Bad Tidings (3 page)

Because of their shared history – weighted mainly in favour of FB – Henry could have made a stand against the rotund chief. He had done so often, though he rarely gained any advantage from it. He could have said ‘No' on this occasion, but FB had the trump card: murder.

They were in FB's office on the middle floor of police headquarters at Hutton, overlooking the sports pitches and the huge building – known as the Pavilion – that housed the Major Crime Unit, and beyond that the wooded campus in which the force Training Centre was located.

‘Sit, sit,' FB purred, gesturing towards the leather settee on the other side of his office, positioned against the wall underneath a big, formal portrait of the Queen.

Bristling at his own weakness – and checking his watch tetchily (it was 6.17 p.m. on Christmas Eve) – Henry slouched round-shouldered over to the settee and dropped miserably onto it. FB rose from the dark wood, leather-bound office chair behind his expansive leather inlaid desk – two pieces of furniture that would not have looked out of place in the captain's cabin of the
Cutty Sark
. Scooping up two fat folders, he followed Henry but sat down directly opposite him on one of the armchairs on the other side of a glass-topped coffee table with an ancient map of the world beneath the glass.

Peevishly, Henry folded his arms, his mouth twitching. He had been grinding away full tilt for the last six months and had booked annual leave for the week ahead. He was looking forward to helping Alison, unofficially, at the Tawny Owl, spending a happy week with her and her daughter Ginny, and maybe inviting his daughters, Jenny and Leanne, to spend a couple of nights at the Owl, too. A bit of a ‘get-to-know-you' thing.

The two files in FB's arms meant that Henry's plans were about to change, but neither man could have imagined just how much. And, although he didn't know it just then, something else totally unrelated to work was about to happen that would also screw up his week.

FB gave him his most understanding smile as he placed the files on the table. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea?'

Henry blinked at the offer.
FB doing something for me?
But then he realized it was after six and all of FB's support staff had gone, and there were no lackeys to whip into shape. Christmas Eve meant an early dart for all the HQ office staff. The place was like the
Mary Celeste
.

‘Coffee would be good.' Though Henry loved his coffee, he rarely drank it after 3 p.m. unless he needed to keep going. Something in FB's eyes led him to believe that he might have to keep running tonight.

FB stood up and poured two mugs from the filter machine on top of the dark panelled sideboard. He handed one to Henry, then reseated himself opposite.

‘We know why it was half a job, don't we?' FB said.

‘Uh – because he got himself in deep criminal shit and investigating murder wasn't his top priority, even though he was an SIO?' Henry answered what he knew had been a rhetorical question.

‘That's it in a nutshell,' FB agreed.

They were talking about Detective Superintendent Joe Speakman, a former colleague of Henry's on FMIT – the Force Major Investigation Team – who had become embroiled in various criminal schemes that had ended tragically for him and his family. After stumbling on Speakman's death, Henry had uncovered organized activities stretching from Lancashire to Cyprus and up into Russia. It turned into a complex, wide-ranging investigation that, six months down the line, was still ongoing for a small, dedicated team of detectives headed by Henry. People were still on the run, arrests still had to be made.

FB placed his coffee on the table, then laid his hands flat on the files.

Henry eyed them, fully aware of their contents.

A beat of silence passed, then FB said, ‘Two murders, unfortunately dubbed the “Twixtmas Killings” by our esteemed local press.'

Henry nodded. He sipped his coffee. It was bitter, tasted like it had been on the hotplate for a week. He guessed it was FB's emergency supply for when he couldn't click his fingers to get one of his minions to make a fresh one. Henry could not disguise his grimace of distaste. ‘Yup,' he said.

FB's eyes narrowed. With his hands still on top of the files, he slid them across to the detective superintendent.

Henry squirmed. ‘Last time I inherited something from Joe Speakman, I ended up being shot at, kidnapped, beaten up. My lovely car was written off by a freakin' Russian gangster and my partner was seriously assaulted – and she's only just got through that shit.' An image of Alison's pulped face came into Henry's mind.

