Psycho Alley (25 page)

‘No probs.' He ‘phewed' inwardly, having completely forgotten about her and his promise of a drink. ‘Did you do that job for me?'

‘Yeah, and guess what? Jodie's grandmother was a victim of a bogus official earlier in the week and there were three other jobs in the same area, but no one was locked up. The evidence points to travelling criminals.'

‘Right, thanks, that's really good stuff,' he said enthusiastically. ‘How much went from the burglaries?'

‘Not sure, about two grand in total, I think.'

‘How many offenders?'

‘Two white males on each job.'

‘OK, good stuff, Debbie. Look, there's a briefing at seven, because there's been another kid gone missing over here. If you want a lie-in, that's OK, but I could do with seeing you. I might need you to go back to Harrogate, I'm afraid.'

‘Anything to keep me at arm's length.'

‘Not at all. I want someone there I can trust to help catch a killer.'

There was a burst of laughter from the other detectives at the bar.

‘Where are you, Henry? I thought you were at home. You're in a pub, aren't you? Can I come?'

‘I'm off home now,' he said. ‘See you in the morning.'

He ended the call and folded his mobile into the palm of his hand.

‘The lovely Debbie,' Jane said with a distinct snippiness. ‘So did you shag her in Harrogate? She's deffo got the hots for you, but she's a bit mental, you know.'

‘Answer – no. And so I've heard.' He paused, waiting for Jane to come back at him, but she remained mute. His mouth twisted thoughtfully, his mind back to the more serious matters at hand. ‘I'm just going to go back into the nick to see if Troy Costain's awake. I'd like an informal chat with him.'

‘I'll come with you,' Jane said, ‘to protect you from yourself.'

‘No need – and I won't give him a crack, even though I still want to murder the little shit.'

They finished their drinks and left the still-busy pub. The wind was whipping up and they huddled into their coats as they walked back to the station, entering through the door into the police car park, separating at the lift and stairwell, pausing to say goodnight. Their eyes caught for a spell, then Jane turned quickly away and ran upstairs. Henry walked down the corridor to the custody office.

Half past midnight mid-week, and a stream of prisoners was coming through the doors. Henry pushed through, ecstatic that his time in the custody office was long since over. After a quick chat with the night custody officer who, against all regulations, gave him the cell keys, Henry entered the cell complex, which was a series of cells built around an internal, barred-roof courtyard used to let prisoners exercise and smoke.

Cell four. Henry peered through the peephole.

Troy Costain sat huddled in a shaking ball on the wooden bed, rocking, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. A pitiful moan came from somewhere deep inside him. Henry felt no sympathy. The old adage, ‘If you can't do the time, don't do the crime,' came to mind. Although he had used Troy ruthlessly over the years, Henry had always kept him out of custody, protected him, even though their relationship had never been smooth. Troy deeply resented the power Henry exercised over him. But now Henry felt no longer able to do look after him, not with visions of his mother skipping through his mind. As far as he was concerned, Troy was on his own now.

He opened the door. Troy raised his head. He looked dreadful, not least because of the swelling of his face from Henry's earlier battering. Again, Henry experienced no regret at that. A punch in the plexus was the least Troy deserved.

‘Get me out of here, Henry,' he whimpered.

‘Not a chance.'

‘I can't stand it, it's fuckin' killin' me.'

‘Good. I like to see you suffer.'

He spread his hands. ‘Why, what the fuck have I done? What's making you treat me like this?' He looked at the non-responsive Henry Christie and it suddenly struck him. ‘Oh, fuck, oh my good fuck! I did your mother, didn't I?'

They were in the exercise yard. Henry had given Costain one of the cigarettes he always kept on him for such occasions. The non-smoking regulations in cells and interview rooms was strictly enforced, and prisoners were lucky if they were allowed to smoke anywhere these days, not something which enhanced cop-prisoner relationships. It was cold, the wind swirling in through the metal bars which formed the secure roof of the yard. Dark clouds scudded across the night sky, rain threatened.

