.

He still could not get to grips with his reticence to move forward and could feel the impatience of the officers behind him, particularly Jane. The trouble with cops was that they liked the feet-first approach, and in the past — the simple, straightforward world he used to inhabit — that was a pretty acceptable way of working. But no longer. Everything had to be pre-thought because people were out to get cops these days. They made good trophies.

And here he was, entering the flat of a man suspected of murder. The lights in the corridor had been tampered with, something he had not really thought about until now, and not long ago he’d been in a flat when a fellow officer had been stabbed and almost killed by someone who was not suspected of violence towards police. He was feeling very jittery here, because this did not sit well with him and he didn’t want any other casualties. Things did just not seem to be right. Could this be more than just a house fire? Shit. He was dithering, and feeling a bit stupid, too. At some stage you had to either go in, or retreat … Henry had to do the business, despite his reservations. It was always possible that someone might be on the other side of the door that needed help.

‘I want everyone out into the corridor.’ He turned. No one had moved. They were lined up behind him like actors in a farce. ‘Out,’ he ordered, ‘and keep away from the door.’

One by one they left, albeit with reluctance, though none questioned him. Once he was sure they were gone, he crossed to the bedroom door and touched it: warm. He bent low, reached for the handle and turned it, knowing the possible consequences of opening the door. He’d seen enough episodes of London’s Burning to know that fanning the flames with an input of oxygen could result in a fireball.

‘Is there a fire extinguisher out there?’ he called.

‘Not a chance in hell,’ came the response.

‘OK, here goes,’ he yelled.

Then, all caution to the wind, he threw the door open, stood quickly to one side just in case there was a backdraft, knowing in his mind that if there was, he’d be fried, but also believing in the naive way that human beings do, that he would be quick enough to save himself.

Flames did lick out of the door momentarily, but died back almost immediately. He waited for a second blast — none came — before peering into the room, fully expecting his clothes to be burned off.

It was a bedroom, and the bed itself had been pulled into the centre of the room and was almost encircled in flame which rose from the carpet. The body of a man sprawled untidily across the single, metal-framed camp bed. Henry’s torch beam played across the figure from head to toe, finally resting on the man’s ghastly face through the flames — the very dead face of George Uren.

‘Shit,’ he uttered.

Then there was a crack, like a bullet going off, making Henry duck instinctively, and more flames began to rise from beside the body. This was followed by another crack, then flames, then two more until the body was amass with fire, like a funeral pyre.

‘Incendiaries,’ Henry shouted. This time he threw caution to the wind, pulled the corner of his jacket over his nose and mouth and dived into the room, stepping through the gap in the flames and sweeping the four recently-ignited devices off the bed with his torch. They landed on the floor, breaking up as they hit, flames scattering across the carpet like mini firecrackers.

‘Get in here,’ he screamed, then began dancing like a maniac as he attempted to stamp out some of the less nasty-looking flames, ‘but don’t turn the lights on … Ow! Ow!’ he yelled as the heat penetrated the soles of his Marks amp; Spencer slip-ons, footwear not designed for walking on hot coals.

Jane and two PCs crowded urgently into the room and began a stamping dance with him, then two more PCs barged in with fire extinguishers they’d sourced from somewhere. ‘Out the way, out the way,’ they shouted and started using them, spray going everywhere.

Within moments, they had done the trick, amazingly.

‘OK, OK,’ Henry coughed, smoke now being the problem, lots of it. ‘Well done, folks, well done.’

Debbie Black appeared at the door. She reached for a light switch, her forefinger only centimetres away before Henry bellowed ‘NO!’ at her, possibly louder than he had ever shouted. She froze instantly. ‘Don’t switch on the lights,’ he said through gritted teeth, teetering on the edge. ‘Just don’t,’ he added almost irrationally. Then he calmed down. ‘Not until they’ve been checked, OK … just fuckin’ leave ’em, OK?’ He was terrified that the light bulbs could have been tampered with in some way, maybe injected with petrol, primed to explode when the light was switched on. Paranoid, maybe, but he’d taken enough chances for tonight. ‘Right,’ he went on, ‘I want everyone, except Jane, to go out of the flat. Retrace your steps and get out, please.’ The two bobbies holding their fire extinguishers looked affronted. ‘Thanks for coming to my assistance,’ Henry said to them, ‘but this is a murder scene.’

