Psycho Alley

TUESDAY
Nine

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Henry ensured that — as the firm was paying — he had a hearty full English breakfast at the hotel. Normally he ate a rushed bowl of bran flakes, or maybe a croissant, but today in Harrogate he filled his plate to overflowing and tucked in.

He had knocked on Debbie’s door to ensure she was still in the land of the living before coming down to eat. There had been a muffled response, and she refused to open the door. Henry let her be, smirking at how his plan not to sleep with her had worked so well.

Whilst filling his face with a chunk of Cumberland sausage, Debbie appeared in the dining room, slumping down opposite him with a groan. She spotted what was on his plate and swallowed. For a moment nothing happened, until she started to sway, eyes bulging.

‘Go be sick,’ Henry ordered her, folding a forkful of fried bread and dribbling egg into his mouth.

With her complexion rapidly changing to a luminous green, she nodded, pushed herself back up and exited quickly.

They were at Harrogate Police Station at nine thirty a.m., finalizing details of the working arrangements between the police forces. Henry wanted to set up an incident room that day and the local DCI agreed. As the two male detectives talked strategy, Debbie observed from the world of a bad hangover. She was a mess, looked it, was contrite about it.

Henry shook hands with the DCI, hoping that this cross-border working would pan out well for a change. Historically, two or more forces trying to get their acts together with one common aim was a recipe for disaster. He hoped that by getting in early at ground level, most of the problems would be ironed out, but he knew he’d have to suck it and see.

He turned to Debbie. ‘How do you feel about staying over here for a day or two as Family Liaison Officer? Or would that cock you up?’

She stared blandly at him, not a single word having penetrated. ‘What?’ She blinked, making a clicking sound with her tongue in her dry mouth.

For the purposes of full comprehension he repeated the request in slow motion, adding, ‘We’ll put you up at the same hotel, which is a pretty nice one.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ she acquiesced, not totally understanding what she’d agreed to.

The local DCI watched the exchange with a smirk.

‘Er, what about transport?’ she asked, a cog or two starting to turn at last.

‘I’ll arrange a hire car,’ Henry said. He turned back to the DCI. ‘Well, that’s that, then. I need to get back across the Pennines, so if I can leave Debbie with you, I’ll sort out staffing for the incident room from our end.’

‘No probs.’

Henry walked out to the CID car in the yard and as he climbed in, Debbie appeared behind him, still looking desperately unwell. He got in, fired up the engine and opened the window.

‘Have I made a fool of myself?’ she asked, expecting the worst.

‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘But get yourself sorted out now and go round to see the Greaves family. You need to get under their skin, because they might know something they think they don’t know, if you see what I mean?’

Debbie looked totally perplexed.

‘Maybe another hour in bed,’ Henry suggested.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply. ‘We never got to make love.’

‘No, Debs, we didn’t, and we never will.’

‘Oh God,’ she blurted. For a moment Henry thought she was about to become all emotional and blubbery. He was relieved when she retched, covered her mouth and declared, ‘Gonna be sick again,’ and legged it back into the police station. He reversed out of his spot and began the journey back west.

Henry wondered where Jodie Greaves’s abductors had taken her. He, they, whoever, had lifted her from a street in Harrogate, and five hours later they had been in Fleetwood. He was sure they would have used the A59. It made sense. It ran close to where she had been taken, all the way across to Preston; once they reached the outskirts of Preston it was likely they had gone on to the M55, then off on to the A583 into Fleetwood. He knew he had to get a team to work the route, visiting pubs along the way, doing house-to-house on all roadside dwellings. It would take a long time, but it had to be done, even if it was a long shot.

He’d only just reached the outer limit of Harrogate when he mobile rang. Using his hands-free kit, he answered.

‘It’s me — Dave Anger.’

‘Mornin’ boss,’ Henry said guardedly. He would rather have said something more piquant.

‘How’s it going across there?’

‘OK. The deed’s done, the family know; Debbie Black’s staying over here for a couple of days, they’re setting up an MIR, chucking some resources at it … everything’s going OK.’

‘Good. Glad to hear it. Speak when you get back.’ Click. The line went dead. Anger and Henry had little to say to each other and there was no chance of small talk, which suited Henry.

He put his foot down as the A59 rose out of Harrogate and on to the moors. It would take about ninety minutes to get back to Preston, maybe another twenty to get back to the coast, two hours tops.

Valuable thinking and planning time.

His phone rang again, the curse of an SIO running a murder. Everybody wanted a piece of you. It was Jane Roscoe.

‘Henry — how’s it going?’

He filled her in succinctly, then asked, ‘How did the PM go?’

