Bad Tidings (28 page)

Beckoning them on, he knew he was taking them to a disused chicken coop on the edge of the farmer's land. It was a place they'd hung out on many occasions and used as a den. Although virtually abandoned by the farmer it was structurally still quite sound, a warm place to go and have a secret cigarette, or get a girl to show her fanny. Some hens still roosted there and laid eggs fertilized by the huge rooster that strutted around the farm.

Terry had found some eggs in the coop that he had hidden and cared for, kept warm in a cardboard box packed with straw. They had hatched into healthy chicks.

In another part of the coop – quite a large, sectioned off building – a feral cat had given birth to a litter of four kittens, away from the chickens.

It was to these newborns that Terry led his little gang – and his brother. His stupid, hated brother.

‘Come on, come on,' he urged them all.

Terry had stolen a padlock and key from elsewhere on the farm and had used it to keep the coop secure. He opened the door to let everyone in ahead of him and they crowded in excitedly, having to almost crawl because of the low roof.

With a flourish, Terry revealed the chicks in their box. He had rigged up a lamp to hang over them to provide extra warmth. They were only days old, chirping healthily, gorgeous little creatures, tiny, frail, easily broken or crushed.

The girl Christine made motherly noises.

David Peters sneered, not taken in by them at all. He preferred action men and cars.

But Freddy was entranced, dropping to his knees and gently scooping one of them up, feeling its warm fluffy body in the cupped palm of his big hand. He was mesmerized. ‘Ahh, baby hens.'

Terry tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Over here. Look at these.'

Freddy replaced the chick carefully and followed his brother, who slid open a hatch to reveal his next treasures. Four mewing kittens, bundles of fur, big eyes, only weeks old.

Freddy gasped in wonderment and reached for one of the tiny cats. This time he could feel the delicate bones throughout its body, its shoulder blades and rib cage. He lifted it gently and started to stroke it.

Terry stood behind him, head lowered, a terrible look on his face and a three-foot plank of wood in his hands. He gestured for the others to stand back. He needed room, an arc, and he drew back the plank, gripped it tight with both hands and smashed it across the side of Freddy's head, sending him sprawling.

Unconscious for a short time, Freddy came to with Terry straddling him, the three other kids holding down his body and legs.

In Terry's right fist was a handful of dirt, dust, bird shit and hen feathers that he'd scooped up off the floor of the shack. With his left hand he held Freddy's face rigid and tried to force open his mouth. Freddy was still stunned and uncomprehending, aware only of Terry's blazing, hate-filled eyes and the look of determination as, successfully opening Freddy's mouth, he forced the handful of muck and feathers into it, ramming them down with the palm of his hand.

He spoke no words.

Then Freddy started to writhe and fight and he choked on the foul-smelling, germ-laden mixture, until a wave of sheer panic made him buck Terry off and break free, like a wild bear from chains, from the grip the other kids had on him.

On all fours he gasped and spat and cried and snuffled, inhaling the horrible dust and debris.

Terry bent low and spoke into his ear. ‘I hate you,' he whispered. He jerked a come-on gesture to his mates and they left Freddy wheezing in the shack.

Once outside, Terry quietly locked the door then hurled the key across into the next field, trapping Freddy inside, although at that moment, Freddy did not realize this.

He lay there in a foetal position, sobbing massive, chest-juddering breaths. A chick walked around him. A kitten mewed in his ear. It took a few minutes for the sobbing to subside, then he sat up slowly, drawing his big knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth.

He picked up a kitten and stroked it. Then a chick. ‘You didn't know about this, did you?' he asked the yellow ball. Then he scooped up another kitten and posed the same question to it.

The floor of the coop was constructed of roughly hewn planks, nailed together to form floorboards. Not a great job – sturdy, as was the rest of the construction, but there were gaps of varying width in the floor, and the whole shed-like building rested on a series of breezeblocks to keep it off the cold, wet ground.

Freddy didn't blame the animals at that moment. They were not part of the conspiracy. He held a kitten in one hand, a chick in the other, rubbing his face with their soft down and fur, feeling their vulnerability.

