Unfortunately, the call went straight through to answerphone.
NINE
Henry and Rik helped themselves to a set of keys for one of the CID cars and hurried down to the garage. Henry’s Mondeo was still causing a potential obstruction so, ever the gent, he moved it somewhere less obstructive, then jumped into the battered Focus Rik was waiting in, revving an engine that pumped out clouds of unhealthy-looking blue smoke. Henry’s intended jump into the passenger seat was interrupted by the necessity to scoop the scrunched up chip papers and an empty coke can into the footwell, before sitting down gingerly on stained upholstery that he hoped was drier than it appeared.
Despite the best intentions of everyone concerned, it was an impossible task to keep the interior of runabout cop cars clean. Their lifestyle just did not allow for it. Henry didn’t comment, but his face showed displeasure.
Rik drove out of the car park on to the wild streets of the resort and Henry’s excitement was not diminished despite the car’s grotty interior. This was a major breakthrough in the investigation. A crucial witness.
He thought about Mark Carter, who he knew pretty well since being the detective who’d investigated the death of Mark’s sister from an OD. A concoction of drugs traced back to the dealer — Mark’s older brother, Jack. It had been a messy investigation and Henry had used Mark as a snout, an informant, along the way. The poor lad had ended up witnessing the murder of another young lad on the same piece of no-man’s-land between the back of the shops and Song Thrush Way, aka Psycho Alley. A case of history repeating itself, Henry mused.
Henry knew Mark was a good lad, someone with dreams and ambitions and the intelligence to make something of his life, which then begged the question — what the hell was he doing hanging around with Rory Costain? And did he commit two quite violent robberies with him? And did he witness the old man’s death and then Rory’s?
‘You sure it was Mark Carter?’ Henry asked Rik, who threw the danny around a corner causing a plastic Fanta bottle to roll off the dashboard.
‘I am.’
‘And you think Mark and Rory committed two robberies?’
‘Description fits with what I saw and what the victims say. Another thing might help prove it. The Goth had an imprint of a shoe on his face, y’know, in his make-up? I know you’ve got Rory’s footwear, so it might be worth comparing the soles with the CSI photos of the Goth’s face. From what the lad says, it’s the one who fits Rory’s description that stomped on him, even though the other one gave him a good whacking, too.’
Henry sighed. He looked out through the grubby window, smeared by hand prints, and watched the town whizz by. ‘I expected better from Mark Carter.’
‘I expected nothing else,’ Rik said pragmatically. ‘His mum’s a drunk and a slapper, his brother’s banged up for drug trafficking and his sister’s a junkie corpse. Who can blame the little shit?’
Henry went hollow at Rik’s words of reality. It was such a shame a lad of Mark’s potential should hit the skids like this. And if he was witness to another two murders, the future looked very bleak psychologically for him, too. Henry could not even begin to imagine what the lad was going through. As well as the horror of reliving the events, he could be terrified he was next on the list.
‘Why the hell hasn’t he come forwards?’ Henry demanded.
Rik sniggered. ‘Because they don’t. People like that don’t. He might be shit scared, his shed might well have collapsed, but we’re still the enemy. He won’t trust us lot one iota.’
‘No,’ Henry said sullenly. And he, Henry Christie, had given Mark no reason to trust the cops. He’d used, then abandoned him after making some promises that were never kept. It was no wonder Mark would think twice about coming to the police. He’d been let down badly by them once. Henry went silent, his eyes defocusing as his mind turned inwards. He remained in that semi-catatonic state until Rik pulled on to Shoreside.
It was a decent enough night, no rain like the previous one and quite a few kids were milling about on the streets. A gang of six watched them drive past, immediately making the Focus as a plain cop car. Two stuck middle digits up at the detectives. Mouths opened and obscenities were shouted.
‘Shits,’ Rik observed.
‘Abandoned kids,’ Henry countered.
‘Bollocks. Shite parents. No control.’
‘No jobs, shit housing, no one cares,’ Henry said bitterly.
‘Jeez,’ Rik said, staring at Henry’s profile. ‘You going soft in your old age?’
‘And preyed on by people like the Costains,’ Henry ranted.
‘Shits,’ Rik said again, closing the conversation.
They were glared at by more street hanging kids, but got by without incident. Police cars were often stoned on this estate. Then they were outside the Carter household on the edge of the estate. Lights were on, someone was at home.
‘You want to take the back, just in case he does a runner?’
‘Sure,’ Rik said.
The detectives climbed out of the car, walked up the path and Rik peeled off between the side of the house and the outbuildings, positioning himself by the back door.
Henry gave him a few seconds to get settled, then knocked. From inside he could hear a TV blasting out. Curtains were drawn across the front window, so he couldn’t see inside. He rapped more loudly and peered through the frosted glass of the UPVC front door, a replacement for the one shot up by an armed gang that had chased Mark’s brother to ground here a couple of years earlier.
The lounge door opened, a figure approached the front door.
Mandy Carter, Mark’s wayward mother opened the door.
‘Hi, Mandy, remember me?’
‘How could I forget?’ She was in her early forties now, Henry guessed. She had close-cropped blonde hair, old watery eyes and a harsh, alcohol affected complexion that looked as though all her capillary vessels had burst just under the surface of her skin. This was a shame because she had been a pretty woman but the ravages of her lifestyle had taken an early toll on her. She was dressed in the bib of a local superstore and had obviously just returned from work. Henry knew she worked long hours, then played even longer. She pursed her lips. ‘What’s the little shit done now?’ she pre-empted his question.
‘I know you love him really.’ Henry smirked. ‘Is he in?’
She shrugged non-committally. ‘Dunno, just landed home meself.’ She cricked her neck and shouted, ‘Mark’, harshly. There was no response, so she upped the volume and yelled again. Still nothing. ‘Guess not,’ she said to Henry.
‘Can I come in and check?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘Got a warrant?’
Henry mirrored her expression until she dropped her defiant eyes and her shoulders slumped. She took a step back and angled herself to allow him inside. ‘What the hell,’ she moaned, ‘you’re coming in anyway.’
‘Thanks Mandy.’ He sidled past and stuck his head around the kitchen and living room doors. No Mark. Then he went upstairs into the bedroom he knew belonged to Mark. Not there, either, but he took a few extra moments to case the room. He noted Mark’s brand new Xbox 360, the huge array of games for it, all very expensive. There was also a new laptop and a big, flat screen TV, as well as lots of clothes scattered around. Henry picked up a snazzy tee shirt and saw that the label was from an expensive high street store. Last time Henry had been in here all the equipment Mark owned was first generation PlayStation stuff, a knackered TV and certainly no computer. Mark had been immensely proud of his gear, all brought together by hard graft and saving money earned from his newspaper rounds. The stuff Henry was now looking at hadn’t come from the few quid he got from stuffing papers into doors. There was at least two grand’s worth of equipment here. Henry’s mouth turned down disdainfully. Mark had gone up in the world.