Henry could feel his heart beating away, thumping away at his ribs.
‘What’s wrong. . why the sad face?’ he asked, the words sticking slightly in his throat, afraid of the answer.
Roscoe had big eyes and they looked into Henry’s.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘You really want to know?’
Henry nodded, but not with great enthusiasm.
‘You,’ she said. ‘I can’t get you out of my head. Can’t stop thinking about you. I know we’ve never actually done anything other than kiss — and that was bloody brief.’ She chuckled. ‘Yeah, all we ever did was kiss, but I had to get back to work because it was the only way I could think of seeing you again.’ She blinked, her eyes moist, then gave a short laugh. ‘That’s why.’
Henry was speechless. It had been the same for him.
‘I think we can move the body now,’ Professor Baines declared as he emerged from Carrie’s flat. ‘Done all we can here.’ He caught sight of Henry and Roscoe standing face to face, inches apart. He tilted his head back and looked down his nose at the pair of them. ‘Obviously I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he added, ‘but a murder has been committed here.’
The King’s Cross public house was situated on Lytham Road, South Shore. It was a large building, double fronted, bars on either side of the front door. Its clientele was drawn mainly from the seedier side of town and much drug dealing was carried out on the premises, which were owned by a man called Rufus Callan.
Callan had four such pubs, all of a similar nature, none very upmarket, but they made him vast amounts of money, as did the drug dealing he controlled in them and which he was keen to expand. It was this desire to grow which had led him to cross swords with Ray Cragg. And why, on that day, Ray Cragg had decided that Rufus Callan was going to pay the ultimate price for trying to muscle in on his territory.
Rufus Callan was going to die.
Four
Henry had met Jane Roscoe a few months earlier under very difficult circumstances. He had returned to work following a virtual nervous breakdown, expecting to return to his old position — detective inspector at Blackpool Central. He had been shocked to be told that — for his own good — he had been transferred to uniform duties and that someone else had been given his job, that someone being Jane Roscoe. He had wanted to despise her, but had found himself deeply attracted to her and she to him, although neither of them did anything about it.
In a particularly traumatic incident Jane had become the target for a deranged serial killer who had kidnapped her with the intention of murdering her. Henry had tracked him down and released her. This incident had made Jane decide to take some time off work and start a family with her husband, with whom relations had been somewhat sour.
At the same time Henry had started to try and make a permanent peace with Kate. He had moved back in with her and was doing his best to make the relationship work. He was ecstatic to be back with his daughters, but things were often pretty strained between him and Kate. Not only had he found himself thinking about Jane Roscoe more than was healthy, he was not completely sure he was still in love with Kate. He told her he was, but sometimes he did not believe his own words, and without that true love, he knew the chances of their relationship working were pretty minimal.
Henry and Jane accompanied the blackened, charred body of Carrie Dancing to the mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. It was laid out on a slab next to the one with JJ’s now undressed body on it. Girlfriend next to boyfriend.
In a corner of the room, Professor Baines was preparing to carry out two post-mortems back to back. He looked across at Henry, who was inspecting the two bodies. ‘Y’know, it’s funny, but every time I bump into you, Henry, there’s never just one body to cut up. Usually I get a whole busful!’ He laughed.
‘It’s the effect I have on people.’
‘I have no doubt there’ll be even more for me to do before the day is done now that you’re on the scene. You seem to attract violent death.’
‘Cheers. . at least it keeps you in luxury items, doesn’t it?’ Henry said knowing how much Baines charged for his work.
‘Yes, beluga caviar and champagne tonight.’ The pathologist smiled, blowing into a latex glove so it resembled a cow’s udder.
Jane Roscoe came to the door. She and Henry caught each other’s eyes. He knew they needed to talk.
‘We need to nip out and get a few things sorted,’ he told Baines. ‘Back in about twenty minutes, half an hour or so.’
‘Whatever.’ Baines moved to the bodies, flexing his fingers. ‘I’ll be here for a good few hours I expect.’
They parked in a side street off Lytham Road. Crazy kept the engine of the GTi ticking over. He thought the car felt good and knew it would not let them down if they needed it.
All three were silent, waiting.
About a hundred metres away, around the corner and out of sight, was the King’s Cross, where their business was going to be conducted very shortly.
Marty tapped his foot on the floor. It was beginning to aggravate the other two.
‘Fuckin’ stop that,’ Ray said impatiently.
The sound ceased instantly. A short while later Marty started keeping a beat by slapping his thighs. Ray decided to let it ride. He was nervous, too, but he kept things bottled up inside, like Crazy did. Later he would allow himself an outlet for his emotions. Until then they would remain as controlled as they could be under the circumstances.
Soon they would be on the move.
A small man came round the corner from Lytham Road and approached the Golf. Ray wound his window down. Looking furtively round, the man bent down to the car window and breathed out smoke and beer fumes from which Ray recoiled slightly.
‘What’ve you got, Pete?’
‘He’s in the snug. Through the door to the left. He’s sat at the bar with Teddy Wright and Big Townley on either side of him. There’s one barman and no one else inside the place when I left. It’s dead quiet.’
‘You a hundred per cent?’
‘Yep.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll square this up with you later.’
The small man nodded and walked hurriedly away, lighting a cigarette as he went.
‘Shit,’ muttered Crazy.
Ray and Marty looked up quickly as a cruising police car turned into the side road and rolled slowly past them. All three tensed, but the PC at the wheel did not seem to notice them as he drove by.
Crazy, his hands gripping the steering wheel rigidly, watched the police car get smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror.
‘Gone,’ he said.
All three puffed out together.
‘Times like this I wish I’d been a banker,’ Crazy said seriously.
‘Mate,’ said Ray sympathetically, ‘you are a banker!’
They all laughed in a release of tension.
‘Right. Let’s go and do this. Remember, Marty, in and out. No fucking around. We walk in quick, up to them, guns to their heads, as little distance as possible. Bang, bang, bang, they’re dead. Leave Rufus to me. Don’t say a word. Shoot ’em and then we’re out and away. Okay?’
Marty nodded.
‘Crazy — you know what you’re doing?’
He nodded.
‘Right — let’s go.’
Crazy pulled away from the kerb, drove to the junction with Lytham Road and into the line of sight with the King’s Cross. He edged on to the busy main road and into the traffic heading south. Nice and easy. Seconds later he stopped outside the pub on the single yellow line. He did not anticipate getting a ticket. Wouldn’t be there long enough.
Ray and Marty climbed out together, crossed the wide pavement and stepped into the entrance vestibule. They pulled on their ski-masks and drew their weapons.
Through the eyeholes in their masks, they appraised each other.