Bad Tidings (11 page)

Henry's only role had been to oversee the investigation, just to ensure nothing was overlooked. Everyone else did the work, as it should be.

But as SIO Henry could not avoid coming into contact with the Cromers, and at one point he had a stand-up row with Terry senior that almost came to blows in Blackpool police station foyer. Terry's threatening rants then became a personal attack on Henry, who he blamed for taking away his only flesh and blood.

The lad was eventually jailed for life, with a judge's recommendation that he must serve a minimum of fifteen years. The full story behind the killing was never revealed and it was played out as just another night out in Blackpool that had gone sour. As they often did.

And now Henry was back facing Terry senior, a man with pure hate etched across his features. Henry said calmly, ‘I'm simply responding to a missing person report.'

‘Fuck off, Christie,' Cromer spat. ‘You're just nosying. Just a friggin' excuse to get into my house. I know. I'm not thick.'

‘OK, fine, have it your way.'

‘Yeah – my house, my way. You're trespassing, so you'd better get out now or else I'm gonna smash your head in.'

‘Dad!'

Cromer looked over Henry's shoulder at the young woman who had let Henry into the house. It jolted Henry to learn she was his daughter, mainly because he didn't know that Terry had one.

‘Keep out of this,' Terry warned her.

‘Dad . . . Gran's worried about Freddy . . . you should be, too,' she said forcefully, standing her ground. ‘He is your brother.' She raised her chin defiantly.

Henry saw Terry's right fist bunch up like a rock as he looked at Janine and seemed to want to utter something. His fist shook.

Henry said, ‘Look – seriously, we are concerned about him, Mr Cromer. I'm not here nosying, as you put it,' he fibbed a little. He was being nosy, but he also had a right to be there, because he thought there was the outside chance that Freddy was the target for a serial killer.

Should he tell Terry that? As he looked at the man, Henry thought, No, sod it, you bastard. If he gets dead with feathers stuffed in his mouth, then so be it. He actually said, ‘Are you bothered or not?'

‘Get out,' Terry stated. ‘Janine – show him past the dogs.'

H
enry had been ejected from a lot worse places. He hadn't expected a warm welcome and they were right to be distrustful of his motives – all crims were – but it was frustrating to be hoofed out without being given the chance to fully explain why he had turned up on the doorstep. He knew he could have forced the issue and made Terry pin his ears back, but that could have been counterproductive.

Their reaction to the possibility that Freddy fitted the profile of a serial killer victim would have either been laugh-out-loud dismissed, or taken so seriously it could have got out of hand. So, Henry had thought as he threw his big Teddy out of his cot, if they wanted to be twats to him, he'd be a twat to them.

The best course of action would be to back out gracefully, then go home and get laid. No contest. Or would have been if it hadn't been for two things.

The first happened as, led by Janine, he walked down the hallway ahead of Terry Cromer. As he passed the door that had been closed when he'd arrived, the one behind which he'd heard male voices, it opened.

Henry could not help but glance to his right.

And just for the instant that the door was open – and it was opened by a man he instantly recognized – Henry glimpsed three other men in what was a large dining room. It was literally a glimpse. A man at the door, three at a table, and on the table a revolver and a sawn-off shotgun, side by side. The door was immediately slammed shut – because, also in that instant, the man who had opened it knew he had been clocked, and Henry could tell from his instantaneous expression of grief that he had committed a faux pas, or in his language, a fucking cock-up.

Henry walked on, internally jolted, but pretending he'd seen nothing. Janine went out of the front door ahead of him and collared the dogs.

As he stepped out, and Terry slammed the door behind him, the second thing happened.

Janine hissed, just loud enough for him to hear, ‘Park up the road and wait for me.' Then louder, she said, ‘I've got the dogs, you'll be safe.'

Henry didn't acknowledge either statement, but set off for the gate and out to his car, dropping into it and heaving a big sigh. Then, as instructed in the stage whisper, he drove a couple of hundred metres up the lane, did a three-point turn and parked, lights out, engine idling.

