Backlash (32 page)

Costain's emotions were still on a roller-coaster ride of extremes, but Henry hung in there like a cowpoke, staying with the young man all the way, coaxing, cajoling, resting a hand on Troy's shoulder or back when necessary.

Yes, Byrne thought: Henry Christie was very very good when he wanted to be. The organisation had shot itself in the foot by taking him off CID. The good side of it was that the uniform branch had gained. But, if Byrne was as good a judge of character as he believed himself to be, it would not be long before Henry was back where he truly belonged.

It took thirty concentrated, wearying minutes, before Henry felt he was in a position to signal to Byrne that things were ready to proceed to the formal ID. On the nod, Byrne slid quietly through to the mortuary viewing room where Joey's body had been wheeled in on a steel trolley and laid out next to the viewing window. He had been draped with a white sheet which was held off the body by a raised cage.

Byrne pressed a button on the wall. The whirring electric motor drew back the purple velvet curtains, revealing Henry and Troy Costain on the other side of the window, standing in half-light. Costain looked beleaguered.

Henry nodded. His arm was around Costain's shoulder.

Byrne took the edge of the sheet and folded it back to reveal Joey's head. It was not too bad, not disfigured by the attack at the front, but because it had not been cleaned up, was blood splattered.

‘Is that your brother, Joey Costain?' Henry asked softly.

Troy stepped out of Henry's grasp, pressed his nose up to the glass, smearing it. His eyes were red raw from crying.

‘Yes,' he said simply.

Henry nodded to Byrne. The sheet was drawn back over Joey's head.

Troy screamed, making both Henry and Byrne jump. He twisted away and ran out of the viewing room before Henry could grab him. ‘Liars!' he yelled. ‘Fucking liars!' He ran like a rugby player, dodging out of the door, down the corridor, skidding through a door marked, ‘Technicians Only'.

He surprised Dr Baines and Jan, the mortuary technician, both of whom were slurping a slice of rather sloppy pepperoni pizza, which resembled body parts, into their mouths. With wide eyes, and pizzas poised above their mouths, they watched Costain tear past. He ran to the viewing-room entrance where Byrne was waiting to receive and stop him. Costain's screams turned into an ear-piercing war cry. He swung his weight into Byrne and heaved him back against the wall, winding him, and burst through into the viewing room. He dragged the sheet off Joey's body.

And stopped dead. He did not move other than for the rise and fall of his heaving chest, transfixed by the horrifying sight of the gutted body which had once been his brother.

Henry came in behind, too late.

‘Now do you believe me?' he said quietly. ‘Not even the Khans are capable of doing this.'

Troy Costain nodded dumbly, then keeled over in a faint. Henry caught him before he hit the tiled floor.

Her eyes were open, but she could not see because the darkness was total, absolute. Not a sliver of light. Not even enough to dimly make out anything.

She listened. Somewhere there was the hum of something. Indistinct, but constant. She was unable to tell what it was. An engine, perhaps.

She tried to move her hands, but they were bound tightly behind her, no play in the binding, whatever it was. Some sort of sticky tape. Same with her legs, bound together tightly by tape – thick, parcel tape.

Christ! Parcel tape! She started to sob. Parcel tape – just like the tape that had bound and gagged Joey Costain.

While ensconced in the rather cosseted world of the detective, Henry had forgotten just how much pressure the uniformed side of the constabulary was under. Not that there wasn't the pressure on the CID, it just seemed easier to manage and there seemed more time to get things done. The uniform side, and in particular those engaged in response duties, were being run ragged and had little quality time to devote to jobs.

That evening Henry was painfully very aware that, as he kept one ear attuned to the radio round his neck, the officers on his shift – scale D – were constantly busy, going from job to job relentlessly. Henry was finding it quite hard to keep abreast of what was going on because in the past he had always used the radio for his own selfish means, as and when needed. He had never been at its beck and call as he was now. He just wanted to turn the sodding thing off, but could not.