Costain leaned against the wall, deeply inhaling the smoke from the cigarette, relieved to be out of his cell.

‘I'd never have knowingly done it, Henry, not if I'd known … never … you've got to believe me, mate.'

‘Don't “mate” me.'

‘Sorry.'

‘If it wasn't my mum, it would've been somebody else's.'

‘Aye, suppose.'

‘You are seriously in my debt now, you know?'

‘Yeah, yeah, anything.' He sucked the cigarette down to the filter, tossed it down and scrubbed it out, then exhaled the lungful of smoke into the air. ‘Can I have another, Henry?'

Henry shuffled the packet out of his jacket pocket and let Costain take one. He was already trying to work out the best way of getting the most out of the rueful Costain one last time.

‘Callum Rourke,' Henry said.

‘What about him?'

‘What do you know about him?'

‘Shacked up with that bird on the Parade. I sell him a bit of smack, but I don't know much about him really.' He lit the new, slightly crumpled cigarette with Henry's lighter (also carried for on-the-hoof interviews), cupping the flame against the wind. Another deep intake, followed by a long, pleasurable emptying of the lungs. ‘Lucky bastard, actually. I've always fancied shaggin' her … anyway, why should I tell you what I know, you've been treating me like shit, Henry. I could complain against you for assault. You're only being nice now 'cos you want something.'

‘OK.' Henry snatched the fag from Costain's fingers. ‘Back to your cell.'

‘No, man, no.' He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Stay cool, c'mon … gimme the stick back.'

Henry slowly handed it back to him. ‘All right, Troy, you're right. I do want something from you – and I'll do you a very big favour, if you agree to do it.'

‘What's the favour?'

‘I'll release you now on Part Four bail. You'll have to come back and be interviewed, but at least it'll keep you out of the cells for tonight.'

‘You can do that?'

‘I'm a DCI – I can do anything.'

‘But what do you want from me?'

Henry knew he would have some major explaining to do, but a deal was a deal, and he bailed Troy Costain to come back to the station in a week, then led the claustrophobic felon out through the police car park and pushed him out on to New Bonny Street.

‘You're makin' me walk home from here?' he whinged. ‘What about my car? You've bloody snaffled that from me. Can I have it back?'

‘Seized for evidence – now fuck off.'

‘I'm going, I'm going.'

Henry stood at the door and watched the young man saunter away in the hard-man, balls-of-the-feet walk they all seemed to use, wondering if he'd done the right thing. Even though he thought that justice would be served, he would rather have seen Costain locked up for what he had done to his mother. He comforted himself with the thought that when Troy eventually came to court, he'd probably end up being sent down for a few months.

As he closed the door, his mobile phone rang. He answered it, noticing that the caller display screen said ‘Number withheld'.

‘Henry Christie …'

There was no response.

‘Hello, can I help …?'

A gasp came down the line, then the sound of a female sobbing, but no words were spoken.

‘Hello … who is this, please?'

The line suddenly went dead. He stared at his phone with mystification. So now women were calling him up just to cry, he thought, but put it down to another of those rogue calls, a wrong number or a misdial. He seemed to be getting an awful lot of them these days. Perhaps he was just unlucky.

Before he could put his phone away, a text landed.

Watch ur bak,
it said.

Henry froze and swallowed. He tabbed on to the display which showed the number the text had come from – and saw it was the same one from which the previous texts had emanated. He chose the call option and pressed the green phone icon on his keypad.

The number rang out, but no one answered. When the call cut through to the ‘Orange ansaphone', he cut the connection, holding his phone in his hand, staring accusingly at it. How did people make threats before the advent of the text message, he thought. By phone or by letter or in person … three ways in which he would have preferred to be threatened.

Who was sending these texts? There had been too many now for it to be a mistake, surely.

And who was damaging his car?

He had a feeling he would find out soon, one way or the other.

