Psycho Alley (13 page)

‘Jesus, Henry, Jesus …' he gasped. ‘Oh, God, I'm gonna die.'

‘Are you fuck,' Henry said reassuringly, wondering when he'd last seen so much blood flowing; not in a long time. It was everywhere. ‘Come on,' he said, bending over Rik. ‘You need to get up and sit on a chair, keep the wounds high up for a start, OK?' Rik tried to respond, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyelids fluttering like a doll's as he went into the first stage of shock. Henry panicked internally, but outside stayed calm, forceful. ‘I'm going to help you get up and sit down, OK? Then we'll sort out the wound.'

‘Whatever.' For a second, Rik took his hand from the cut and a fresh spurt of bright blood shot out across Henry's trousers.

Henry instinctively squirmed away, then overcoming his squeamishness said, ‘Get your hand back over that wound and keep pressing.'

Rik nodded, no colour, only deathly grey in his face. He put his blood-soaked hands back on to his neck, clamping them there. Henry quickly searched around for something else to put on the wound, his eyes settling on a grubby tea towel thrown over the side of a chair. He grabbed it, folded it and eased it under Rik's hands. ‘Keep that there. Hold it on tight. You'll be OK, promise. Now come on.'

He eased Rik into a sitting position, then gradually up on to his knees, then up on to wobbly feet before steering him into an armchair. All the while, the blood flowed incessantly, filling the towel, drenching it, and Rik's condition deteriorated.

Then Henry got on to the radio, and moments later comms at Blackpool had contacted the ambulance and other patrols were en route to assist.

After that he gave Pearson a cursory check. He was still secure, lying there uttering blubbering sobs, watching Henry nervously. His attention returned to Rik. He found some more towels in the kitchen, folded them and placed them on top of the one already there and pushed Rik's hands back on. ‘Pressure, keep pushing.' He sat on the chair arm.

Rik shivered.

Henry checked his watch: two minutes since he'd called in.

Time crawled with unbelievable slowness in situations like these. He'd experienced it many times before, but took comfort because he knew his colleagues would be tear-arsing to the scene, putting their own lives in danger, and the paramedics would be doing the same because they were as mad as cops.

‘Henry,' Rik rasped worryingly, blood bubbling from his lips. ‘I'm gonna die.'

‘Are you fuck,' Henry repeated, aware his bedside manner wasn't what could be called overtly caring, but he knew it was pitched right for Rik. The new towels were filling with blood. It looked like the jugular had been severed as Henry suspected. ‘Why … why …' Rik continued, ‘why attack me?'

Henry got to his feet and walked to the bedroom.

A strained, ‘No,' came from Pearson's lips.

Henry gave him a sneer and stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. In the distance his ears caught the welcome sound of sirens approaching. There was the aroma of sandalwood from a number of candles dotted around the room. The curtains were drawn, almost no light chinking through them and though there was light from behind, it was not easy to see.

He paused one foot beyond the threshold, his instinct as a detective telling him this could be a crime scene.

Henry flicked on the light using the switch by the door. Even that wasn't much of a light, just a low wattage bulb. Henry's eyes adjusted and saw the shape in the bed underneath the crumpled duvet. He drew back the cover and revealed the reason why Pearson had reacted with such astounding violence.

At his feet, Nigel the kitten rubbed its head on his ankles, purring loudly, having recovered from its subsonic flight.

A
fter the slowness of those minutes when Henry was waiting for the arrival of assistance and relief, three hours later found the world revolving very rapidly indeed, threatening to spin him off into the stratosphere.

Rik Dean had been dragged off to hospital, tended by a couple of cool-dude paramedics who made Henry insanely jealous by their calm approach. The initial prognosis was good, confirmed subsequently by the A & E doctor: Rik was going to be OK. He needed emergency surgery to stitch up the jugular and the wounds, but he hadn't lost as much blood as Henry had feared. It just looked bad.

The two detectives sent to Harrogate had returned, both slightly weepy and emotionally drained after having to deal with a family whose daughter had disappeared and could be dead. They had brought back the DNA swabs, everything packaged and secured precisely, and some dental X-rays. A comparison would be done first thing Monday by the forensic lab. Henry sensed the brittleness of the women, but they refused to go home when ordered.

