Psycho Alley (27 page)

‘I wanted us to be all right, y'know, you and me, honest,' she pleaded.

‘But at the same time you decided to snitch on me?'

‘He has every right to know what's going on during a murder enquiry.'

‘Yeah, he does, he's the boss, but it's my job to tell him, not for him to have moles operating like bloody informants. It's me who tells him, isn't it?'

‘Yes.' Meek.

‘But that's not the point, is it?' Henry moved away from the door, sat behind his desk, swivelling his chair so he could see the shark on the wall. ‘OK, you snitched. I can live with that. I can live with you not liking me, or wanting to rub my nose in it, and maybe I deserve it.' He could not remove the sneer from his face. ‘I should've guessed it was him. He basically set up a two-bit journo to make me look a dick in public – and that really hurts.'

‘You don't know he did.'

‘Jane.' His look was withering. ‘Don't be silly. The question about me being a stress-head? Where else could that have come from? Eddie Skirvin was prompted and that press conference was hijacked to take away all my cred. I'm waiting for my slot on TV's most embarrassing blunders now. Fuck!' He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. He was exhausted. ‘Dave Anger talked to the press and set me up … bastard.'

‘It wasn't that bad.'

‘Jane, fuck off,' he said, but not nastily, because his rage had dissipated away into despair. ‘When I've bottomed this job – and I will – I'm off this bloody team. He can shove FMIT right up his rear end. Some comfy office in the back corridor of headquarters'll do me fine for the next three years. It's just … what have I done to him that's so bad?'

‘You mean you don't know?'

‘No,' he said.

‘He says you shagged his wife.'

‘Why can't even this be simple?' Henry thought as he faced Debbie Black in his office.

‘Are you ordering me to go back to Harrogate again? Already?' she said indignantly.

‘I don't think I've ever ordered anyone to do anything,' he said mildly. ‘I want you to go back across there because you've established a good relationship with the Greaves family. And I want you to show Grandmother Greaves some mugshots, including George Uren, as per the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, to see if she can ID him as one of the guys who burgled her.'

‘Why?' It was a very defiant word, because she did not want to go. ‘You're just getting me out of the way, aren't you?'

‘No, I'm not, but if it'll make you feel better, I'll order you to go,' he said finally, holding up his hands. ‘I'm trying – we're trying – to solve a particularly nasty murder of a young kid. You told me that Granny had been the victim of a bogus official job a few days before Jodie was snatched.'

‘And?' Her face was set hard.

‘It's something I want to follow up. I have a feeling that Uren could have been committing this sort of crime to fund his lifestyle. It's a hunch, just one of those old-fashioned cop things. Please,' he finished.

‘Right, OK, I'll do it,' she relented. ‘But on one condition.'

‘What would that be?'

‘A drink … and I promise not to get arseholed this time.'

‘You're on.'

The next hour was spent trying to arrange an urgent meeting with SIOs from surrounding forces so they could discuss the possibility of a joint investigation and work out protocols and procedures. Times like this, Henry wished he had a lackey to run around for him, or was the correct term a ‘PA'?

In the end he left messages with all the relevant detectives, none of whom he managed to contact personally, leaving him no further forward in the respect of setting up a cross-border enquiry. Such a meeting, though, was beyond urgent.

He sat back and the photograph he'd looked at in Dave Anger's office flashed into his mind. The wedding photo, bride and groom, both happy and blushing. He tried to recall the detail of the woman, the one he was supposed to have slept with, but it was only really a blur. He had not studied it carefully. So Dave Anger thought Henry had ‘shagged' his wife. Why the hell did he think that? It was preposterous. Surely it would be something he would have remembered? Wouldn't it?

Henry had little time to ponder for the remainder of that day. In fact he had hardly time to take a breath and scratch his backside. There were so many facets to deal with, most of which revolved around dealing with a complex investigation which needed managing and leading.

