Next link was the general MO. Both victims kidnapped on the same day, a year apart, Christmas Eve. Both held for a week and their bodies found on New Year’s Day.
Blackshaw, the female, had been dumped and set alight in a wheelie bin, but Peters was burned where, it was believed, he had been held captive all week. It had never been discovered where Blackshaw had been held.
Both victims were approximately the same age, mid forties.
Both had been born in the borough of Hyndburn. . but that may just have been coincidental, because thousands of people were born there — though Henry always liked to see coincidences in murder hunts, as they often led to clues. As far as he was concerned a clue in a murder hunt always meant that the killer had made a mistake.
The icing on the cake, though, discovered on the post-mortem slab by the pathologist as he inspected every crevice and orifice, was that the mouths of both victims had been stuffed with chicken feathers.
Henry closed the murder books. He stared vacantly at the wall in front of him, then shook his head and looked at the time. Almost 11 p.m. . Christmas Eve, and he hadn’t even had a drink.
‘Shit,’ he said, his mind turning all this information over and coming back to the feathers. Because not only had there been feathers in the victims’ mouths, an examination of their stomach contents revealed that they had been forced to eat the feathers, too.
Henry felt unwell at the thought as he worked through this pivotal piece of information. He was spitting feathers at that moment, desperate for a drink.
Force fed chicken feathers, he thought. He shuffled out his mobile phone and despite the hour dialled a number, which went through to answerphone. He left a curt message, then called another number, also not answered, and left a message on that one too.
Then he stood up and stretched. He walked back towards the cardiac unit, but was almost hurled out of the way as a white-coated doctor shot past him. Henry’s insides did a back-flip.
He found a team of doctors and nurses working with urgent efficiency on his mother, one of them desperately pumping her frail chest, inside of which her heart had stopped.
Another nurse stepped forward brandishing the defibrillator paddles which had been powered up.
Incredibly she survived the pounding, then the defib — which jarred her meagre body terribly — and the infusion of drugs, the doctors and nurses doing wonderful work whilst Henry watched wordlessly, an empty feeling inside him.
After they had all gone, Henry sat by her bed and clasped her hand again, stroking it gently, knowing this time she wouldn’t be leaving hospital alive.
At 2 a.m., after doing a nodding dog impersonation for several minutes, he knew he had to get to his own bed.
He texted Lisa and his daughters to bring them up to speed with the latest news and noticed that he had also received two texts. Having responded to both, he collected the murder files from his newly acquired office, returned the key to the nurse with grateful thanks and headed home.
It was strange to see the lights on as he drove down the avenue towards it. But it was also good to know that the woman he loved was waiting there for his arrival.
He was up by eight on Christmas Day, having had five hours of dead-black sleep. Alison was already up and making breakfast for them from the paltry resources available. Since being with Alison he had spent less and less time at the house and as a result, fresh food and drink was almost non-existent. Alison managed to find a frozen loaf of bread and a pack of bacon in the freezer, and some ground coffee in a sealed container which still smelled fresh. The tasty Christmas Day breakfast she fashioned from the ingredients was waiting for Henry when he appeared downstairs after a long, invigorating shower.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Alison declared. They hugged, a move that still sent a shiver of pleasure through both of them.
‘And you,’ he said.
They stepped apart and suddenly there was a small box in Alison’s hand, wrapped in golden Xmas paper. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said again and urged Henry to take the present.
‘Shit,’ he said guility.
‘Go on — open it.’
He did so under her gaze. It was a Breitling watch, which made Henry gasp with admiration. ‘You shouldn’t have. . I mean, really you shouldn’t.’ He slid it onto his wrist after removing the battered Casio digital one he wore for work and admired it. ‘It must have cost-’
‘Don’t go there,’ she warned him.
Their eyes locked. Henry said, ‘Thanks,’ swallowing.
She gave a petite shrug.
‘Look. . I. . er. .’ he stuttered.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does, actually.’ He held up a finger and dashed into the living room, returning a moment later, a crooked grin on his face and a present of his own in the palm of his hand, his hand clasped tight around the package.
He spoke hesitantly, feeling awkward. ‘I didn’t quite envisage Christmas Day being like this — two murders and Mum almost in her grave. . but what is, is,’ he shrugged philosophically. He held out his right hand, palm up. .
FOUR
Two pairs of eyes glowered at Henry Christie. They belonged to police officers of much lower rank than he — a detective inspector, a detective constable — but this disparity in position did not prevent either man staring malevolently and insubordinately at him. Because at that moment in time, both hated him with a vengeance.
‘Whaaat?’ Henry said innocently as he entered his office and slid behind his desk, slapping down the two murder files on his ink blotter.
At 9.30 a.m. on Christmas Day, Henry already knew the answer to his somewhat rhetorical question.
He had left a text message for both men the night before, outlining his requirements — that both of them parade for duty the following morning in his office and brace themselves for a tough week ahead.
Christmas Day. A public holiday.
Henry knew that no one else was on duty in FMIT, or covering the Intelligence Unit at headquarters, the departments to which these men were attached. Obviously some staff were on standby call-out rotas, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen in either department.
The DI was Rik Dean, his old friend and colleague, and possibly his future brother-in-law, although the recent conversations he’d had with his sister Lisa made him think that union might not be happening — but to be honest, he’d lost track of where they were up to. Henry had fought to get Rik onto FMIT and been successful in his manoeuvrings.
The other was Jerry Tope, a DC from the Intel Unit. Tope, a curmudgeon of a man, grumpy to the extreme right of the dwarf of the same name, had worked for Henry on several occasions over the past few years.
Henry could forgive them their expressions of hatred. He knew how good both were at their jobs — and he knew, of course, he had seriously interrupted their Christmas celebrations.
Neither man responded to his ‘What?’ question, because they also knew the answer. Both should have been off work that day and the next, and they were none too chuffed about the summons. Financially it wasn’t too bad for Tope, because as a DC he could claim double time for the public holiday. But that didn’t hold for Rik. Inspectors and above didn’t get paid extra for overtime or public holidays, though he would be entitled to time off in lieu, as would Henry. Reality was, though, that neither man would ever find the time to take it off.
‘Henry, I’m not being funny, but this better be good,’ Rik grumbled. ‘I checked the pads this morning for the last twenty-four hours and nothing’s happened to interest FMIT.’
‘Yuh, I checked too,’ Tope flared up. ‘Bugger all’s happened — just run-of-the-mill crap. Certainly nothing for a desk jockey like me.’