Hidden Witness (4 page)

Henry emerged from the interview room an hour later having got Twist to take him through everything in detail. It was a harrowing sixty minutes, but from the point of view of a detective investigating murder, very satisfying because the confession was all they had. Twist had covered his tracks well, with one or two bloopers maybe, and the case against him had been circumstantial and slightly rocky. Now Twist was screwed.

Henry and the local detective sergeant, who'd been ‘second jockey' with him in the interview, walked into the custody office and booked the master copy of the interview tape into the secure system. Then they made their way through Blackpool nick to the CID office on the ground floor. They stood aside to allow a couple of uniformed officers to rush past them on some emergency call-out or other.

In the CID office, all but deserted at that time of night, Henry and the DS discussed the case which would need tying up by the local cops. Henry, a detective superintendent jointly in charge of Lancashire Constabulary's Force Major Investigation Team, had other things to do. He had only become embroiled in interviewing the suspect following a fairly desperate request from the DS whose interviewing team had been stonewalled by Twist. Superintendents rarely got involved in tactical interviews, but Henry had not wanted to lose this one, a murder that was particularly gruesome and upsetting.

The DS thanked him and Henry rose to leave. He was already anticipating a tumbler of Jack Daniel's, a bit of supper with his wife, Kate, and bed. He should have known better than to look forward to the simple pleasures of life.

He'd parked his Ford Mondeo in a public car park at the front of the police station, and to get to it necessitated him exiting by way of the public enquiry desk on Bonny Street. As usual, the waiting area was busy, people queuing for attention. Henry emerged from the door behind the enquiry desk, his eyes taking in the people, seeing the back of the public enquiry assistant busy at the counter. He let himself out through the security door into the public foyer, the eyes of the public playing over him. He didn't want to hang around, but his eyes caught two people in particular.

One was a young girl, mid-teens, sitting forlornly on a bench, holding a pair of broken high-heeled shoes in one hand, and her head in the other. Her tiny skirt rose up high to reveal her shapely legs.

Second was a young man, maybe slightly older than the girl, sitting at the opposite end of the same bench, though obviously not with her. His head was in his hands and blood dripped between them on to a towel laid out on the tiled floor.

These two made him stop. They looked like they'd been badly assaulted. Mid-stride, Henry pivoted towards them and they looked up at him.

Henry recognized the young man as being a Goth because his youngest daughter had been through a Goth phase, which thankfully had been short-lived. On his face, in the white make-up, Henry could clearly see the imprint of the sole of a shoe, undoubtedly a trainer, where he had been stomped. His whole face was swollen, both eyes blackened for real, under the black make-up, and they were swollen, turning purple. He no longer needed the Goth make-up to look like one.

The girl, too, was a mess. Her knees, elbows and skin were scraped, cut, bleeding. Her skirt was torn. She gulped at Henry, lips trembling, tears brimming on the edge of her eyelids.

‘What happened?' he asked generally.

The two victims exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to start. Two polite kids, Henry thought, wrong place, wrong time. The girl blurted, ‘Two lads jumped me, just out there.' She sobbed, losing composure. ‘Stole my purse, my phone, my money.' Her bottom lip quivered like jelly.

‘An' I got jumped in town. Two guys, nicked my phone,' the Goth said, ‘then kicked the crap out of me.'

‘Do you know each other?'

They shook their heads and the lad said, ‘No, but we think they were the same two lads who did it.'

Henry acknowledged this. ‘Either of you had any medical treatment?'

Again they shook their heads.

‘Anyone spoken to you yet? A detective, maybe?' Henry jerked his thumb at the enquiry desk. More head shaking.

‘Right,' Henry tutted. He let himself back in behind the desk and sidled up to the Public Enquiry Assistant, or PEA. She was recording the production of driving documents. Henry saw her name badge said ‘Ellen Thompson.'

‘Who's dealing with the two robbery victims?' he asked.

She glared at him, clearly harassed. ‘Who wants to know?'

‘I do – Detective Superintendent Christie,' he said stonily, not liking her attitude at all, under pressure or not. There was a slight change in her body language at the revelation of his rank, something he didn't particularly like doing.