‘That’s what I’m ringing about … Professor Baines did it … God, he’s weird, but I do like him … Uren was stabbed to death and had his throat cut, no surprise there … but we’ve had the puncture marks analysed and compared to those in Jodie Greaves’s body … it looks like the same knife was used, a slim knife with a serrated edge, the sort found in most kitchens, so yeah, the same knife for both murders … also did a comparison with the one Percy Pearson stabbed Rik with … it’s not a match …’ Speaking via the hands-free, she sounded as though she was talking in a barrel. ‘The forensic people also looked at the incendiaries. They’re the same as the ones used to set alight to Uren’s Astra.’

‘Thanks for that … how did this morning’s briefing go?’

‘Good, everyone’s busy and up for it.’

‘Right … I should be back mid-afternoon, so I’ll see you then.’

For a moment he thought the connection had been broken, but when she spoke again he realized it had simply been a pregnant pause.

‘Henry?’ Posed as a question, the word sounded dubious.

‘Yeah?’ His word was suspicious.

‘I need to talk to you … on a personal matter … about us.’

His throat went as dry as Debbie Black’s had been. He gritted his teeth. ‘We’ll make some time when I get back.’

‘OK, thanks. See you later.’

Thinking and planning time gone tits-up, he thought wryly. Replaced by worry and panic time. Why, he castigated himself, why have I continually screwed up my life?

He was going to think and plan his worried and panicky answer when his phone rang again. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, not realizing he’d pressed the answer key after he’d said the word.

‘I don’t think that’s an appropriate way to greet an old pal, do you?’

The voice was instantly recognizable. The deep, East Coast Yank accent, now watered down with just a smidgen of southern England.

‘Hey, Karl, how you doing?’ Inadvertently Henry found himself speaking with a mid-Atlantic twang, and also feeling better on hearing his buddy.

‘It’s good, I’m real good.’

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Henry said.

Karl Donaldson was an FBI agent, seconded to the legal attache at the American Embassy in London for about the last eight years. Ever since he and Henry had met whilst Donaldson was investigating American mob connections in the north of England, they had become good friends on a personal level and had found themselves working together on several investigations since. Most recently, they had been together during the murder and corruption enquiry in Manchester. There had been links to a Spaniard named Mendoza who had been under scrutiny by Donaldson, suspected of murdering two FBI undercover operatives. Henry was aware that Donaldson had been fully tied up with the fallout of this investigation, so he was surprised to hear from him.

‘Can you talk?’

‘I’m driving across the backbone of England as we speak, but yeah, I’ve got hands-free and it’s nice to hear from someone I actually like.’

‘A simple “yep” would have sufficed,’ Donaldson laughed.

‘So, go on.’

‘Even though I’m up to my balls with the Spanish stuff, I still have time to read bulletins and circulations.’

‘My, what a professional.’

‘Up yours … and I’m always interested in anything that comes from your neck of the woods, buddy.’

‘We like to keep you amused.’ Henry could not even begin to imagine the amount of bulletins and reports which landed on Donaldson’s desk. A major part of his job was to liaise with the forty-three police forces in England and Wales, as well as dozens of police organizations across Europe, and because of this he was kept in a circulation loop of a wide range of intelligence and criminal activity reports. Henry guessed he could only skim read most of what came across, binning the majority of it.

‘Incendiary devices,’ Donaldson stated.

Henry’s interest suddenly perked up. The details of the fire-bombs found on Uren’s bedside and those in the car with Jodie Greaves had been circulated far and wide. Details would only have gone out that very morning, so hearing back from anyone so soon was a surprise. ‘Incendiary devices,’ Henry echoed.

‘Your bulletin is only brief, but the description and photograph of the devices are interesting … any chance of more details? A technical description, maybe? More photos?’

‘Consider it done … but why?’

‘Maybe nothing. I’ll let you know.’

‘Come on, you rogue — spill!’

‘OK — murder and intrigue, will that suffice?’

‘I guess it’ll have to,’ Henry conceded as he gunned his car down a stretch of coroner’s corridor — the middle lane of a three-lane stretch of road — to overtake a slow-moving HGV. ‘How’s the family?’

‘Good, good … let me know soon, will ya?’ The conversation ended and Henry returned to his thinking, planning, worrying and panicking — only for the phone to announce an incoming text. Despite the danger of reading a text whilst driving, Henry did so.

Having dismissed the ones he’d received last night as missent texts, it was unsettling to read the content of the newest one as he hurtled past another lorry at 70 and sped toward a roundabout. It read: Have u chkd ur brakes?