To reinforce his words, he shone his torch into George Uren’s dead face and then allowed it to linger on the deep, jagged cut under the chin where his throat had been sliced open and a gaping, horrendous gash smiled grimly at him.

Eight

Henry’s neck cracked as he raised his chin, rolled his head and tried to ease some of the tension in his shoulder and neck muscles. He gave himself a minor shoulder massage, feeling stiff all over, exhausted all over, and wondered why he did this shitty job.

He was standing on the street outside the block which contained Uren’s flat, There was some satisfaction gained by looking at the police and fire brigade activity which had awoken nearly every resident in the vicinity, the old adage ‘If I’m awake, you sods can be too’ spinning through his brain, though he knew this was just him being cranky.

The whole building and the ones either side had been evacuated just in case there were more devices to be discovered which might not yet have ignited. Two had actually been found underneath Uren’s bed, a good find, valuable evidence.

As the building was declared safe, residents were allowed back into their homes, and the CSIs, Scientific Support and the Home Office pathologist began detailed work up at the scene, a place from which Henry had done a runner for a breath of fresh air, and a coffee if he could find one.

A car turned into the street, Henry recognizing it immediately. Anger’s Shogun with personalized plates. Henry’s heart did a little sag. The car pulled in behind a fire engine and the occupant got out, marching purposefully toward Henry who, for a fleeting moment, thought of diving for cover behind a wall. His indecision meant he was captured. Dave Anger collared him, the man he loved most in life.

‘Henry,’ Anger called. ‘Hot briefing, please — if you’ll pardon the pun.’

‘Er,’ Henry hesitated, looking around.

‘There’ll do.’ Anger pointed to the Support Unit personnel carrier parked away up the street, just the driver on board. He pushed past Henry, who turned into his slipstream like a little puppy and followed. Anger ousted the driver and the duo had the bus to themselves, sitting between riot shields, helmets and assorted kit bags. Henry took a seat by the door, sliding it shut. ‘What’ve you got?’ Anger demanded, though he knew quite well what Henry had because he’d been briefed in detail over the phone. However, Henry wasn’t going to argue. Didn’t have the time and was too tired.

He took a breath. ‘Basically, acting on information obtained from Percy Pearson — the guy who stuck a knife in Rik Dean earlier — we came to this address and started working our way through the flats until we eventually found Uren. He was as dead as a dodo, throat cut, knifed in the chest and stomach, though not long dead. He was on a single bed in the middle of the bedroom, surrounded by several incendiary devices, some on the floor, some on the bed itself. Some went off, others didn’t — which is good for us. Obviously the plan was to destroy as much evidence as possible by fire, and it nearly worked. As it is, we’ve got Uren’s body almost untouched by the fire, and these incendiary devices.’

‘Suspects?’ barked Anger.

Henry shrugged. ‘Probably the guy who was in the Astra with him … maybe … dunno yet.’

‘And we don’t have a clue who he is?’ Anger said impatiently.

‘Not as yet.’

‘So where does this leave the murder investigation into the young girl in the back of the Astra?’

‘With one unknown suspect still outstanding and the girl yet to be identified, which we hope to achieve later today based on the DNA swabs obtained from some people in Harrogate.’

‘Square One, in other words,’ Anger said unfairly.

Henry bristled and held Anger’s gaze for a moment. ‘The girl’s body was discovered in the early hours of Saturday morning, it’s now the early hours of Monday morning and we’ve made significant progress, so, come on, give it to me.’ He flicked his fingers as though inciting Anger into a brawl. ‘What the fuck have I done? I’ve asked you before, but now I want to know.’