But FB reverted to type, giving an uncaring pout and shrug. ‘Who'd have known? Still, there's nothing to say that either of these murders is connected with those other shenanigans, is there?' He tapped the files.

Henry didn't flinch, didn't lean forward. To have done so, in terms of body language, would have signalled his acceptance of what was being said, and he was fighting it.

He had worked long, hard, punishing hours for the last six months and knew it was probably taking its toll on his fledgling relationship with Alison. He really needed a week off with her or he could see the whole thing going south . . . and he had something special planned for Christmas that would put everything – his relationship, his life – back on track.

But two murders?

Fuck you, FB
, he thought.
You slimy toad.
He knew it was a crap deal getting handed two unsolved, very cold murders . . . but hell! Two murders. How could he possibly resist?

Fuck you, FB, he thought again. However, he continued his little game, even though his mind was already rehearsing his speech to Alison. His
I'm only doing what my boss ordered, I didn't have a choice
speech. Even in his brain, it sounded piss weak.

‘What about Don Royce?' he stalled. Royce was one of the other two FMIT detective superintendents.

‘Too busy – and he's on call for everything else this week.'

‘Reg Carney?' He was the other one.

‘Caribbean cruise – already jetting across the water.'

‘There's plenty of DCIs who could tackle them,' Henry suggested.

FB shook his head. His double chins wobbled.

The word ‘Bollocks' sat on Henry's tongue, but remained unsaid. He squirmed again.

‘You're the man,' FB said. ‘You've already had involvement with Joe Speakman. You obviously know how Joe's mind worked, how he thought.'

‘Thin,' Henry said. ‘Try harder. I have a week's holiday booked and a hot-arsed landlady waiting for me.'

FB continued unmoved. ‘You've pretty much wrapped up the Speakman thing . . . you need something else to keep you occupied, to ease you up to retirement.'

‘How about I have the week off, then look at them?' He nodded at the files.

‘You know you can't.'

Henry raised his eyes and looked directly at FB. ‘I'm having them, whatever, aren't I?'

‘Course you are.'

‘Shit.'

Henry knew exactly what was in the files. He'd read them several times just in case there had been some connection to the mess that Joe Speakman had got himself embroiled in. Henry concluded that the two murders were not linked in any way to Speakman's personal debacle – but there was every chance that they were themselves connected. Whichever senior investigating officer inherited them would have to put in a lot of time and effort over the next week because of that connection and because the week was significant in terms of the murders. Henry gazed at the files, nostrils dilating, knowing two things. First, he would not be spending much time with Alison over the next seven days. Second, he had a horrible feeling he'd just been handed the hunt for a serial killer . . . but when FB said, ‘You bloody love it, don't you?' Henry had to agree.

He did.

The morning was still black, no sign of dawn, as Henry approached junction 5 of the M65. He was now well into the east of the county – dark satanic mill land (though most cotton mills had been demolished years ago, or turned into ‘shopping events') – and as he looked up to his right he could see the silhouette of the village of Belthorn perched on a high crest of moorland on the edge of some very wild countryside. Over to his left was the town of Blackburn and lit up in the foreground, about a mile distant, was Blackburn Royal Infirmary. He'd had some real fun there this last week.

He came off the motorway and bore right onto the A6177 Grane Road, which linked Blackburn with the Rossendale Valley.

Less than a mile distant he turned right onto Belthorn Road and drove up towards the village, over the slight rise, then down into a dip before the steep hill that was the main road through the village. To the right was the Dog Inn, but before Henry reached that, he slowed, then stopped. On his right was a narrow tarmac side road and parked across it was a marked police car, one officer on board, controlling all vehicular access.

Two hundred metres down the lane was the location – a factory unit – at which Henry had been asked to attend.

The scene of the crime. Five very evocative words, Henry always thought:
the scene of the crime
.

At that moment, after a long, fast early morning drive across the county, Henry did not know for certain what he would discover.