Percy Pearson was in custody, but Henry doubted whether he actually had any link to the murder investigation he was running, although his knife would come under careful scrutiny by forensics, also in the morning.

And to top it all, the custody office at Blackpool central was full to bursting following a weekend of drunken debauchery.

His head hurt.

He needed to get changed out of his blood-splattered clothing. He kept a spare pair of trousers and a shirt in the office, and he gladly did a runner through the barred gate of the custody office and made to the lift after telling the custody sergeant to call him when the duty solicitor got round to Pearson.

Unusually, the lift was there waiting for him, doors akimbo. His only stroke of luck all day, he thought wistfully as he stepped in. Before he could select the button, Debbie Black joined him. She pressed the button for him and once the doors had closed with their usual reluctance, she moved into him. Her hands slid around his neck and before he could say anything she'd dragged his head down and parted his lips with hers, inserting a hot tongue.

It tasted good, warm, wet, sweet, smoky.

He responded by pulling her tight to him and getting his own tongue going. How long was it since he had French kissed? Did they even call it that these days?

They parted seconds before the lift reached its destination, Henry holding his breath. The doors creaked open, but no one was there and they had not reached their floor anyway. The doors closed.

Neither moved this time.

Debbie exhaled a long breath as though she was blowing a smoke ring. ‘Fifteen years is a long time to make up.' Her breast rose and fell.

‘Aye,' Henry said inadequately, a little twitch of the head accompanying the word.

The lift stopped at the required floor. They stepped into the corridor.

‘It's terrible what happened to Rik, isn't it?'

‘Aye,' Henry said. They were walking toward his office. ‘He'll be OK, though.'

It wasn't a long walk. The corridors in Blackpool nick were all short. Within moments, they were outside his office door, Henry pausing with his hand on it. ‘I need to get changed.'

Debbie glanced down at him, taking in the blood on his trousers. Her eyes rose. ‘I'd love to get you out of those,' she said wickedly.

Henry swallowed, fighting all his instincts, which were telling him to drag her into the office and let her wreak havoc.

‘Nice thought, just a smidgen busy,' he shrugged.

She nodded understandingly. ‘Drink after work,' she said, ‘whatever time you finish. I need a debrief.' She raised her head and marched off around the corner. Henry pushed open the office door, muttering an obscenity of relief, and was immediately glad he hadn't followed the weak path, because sitting plonk behind his desk was the chief constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, rifling through his drawers and paperwork, grinning like the cat with the kill.

FB had no shame, showed no embarrassment, just raised his head and greeted Henry, making him think that perhaps he wasn't actually going through his stuff at all, but simply winding Henry up. He was a past master at this. The plump chief's grin turned to one of superiority and he lounged back in Henry's chair, hands clasped behind his head, surveying the lower ranking officer.

‘Boss,' Henry acknowledged, closing the door. He stood there hesitantly. ‘Can I help you?' FB just shrugged. ‘I need to get changed.' Henry indicated his trousers.

‘Don't let me stop you.'

The office was so tiny, Henry had no room to manoeuvre and was obliged to drop his pants in front of FB.

‘More bloodletting follows you?' FB said.

‘So it seems.' He hopped around the very tight space in front of the desk as he pulled up his spare pants. They were reluctant to come up. ‘Fortunately he'll be all right.'

‘I know – I've been to see him.' FB looked sad. ‘He wasn't wearing a stab vest.'

‘Doesn't mean you don't get stabbed even if you wear one.' At last the pants came up. ‘Even if he'd worn it, he'd have been stabbed in the same place. Ahh …' He buttoned them up and they were tight. ‘I've got to go and interview the offender,' he said, ‘so …' he squidged up his face, ‘unless you've anything pressing, I need to go back to the custody office.' Henry wasn't about to tell FB that Pearson's solicitor wasn't ready yet, but he did not want to spend any unnecessary time with FB.

