The tarmac road petered out to become a gravel track, but he only had to travel a hundred metres further to reach his destination, pulling in to the side. He got out, feeling the bitter cold up-here, high on the moors. He walked to the closed wrought iron gates of the large detached house which lay at the end of a curved driveway.
The house was new, large and garishly decorated, festooned with Christmas lights, illuminated reindeer and several huge inflated figures, including Santa himself, Rudolph and a sleigh.
He had been told to use the intercom set into the gatepost and not to enter because of the dogs, and a red-lettered sign on the gatepost proclaimed he had to beware of them.
He pressed the talk button, which buzzed. Then he waited. . and although he knew his day had already been ruined in more ways than one, this might just make up for it. He could not help but be excited by standing there in the chill of the approaching evening.
After all, it wasn’t often a cop got the chance to visit the lair of one of the county’s biggest and most ruthless crime families.
‘Run that by me again,’ Henry had said to Jerry Tope, amazement in his voice.
‘I know — incredible, isn’t it?’ Tope had chuckled at his news.
‘You’re telling me that one of the Cromer family has gone AWOL and they’re reporting him missing? To the police?’ The rising inflection in Henry’s voice reflected his disbelief.
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you: Freddy Cromer has gone missing and yeah, they’re reporting it.’
Henry pouted thoughtfully at the news.
‘Accrington section have reported it,’ Tope explained, filling in the silence. ‘All they’ve done is send a response patrol and the PC took the report and circulated it. Just treated it as an adult gone missing, as they would, and not really attached much significance to it yet — as they would,’ he said again. ‘Obviously they don’t know what we’re up to, which is why they’ve done the normal thing. But the FIM spotted it, as it fits our missing person criteria.’
‘Mmm, normal except it’s the Cromer clan and Freddy Cromer isn’t the full shilling, as I remember,’ Henry said.
‘And it’s a bit odd they’re telling us,’ Tope mused. ‘Perhaps because Freddy isn’t all there, maybe they’re concerned.’
‘Should we be?’
‘On the face of it, not really. He’s apparently stable enough to go out on the lash, which he did last night, and he just hasn’t landed home. And he hasn’t got his keep calm tabs with him.’
‘Does he fit our victim profile?’
‘Totally. . right age group, the Belthorn link — although I think he was actually born in Preston — and he’s even sitting in the class photo I told you about, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, although we all know he eats car parts. You’d never guess how he turned out. Looks like an angel.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said, thinking. ‘Runt of the litter.’ He made his decision at that point. ‘I’m going up to speak to them.’
A distorted, tinny voice spoke on the intercom and Henry responded by introducing himself. There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Cromer please. About Freddy. I believe he’s missing.’
‘And you are?’
Henry repeated his name and rank.
‘Wait there.’ The intercom clicked dead.
Henry took a step back and looked through the wrought- iron gate at the house, which was about a hundred metres away. A new build, with various outbuildings, garages and a small stable block, it looked a very nice house, with a view from the rear across the hills to the south which on a clear day must have been outstanding.
Four cars were drawn up outside: an old Jaguar XJS (a real gangster’s motor, Henry thought), a new Kia Sportage and a couple of smaller, older saloons, a Mondeo and a van.
The front door opened, light flooded out, and then two dogs rushed out and pelted towards the gate, a figure following them.
They were German Shepherds, big, good-looking, well cared for, mature dogs. They skidded up to the gate, snuffling their wet snouts through the iron railings, but neither barked at Henry. They stood side by side and looked balefully at him through golden eyes.
Henry took a step back and swallowed. Not a great fan of dogs. He could recall the incident over thirty years ago when as a probationer constable, he and his training class had been shown around the police dog training facilities at Moor Farm, Hutton, where the dog unit was based. Being nineteen and stupid he had foolishly volunteered to be a ‘robber on the run’ from a police dog and after being well briefed, had set off like a hare, convinced he could outrun a well-trained German Shepherd. He had even been given a hundred-metre start, but the dog caught him in a flash. Fortunately a padded protective sleeve had been fitted over his left arm, which he had been told to present to the dog, for it brought him down with the force of a small truck and sank its fangs into the many-layered protection. Even now, Henry could feel the fangs sinking in, causing him to shiver at the memory.
‘They won’t bite. They’re softies,’ a female voice came from the darkness behind the two dogs. Henry looked up and saw that the figure who had accompanied them from the house was a young woman, maybe early twenties, dressed in tight jeans, cowboy-style boots, a figure-hugging roll-neck sweater. She was also astoundingly pretty with a rounded jaw, full lips, nice eyes. Her hair was cut into a well-trimmed bob that framed her face.
Henry thought he had come to the wrong property.
The Cromers were a northern English version of a hillbilly criminal family and Henry expected to be greeted by — yes, two hounds from hell — but also pitchfork-yielding rednecks.
The woman stepped between the two dogs, easing them gently away, and placed her face between two perpendicular bars, so it looked as though she was looking out of a prison cell.
Henry fished out his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie.’
‘Janine Cromer,’ she responded.
Henry squinted at her, maybe seeing some family resemblance. She looked second generation.
‘I’ve come about Freddy. I’m informed he’s gone missing.’
‘We’ve already reported him. A police constable has been up to take details.’
‘I know. I’m just doing some follow-up.’
‘A detective superintendent?’ she questioned, amused.
‘A detective superintendent,’ he confirmed. ‘You going to let me in, or not?’
She surveyed him thoughtfully up and down, her eyes narrowed, weighing him up.
‘Because,’ he continued, ‘I’m not going to stand out here for much longer.’
She unlocked the gate, took hold of each dog by the collar, then turned and manually guided them back towards the house. Henry followed at a respectful distance, knowing he was much slower than he’d been at nineteen, but with his bottom twitching again at the thought of entering the domain of the Cromers. That said, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he would see or find anything of interest inside. He guessed that business and home life were kept separate. It wasn’t as though he would be shown into a room where the cocaine was being diluted with talc and bagged up or where the cannabis was being grown. That would be something that happened elsewhere — though he had no idea exactly where. The Cromers were rumoured to have at least a dozen cannabis farms, but the police had yet to find even one of them.
Janine led the dogs and Henry up to the house, the dogs constantly pulling at her as they looked over their shoulders at Henry, tongues lolling, lots of slavering going on, pointy teeth visible. At the door, she held the dogs to one side and indicated for Henry to go into the house ahead of her. He gave them a wide berth and stepped inside, into a wide hallway. A moment later she was with him, having left the dogs outside.