He had known the Costain family who lived on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool for many years. They had been a thorn in the side of the police ever since they had landed from God knew where in the sixties and taken up residence. They were born troublemakers and law breakers and had established themselves as burglars, handlers of stolen property, loan sharks and protection racketeers, and, as Henry knew, more recently as drug dealers.
They were never an easy family to deal with. He did not know of one occasion when the police hadn’t been given a rough ride by them — even when one of the Costain brothers had been murdered and Henry had solved the case. They still hated Henry with a vengeance because they were unable to make themselves see the police as anything other than the enemy.
Not that Henry gave a stuff. A jousting match with the Costain clan was always a bit of a wheeze. . and he always had an ace up his sleeve when dealing with them.
Driving on to the Shoreside Estate brought back myriad memories for Henry, some minor, some major — such as the racially fuelled riot (caused by the Costains) he had once quelled; he drove on past a row of derelict shops, all now burnt out and dilapidated, never to be resurrected. The local hooligans had systematically destroyed them and all the shopkeepers had been driven off the estate, ensuring that law-abiding residents no longer had local services. It was now a car or bus journey to the local supermarket, though even the bus service to the estate had been severely curtailed. Too many drivers had been attacked and injured, too many buses had been trashed.
Some people on the estate seemed intent on making it even more depraved than ever. Its future, Henry thought, was bleak.
Even cops had to tread carefully. It wasn’t quite a no-go zone, but it wasn’t far off.
If the millions of tourists who poured annually into the resort only knew about the crime-ridden, poverty-stricken hinterland just behind the tacky, money-driven seafront, Henry thought. . then smirked. . they wouldn’t give a monkey’s.
He drove slowly along a debris-strewn avenue, no streetlights working (all smashed), and pulled to a halt behind another car. The occupant of this one climbed out and walked back to Henry, who lowered his window. It was the on-call detective sergeant, Rik Dean.
‘Hi, boss,’ said the tired-looking sergeant, groggy from recent sleep.
‘Rik,’ Henry acknowledged him. He knew Dean well, had been instrumental in getting him on to CID in the first place. Dean was a good thief-taker, had an instinct second to none. ‘You know the score, pal?’
Dean nodded. ‘How are we going to handle it?’
Henry rubbed his fatigued face. It felt leathery and harsh. ‘Well, the Costains are never easy. How the hell they’re going to react to the knowledge that Renata’s dead and Roy killed her, I dunno.’
‘Blame the cops?’ Dean suggested.
‘Mmm, quite possibly.’ Henry’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Always a good option.’
‘Shall we go in one car?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Take both. If we leave one here it’s more than likely to be a wheel-less shell when we get back.’ Henry’s personal radio squawked into life. He answered it. ‘Yeah — receiving, go ahead.’
‘Van in position, four on board.’ It was the voice of the uniformed police sergeant who had been at the crash scene with him earlier.
Henry ‘rogered’ that and smiled slyly at Rik Dean. ‘Bit of insurance, just in case the family from hell kick off.’
The two detectives got back into their cars and drove around the corner up to the Costain household, passing a big police van on the way, parked up out of sight and as discreetly as possible — bearing in mind it was big, blue and in your face.
Several lights burned at the house. It was a twenty-four-hour dwelling. The only time there was much of a lull in the activity was around breakfast time, as the Costains tended to sleep in when most other people were getting up. A bit like shift workers.
It is fairly true to say that most crimes committed in a town are done by a small minority of people, the repeat offenders, the skilled burglars, the car thieves. Henry thought that if the government gave the go ahead for a crim-culling process across the country, by eliminating a couple of thousand felons, the crime figures would probably be reduced by about two-thirds. He knew that if this cull was applied to selected members of the Costain family, the crime rate in the resort of Blackpool would plummet to around zero.
Wishful thinking.
He and Rik Dean walked up to the front door and knocked. Henry speculated as to which combination of Costains was presently residing herein. The family had a tendency to be fluid about living arrangements, but he knew this was their main house, the one presided over by old man and old woman Costain, the house through which most of the extended family passed or stayed at one time or another. Henry was fairly certain that Roy and Renata lived here at the moment.
Music and speech could be heard through the door — a hi-fi and TV on in different parts of the house.
Henry rapped on the door again. The music level reduced a couple of decibels. Someone was coming to the door. Henry braced himself, ID at the ready, foot prepared to jam down into the opening and wedge the door if necessary.
A smile spread wide across Henry’s face when he saw that the person opening up was Troy Costain. The smile was only fleeting and morphed into Henry’s best funereal and serious expression.
‘What?’ Troy asked cautiously. He knew Henry very well and did not trust him. He was forking Pot Noodle into his mouth from a tub in his hand. It smelled awful, looked awful and sounded awful.
Henry sensed Troy’s tension. It made him feel good. He liked to keep these people on the back foot.
‘Troy, mate, I need to come in and speak.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Troy sneered. ‘Cops don’t walk into this house without warrants.’
Henry stifled a chortle. He was always amused by the widespread misconception held by most members of the criminal fraternity, even the ones who purported to know the law, that the police only had the power to enter premises brandishing a warrant. Henry could rhyme off at least a dozen powers under which a cop could lawfully bundle into someone’s house and cause havoc.
‘Troy,’ Henry began patiently. ‘Mate, let me and my fellow officer in. You are not in trouble, but you and your mum and dad need to know something, something about Roy and Renata.’
Troy seemed to relax slightly. ‘Mum and Dad are in Spain.’
‘Who’s in charge, then?’ Henry asked, aware that no one was ever really in charge of this house. Theirs was a world of anarchy.
‘Me,’ Troy boasted.
‘The family’s in safe hands, then,’ Henry guffawed. ‘Let me in, then, Mr Responsible Adult. This is serious stuff.’
Troy and Henry had a little eyeball-to-eyeball competition then, just for a few moments until Troy relented and looked away.
‘OK, what have the little shits been up to. .?’ Troy’s words stopped suddenly. He and Henry had a lot of history between them, as well as a lot of up-to-date dealings, so Troy knew Henry’s status in the police. ‘You still an SIO?’ he asked Henry, who nodded. Troy gulped. ‘So what have they been up to?’
‘Let me come in and I’ll explain.’
Keith Snell took a long time to catch fire. Lynch doused him thoroughly with petrol from a plastic can he had just bought from a twenty-four-hour service station. He flicked a lighted match on the dead body he’d had to drag out of the boot. The trousers ignited quite well, but for some reason the upper part of the body did not get going. The two extra matches he threw down extinguished themselves before they even touched the body.