The Nothing Job (24 page)

‘Phew – that'll cost a packet.'

‘Yeah,' she smiled, ‘but it's worth it.'

Henry told her he hoped she had a good time, then bade farewell, walking out of the HQ building via the garage at the rear in which the chief officers were allowed to park their vehicles. He could not help but notice the top-of-the-range Jaguar parked in the chief constable's slot. He knew it was definitely the chief's because it was displaying FB's personalized number, which he'd had for a few years. Shaking his head with envy – everybody seemed to be spending money like water, except him – he walked out to his second-hand Rover 75. Squinting at it, and with a bit of imagination, it could look like a Jag, but the truth was it was a rubbish car and he regretted trading in his Mondeo for it, God rest its soul. He wished he'd bought another Ford instead.

A minute later he was on the A59, heading towards Merseyside.

He'd fixed up a swipe card and fingerprint ID to get into their headquarters and breezed in as though he'd been working there for years: Henry Christie, Merseyside DCI. No one gave him a second glance as he stepped into the lift and then stepped out on to the floor where his tiny office was situated.

When he reached the door he almost burst into laughter.

The door was open. It had been smashed open and the lock that Bill Robbins had fitted had been jemmied off with a crowbar, from the looks of the marks on the door jamb. The door itself was virtually hanging off its hinges.

Henry fought the hysteria and stood on the threshold looking at the devastation within.

The office had been on fire and the place was a blackened, burned shell and quite obviously the files that had been left locked and secure in the office had been destroyed.

He took a step inside. The smell of smoke hung and clung.

There was a noise behind him. It was Detective Superintendent Shafer, who said, ‘You're in for a bollocking, Henry.'

‘Why would that be?'

‘Almost burning down Merseyside Police Headquarters – or at least almost ensuring that it almost burned down by affixing an unauthorized lock to the door, thereby delaying entry into the office by several minutes, several vital minutes when the fire alarm went off. If access had been immediate there would have been less damage to the room and, quite possibly, your precious files could have been saved. As it is …' he shrugged, ‘they haven't.'

‘How did it start?'

‘A faulty socket where the kettle was plugged in, we think.'

Henry turned back to the room, his jaw doing its crunchy rotation.

‘Staff were able to force an entry – eventually – and using a hose, stopped the fire spreading.'

‘Did the Fire Service attend?'

‘Not necessary.'

Henry's eyes tried to pinpoint the source of the fire. He'd been to enough arsons to have some idea what he was looking for.

‘This is bollocks,' he said, treading carefully into the office and, taking care not to disturb anything, he peered closely at the offending plug socket and kettle. To him, both seemed pretty unscathed. He sighed, said nothing and looked at the box file on the desks containing the investigation into the shooting of Jonny Motta. He blinked. The fire had destroyed it easily. It was just a charred mess of brittle, black paper.

‘Bit of a setback, eh?'

Henry screwed up his nose. ‘These were just copies,' he said. ‘We have the originals up at Hutton. Seemed like a common-sense thing to do, copy the whole lot.' He looked daringly at Shafer, who tried his best not to respond visually or verbally in any way, but Henry could almost imagine steam coming out of the man's ears, especially when he said, ‘But it wouldn't matter one way or the other, because we'd decided to start the investigation from scratch anyway.'

There was nothing to salvage from the room and a few minutes later Henry left the building, having been warned to expect more than a telling-off for adding the lock to the door. He dashed across the dual carriageway to the Albert Dock complex where he seated himself in a café overlooking the inner dock and ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso. He needed the kick without the bitterness.

The rain started to tumble and he found his mood darkening with the clouds as he tried to think logically over the events of the last twenty-four hours. He hoped his conclusions were not based on the fact that he disliked certain people and they disliked him.

First of all, he didn't really expect the local plods to fall over themselves in helping him. That was only natural, and so long as they didn't blatantly obstruct his investigation he had no real problems with reticence or bad feeling.

Secondly, was he reading too much into what happened in the CCTV room this morning? Sometimes things got wiped. Shit happened, and usually in connection with the things you happened to be working on at the time.