His anger rose at the thought of Terry.

Next moment, somehow, the kitten was dead. He dropped it onto the floor in disgust. And so was the chick, squeezed to death in his huge hands. He dropped it too and stared blankly at the two corpses.

Then he sniffed something and saw smoke curling up through the gaps in the floorboards. Freddy watched it, again not quite understanding what he was seeing.

Smoke. It rose. Then he felt heat underneath his bottom. And there was a glow and a flicker of flame, licking up through the gaps. The heat became intense. Freddy threw himself at the door, expecting it to be open, as the fire, set from below – the stuffed paper, dried straw and firelighters, all prepared in advance by Terry – quickly engulfed the chicken coop.

‘I was at the school that day. Took a short service for the kids, as it happened,' the old man explained, as Henry and Tope sat back, stunned by the story. ‘Back then I was a bit of a twitcher, though they didn't call birdwatchers twitchers back then, just anoraks. And, as I'd finished my work at the school, my dog collar came off, my anorak went on, with my boots, the bins went around my neck, and I went birdwatching on the moors. I wanted to see if I could clock some harriers that had been seen up there. No luck. As I trudged back I saw smoke rising from the old coop and heard Freddy banging and screaming in terror from inside. I managed to prise the door open with a bit of old piping, I think. He got some minor burns, his face and the back of his legs, I think . . . but he could have died very easily.'

‘And was this reported to the police?' Henry asked.

‘No. Hushed up.'

‘Really?'

‘It was put down as an accident . . . the reality being I actually saw Terry running away from the coop with his friends and I'm convinced he tried to burn his brother to death.' The old man looked at Henry. ‘Freddy might be the mad one, but Terry is the evil one. His family said they would deal with it. They were a criminal family even back then and Mr Cromer told me he would burn my church down if I said anything. Even a man of God can be a coward,' he admitted. ‘But at least I saved Freddy's life, although from what I gather, he's not had much of one since.'

Henry exhaled. ‘Possibly explains Freddy's more extreme behaviour . . . that on top of his mental health problems. Not a good combination.' Henry thought back to the dead animals he had found strung up and laid out in the bedroom at his aunt's house in Rawtenstall on the day Freddy had had his first attempt at strangling Henry. A gruesome, unsettling find.

‘Would you give a statement about it now?' Henry asked.

‘I would. Chances are I'll have turned my toes up by the time it gets anywhere near a court anyway, so what have I to fear? Just an audience with the Lord, which I'm kind of looking forward to.'

Henry twitched his eyebrows at Tope, who said simply, ‘Revenge.'

‘Simmering for years,' Henry agreed. ‘One thing for certain, we need to speak to Freddy properly now and make sure we pre-plan everything, see what he has to say about it. I'll bet he'll be an easy can of worms to pry open.'

Already Henry was mentally rubbing his hands together.

‘I'm just surprised he hasn't gone for Terry yet.'

‘Maybe saving the best till last,' Henry said. ‘Who knows . . . let's find out.'

S
ince leaving the company of the old, retired vicar in Oswaldtwistle, having listened to his astonishing story, the following days had been monstrously busy for Henry, and other than the cloud looming over him that was his hospitalized mother, he had enjoyed himself immensely.

He had been at the helm of a complex, multi-layered police operation which involved lots of doors being kicked down and gang-related arrests made, alongside various media appearances for which a range of sound bites were prepared. These appearances included an early morning visit to Media City in Salford, where by chance he had shared a sofa on the BBC breakfast show with an ageing pop star he had longed to meet and who was on a comeback tour that had hit Manchester the night before. Henry was there to talk about the Lancashire manhunt, which had captured nationwide interest, and the meeting with the old rocker had been a bonus. Henry had got the man's autograph in his pocket notebook and had excitedly phoned Alison with the news, although she huffed at it, unimpressed. He was also given a pair of tickets for a London concert later in the week, but doubted he would be able to make it.

Despite the police activity, which was very intrusive to a lot of criminals in Lancashire, Terry Cromer remained at large, as did Freddy.

Henry knew they would come. Just a matter of time.

