Psycho Alley (20 page)

The Audi was a fast car, sticking to the road well, and pulled away from Jane down the straight stretch which was Adelaide Street.

‘Suspect vehicle, fast speed down Adelaide Street,' Henry said understatedly to comms. ‘Pursuit policy being adhered to,' he added, lying through all his teeth.

‘Roger,' the operator said doubtfully.

Traffic congestion at the next junction with Coronation Street ensured Jane was up behind the Audi again. The driver was all over the place in his seat, head revolving, body jerking as panic swept through him. He went right on to Coronation Street, closely followed by Jane and a cacophony of angry horns from other cars. Then the Audi went left and Henry said, ‘Got him!' He had turned into Hounds Hill car park, a multi-storey monstrosity built up over a shopping centre. In 1985, during the Conservative Party Conference, Henry had been positioned on the top floor of this car park, where he spent a week freezing, with a bad tummy, wondering when the IRA were going to strike, as this was the conference the year after the Brighton bombing. ‘He's just driven himself into a dead end,' Henry said.

The Audi bounced up the ramp and into the first level of the car park, Jane sticking close as he sped along that level and veered into the tight ramp for level two, tyres screaming in complaint. Jane almost smashed her car by overshooting the turn, anchored on, found reverse with a crunch – ‘That's it, get rid of all them nasty cogs,' Henry said, getting a snarl from her – finding first and accelerating up. By this time the Audi had reached the far end and had swung up the ramp for level three.

It was abandoned, door open, driver legging it, when Jane and Henry reached three. Jane screeched to a classic Sweeney-style swerving, rubber-burning stop an inch behind the Audi and Henry was out after the suspect who was fleeing toward the stairwell.

Henry's current level of fitness – low to zero – hit him as he ran, suddenly aware of the extra weight around the middle. Too many crap meals over the last six months had taken their toll. He was breathing heavily within fifty metres, wanting to stop within fifty-one.

But he didn't. He followed the Audi driver into the stairs, glad to see the guy going down in the direction of the shopping mall. Henry flung himself down the concrete steps four at a time, landing awkwardly at the foot of each flight, jarring his knees, but not stopping, using the wall to propel him onwards whilst breathlessly shouting down his PR.

He was catching up with the guy. If there had been another couple of flights down, he would have leapt on his back. Unfortunately the next stop was ground level and the suspect burst through the doors into the shopping centre, running into a crowd of people.

Henry stayed with him, dodging and weaving past happy shoppers, trying to imagine he was back on a rugby pitch. Until, that is, an old woman he was bearing down on panicked, went the same way as him, making him suddenly switch direction, crash into her and send her flying, probably to heaven. He lost his balance, stumbled, shouted, ‘Sorry!' and executed a spectacular forward roll from which he recovered brilliantly, but which gave the man on the run an extra five metres.

But there was no way in which Henry was going to be outrun by a suspected child abductor. Personal and professional pride saw to that.

He accelerated, everything pumping, closing the gap.

The suspect ran into the revolving doors which opened out on to the main shopping street. Henry managed to squeeze in the door behind him.

‘Got you, you bastard. You're under arrest.'

In the confined, triangular space, the man turned on Henry, pure hatred in his face. A hand emerged with a screwdriver in it, which flashed as it rose in an upward arc towards Henry's guts. He blocked it with his radio and bundled himself up close to the man so there was no room to move. They were face to face, sweat to sweat, eye to eye, breath to breath – and then the door got to its opening and they spilled out on to the street, giving Henry the chance to swing with his radio and smack the guy hard across the head.

They fell in an untidy heap, rolling across the paved street. Henry was vaguely aware of shoppers and screams and legs, but acutely aware that the screwdriver was still in the man's hand: did all these child abusers carry weapons? Before the guy could take advantage of the space, Henry hit him again with the radio, bouncing it off his temple. It had no discernible effect, as once again the screwdriver arced up towards Henry's face. He saw it had a Philips head. He blocked it, the two men parted, both getting to their feet, completely exhausted by the exertion.

