Backlash (38 page)

Moments later they were en route back to the police station having been called back urgently by Andrea Makin.

Makin was at the door of the communications room, a message pad in her hand. She had circulated details of Joey's murder to all forces, asking if anyone had anything similar on their patch recently. Because of the time of day she had not realistically expected anything back before mid-morning.

Two forces had surprised her. Surrey had responded that they had something similar about six months before but would be unable to give further details until later in the day. Cheshire police gave an even better response. A sleepy control room inspector at their Chester headquarters, on reading the message had immediately recognised the similarity with a double murder in Wilmslow which his son, a thirty-year-old detective inspector, was investigating.

‘This is a possibility,' Makin said, handing the message to Henry. ‘Three weeks ago in Cheshire.' Henry read it, absorbed it, passed it on to Donaldson.

‘Let's call the DI now,' Henry said, noting the time with a wry smile. It was one of the drawbacks of being a detective inspector – telephone calls at unsociable hours. Tough, he thought, picking up a telephone and dialling the number on the message switch. ‘Heard from your undercover man yet?' he asked Makin. She shook her head. The phone started to ring and was answered almost immediately and brightly despite the time of day. Once the apologies and introductions had been made the business began. Henry stuck a hand over his ear to cut out the background noise of the communications room and also because there was still a ringing noise in his head from the bomb blast earlier. He cradled the phone between shoulder and jaw and scribbled notes as he talked.

‘Double murder, husband and wife,' the roused DI, by the name of Harrison, said. ‘Hubby stabbed to death in the kitchen, wife murdered in the bathroom. They had marks on their chests indicating they could have been subdued by a stun gun, or similar. We think she was the target and husband got in the way because the killer had spent time with her. Wrapped her in parcel tape and gutted her, bit like a ripper murder. Forensically the place was as clean as a whistle.'

‘Who were the victims, what did they do?' Henry asked.

Pause. ‘She was a solicitor specialising in discrimination cases and she was black, husband was white. He was an accountant. They were pretty loaded. Lots of avenues we're following up.'

‘Anything stolen? Anything written on the walls?'

‘Nothing stolen, nothing written on the walls. They'd spent the day with friends up to about three-ish, then spent the afternoon alone, bumming around the house we reckon. We think the killer came into the house about eight o'clock and they died sometime between then and midnight.'

‘Anything unusual at the scene?'

‘A butchered body
is
pretty unusual – what do you mean?'

‘Who found the bodies?' Henry said, still fishing.

‘The cleaner – she found them just after nine in the morning.'

‘Did she mention anything unusual?'

‘Um – yeah, she found two dead people,' Harrison said gruffly. He was beginning to feel tired again. ‘Just tell me what you mean, will you?'

‘Sorry, yeah. Was there any music playing?'

‘She didn't mention anything. I've read her statement dozens of times, so I should know.'

‘OK. It sounds similar to ours in some respects. Have you found any more around the country?'

‘One in Surrey, two in the Met, one in West Midlands, but they're not a hundred per cent tied in yet, you understand.'

‘And do you have any strong leads?'

‘Nothing much. One witness saw a motorcyclist in the area, but it's not tied in for definite, nothing more than that. It's maddening. I think it was a planned, organised job, not a spur of the moment thing. We have some observations from a psychological profiler.'

Henry stifled a yawn. Profilers, in his experience, while of some use, tended to generalise so much that half the population became suspects. He thought they were a bit like mediums, conning the shit out of people, ripping them off. ‘Go on,' he said.

‘White male, twenty-five to forty-five years old. Bears a grudge against women and black people.' Henry could almost hear the DI's brain ticking over. ‘University educated––'

‘Where did that come from?'

‘Search me. Look, mate, I'm falling asleep here. I'll send you everything I have so you can review it. I'm not precious. I just want to catch a killer. I'll send a motorcyclist up with it first thing – nine at the latest, promise.'

The phone call ended. Henry hung up thoughtfully. All eyes were on him. ‘It's a beginning.'