He was also keeping an eye on missing persons, but none who were reported seemed to fit the victim profile he was interested in. One misper did turn up floating in a reservoir, but his demise had no connection to Henry's inquiry.

They reached New Year's Eve without any real success and Henry's team was dismissed to enjoy the festivities, have the next day off and come back on the second of January ready to get stuck in again.

That day's debrief had taken place at 4 p.m., after which Henry and Rik headed across to Blackpool – Henry to visit his mother, who had been watched over by Lisa for most of the day; Rik to pick Lisa up.

As Rik and Henry walked through the hospital corridors up to the cardiac unit, Henry had said, ‘I'm not saying you can't have a drink at midnight, but I'd rather you erred on the side of caution.'

‘Why's that?' Rik had been looking forward to getting plastered with Lisa.

‘Dunno . . . instinct? We've had a quiet few days . . . I know the crims have had cops up their backsides all week and we've ruined a few New Years, but something might kick off tonight and I'd rather have one or two of us capable of reacting in a sober fashion.'

Rik shrugged an ‘OK'. He wasn't about to argue. Henry's influence had managed to get his love life back on track and secure him a promotion, albeit temporary. He needed to keep on Henry's good side.

His mother looked like a shadow in the bed. After a brief resurgence of health, she had gone downhill fast and life was something she now clung onto only tenuously.

Lisa crossed over and gave him a hug, then kissed Rik.

‘How is she?'

Lisa shook her head, unable to find words. Henry touched her shoulder tenderly. ‘You go, I'll stay for a few hours. Not a problem.' A day earlier Henry had pinned her down and they'd had the unpleasant DNR conversation, sadly concluding that their mother's wishes should be followed. Henry thought with a hint of cynicism that Lisa had reached that decision a bit too quickly, but immediately chastised himself, for being mean spirited and judging her as the old Lisa, the selfish, self-centred Lisa who only cared about herself, the daughter who saw her mother only as a pain in the neck. Even though it was early days, a great change seemed to have come over his sister since making peace with Rik and rekindling their relationship. She was much more serene and laid back now, as if she accepted that her unstable past was over and her future was with Rik. For ever. And she was happy about it.

Henry sat next to his mother, who lay there as if she was already in her coffin, hands folded across her chest, legs out straight. She wore an oxygen mask, but her breathing was ragged and unsteady. Before he settled down, he decided to buy himself a coffee and a sandwich, returning a few minutes later with his goods and laying them out on the bedside cabinet. He ripped open the sandwiches, a noise that seemed to wake his mother, who opened her eyes as though she'd been prodded and ripped the mask off her face in a panic.

‘Hey, Mum, it's all right.' Henry gently helped remove the mask and plumped up her pillows to raise her slightly. He could hear her chest rasping as she breathed.

‘Not long now, eh?' she said.

He stayed with her until nine that evening and left her sleeping. As ever he made certain the nurses had his phone numbers – that of the Tawny Owl and his mobile – on their information sheets. Then he drove back to Kendleton and entered the crazy world of New Year's Eve at the Tawny Owl, where at midnight he allowed himself a small glass of champagne and bawled out ‘Auld Lang Syne' without any thought for melody.

He and Alison stepped away from the crowd in the bar and went outside into the chill of the night, where most of the population of Kendleton were singing and dancing and a bonfire and fireworks were lighting up the New Year.

They stood side by side, watching the flames and the rockets, Henry's arm around her slender waist. He said a few romantic words to her, which had the desired effect, and they shared their first proper public kiss, although hardly anyone saw it.

Not long afterwards he was in bed, alone. Alison slid in about 2 a.m. after shooing out the last of the revellers.

At 03:48 the bedside phone rang.

Henry walked a few metres after he had ducked under the cordon tape, then stopped and breathed in the cold New Year's Day air. Further down the track he could see the side of a factory unit and the car park next to it, the police cars drawn up, blue lights rotating unnecessarily.

The phone call that had awakened him just over an hour earlier could have been either one thing or the other – his mother, or work. It could easily have been from BVH informing him of the worst.