Dead Heat (29 page)

‘All in a day? You're nuts.'

Henry looked at his watch. ‘Less than a day now.'

‘Twat.'

‘Am I! Let's drive back down south.'

‘I don't know where to start, man,' Troy whined.

Henry knew the Costain family had a string of nefarious contacts right across Lancashire and down into Greater Manchester. He therefore knew Troy was lying.

‘Fibber,' he said.

A
rmed with a revolver and a bag of drugs, Henry Christie felt very peculiar indeed. He had made Troy drop him off two streets away from where the Astra was parked, then watched his source drive away before trudging to his car, gun in one pocket, drugs in another. He hid the items in the hollow where the spare wheel should have been, hoping that Troy didn't have the brains to blob him in and call the cops anonymously. If Henry was found in possession of a gun and drugs, he'd have a hard time explaining it and could easily end up going down for it, rather as he had described to Troy, maybe for longer.

He drove back to town. It was 10.45 p.m.

As instructed, he parked around the corner from the youth club and sauntered back to stand across the road in a shop doorway where he could watch the club entrance. A few kids were hanging round the door. They were giggly and high spirited, but not in the same way as the youths he'd watched congregating around the shops in South Shore. These seemed much nicer, stepping out of the way for other pedestrians, and were polite too.

The youth club door opened. There was a blast of coloured lights and loud dance music from the disco inside. A couple of youngsters came out, one went back in and the door slammed shut.

Henry saw that one of the ones who came out was Charlotte Wickson. She was staggering about drunkenly, falling against the walls and the window of the charity shop next door. Henry's mouth went dry. Drunk? Drugged? She fell back against the window again and shouted an obscenity. The other kids laughed at her and suddenly the little gang seemed much darker and less friendly.

He started to wish that Leanne would come out, so he could take her back to the safety of home.

From around a corner a youth appeared on a mountain bike.

Henry gasped.

The same one who had dealt drugs to the gang down on South Shore. His name was Kevin Long and he had been dealing for a couple of years around Blackpool. Henry had never had any direct contact with him, but he knew Long well enough. His MO was to deal on the hoof from his bike and to evade capture by using his extensive knowledge of the backstreets and short cuts around town.

Long cruised up to the group outside the youth club door and stopped.

Charlotte Wickson pushed herself up from the wall and staggered up to him. He handed her a package and she shoved something in his fist. Then he was away around the corner.

Bursting with anger, Henry moved. He ran hard across the road.

Long saw him coming. He was always switched on for the surprise appearance of the cops. He clicked up a few gears, rose high on the pedals and tried to get some speed up.

Henry was almost on him.

Long pushed down – and his right foot slipped off the pedal. Before he could recover, Henry got him and drove him off the bike, smashing him bodily into the building line, against a clothes shop. He was easy meat, being all bone and no weight. Henry punched him hard in the lower gut. Long gasped and fell forwards, clutching his abdomen. Henry then swiped him hard across the face with the open palm of his right hand, sending the dealer spinning down to his knees. Henry flat-footed his ribcage and Long sprawled out, hurt and wheezing.

Henry, who found he had more strength than he could have imagined, dragged Long back up to his feet and put him face up to the wall again. He started going through his pockets, hoping like hell there wasn't a needle in one of them. Instead he found numerous wraps of drugs, a bundle of five pound notes and two pockets crammed with pound coins. Henry pulled these pockets inside out, scattering all the coins.

‘Hey, man . . . fucker!' said Long.

Henry placed the palm of his hand against the back of Long's head and with a quick thrust, smashed his face into the wall with a very satisfying crunch.

‘Jesus . . .'

Henry did it again for good measure, then he let go, as gurgling with the blood from his now shattered nose, Long sank to the floor. Henry went to a drain by the kerb and stuffed the drugs and money down it.

He crossed back to Long and placed a foot on his neck.

He was in a rage like he had never known. Blood pounded through him.