Anger reached across and opened the carrier door, moving across Henry and dropping out on to the pavement. He leaned back in. ‘Just catch that murderer, OK?’ He slammed the door shut and strutted away, leaving Henry speechless.

Henry opened the door and slid out, rubbing his eyes. One thing was for sure: once this murder scene had been tied up, he was leaving some bugger else in charge and going home to bed, whether or not there was a murderer still on the loose.

Under the very pressurized circumstances, Henry was amazed he managed to get five hours sleep, a period of time that successfully recharged his batteries. He did continue to ache all over, as though he was coming down with some bug or other; the leg which had been glanced by the Astra was very sore and his face had turned a nasty shade of green underneath his eye. But he wasn’t going to let the small matters of serious physical injuries and illnesses deflect him from his tasks.

The briefing at Blackpool central was fairly quick, and even though there was much to do following the discovery of Uren’s body, Henry did his best to delegate every task, from attendance at the post mortem (even though he would also be attending it) to crime scene management. Tempting as it was to try and get involved in everything, he knew that he had to take a big step back and, where possible, keep to a management role. His troops were professionals and he knew he had to trust them to complete their tasks. The investigation was becoming too complex for him to get involved in anything other than what an SIO would be expected to do.

When the team had dispersed — a team now larger and more unwieldy that ever, after that morning’s influx of new blood — Henry scuttled away to his office where he began to make some notes in order to make sense of where he was at. He wrote out bullet points in no particular order of importance.

Initial job / flasher / indecent assault / kidnap / Could this be Uren? Or are they unconnected incidents?

Percy Pearson — how much does he really know?

Dead girl? Harrogate? Visit parents if ID matches. Shit!

Uren — keep digging into background / who is his best mate?

Revisit bail hostel in Accy. Ms Harcourt. Is she hiding something? Why do I think this?

Rik Dean — keep track with his progress. Welfare issues?

XXXX — Who was with Uren? Need to find. Priority 1.

Who uses incendiaries? Unusual MO / Circulate far and wide? FBI? Karl?

Other abductions in other forces? Circulate.

He took a breather, knowing this would only be the beginning of a list which would ultimately translate into actions — and these were just his own jottings. He would have to sit down with Jane and Debbie — and Dave Anger — and others, to carry out a massive brain dump. There was no way he could even think of not including them in this process, because this was a team thing and he had to be seen to be running the job as head of a team, not as some maverick individual operating on hunches and luck. And the sooner that process began, the better. He picked up his phone and called a few people.

By midday he was at force headquarters at Hutton, four miles south of Preston, entering the FMIT building on the campus. Formerly a residential block for students attending the Training Centre, it had been snaffled and converted into offices for what was the SIO team, now FMIT. He entered and made his way to the first floor, passing his old office and hoping to find Dave Anger in his at the end of the corridor.

Anger’s office was empty. He could well have been at lunch either at the Training Centre or at HQ, or in some meeting. Henry paused at the door, slightly deflated. He had been hoping to get Anger to authorize an even bigger pool of detectives for the investigation, something Anger had the power to swing at superintendent level. He needed to get into the ribs of the divisional commanders to release more of their staff, because Henry felt he needed more bodies, pronto.

He lingered at the door, weighing up his next move. His stomach made the decision for him: a sandwich from the canteen accompanied by an Eccles cake probably … but first … he stepped into Anger’s office and sat down at the desk, intending to write a post-it note … then his eyes locked on to a couple of family photographs on the desk top.

He reached across. One was a wedding photo in a frame, Anger and his bride; one of those typical 70s shots, all flared trousers, sideburns and hair like a Roman emperor. Anger had looked pretty good in those days, actually, a bit of a stud. Henry looked at the bride and thought she looked familiar, but could not place her. He replaced the photo, swivelled in the chair and looked at another framed photo on the bookshelf behind the desk. This was a class photograph from Bruche, the Regional Police Training Centre, near Warrington, circa August 1978.

