And the words shooting around his head were the ones his mother had uttered before dropping to sleep. Villages, secrets and lies. Was this the key to the two murders (and possibly a third one in West Yorkshire) he had been asked to investigate?
Were they the result of secrets and lies?
Something that had happened years before, but like a sleeping virus. . chicken pox evolving into shingles. It was payback time.
He folded the last piece of toast into his mouth, wiped the corners of his lips, slid his feet off the desk and rocked upright.
If nothing else, he shrugged mentally, it was as good a theory as anything to follow in an unsolved murder case. Just another line of enquiry, a thread of investigation.
He tapped a key on his computer keyboard. The county crest screensaver disappeared and the computer came to life.
He had logged on to the internet, onto the website that celebrated the village of Belthorn, on which Jerry Tope had found the class photograph showing a bunch of innocent kids, looking shyly at the camera. Not many were smiling. Most looked terrified. Henry held his nose close to the monitor and looked at the children, whose ages ranged from five to eleven. It was actually a photo of the whole school — a total of thirty kids — a phenomenon that would simply not exist in the educational world of today. Thirty was a low number for just one class now, not the whole school.
There were no names, but Henry could still identify some of them.
David Peters. Christine Blackshaw. Freddy Cromer. Ella Milner, the murder victim from West Yorkshire.
Henry could not pick out Terry Cromer and wondered where he was that day.
Three victims, one madman.
Henry pouted and looked closely through the faces again. Another one, a little girl, caught his eye. He frowned. . something familiar about her. She was sitting with the younger children at the desks on the left side of the photo, the ages increasing left to right.
Glancing up he looked at the whiteboard on the back wall of the office, which bore the names of the two Lancashire victims. As he looked, he reached for his desk phone and tapped in a number that he had written on the board, waited for a connection.
‘Hello?’ the dull female voice answered eventually.
‘Oh, good morning. Is that Bernadette?’
‘Look,’ she started aggressively before he could say anything else, ‘if you’re trying to get me to claim back payment protection insurance, just sod off. .’
Henry chuckled. ‘No. . Bernadette, this is Detective Superintendent Christie here. You know, the cop who interrupted your Christmas Day.’
‘Oh, yeah. . just as bad. Your number shows as unknown. I just thought. .’
‘It’s because I’m calling from my office. . look, sorry to bother you again, but have you got a minute or two spare so I can ask you a few more questions?’
Henry heard her expel a long sigh. ‘Go on, then.’
‘When I spoke to you,’ he began, still peering closely at the monitor, ‘you said you’d known David a long time. . can you tell me exactly how long?’
‘Since we met at college.’
‘And was college the first time you ever met him?’
She paused, then said, ‘Er. . well, yes, really.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t go to the same infant school as him?’
‘Oh’ — something dawned — ‘I see what you mean.’
‘What do I mean?’
‘I suppose you could say I did, for a while at least. We both went to Belthorn School, but we were only there briefly at the same time. He was older than me and I only went there for a few months — just as I started school — and then my parents moved to Accrington from Belthorn. He was four years older than I was and I can’t say I knew him, as such. When we met at college later, I didn’t even know him at all. It was only as we talked that we realized we’d been at the same school years before.’
Henry rolled his eyes. He was annoyed at himself, annoyed at the detective who had taken Bernadette’s witness statement, and tried not to be annoyed at her, too. He knew from experience that people being interviewed by the police usually only answered the questions asked of them and rarely expanded unless pushed. The statement taken from Bernadette Peters was functional but sparse in detail.
‘Remind me — you met at college again?’
‘Yes. I was in my first year but he was in his last, doing some technical course or other, electronics and such like.’
‘Did he know you from school?’
‘No, as I said. .’
‘OK. . so how long were you at Belthorn School?’
‘Three months, I think. Not long.’
‘OK. . do you know Christine Blackshaw?’
‘She was the one shot in Blackburn, wasn’t she? You mentioned her before.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ella Milner — does that name mean anything?’
‘No, who’s she?’
‘Another murder victim. Would you be surprised to learn they were all at Belthorn School?’
‘Surprised? The names don’t mean anything to me, Mr Christie. I was an itty-bitty kid. But how did you find out?’
He looked at the photograph on his monitor. ‘Just as a result of enquiries,’ he said mysteriously. Then, ‘Do you remember anything at all that David might’ve been involved in way back then, any sort of incident? Did he ever mention anything?’
‘You’re clutching at straws, I take it?’
‘Following a line of investigation,’ Henry said, haughtily this time. ‘And the fact that three murder victims were together at the same school, even though that was years before they were killed, seems a pretty good thing to be banging away at, don’t you think?’
‘That’s my hand slapped.’
‘Yep. . so if you do think of anything that David might have mentioned, please give me a call.’
‘You’re cross now.’
‘Yes I am.’ Henry hung up after a few words of thanks, and his fingers were still on the phone when his office door was flung open and two faces appeared. Rik Dean and Jerry Tope. Rik was marginally ahead.
Neither man actually spoke, the look on Henry’s face reminding them they had burst into a superintendent’s office without knocking.
Then Henry said, ‘Someone better speak.’
‘We’ve got something,’ Rik said.
‘Me too,’ Tope said, dancing behind Rik, a sheet of paper in hand.
Henry cocked his thumb and forefinger like a pistol and pointed at Rik. ‘You first.’
‘Shit,’ Tope said, crestfallen.
Rik said, ‘You’ll need your kit.’
After leaving his mother’s bedside the previous evening and entrusting her to Lisa, who had turned up looking positively radiant following her reunion with Rik, Henry had driven straight to the Tawny Owl, where he ate the apparently legendary Boxing Day curry (turkey, of course) with a couple of pints of San Miguel, followed by a couple of Jack Daniels on the rocks. He crashed out about midnight with Alison beside him and the newly betrothed couple screwed the last dregs of life out of each other before falling soundly asleep.
Henry woke seven hours later with a bursting bladder, but also completely refreshed and ready for what lay ahead.
Alison watched him get dressed after he came out of the shower.
‘This doesn’t mean you get out of the “whisking me away, down on one knee” scenario,’ she said.
‘Good.’ He pulled on his jeans, missed the trouser leg and found himself hopping around in a circle in order to keep his balance. He bounced off the wall twice before the second leg found its rightful place. He sat down heavily on the bed and started to pull on his socks. ‘But it’ll still be busy this week. . we’ll get away next week, promise. A hot city somewhere.’