‘Sit, sit,’ FB purred, gesturing towards the leather settee on the other side of his office, positioned against the wall underneath a big, formal portrait of the Queen.
Bristling at his own weakness — and checking his watch tetchily (it was 6.17 p.m. on Christmas Eve) — Henry slouched round-shouldered over to the settee and dropped miserably onto it. FB rose from the dark wood, leather-bound office chair behind his expansive leather inlaid desk — two pieces of furniture that would not have looked out of place in the captain’s cabin of the Cutty Sark. Scooping up two fat folders, he followed Henry but sat down directly opposite him on one of the armchairs on the other side of a glass-topped coffee table with an ancient map of the world beneath the glass.
Peevishly, Henry folded his arms, his mouth twitching. He had been grinding away full tilt for the last six months and had booked annual leave for the week ahead. He was looking forward to helping Alison, unofficially, at the Tawny Owl, spending a happy week with her and her daughter Ginny, and maybe inviting his daughters, Jenny and Leanne, to spend a couple of nights at the Owl, too. A bit of a ‘get-to-know-you’ thing.
The two files in FB’s arms meant that Henry’s plans were about to change, but neither man could have imagined just how much. And, although he didn’t know it just then, something else totally unrelated to work was about to happen that would also screw up his week.
FB gave him his most understanding smile as he placed the files on the table. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea?’
Henry blinked at the offer. FB doing something for me? But then he realized it was after six and all of FB’s support staff had gone, and there were no lackeys to whip into shape. Christmas Eve meant an early dart for all the HQ office staff. The place was like the Mary Celeste.
‘Coffee would be good.’ Though Henry loved his coffee, he rarely drank it after 3 p.m. unless he needed to keep going. Something in FB’s eyes led him to believe that he might have to keep running tonight.
FB stood up and poured two mugs from the filter machine on top of the dark panelled sideboard. He handed one to Henry, then reseated himself opposite.
‘We know why it was half a job, don’t we?’ FB said.
‘Uh — because he got himself in deep criminal shit and investigating murder wasn’t his top priority, even though he was an SIO?’ Henry answered what he knew had been a rhetorical question.
‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ FB agreed.
They were talking about Detective Superintendent Joe Speakman, a former colleague of Henry’s on FMIT — the Force Major Investigation Team — who had become embroiled in various criminal schemes that had ended tragically for him and his family. After stumbling on Speakman’s death, Henry had uncovered organized activities stretching from Lancashire to Cyprus and up into Russia. It turned into a complex, wide-ranging investigation that, six months down the line, was still ongoing for a small, dedicated team of detectives headed by Henry. People were still on the run, arrests still had to be made.
FB placed his coffee on the table, then laid his hands flat on the files.
Henry eyed them, fully aware of their contents.
A beat of silence passed, then FB said, ‘Two murders, unfortunately dubbed the “Twixtmas Killings” by our esteemed local press.’
Henry nodded. He sipped his coffee. It was bitter, tasted like it had been on the hotplate for a week. He guessed it was FB’s emergency supply for when he couldn’t click his fingers to get one of his minions to make a fresh one. Henry could not disguise his grimace of distaste. ‘Yup,’ he said.
FB’s eyes narrowed. With his hands still on top of the files, he slid them across to the detective superintendent.
Henry squirmed. ‘Last time I inherited something from Joe Speakman, I ended up being shot at, kidnapped, beaten up. My lovely car was written off by a freakin’ Russian gangster and my partner was seriously assaulted — and she’s only just got through that shit.’ An image of Alison’s pulped face came into Henry’s mind.
But FB reverted to type, giving an uncaring pout and shrug. ‘Who’d have known? Still, there’s nothing to say that either of these murders is connected with those other shenanigans, is there?’ He tapped the files.
Henry didn’t flinch, didn’t lean forward. To have done so, in terms of body language, would have signalled his acceptance of what was being said, and he was fighting it.
He had worked long, hard, punishing hours for the last six months and knew it was probably taking its toll on his fledgling relationship with Alison. He really needed a week off with her or he could see the whole thing going south. . and he had something special planned for Christmas that would put everything — his relationship, his life — back on track.
But two murders?
Fuck you, FB, he thought. You slimy toad. He knew it was a crap deal getting handed two unsolved, very cold murders. . but hell! Two murders. How could he possibly resist?
Fuck you, FB, he thought again. However, he continued his little game, even though his mind was already rehearsing his speech to Alison. His I’m only doing what my boss ordered, I didn’t have a choice speech. Even in his brain, it sounded piss weak.
‘What about Don Royce?’ he stalled. Royce was one of the other two FMIT detective superintendents.
‘Too busy — and he’s on call for everything else this week.’
‘Reg Carney?’ He was the other one.
‘Caribbean cruise — already jetting across the water.’
‘There’s plenty of DCIs who could tackle them,’ Henry suggested.
FB shook his head. His double chins wobbled.
The word ‘Bollocks’ sat on Henry’s tongue, but remained unsaid. He squirmed again.
‘You’re the man,’ FB said. ‘You’ve already had involvement with Joe Speakman. You obviously know how Joe’s mind worked, how he thought.’
‘Thin,’ Henry said. ‘Try harder. I have a week’s holiday booked and a hot-arsed landlady waiting for me.’
FB continued unmoved. ‘You’ve pretty much wrapped up the Speakman thing. . you need something else to keep you occupied, to ease you up to retirement.’
‘How about I have the week off, then look at them?’ He nodded at the files.
‘You know you can’t.’
Henry raised his eyes and looked directly at FB. ‘I’m having them, whatever, aren’t I?’
‘Course you are.’
‘Shit.’
Henry knew exactly what was in the files. He’d read them several times just in case there had been some connection to the mess that Joe Speakman had got himself embroiled in. Henry concluded that the two murders were not linked in any way to Speakman’s personal debacle — but there was every chance that they were themselves connected. Whichever senior investigating officer inherited them would have to put in a lot of time and effort over the next week because of that connection and because the week was significant in terms of the murders. Henry gazed at the files, nostrils dilating, knowing two things. First, he would not be spending much time with Alison over the next seven days. Second, he had a horrible feeling he’d just been handed the hunt for a serial killer. . but when FB said, ‘You bloody love it, don’t you?’ Henry had to agree.
He did.
The morning was still black, no sign of dawn, as Henry approached junction 5 of the M65. He was now well into the east of the county — dark satanic mill land (though most cotton mills had been demolished years ago, or turned into ‘shopping events’) — and as he looked up to his right he could see the silhouette of the village of Belthorn perched on a high crest of moorland on the edge of some very wild countryside. Over to his left was the town of Blackburn and lit up in the foreground, about a mile distant, was Blackburn Royal Infirmary. He’d had some real fun there this last week.