Working on that timescale, Henry guessed Anger could possibly have been in the recruit intake just ahead of him. Henry had gone to Bruche as a raw sprog in September 1978. He did not recall Anger from those days, but it was not unusual not to know other people, especially from other forces. In those halcyon days, Bruche had big intakes, hundreds of students coming and going through the doors following the Edmund Davies review of policing which had hiked up police pay and attracted many willing fools to the job, Henry being one. There was about thirty young, impressionable officers in Anger’s class photo who wanted to be coppers. Three rows of them and three class instructors in the middle of the front row. ‘Q Class’.

Henry chuckled: good, simple days, when being a young cop was great fun.

There were few females in the intakes, unlike the present day. The majority were white, male and overtly heterosexual — and Bruche had been a hotbed of sex; just a few girls to go round — and certainly no gays, at least none who took the risk of being identified.

Henry scanned the faces. He spotted Anger, boyish, smiling, confident and a bit of a looker. There were a couple of Lancashire officers Henry knew, still in the job, one a DI over in Pennine Division who was a big mate of Anger’s and who Anger wanted on FMIT. He looked at the other faces and recognized one of the girls, a lass from Merseyside; the name he could not recall, but the body he could. One of three conquests he had made at Bruche, all short-lived flings, but great memories. The one in the photo he recalled seducing — or was it the other way round? — on a disco night; she’d dared him to take her on the bonnet of the commandant’s car, and he had not been able to resist. His bum shone brightly in the moonlight that night.

‘Bloody hell!’ he shivered at the thought. If he’d been caught it would have ended his police career there and then.

He replaced the photo, and smiling broadly, left the FMIT building. Outside, underneath the trees in the grounds of the training centre, he saw a dead squirrel on a grass bank near to an oak tree. Some wag had put a half-smoked cigarette into its mouth, making Henry giggle out loud.

He was still chuckling when his mobile rang, but he checked himself when he looked at the display and saw who was calling him.

‘Hi John, how are you?’

‘I’m good, Henry.’ It was John Briscoe, a forensic submissions officer who must have been calling from a distance of no more than a hundred metres. His office was in the Pavilion Building close by, recently built to house the Serious and Organized Crime Squad and Scientific Support. Briscoe worked for the latter, dealing with all submissions requiring forensic analysis. The DNA swabs taken from the family in Harrogate as well as those from the dead girl had gone through him.

‘Got something for me?’ Henry asked tentatively.

Briscoe paused. ‘I have — we fast tracked the DNA swabs from the murder victim and those taken from the family in Harrogate — and did a dental comparison.’

Henry waited, a curious charge in his guts, knowing what Briscoe was going to say.

‘It’s a match,’ Briscoe confirmed. ‘The dead girl is the daughter of the woman in Harrogate. Your victim has been identified.’

‘Thanks, John, thanks,’ said Henry, glad on the one hand that things were moving on, sad on the other for the family in Harrogate who were about to be devastated.

Henry had no choice in the matter. Visiting the next of kin of victims was a given for an SIO, probably the worst job that had to be done, but maybe the most important. Many SIOs believed that catching the offender was the be-all and end-all of the role, and whilst this was vital, the police relationship with the victim’s family was more crucial even than that, and Henry was not about to shirk this responsibility. He briefly toyed with the idea of asking the local DI at Harrogate to do the job, but dismissed this almost instantly. He was the one who had to be the bearer of the news, even though the family were already primed for the worst — and then he had to set up a full incident room in Harrogate. What fun that would be, he though wryly. Cross-border shenanigans between forces were always a nightmare.

His biggest problem was who to take with him on the hundred-and-forty-mile return trip. It had to be either Jane or Debbie, because they had already formed a relationship with the dead girl’s family and Henry needed a bridge into their world before he completely and utterly destroyed it forever.

Jane or Debbie? A real conundrum.