He lorded it over the MIR all that afternoon, deciding to take a hands-on approach for a change. Much work was done with the family of Kerry Figgis, although the elusive real father remained that – elusive. House-to-house enquiries were expanded on Shoreside and Preston Road for other witnesses. Nothing much seemed to be coming, though, and Henry was more concerned than ever about Kerry.

More was done with Jodie Greaves in terms of enquiries about the Vauxhall Astra that Uren had been driving, in an effort to find out who he had bought it from.

Everyone was kept busy, doing the routine stuff associated with such investigations, and Henry controlled it all, sitting there like Captain Kirk on the bridge of the starship MIR.

His next disagreement came with the appearance of DC Sheena Waters, something he had expected earlier, was prepared for, but not looking forward to. She marched into the MIR, all revved up and steaming to go.

‘Why the hell did you bail Troy Costain?' she demanded. ‘After all the kerfuffle about you being so upset because he'd stolen from your mum, and you go and let the little shit go! Now what's all that about, Henry?'

‘Calm down, calm down,' he said, using the palms down gesture, ‘he's only a crim.'

‘He robs and terrifies old people,' she protested.

‘Look.' Henry stood up. He had been sitting at the Allocator's Desk, sifting through actions. ‘Try not to get upset … let's go to me office and have a chat.'

‘No,' she said, clearly upset. ‘He has a string of allegations to answer and I've spent all day gathering evidence to put to him, only to discover you let him go last night. And I was wondering why the custody officer hasn't been chasing my tail all bloody day. It's because there's no prisoner … so here, in public,' – she looked round the MIR and at everyone in the room – ‘give me your reasons for letting him go.'

Henry tightened up, wishing he'd dealt with this earlier. ‘When I said my office, it wasn't an option, Sheena,' words which, again, did not sit comfortably with him. Ordering someone to his office again. Not good.

‘OK,' she relented, ‘but it better be good, otherwise this is going further.' She marched out, Henry behind her, wondering whether he should leave his face set in a thunderous expression because it seemed to be its default position these days.

Sheena left his office not remotely satisfied. Henry's cooing, ‘You'll just have to trust me on this one,' was not going down well at all. He realized that by letting Costain go, it would be impossible for Sheena to gather important evidence, because Troy would simply destroy it. What she did not know and what Henry did not tell her was, of course, that Troy was an informant and the reason why he had let him go. ‘You'll have to trust me on this one,' did not do the trick. She was rightly miffed, because Costain was a good prisoner and there was the possibility of clearing up some serious crime on her patch.

As she left the office, Henry knew he had not heard the last of this. ‘Oh to be a DC on NCIS,' he thought. ‘Life would be so much simpler.'

A knock on the door made him jerk up his head. It was the one-man intelligence cell, DC Jerry Tope, who had so nearly invoked Henry's misplaced wrath earlier. He bore his usual sheaf of papers.

‘Sorry to interrupt.' He was clearly afraid of Henry

‘Come in, Jerry, it's OK. Sorry about earlier – wrong end of the stick.'

‘No probs, boss.' He waved his papers triumphantly. ‘Bingo.'

‘Thrill me.'

‘Your … er … hypothesis about burglaries?'

‘Yep – shot to shit, I take it?'

‘No – spot on, actually. I've looked at each of the disappearances in the other forces, and in each case there were several bogus official-type burglaries in the weeks prior to their abductions. I've hacked into the crime recording systems of each force, GMP, West Yorkshire, Cheshire – don't ask, but it's easy – and there's about forty burglaries in total, all very similar, all directed at old women.'

‘Carried out by one man?'

‘Two men. White males, thirty to forty years. All descriptions tie up. One could easily be George Uren. A ponytail is mentioned in some descriptions.'

‘Any arrests?'

‘Not a one. All undetected.'

‘How much have they made?'

‘Close to a hundred grand, mainly cash.'

Henry whistled. ‘You've hacked into police systems that are not our own?'

‘Basically, yes. Saves time, bureaucracy.'

‘Brilliant. Illegal?'

Tope nodded. ‘Extremely.'

‘Can you be traced?'

‘No,' he said confidently.