His first port of call was Blackpool Victoria Hospital, where he went to see Rik Dean, still in intensive care but due to be transferred on to a ward. After a couple of days observation, he expected to be allowed home. Henry found him in good spirits.

‘Screwed up your chance of going on the murder squad.’

‘Don’t, it hurts when I laugh and think all about that lovely overtime.’

‘What overtime would that be?’ Henry asked wistfully. ‘Still, think about the criminal injuries compensation … I’ll make sure you get it, so long as you split it with me.’

‘Deal.’

Henry updated Rik on the investigation, telling him about the jolly to Harrogate and Debbie Black’s drunken excess.

Rik shook his head. ‘You need to watch her, she’s a bit bonkers, I think.’

‘You’re not the only one who’s said that.’

‘I should know — I’ve been there.’ Rik groaned as he made himself more comfortable.

‘Oh,’ Henry said sharply.

‘Remember me saying I’d dallied with a hitched but separated colleague?’

Henry did recall this. It was during their discussion on the way to the hostel at Accrington. He nodded.

‘It was her — and I wish I hadn’t.’

‘And I thought you were talking about a man,’ Henry teased him, making him laugh again. ‘What’s her problem?’

‘She’s on a big manhunt, on the rebound from a crap marriage, wants to get laid by every cop she sees.’

‘She told me she’d never kissed a cop before,’ he said, affronted.

‘My hairy arse!’ Rik eased his head back on to the pillows and closed his eyes, clearly in pain despite the drug relief. ‘Having said that, she was rather good in a sort of manic way.’ His voice drifted off dreamily, all his energy evaporating. Henry realized he was asleep.

He stood up and quietly tiptoed out.

Fourth floor, Blackpool Police Station, Major Incident Room: Twenty minutes later a few chosen members of his team surrounded Henry. Jane Roscoe, DC Jerry Tope the Intel cell, a DS called Jackson, and two local DCs who had been interviewing Percy Pearson. These two were given the floor first, bringing everyone up to date on their progress: Pearson was amenable to interview, had admitted stabbing Rik Dean and the gross indecency and false imprisonment of a boy of twelve. Increasingly it looked as though Pearson operated alone and, although he knew Uren, was not particularly involved with him.

‘So in terms of him helping us find Uren’s accomplice?’ Henry posed the question.

‘I think he knows who he is,’ one of the DCs responded, ‘but he ain’t saying anything.’

‘OK,’ said Henry, accepting what was being said. The two DCs were first-class interviewers and he had to trust their judgement, even though it was hard for him not to go back down to Pearson himself and wring the bastard’s neck.

His attention turned to Jerry Tope. ‘I want you to keep digging on all associates of Uren, Pearson and Walter Pollack, the old sex offender who’s still at the hostel. I want everything on them, way back to their time in prison. Who they shared cells with, who visited them, anything.’

‘Sure boss, but I’ve already done loads,’ the DC said.

‘Do more.’ Henry made a shooing gesture and Tope sloped back to his desk. Henry looked at Jane. ‘So the knife that killed Uren matches the one that killed Jodie Greaves and the incendiaries are the same type?’

She nodded.

‘And until we find the person who was with Uren, we’ll never be anywhere near the truth of what happened that night?’

‘Very much doubt it.’

Now Henry turned to DS Jackson, who had been given the task of liaising with other forces to check on all similar disappearances of young people. ‘Where are you up to, Ralph?’

Jackson picked up the sheet of paper on his knee. ‘Good response … and quite a few similar disappearances, abductions, whatever you want to call them. Some high profile, some never even made the news. I’ve concentrated on the ones where the kids haven’t turned up, though I’ve a list of all the others, too. Just working through everything, really.’

‘Any missing, not returned, from adjoining forces?’

‘Yeah, one girl about a month ago from Rochdale in GMP; one a couple of months ago from Crewe in Cheshire and another one a bit before that from West Yorkshire, Leeds. There are others further afield.’

‘OK, stick with the recent ones from the local forces for the moment. Check to see if they could be linked. I don’t want to teach you to suck eggs, but look at times, days, dates, localities, anything you can think of. I’ll leave it to you, Ralph, but use Jerry Tope as well. Sooner rather than later.’

‘OK, boss.’ He stood up, sensing he was dismissed and walked back to a free desk.

‘How was Harrogate?’ Jane asked frostily, doing her famous cat’s bum disapproval impression with her pursed lips.

‘Interesting.’

‘And how did you get on with Debbie?’ A cold question.

‘Well enough,’ he nodded, not being drawn into dodgy territory. ‘Anyway, I need to bring the policy book up to date. There’s a lot to put in it. I’m going to retire to my telephone box if you don’t mind.’

