Substantial Threat (10 page)

Henry had returned to the mortuary to find Baines engrossed in the post-mortem of Carrie Dancing, assisted by a young male mortuary technician who would not have looked out of place on a slab himself. The burnt flesh smelt terrible and seemed to claw at Henry's nose hairs and cling to his clothing. The pathologist peered over his mask as Henry entered and walked past the painfully thin body of Johnny Jacques.

The thought of the two of them dying made Henry feel sad. He had always thought of JJ as one of life's losers, a pretty harmless soul, more likely to do himself mischief than anyone else.

‘Ahhh, Henry.' Baines smiled behind his surgical mask. ‘Glad you could make it back. Not too smitten with the very pleasant, but homely Ms Roscoe, I hope?'

‘No, I'm not,' Henry said firmly, but with a grin. Henry's up and down love life was always cause for amusement for Baines. ‘What've you got?'

‘I was right,' Baines said, delving into Carrie's open chest with his scalpel and cutting out her heart which he pulled out with both hands. He carried it over to the dissecting table, laid it out and sliced it open expertly, checking the arteries for any possible blockages. ‘Nothing much wrong with that,' he said, raising his eyes to Henry. ‘Yeah, I was right . . . this girl was dead before the fire. It was the line of the jaw that made me suspicious – out of line, if you will. My examination confirmed it. She had a broken jaw.'

‘That wouldn't have killed her, though, would it? Even I know that.'

‘No, but the severe beating about the head by some blunt instrument did. There was no smoke inhalation in her lungs.' He pointed with a gloved finger to the deep-pink mass of dissected lung tissue on the table next to Carrie's heart. ‘Clean and healthy . . . as much as a heavy smoker's lungs can be. Definitely beaten up and killed prior to the fire. And just out of interest,' he added, pointing to the side of Carrie's head, ‘I think that could be a footwear mark, so I've asked one of your footwear experts to have a look at it.'

Henry peered at Carrie's temple and could see a couple of faint ridges. ‘So, did he do it?' Henry thumbed at JJ.

‘I'm not sure a post-mortem on him will give you that answer, Henry old boy. You might have to do some detective work for a change instead of continually relying on me to solve all your cases for you all the time.'

‘Cheeky git,' said Henry.

The barman who witnessed the shootings in the King's Cross was in no fit state to make any sort of statement. Roscoe spoke to him for a few minutes, ascertained that he had been threatened at gunpoint and was in fear of his life, and arranged for him to be taken home with a police escort who would stay with him for the time being. Roscoe wanted to be present when he was eventually interviewed.

The pub had been closed and was now a sealed-off crime scene, being dealt with thoroughly and professionally.

She took a seat at the rear of the snug and tried to imagine the terrible thing that had happened here: two masked gunmen, three people shot to death, drugs' connections, turf war.

One thing was certain. She was dealing with some totally ruthless individuals who had coldly planned this multiple execution very carefully and precisely.

Henry had once dealt with a domestic murder where a man had killed his wife simply because she had moaned at him for smoking in bed. The guy had been drunk at the time, admittedly, but it had demonstrated to Henry that people can go ‘off on one' for no particular reason and resort to murder in their rage. What Henry could not see happening in the case of Johnny Jacques and Carrie Dancing was that JJ had killed her, whatever the provocation. And he especially could not believe it when Baines peeled back the charred skin from Carrie's head to reveal the cranium underneath. The damage caused to it was beyond anything Henry thought JJ was capable of. JJ was a weak, spindly druggie and Henry just could not see him being so violent over the sustained period of time needed to inflict such injuries on the woman he'd been with for years.

Which kind of put a spoke in the wheel.

In truth, this was the sort of incident Henry knew he could write off if he so desired. He could easily surmise that JJ had murdered Carrie and then, in a fit of remorse, had leapt to his own death. He was supremely confident he could get a coroner to swallow it hook, line and sinker.

It would be a good one-for-one. A murder solved without the expense of a trial. A good one for the figures.