‘Now we need those forces to do that trawl themselves and get each scene revisited for a full forensic hit, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yep.'

‘That'll be something for the big SIO meeting to action,' Henry said. ‘If I ever get them off their lardy arses. OK, well done. I think we're on to something here.'

The debrief was at nine p.m. A round-up of the day's events and progress, or otherwise. Kerry Figgis was still outstanding and concern continued to grow; they were still no closer to catching the mystery man. He thanked everyone for their efforts and asked them to be back by eight next morning. They were all whacked after a lengthy day of graft, and they left a little subdued and dispirited by the lack of progress. Henry sensed a growing despair, one he was beginning to feel himself.

He spent the next hour with the policy book, going over everything that had been done, satisfying himself he'd covered all bases. He closed the book, knowing there were no obvious gaps in the investigation, but realizing there was every possibility this was going to be a long haul.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. A combination of a day of bad food, too little sleep, not enough water, and stress. Henry was always close to the edge and had, through the years, been over it. He was determined that it was a place he would never visit again. It wasn't the stress of the investigation that was worrying him this time, though. It was the other things. If he could get rid of all that peripheral shite and be left with a complex murder investigation, he'd be tickety-boo.

He rolled his head, neck creaking. Why did everything creak now? Neck, knees, back. He was beginning to feel like a car that had reached that time in its life when things started to go wrong, when it became more expensive to maintain and run that it was actually worth. When a trip to the showroom was called for to trade it in for a new model.

Four years short of fifty.

The prospect of the half-century struck him like a rampaging elephant.

‘Oooh, no, no, no,' he admonished himself, placing his hands on the desk to assist him stand up. ‘No navel gazing for me,' he announced to his empty office. ‘I'm going right now to increase my water intake for the day – disguised as a pint of Stella – then I'm going home, have a JD nightcap, leap into bed with my ex-wife and make hot lurv. She'll think all her birthdays and Christmases have come all at once, when in fact it'll be me.' He giggled, a noise which stopped abruptly as a large figure appeared at the office door, making him jump.

‘First sign o' madness,' the man said with an American accent. ‘Talkin' to yourself.'

Karl Donaldson stood there, his wide frame completely blocking the door. ‘Mind if I come along for the drink, but I'll pass on the lovemakin', if you don't mind?'

‘S
ounds like you're havin' a great time.' Karl Donaldson took a sip of his mineral water and regarded Henry with a smirk of amused contempt.

Henry had just regaled his friend with the story of the last week, bringing him bang up to date, keeping everything in for Donaldson's delectation and delight.

‘I wouldn't mind,' Henry pleaded, ‘but I've obviously missed out on something. Having been accused of sleeping with a woman, I would at least have liked the pleasure.'

Donaldson chuckled. ‘Your cock gets you into some scrapes.'

‘Not this time,' Henry said fervently. ‘He's barking up the wrong tree.' He took a deep, slow swig of his Stella, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You could take control of the situation, be proactive,' Donaldson suggested.

‘What, sidle up to Anger and say, “I believe you think I screwed your wife?” I don't think so. Anyway, what drags you up to these parts, Yank? IEDs you say.'

They were sitting in the lounge bar of the Tram and Tower, Henry's local pub. They'd dropped Donaldson's Jeep off at Henry's house after Henry insisted the American should bed down at his house for the night, then adjourned to the pub for a couple of drinks. Henry noticed Donaldson wasn't drinking alcohol, remembering that last time they were in here, Donaldson had imbibed far too much. He was a big guy, but couldn't hold his liquor.

He looked at the American. Henry had good reason to suspect that this affable man was much more than he purported to be. Although Henry could never prove it, nor want to, he believed that Donaldson was involved in the sudden and violent departure from this life of some top-level international criminals, something that Henry had only recently started to realize; that he could actually be an assassin for the American authorities was never far away from Henry's thoughts. He certainly had the ability to kill, as Henry had experienced years before, when Donaldson had saved Henry's life by shooting a mafia hitman who was about to kill Henry.