She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better. Henry gave a quick smile, collected his belongings and headed off.

Dogged persistence, routine police work, procedure, careful analysis, problem solving, use of the National Intelligence Model, diligent enquiries, leaving no stone unturned — all good stuff, Henry thought. The way most murder investigations are solved, without a doubt. But when all those things failed, it was always nice to have a stroke of luck, that piece of good fortune that made everything else fall into place … that anonymous phone call, the informant who came good, the guy arrested on some other matter who goes, ‘Oh, by the way, I also murdered so-and-so.’

‘Lady Luck, where the fuck,’ Henry muttered, ‘are you?’

He put down his pen, having reread the long entry he’d just made in the policy book, clasped his fingers behind his head and swivelled in his chair. The killer shark stared up at him, a cruel glint in the eye.

‘Hi, Dave,’ he said.

There was a horrible feeling in his gut that despite all the good work going on, the mystery man would remain a mystery unless something broke soon. If his identification dragged on for a long time, it would get harder and harder.

An urgent rap on the door made him spin round. A flustered and breathless Jane Roscoe stood there.

‘Have you got your radio on?’ she demanded.

‘No, should I?’

‘There’s been an attempted abduction in North Shore.’

Lady Luck, he almost screamed, surging to his feet.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

He virtually leapt over his desk and he scurried out behind her, grabbing his switched-off PR as he went. She hurried to the stairs — ‘We’ll be waiting for the lift forever,’ she called over her shoulder — and began to descend them two at a time, Henry right on her heels like an obedient dog. She talked as she went. ‘Kid walking home from school … car pulls up alongside … male occupant tries to drag her inside …’ She jumped four steps, twisted and hurled herself down the next set. ‘Screamed, fought, kicked …’ She took a breath. ‘Got free … ran off … passer-by got a partial registration number and vehicle colour … patrols making their way now …’ They landed on the ground floor, hurried into the garage. ‘I’ve got some keys,’ she said, dangling them for Henry to see. She ran across to a blue Ford Focus and seconds later they hit the street. By this time Henry had managed to switch on and tune in, listening to the deployments from comms.

‘Alpha Four, with the complainant,’ one officer called up.

‘Roger,’ the operator replied. ‘Alpha Six, current location?’

‘Dickson Road, en route to scene.’

‘Alpha Nine — dog van — also en route … any further details?’

‘Alpha Seven, also en route.’

‘Patrols stand by,’ the comms operator said coolly. Obviously everybody was eager to get there, particularly as there was a possible link to the murder, but it would be a Keystone Kops type mess if they all descended on the scene like wasps round a can of Coke. Jobs like this needed a firm hand, because bobbies, being bobbies, loved to rush to the action, often losing sight of the bigger picture. Which is where supervision came in.

‘DCI Christie,’ Henry shouted up.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Current position with the PNC check, please?’

‘We’re running the partial number through now. Could take a few minutes.’

‘Roger — please recirculate all you’ve got, for my benefit as much as anything, then get a grip on deployment; two patrols to the scene is enough for now. Everyone else to static points and structured patrol, please. You decide who — and also get on to the motorway and let them know what we’ve got on.’

‘Roger, sir.’

‘Ahh, power,’ Henry cooed, listening to the operator follow his instructions. ‘Obviously none of that applies to me. I’ll go wherever I want.’

Jane raced the car up the promenade, past the tower, jerking as she changed gear, whizzing past horses and carriages. ‘I still need to speak to you,’ she said, niftily pulling in front of a double decker.

‘Right, shall we sort this first?’

‘Alpha Four to Blackpool,’ came a welcome interruption over the radio. It was the officer at the scene.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Some initial details … offender described as white male, fifty years, wearing white shorts and tee shirt. Speaks with local accent, maybe five ten, six feet tall. Brown hair cut short, glasses … and further to the car, it’s grey, could be an Audi … might help refine the PNC search.’

‘Roger — any direction of travel?’

‘Towards the prom from the scene, but that’s all I have.’

‘Roger … all patrols,’ the operator said and relayed the details again for the benefit of everyone.

Jane slowed, to Henry’s relief. ‘What bit do you want to do, boss?’ She glanced at him with irony. They were still on the prom, heading north.

‘I’m feeling lucky … let’s keep going for the time being.’

‘Think it could be our man?’

‘Who knows, but as I said, I feel lucky.’

One hour later there had been no sightings of a possible suspect vehicle. Henry felt dejected, hoping that the breakthrough might have come. He and Jane patrolled as far north as Fleetwood, then criss-crossed their way back, eventually arriving at the home of the young girl who had been approached and almost abducted. He and Jane spent some time with her and her parents, checking the story, soothing them down, before leaving them in the capable hands of a female DC to obtain a statement. More paperwork to add to the growing mountain.