Except he did not believe it and his conscience would not allow this to happen, until he was totally convinced otherwise.

He bagged up JJ's clothing for forensic examination, and did the same with Carrie's burned garments too.

If JJ had killed her, Henry was sure he would be able to see blood on JJ's jeans at the very least. There was nothing.

He decided to return to the scene of the fire to see if anything had been missed or forgotten.

Before setting off he spoke to Rik Dean via mobile phone and found out he had been re-deployed to the shooting incident down in South Shore. It sounded like an interesting job, but Henry was not going to poke his nose in unless asked – which he knew he would be very soon. He wasn't going to show his face before then because he trusted Jane to get a grip of everything and work the scene professionally.

He bade farewell to Baines, after warning him he was likely to be dealing with a further three bodies before the night was over.

Baines thanked him profusely for the news and said again, ‘Why is it that when you're involved there's always a mass of bodies?'

‘Just lucky, I guess,' said Henry.

Crazy drove Ray to his girlfriend's house. Marty, still in the back seat, looked drained and unhappy.

At the end of the driveway, Ray instructed Crazy to be back in an hour or so, not to hurry, but to be there. Crazy promised he would be and Ray got out of the car. Marty clambered over between the seats and plonked himself into the passenger seat.

Crazy put the car into first and set off, but Marty said, ‘Wait!' a little too quickly, then felt he had to explain himself to Crazy. ‘Er . . . let's make sure he gets inside safely.'

Ray rang the doorbell. The door opened and Ray stepped inside.

Jacqueline Burrows gave a quick wave to Marty and closed the door.

‘W
elcome to life as an SIO,' Bernie Fleming, the detective chief superintendent in charge of the team, said to Henry Christie. ‘Never rains but it pours.'

Henry was unfazed. This was what he wanted. Involvement up to the hilt. To be kept busy, to be hunting down killers. He was sure he had been born to do this job – well, perhaps not – but it was certainly something he enjoyed, keeping all the plates spinning in the air, hoping to God they did not smash around his feet.

Fleming had turned out to the triple shooting, then called Henry in to see him at Blackpool nick, following a consultation with the divisional chief superintendent concerning allocation of resources, which is what murder enquiries always came down to these days.

Which is also why Fleming was slightly irritated with Henry and his view on the incident involving Johnny Jacques and his girlfriend. It would have been simpler for all concerned for Henry to write the job off, but because he believed it was not as straightforward as it appeared, it meant that a team needed to be allocated to it at the expense of the triple shooting.

Henry and Fleming were trudging up the steps in Blackpool police station because the lift was not working. They were making their way up to the canteen. Both men were starting to sweat, and the bigger, older and less fit Fleming was wheezing as he breathed. He was also whining about costs. It was a story Henry was familiar with and the words only just registered.

‘There's six ongoing murder investigations right across the county. I'm not saying they're all labour intensive by any means, but we don't really need two more.'

‘Tell that to the murderers.'

‘Yeah, right,' Fleming snorted gruffly. ‘So obviously the shooting is going to take priority here.'

At last they reached the sixth floor and stepped into the canteen, which was about to close for the evening. Using their charm they managed to wangle two mugs of coffee from the reluctant lady behind the counter.

‘How do you want to play the fire job?' Fleming asked.

‘Run it as a full enquiry until it's proved otherwise,' Henry said defensively.

Fleming shook his head. He looked pained. ‘Not enough people to go round.' He pondered things for a few moments, rubbing his chin. ‘What about if you head up the shooting, then split your resources to look into the fire and see how it pans out?'

‘I thought you were going to SIO the shooting.'

‘Name only, name only. I want you to do it and as a sideline, use people as and when to look into the other job.'

‘Okay,' said Henry. There was no point arguing. The days had long since gone when every suspicious death was allocated a full team. Everything got prioritized these days and in these circumstances it was seen as far more important to catch someone who was dangerous enough to use a gun in public to shoot a man down, than to catch someone who may have killed someone in the confines of a council flat. Henry could not see the difference, but in a world where money counted, that's what happened. It was not unusual these days for a pair of detectives to investigate a murder – a state of affairs that had long existed in the USA.

