Psycho Alley (6 page)

‘Hence me,' Henry said glumly.

‘There is a carrot,' FB announced.

‘Shock me,' Henry said.

‘Substantive chief inspector. I'll fix it.'

Henry was a temporary chief inspector which always had the possibility of being taken away from him. ‘And if I don't get a result in a month?'

FB pouted. Anger half-shrugged. Neither seemed to have an answer.

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Nope,' they said in unison.

And so Henry inherited a major investigation getting nowhere which he secretly named ‘Operation Wank', because he was sometimes just plain childish.

Henry sniffed, nostrils flaring, and turned to look at Debbie Black's profile. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, with oval eyes and a thick, meaty mouth. Henry half-recalled that she had separated from her husband, but couldn't remember the exact details. Since she had posed the question, Henry had been mulling it over for so long that they had reached the multi-storey car park next to Blackpool Central police station, one level of which was leased for police use only, secured appropriately.

‘Good question,' he said finally. ‘Does it have any connection?'

‘Taken you long enough to reply,' she smirked.

‘Deep thinker, me.'

‘So?' she queried, negotiating the car around the tight corners and high kerbstones of the car park. ‘What do you think? Connection or not?'

His shoulders jerked, a non-committal gesture. ‘Who knows? I don't think I'll be able to say until later in the day, but my gut feeling is that it's not connected with the investigation into the abductions … or then again, it could be. Uren could be our man for both … maybe … vague answer, but it'll have to do. I really want to get the scientific side boxed off properly, get the body identified and find the unpleasant Mr Uren PDQ.'

The MIR from which Henry had been running his investigation was situated on the fourth floor of the station. Henry and Debbie made their way to it by way of the lift and found the room, unsurprisingly quiet, devoid of personnel. Or, at least that's what Henry thought until he saw a dark, bulky figure lurking behind one of the computer terminals. A man rose slowly as he and Debbie entered the room. Henry's boss. Dave Anger.

He should not have been astounded. Although he had not personally informed Anger of the latest developments because he had not yet had time (or inclination, if truth be known), it was something very near to the top of his mental ‘To Do' list. Henry guessed that Jane Roscoe may well have done the deed already in her capacity as Anger's snitch, though Henry did not know for sure. And even though he did not know if this was truly the case, his feelings towards her hardened anyway. It confirmed to his slightly paranoid mind that she and Anger were still in league, Roscoe because he had dumped her and it still smarted; Anger because of some unknown, unfathomable reason that completely eluded him.

The two men faced each other across the computer terminals. Henry could see Anger looking at his injured face. Debbie hovered back behind Henry.

Anger addressed Debbie, speaking across Henry's shoulder.

‘Leave us. Close the door behind you.'

‘Sir.' Meekly, head bowed, she withdrew, confused by the tableau, leaving Henry with a man he had grown to hate. But why? Henry knew Anger wanted his chosen few on FMIT and Henry did not come into that clique, but that surely did not really explain the utter dislike.

‘What've you got, Henry?'

‘Abandoned car, body of a young person in the boot. Car was being driven earlier by George Uren, someone we wanted to question.'

‘How do you know?'

‘He tried to run me down.'

‘You get hurt?'

‘A bit.'

Anger looked disappointed that Henry wasn't lying on a mortuary slab. ‘Are you the SIO?'

Strange question, Henry thought. ‘Yeah,' he said unsurely.

Anger's head rocked. His lips drew back, revealing his teeth. ‘Your job is to tell me about it all, I believe.' He sounded supercilious and Henry half-expected him to lick the tip of his finger and mark a ‘one up to me' in the air. ‘I've had trouble with you before about this, haven't I? Not keeping me informed.'

‘I was actually going to give you a ring now … and anyway, it seems you already know about it, otherwise why would you be here?'

‘Pure chance, pure coincidence, Henry. I only know because I came in early to have a mooch, as is my wont.'