‘Still feel lucky?’ Jane asked.

‘It’s a state of mind, positive mental attitude,’ he said grandly. ‘I’m always feeling lucky.’

‘I need to tell you something,’ she said worryingly.

The atmosphere in the car altered palpably.

‘What would that be?’ he said after a nervous pause, totally aware that his own lips were now pursed like a cat’s behind. He had a horrible premonition that what he was about to hear was not very pleasant. ‘Dave Anger wants to bin me from FMIT? I know that,’ he said, trying to take the lead. ‘You’d like to see the back of me, too. I know that.’

‘Both true,’ she agreed.

‘But you don’t want to tell me those things?’

‘No.’

‘Fire away, then.’

‘I had an argument with my husband. A real humdinger. Said some things I shouldn’t have. Hurtful things, y’know?’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘We’d — I’d — probably had too much to drink.’

‘It’s always the case, isn’t it?’ Henry’s body was turning slowly to ice. It crept up from his feet, up his shins, just about reached his groin and squeezed. A curious sensation. One you get when you know the hammer’s about to fall.

‘Things haven’t really worked out between us,’ she exhaled sadly. ‘The child thing never happened and sometimes I think that was just a ruse by both of us to save a failing relationship. Y’know, have a kid, save the marriage crap?’

Not deliriously happy about the way this was heading, Henry’s left hand sneaked automatically to the door handle, wondering if he could perhaps eject himself at the next junction and run like hell, never to be seen again. Fight or flight, the latter won hands down.

‘I really didn’t want to hurt him,’ she continued, now on a roll, constantly checking on Henry as she drove. Henry braced himself and pointed urgently through the windscreen.

‘Lights!’ he said, the word emitting strained from his constricted throat. Not only did he not like what he was hearing, they might be the last words he ever heard unless she concentrated on her driving.

She slammed the brakes on. Henry jerked forwards, his hands slapping the dash, seatbelt ratcheting on.

The screech to a halt did not seem to affect Jane’s verbal momentum. ‘Oh God, Henry,’ she blabbed on, ‘it was an awful row, one of those you never want to have. He was mortified.’

‘Right.’

‘I couldn’t stop myself.’ She inhaled, then exhaled heavily, a huge sigh, shaking her head. ‘I was so wound up. Too much to drink, tired, pissed off, unhappy,’ she concluded softly, and looked Henry in the eyes again, peering straight into his soul, terrifying the life out of him with a stare that made him quiver. Here it was again, he thought: emotion. The thing I do not do any more.

‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said inadequately, then pointed urgently ahead again. Traffic had started to move, and Jane was oblivious to the fact. She was fast becoming a hazard.

‘I wish I hadn’t said it, honestly I do.’

‘Oh?’

‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’

This time Henry stared at her, waiting for the bombshell. ‘No,’ he squeaked.

‘It just came out.’ Henry saw a tear form on the lip of her eye, then tumble down her cheek. ‘But I was so unhappy … and all because of you,’ she accused him.

He scratched his forehead, feeling as inadequate as Stan Laurel.

‘I told him about us,’ she announced.

‘You did what?’ he spluttered, though he suspected this was what was coming.

‘Told him we had an affair.’

Suddenly he felt emptier than the Gobi desert — and frightened — but before he could respond in any meaningful way, two things happened, one immediately following the other.

They were approaching the roundabout at Gynn Square from the north. Jane slowed, her attention veering from Henry, as she waited for his reaction, and the road ahead, a split of about eighty/twenty in favour of Henry.

‘Blackpool to all patrols … regarding the earlier incident of attempted abduction, the PNC check run against the partial number plate has come up with one possible match with a grey Audi A4, no current keeper, previously registered to a male from the Manchester area. The full registered number is …’ The operator reeled off the number. ‘A further PNC check reveals that the driver of this vehicle is suspected of indecency offences in the Greater Manchester area. Details of stop-checks to be forwarded to CID in Rochdale.’

‘Ooh, could be our man,’ Henry said.

‘Could be,’ Jane said with disinterest.

Henry looked up. ‘Slow down, we’re coming to a roundabout.’

‘I am doing, I am doing,’ she cried, and slammed on the brakes.

‘And my lord, there it is,’ Henry said, pointing to a grey Audi saloon ahead of them, pulling off the roundabout and heading down Dickson Road towards town, one occupant on board. ‘Yep, I’m sure it is,’ he confirmed, ‘before you ask.’