What he did believe was that, based on his knowledge of the two unsolved murders FB had given him to investigate, the link between them would be confirmed. But the good thing was that this one wouldn't be a cold case. Henry was coming in right at the start. New leads and connections would be generated and – based on what he learned over the week – the killer, he was confident, would be caught. Because he was pretty certain who it was.

A shimmer of excitement scuttled through him.

He checked his watch, which read 04:58. Two minutes to five on New Year's Day . . . what could be better, after the week he'd just had, than attending the scene of yet another horrific murder?

Don't answer that, he thought . . .

The two files were substantial and Henry had to cart them out of FB's office one under each arm, shouldering his way carefully through doors, down steps, eventually emerging at the front of the HQ building and walking across the footpath that dissected the playing field.

He hadn't completely got his head around how he was going to manage the week ahead, personally or professionally, but he knew that some skilful juggling would have to take place.

What he didn't expect was to be blindsided by something unexpected – which came in the form of a phone call.

His mobile started to ring as he was halfway from HQ to his office, situated in a refurbished former student accommodation block at the Training Centre. With both files clamped tightly underneath his armpits, he couldn't shuffle them without dropping either, so he ignored the ringing and carried on across the sports pitch in the gloom of the evening.

The phone continued to ring as he walked, with the accompanying sound of text messages pinging as they landed. Something was going on.

He struggled up to his middle-floor office in a building that seemed to be deserted and dumped the files on his desk, fished out his phone and slid it open: four missed calls, two texts and a voicemail.

He checked who each was from. One from Alison, two from his daughter Leanne, one from his sister, Lisa. The texts were both from Alison and the voice message from Lisa.

With a feeling of dread, Henry started to listen to Lisa's voice message, knowing it could only be about one thing.

It was one of the fastest drives of his life: Preston to Blackpool. Police headquarters to Blackpool Victoria Hospital, BVH. Twenty minutes.

And then twenty more minutes finding somewhere to park.

And then ten minutes walking from his car to the A&E department and another five to find the patient in a curtained cubicle somewhere at the back.

As he drew aside the heavy plastic curtain, his eyes alighted on the frail figure of his mother in the bed, hooked up to various monitors and drips stuck in veins at the back of her bony hands, and on the faces of Lisa and Leanne, his sister and daughter, at the bedside.

Both women turned and gripped him, suddenly in floods of tears.

Henry consoled them, an arm around each, as he looked at his mother, her eyes closed and, he guessed, very close to death.

Something cold and rock solid sank in his chest.

He could have driven down the lane, using his rank, but instead he parked the Audi on the main road, pulled the Chatsworth jacket tight, got out and decided to walk. He grabbed his Maglite torch from the footwell and stuffed a few pairs of latex gloves and shoe covers into his pocket, just a few items from the kit every half-decent detective would carry with him.

As he approached the stationary police car, the officer inside got out wearily. Henry flashed his warrant card, even though the PC recognized him.

‘I'll let you drive down, if you like, sir,' he told Henry. ‘There's plenty of parking outside the unit and quite a few cop cars down there.'

‘Maybe later, when I see what's what,' Henry said, ducking under the cordon tape that had also been strung across the entrance to the lane. His mind was already starting to take in the location, trying to assess its importance, and he worked quickly back over the existing murder files as he walked to the scene of what might actually be the fourth murder in the series. And he shook his head at the memory of the past week and all that he had endured . . .

I
t had been a heart attack that had floored Henry's ninety-one-year-old mother, Veronica Martha Christie, née Redwood. Fortunately for her it struck when Lisa, Henry's somewhat flaky sister, was paying one of her very infrequent visits. (Cruelly, Henry wondered if the fact that Lisa had turned up had been the reason for the attack.)

His mother lived – still fiercely independent at such a great age – in sheltered housing in Bispham, to the north of Blackpool. She had survived a previous heart attack a couple of years before, but it had become obvious to the family that she had started to deteriorate health-wise in the last six months. She was eating less and less, hardly had any energy in her frail body and was approaching, if not death, then at least the time when she would need to be cared for by professionals.