Although Henry accepted the way of the world, he hated to see the police being driven solely by money and budgets. He believed the public did not get the service it deserved because of it.

He squinted. ‘You want me to run both jobs at the same time? Is that what you're saying?'

‘Henry, one day you'll make one hell of a fine detective with such a sharp mind.'

The sex had been over within a minute. Ray Cragg, still hyper after the shooting, had almost dragged Jack Burrows up the stairs, tearing her clothes off as he went. She played the part too whilst disguising the shiver which ran through her. She led him into the bedroom and pushed him on to the bed before straddling him and letting her breasts flounder over his face.

He bit and sucked at them greedily, biting her large, purple nipples so she gasped, not with pleasure, but with pain.

‘You really have had some kind of day.' She smiled lovingly.

‘You wouldn't believe it.' He moaned then said, ‘I want to do it from behind.'

‘Yeah, okay babe,' she agreed.

‘Like dogs,' he added.

As she slid off him and he took up his position behind her, she was glad he could not see the expression on her face.

He rammed himself in and after only a very few hard, ruthless thrusts, he came, jabbing wildly in an orgasm all of his own.

She pretended to climax, but all she felt was a cold, cold chill inside. She was relieved when he withdrew and slumped on the bed, exhausted.

‘Yes, I know it's my first day back at work, love, and I'm sorry, but I can't help it that three people have been shot to death on my patch . . . Yes,
my
patch, and unfortunately I have to start running an investigation immediately . . . time? Er . . . not sure . . . when I get there . . .'

The door to Roscoe's office opened. Henry Christie poked his head through.

She beckoned him in, shaking her head. She did not want him to go. She mouthed the word ‘husband' to Henry and raised her eyes heavenwards.

‘Look, I'm not sure what time I'll be back . . . There's a pizza in the fridge which you can do in the microwave . . . As soon as I can, okay?' She slammed the phone down and sat heavily on the chair at her desk, brushing her hair back from her face. She looked frazzled and sighed deeply.

‘Yeah,' she said, ‘first day back and I'm going to be late home.'

‘Goes with the territory, and you don't get overtime for it.'

‘And guess what?' she said, placing both hands on the desk. ‘I don't care. I'm just glad to be back at work, involved in something as meaty as this – and especially with you around.' She sat back. ‘Henry, I've really missed you.'

He swallowed. She had been in his thoughts too. Not just in his thoughts, but all over his brain every waking moment. He sometimes even dreamt about her. ‘I've missed you too,' he admitted. ‘But we've got a bit of a job on and it needs to be done pdq.'

She smiled radiantly at the prospect of working alongside him. ‘Better get on with it, then.'

‘I need an alibi,' Ray said to Jack Burrows. ‘For around two till four o'clock this aft. You have to say I was with you during that time, okay?'

She had returned to the bedroom from the shower, having spent a long time washing under the hot, power jets. Ray made her feel dirty. She always had to wash herself after intercourse.

‘Sure, no problems.' She sat at the dressing table, a towel wrapped around her body, and started working on her hair. Suddenly, a thought came to her and she stopped brushing it. ‘I can't,' she said, her mouth arid. She turned to Ray, who was spread-eagled on the bed, still naked, thin and pasty white.

‘What the fuck do you mean, you can't?'

She told him about the visit she'd had from a cop that afternoon.

Henry and Jane walked side by side into the parade room on the ground-floor annexe of Blackpool police station.

The people assembled there were not the actual murder squad, but a mish-mash of people cobbled together just to get things underway. The real squad would come together for an 8 a.m. briefing in the morning when all the detectives and other specialists were brought in. Henry desperately wanted to get things moving now, but it didn't mean it would be a haphazard deployment of personnel. He had particular goals in mind for this evening, especially the rooting out of informants to bleed them of anything that might be useful.