He’d had an affair with Jane which had ended acrimoniously — and boy, was she intent on never letting him forget that! He did his best to avoid her as much as possible because he didn’t really trust her, as he suspected her to be in league with Shark Man. He actually thought they were having an affair at one point, but now he just believed they were out to get him for their own individual reasons. So a two-hour journey to Harrogate, plus whatever time it took to deal with the family, then a two-hour return did not really appeal, coward that he was.

Nor did the prospect of a substantial time spent with Debbie Black really tickle his fancy. Fortunately he hadn’t had an affair with her, but they’d had a smoky clinch or two, which had been awfully nice, and she’d made it clear that she had hots for him, which had been sizzling away for most of her career. But he guessed she was an emotional basket-case. Dangerous territory. And at a time when he was doing his utmost to stay on the straight and narrow, to have a straightforward life watching his (yet to be acquired) plasma screen TV with wireless surround-sound. Unfortunately, he was often quite weak when it came to the opposite sex and was walking proof of the truth in the old adage ‘a standing cock has no conscience’.

Jeez, what a choice. He was almost sweating with the weight of the decision. But it had to be one of them.

In the end he chose Debbie Black. At least there was no baggage there to drag along, and he could hopefully convince her that a kiss didn’t automatically equate to sexual intercourse.

When he told them, Jane looked deflated, Debbie elated and somewhat smug. Jane perked up when he said he wanted her to cover Uren’s post mortem and take charge whilst he and Debbie were out of force.

By that time it was four p.m. He realized the Harrogate trip would have to be an overnighter, which made him wince slightly. But he was certain he had the moral fibre to ensure it remained completely professional. He arranged to meet Debbie at Blackpool nick at five, giving them both time to collect overnight things and get a member of the admin staff to fix up a couple of hotel rooms in Harrogate.

‘Fill me in on the missing girl,’ Henry said.

Debbie was driving the careworn CID Vectra Henry had managed to acquire for the journey. Though he had sketchy details in a file on his lap, he wanted her take on things, what she had managed to pick up from her visit to North Yorkshire the day before. They had left the motorway behind and were steaming along the A59 which snaked right across Lancashire and dropped right into Harrogate.

‘Jodie Greaves, nine years old, nips out with the intention of going to her grandmother’s last Friday teatime about six-ish. The granny lives, what, maybe quarter of a mile from the girl’s home, literally around the corner. She never made it. Disappeared en route.’

‘Anything to say what actually happened to her?’

‘Nothing as of yesterday. The police response was pretty good, so they claim, and I’ve no reason to doubt that. All the usual Golden Hour tasks done efficiently and effectively. Quite a lot of resources thrown at it, but nothing turned up.’

‘Witnesses? Anyone see her between home and shop?’

‘None as of yesterday.’

Henry crinkled his mouth as he pondered. ‘What’s the area like?’

‘OK … not the wealthiest part of what is a very wealthy town. It’s a private housing estate, mainly semis, a few flats; there’s a small council estate nearby and some sheltered housing for old folk, which is where the grandmother lives.’

‘And the family? What do you make of them? Are they above suspicion?’

‘I think so, but you never know,’ Debbie shrugged. ‘Seem decent enough. Mum and Dad both work. There’s an elder brother, twelve, I think.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Watching The Simpsons on Channel Four.’

‘Hm, me too,’ Henry said.

They fell silent as she drove through the village of Gisburn which straddled the A59 a few miles east of Clitheroe. They were heading into lovely countryside, an area Henry had a soft spot for.

‘Well at least there’s one thing,’ Henry announced. ‘In cases like these it’s usually someone close to home, a relative or friend of the family, who’s done the dirty deed. Doesn’t appear to be here, unless,’ he said ominously, ‘the person accompanying Uren is said relative or friend, or Uren himself is known to the family … something we’ll have to explore.’

‘Yep,’ Debbie agreed. Everything had to be investigated.

He sighed heavily. ‘But this sounds more like a stranger … snatched at random, or maybe she’d been a target, been stalked before she was snatched … George Uren’s not gonna tell us, is he?’