He walked back through the garage, up the stairs to the first floor and left the police station from the door of the old enquiry desk and walked across to the multi-storey car park. He paused at the door, searching his pockets for the swipe card which would let him through.

A creeping sensation snaked down his spine, one of those feelings that tell you you're not alone.

He spun.

A dark figure – a man – stood behind him, a balaclava pulled over his face and a baseball bat in his hands which was arcing through the air towards the side of Henry's head.

His mind instantly computed what such a blow would do to him were it to connect. He reacted by throwing himself at the figure, basically rugby-tackling, driving his shoulder into the man's lower intestine underneath the sweep of the bat which swung harmlessly through the air.

Henry rolled on top of the figure, grappling with him. The bat came out of his hands and clattered away across the concrete, and both men fought desperately across the hard ground. Henry punched hard, trying to hit any part of him, but with no great effect. He'd been so surprised by the attack that he hadn't quite got a mental or physical grip of what was happening. He did a sideways roll and tried to get to his feet, feeling his knees crack, but as he got up his legs were hacked from under him and he went down again on to the palms of his hands.

The hooded figure got up, turned and kicked Henry's hands from under him, then started to boot Henry around the face and upper body. Henry grabbed a foot, hung on grimly, twisting it sideways and knocking the assailant off balance. The man fell and Henry clambered to his knees and sprung at him. He missed as the man rolled away and, in a flowing move, picked up the baseball bat and tore away across the mezzanine. He was down the steps which dropped on to New Bonny Street before Henry could recover.

Breathless and slightly battered, but in much better condition than he might have been had he not reacted so quickly, Henry loped after him without much enthusiasm, reaching the top of the steps only to see the man legging it towards the town centre.

Henry watched, trying to steady his breathing, his lower jaw jutting out.

‘Bastard,' he panted. A quick physical check revealed nothing untoward. He'd banged his sore leg, grazed his palms on the ground and banged the knee on his right leg, but apart from that he was unscathed, though there was a tear in his trouser leg. ‘Who the hell were you?' he wheezed.

H
e was back in his miniature office by six thirty a.m., attempting to stay awake by means of strong black coffee and to keep focused by making lists. Unfortunately the lists were all over the place, no sequence to them, no structure. There was just so much to be done.

The priority was to keep the momentum going with the Kerry Figgis disappearance. She'd been missing twelve hours and he was gravely concerned about the situation, so finding her was his number one priority. What he didn't like to add was ‘dead or alive'. He'd decided that he would spend the morning fighting for more resources, and if he didn't have a hundred cops working on it by lunchtime, he would chuck himself off the tower.

Jane strolled in at six thirty-five, shocked by Henry's appearance.

‘Jesus!' she gasped.

‘Where was your hubby last night?' he asked accusingly.

‘I don't know … what the hell …?'

‘I got jumped,' he said and explained his encounter, which had, in the cold light of day, resulted in scratches on his forehead to add to the still-discoloured black eye. He didn't mention the hidden scrapes and scratches underneath his clothing which he had discovered when naked.

‘I can't see him doing something like that,' Jane said, but not too convincingly. ‘But he wasn't home when I got in, admittedly.'

‘Well, whoever it was got away …' His voice trailed off. ‘I am so pissed off with being the target for mad people … but today is about Kerry Figgis and Jodie Greaves and all the other young girls who have gone missing in the region in similar circumstances. I want to start catching bad men today.'

Jane nodded, though she was clearly affected by Henry's assault.

‘Listen hard, because I'll only say this once.' He picked up his notes and apologized. ‘No particular order to this, just a melting pot of ideas at the moment, others welcome, but here goes …'

The motley crew of world-weary detectives who paraded on at seven were briefed, tasked and duly dispatched.

Next were the Support Unit officers, who came in at eight. They were tasked to search the route Kerry Figgis had taken from home, through Song Thrush Walk and to the car park behind the convenience store; they were also asked to start house-to-house enquiries. By eight fifteen they were out. Henry was eager to get bodies out on the streets.