It didn't mean there was a conspiracy.

Carradine had not hidden the fact that Jonny Motta had been put forward, then eliminated, as a suspect for the Preston murders.

It just happened that Henry was one hundred per cent certain that Motta was the guy he'd had a rumble with on the night of the murders and that put him right up there in suspect number one place.

And the fire in the office?

Just bad luck?

Maybe. And Henry wondered what was to be gained if the fire had been intentionally set. Anyone coming into the investigation would probably have copied the paperwork anyway. The only thing was, if someone in Merseyside was trying to hide something, perhaps they thought Henry had already uncovered something new and incriminating and therefore worth destroying. And putting a new lock on the door was a bit like flashing a red cape at an angry bull – it just had to charge.

He knew he had to keep an open mind about everything, whilst at the same time keeping his focus on the task, which was to close the IPCC investigation into a police shooting … which took him by the nose to his next thought …

He had been through everything left behind by the IPCC investigator – the statements, interviews, and all the things he would have expected to find – except photos, of course – but with one other glaring exception.

Henry pulled out the mini-ringbound reporter's notebook he carried around with him in which he'd jotted a few notes and telephone numbers. One was the mobile number of the dead IPCC investigator. Henry looked at it for a while, pursing his lips, wondering whether or not he should.

Phoning a dead man was perhaps not the best thing to do.

Still, Henry Christie was not noted for doing the best things.

Henry had often been around people who had lost loved ones. However they dealt with the loss – hysterically, angrily, philosophically, calmly – there was always something in their eyes that made him feel sad for them. There was no exception to this when the door he'd been knocking at opened and a woman about his age with sharply styled grey hair and handsome but tired features stood there.

‘Mrs McKnight? I'm Henry Christie … I phoned about half an hour ago?'

‘On my husband's mobile,' she nodded. ‘I still don't get why I keep it on and charged up.'

‘I'm very sorry to trouble you at this time and I'm very sorry for your loss.'

She smiled pleasantly and her face became pretty. ‘Come in, it's no problem. I need to talk to people.'

He took tea and biscuits, but didn't offer any more sympathy. She looked to be a strong woman, dealing with a tragedy in her life with dignity and resolve. Henry could tell she didn't need any soppy words. She'd probably had her fill of them. She looked tired and drawn, though, from lack of sleep and Henry promised he would be as quick as possible.

‘As I explained …' He sipped the Earl Grey tea. ‘I've been given the job of completing what Mr McKnight started in relation to the police shooting in Merseyside. From what I can see, he did a very professional, thorough job. It's just that when he died, the job wasn't finished and that's why I'm doing it.'

‘In your phone call you said he might have left some paperwork at home, but to be honest, as far as I know everything he did was left in Liverpool. He was a workaholic and often brought documents home to study, but I'm sure there's nothing here.' She waved a hand loosely at the house.

Henry scratched his head. ‘There's a full box of statements and stuff like that, but I think I would have expected a notebook of some sort and a policy book which he would have been required to keep. They don't seem to be there.'

She pouted thoughtfully, then drifted off momentarily before dragging herself back. She looked at Henry. ‘I'm not really thinking straight … I think I've let you come on a wild-goose chase … Now I remember that what work stuff he had here, I've already handed over. I'm really sorry. One of your colleagues must have it.'

‘Who did you hand it to?'

‘A police officer, not someone from the IPCC … With everything that's happened, all the things you have to do when someone dies, it just went out of my mind. I don't recall who it was, though.'

‘Not a problem, Mrs McKnight. I understand. I imagine it'll turn up.'

‘My mind's a bit of a mess,' she sighed.

‘I understand … but could you describe the person. I'll probably know who it is.'

Henry's mobile vibrated silently in his pocket. He ignored it as Mrs McKnight gave a faltering, half-remembered description to him. He nodded as she spoke, memorizing what she said.