Inside him, his own pistons were pumping.
Guns on the table
.

And the dining room door had been opened by none other than Iron-man William Grasson, or Bill the Grass as he was known with irony. Henry knew that in the organizational chart of the Cromer crime business, Grasson fitted in very nicely, thank you, as a violent enforcer, a vicious man once convicted of cutting off another man's little finger with garden shears when chasing up a hundred-pound drug debt.

Henry had recognized him straight away, because Grasson was a difficult man not to know. Although he was an enforcer, he had himself once come a cropper when he encountered a couple of other rival enforcers chasing his debt. They branded him with the triangular and unmistakable imprint of a steam iron, hence the ‘Iron-man' epithet. He was scarily recognizable, even to Henry, who had never met the man before.

From what he'd seen of the other men in the room, he didn't know them, but they seemed equally appealing.

Henry worked through the scenario. Not the nicest bunch of people to invite around for Christmas dinner. He guessed that in the normal course of events, guys like these would only be at the family homestead for two reasons – protection or attack.

Or was he being totally preposterous?

Perhaps the Cromers always invited their best staff around at Christmas, then they could all share their war stories for the last year. The best drugs deal I made. That bloke's finger I snapped off. That lad's head I broke . . . that rival's brains I blew out.

Perhaps the guns were merely Christmas pressies.

But knowing what he did about the lifestyles of the rich and criminal, their presence unsettled him.

And on top of that, Janine, daughter of Terry Cromer.

Henry didn't even know he had a daughter.

A deranged, ultra-violent son, yes, but not a daughter, and one who at first glance didn't seem to fit the profile of the rest of the tribe. But that didn't mean anything. Looks could be deceptive.

Just as he was wondering what she wanted, there was a thud and a scraping noise at the car door. Henry jumped, twisted sideways and looked into a pair of menacing eyes. He almost let out a squeak – one of the Cromer dogs was looking at him, leaving a snotty nose print on the window.

Suddenly the head was dragged away sharply as Janine brought the dog under control, leaned forward in its place and looked into Henry's eyes. ‘Is it unlocked?' she asked.

He nodded, and she walked around the car and dropped into the passenger seat, trapping the dog's lead in the door so it could not wander off.

Henry looked at her, confirming her good looks. ‘Didn't see you coming.'

‘Back way.'

Henry could actually smell her, a mix of nice perfume and cigarette smoke on her breath. It was quite alluring in a strange sort of way. He raised his eyebrows. ‘So?'

‘I wanted to tell you about Freddy.'

‘The missing man – or the missing man, not?'

‘He's definitely missing and Gran is worried about him.'

‘I'll make sure he's circulated.'

‘Dad's right, isn't he?'

‘About what?'

‘You turning up. You're just being nosy, aren't you? Just an excuse to get into our house, isn't it? I mean, a detective superintendent – pah!' She glared accusingly at him.

‘Why are you here? Does your dad know?'

‘No.'

‘Then why?'

‘I wanted to make sure you treated Freddy's disappearance seriously and didn't get the huff just because you got kicked out of the house.'

‘Every missing person is treated seriously,' Henry told her, ‘but what the police do about them is based on the surrounding circumstances . . . so I'll leave Freddy to the local cops and see how it pans out.'

‘Just so you know – Freddy's not well.'

Henry stared cynically at her, but desisted from saying, ‘He never was.'

‘He kind of comes and goes, but for the last few years his medication's kept him stable. But if he doesn't get it he becomes very paranoid and unstable and he can be quite nasty.'

‘But why has he been reported missing?'

‘He had a big fallout with Dad last night and stormed off into town. He hadn't taken his pills that morning and it doesn't take him long to revert to type. And he definitely hasn't taken any today, either.'

‘So he could be chewing carpets somewhere?'

Janine looked fiercely at him. ‘Not funny.'

‘I didn't know Terry had a daughter.'

‘I'm the black sheep of the family. University and a proper job. Never got involved in any of the . . . you know.'