‘As I said,' Henry panted breathlessly, ‘You're under arrest and you need to drop that screwdriver – now!' He finished with a shout. Henry's hand disappeared under his jacket and emerged holding his CS canister. ‘I'll CS you if you don't.'

The man considered his options as people gathered. Henry kept focused on him, aware of the build-up of bodies, which could prove advantageous to the suspect. He spoke into his radio, which he'd swapped to his left hand, and gave comms his current position.

Still the man kept hold of the screwdriver and maintained a threatening stance, undecided about his course of action.

Suddenly his face contorted with rage and he leapt at Henry, screwdriver raised. He screamed as he bore down on the detective.

Henry didn't have the time or the inclination to warn him. He simply raised his hand, pointed the CS canister, and pressed. He was always amazed at how weedy and ineffectual the spray looked when it came out. A bit pathetic, really. But the effects were immediate and devastating on the suspect. His scream of anger turned to one of pain as the spray hit him square in the face. The screwdriver went flying and he clawed desperately at his eyes, nose and mouth, which burned fiercely under the acid-like substance.

For good measure, Henry gave him another blast. The suspect went down on to his knees, screaming in agony

Henry rehoused the canister, whipped out his cuffs and got to work on the suspect, careful not to contaminate himself in the process. He grabbed his arms and cuffed him around his back.

‘You fucking bastard,' the man cried as he shook his head, desperate to claw at his face and rub his eyes to relieve the pain.

Henry knew that this was the worst thing to do, actually. Henry turned him to face the breeze and told him repeatedly to open his eyes. This was the only way in which the CS would dissipate.

‘Try to keep your eyes open … keep blinking … keep your face to the wind … eyes open … I know you want to rub them … that makes it worse … just look into the wind …'

Henry was standing by the kneeling man when Jane pounded on to the scene followed by a lump of hairy-arsed cops, eager to do business.

‘Well?'

It was eight p.m. Another long day … weren't they all, Henry thought … and now he was face to face with Dave Anger again who, quite rightly, wanted to know where the investigation was up to.

Henry paused for thought.

A girl found dead in a car. The main suspect found murdered. One guy in custody charged with a serious assault on a cop and other serious offences. Another in custody following an attempt abduction. One still outstanding, but a good few days' work in some respects … yet in others … His mind flitted to the interactions with Debbie Black, Jane Roscoe's revelations – she'd told her husband! – plus the damage to his car. Henry's brow furrowed on that point. Could those two things be connected? An embittered husband out for revenge? Maybe it wasn't some embittered detective from GMP after all.

And on top of all that, the icing on the cake, was Dave Anger's unremitting downer on Henry.

Henry gave a twitch of the shoulders. ‘A lot of things have progressed,' he said in a non-committal way.

‘Are you any closer to finding out who killed Jodie Greaves?'

‘That depends on the outcome of the interviews with the bloke I arrested this afternoon … his MO fits in with the original investigation, y'know, the one I was foolish enough to say yes to?' He watched Anger's face as it remained impassive. ‘On top of that he was carrying a screwdriver which he tried to use on me, and while it's not a knife with a serrated edge, it shows he uses blades, so we'll just have to see how it pans out.'

‘How are the interviews going?'

‘At the moment, there's very little. He's refusing to speak, being very awkward. Early days.'

The boss pushed himself to his feet. ‘Keep me informed,' he said, clearly unimpressed by the progress. He lumbered out of the office.

Henry sat back, breathed out, still speculating as to why Anger hated him so much. He gave Anger a few minutes to disappear, then picked up his phone and dialled the number of a detective constable called John Walker, who worked on the technical support department. Walker owed Henry a few favours and Henry was leaning on him to pull them in – all in the name of justice, of course. After this he rose from his chair and strolled to the MIR, which was buzzing with activity, albeit fairly muted. People were having ‘heads-togethers' in a few locations in the room.

