It was a serious consideration but then he laughed. Days, times, like that, were long gone. He screwed up the note and tossed it in the bin.
He opened the murder book and held his pen aloft.
His phone rang again: the Chief Constable.
As Henry thumbed the answer button, Alex Bent appeared at the office door, pulling on a jacket, eager to tell Henry something. Henry shushed him with a finger across his lips.
‘Hello, sir.’
The Chief Constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known as FB to friends and enemies alike, had known Henry over twenty-five years. For some reason Henry had started calling him ‘Bobby Big-nuts’. He couldn’t explain why, but he’d said it once and it just seemed to fit. He would never say it to his face, of course, not if he wanted to live. Their relationship had begun when Henry was a mere PC working the crime car in Rossendale and FB was a lording-it-over-everyone DI back in the days when detective inspectors were ferocious Gods. Since those early days, FB had used Henry ruthlessly to achieve his own aims, then discarded him coldly when it suited. That said, Henry would not be in the position or rank he was if it wasn’t for his involvement with FB, so the hate-hate relationship continued to this day.
‘Do you never answer your phone?’ the increasingly portly Chief whinged to his subordinate.
‘I got cut off in the lift.’
‘What’s that a euphemism for?’ FB asked, no amusement in his voice.
‘Just losing the signal.’
‘Anyway, you should’ve called me back immediately. I shouldn’t be the one chasing you up, Henry. I’m the friggin’ Chief Constable, after all.’
‘Point well made, sir.’ Henry watched Bent jigging excitedly at the door. He gave him a hang fire gesture.
‘How is the murder inquiry going?’ FB asked.
‘Good. Things happening all the time.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. You can give me a full update in the morning.’
‘I’m handing over to Dave Cottam,’ Henry said. ‘He’ll be i/c tomorrow.’
‘Well, there’s a thing,’ FB said. Henry’s heart sank. ‘I take it you haven’t heard about the murder-suicide over in Burnley?’ FB said.
‘No,’ Henry replied cautiously, drawing out the single syllable. His eyes narrowed.
‘It’s Dave Cottam’s territory,’ FB said, a fact Henry knew well. There were four detective superintendents on FMIT and each had a geographical area of responsibility. Henry’s was the Fylde coast and the northern part of the county. Cottam covered the east, the other two central and south, but these divisions were often blurred. No detective superintendent would refuse to cover a job just because it happened off his allocated patch, because each of them loved dealing with murders and other serious crimes. And they always covered for each other in cases of leave, sickness and other unavoidable commitments. However, Henry knew what was coming: Dave Cottam was just as snowed under as he was and to expect him to take on Henry’s complicated double murder and a murder-suicide would be a very big ask. ‘I’m going on holiday tomorrow,’ Henry said firmly.
‘Leave’s for wussies,’ FB said. ‘There’s no way you can go away at this moment in time.’
‘Boss, I’m going.’ He stood his ground bravely.
‘Cancel it — it’s just a mini-break, as I understand.’ FB’s voice was as cold as stone.
‘And lose almost a grand? Don’t think so.’
Silence came on the line.
‘Boss?’ Henry said. ‘Let’s put a chief inspector in — at least until Dave Cottam can get free.’
‘You need to think about what you’re saying here, Henry,’ FB warned him. ‘You’re a superintendent now, and I put you there.’ The line clicked dead.
‘Hell,’ Henry uttered, looking at Alex Bent. ‘I’ve just seriously pissed off the Chief.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘What is it, Alex?’
‘Mark Carter… up on Shoreside.’
Before Alex could finish, Henry’s phone rang again. He answered it without thinking.
‘Mr Christie, it’s Billy Costain… I phoned you a few minutes ago, you didn’t answer, so I phoned your incident room and spoke to that Bent guy.’
‘What is it, Billy?’ Henry rose from his desk, and closed the murder book and put his pen away.
‘You said you wanted me to find out who Rory was with?’
‘Yep,’ Henry said, not letting on that he now knew this fact.
‘It’s that little shit, Mark Carter — and I’ve got the little twat here in my hands…’ In the background Henry heard scuffling sounds. ‘You’d better hurry up, he’s struggling to get away. I might have to punch his lights out.’
‘Don’t do that. Where are you?’
‘Shoreside Drive, near the old shops on the square.’
‘On my way.’ Henry ended the call and didn’t add, ‘Oh, you mean the shops your family vandalized and destroyed?’ He looked at Bent. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Henry picked up his personal radio and called into Blackpool comms, telling them to get patrols up on to Shoreside urgently.
Having watched the coppers leave his house after annoying his mother, Mark retreated back into the coal-hole where he’d stashed crisps, chocolate, some packed sandwiches and a bottle of Coke from an easy shoplifting venture earlier. He settled back into the blackness, which was warm and comforting, to wait until his mother left the house, as he knew she would. She was seeing a guy who owned a pub out on Preston New Road, and as soon as she’d showered and changed, she would be out on the razz.
It didn’t take her long. The lure of booze and sex made her hurry. She didn’t spend a lot of time getting tarted up, and she was teetering down the front path on her high heels within half an hour, as spruced up as she would ever be.
Mark sneaked into the house by the back door. He did not turn on any lights and moved furtively through the house and upstairs, where he had a hot shower in the dark and changed his clothes. Then he went into his mother’s bedroom and helped himself to ten pounds from her secret stash tucked away at the back of one of her drawers. He let himself out of the house and moved through several adjoining back gardens before emerging on to one of the avenues.
He was famished, despite his food supply. It was intention to head to the KFC on Preston New Road for a boneless chicken feast.
Like most teenagers, he didn’t really have any plans beyond the immediate, although he did try to think through his predicament. But it muzzed his brain, and he decided to leave those thoughts until he was in the restaurant and the southern fried chicken was making him feel a bit better.
He made it to KFC without a hitch, bought food and drink and tucked himself behind a corner table from which he had a view over the restaurant and passing traffic on the road.
As unhealthy as it might have been, the hot, tasty chicken made him feel good again. He wolfed his meal down, then went back for a chicken burger that he munched at a less frantic rate, and tried to get a grip.
Fact — he’d witnessed two murders. The old man and Rory Costain. The images from both tumbled around his mind.
Fact — he’d got a damned good look at the old man’s killer — and Rory had also managed to get off some shots of the guy on the stolen mobile phone that he’d then dropped as they legged it from the scene.
The killer had assumed the boys could identify him and that was why Rory had been killed and he, Mark, had narrowly escaped with his life thanks to a bag of hot chips and a meat pie.
At first, Mark had thought no one would know who he was, but that had been a mistake. The cops obviously knew — and if they knew, there was every chance the killer would if he had anything about him.
Suddenly he stopped eating the burger and placed it down on its wrapping. The horrific realization had taken away his appetite and he wasn’t hungry any more. He now felt nauseous. His hand shook, he started to sweat and he was certain the whole world was staring at him, knowing his secret.