‘ Come in, welcome,’ Henry beckoned. ‘We’ve only just started.’
FB then sidled in, joining Henry and Danny at the front of the room. Henry recapped on what he had said, then continued, ‘According to the lady who runs the guest-house, Mrs Bissell, the suspect is in a single room at the rear of the building. Second floor with a view across to the Winter Gardens.’
A large-scale aerial photograph was Blu-tacked onto the wall behind Henry. It clearly showed the Winter Gardens and the surrounding streets. Because Blackpool hosts political conferences every year, the streets around the conference venue, the Winter Gardens, were well-documented in terms of photos, maps and plan drawings for reasons of security. Mrs Bissell’s guest-house could clearly be seen and the picture was recent enough to include the new extension.
‘ This is the guest-house on Charnley Road.’ Henry pointed to it. ‘Most of you probably know it. Obviously we can’t be sure that this is definitely Trent in the room, so we need to find out and play it softly softly just in case it isn’t. I’ve roughed out a very quick operational plan and I’m going to run through it. If anyone has any better ideas, then please speak up.’
The heavy rain helped the initial approach. It was bucketing down remorselessly, driving in from the Irish Sea like fine rods of steel, almost horizontal.
This meant it was not exceptional to see two people, a couple, a man and a woman, jogging down the road against the weather, heads bowed against the onslaught, chins on chests, collars up, the woman with hat pulled down over her face, hiding her features, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulders.
They turned into the guest-house, trotted up the steps and into the tiled vestibule where the proprietor met them with a sharp, ‘We’re full up.’
The man quickly flashed a badge. ‘DI Christie from Blackpool police station. We talked on the phone a few minutes ago. This is Sergeant Furness.’
‘ Oooh, right,’ said Mrs Bissell.
‘ Anywhere we can have a quick chat?’
She led them into the deserted TV lounge.
‘ Look, I don’t even know if this is the right fella,’ Mrs Bissell said worriedly. ‘I don’t want to upset him if I’m wrong. He is a paying guest, after all.’
‘ We understand that,’ Danny said empathetically. ‘We’ll be tactful. Don’t you fret yourself, love. As soon as I see him, I’ll know. It’s not as though we need to take a long time over it. In and out, whichever way it goes.’
Mrs Bissell held a hand across her ample bosom and sighed. ‘Thank the Lord for that.’
‘ Is he still in that back bedroom, the one you described?’ Danny asked.
‘ Yes.’ She nodded. ‘As far as I know.’
‘ Is there any way he can get out of the building without you knowing?’
‘ Only by the fire escape. It runs underneath his window.’
‘ Okay,’ said Henry, ‘can you show us to the room, point it out and leave us to it? And if you’ve got a master key, that would be helpful.’
Henry removed his raincoat and draped it across the back of a chair. He spoke into his PR and asked for positions. The reply came back: Three Support Unit and two firearms officers at the rear, on foot, out of sight, but with a view of the building; the remaining officers were parked and ready in a van up the road.
‘ Right, we’re going up,’ Henry informed them. To Mrs Bissell he said, ‘Please lead the way.’
Since kidnapping Danny, Trent had laid pretty low. He had escaped in her car, driven south on the motorway and come off at Stoke-onTrent where he fired the car and rolled it into a flooded quarry. He spent that night in Stoke and the following morning bussed it to Manchester. He killed time there by drifting around porno cinemas, getting wind of some child-abuse films which he watched excitedly.
He found himself to be getting restless, though, with a sensation growing in him which meant he had to act again. He was tempted to strike in the city, but only felt ‘right’ doing it in Blackpool. He was comfortable there, knew the place well, the best spots to stalk and pounce, the best places to finish off his crimes.
To commit another crime was something he needed to do. It was building up inside him, burning through him and he had no control over it. He had to do much, much more. The little girl Meg Tomlinson was to be the first of many. Although Danny Furness had been a failure at least he had terrified her shitless. But putting fear into someone was not his intention. Killing them was. And Danny was still high up on the list for a knife in the ribs. Next time it would go straight in, no fucking about, no conversation. Just wham!
In — twist, in-twist, in-twist.
Trent slashed his hand at the water in his bath.
He sniggered, lounged back in the hot water and contentedly washed himself down.
Then came the knock on the door.
He shot upright. His right hand reached for the knife which lay on the bath stool.
Danny remained unconvinced that Henry’s plan of action was the most sensible in the world. To her, it would have been far better to have had a truckload of hairy-arsed bobbies thundering down the corridor, kicking in the door. No messing. Arresting whoever happened to be on the other side.
If it wasn’t Trent, so what?
Brush him down and apologise.
If it was — all well and good.
But to have just the two of them tiptoeing down the corridor and knocking gently on the door Mrs Bissell had indicated, seemed plain stupid. Or was she being too sensitive? Perhaps being abducted at knife-point and having threats made to cut her breasts off had put things out of all perspective.
She took a firmer grip on her extended baton.
They reached the door. Henry gestured silently for Danny to back off, then he rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. No reply. He knocked again. No reply. Henry’s hand went to the doorknob and turned it. The door was locked.
Danny swallowed.
Henry glanced quickly at her and pulled out the master key given to him by Mrs Bissell.
‘ Here I go,’ he mouthed.
Trent rose slowly out of the bath, knife in hand. He trod quietly on the bathmat, took the single stride to the door and opened it a crack. The bathroom was directly across the corridor from his room. He immediately saw Henry Christie’s unprotected back, his hand on the doorknob, turning it, while carefully inserting the key in the lock at the same time.
With a scream of rage, Trent raised the knife and threw himself across the narrow corridor, plunging the blade into Henry’s back at a point between the right shoulder-blade and spine.
Danny yelled an agonised warning as she saw the naked figure of Trent flash across the corridor and drive the knife into Henry.
Too late.
Henry managed a quarter-turn, saw the glint of the blade, tried to protect himself. Too slow. He and Trent crashed against the bedroom door, the lock splintering open on impact. Henry stumbled onto his knees under Trent’s weight, then pitched forwards, smashing his forehead on the edge of the bedstead as Trent fell on him.
Danny’s first instinct was to turn and run. To scream for assistance. She forced herself through that moment, took two long paces down the corridor and pivoted into the room behind the two men. Henry was prostrate and unmoving underneath Trent who straddled him. The knife was already slicing downwards towards Henry’s exposed neck for the second blow.
Danny knew she had to react.
She stepped into the room, but because she was cramped for space, was not able to strike Trent as hard as she would have liked with her baton. Instead she gave a backhand flip, not dissimilar to a squash stroke. The shaft connected with Trent’s left temple, knocking him sideways across the room. The knife shot out of his hand as he rolled over.
Danny glimpsed Trent’s loosely hanging genitalia which made her want to retch.