‘Shit,’ she uttered, and sped after the vehicle.

‘DCI Christie to Blackpool,’ Henry said into his PR. ‘Regarding the circulation, this vehicle is now heading along Dickson Road towards the town centre, just passing the rear of the Imperial Hotel.’ He ended the transmission, then said to Jane, ‘Come on, speed up, lass.’

She emitted a snarly growl and jammed her foot on the gas.

Henry gave an update: ‘Passing Claremont Community Centre.’

The comms operator was deploying patrols to the area.

In a few seconds the car would be in the one-way system which threaded around the old cinema which was now Funny Girls nightclub.

Henry rubbed his hands excitedly. ‘Told you I was feeling lucky.’

‘After what I’ve just told you. You must be nuts.’

‘Mm, OK, not lucky in that respect.’ Once again Jane looked square-on at him. ‘Watch the bleeding road,’ he yelled.

‘Sorry.’

The Audi drove round on to Talbot Road, stopping at the red lights by the bus station, Henry and Jane two cars behind. Henry updated comms whilst peering through the windows of the car ahead in an effort to get a better view of the Audi driver. He was speaking into his PR when he saw that the driver of the Audi was adjusting his rear view mirror. The lights were still on red, one car between them. The Audi driver adjusted his mirror again.

Then, lights still on red, the Audi surged through them.

‘He’s clocked us,’ Henry snapped.

Jane recovered some of her composure, her cop instincts slotting back into place. She pulled out and sped past the car in front, coming up behind the Audi, which swerved through another red light, left into King Street, then a tight right, followed by a right-angled left into Edward Street, shooting past the Post Office into Cedar Square. Without stopping, the Audi screeched across the very congested thoroughfare that was Church Street, angling across into Leopold Grove, the massive Winter Gardens complex on the right.

Henry held tight as Jane, now concentrating on her driving — or so Henry thought — pursued the Audi.

‘He’s definitely clocked us,’ Henry confirmed into his PR, giving comms the details of the chase.

‘The pursuit policy must be adhered to,’ the operator warned Henry. ‘You should back off now.’ Which was all very well, but by the time an advanced driver, pursuit trained, in a fully-liveried traffic car appeared on the scene, the Audi would have disappeared.

Henry said, ‘Roger,’ but to Jane he said, ‘Like hell … shit!’ He ducked instinctively as she swerved across Church Street into Leopold Grove, causing a bus to anchor on and two old biddies to call on all their reserves and leap out of the way, using Zimmerframes for purchase.

‘Don’t for a moment think you can forget what we were talking about,’ Jane said through grating teeth. She held the steering wheel tight, foot to the floor, and cornered into Adelaide Street, right up the Audi’s ‘chuffer’, having no regard for the pursuit policy. This was one suspect who wasn’t going to get away because of bureaucracy and Health and Safety.

The Audi was a fast car, sticking to the road well, and pulled away from Jane down the straight stretch which was Adelaide Street.

‘Suspect vehicle, fast speed down Adelaide Street,’ Henry said understatedly to comms. ‘Pursuit policy being adhered to,’ he added, lying through all his teeth.

‘Roger,’ the operator said doubtfully.

Traffic congestion at the next junction with Coronation Street ensured Jane was up behind the Audi again. The driver was all over the place in his seat, head revolving, body jerking as panic swept through him. He went right on to Coronation Street, closely followed by Jane and a cacophony of angry horns from other cars. Then the Audi went left and Henry said, ‘Got him!’ He had turned into Hounds Hill car park, a multi-storey monstrosity built up over a shopping centre. In 1985, during the Conservative Party Conference, Henry had been positioned on the top floor of this car park, where he spent a week freezing, with a bad tummy, wondering when the IRA were going to strike, as this was the conference the year after the Brighton bombing. ‘He’s just driven himself into a dead end,’ Henry said.

The Audi bounced up the ramp and into the first level of the car park, Jane sticking close as he sped along that level and veered into the tight ramp for level two, tyres screaming in complaint. Jane almost smashed her car by overshooting the turn, anchored on, found reverse with a crunch — ‘That’s it, get rid of all them nasty cogs,’ Henry said, getting a snarl from her — finding first and accelerating up. By this time the Audi had reached the far end and had swung up the ramp for level three.

It was abandoned, door open, driver legging it, when Jane and Henry reached three. Jane screeched to a classic Sweeney-style swerving, rubber-burning stop an inch behind the Audi and Henry was out after the suspect who was fleeing toward the stairwell.

Henry’s current level of fitness — low to zero — hit him as he ran, suddenly aware of the extra weight around the middle. Too many crap meals over the last six months had taken their toll. He was breathing heavily within fifty metres, wanting to stop within fifty-one.

