The Nothing Job (2 page)

But drink had been sustaining him recently. Not a lot of it, but regular, small amounts. It had become a habit.

Please, he thought, no one get killed.

The glass moved to his bottom lip.

And the phone rang.

Sod's law.

Instinctively he checked the clock and mentally logged the time, then with relief put the glass down and reached for the phone.

‘Henry Christie.'

He immediately recognized the voice at the other end as that of Chief Inspector Andy Laker.

‘You must still be a desperate man,' Laker said gloating, ‘putting your name down on every call-out rota on the off-chance you might get something.' Laker's voice was cynical, mocking.

Henry held back. Until recently Laker had been the chief constable's staff officer (or brown-nosed bag-carrier as the role was known colloquially) and during his tenure in that post he and Henry had rubbed each other up the wrong way. There was no love lost between the two men. Laker thought Henry was a long-in-the-tooth dinosaur and Henry thought Laker was a jumped-up twat. However, Laker had been sidelined by the chief and found himself in the role of the control-room chief inspector because, rumour had it, the chief ‘couldn't stand the smarmy git'. Henry could easily have dropped into a verbal tussle with Laker but did not have the time or inclination.

‘I'm assuming there's a job,' he said, ‘or have you just called to insult me?'

‘I'd like to say just to insult you,' Laker chuckled, ‘but sadly there is a job. Can you cover it?'

‘What is it?'

‘Body of a female discovered by an armed-response unit in Preston. Looks as if she's been stabbed.'

Henry felt a surge of adrenaline rush into his system.

‘T
wo questions: what the hell are you doing on duty and out in division at this time of night and why even drive down the back street?'

Henry had directed his queries at the bulky but fit figure of PC Bill Robbins, a headquarters firearms trainer, but for that night only he was the armed-response patrol referred to by Andy Laker. He had been the one who had made the gruesome discovery.

Robbins blew out his cheeks in an exaggerated, pissed-off way. ‘Effin' silly idea from the dream factory,' he moaned, talking about the initiative from headquarters, a place often referred to as the dream factory by cops out at the sharp end. ‘Working shifts out in division, as well as training … I'm back in the firing range teaching an initial firearms course at ten this morning, knackered.'

Now Henry remembered. Last time he'd bumped into Bill, he'd been doing the same but in another division.

‘Might as well apply for a transfer out of training to a division. At least I'd only be doing one job. All I need is a brush up my arse,' he continued.

Henry patted him on the shoulder. The two men went back a long way, having worked together briefly as uniformed constables in the early eighties. ‘Never mind, mate.'

‘As for the other question – I was bored and nosy.'

‘Not a good combination.'

‘So I was just moochin', seein' how far I could get the car up various alleyways … as you do. Found her purely by chance.'

Henry looked closely into Bill's eyes. ‘And are you OK? It's a pretty horrible thing to find.'

‘Oh, aye. Seen worse.'

Henry had asked the question because last time he and Robbins had been flung together it had ended up with two of their colleagues being brutally murdered and Henry and the firearms officer coming face-to-face with a deranged suicide-bomber. He knew Robbins was made of stern stuff, though – but as a boss, it was something he had to ask.

‘Don't really affect me,' Robbins added. ‘How about you, pal?'

‘Bearing up,' Henry said.

Robbins nodded sagely.

The two officers were standing in Friargate, one of Preston's main shopping streets. They were at the junction with Anchor Court, which was the name of the alley in which the dead girl had been discovered. A police crime-scene tape had been drawn across the entrance, and down the alley emergency lighting had been brought in and switched on to enable a proper investigation of the death scene.

The man now bending over the body stood upright and began to peel off his latex gloves as he walked back towards Henry, who was standing on the public side of the crime-scene tape. The man was back-lit by the mobile lighting, making him a silhouette and accentuating the fact that his big ears stuck out at right angles from the side of his head like handles of a football trophy. He was a thin man and the baggy white paper suit he wore for forensic purposes billowed loosely on his frame.

‘I'll get my statement done, if that's OK,' Robbins said to Henry.

Henry turned to the firearms officer. ‘Yeah, Bill, that'd be good.'