‘No, but whoever he was with has got a lot of talking to do.’

‘Mm, that’s interesting,’ Henry said, leaning forward in his seat.

Debbie craned her neck to look for something. ‘What is?’

‘Something to follow up … if she was snatched at six, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And I spotted Uren somewhere around eleven-ish in Fleetwood … what went on during that intervening period? Five missing hours … say three at the most to travel back to Lancs.’ He shrugged. ‘All supposition, I know, but that leaves two hours unaccounted for.’ He shrugged again and gazed at the road ahead, his mind working overtime. ‘For argument’s sake, if she was alive when I first spotted Uren, she would have been tied up in that boot for five hours … poor kid.’ A surge of anger rolled through him. ‘Bastard.’ He pulled himself up short of going on a rant, concentrating on trying to formulate questions which would need answering. ‘Did Uren snatch her alone? Did he and his unknown mate do it together? Or what? Shit.’ He sighed with frustration. ‘And why did Uren end up dead?’ He tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. ‘Will we ever know?’

‘It’s a real puzzler,’ Debbie acknowledged.

‘And … and … if she was alive when I saw Uren, which I suspect she was, because I think we panicked them and they killed her because they’d been clocked, what was going to be her fate?’

Debbie wriggled with an involuntary shiver of disgust. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘It’s something we need to know, because if she was going to be abused, or whatever, where was she going to be taken to? I wouldn’t say Uren’s flat was the location.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not practical or safe enough. Taking a kidnapped girl up through a block of flats. I know it’s populated by people who look like customers of that bar in Star Wars, but I don’t think so. Too many people on top of each other for that to go unnoticed. There must be somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere secluded, somewhere to do the business without fear of interruption, some prepared place.’

‘Reckon?’

‘Would you kidnap someone and not have somewhere ready to take them? I wouldn’t. Even if I took someone on the spur of the moment, I’d know exactly where I was going to go, because even if the abductee wasn’t known, I’d’ve done my homework beforehand, because I’d know I was going to get someone, sometime.’

They were travelling over a stretch of moorland known as Blubberhouses. A high, winding, narrow section of the A59 which Henry knew well from his police driving courses. It was a location often visited, as it stretched the nerves and abilities of the students to the farthest degree. Henry had more than once thought he was going to meet his maker on this stretch of road.

‘You don’t kidnap someone without a plan, unless you’re a complete nutter … and that’s what worries me. We interrupted that plan, so as far as I’m concerned, the plan’s still running and another victim is required. Just because Uren’s dead doesn’t mean the plan’s been shelved, does it? We need to do everything right here from the word go. We need to milk everything we can from Harrogate, because that might just give us the clues we need to stop another snatch.’

‘You paint a bleak picture.’

‘It is a bleak picture,’ he said seriously. ‘And you know what I’ll bet is a certainty … this road.’ He pointed through the windscreen. ‘It’s more than likely that Jodie Greaves was kidnapped and then driven back across to Lancashire along this road. It’s the most direct. So maybe the missing hours could be accounted for along here somewhere.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Another action to be followed up … not far now.’ He had seen a roadside telling him that Harrogate was twelve miles away. He stopped thinking about the possibilities and focused on getting ready to deal with a family who was about to hear the worst news imaginable.

Delivering the death message. First practised in the sterile environment of a police training centre, then for most recruits probably done for real within weeks of their first posting. Never easy, even when the news is expected, it always tests the compassionate skills of a cop, as well as their resilience.

Henry sniffed. He was staring blankly into the middle distance. Some might say ‘away with the fairies’, but his thoughts were one hundred per cent with the grieving family of Jodie Greaves. He had a double Jack Daniel’s in his hand, two chunks of ice in it, sitting in the bar of an hotel in Harrogate, alone. A grim expression was set on his face as he tried to imagine the monumental task facing the Greaves family. Just to keep going, taking one hour, one day at a time, knowing their treasured daughter had been brutally taken from them, kidnapped, driven for miles in the back of a car, then murdered.

