He sat back, fingers interlinked behind his head, looking at the shark in the wall — almost a metaphor for the dangerous streets of Blackpool. He was feeling frustrated now. This had become one of those early investigation lulls when lots of things were happening, but nothing seemed to be going on. It was a time of waiting. The two women should have reached North Yorkshire by now, breakfasts taken into consideration, and soon they would have the means to make a scientific match, or otherwise, with the missing girl; a few pairs of detectives were visiting addresses and associates linked to Uren; the crime scene investigation was still on-going; Intel was being worked on … in fact, everything that should be happening was happening with the resources at his disposal, and even more would be happening come tomorrow. It just felt like nothing was going on. He was sitting on his backside, making sure the I’s were dotted, T’s crossed, doodling with ideas and twiddling his thumbs. Or, as a much-hated police driving instructor on his advanced course once accused him, when he’d nearly totalled the car, ‘Your finger’s up your bum and your brain’s in neutral, PC Christie. You’re in a fuckin’ world of your own.’ Despite the compliment and near collision, Henry had managed to pass the course. Just.
But actually, inactivity was not Henry’s strongpoint. It was unnatural to him. He enjoyed doing, not doodling, which is why he heaved himself out of his chair and strode purposefully to the MIR. He had realized that today would be his last opportunity to get out and about with this investigation. Once all the troops arrived tomorrow, he would be the office-bound strategist. Just for today, though, he was free to do some digging for himself instead of delegating others.
As he walked down the corridor he took off his jacket and slung his covert harness over his shoulders, which held his rigid handcuffs, ASP baton and CS gas canister underneath his left armpit, then shrugged his jacket back on.
With the ultimate and exact science of hindsight, he would often wonder if it would have been the better option to have stayed in the office, drinking tea and pen-pushing, thinking strategy.
It would certainly have been the safer option.
DC Jerry Tope, Henry’s impressive intelligence cell, had actually done a good job of going through George Uren’s file and turning the information gleaned into actions for allocation, dropping the completed, triplicate, handwritten forms into the appropriate tray for distribution following Monday morning’s briefing.
Henry picked up the sheets and leafed through them, aware that Tope was eyeing him warily from his desk nearby. He smiled winningly at the DC and said, ‘You’ve done a good job here.’ Tope relaxed visibly, almost heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Have you started working on timelines yet?’ he then asked, to keep him on his toes.
‘Er … er … just about to start,’ Tope said hurriedly, brushing his hair back nervously and riffling through the papers on his desk.
Henry winked at him. ‘Good man.’
He took the sheaf of actions — which had yet to be entered on the HOLMES system — and wandered over to a spare seat. He began to read them carefully. Truth was, he should have simply selected the top one and not gone through them to try and pick out a juicy one. From tomorrow, all the actions would be prioritized by the Allocator, but here and now he had the pick of the litter.
It was true to say that ninety-nine per cent of the actions were dull and mundane. Essential, but boring, with no real chance of leading directly to a killer, although this is what every detective would hope for. They were all pieces of a jigsaw, and those in Henry’s mitts were no exception. Most were just tedious pieces of sky, but a few were interesting and might just lead somewhere significant. There were four that looked a bit tasty. Henry discarded one, then eeny-meenied the other three, leaving one. Oddly enough it was the one he wanted to do anyway.
The actions were on triple carbonated paper. He wrote ‘DCI Christie dealing’, timed and dated it, tore off the top sheet for himself and dropped the remaining copies on to the Allocator’s desk. He returned the others to DC Tope. He picked up his PR from his office and clutching his job, started making his way to his car.
Reaching the lift just before the doors slid shut, he stepped in to find himself standing next to an old protege, a detective sergeant called Rik Dean. Rik had once been a customs officer and had joined the police late, mid-twenties, but had brought with him an instinct for sniffing out thieves and bad people. His gravitation on to CID and subsequent promotion had not surprised Henry, who had always backed Rik, and not just because he was a good thief-taker. He was also a ruthless lady-killer, his exploits well known, but for some reason he was rarely in trouble over his conquests. Unlike Henry.
Henry had specifically asked that Rik be released to join the murder squad for the big push tomorrow.
‘Henry,’ Rik said, ‘got your message about tomorrow. The DI’s happy to release me for the murder team … well, when I say happy, he doesn’t want me to go but knows he doesn’t have a choice.’
‘Good … in that case, how are you fixed to join me a day early? I could do with some company.’ He shook the action at him. ‘I’m going over to Accrington to knock on a door… if you could make it …’ Henry gave a ‘whatever’ gesture with his shoulders. The lift reached level One, doors, as ever, sliding sluggishly open as though they resented doing the job. Henry stepped across the threshold to prevent them closing. He could see Rik was tempted. ‘Could be a juicy one,’ Henry said tantalizingly.
‘I’ll have to clear it with the boss.’
‘Tell you what. I need to nip out to have a tyre repaired. I’ll give you a shout when I’m clear … that should give you enough time to get an answer one way or the other.’
‘Done,’ Rik said.
Henry left Rik in the lift and made his way across the mezzanine to the car park.
Before getting into the Mondeo he checked it for damage again. There was nothing further. He looked at the new go-faster stripe down the side and felt a tremor of anger, tinged with an unsettling feeling. He had to assume the damage had been done on his drive at home; anything else was just wishful thinking. It couldn’t have been done on the secure car park, could it? If it had happened outside his house, it meant that, unless it was just a random act of vandalism, someone who did not like him very much knew where he lived. To Henry, that constituted a threat to his family. Unless … unless the culprit was that neighbour he’d fallen out with who had allowed his poodle to shit on Henry’s front lawn. Whilst a person’s reaction could never be second-guessed, the incident had happened months ago. Maybe there had been a festering resentment as Henry’s response to the fouling had hardly been restrained: delivering the offending faeces back on to the neighbour’s front door step could have been a tad too far. Even so, his car had been scratched and he was extremely annoyed.
He drove out of the garage and up to the nearest tyre repair garage he could think of, which was, fortunately, not too busy. Within five minutes he was being attended to and his flat was being examined.
Henry stood, hands in pockets, breathing in the Blackpool air. It was a good day. Clean, almost warm, lots of blue sky, some sun even.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Turning, Henry saw the young lad who was dealing with the puncture. Being addressed as ‘sir’ by anyone other than someone of lower rank in force was a peculiar sensation. Especially by a spotty teenager in overalls who would probably be out on the lash later, happy to spit at patrolling cops and getting girls pissed on alcopops … or was he being a bit harsh on the poor lad? He held up the tyre, which had been taken off the wheel hub.