Robbins headed to his car and Henry rotated back to the figure in the alley, who had just reached the tape. Henry folded his arms. ‘What's the verdict, Prof?'

The man was Dr Baines, the Home Office pathologist, someone Henry had known for many years and had discussed many a brutal murder and post-mortem with over a pint or two. Henry hadn't seen much of him of late as the murders he had recently investigated had been covered by a much prettier female pathologist who'd stood in for Baines whilst he'd been attending various conferences and seminars on dental forensics, which was his specialism.

‘Well,' Baines declared, snapping off the second glove, ‘you probably know as much as I do at this moment in time.'

‘Professor,' Henry said, ‘you are paid an absolute mint for your incisive knowledge and vast experience and it's not really good enough to say I know as much as you do; you are supposed to know more than me.' The words were spoken in jest.

Baines eyed him like a naughty child. ‘As I was saying,' he blinked, ‘all my observations will be superficial until, (
a
), I'm allowed to move the body – which can only happen once your CSIs and forensic bods have done their bit – and, (
b
), I get the poor lass on to a mortuary slab.' He pulled his tongue out at the detective. ‘However, multiple stab wounds, many deep, probably one to the heart or neck could be the one that killed her. So, female, sixteen to eighteen years old …'

‘That the best you can do?'

‘Standing in a fucking alleyway – yes!' he said haughtily and ducked under the tape. ‘Except to add that she looks to be from Eastern Europe, maybe of Balkan origin … once I get to inspect her teeth properly, I might even be able to pinpoint a town.' Henry raised his eyebrows, impressed. He knew Baines was compiling a dental database for forensic use. The professor went on, ‘And she's a drug addict … I can see track lines on her inner right arm, which is flung over her head … I'd even hazard a guess that she's a sex worker, probably in this country illegally … but that's for you to find out.'

‘Time of death?'

‘Recent – two hours ago,' Baines speculated.

Henry's mind ticked over. He glanced up and down Friargate, then fished his personal radio out of his pocket. He was about to call the Preston comms room when the radio blared out his name. ‘DCI Christie receiving?'

‘Receiving.'

‘Can you make to the CCTV room, boss? Urgently?'

‘On my way.' Henry turned to Baines. ‘I'll maybe see you over a dead body,' he said quickly before spinning on his heels and hurrying away.

His jaw rotated angrily and a huge surge of annoyance pulsed through him. His breathing became shallow as he attempted to suppress his emotions and remain calm and rational. Even so, he could not prevent a burst of air breaking out from his lungs as he regarded the young woman in the wheelchair with contempt. Her eyes could not meet his and she looked sharply away from Henry's steel-sharp, accusatory glare.

‘I'm sorry I missed it,' she mewed meekly.

‘I'm sorry you missed it, too.' Henry's ironic tone stung and she blushed up. ‘You missed someone being chased through the streets? A victim pursued by her attacker?' His voice rose incredulously.

‘Boss …?' Henry's eyed flickered to the night-duty detective constable, who gestured with the flat of his hands for Henry to calm it.

Nostrils flaring, head shaking, Henry said, ‘We've lost a lot of valuable time because of this and trails can go cold very quickly on murder enquiries … so, what've we got?'

They were in the CCTV room situated in the high-rise monstrosity of a building that was once Preston's main police station, just off the city centre. Now the operational side of the job, cells included, had been moved to a modern operating centre further away from the centre. This building on Lawson Street, a child of the sixties, remained police property and still housed the admin function for the division as well as the comms and CCTV rooms. A cell complex, now unused and mothballed, could still be found in the basement, but it was off-limits to all now.

The CCTV suite was jointly funded by the local council and other agencies and staffed by non-police personnel. Because of the nature of the work it could provide employment for disabled people, such as this wheelchair-bound lady who, Henry had discovered, had been on an extended toilet break, leaving the room unstaffed at a crucial time. Just how crucial had been unearthed by a quick review of the tapes.

She gave Henry a worried look, then manoeuvred her electric wheelchair to the bank of CCTV monitors trained via a small army of cameras on various key points in the city.