Henry had tried to be gentle, sparing them the horrific detail, but at the same time firm and as truthful as possible. They had to know she was ‘dead’, not ‘passed away’, because the use of anything other than the word ‘dead’ always gave false hope.

And he had to convince them there was no mistake in the identification of Jodie. DNA, he told them, was utterly reliable; the dental records simply confirmed the science. Their daughter had been murdered. Their daughter had been found in the back of a burned-out car on the bleak Lancashire coast at Fleetwood. Murdered.

Then Henry had had to stay with them. To try and be their rock, the only thing they had to cling to, their only hope of justice, the man who would speak for their dead daughter.

His words had not been empty when he reassured them he would catch the killer. It was a solemn promise, one he would not break unless Lancashire Constabulary made him do so.

He and Debbie Black were with the family for three tough hours, together with a local detective inspector, before they could make a withdrawal. The experience drained Henry and though he felt grubby and in need of a shower, the first thing he did when he hit the hotel was find the bar. Debbie went to freshen up, saying she’d be down in half an hour.

The first JD had sailed neat, un-iced, down his throat, doing something that only that old-time sour mash could do. He bared his teeth as it spread through his chest and into his stomach. Number two was much more considered, sipped thoughtfully, as he sat at the quiet bar, ruminating, watching life go by, but not really seeing anything.

Passing that death message had affected him. It had knocked him for six, hit him deep somewhere, made him wonder if he was up to this sort of thing any more.

He fished his mobile phone out of his jacket, called home. Kate was surprised, but pleased to hear from him. He needed to hear her voice, the woman who had supported him through thick and thin over the last twenty years, who had put up with everything he had thrown at her and stayed with him, even through their divorce. She had been amazing, and Henry hated himself for repeatedly letting her down. He knew he could not ever do it again if he wanted any sort of contented life in the future.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hiya handsome, what’s up?’

‘You’re so intuitive. I’ve only said one word to you, so how do you know if anything’s up?’

‘I know you only too well.’

‘Mm, you do,’ he admitted. He held out his empty glass and waggled it at the barman, indicating a refill was required. ‘Just been to see the girl’s family,’ he said. ‘It’s hit them real hard.’

‘And you, by the sounds of it.’

‘Er, yeah,’ he said, nonplussed with himself. ‘Could be because of the girls … y’know … thinking what life’d be like if-’

‘Henry, don’t even go there,’ Kate cut in. ‘It’s not a good place to visit.’

‘I know, you’re right.’ He wiped his face with his hand, scrunching his eyelids with his fingers. ‘Need to snap out of this,’ he said. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine … the girls are tucked up in bed, believe it or not … my little babies.’

‘Even though they’re well into their teens and one’s nearly twenty,’ Henry laughed.

‘Always my babies, though,’ she said tenderly.

‘About bloody time they left home,’ Henry joked. ‘Costing me a fortune.’

‘They can stay forever.’

‘Yeah, yeah, they can,’ Henry murmured. ‘So what are you doing?’

‘Reading a trashy book, sipping red wine, nibbling Nobby’s nuts.’

‘The bastard.’

There was a pause.

‘Wish you were here,’ Kate said simply.

‘Me too … when this is sorted, things are going to change,’ Henry vowed — but not for the first time.

‘Yeah … love you to bits,’ Kate said.

‘Love you, too.’

‘Take care.’

Henry ended the call, eyes moist, looking thoughtfully at the phone, thinking about himself, what he had become, wondering if he could change.

He raised his head and glanced toward the bar entrance through which a well-groomed, manicured and very dolled-up Debbie Black slinked. She wore a tight red dress and sheer stockings which glistened in the lights. She had obviously changed her underwear, too, as a push-up bra did a major job on her breasts; Henry looked and failed to see a panty line and guessed that a thong was now in place, or maybe nothing at all. She’d let her auburn hair down, applied copious make-up … and Henry gulped. She smiled gorgeously as she approached, walking like a cat, and the eyes of all the people in the bar stayed with her on her journey from door to stool. It was as plain as day that there was only one thing on her mind: Henry Christie and several bouts of depraved sex. Two things, actually.

