Psycho Alley (33 page)

Cork led them up from the front door, pausing at the floor on which Uren's flat was situated. The flat was still sealed as a crime scene.

‘When the hell's that comin' off?' Cork asked, pointing at the tape stretched across the door. ‘Money going to waste there.'

‘Until our scientific people are happy there's nothing else we need,' Henry told him.

‘Not good,' Cork said.

He took them up the next flight.

‘How does Mr Stoke pay his rent?'

‘Cash. Leaves an envelope for me in the lockable post box at the bottom of the steps.'

There were only two doors on the landing on the top floor. ‘It's that one,' he said, ‘and this is the spare key.' He handed it to Henry, who walked to the door and knocked on it. No reply. Last time he caught Trent, Trent was in a guesthouse in Blackpool. That was when Trent had tried to stab Henry, but instead the tables were turned when Danny Furness clobbered him with her baton and laid him out.

‘Police – open up,' Henry called. Again, no reply. He put the key in the lock and opened the door to reveal a poorly-lit, dingy room which made the word ‘basic' sound luxurious. A camp bed, a couple of old armchairs, rickety coffee table and nothing else, other than a kitchen sink.

‘Nice,' Henry said, stepping over the threshold. The flat was empty, devoid of anything, including signs of recent habitation.

Donaldson was behind him. ‘Could just be a bolthole,' he said.

‘Did he ever have anything more here?' Henry asked Cork.

The landlord shrugged. ‘How would I know?'

‘Because you sneak around when your tenants are out … look, don't mess us about, Larry. We're chasing a murderer.'

Cork held up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine, OK, it was always this empty. Never saw clothing, or food, or anything. I don't think he spent hardly any time here. Just paid his rent, which is all that bothers me. I wish all my tenants were like him.'

Henry, Donaldson and Fawcett exchanged a three-way glance. Henry sighed, dispirited. ‘Let's get CSI up here to give it a once-over,' he said to Fawcett. To Cork he said, ‘Thanks for your cooperation, Larry, but I have to say your choice of tenants is pretty fuckin' lousy.'

‘I resent that,' he said haughtily, his cigarette bobbing on his lip. ‘I check 'em all personally, references and everything. I run a tight ship here, despite what you might think, you homophobic bastard.'

‘I'm not homophobic, Larry, but no one, and I stress, no one tries to put their cock into my hand. A mistake you made, if you recall? Little wonder you got bounced from here to kingdom come.' Henry's voice was rising at the memory of the little thing that had triggered his treatment of Cork when he'd arrested him.

‘Boss?' Fawcett said.

‘What?' Henry snapped.

‘What references did Trent provide? Or Stoke, as he called himself?'

The three waited for Cork to respond. He scratched his dandruffed head, skin flaking on to his shoulder like a snow shower.

‘Did he actually have any references, or did he just cross your palm with silver?' Henry asked him.

‘I can't recall. Need to look at my files.'

‘Larry, does it even bother you that a man's been murdered in one of your flats?'

‘Not specially. Obviously I won't be getting any more rent off him, and I could do with the flat back to re-let it, and the fire damage has to be paid for, but no.'

After locking the empty flat, Henry pocketing the key, they all traipsed back to the Cork flat where his two sons were slumped on the settee watching TV, which was flicked off as the visitors returned. Both sons were smoking, had beers in their hands and neither moved. They were the antithesis of the stereotypical gay man, nothing remotely effeminate about them at all. The aroma of body odour hung unpleasantly in the air. Cork senior crossed to a desk on which was an expanding file jammed full of papers. He rifled through it, his grubby fingers emerging with a tatty sheet of paper.

‘He filled this one out.'

Henry crossed the room and looked at it, some generic tenancy pro forma agreement, probably bought from W. H. Smith.

‘Did Uren do one?' Henry asked.

‘Yeah, it's in here, I think.'

Henry read the document carefully, touching only its edges, but it seemed to hold nothing further for him in the hunt for a killer and saving the life of a young girl which might already be lost. He passed the agreement over to Fawcett for his perusal.

‘What you lot after?' The voice came from one of the couch potatoes, the most junior member of the family, Harry Cork. He was slumped like a piece of blubber across an armchair, beer resting on his gut and as much body hair showing as his elder brother.