But he didn’t. He followed the Audi driver into the stairs, glad to see the guy going down in the direction of the shopping mall. Henry flung himself down the concrete steps four at a time, landing awkwardly at the foot of each flight, jarring his knees, but not stopping, using the wall to propel him onwards whilst breathlessly shouting down his PR.

He was catching up with the guy. If there had been another couple of flights down, he would have leapt on his back. Unfortunately the next stop was ground level and the suspect burst through the doors into the shopping centre, running into a crowd of people.

Henry stayed with him, dodging and weaving past happy shoppers, trying to imagine he was back on a rugby pitch. Until, that is, an old woman he was bearing down on panicked, went the same way as him, making him suddenly switch direction, crash into her and send her flying, probably to heaven. He lost his balance, stumbled, shouted, ‘Sorry!’ and executed a spectacular forward roll from which he recovered brilliantly, but which gave the man on the run an extra five metres.

But there was no way in which Henry was going to be outrun by a suspected child abductor. Personal and professional pride saw to that.

He accelerated, everything pumping, closing the gap.

The suspect ran into the revolving doors which opened out on to the main shopping street. Henry managed to squeeze in the door behind him.

‘Got you, you bastard. You’re under arrest.’

In the confined, triangular space, the man turned on Henry, pure hatred in his face. A hand emerged with a screwdriver in it, which flashed as it rose in an upward arc towards Henry’s guts. He blocked it with his radio and bundled himself up close to the man so there was no room to move. They were face to face, sweat to sweat, eye to eye, breath to breath — and then the door got to its opening and they spilled out on to the street, giving Henry the chance to swing with his radio and smack the guy hard across the head.

They fell in an untidy heap, rolling across the paved street. Henry was vaguely aware of shoppers and screams and legs, but acutely aware that the screwdriver was still in the man’s hand: did all these child abusers carry weapons? Before the guy could take advantage of the space, Henry hit him again with the radio, bouncing it off his temple. It had no discernible effect, as once again the screwdriver arced up towards Henry’s face. He saw it had a Philips head. He blocked it, the two men parted, both getting to their feet, completely exhausted by the exertion.

‘As I said,’ Henry panted breathlessly, ‘You’re under arrest and you need to drop that screwdriver — now!’ He finished with a shout. Henry’s hand disappeared under his jacket and emerged holding his CS canister. ‘I’ll CS you if you don’t.’

The man considered his options as people gathered. Henry kept focused on him, aware of the build-up of bodies, which could prove advantageous to the suspect. He spoke into his radio, which he’d swapped to his left hand, and gave comms his current position.

Still the man kept hold of the screwdriver and maintained a threatening stance, undecided about his course of action.

Suddenly his face contorted with rage and he leapt at Henry, screwdriver raised. He screamed as he bore down on the detective.

Henry didn’t have the time or the inclination to warn him. He simply raised his hand, pointed the CS canister, and pressed. He was always amazed at how weedy and ineffectual the spray looked when it came out. A bit pathetic, really. But the effects were immediate and devastating on the suspect. His scream of anger turned to one of pain as the spray hit him square in the face. The screwdriver went flying and he clawed desperately at his eyes, nose and mouth, which burned fiercely under the acid-like substance.

For good measure, Henry gave him another blast. The suspect went down on to his knees, screaming in agony

Henry rehoused the canister, whipped out his cuffs and got to work on the suspect, careful not to contaminate himself in the process. He grabbed his arms and cuffed him around his back.

‘You fucking bastard,’ the man cried as he shook his head, desperate to claw at his face and rub his eyes to relieve the pain.

Henry knew that this was the worst thing to do, actually. Henry turned him to face the breeze and told him repeatedly to open his eyes. This was the only way in which the CS would dissipate.

‘Try to keep your eyes open … keep blinking … keep your face to the wind … eyes open … I know you want to rub them … that makes it worse … just look into the wind …’

Henry was standing by the kneeling man when Jane pounded on to the scene followed by a lump of hairy-arsed cops, eager to do business.

‘Well?’

It was eight p.m. Another long day … weren’t they all, Henry thought … and now he was face to face with Dave Anger again who, quite rightly, wanted to know where the investigation was up to.

Henry paused for thought.

A girl found dead in a car. The main suspect found murdered. One guy in custody charged with a serious assault on a cop and other serious offences. Another in custody following an attempt abduction. One still outstanding, but a good few days’ work in some respects … yet in others … His mind flitted to the interactions with Debbie Black, Jane Roscoe’s revelations — she’d told her husband! — plus the damage to his car. Henry’s brow furrowed on that point. Could those two things be connected? An embittered husband out for revenge? Maybe it wasn’t some embittered detective from GMP after all.

