‘OK, but I don’t like this,’ he admitted.
‘Me neither. Just stay here, I’ll go back and get a radio and see if we can get through.’ Jo ran back to their car, then jogged back to O’Brien. She tried to call in, but there was no response. ‘Shit, the bloody things are still not working properly, or this must be a real blackspot here.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ O’Brien whispered. Their torches came on simultaneously and they both stepped off the track into the undergrowth. They were at the 4x4 within seconds.
‘No one with it,’ O’Brien observed as he approached, shining his torch. He walked up to the driver’s door and shone it in. ‘Shit,’ he gasped.
Jo was behind him. She shone her more powerful beam into the vehicle.
‘Wooo,’ she said, pursing her lips.
There was blood swathed across the inside of the passenger door, pools of it on the seat.
‘Not good,’ said O’Brien nervously edging his way carefully around the 4x4. He stood by the passenger window, which was pasted in blood. He shone his torch around his feet and saw the drag marks along the forest floor. Jo joined him, saw what he was looking at.
She looked at him, worried. ‘Bloody hell — I think our Mr Turner is a dead un.’
‘Let’s follow them, now that we’re here.’
Jo nodded. ‘Keep to one side of the marks.’
They found the unattended grave, and the body of Andy Turner. Their torch beams played over him.
Verner was behind them, just feet away. They had not seen or heard him, had no idea he was so close.
He rose out of the undergrowth, his spade held high over his head.
He went for the man first.
TWO YEARS LATER
One
Henry Christie wondered what sort of reception would be waiting for him on his return to work. There would certainly be no celebrations. It would, he guessed, be a muted affair at best. The banners and the bunting would not be out. There would be no party poppers or streamers and no champagne would be opened. More likely there would be cautious, sideways glances; one or two nods and maybe, if he was lucky, the Chief Superintendent would say hello. The main thing would be that he would have a tattered reputation to repair and to do so would be an uphill struggle of massive proportions. After all, who wanted to work for a supervisor whose judgement had been deemed very, very suspect?
He parked his car on the secure police-rented level of the multi-storey car park adjacent to Blackpool Central Police Station and climbed out, ensuring he locked it. He walked to the door which opened out on to the public mezzanine which stretched between the front of Blackpool Magistrates’ Court and the front entrance of the police station. Once through the door, he paused for a moment to savour the ever present chilled sea breeze. He looked upwards at the monstrosity that was the cop shop. Eight floors of concrete ugliness. He had spent many years of his police service here and was returning after an enforced absence — a suspension from duty, actually — having lost his temporary rank of Detective Chief Inspector, back to Detective Inspector — and also his coveted role as a Senior Investigating Officer based at Headquarters in the team responsible for investigating murders and other serious crimes. It had been his ideal job.
To his left he glanced at the steps leading up to the court. A few early arrivals for the day’s proceedings had gathered in a motley group, smoking roll-ups, hunched miserably together. They peered up from their huddle and scowled at Henry, who recognized each and every one of the little toerags.
He waved and smiled at them.
They did not respond. Not one of them was brave enough to give him a middle finger or even a lazy ‘V’.
‘Shitbags,’ Henry mumbled to himself. ‘Nice to see the faces haven’t changed.’ He walked to the police station, feeling eight sets of eyes burning into his back.
A few very depressed and grey-looking people were waiting at the enquiry desk.
Henry slid his swipe card through the scanner, half expecting it not to work. But it did. He pushed open the door which led into the innards of the station. With a certain degree of trepidation, he stepped across the threshold and let the door click shut behind him.
It was the first time he had set foot in a police station in four months. It gave him a strange, queasy feeling. He had been to Headquarters on several occasions recently, the last time being for the full hearing into his disciplinary case when he was cleared of any wrongdoing. But other than on those closely supervised visits when he had been treated like a terrorist, he had not been allowed on police property.
But now he was back with a warrant card, swipe card and full police powers.
He allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile. Then the enormity of the situation hit him like a sock full of pennies. He blew out his cheeks and, avoiding the elevator because he wasn’t going to risk getting trapped in a confined space with possibly someone he did not want to be with, began to climb the stairs. .
‘. . Daddy, Daddy!’ The harsh shrieking voice cut sharply into Henry Christie’s daydream. He had been well immersed in his thoughts, so deep he had totally lost track of everything in his pipe dream of returning to work totally exonerated by the disciplinary panel. He shook his head and twisted in the direction of his youngest daughter, Leanne. She was standing at the conservatory door, her body language expressing complete impatience with him.
‘Oh, OK, love. . are you ready to make tracks?’
‘Dad, I have been so ready for an age. I couldn’t find you.’
‘I’ve been sitting here, reading the papers like I do every Sunday, while I wait for you to get ready.’
‘Dad,’ Leanne said pointedly, ‘you weren’t reading the papers, you were in a trance. . and now it’s time to go or we’ll be late.’
‘OK.’ He pushed himself out of the low cane sofa and looked at Leanne. She was growing up very quickly now, blossoming out of childhood into a beautiful young woman. As ever, Henry’s ticker jarred a little at the thought of his little babykins and at how much he had missed her development over the years because of his misguided dedication to being a cop. His other, eldest, daughter, Jenny, was now in her late teens and he had seen virtually nothing of her growth, other than remembering being surprised and stunned from time to time at her progress.
Not good. Even if he did get back to work, in future the job would come well down on the list from now on. First and foremost was his family.
Leanne was dressed for her new hobby. Tight jodhpurs, riding boots and a sleeveless fleecy top, finished off with a short riding crop, thin leather gloves and a hard hat. She was now into riding horses each Sunday morning. Since Henry’s suspension from duty he had been able, and willingly volunteered, to take her to the riding school and pick her up. It was one of those fatherly type of duties he had never been able to carry out. It had always been Kate who had taken the girls to Brownies or to swimming lessons, or to birthday parties. Henry was trying to make up for lost time. . and whereas most other parents he met whinged and bleated about the dreary tasks, he found he loved every minute of it, could not get enough.
‘So what were you thinking about?’ Leanne asked as they went out to the car.
‘Going back to work,’ he admitted. ‘If it ever happens.’
‘Oh,’ she said, knowing how delicate a subject it all was. She knew he was nowhere near going back yet; that the date for the discipline hearing had not been set and that the court proceedings surrounding it all had not even been listed. ‘Anyway,’ she said, changing the subject with the subtlety of a sledge hammer, ‘I hope I get to ride Silver today.’ She sighed longingly. ‘He’s a wonderful horse. . so responsive. . I’ve heard he might be up for sale.’ She looked slyly at her father, who was reversing the car out of the drive.