‘Shenanigans?' Henry chewed his bottom lip for a moment. ‘What's going on?' he asked.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘In there.' He thumbed at the house. ‘Bill Grasson, some more salty-looking dudes and guns.'

Janine's face constricted. ‘Don't know, don't want to know,' she said, sounding offended. ‘I just want to get Freddy back in one piece. Yeah, he could end up eating carpets, as you so colourfully put it, but he could also end up doing someone some harm – or himself. He needs finding.'

Henry recalled Freddy's hands squeezing his windpipe. He sighed. ‘Where do I start looking?'

‘I could show you. I know some places he hangs around.'

Henry nodded. ‘Are we taking the dog?' It was tempting to set off with the beast attached to the car.

‘Wait here. I'll sneak Damian back in and be back in ten minutes.'

While he waited, he selected a Miles Davis track on the car's iPod. He'd been trying to get into jazz, but was so far failing. He liked jazz and blues singers, but couldn't quite get to grips with instrumentalists, though he did appreciate their talent. He was becoming convinced it wasn't for him.

He was considering what he should do about the firearms he'd seen, which, he now assumed, would be hard to find. It wasn't practical to go back mob-handed with a bunch of his hairy-arsed colleagues, at least not on Christmas Day, nor Boxing Day. Getting enough police staff together to do anything on these particular days would be almost impossible.

The best thing to do, he concluded, was to hold on to the knowledge, because it might come in useful at some future date – if he needed a warrant, for example. Deep down he did feel he should be bursting in, kicking down their door, just for the hell of it. He hadn't kicked a door down for ages and he was going through withdrawal symptoms. Maybe it was unbecoming for a man of his years – bursting into people's houses was a young cop's game – but it was addictive. However, it was now his job to step carefully over the resultant carnage
after
entry had been gained, not to lead the charge.

The passenger door opened. Janine dropped in alongside Henry, no dog in tow.

‘You sure about this?'

‘Yeah – it'll be all right.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘Head for Blackburn.'

‘So – home for Christmas?'

‘Something like that.'

‘Where do you live and work?'

‘Manchester,' Janine said. Henry waited, but she made no attempt to give him any further information.

‘What is work?'

She shrugged. ‘A law firm, dealing mainly with accident claims. Boring but necessary for the time being. I'd like to get into corporate law.'

‘You're a solicitor?'

‘Yep.'

‘Well, good for you. Criminal law?'

‘No,' she said strongly.

‘Good for you,' he said again, not sure if he believed a word of it, though she did seem genuine. That could have something to do with the fact she was a Cromer. As far as Henry was concerned, they were all pretty much liars.

‘Go right here,' she instructed him. He scooped around a roundabout onto Shadsworth Road. ‘There's a club in Knuzden he likes,' she explained.

Henry knew that Shadsworth Road dropped down into the area called Knuzden, on the eastern outskirts of Blackburn.

‘So what happened to Freddy?' he asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘In between the time he almost killed his aunt by dropping her out of a window, strangled me, and got sent to mental institutions, and now.'

‘Just that.' She kept her face forward. ‘All I know is what I've been told, really . . . I wasn't even born when that happened.' She gave Henry a sly, amused look. ‘Which must make you really old . . . I mean, were you really the cop he tried to kill?'

‘I was.' Henry could have said it proudly, but he didn't. It was a long time ago and it still mortified him that a teenager had pinned him down. Even a big one.

‘Mm, I've heard about it, obviously. But he got moved from place to place. Got better, got out, went mad again, got locked up again. Vicious circle. Eventually they stopped taking him back when the secure units became more scarce with cutbacks and the drugs got better. He's just another care in the community stat, I guess.'

‘How long has he been home?'

‘Couple, three years. Gran wanted to have him back, but he's too much of a handful when he goes off the rails. And Dad doesn't have any time for him. Usually just beats him up – Dad beats Freddy, that is.'

‘Out of curiosity, which one of those ladies I just saw was your mother?' He tried not to put too much of an inflection on the word ‘ladies'.