‘Can’t repair this.’
Pound signs clattered across Henry’s brain. ‘And why not?’
‘Bit more than a puncture.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Someone’s stuck a knife, or a screwdriver or summat in it in several places. The inner steel belt is damaged. Looks like a big screwdriver, actually. See.’ He showed Henry just what he meant. ‘Someone got it in for you, sir?’
‘It’s beginning to look that way,’ Henry said darkly.
Five
It came in black, like a thundercloud, hanging over Henry’s brain, fuelling a deeply unsettled mindset as he drove across Lancashire from west to east. Not only was it the seventy-five pounds it had cost him to replace the tyre (‘Surely you would like one that matches the rest?’), it was the fact he felt he was being stalked. Maybe they could have been unrelated incidents — the scrape down the car, the damage to the tyre — just coincidences, perhaps, but he did not see that as being the case. A queasy sensation of vulnerability crept over him.
‘If I’d known you were going to be a boring old fart, I’d’ve stayed in Blackpool,’ Rik Dean remarked as, so far, apart from the occasional grunt, Henry had not spoken. He’d been deeply engrossed in running through the suspect list in his head, but try as he might, he could not begin to accept he was a target for anyone other than some aggrieved cop, relative or friend of a cop from Manchester. He had put a lot of noses out of joint, shaken some reputations, angered many. He was not popular over the border.
‘Sorry, pal,’ he said, breaking out of his reverie.
‘Something troubling you?’
‘Nah, nothing.’
‘Women problems?’
Henry chuckled. ‘Always have women problems.’
Rik Dean sighed. ‘Moi aussi.’
‘Oh?’ Henry said, suddenly interested in the scandal of someone else’s life. ‘And who is your most recent conquest?’
‘It would be ungentlemanly to reveal a name,’ Rik said mysteriously. ‘Other than to say she’s in the job and she’s a bit jangled. Went a bit far one night, now I can’t get rid. She keeps wittering on about love … wouldn’t mind, but she’s hitched, though separated.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘You said it. And all that baggage — ugh!’ He shivered
Henry’s mood had brightened a little as he hit the M65, continuing a journey that was all motorway.
‘So what are we looking at?’ Rik asked, refocusing on the job.
‘George Uren was released from prison to a probation hostel in Accrington eighteen months ago. He did a bunk from there and hasn’t been seen since. Bit of a long shot, but the staff there should remember him and you never know.’
‘Why did you need a sidekick? It’s not exactly a two-man job.’
Henry looked coldly at him. ‘I get scared on my own.’
Dean laughed.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the motorway and drove down the dual carriageway into Accrington town centre. The place had changed considerably over the years since Henry had spent time there. He had done a lot of teenage drinking, carousing and courting around Accrington, and had loved the place at the time. He’d touched base with it on and off during his police career and seen it evolve, seen the population become much more multicultural, and grown to dislike it. Very different from the town he had known as a youth, now with multi-storey car parks, big shopping centres, car-free zones and blue disc parking — what was all that about, he often wondered.
Although much had changed, the basic layout of the place hadn’t, and Henry threaded his way easily across town on to Manchester Road, where the hostel was situated. He drove past the police station, an old building, connected to the magistrates court, which should have been flattened years ago. As cop shops went, Accrington was pretty much the pits. Whilst acknowledging that some officers might have warm feelings for the building, Henry wasn’t one of them.
Less than half a mile further, he pulled up outside a large double-fronted house on Manchester Road which had once been a palace, could have easily belonged to a mill owner in days gone by. Now it was a bail hostel, badly maintained and, no doubt, deeply unpopular with its neighbours. It was one of those not-in-my-back-yard things, and Henry felt a great deal of sympathy for people who suddenly found such an institution on their doorsteps — and often inmates from that institution in their front rooms. Pinching the telly.
‘Here we are,’ he announced.
Both detectives looked at the building, once a spacious home, now probably divided up into a dozen pokey bed sits in which a dozen criminals resided, supervised by the Probation Service.
‘Let’s do it,’ Rik said.
They climbed out and walked up the flagged garden, up a set of concrete steps to the front door. Henry pressed the bell which rang somewhere deep inside. They waited.
‘I never asked how you got that eye,’ Rik said, nodding at Henry’s still-swollen, beautifully-coloured shiner.
‘Hit in the face by an irate woman,’ he said mock-proudly.
‘Hm.’ It was a doubtful sound.
Footsteps approached from within.
‘Bets?’ Henry said quickly.
‘Er, big, overweight guy, been living in his shirt for a week, BO to die for.’
‘Dominatrix. Leather clad. Whip in hand. Eats a lot of pies,’ Henry said, and shut up as the big door opened to reveal someone who proved them both wrong.
She led the two detectives along the ground floor hallway to a couple of rooms at the back of the house, one an office, the other a room for staff to chill out in. She motioned them into the latter, then disappeared, leaving them alone.
‘Both wrong,’ Rik hissed
‘Only by a mile.’
‘She’s very …’ Rik began, but stopped abruptly as she came back in. His whole manner changed to one which Henry would have described as ‘fawning’. ‘Hi,’ Rik said. Every feature on his face lifted and his smile put the sun to shame.
Her expression was disdainful. She gave Rik a withering look and turned to Henry, her face set hard, which he thought was a shame, because she was extremely pretty. Though she was dressed in a severe, businesslike way in a grey trouser suit which did nothing for her, it was screamingly obvious to the two testosterone-filled males that underneath the outer coating there was a curvaceous, wonderful body. Her hair was scraped tightly back and clipped at the back of her head, but that accentuated the delicate features of her face, which were slightly offset by a crooked nose that made her outstanding. She was dressed for work, for practicality, and Henry could see that, scrubbed up and ready to rock, she would be stunning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Henry Christie … DCI Henry Christie.’
‘And where are you from?’
‘The Force Major Investigation Team, based in Blackpool … er, sorry, I didn’t catch yours, either.’
‘Jackie Harcourt.’
‘And you are?’
‘The manager of this facility,’ she said haughtily. ‘And it’s obvious you haven’t liaised with your local colleagues, because police visits here are strictly by prior appointment and only when absolutely necessary. So,’ she sighed, ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave and make an appointment. I apologize for even asking you in.’
‘We’ve come a long way, Jackie. I’m Rik Dean, by the way … Detective Sergeant Rik Dean.’ He sounded like James Bond. He flashed his warrant card.
Her eyelids closed and opened slowly. She looked down her imperfect nose at him. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, but the fact is that police officers on the premises upset the residents. We are trying to create a positive atmosphere here, working to try and rehabilitate offenders, provide a secure environment in which they can thrive … So.’ She made a ‘shooing’ gesture, waving her fingers away.
‘What about inter-agency cooperation?’ Rik blurted, getting mad.