‘I've phoned up to CID, said they'd send someone down.'

‘How long ago?'

‘Half hour . . . dunno.'

Henry grunted. He picked up a phone and dialled the office and spoke to the DS he'd just left, told him to get a DC down to the desk and a crime scene investigator for photos. There was nothing so effective as getting snaps of victims before they'd had chance to clean themselves up. Worked wonders in court. He also told the DS to ensure that whoever was tasked to the job came down with a first aid kit.

He hung up the phone, picked it up again and dialled nine for an outside line. Then three nines for an ambulance. He came back out on to the public side of the counter, followed by a very reluctant looking detective constable carrying a green first aid kit.

‘Sort 'em,' Henry ordered. ‘Properly.'

‘Did you freakin' well see that?' the older boy demanded, utterly breathless. ‘We . . . we just witnessed a murder, f'fuck's sake.'

‘I know, I know,' the younger one gasped. His hands were on his knees and he was bent double, wheezing. He'd recently started smoking and already it was having an effect on his lungs.

They had run through the streets as though pursued by a demon. Run hard, fast and far, arms and legs pumping, bodies screaming for oxygen, until they could go no further and were certain they hadn't been followed. Or at least as certain as they could be, bearing in mind they hadn't dared look back. Just ran.

‘Hell, hell, hell,' Rory repeated, stunned by what he'd seen.

They had reached the seafront at Blackpool and hared across the promenade at Talbot Square, near to the frontage of North Pier, where they skittered to a stop to catch their breath.

‘He killed that old guy,' Rory continued, terrified but also impressed, his eyes blazing. ‘Ran the old bastard over, then backed over him, then over him again, then shot him.' He tried to control his breathing as he paced around in tight circles, his hands on his hips. ‘Christ, murdered him. Ah . . .' He put a hand to his scalp. In the terror of the moment, he'd completely forgotten about his injured head, the split in the scalp caused by the old man's walking stick. It was hurting again. ‘Bastard deserved to die,' he said, remembering the blow.

His friend looked up at him. ‘No he didn't, not like that.'

Rory stopped circling and pulled a face at his mate. ‘He did, he effin' did.'

‘Didn't.'

‘Soft arse,' Rory admonished him.

‘We need to go to the cops,' the younger one said.

‘You must be joking. You never go to the cops for anything.'

‘We've seen a murder, Rory . . . I mean a killing, an assassination. The guys in the car must've been after him. It wasn't an accident. If they'd just knocked him over and driven off, fair dos. But they drove back over him – then shot him. And they saw us, too.'

‘Yeah, you silly twat, all the more reason not to go to the cops, yeah?'

The younger boy was still breathing heavily, feeling light-headed, and now torn between wrong and right, what was sensible and realistic.

‘If we get involved in this, that guy'll find us and kill us.'

‘Why – d'you think you could identify him?'

‘Pretty bloody sure. What about you?'

‘I'd know him if I saw him.'

‘And he saw our faces, too. Look, we need to keep out of this, for us own good . . . hey, nearly forgot. Got a picture.'

The younger lad squinted at Rory, then remembered the flash.

‘Used that girl's mobile to get a shot . . .' He patted his pockets. ‘Shit, it's not here. Must've dropped it,' he said annoyed. ‘Don't remember dropping it . . . hell, let's go find it . . .'

‘Yeah, right – and meet a man with a gun?'

‘Yeah – let's go back and see what's happening. The cops must be there by now.'

‘To where it happened?' his mate said in disbelief. ‘You kidding?'

‘Be safe. Let's go see. The killer'll be long gone. And we might find that phone . . . I don't even remember dropping it.'

Rory wrapped his left arm around his mate's shoulder, grappled him down so he had a neck lock on him, then scrubbed his knuckles into his scalp. ‘C'mon, Mark, mate.'

Henry Christie lived on a pleasant enough housing estate on the outskirts of Blackpool, near to the motorway junction at Marton Circle. He drove there with some anticipation, looking forward to some time alone with Kate, then bed. It had been a long day, but there was nothing unusual in that. Ten hours was the norm, twelve unexceptional, nothing to whinge about.