The communications room was buzzing with activity. Phone calls were coming in constantly even though it was the early hours of the morning. Officers were being deployed. Nothing ever changed in Blackpool: the tide came in and out twice a day; eighteen million people visited every year; and the cops did their best.

Dermot Byrne and PC John Taylor came in and headed towards Henry.

‘How's it going, Dermot?' Henry asked. He had forgotten that other things were happening – such as twenty-odd car loads of Asian youths heading into town to cause ructions. ‘How did my little plan pan out?'

‘Pretty good. They all got snarled up in the traffic chaos from the bomb which took about three hours to clear. They got split up and didn't have any plans for regrouping, so they all seem to have sloped off home. Shoreside has been boxed up and it's all quiet up there, more or less. Some bits of trouble, but nothing we couldn't nip in the bud. So it worked.'

‘Good – and how are you feeling, John?' Henry asked Taylor who was as pale and insipid as Henry had ever seen him.

‘I'm all right, sir.'

‘Any news on Jane or Mark?' Byrne inquired.

Henry shook his head.

‘Not looking good, is it?'

‘Keep a positive attitude. Which reminds me – neighbourhood watch co-ordinators, where do we keep a list of them? I want to know who the co-ordinator is for the area where Joey's flat is situated. Just before Jane and Mark went AWOL she spoke to some military-type old man. I thought that if we got hold of the co-ordinator for that area, he or she might know who the guy is.'

‘Could I look into that, sir?' Taylor volunteered, perking up a little. ‘I know where the list is kept.'

‘Thanks.'

Taylor scuttled away.

‘Is he really OK?' Henry asked Byrne about Taylor.

‘I think so. He's keen to make amends. He'll be fine.'

Byrne gave a quick wave and said he had to go to the custody office.

It was 3 a.m.

‘Well, team,' Henry said in a less than motivational tone, eyes moving from Makin to Donaldson, ‘I want to be able to say, “do this” or “do that”, but at the moment I'm not sure there's anywhere to go. Perhaps we should get some sleep, then reconvene in Gold at eight and give ourselves a full day. Observations?'

‘I think you're right – we can't do anything now,' Donaldson conceded.

Makin nodded her acquiescence.

‘Right – back here at eight, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.'

Even though he was shattered, the idea of taking some sleep did not appeal to Henry, but he had to admit that realistically there was nothing that could be done until morning. It would be far better to rest for the next five hours instead of sitting around doing nothing, only to find that when he needed a brain later in the day it was just cottonwool. It was imperative that he should be able to think straight because he had a feeling there would be a breakthrough some time during the day. There had to be, he thought desperately. If there wasn't, then statistically speaking, the chances of finding Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans alive were nil.

He shrugged his leather jacket on and made his way out past the custody office into the car park.

‘Sir, sir,' came a voice behind him. It was PC Taylor, holding an index file card. ‘I've found the name of the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator,' he panted.

‘Well done.'

‘It's a Captain Blackthorn, lives more or less opposite Joey Costain's flat. It could even be the person DI Roscoe spoke to. Sounds like a military type.'

‘Yeah, it's a possibility.'

‘Anyway, whatever,' said Taylor, eager to please, ‘I'll go round now and speak to him, rather than phone. It'd be better, wouldn't you think? If he's in and has any useful information, should I contact you?'

‘Yeah. I'm going home now. My number's on the board in communications. If you think there is anything, give me a call.'

‘OK, sir – if you don't hear from me, it's a dead end.'

Taylor sauntered smugly back into the building and went up to the CID office, humming to himself. The office was empty and he helped himself to a set of car keys on the rack by the door. He thought it would be more discreet to go and see Captain whatever-his-name-was in a plain car. It would draw less attention than a bright marked one. PC Taylor did not really like drawing attention to himself.

No one saw him take the keys or leave the station.

Five minutes later, in South Shore, he pulled up away from a street light, got out of the car and left his hat inside it.

The house in which Captain Blackthorn lived was divided into a number of good-quality flats, unlike most of the others in the area which were nothing more then glorified bedsits. Taylor pressed the door bell and kept his thumb on it.