‘Let's get back in,' he said to Byrne as they pulled away from the Costain household. They had delivered Troy back into the bosom of the family, broken the news and then spent three-quarters of an hour dealing with the emotional fall-out. Henry was exhausted by it all. He had enough of his own baggage; dealing with other people's was draining. ‘Head into the nick and we'll take stock of things.'

Byrne drove through Shoreside.

‘What the hell's happened to Jane and Mark?' Henry mused out loud. It was bugging him.

The estate was alive with activity. Things seemed to be hotting up for another night of fun and games. This would be Henry's priority, keeping the peace on the streets. It frustrated him because he believed he should be searching for Jane and Mark. This was where his skills would be used to their best advantage – detecting. He was pragmatic enough to realise he would not be given a chance at it and would have to do what he could when he could.

‘That support unit from Blackburn should have arrived by now,' Byrne said, and to confirm this, in one of those moments that never happen in real life, Blackpool communications called Henry.

‘Go ahead,' he said.

‘The Eastern Division PSU have just arrived and they're awaiting deployment.'

‘I'll be in shortly to brief them.'

‘Roger. There's some other things you need to know about, too.'

Henry's heart sank.

‘The custody sergeant wants to speak to you urgently about last night's attempted suicide.'

‘Yep, got that.'

‘And I've just deployed a patrol from the station to a report that someone thinks they saw three guys throw something into the sea that looked like a body.'

‘Got that, too.'

‘ACC Fanshaw-Bayley wants to speak to you as soon as possible. He's in the Gold Room.'

‘Got that. Anything else?'

‘Standby –' There was a pause. ‘Inspector?'

‘Receiving.'

‘Blackburn have just been on – you're not going to like this much –' Henry did not say anything, but waited, ‘and report that twenty-odd cars have just left the Whalley Range area of Blackburn, en route to Blackpool, all containing Asian youths. Intelligence is that they're out for trouble on Shoreside, led by Saeed Khan. They're going after the Costains.'

‘That's all I need,' Henry said to Byrne. Into the radio, he said, ‘Roger. There couldn't be anything else, could there?'

‘Standby – treble-nine just come in,' the voice of the operator rose a couple of tones. ‘From the Pink Ladies' Club on the promenade. The landlord thinks there's a suspect device in the premises. Repeat, a suspect device.'

‘On my way,' Henry said crisply. ‘Blue light,' he said to Byrne, who flipped the rocker switch and jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal.

I
t was desperately cold on the promenade. An icy biting wind slashed in like a razor from the Irish Sea. It was certainly no weather to be dressed in a thin, white silk blouse, unbuttoned to below breast level, the lack of support for a very fine pair of breasts underneath the material very obvious from the outstanding (literally and aesthetically) nipples pushing up and out. A tight leather skirt cut off high above the knee, fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.

John Howard, known professionally as Pussy Beaver, flicked his bobbed silver hair, dusted with sparkling glitter, back off his face and inserted a cigarette, in a long, thin, penis-shaped holder between his high-glossed lips. His arms were folded under his splendid breasts and, as he shivered, they wobbled divinely.

As ever, he looked completely amazing – his long tapering legs coveted by many real women – very voluptuous and desirable.

He was standing outside the Pink Ladies' Club which he owned and ran with ruthless efficiency. The place had become one of the north of England's leading night spots. People from all over the country and abroad came in their thousands to experience the outrageous shows and behaviour on display every night of the week. It was a favourite venue for hen parties. It had made John Howard, who described himself as ‘Head Pussy', a millionaire.

There was a long queue outside, several hundred people, mostly raucous groups of half-drunk females. By the time the night was over, two thousand people would have passed through the doors. At £12.50 a head and the cheapest drink at the bar £2.50, the Pink Ladies' Club turned over £40,000 a night, five nights a week.

‘Oh, thank God you've arrived,' Pussy Beaver fawned and tottered unsteadily over to the police car which pulled into the side of the road.

Henry climbed out, a smirk on his face. Byrne was out less quickly.

Only when he was a few paces from him, did Pussy recognise Henry.