The temptation to say, ‘Yeah, right, pull the other one – that cow Roscoe told you, didn't she?' was strong, but Henry refrained as he was also a little gobsmacked by the phrase ‘as is my wont'. Did people still say that? Henry, who enjoyed words and sayings from yesteryear, thought it sounded quaint, but coming from Anger it was more like a threat.

The pause lengthened uncomfortably, until Anger said, ‘So? What else have you got? Time's ticking, Henry.'

Henry could easily have reeled off the course of action he was going to take by quoting the chapter headings of the Murder Investigation Manual. Instead, he said, ‘I know what I'm doing.'

‘OK,' Anger conceded with a long sigh, but remained tight-lipped and lizard-eyed behind his round glasses. ‘But you keep me in the loop, Henry. That's an order.'

‘I know my job.'

Anger nodded curtly, weaved past the desks and brushed past Henry on his way out of the MIR. Henry turned as Anger's hand dropped on to the handle of the door. ‘What is it? What the fuck have I ever done to you?'

Anger stood still, his hand squeezing the handle tightly, knuckles white, blood vessels in the back of his hand risen. He looked across the room at Henry, their eyes clashing. Anger licked his lips. ‘I need team players on this squad, not loners, and definitely not people who are close to being nutters. One way or another, I'll get rid of you, Henry … and, despite what the Chief said, if it's in my power to prevent you being promoted at the same time, I will, believe me.'

‘Oh, I believe you,' Henry whispered. But there was something else lurking behind Anger's glinting eyes, something that told Henry that not the whole truth had been spoken. Dave Anger's resentment towards Henry was far more fundamental than disliking Henry just because he might have been a loner or a nutter, neither of which accusations Henry would have accepted anyway. He certainly wasn't a loner.

Anger left. A few moments later, Debbie came back, hesitance in her step.

‘Everything OK?' she asked.

‘Yeah, just a bit of mutual appreciation,' he smiled, making her chuckle. ‘Right, time for business.'

To be an effective SIO managing a murder investigation requires the juggling skills of a circus performer. There are so many things to think about and it is easy to forget important details in the morass of tasks and information which come in. He knew that his initial priority was to get as much from the crime scene as possible, as well as tracking down George Uren.

Despite his personal conflict with Jane Roscoe, he knew the crime scene was in safe hands. She would deal with it effectively. That left him to think about Uren and how best to track down and nail the bastard, because if this was done, it could very well be a quickly-solved murder investigation with a lot of kudos coming his way, something he was not unaware of.

Problem was, he didn't know where the hell Uren was.

Henry picked up a copy of Lancashire Constabulary's intelligence bulletin, known as ‘The Informer'. He looked at the black and white photograph and into the hard eyes of George Uren and then the bold headline underneath: ‘Dangerous High Risk Sex Offender at Large'. The text went on to say that some eighteen months previously, Uren was released on licence from Wymott Prison, near Leyland, to a probation hostel in Accrington. Uren had been sentenced to four years imprisonment for the rape of a six-year-old girl when he had been lodging with the girl's family. ‘Uren,' it went on, ‘has many convictions across the board and has warning markers for weapons and violence and drugs. He is extremely violent, especially towards police officers, and has previously stabbed an arresting officer in the chest.' In large, black letters were the words, ‘HE SHOULD BE APPROACHED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.'

After a month at the hostel, he was reported missing and was therefore in breach of his curfew and consequently the conditions of his licence, and was subject to a prison recall.

It went on to describe his clothing and the man himself: six foot two, thirty-eight years old, usually clean-shaven but with a ponytail, with a dagger tattooed on his right forearm and the word ‘CUNT' across the knuckles of his left hand.

He had not been seen since he absconded from the hostel.

Further warnings detailed that Uren, as well as being a threat to police officers, had also harassed police officers and their families following a previous investigation. He was on the sex offenders register for life.

Henry put the bulletin down and looked at Debbie Black. It had just turned eight a.m. and he felt, once again, as though he had been up for days. He picked up the sausage sandwich Debbie had brought him from the canteen and took a bite of what, at that moment, was the best meal he'd ever tasted in his life. He washed it down with strong, wonderful tea and energy surged through him, better than a shot of methadone.

