‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
Henry glared at her, then shrugged. ‘And I thought you were different, Janine.’
She did not respond, but held his gaze with her head tilted, and Henry saw a look in her eye and an expression on her face that reminded him strongly of someone.
‘Whatever,’ he said with exasperation. ‘Pass the message, dearie,’ he added coldly, ‘and don’t be surprised when we come knocking.’
She turned and walked away.
Rik sidled up to Henry and said, ‘Have you properly checked out little Miss Black Widow?’
‘No. . but I’m going to.’
Henry could have ranted until his face turned a horrible shade of puce. But it would only have served to wind him up even more and put more stress than ever on his heart, which he felt was becoming even feebler by the minute.
Instead, he withdrew from the gates and skidded away in the Audi, flicking up grit as he went. He was en route to Blackpool to deliver the same message to the Costains. The only problem being, who was now their head? Who had the power now? Who should he target his warning to?
By the time he hit the slip road onto the M65, he had settled into his driving, taken a few steadying breaths and his mind was starting to work again.
‘Notice anything about her?’ he asked Rik.
‘In what respect? Fit and dangerous, like I said all along? Fuckable, but rather like knobbing a black widow spider? Dangerous as hell?’
‘Other than that.’
‘No. I’m a simple man,’ Rik conceded.
‘Her arms?’
‘Still no.’
‘Her inner forearms, the soft bit from wrist up to elbow. . when her sleeve slid back?’
Rik continued to shake his head. ‘Best tell me. Not in the mood for guessing.’
‘She self-harms. Lots and lots of razor blade cuts up each arm, probably hundreds. And probably all over other parts of her body, too. A lot were old, but some looked recent.’
‘Oh. . and?’
‘Why do people self harm?’
‘Don’t know much about it. .’
‘Usually because of deep-rooted psychological issues and trauma. . it’s a kind of release, the pain, the blood flow,’ Henry explained.
‘Ugh. . you seem to know a lot about it.’ Rik sounded impressed.
‘Not really. Came across it once a while back and read up on it, that’s all.’
‘You think it’s significant?’
‘No idea,’ Henry admitted. ‘But it’s odd and there’s always a back story behind it. I wonder what hers is?’ The other thing that was odd, was what he had seen in Janine’s face as she’d stared daggers at him.
The car reached eighty-five and he pulled out into the fast lane.
Whether his words had any real effect, Henry could not be certain. He made sure that armed response units were very visible in and around Blackpool and Blackburn in order to get his message across, with orders to cruise by the clubs, and as far as the streets were concerned, everything seemed to quieten down.
What went on behind closed doors, he could not say.
But the lull in overt criminal activity gave him the chance to get a properly structured and staffed investigation under way as, suddenly, the commanders of the relevant divisions became ultra helpful in terms of staffing and resources. Henry didn’t know how true it was, but the rumour clinic stated they’d had a very big kick up their backsides from the chief constable’s jackboots.
Very quickly Henry had two Major Incident Rooms up and running — one in Blackburn, one in Blackpool — and a coordinating office at FMIT. He was lead SIO and Rik Dean was his deputy, having been promoted temporarily to chief inspector so he could pull rank if necessary.
The day after his visit to the Cromers and the Costains (where he had spoken in no uncertain terms to Cherry, Runcie’s girlfriend, who had listened in a very chastened way and did not offer up another view of her shaved lady-region), a very big police operation had begun.
Clovelly, Terry Cromer’s running mate, refused to admit to anything, but was placed before magistrates and remanded to police cells for a further seventy-two hours — a three-day lie down — so he could be interviewed further and more evidence found. Whether or not he admitted anything became less important as the scientific side of things put him in the Nissan at the time of the drive-by shooting. And at the scene of Runcie’s murder.
To coin a phrase, he was stuffed.
Terry Cromer was still at large, but Henry was relaxed about that. It would only be a matter of time before he was arrested. Several operations were in train to keep under observation addresses he was known to frequent and a surveillance unit was sitting on his house in Belthorn. Or rather lying, waiting and watching from cover in a nearby field, in the manner of an SAS team.
Other detectives and specialists were looking at the hospital shootings, and all in all, Henry thought he had it covered. It felt good. He was loving it. He’d had a couple of half-decent nights’ sleep, been well loved up by Alison, who seemed to have a surge of bedroom creativity and energy following the engagement. He also spent a lot of time with his mother, who — true to her nature — was rallying again, though she was still classified as very poorly.
Next morning he was in his office at FMIT, coffee in hand, carefully making up the murder book, having locked himself away successfully for a few hours, phones redirected and a big warning sign on his door.
Eventually he sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and for the first time in a while thought about the double murder, which had taken a back seat — again.
He snatched up his phone, jabbed in an internal extension number.
‘Thanks for your patience, Jerry old fruit,’ Henry said. ‘Fancy that look at Rafe Liversage?’
Although Liversage was in the school photograph, Henry didn’t really think he was responsible for murdering David Peters and Christine Blackshaw. He was one of the younger pupils, maybe six at the time of the photo, but he had to be dragged in and spoken to.
Jerry Tope landed in Henry’s office five minutes later.
An hour after the phone call, Henry and Tope were at the hostel in Accrington, where they learned from the shifty manager that Liversage hadn’t been seen for over a week. When asked why this hadn’t been reported to the Probation Service, the manager shrugged and said he would do it in the New Year. Residents often went walkabout, but usually returned, no harm done. It made work to report it, then un-report it.
Unimpressed by the lack of professionalism — and his odour — the two detectives left the hostel, a large, old detached house on the outskirts of town, and went to stand by Henry’s car.
They looked at one another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.
Henry voiced them. ‘He’s a lying bastard.’
Tope nodded. Their heads swivelled back to the premises, seeing a curtain twitch at a ground floor window, catching a glimpse of the manager.
‘I’d say so.’
‘Let’s go back in,’ Henry decided.
The manager and Rafe Liversage were arrested in the hostel. Henry and Tope basically forced their way back in and insisted that the manager show them all of the rooms, including his own accommodation.
The man’s bolt for the door whilst trying to get his mobile phone to his ear was a bit of a giveaway. Henry spun him round and dragged him to the floor, pinned him face down and spoke into his dirty, hairy, waxy ear.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Henry cuffed his hands behind his back, then stepped him back up to his feet and propelled him to a door marked ‘Private — Staff Only’. This led through to an office and then, via another door, down some steps to the basement flat where the manager lived.