‘This camera is situated on Friargate at its junction with Ring Way.' She pointed to one of the screens which relayed a scene which Henry recognized. Ring Way is the dual carriageway curving around the perimeter of the city; Friargate crossed Ring Way at a set of traffic lights, effectively dividing the shopping street in half. One part of it remained mainly pedestrianized and the other northerly section was still a traffic thoroughfare. The girl's body had been discovered in an alley at the top of the pedestrianized section which also backed on to the main shopping arcade, St George's. The wheelchair-bound lady pressed a couple of buttons and the screen jumped.

Then Henry's insides tightened as he saw a young woman fleeing for her life.

And behind her was a man. But he was not running, just loping with a purpose like wild dogs do in Africa when hunting down prey. He was only metres behind the girl.

Henry's breathing stopped momentarily – then the two figures were gone off screen because the camera did not follow them, merely captured them moving across the width of its lens. The recording lasted maybe three seconds – from the girl appearing on the left edge of the screen, then the man behind her, then they were both out of shot and because the CCTV operator was having a well-earned piss, that was it.

Henry growled inwardly.

The time on the screen read 01.56.

‘Is that it?' Henry asked, voice brittle.

‘Not quite,' the lady said. She pressed a few more buttons and the screen went dead, then flickered back to life, showing the time, 02.08, the exact same scene. ‘This is him coming back.'

Henry watched transfixed.

The man who had chased the girl trotted unhurriedly back into shot, keeping his head low. Then he was gone.

Henry exhaled long and hard. ‘Anything on any of the other cameras?'

She shook her head.

‘I take it there are other cameras up Friargate?'

She nodded.

‘So remind me, how come there's only you here tonight?'

‘My colleague went sick at short notice.'

Henry could not prevent a ‘tut' from escaping.

‘I needed the loo,' she said defensively. ‘Otherwise I don't leave the room. I eat and drink in here, but sometimes I need to pee. How did I know someone would be murdered?'

‘Sod's law,' Henry said. He looked away disdainfully, then back at the monitors. ‘Run that first one back, will you?' he instructed, reflecting how glad he was he hadn't taken that mouthful of sour-mash whiskey because you just never can tell when someone's going to get whacked.

‘OK, they've come down the north part of Friargate – we assume – from the direction of Moor Lane, crossed over Ring Way then continued up Friargate, the traffic-free bit, in the direction of Cheapside and the victim has been cornered and murdered in Anchor Place. The offender has then returned in the direction he came from.'

Henry's eyes roved across the four uniformed cops crammed into the CCTV room, the most he could pull together at short notice. His mind was working quickly. It was 4.15 a.m., over an hour and a half since the body was discovered, over two hours since the crime was committed and twenty minutes since he'd viewed the CCTV footage. He was desperate to do as much as he could with the time and resources available to him, so that when he handed the investigation over, as he knew he would have to, he would have ensured that the package would be much more than a well-cared-for crime scene and nothing else. It was a matter of professional pride for him to do as much as possible in the little time available.

‘From what we can see, the guy is in his mid-twenties, wearing a brown zip-up jacket, maybe a motorcycle jacket or flying jacket, and blue jeans. These will be bloodstained. He has dark-brown, maybe black hair, he's well-built, around the six-foot mark and he's a white man.' Henry glanced at the paused image on the TV screen. It would be enhanced at some stage, but he didn't hold out much hope of it turning out much better than it already was. The make-believe technology on TV cop dramas that portrayed super-sharp enhancement simply did not exist. In real life it was just a series of fuzzy images, as anyone who has watched
Crimewatch
will know. ‘Does he ring any bells with anyone?' he asked hopefully. They all shook their heads and muttered negatively. ‘Right, OK, two pairs. It's a bit of a mooching job, this,' he said rubbing his hands. ‘One pair start at the crime scene and work your way down Friargate towards and then across Ring Way; the other pair start at Moor Lane and work your way slowly up towards Ring Way in the opposite direction. Look in bins, peer down grids, in flowerbeds et cetera, to see if we can locate a murder weapon, a knife or blade of some sort, obviously. Don't disturb too much, though, because there'll be a search team on this later this morning – but for now I want a cursory search of the immediate area.'