‘Thanks for that,' he said, then rising and finishing the tea. ‘You've been a great help and I'm sorry to intrude.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘I don't suppose there's anything else? I mean, did Mr McKnight mention anything to you about the investigation at all?'

‘He rarely discussed his work. Much of it was highly confidential and he was very conscientious.' She and Henry walked to the front door. ‘But on reflection,' she added thoughtfully, ‘he did seem troubled by the investigation. It seemed to be a weight on his shoulders.'

Henry fought the urge to give her shoulders a good shake. ‘In what way?' he probed gently instead.

‘Hard to say.' She opened the door for him. ‘He was just more withdrawn and distracted than usual, even more so on the day he was killed. I don't know. I could just tell. Even though he didn't discuss work, I could tell when things weren't going well and on that day he was acting quite strangely …' Her voice trailed off wistfully. ‘But then again, hindsight makes all things significant, doesn't it?' She looked as though she was about to break into tears.

‘Thank you,' he said, touching her shoulder gently. ‘I won't take up any more of your time.'

What was left of the McKnight family lived in Ormskirk, the pretty little market town just inside the Lancashire border, so it was easy for Henry to pick up the A59 and he was back at Lancashire Police headquarters within half an hour. He strode through the Intelligence Unit and collected Jerry Tope on the way, who was sitting at his desk working at his computer.

They commandeered the DI's office and closed the door behind them. Henry invited Tope to take a seat and said, ‘What've you got?'

‘For most of the morning I've been trying to get into the Preston City Centre CCTV system and I've managed to succeed, but haven't managed to recover the file you're after. I can see where it's been, but I can't access the hard drive to recover it. I probably need to be physically in the CCTV room itself, but I have a program at home that might help. If I had that I might be able to get what you want. I'm sure the file will be there, even if it's been deleted. It's just finding a route to it.'

‘I thought you were a computer nerd.'

‘I am,' he said with pride. ‘But not all things get done at the flick of a finger.'

Henry rubbed his eyes, tapped his fingers on the desk, then lifted a bum cheek to allow wind to pass: a great detective at work.

‘Would it help if you worked from home?'

‘That's where all my stuff is … my unofficial stuff, that is.'

‘I want you to have a look at some other things, too.'

‘Will I get into trouble?'

‘Only if you disobey my orders.'

‘OK.'

Henry then told him about the mysterious fire in the office in Liverpool. It made Tope's jaw drop.

‘Hell,' he said, ‘what do you make of it?'

Henry opened his hands. ‘Something and nothing. If it's a genuine fire, nothing. If it's arson, something.'

As he spoke the words, he spotted Bill Robbins sauntering through the Intelligence Unit, then enter the DI's office.

‘Some bastard set the office on fire in Liverpool,' Tope blurted.

‘Really,' said Bill unconcerned. He took a seat, looked at Henry after the incident had been explained to him. ‘What d'you make of it?' he repeated the question.

‘I'm told it was a faulty socket. From my experience of fires, it doesn't look like it.' He folded his arms. ‘Deliberate,' he said firmly.

Tope and Bill exchanged worried looks.

‘From now on we work from here – or home – and we ensure everything is backed up and secured from prying eyes and fingers. And, whilst I don't want to sound dramatic, we watch our backs, too. The fire might be genuine, who knows, but let's be careful when we cross the border because I get the impression they don't like us very much down there. Better safe than sorry …'

Bill took in the order, an unflustered look on his face. Tope seemed gravely worried and said, ‘The IPCC investigator got murdered, didn't he?'

A chilled pause descended on the office.

‘What makes you say that?' Henry asked.

‘Unexplained hit and run.'

Suddenly Henry felt very foolish. ‘Unexplained hit and run?' – things were being repeated quite often in the office that morning. ‘But I thought he'd …' Henry's voice trailed off because he was going to say something stupid like, ‘been involved in a road-traffic accident.' He had made the assumption, a killer of a thing to do for any SIO worth his salt, that McKnight's death had been a car-to-car bump, a tragic accident with a fatal outcome. Head through the windscreen thing. He had made the error of not checking things out.