‘My my! It's Henry Christie,' he chirped. ‘It's you! In uniform too! My God, but you look totally fuckable in that outfit! Oh God, I could just lick your dick here and now, in the middle of the thoroughfare.'

‘Jesus,' Henry heard Byrne remark with disgust behind him.

‘And if you had a fanny,' Henry bantered, ‘believe me, I'd let you.'

‘That was always your sticking point, wasn't it?'

‘I'm finnicky like that.'

They laughed and shook hands. Henry had known Howard for several years, first meeting him when the club had been petrol-bombed by some local youths who hated what people like Howard stood for. Henry had arrested two nineteen-year-olds who had been subsequently imprisoned and a friendship of sorts had sprung up between him and Howard.

‘So what's the crack, John?' Henry asked. More police cars pulled up, one containing Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin hotfoot from the police station.

‘I think we might have found a bomb inside. It's a suspicious package at least.' John had dropped his high-pitched feminine tones and his voice had lowered an octave to become more masculine.

‘What makes you think it's a bomb?'

‘Lunchbox left under a table in a dark corner of the main bar. It doesn't seem right, if you know what I mean?'

‘Anybody touch it?'

‘No.'

‘Anyone see who put it there?'

Howard shrugged his shoulders.

‘How about your security cameras?'

‘I'll get them checked.'

‘Ah well, at least we've done some good tonight,' Henry said, thinking about the job PC Taylor had been doing, warning people about the possible danger.

‘How have you done that?' Howard's face screwed up quizzically.

‘Haven't you been visited by a PC this evening, dishing out leaflets asking you to be on your guard?'

‘Nope.'

‘Oh, never mind then. He can't have got round to you yet. Let's get on with this. How many people are inside?'

‘Hundred and fifty, maybe a few more. I haven't let anyone else in since it was found.'

‘Good.' Henry beckoned to Karl Donaldson. ‘You want to come in, Karl, just in case?'

‘Yes.'

‘OK, John, lead the way.'

Pussy Beaver twirled on his stilettos, resumed the acting voice and led Henry, Byrne and Donaldson through the clearly irritated and impatient crowd, drawing jeers of contempt.

‘C'mon, out of the way, luvvies – out of the way – can't you see the main act has arrived?'

Henry whispered to Byrne, ‘He once let me feel his tits.' The inspector laughed, while the sergeant recoiled. ‘Just like the real things,' he added.

With the efficiency Henry always associated with the man, Pussy Beaver had ensured that his bouncers (woman wrestlers capable of dismembering anyone foolish enough to have a go) had sealed off a good proportion of the bar area. They were standing guard, preventing any punters from entering the exclusion zone around the seat under which the package had been discovered.

As good as the cordon was, though, Henry knew that if it was a bomb under that seat and it did explode, everyone in the club would have a better than average chance of being blasted to pieces.

‘It's under there.' With an expertly manicured finger, Pussy indicated the offending spot – a bench in an alcove, out of sight of the bar.

‘Thanks. Now you go and stand well back and get everyone as far away as possible, too.' Henry touched his radio to ensure it was switched ‘off ' for definite. ‘Is yours off?' he asked Byrne, who nodded. It was standard procedure to switch personal radios off because bombs had been known to be detonated by radio waves before now.

Henry took a deep breath and wondered if this was one of those times when the inspector should take a purely strategic view of events and order a lower-ranking officer to do the dirty work. Tempting – but he could just imagine the word that would circulate the station if he did. He would be branded a coward. Having said that, better a live strategist than a dead tactician, he thought. The idea went out of his head as quickly as it had come into it.

‘I want to have a look, too.' Karl Donaldson stepped forward.

Henry saw the look of determination on the American's face. He knew it would be useless to object. Donaldson had a very personal interest.

‘Suit yourself, but don't blame me if you get blown up.'

Donaldson placed a hand over his heart. ‘Promise.'

At least Henry knew he would not die alone.

Henry told Byrne, Makin and everyone else to get well back and take some cover if possible. He and Donaldson then approached the alcove. Henry expected it to be a false alarm. Either a hoax or a mistake, or a piece of lost property. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand this was the case.