‘I’m perplexed.’
Henry explained. ‘When I was at the scene of the old man’s death, a bobby said there was some dog muck in the alley that had been stood in. He asked if he should protect it, just in case there was some sort of connection to the murder. I told him to do it. Let’s hope he did — because even if there isn’t any pooh left on the sole — ’ he shook the trainer — ‘if there is an imprint of a shoe in the shit, we can make a match.’
‘So Rory was at the scene of the old man’s murder? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not leaping to conclusions yet — but if we get tie-ins to the cane and the head wound, and the footwear pattern in the dog muck, there’s every chance he was there. And if he was, did he see it happen? And if he saw it happen, did he get killed because of that?’ Henry shrugged. ‘Just tossing stuff up in the air, here. It makes it vital to find out who was with him…’ The detective and pathologist blinked at each other. ‘I don’t completely believe in coincidence… old man run over and shot, young lad shot… what I do believe in, as James Bond once said, is enemy action. I’ve got a little feeling in the pit of my guts that whatever remains of bullets we find will be the same in both heads. And if Rory did see the old man get killed, then got murdered himself, that other person needs tracking down, because if we don’t get to him first, he’s going to get a bullet in the skull just like Rory…’
‘Sounds a bit melodramatic.’
‘That’s me, Mr Melodrama.’
‘I wouldn’t care if you were dealing with the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre… we go on holiday tomorrow, the taxi’s booked, etcetera, etcetera… nuff said?’
‘I have no intention of doing anything more than ensuring the investigation is up and running properly.’ Henry emerged from the en-suite shower room, towelling his close-cropped hair dry, into the bedroom and into the tiny walk-in dressing room. He was completely naked and Kate watched him, her eyes sparkling at the sight, even though she was laying down the law with him.
‘Besides which you must be completely exhausted.’
‘I’ll be OK,’ Henry said, bending down to his sock and underwear drawer, revealing a view that Kate would rather not have seen. She winced.
However, it did not stop her from standing up and sidling in behind him, wrapping her arms around him and pushing her nose into his back. ‘You smell great,’ she murmured, throatily, one hand sliding across his stomach.
‘The heady fragrance of pure soap,’ he said.
Henry had dashed home for a revitalizing shower and a change of clothing with a view to getting through the day. His head had been thumping and he’d taken a couple of Nurofen to ward off the worst effects of a tiredness headache. His intention had been to be in and out of the house within a few minutes, but the stand-up ‘discussion’ with Kate about the holiday had delayed him somewhat.
She’d backed off a little and now Henry felt guilty on two fronts. Firstly, today was actually a leave day — and he was working. It was a day on which they’d planned to do all the last minute holiday prep, a bit of shopping, a lingering coffee at Starbucks, stuff like that. Kate had been looking forward to it. He also felt terrible about the encounter he’d had with Keira O’Connell and berated himself for being so weak in the flesh — still. He had almost returned to his bad old ways. Could so easily have done. He thought he was better now.
With those thoughts in mind, he turned into Kate, pushed himself against her, kissed her face, lips and neck, and felt himself harden, legally this time.
‘If you’re interested,’ he said — as she squeezed his testicles gently — ‘I might have time for a quick one.’
One thing was certain, he thought, the old Henry knew how to appease a woman. But even as he pushed Kate back on to the bed and peeled off her tight jeans, he was thinking how dearly he would love to run this double murder that had all the hallmarks of a professional hit. So juicy.
The everyday sounds of the morning had not woken Mark Carter. The estate coming to life. The whirring and clattering of, possibly, one of the last milk floats in existence trundling by. Cars passing, kids yelling, bin men shouting to each other as they made their way by with their noisy truck.
None of that woke him.
The sound that jerked Mark Carter awake was that of footsteps creeping past the door, someone sneaking about.
He came to, suddenly and sickeningly, cursing himself for having fallen asleep in the first place — into a slumber of shadows, flashes, bangs and death.
And now, in real darkness, he was sure he had heard footfalls.
Although his heart was slamming against his chest wall, he tried not to move, to remain immobile, hardly breathing, watching the line of light around the ill-fitting door to see if anyone walked past. Then he heard a knock on the door.
Mark shivered.
After having locked himself in his bedroom on arriving home, there was no way he could get to sleep. He didn’t even try, but kept a vigil at the window, watching the avenue apprehensively.
Alone in the house he began to feel even more vulnerable. So much so that just after two a.m., still wide awake, but exhausted, he collected up his quilt and pillow and went downstairs, where he let himself out the back door and went to the side of the house. Out here were two outbuildings with a lean-to roof connected to the house, making a tight passageway up the side. One of the buildings had once been a utility room and even though there was still an old sink in it, it was no longer used. Now it was basically a rubbish tip for things Mark’s mother couldn’t be bothered to take to the dump. Adjoining that was another ‘room’, a space where, in days gone by, coal was delivered to and stored. With the advent of gas central heating, this was also somewhere no longer used and because it was still full of coal dust, it wasn’t even used as a dumping ground for rubbish. It was into this ‘coal-hole’, as it was still referred to, that Mark sneaked, thinking he would be safer here than in the house. He wrapped himself in the quilt and fitted his pillow between his head and shoulder.
The door, poorly fitting, rotting at the bottom, still had an old mortise lock on it that worked and Mark was able to lock himself in.
His reasoning was that if the killers somehow managed to identify him and discover where he lived, he’d be better able to escape from the coal-hole than his bedroom because they wouldn’t be expecting him to be hiding there.
He made himself as comfortable as possible in the cold, brick-built, dusty space — then looked at the cordless phone he’d brought with him from inside the house, wondering if it still worked out here. There was a dial tone, so he entered 141 and then dialled treble nine and asked for the police. When the connection went through, he said, ‘Have you found the body in the car park behind Preston Road shops?’
The operator seemed taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’
‘You heard — send a patrol to that car park.’ Then he hung up. He stared at the phone a while longer, fully expecting a call back, believing they had the technology to trace any call, even if it was a withheld number. No call came.
He rested his head on the pillow and tried to stay awake.
Then he heard the footsteps and realized he’d been asleep for hours. Someone knocked on the front door of the house and he heard a voice shout through the letter box, ‘Answer the door, Mark Carter, or you’re fuckin’ dead.’
‘I’ve had a CSI do a quick comparison of the impression in the dog pooh with the sole of Rory’s trainer and his assessment is that it’s a match — but we’ll need a footwear analyst to confirm it. Being sorted.’
Henry looked at Alex Bent, a man who’d had about the same amount of sleep as himself in the last thirty-six hours. None. ‘I think we’re on to a winner, then. So let’s assume Rory was at the scene of the old man’s murder.’
‘And got whacked for what he saw?’