Henry felt sharp, but also at ease in this environment.
The house was sixth up on the right. A semi, quite substantially constructed, 1960s pedigree.
The two detectives sauntered up to the front door.
‘What were you so keen to tell me back at the office?’ Henry asked Tope. They had reached the door. Through the earpiece fitted snugly inside Henry’s earlobe he heard confirmation that everyone was in position, including two cops who had sneaked into the back garden in case Clovelly tried to do a back-door run. Something not unknown in these circumstances — a villain trying to leg it.
‘Oh, nothing.’
Henry rapped on the door using the back of his hand. ‘No, tell me,’ he insisted.
Tope pouted childishly. ‘Just found your serial killer for you, that’s all.’
Henry was about to smack the door again but stopped with his hand half an inch from the door. ‘Really?’
‘Possibly,’ Tope said, amending his claim slightly.
Henry beat on the door again. ‘Do tell.’ He heard some movement from within the house. He put this over the radio and knocked again.
‘One of the classmates,’ Tope said.
‘The kids from the school?’
‘Out on licence as we speak. . been out for two years now.’
‘Wow,’ Henry said.
‘Yeah, what about that?’ Tope said proudly.
‘Double brownie points,’ Henry said. He squatted down, flipped up the brass-plated letterbox and peered into the hallway. He saw nothing, just a bare, uncarpeted hall and stairs. ‘Hello — open up, please. Police.’ He let the flap drop a couple of times, making a metallic rattle, stood up and thumped the door again, this time with the side of his fist.
The door had a nine-inch square panel of frosted glass in it at about head height. Tope put his face to it, shielding his eyes with his hand, and he saw the outline of a figure tearing down the stairs, skidding along the hall towards the rear of the house.
‘Doing a runner,’ Tope said excitedly, his voice suddenly high pitched.
‘Patrols at the back of the house,’ Henry said into his radio, ‘he’s heading for the back door.’
Tope ran towards the edge of the house but Henry grabbed him and raised his eyebrows.
‘Subject emerging from rear door,’ one of the officers at the back said.
‘What are we doing here?’ Tope hissed to Henry, who still had hold of him.
Henry said nothing, just gestured with his hands: stay put. Then he pushed Tope to one side of the front door and flattened himself against the wall on the opposite side, still gesticulating for Tope to stay where he was. Tope got the message as the next transmission from the officers out back went, ‘Subject exiting, running across the garden towards us.’
‘Is it Clovelly?’ Henry asked. So far, no one had confirmed that little detail.
There was no time for a reply, because the front door of the house was yanked open and Clovelly himself came out in jeans, T-shirt and trainers. He held a sawn-off shotgun diagonally across his chest, his right hand holding the stock, right forefinger in the trigger guard, left holding the barrels.
Stunned, Henry watched as Tope pivoted, moving hard and fast.
He hit Clovelly on the side of his face, just at the point where the jaw joined the skull in front of his ear.
Henry thought it was one of the hardest punches he had ever seen thrown. Clovelly’s face distorted with its power.
Clovelly emitted a roar. His lower jaw jerked sideways, upper and lower sets of teeth grating. The shock of the blow reverberated throughout his body. His head cricked sideways and for a moment, complete blackness engulfed his brain, followed by a dazzling whiteness — and stars. His knees ceased to function and he did a willowy fall.
‘I’ll have that,’ Henry said and deftly snatched the shotgun from Clovelly’s non-existent grip as he slumped to his knees, then onto all fours, shaking his head, mumbling and groaning, spitting teeth and blood.
Tope stepped smartly behind him and slammed him down onto his chest, then pulled his arms behind his back, stacking his wrists and fitting a pair of rigid cuffs on him.
‘Jeesh, that was pretty exciting,’ Tope said in a matter-of-fact way.
Open mouthed, Henry said, ‘Told you you’d get to love it again.’
FIFTEEN
‘I read a book once,’ Jerry Tope explained after Henry’s question.
‘What — about punching people’s lights out?’
Tope snuffled a laugh. ‘No, not quite. It was about the Kray twins — you know, Ronnie and Reggie? Nice guys. One of the things they used to do was offer someone a cigarette and as that person was just about to put it into their mouth, at the exact moment when their jaw was slightly relaxed, they’d punch the unsuspecting stoolie on the side of his face at the jaw joint and break the poor sod’s jaw. They got it down to a fine art. . they were both boxers, of course. I was always intrigued by it and I thought I’d give it a shot, especially when he came to the door with a shotgun. Obviously the Krays could hit harder than me, but I did pretty good, didn’t I?’ he finished proudly. He licked the tip of his forefinger with his tongue and gave himself an imaginary tick in mid-air.
Henry shook his head in amazement. ‘Yeah, you did good, Slugger Tope.’
‘Went down like a sack o’ spuds.’ Tope dropped back and started dancing on his tiptoes, throwing punches as though he was shadow boxing with Ali.
Henry watched him, amused. It was as if someone had lit his blue touchpaper and somehow brought him to life. Even though it was six hours later he was still pumped with adrenalin and Henry had never seen this dour man so animated. Now he wanted to fight the world.
‘OK, Jerry, time to wind your neck in,’ Henry said.
Tope threw one last punch, caught the wall by mistake and howled with pain, doubling over and cradling his fist under his armpit. ‘Ooh, that hurt.’
They were standing in the corridor outside Henry’s FMIT office at headquarters. Henry ushered Tope in and sat him down.
It was the first time they had stopped since Clovelly’s arrest. Henry slid behind his desk, sat down and took a breath.
It had been a hectic six hours and now Clovelly was trapped up in the Blackburn cells, having had a hospital visit during which he had become violent and had to be further restrained. When he arrived at the cells he was pinned to the floor, searched properly, then heaved head first into a cell after managing to assault the custody officer. Not the best of moves for a comfortable stay.
He wasn’t going anywhere for the time being.
In the meantime the house had been searched and his car seized. A couple of addresses he was known to frequent were also searched, as well as a lock-up garage in Oswaldtwistle where a very large chunk of evidential gold was discovered: the Nissan that had been used in the drive-by shooting and as a getaway car from the club in Blackpool where Runcie Costain had been shot to death.
Although it seemed unlikely that Clovelly would admit anything when he was interviewed, the forensic side was coming together nicely.
Henry had also arrested the person who had done a runner from the back of the house, hoping to fool officers into thinking it was Clovelly. This turned out to be his girlfriend, dressed in his clothes. Henry held her for harbouring a fugitive — a bit of a weak charge at the best of times — but he bailed her quite quickly when she revealed she was pregnant.
Now he was back at HQ, taking stock, seeing where everyone was up to and preparing for an 8 p.m. debrief.
He looked at Tope, still caressing his wall-scraped knuckles.
‘What have you got, Jerry? You told me you found a killer.’
‘Possible killer,’ Tope corrected him.
‘I’m listening.’ Henry consulted his watch. ‘At least for the next five minutes.’