DS Jackson and DC Tope were chatting quietly. Two detectives just back from enquiries were sipping coffee, chatting. Two HOLMES indexers were busy entering data on to the system. Another pair of detectives, the two Henry had tasked with the initial interviews with the Audi driver, were also taking a brew. Henry, surprised to see them, approached.

‘Boss,' they said in unison greeting.

‘What's happening?'

‘Just a break … but we're not doing right well. He's clammed up tight, saying nowt.'

‘Can we prove today's attempt abduction?'

‘I'd say so,' one of the DC's said.

‘Do we know where he lives yet?'

‘Over in Rochdale. A Section Eighteen search has been authorized, but that's going to take some time.'

Henry squinted, trying to get his head round the best way. He suspected they probably had the man who had committed the series of abductions he had originally been investigating, and maybe he was the missing link in the Jodie Greaves/George Uren scenario. Was he Uren's mystery companion? So many questions, so much to do.

‘I think I'll have a word with him,' Henry said.

The two jacks exchanged a worried look. ‘Is that wise, boss?' one had the courage to ask. ‘After all your fisticuffs with him?'

‘One of you can be second jockey,' Henry said as though he hadn't heard the question.

Interview room two again: the scene of many conquests and a few failures. A prisoner had once even picked up the tape-recorder and attacked Henry with it; another had jumped on to the table and kicked Henry in the face. Mostly, though, interviews had been mundane affairs, sometimes easy, often hard and tortuous. But a good interview was usually key to any investigation, the bread and butter of being a detective. That ability to talk to someone and get the truth out of them.

The name of the Audi driver was Bernard Morrison. Mid-forties, divorced, a travelling salesman for a digital TV company, with a string of convictions over the years, all related to indecency.

He fitted Henry's bill nicely. That progression of seriousness which ultimately leads to murder, unless nipped in the bud.

Bernard's bud had not been nipped, though.

His eyes were bloodshot and watery. His nose still dripped from the double tap of CS, though the worst effects had worn off.

Morrison blinked, sniffed, regarded Henry with dislike.

‘Recovered?

‘Does it look like it?'

‘Be thankful I didn't staff you.'

Morrison said nothing.

Henry inserted the tapes and went through the formal procedure of words that prefaced every tape-recorded interview.

He looked at the people in the room – the duty solicitor, the DC who was second jockey, the suspect – and then began by reading out the caution and asking Morrison if he understood it. He nodded reluctantly.

Henry was about to take a big step, but he could not resist doing it. ‘I'm investigating two murders, one of a nine-year-old girl and the other of an adult male.'

‘So?'

‘I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jodie Greaves and George Uren.' He cautioned Morrison again for good measure and waited for a response.

It was a long pause. Morrison's eyes flitted round the room, blinking repeatedly; he shifted uncomfortably. Nostrils flared as the breath hissed in and out of him. Then he suddenly stopped all this movement, getting a grip of himself.

‘I killed them both,' he said simply.

Henry had not realized he had been holding his own breath tight inside his chest until he released it. He tried to remain composed, but his mouth had gone dry and the next words were a struggle.

‘Tell me about it,' he said.

‘W
hy don't you charge him with murder and have done?' Dave Anger said the following morning after the daily briefing. He and Henry were in the MIR, standing apart from the others in the room whilst having their discussion.

‘We're not in a position to do that. There's more interviewing to be done,' Henry explained. ‘The house search has been inconclusive and hasn't turned up a knife that matches the murder weapon, there's a lot more legwork to do about him. I'll probably need a superintendent's extension on his custody later today, too.' Superintendents had the authority to grant extensions to the custody of a detained person by a further twelve hours on top of the twenty-four hours normally allowed. ‘Even if we pull our fingers out – which we are doing – I don't think we'll be in a position to charge before late evening at best.' He checked his watch. It was ten thirty a.m., leaving a good few hours before he needed to approach a super. ‘I want to get it as right as it can be before that happens.'

‘You'll have to do a lot to convince me to extend,' Anger said gleefully. Superintendents did not dole out extensions lightly, and he was now clearly looking forward to making Henry grovel.