‘If I ever catch you dealing around here again, I will kill you. Do I make myself clear? This is my patch and I don't want scum like you on it. Do you hear me?' Henry pushed his foot down hard. The way he felt now, he could easily have murdered him.

He raised his foot, stepped back.

‘Go.'

Long scrambled to his feet, collected his bike and disappeared into the night.

Henry stood there for a good long time, controlling his breathing, wondering what he had become in that moment. A vigilante? Or just a father out to protect his daughter from the scum of the earth.

The moment was over. He had acted rashly, but now it was gone.

He decided there and then there would be no post-mortems on the incident. He took a deep breath and walked back around the corner to pick up Leanne.

The disco was over. The doors were open, the music finished, and the kids were disgorging untidily. Parents' cars were lined up outside, rather like school collection time. Henry stood near to the door, keeping his eyes peeled for Leanne, Charlotte and Tara Wickson.

Leanne emerged from a sea of sweaty kids, looking hyper and excited.

‘Hi, kid,' he greeted her.

‘Dad,' she said and gave him a hug.

‘Good time?'

‘Excellent.'

‘Take any drugs?'

She came upright and looked at him, a deeply troubled expression on her pretty face. ‘No. What was that supposed to be about?'

Henry was still uptight. He got a grip of himself and forced himself to come back down to planet earth. ‘Sorry, nothing. You ready to roll?'

‘Yeah.' Leanne hooked up to him. They walked arm in arm.

Behind them was the shriek of a girl.

Even before he turned, Henry knew it was Charlotte Wickson. She was being manhandled into the big fat Bentley by Jake Coulton, her father's security man. He had grabbed her bodily, his big arms wrapped around her in a bear hug. Her feet were lifted off the ground and she was kicking like mad, writhing and trying to break free.

‘You get in the bloody car,' Coulton growled.

Her right heel kicked back and connected with his shin. He howled and threw her aside. She landed on her knees on the pavement.

All around, the other kids' parents simply stepped back and let it happen without interference.

That night Henry was not in the mood to be a watcher.

He pulled away from Leanne.

‘Dad,' she said, warningly.

‘It's OK.'

Coulton had got hold of one of Charlotte's arms and was dragging the unfortunate girl towards the big car.

Henry stepped up to him.‘ Leave her,' he said. His anger was transparently evident, even from just those two words.

Coulton released her and stood upright, turning slowly to face the challenge that was Henry Christie.

‘Back off, Henry.'

‘Uh-uh.'

They stood face to face.

Behind them, Charlotte had rolled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

‘I'm here to collect her on Mrs Wickson's instructions. This is none of your business.'

‘When you collect her like that,' Henry explained, ‘I make it my business.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw a patrolling police van crawl in their direction. Coulton spotted it, too.

‘She's a bit pissed and doesn't know what she's doing,' Coulton said. ‘I've come to take her home – so get stuffed.'

The police van drew parallel with them. The driver wound his window down and leaned out. ‘Gorra problem?'

Henry and Coulton looked at each other. Coulton tore his eyes away first and said, ‘No, not at all.'

Henry said nothing.

‘I'll just stay in the vicinity,' the PC said, sensing the tension.

He U-turned the van in the street and parked opposite.

Kids and parents who had been glued to the encounter started to drift away.

Henry bent down to Charlotte. She looked up at him with pleading, watery, drug-filled eyes. ‘Come on, love,' he said. ‘You need to get home. Come on, get into the car.'

‘I don't want to go with that bastard,' she whispered.

‘Come on, it'll be OK.'

‘Yeah, come on you spoilt twat, get in the car,' Coulton said to her over Henry's shoulder. Charlotte howled.

‘Shut it, Jake,' Henry warned him. ‘Come on, come on love.'

‘Please, please, you take me home.'

‘I can't,' Henry said pathetically. ‘Come on.'

All the fight drained out of her. Henry almost thought he saw it leave her, like a ghost. He helped her up and led her to the back door of the Bentley. Coulton opened the door and Henry guided her in. Instead of going on a seat, she prostrated herself in the space between the front and rear seats.