‘That fucker Stoke,' his dad replied. ‘Him in the top flat.'

‘Oh aye,' Harry said, losing interest. He broke wind, making Henry wonder how he, or any of the other two, managed to cop off with anyone else. They were gross and unpleasant and why anyone would chose to have dealings with them was beyond his ken.

Cork looked at Henry, shrugged.

‘What's he done?' said Harry, surfacing again, a bit like a whale coming up for air.

‘He did that murder,' Dad Cork informed him.

‘Oh, right.' Disinterest returned. He slurped his beer.

‘Well, if anything comes to mind, let us know, will you?' Henry said to Larry and handed him a business card. ‘Call me, OK?'

‘Whatever.'

‘He's into kiddiewinks, isn't he?' Harry piped up again. All eyes turned to him and he looked round astounded by the attention. ‘What?' he said.

‘How do you know that?' Henry demanded.

‘Oh no, nothing, nothing,' Harry blabbered, suddenly realizing he'd said too much.

Cork senior was glaring at Harry in disbelief. ‘You pillock,' he uttered.

‘Right,' said Henry, ‘let's be knowing.'

‘There's nothing to know,' Harry said.

‘I beg to differ and I think an overnight visit to the cop shop's in order here, don't you? I think you're withholding information.' He turned to Fawcett. ‘Call the van – three prisoners.' Henry had picked up on the fact that Harry had obviously spoken out of turn, revealed something he shouldn't have done. Being in such a desperate position himself – trying to save a career already going down the pan – Henry was ready to clutch at straws again. These guys knew something about Trent and if they didn't blab here and now, they would be dragged off to the nick, power of arrest or not. Henry was long enough in the tooth to cross that hurdle when he came to it.

‘What for? We haven't done a fuckin' thing,' Larry protested. The older brother, Barry, rose to his feet. He was a big man, much lard on him.

‘We're going nowhere,' he declared.

Henry stared at him. ‘Sit down Barry, and listen.'

‘Up yours, shitface,' he snarled. ‘I'm going nowhere—' But suddenly he found himself back down from where he'd risen, with the help of Karl Donaldson's hand in his chest. He struggled a little, but Donaldson pushed harder.

Henry moved to stand at the door.

Harry Cork was on his feet now, not knowing what to do, but knowing he'd let something vital slip off his tongue.

Larry said, ‘You had to open your silly gob, didn't you?' He hit Harry hard, ramming his fist into his nose. Harry stumbled back, caught the back of his knees on the coffee table and sat on it. The feeble piece of self-assembled furniture crumbled into matchstick fragments, but Harry was evidently more concerned about his nose, which had burst into Technicolor red.

Henry grabbed Larry's shirt at the chest and flung him back against the wall. His face was only inches away from Larry's, and his eyes were wild and desperate now. ‘A man has been murdered and a girl has been kidnapped. She may still be alive,' he panted. ‘If you have any information about Trent, Stoke or whatever his name is, fucking tell me now, Larry.'

‘By bloody dose!' Harry screamed, trying to stem the flow down his face, neck and chest.

‘How long for the van?' Henry said to PC Fawcett, who hadn't had time to shout for it yet.

Fawcett called in. ‘Four minutes,' he shouted.

‘Then let's chat for four minutes,' Henry said into old man Cork's fizzog.

Henry held on to father Larry; Donaldson stood menacingly over son number one, Barry; the youngest member of the family continued to blubber about his broken nose. He tried to stand, pick himself up from the pieces of the coffee table, and in doing so, inadvertently put his hand on the TV remote control, which clicked the TV on to the channel they'd been watching when Henry and Co returned.

‘Aw, Jesus,' Larry moaned, sinking to his knees, covering his face as Henry released his grip.

Barry looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. He attempted to rise again, but Donaldson punched him in the chest and he went back down.

All eyes turned to the TV.

Harry tried to grab the remote control, but Fawcett kicked his hands from under him and he went down across the broken table again.

And there was nothing else to do but watch the horrific scene on the screen in front of them as a naked young girl, manacled to a wall, was savagely whipped until she could no longer scream, no longer even form a word. And then it got worse. And there was no doubt about it – what they were watching was for real.