‘We were just scraping the barrel with this one,' he admitted, tapping Uren's face with his index finger. ‘Nothing's been heard of him for months and it was assumed he'd gone south, or abroad or something. Maybe he had … but then a sex offender was arrested a few days ago on an unrelated matter and during an Intel gathering interview, he mentioned he thought he'd seen Uren in Fleetwood recently, in a pub. That's why we were in town last night … you look puzzled.'

Debbie's brow was deeply furrowed. She sighed. ‘You said you'd never had any dealings with him before?' Henry nodded, bit into his sarnie. ‘How did he know to run you down?'

‘I've been thinking about that one … maybe I've had dealings with the guy in the passenger seat.' Henry wrapped his hand around his chin, his palm covering his mouth, munching food thoughtfully.

‘At least it's a bloody good start to the job. You know who the prime suspect is, which is always a starter for ten.'

‘Yeah, I just need to corner the bastard now.' He finished the sandwich, folding it without manners into his mouth, smiling at Debbie as he did so. She, on the other hand, bit delicately into the one slice of wheat-germ toast she'd bought for herself.

They grinned at each other.

Henry very quickly established an intelligence cell, a grand phrase for a lone detective constable heaved from the local Intel department, to start rooting into Uren's background, to go through everything they could find on him from all agencies, and to start to piece together a crazy pathway that might lead to his door. At nine thirty a.m. he had managed to recall all the detectives who had been working with him the night before, scouring Fleetwood's pubs, and had already briefed them to follow up some lines of enquiry as regards Uren's burnt-out car.

Things had started to tick over, but Henry did not want to lose any momentum. He had a briefing booked for eleven a.m. for the murder team and uniformed officers and had arranged the post mortem for two p.m. Via the press office, he had already issued a holding statement to the media.

The scientific people were at the scene and some local uniforms had been commandeered to begin some house-to-house legwork near the docks just to get the ball rolling. They were knocking on warehouse and factory doors, as well as boarding some yachts in the marina. Possibly clutching at straws, but Henry knew there was rarely a crime committed that went unwitnessed.

By midday, a small team of investigators had been given the scent and unleashed. A Home Office Large and Major Enquiry (HOLMES) team and appropriate admin supported them.

A murder enquiry was well and truly under way. Henry's rudely-christened operation had got a new dimension. He wondered how much time he'd be given to solve it. Several weeks ago he'd been warned he only had a month to get a result and he'd failed. Now a murder had come in which may or may not be connected … one thing he knew for sure was that Dave Anger was hovering for the kill.

H
enry Christie regarded his reflection in the mirror of the gents' toilet of the public mortuary in the grounds of Lancaster Royal Infirmary. His injuries – the combination of the whack on his eye and the painful glancing blow he'd taken on the thigh from Uren's car, together with the long day he'd just had, made him look grey and not a little frail. He splashed some water on his face, though it didn't do much to revive him, and wiped himself dry with a paper towel.

His thumped eye had gone a vivid shade of purple, though the swelling had subsided and he could more or less see through it now. His ‘gammy' leg, as he now called it, was sore and aching; he was actually wondering whether he should start using a walking stick, which could maybe become a pretentious trademark. After all, all great detectives had something quirky which defined them.

‘Great detective my arse,' he mumbled at his reflection and necked a couple of the strong painkillers the hospital had doled out to him.

Behind him, the door to the gents' opened and the Home Office pathologist entered, still in a bloodied-up apron from having just completed a gruelling three-hour post mortem examination on the body found in the back of the burned-out car. He was called Baines, a stick of a man with ears like a trophy. Henry had known him for longer than he cared to remember. He was a down-to-earth soul, and he and Henry had often retired to sleazy public houses after many a post mortem to ogle womenfolk and, occasionally, to discuss the findings of the examinations. Usually Baines was jovial, often ribbing Henry about his frequently disastrous love life; today, though, he was sombre. The nature of the PM he'd just performed had efficiently damped down all sense of fun.