‘Yeah, I understand that.' FB paused. Henry finished zipping, folded up the bloodied pants and tossed them on to the spare chair, having decided the best course of action would be to have them incinerated. Maybe then claim for a new pair, a thought dismissed when he glanced at FB: getting money out of the organization was not easy.

FB sniffed. ‘How's the whole thing going?'

‘As this started out as the hunt for a flasher, it's taken a turn for the worse, I'd say.'

‘Is this murder part of that original investigation? And where does Pearson fit into it?'

‘Not sure on any of those points yet, but at least I know who the probable murderer is and we'll track him down sooner rather than later,' he said confidently.

FB nodded sagely, double chins wobbling. ‘I need to warn you about something, though. Dave Anger.'

‘I'm pretty well sighted on him.'

‘Don't be too sure, Henry,' FB said gravely.

‘Why?' His stomach fell.

‘Because I'm not sure how much longer I can protect you.'

Henry's eyebrows came together. He knew that, despite everything about their love-hate relationship, he had quite a lot to thank FB for, particularly the posting to FMIT, but he wasn't sure FB was actually protecting him. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Basically, if you don't get a result on this, wave bye-bye to FMIT. Anger will cane you and there won't be anything I can do about it. At the end of the day, staff selection is down to him, not me.'

Henry groaned. ‘I really fell for it, didn't I?' he said, trying to keep bitterness from his voice. ‘Conned by the carrot of substantive DCI. I feel like a sprog. I should've said no.'

‘And if you had said no, it would've been a good excuse to get rid of you. He's out to drop you, that's all I'm saying. He wants rid, wants a reshuffle, wants new blood, wants his mates on board, and mostly it's not something I can argue against. You need to show him you can get a result and the pressure might ease, but only until the next job comes along.'

‘Fuck,' Henry spat, sighing deeply, head shaking. ‘I actually thought he'd come round a bit with the GMP job. Obviously not. It goes deep, this, but I just don't know what I've done to upset the twat.'

‘That I cannot answer, but it seems deeply personal.'

‘I wouldn't mind if I knew the guy, could've upset him somewhere down the line, but he just seems to hate me, end of story.'

‘You could put in for a move,' FB suggested.

‘Sideways and as a DI?'

‘Would that be so bad? Special Branch are on the lookout for DIs.'

‘I'll think about it … now I need to get going, if you don't mind. Got a murder to solve and all that. Not that it means anything these days.'

‘Sure … oh and by the way, take a bit of fatherly advice.' FB winked salaciously. ‘Keep your cock out of Debbie Black … she's a bit of a handful.'

The trousers were too tight, which was not surprising. They had been Henry's ‘emergency' pair for the last four years, and this was the first time he'd ever had to use them. It was apparent he had become more rotund over that period. They were also a bit too short, which was strangely uncomfortable. He was certain he had not grown.

Debbie Black and Jane Roscoe were hanging around the custody office, both descending on him when he appeared.

‘What's going on now?' Jane wanted to know.

‘I'm going to have a preliminary interview with Pearson and then I'm going to hand him over to the local CID to sort out, unless I think he has some involvement in the murder, which I don't. My priority is still to find Uren.'

‘Who's second jockey?' Jane asked, meaning who would accompany him in the interview.

‘No one.'

‘I'll do it,' Jane offered quickly, turning Debbie's face granite-like. Henry said OK, and Debbie looked mortified.

He walked to the custody desk which, for a brief spell, was quiet, with no prisoners waiting. ‘Has the duty solicitor got to Pearson yet?' Henry asked the custody sergeant.

‘No – for some reason he's decided not to have one, but I will make sure he gets one whether he likes it or not. For the time being, though …' The sergeant shrugged and looked meaningfully at Henry. ‘You can have him.' He reached under the desk and emerged with a set of sealed interview tapes and associated paperwork, which he dumped in Henry's hands. ‘I'll sign him out to you. Interview room two. Just make sure you comply with PACE.'

Pearson sat behind the table in the interview room in his white paper suit. His own clothing had been removed for forensic examination. He looked cowed and pathetic, not like the crazed knifeman he'd recently transformed into a few hours earlier. He could not make eye contact with Henry.