‘Who's that for goodness sake?' a sleepy voice said groggily.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir,' Taylor said into the intercom. ‘I'm PC Taylor from Blackpool police station. Can I speak to you on an urgent matter, please? I really do apologise, but it is extremely urgent.'

‘Yes, yes, suppose so.'

The buzzer release sounded. Taylor stepped into the building.

Captain Blackthorn was dressed in a thick, mustard-coloured dressing gown over a pair of flannelette pyjamas. His feet were slotted into a pair of zip-up slippers. He came out of the small kitchen bearing two mugs of tea, one of which he handed to PC Taylor, whose leather-gloved hand took it and aligned it on the exact edge of the coffee table.

‘As I say, I don't mind being disturbed at all. Gives one's life a sort of purpose. All part of the responsibility, eh what?' He snorted and sipped his tea. ‘Ahh, that's good. You not drinking?'

‘I'll just let it cool.'

The captain cradled his mug between the palms of his hands. ‘Anyway, yes, it was me who spoke to your detective inspector – nice woman. Is there some kind of problem?'

‘There is, actually,' Taylor said. ‘She's gone missing and we're very worried about her. Obviously we're trying to trace her movements. It's possible you were one of the last persons to speak to her.'

‘Oh, I say, you don't think that I . . .?'

‘No, no, nothing like that.'

‘Thank goodness for that.'

‘Could you tell me what exactly you said to her?'

The captain accompanied Taylor to the door of the flat and let him out.

‘You've been very, very helpful, sir.'

‘I do hope she is all right.' The captain was very concerned.

‘I'm sure she'll be fine,' Taylor reassured him. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you.'

‘Not a problem, not a problem.'

‘Good night.'

The captain closed his flat door. Taylor walked down the dark hallway to the front door of the building.

David Gill emerged from the shadows.

He had been curious as to how Roscoe had found him. He had not asked her yet, had not had the time for a long, loving chat. That would come. But now he knew. A nosy neighbour. A man with nothing better to do with his life except sit by a window, watching, making notes on other people's comings and goings. Prying into the private lives of others. The sad fucking bastard. Gill approached the front door of the captain's flat and tapped on it. As expected, he opened up immediately.

‘Sorry about this,' Gill said. His left hand shot out and grabbed the captain by the throat. He barged in, forcing the old man down the short hallway, kicking the flat door closed behind him.

The knife in his right hand curved upwards, plunging deep into the captain's chest, under the ribcage and up into the old man's already weak heart. He drove the blade in harder, hard, hard, twisted, pushed more, twisted, withdrew and let the captain fall. He was already dead. The frail body crimped to the floor.

Even though Gill knew he was dead, this did not prevent him kneeling down next to him and repeatedly stabbing and slashing the body in a frenzy of anger.

‘No one,' slash, stab, ‘no one – tells on me,' stab, ‘no one gets away with it you silly – fucking – idiot – mad, old cunt!' Stab, stab, stab. ‘Now you try to finger me.'

Jane Roscoe thought she was going to suffocate. Gill had wrapped the parcel tape tightly around her head and face in his anger at her screaming. It had gone round and round, covering her nose and mouth, leaving the smallest of slits through which she could breathe.

She lay there. In his lair. That was how she had come to know it. What, in her mind, she called this living tomb in which he kept her. A lair.

She lay there, trying to control her breathing, to keep her heart rate down, to stay in control. She knew that inner control was the only way in which this ordeal could be survived. She had to control herself and then she had to control him, even if it meant subjugating herself to his will. If he wanted to rape her, fine, let him do it. Anything to survive. Unfortunately she didn't think he wanted sexual domination.

Her mind wandered uncontrollably. She thought of her husband and her failing marriage and wanted to cry. She had been so unfair to the man. Was there anything that could be salvaged? Lying in this cold place she realised she'd had plenty of opportunity to put things right, to make an effort, and had never done a thing. She had allowed them to drift apart. He had a responsibility too, but the biggest part of the blame was on her shoulders. Why had she let it go? Maybe love had fizzled out. Passion certainly had. No fire any more, but wasn't that the way of marriage?