Henry bent down in front of Larry. He could not begin to describe the repulsion he was feeling. He was short of breath and his heart was pounding in a way it never had before. He felt clammy, cold and very empty, yet at the same time filled with a simmering rage.

He spoke slowly.

‘Does this have anything to do with Trent?' He lifted Larry's face up with the tip of a finger. ‘Does it?'

‘Yeah,' he whispered.

‘Tell me.'

‘All I know is, he makes films, sells 'em on. I mean, I don't know if they're real or not.'

‘Liar,' Henry said.

‘Yeah OK, they are real. I just watch 'em, that's all.'

‘Tell me where he is,' Henry said softly. He could feel a desire to explode. He still had a fingertip under Larry's unshaven chin, which was coarse and sweaty. ‘Tell me,' Henry insisted.

‘He's a fuckin' madman.'

‘I don't care. At this moment in time, I'm madder. Tell me where he lives.'

‘I don't know, honest.'

‘I do.' Harry, broken-nosed Harry, piped up. ‘I followed him once,' he said through a mouthful of blood. ‘I was curious.'

C
onflicting emotions jostled for position inside Henry Christie. Part of him was deeply annoyed that he hadn't done the job properly when he'd gone to arrest George Uren. He hadn't thought it through, and if he had, Louis Vernon Trent could easily be in custody now. Or at the very least, that lowlife landlord could have been sweated earlier. Another part of him was truly excited. If it all came together, the cops were patient, and Trent hadn't already done a runner, one of the most wanted men in the country would soon be in his clutches. That prospect outweighed the negative side, but he knew he was fortunate to be in this position and was determined not to let the opportunity pass. And, all being well, he'd be able to stick two fingers up at Dave Anger, too.

It was ten p.m. Things had moved fast over the last few hours.

The trio of Corks were all in custody for various offences relating to child pornography and complicity in murder and kidnapping (though Henry knew the latter two allegations probably would not go far), and they were going nowhere for at least twenty-four hours.

A team from the surveillance unit had been brought in and were watching the address Harry Cork had given them. He had in fact pointed out the house in a quick, surreptitious drive past in a plain car with smoked-glass windows. Harry was now desperate to help the cops and Henry believed what he told them: they had only bought the videos from Uren, but Harry knew that the man called Stoke was supplying them. He had seen Stoke dropping off a package at Uren's flat one day. He hadn't even known that Stoke and Uren were buddies – ‘honest to God' – but he did know that Stoke spent little time in the flat on the top floor. He had subsequently followed Stoke/Trent to a terraced house on Hornby Road, Blackpool, close to the town centre. That was the one he pointed out to the police.

Henry had asked Jerry Tope, the Intel DC, to do some quick utility checks on the address. The billing for gas, electric and council tax came back with the name reference Stoke. He had taken the place over two years before, a fact which sickened Henry. It meant that Trent had been living back in his home town, under an assumed name, right under the noses of the police, within a quarter of a mile of the station, making a living by stealing from old people and abducting children from surrounding forces.

But had he now gone? Had the police presence at Uren's flat spooked him? And was Henry too late to save the life of Kerry Figgis?

Karl Donaldson was along for the ride. Henry and he were sitting in an unmarked police car two streets away from the target address, speculating, hoping to accumulate. Not far away an armed team were also parked up, as well as other specialists, detectives and uniformed officers. Even a joiner was on standby to repair any damage that might be caused from the house entry. They were all waiting for the final decision to be made.

So far, the surveillance guys reported no sign of any movement from the address. No lights, no activity.

‘It's chicken and egg,' Donaldson said. He shifted uncomfortably, having been hurriedly issued with a borrowed stab vest that was too tight for him. ‘And what's the most important?'

Henry's jaw rotated. He knew exactly what Donaldson was obliquely referring to: obviously the most important thing was to save Kerry's life. That should override everything, even if it meant that Trent did not get caught … so should they wait? See if he entered or left the house? Or should they burst in, hoping Kerry might be in there alive? Not that there was anything to suggest she was in there. So many questions. Henry realized there was a good chance she was dead anyway, stats showed that … but, but … even if there was the faintest glimmer of her breathing, there was only one course of action to take. Even if she wasn't in the house, there could be clues to lead the police to her.