The last few months had been a hard slog, though, since he'd been promoted to the rank of detective superintendent and he had a lot of plates spinning. He was dealing with a protracted investigation into a gang that had sprung a prisoner from court four months earlier, killing a motorcycle cop in the process. He thought that progress was being made, but even though the gang members had been identified, proving the offence and getting them to court was going to be difficult, not least because they still had to be located as they were lying low in various hot spots across the world. But he remained optimistic. He was also searching for the contract killer of an escaped convict, a professional who worked alone, and had still yet to be identified. And other jobs continued to come in, mostly routine stuff like Dennis Twist, but still very serious.

Which is why he was happy to be getting home that evening.

That night he was not on any call-out rota.

He was scheduled for two rest days, and then he and Kate were going for a two-day break to Venice, their first real holiday since their honeymoon after their remarriage. Gondolas, canals, a posh hotel, outrageous prices, historic buildings, Italian food and good hearty sex were on Henry's menu. Bliss.

He smiled at the prospect as he drew up on his driveway, parking his Mondeo alongside Kate's recently acquired Fiat 500, a purchase she had not adequately explained to him as yet and which he could not stop himself from frowning at.

The police were on the scene within minutes. The driver of the next car along Charnley Road had almost driven over the old man's body in the middle of the road, mistakenly thinking it was a bunch of rags. He'd stopped in time, scrambled out of his car, then, shocked, worked out exactly what was lying there. Horrified, but still thinking, the driver reversed his own car ten metres back down the road, flicked on his hazards and called the police from his mobile.

The first cops on the scene were traffic officers from the Road Policing Unit. The incident had been called in as a fatal accident, but it took them only seconds to ascertain this was something far more sinister. They immediately called for back up – local cops, CID and CSIs – then cordoned off the road.

Mark and Rory made their way tentatively back, curiosity driving Rory, caution telling Mark they were doing something silly. They couldn't get back down along the alley along which they'd followed the old man, as the full length of it was now taped off and a Police Community Support Officer prevented anyone from entering.

Rory, typically, took umbrage about someone in authority telling him what to do. ‘We can go down there if we want,' he protested.

The PCSO, a pasty-faced young man, not much older than the two lads, and a wannabe cop, stood resolutely at the entrance to the alley, not intimidated by Rory, who he obviously recognized.

‘There's been an incident on the road at the far end and this is now part of a crime scene – so go away.'

‘What happened?' Rory asked. ‘Is someone dead?'

‘Why would you ask that?'

‘Just a question,' Rory said. ‘C'mon pal, let's go round,' he said to Mark and dragged him away by the arm. They made their way back down Albert Road, cut across a connecting street and tried to turn up Charnley Road, only to find it blocked by cops and tape, lots of both. People gathered and gawked even though there was little to see, and a fully-fledged constable was on duty limiting comings and goings.

Rory and Mark moved through the growing number of onlookers, trying to get a better view.

‘What's happening?' Rory asked someone.

‘Bad accident,' a man said.

‘Oh, right.' He exchanged a knowing glance with Mark and raised his eyebrows.

Mark took hold of Rory's arm. ‘I've had a thought . . . suppose the killer comes back? They do, y'know. Killers come back to the scenes of their crimes, like they go to the funerals of the people they've killed. Suppose he sees us?'

Rory sighed patiently at his apprentice and shook his sore head. ‘Not a cat in hell's chance, pal. He won't come back – trust me.' Rory pushed a woman out of the way and peered excitedly down the street. Mark hung back, unsettled, wanting to leave.

As well as being able to appreciate a fine pint of Stella Artois, Henry Christie was partial to a finger or two of whisky. He was no connoisseur but could tell the difference between cheap blended and a decent malt. He actually liked both, mixing cheap stuff with lemonade occasionally, and sipping the more expensive stuff with a chunk of ice. His in-betweener, though, his regular tipple, was Jack Daniel's. He loved its smoky flavour and often imagined the sound of the Mississippi gurgling by as he drank it.