‘She's a little cunt,' Coulton hissed into Henry's ear. ‘Doesn't deserve fuck all.'

‘If you lay a finger on her, Jake, I'll make it my personal responsibility to pay you a visit.'

Coulton laughed in his face, then got into the Bentley. He tore away from the kerb, two fingers raised in Henry's direction, then he was gone. Henry watched the tail lights fade. He looked over at the police van, nodded at the driver – a PC he did not know – then went to Leanne, who was waiting for him twenty metres down the road.

He gave her a hug. Arm in arm, they walked to the discreetly parked Astra.

‘Sorry it's not a Bentley,' he apologized.

‘She can keep her bloody Bentley. I'd rather have this – and you – any day,' Leanne said. It was the first time Henry had ever heard her swear.

‘Do you have much to do with Charlotte?' he asked her.

‘No – only met her at the stables. She goes to some posh private school out near Poulton somewhere.'

‘Oh, I assumed she went to yours,' Henry said foolishly.

‘Naah . . . I quite like her, though, in a funny sort of way,' Leanne said wistfully as she fitted her seatbelt. ‘But she's not a happy kid,' she said, like a grown-up. ‘Money doesn't make you happy, Daddy.'

‘I don't think I'll ever find out on my wage.'

‘It's love and family that make you happy. And laughs and fun.'

‘Can't disagree with that.' Henry's heart felt like it was being twisted.

‘We have a good family, don't we?'

‘Yeah, we do.' God – he was starting to fill up.

‘She doesn't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Her daddy isn't her real daddy.'

Henry almost swerved the Astra off the road.

W
ith his mind buzzing, Henry Christie was still awake at 2 a.m. He tried not to toss and turn so as not to disturb Kate, but lay there with his arms clasped at the back of his head, staring at the ceiling. He was reviewing his day, going round and round the block since Jane had called with the car at 8 a.m.

That seemed such a long, long time ago.

Since dropping her off and making her walk to the police station, Henry had not spoken to her.

Perhaps he should, he thought. But then again, perhaps not. She was far too tempting for him, even though he had promised himself not to get involved. There was still more than a spark between them, despite what she said, and under the right circumstances it could ignite into passion and danger. At least that is what his male ego led him to believe.

His mind drifted from incident to incident, like a butterfly on flowers, not really fathoming out anything from his sleepy analysis.

The biggest shock of the day had been Leanne's news about Charlotte and her parentage. Henry tried to speculate as to what significance that had on the family. Was the man Tara had her tryst with the real father, or just one of a series of lovers? Did it have any connection with the mutilation of horses? Did John Lloyd Wickson know he wasn't the father?

Bloody hell, he thought: a can of worms.

He peeled the duvet off him and rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and slid his feet into his Marks and Spencer slippers.

He needed a drink.

Without disturbing anyone, he hoped, he made his way downstairs and to the fridge in which he kept a chilled bottle of Jack Daniel's. He poured a short measure and retired to the living room, spreading out on the settee. The ice-cold drink burned satisfyingly down his throat. Nice.

Fuck! He had a moment of anguished panic when he remembered that a gun and a bag of drugs were still stashed in the Astra parked in his driveway.

He had another drink to calm himself down.

When Troy Costain came up with the goods, he would lose the gun and destroy the drugs. If he could keep his nerve for the next day, that was.

He closed his eyes and thought about the drug dealer he had beaten up.

That had been a moment of pure rage, but one he did not regret. A kick for the common people, he thought triumphantly, and raised his glass.

Obviously if the little shit complained to the police about it, Henry would have to have it taken into consideration with the gun and drug possession.

He chuckled slightly manically.

The sour mash whiskey was making him feel mellow and sleepy, doing its job. He knew mind, body and spirit needed to rest. His body ached. His mind was warped. His spirit was battered.

He shuffled into a comfortable sleeping position, head laid back on the arm of the settee.

He drifted nicely.