And on top of all that, the icing on the cake, was Dave Anger’s unremitting downer on Henry.

Henry gave a twitch of the shoulders. ‘A lot of things have progressed,’ he said in a non-committal way.

‘Are you any closer to finding out who killed Jodie Greaves?’

‘That depends on the outcome of the interviews with the bloke I arrested this afternoon … his MO fits in with the original investigation, y’know, the one I was foolish enough to say yes to?’ He watched Anger’s face as it remained impassive. ‘On top of that he was carrying a screwdriver which he tried to use on me, and while it’s not a knife with a serrated edge, it shows he uses blades, so we’ll just have to see how it pans out.’

‘How are the interviews going?’

‘At the moment, there’s very little. He’s refusing to speak, being very awkward. Early days.’

The boss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Keep me informed,’ he said, clearly unimpressed by the progress. He lumbered out of the office.

Henry sat back, breathed out, still speculating as to why Anger hated him so much. He gave Anger a few minutes to disappear, then picked up his phone and dialled the number of a detective constable called John Walker, who worked on the technical support department. Walker owed Henry a few favours and Henry was leaning on him to pull them in — all in the name of justice, of course. After this he rose from his chair and strolled to the MIR, which was buzzing with activity, albeit fairly muted. People were having ‘heads-togethers’ in a few locations in the room.

DS Jackson and DC Tope were chatting quietly. Two detectives just back from enquiries were sipping coffee, chatting. Two HOLMES indexers were busy entering data on to the system. Another pair of detectives, the two Henry had tasked with the initial interviews with the Audi driver, were also taking a brew. Henry, surprised to see them, approached.

‘Boss,’ they said in unison greeting.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Just a break … but we’re not doing right well. He’s clammed up tight, saying nowt.’

‘Can we prove today’s attempt abduction?’

‘I’d say so,’ one of the DC’s said.

‘Do we know where he lives yet?’

‘Over in Rochdale. A Section Eighteen search has been authorized, but that’s going to take some time.’

Henry squinted, trying to get his head round the best way. He suspected they probably had the man who had committed the series of abductions he had originally been investigating, and maybe he was the missing link in the Jodie Greaves/George Uren scenario. Was he Uren’s mystery companion? So many questions, so much to do.

‘I think I’ll have a word with him,’ Henry said.

The two jacks exchanged a worried look. ‘Is that wise, boss?’ one had the courage to ask. ‘After all your fisticuffs with him?’

‘One of you can be second jockey,’ Henry said as though he hadn’t heard the question.

Interview room two again: the scene of many conquests and a few failures. A prisoner had once even picked up the tape-recorder and attacked Henry with it; another had jumped on to the table and kicked Henry in the face. Mostly, though, interviews had been mundane affairs, sometimes easy, often hard and tortuous. But a good interview was usually key to any investigation, the bread and butter of being a detective. That ability to talk to someone and get the truth out of them.

The name of the Audi driver was Bernard Morrison. Mid-forties, divorced, a travelling salesman for a digital TV company, with a string of convictions over the years, all related to indecency.

He fitted Henry’s bill nicely. That progression of seriousness which ultimately leads to murder, unless nipped in the bud.

Bernard’s bud had not been nipped, though.

His eyes were bloodshot and watery. His nose still dripped from the double tap of CS, though the worst effects had worn off.

Morrison blinked, sniffed, regarded Henry with dislike.

‘Recovered?

‘Does it look like it?’

‘Be thankful I didn’t staff you.’

Morrison said nothing.

Henry inserted the tapes and went through the formal procedure of words that prefaced every tape-recorded interview.

He looked at the people in the room — the duty solicitor, the DC who was second jockey, the suspect — and then began by reading out the caution and asking Morrison if he understood it. He nodded reluctantly.

Henry was about to take a big step, but he could not resist doing it. ‘I’m investigating two murders, one of a nine-year-old girl and the other of an adult male.’

‘So?’

‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jodie Greaves and George Uren.’ He cautioned Morrison again for good measure and waited for a response.

It was a long pause. Morrison’s eyes flitted round the room, blinking repeatedly; he shifted uncomfortably. Nostrils flared as the breath hissed in and out of him. Then he suddenly stopped all this movement, getting a grip of himself.

‘I killed them both,’ he said simply.

Henry had not realized he had been holding his own breath tight inside his chest until he released it. He tried to remain composed, but his mouth had gone dry and the next words were a struggle.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said.