Strangely, the latter was a thought that crossed his mind, too.

She paraded on in front on him and he caught more than a whiff of perfume.

‘Who was that?’ she demanded, nodding at his phone.

‘Kate.’

‘Ah,’ she said, slightly cast down. She looked him straight in the eye, hers twinkling with the sparkly drops just applied to them. Her face was serious at first, then it cracked into a depraved grin. ‘Still, you’re not married, are you, so it won’t be adultery.’

What worked for Henry was that Debbie had not eaten that evening, something which did not seem to dawn on her as he imbibed three WKDs in quick succession. Her subsequent visit to the toilet told Henry that she could not hold her drink: in total juxtaposition to the classy entry earlier, Debbie’s walk to the loo was a complete mess, her shapely legs seeming to have developed a mind of their own. They wanted to go in completely different directions to the rest of her, like a newborn fawn.

Seeing his chance, Henry immediately presented her with another bottle of WKD on her return. He bought himself a tonic water, ice and lemon, letting her think it had gin in it.

At one point Henry thought, God, this is sad — getting a woman drunk so I don’t have to sleep with her. What is my world coming to?

She deteriorated rapidly, ably assisted by Henry’s plying of alcohol. Her next trip to the toilet resulted in near disaster as she walked into the edge of the bar door, staggered backwards and landed in the lap of an ageing gent who could hardly believe his luck.

Henry apologized to him, heaved her back to her feet and steered her to the lift, into which she teetered, plugging herself into one corner to prevent a further fall.

‘You bashtard, Henry,’ she slurred. Her previously shimmering eyes were now red and bloodshot, her lipstick smeared. ‘You done this on purpose.’

At first Henry thought she had sussed his plan.

‘Gettin’ me pissed so’s you can ’ave yer way wi’ mi.’ Her head lolled uncontrollably as the lift lurched upwards. Her stomach must have done the same thing. ‘Feel sick,’ she announced.

‘Well hold it back till you’re in your room.’

‘Jeez, everythin’s goin’ up,’ she slurred.

Their rooms were adjacent on the second floor. Henry hurried her to her door, rooting for her key in her handbag. Once inside, he pushed her into the bathroom, just in time.

She was horribly sick in the toilet, sinking to her knees, retching, the noise amplified by the acoustics of the bowl. It sounded disgusting. She groaned and twisted her disarranged head to look up at him.

‘Yev lucked out,’ she admitted. ‘Can forget that shag, don’t feel like a fuck. Head’s spinning … urgh!’ She hurled up again, the stench turning Henry’s nose.

‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered.

In his room, after a room-service club sandwich and chips, he undressed and showered, then raided the fridge bar. He consumed a Glenfiddich miniature with ice whilst he watched TV and thought about how to find Uren’s unknown friend, who he believed would be the true key to ending this investigation, a man who had to be captured, whatever the cost.

At one thirty a.m., dozing, eyes getting heavier, his mind planned the day ahead. He exhaled and sank under the duvet, his toes reaching for those cold places. He wished Kate was next to him and as he thought about her, his phone made a noise like an incoming aircraft: a text landing.

He reached for it and read it, smiling. It was from Kate. Good nite. Luv u v much xxx.

‘Mm,’ he pondered, knowing how close he’d come to being next door with Debbie, phenomenally relieved he wasn’t.

Another text landed. Smiling, he read it, expecting another from Kate.

All it said was, Gess who?

He scrolled down the screen to look at the number from which it had been sent, but did not recognize it. He frowned and put the phone down on the bedside cabinet, shrugging. It was not unknown for an occasional rogue text to come in.

But then the plane landed once more.

This time the text read, UR DEAD.