there would be as much as necessary- in direct contravention of FB’s warnings. He was sure that FB had been bluffing and they had all gone home happily contemplating December’s pay cheques.
Henry quickly scribbled a list of lines of enquiry to action the following morning. These included finding the origins of the polythene sheet and the rope wrapped around it; the tattoos on the man, checking Missing from Home files countrywide, ballistics liaison for a quick analysis of the bullets; liaison with Surrey police who had contacted him already to say they had a similar murder — unsolved on their books, as had Northumbria and Kent; liaison with forensic to chase up the tyre-track impressions taken from the scene.
That would be enough to get the enquiry underway.
When the uniformed support team arrived he also had a few ideas for their deployment: house-to-house enquiries in Whitworth and a fingertip search of the scene.
An appeal by radio, TV and the press would be launched too.
He put his pen down and slumped backwards in his chair. This is ridiculous, he thought. Nine-thirty showed on the wall clock. Over twelve hours worked already on very little sleep and he didn’t anticipate getting much more in the next few weeks either. Travelling every day from Blackpool was going to be a hell of a strain too: something like an eighty-mile round trip every day. It was a daunting prospect. His head throbbed at the thought. He rubbed his eyes. They were becoming sore and gritty.
He knew he should go home, get to bed and fall into a good long sleep to get himself up for tomorrow. That’s what he knew he should do for the best. But he didn’t.
He lifted the phone and called home. Kate answered, sprightly, glad to hear from him. He made some weak excuses — lies, really — and prepared her not to expect him until the early hours. Murder enquiry, work to do, God knows when he’d finish, all the responsibility… blah blah blah. All crap.
However guilty he felt, though, it didn’t stop him from phoning another number. Natalie answered. Yes, she’d be more than pleased to see him. He could come round at any time.
‘ Come on guys, let’s hit the road,’ he announced.
The three of them went downstairs and headed out through the ground-floor communications room which was buzzing with activity. A harassed uniform Inspector looked up from a desk. Henry recognised him. He’d last seen him fifteen years before when they had both been PCs.
Henry acknowledged him.
‘ You will not effing believe this,’ said the man, shaking his head.
‘ Try me.’
‘ Another suspicious sudden death. A firearms dealer has been found by one of his business associates out on the moors. Looks like he’s been murdered, shot in the head and chest. Probably been there a few days, by the sound of it. I’m just on my way for a looksee. Want to come?’
‘ Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Henry with an apologetic shrug. ‘Got enough on my plate at the moment.’ He joined his two colleagues who were already sitting in the car, one in the driver’s seat revving the engine.
Henry dropped into the back seat. ‘Blackpool, my man — and give it some wellie!’
PART TWO
Chapter Seventeen
When Henry Christie woke up, his head felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t remember too much about the night before, other than it had been heavy, but lack of memory wasn’t unusual these days. What he did know was that he’d drunk too much and now he was suffering from it again.
He lay there, fully awake, keeping his eyes firmly closed, knowing that soon he would have to move. He had to go to Crown Court that morning and the vestiges of professionalism and pride which remained in him would not allow tardiness.
Keeping his eyes still firmly shut, he swung both legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. The fire raging through his brain became a series of major explosions. He groaned, but he knew that the only way to get going with a hangover of this magnitude was by moving quickly and with purpose, rather than slowly and sluggishly which merely prolonged the pain and discomfort.
Over the last six months Henry had become an expert at hangover recovery.
When he eventually opened his eyes, he was surprised to find it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The curtains were closed and the daylight filtered through them diffused and manageable. Pure daylight on tender pupils was something he knew he couldn’t have handled in his present state.
He heard a murmur behind him. He looked sharply round.
With some shock he saw a woman lying there asleep. He tried hard to recall some of the details, but his alcohol-riddled brain cells refused to cooperate. All he could do was stare at her rather blankly and unbelievingly.
The sheet was around her waist. He pulled it carefully back to cover her up, still wishing he could remember how it had been, why it had been, wishing also that she wasn’t here in his bed. He sneered contemptuously at himself, then staggered, evading discarded clothing, plates, bottles and glasses, through the bathroom door and underneath the shower.
He ran the water as hot as he could bear it. The fine, hard jets worked on his salty body, dislodging the dried sweat of the night from his hair, chest, armpits and limp genitals. It refreshed him considerably. In five minutes he was almost awake; in ten he definitely was.
After drying himself he wandered back into the bedroom, a large fluffy bath towel wrapped around his middle. He was shaving with a battery-powered portable which was losing its charge and seemed to be ripping whiskers out rather than slicing them off.
The woman was awake. She must have heard him moving about. She was propped up on one elbow and watched him come into the room with a smirk on her face. Her hair had been combed and she’d applied some lipstick rather inaccurately. The top half of her body was exposed and the sheet was draped across the bulge of her midriff. It looked to Henry as though she’d spent some time preparing this position for him. She reminded him of a photo of a ‘reader’s wife’, rather tacky and desperately unsexy.
He couldn’t bring her name to mind, though he knew she was one of the cleaners at the police station who’d worked there for years and had acquired a terrible reputation. Monica, he thought. Rather than ask her he just nodded slight acknowledgement and walked across to the wardrobe, still shaving. One thing he did know, because it sprang to mind, was that she was nearly ten years older than him.
I’m not sure I believe this, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought this in the last few months.
‘ Good morning, Henry,’ she said at length.
He grunted something in reply. His back was towards her and it must have seemed like an insult, even if he didn’t mean it that way, when he let the towel drop and bent down to pull on a pair of Y-fronts.
Then he began to dress in his best suit.
‘ Well?’ she said, beginning to sound irritated. She sighed and flopped back onto the bed, her large white soft breasts suddenly losing their shape like two cakes sinking in an oven. She scrabbled the sheet furiously back and kicked it off. She became still, lying there, one leg pulled coyly up, the other straight out. Absolutely naked and unashamed. Then she allowed the leg which had been pulled up to fall to one side, giving Henry a splendid view of the pubic area.
He went cold.
‘ Well, did you have a good time last night?’ she asked him playfully. ‘I certainly did.’
‘ Yeah, sure I did,’ said Henry. The details were hazy, but he knew they’d had intercourse, after a drunken fashion. He pulled his jacket on quickly and grabbed a tie before rushing to the door of the flat. ‘Got to go to work,’ he said apologetically as he crossed the room. His hand went to the door handle, where he paused and took a deep breath. He turned to face her with the courage of a mouse.
‘ Look, it was a lovely night and everything, but-’
‘ Yeah, I know,’ she said with resignation. She pulled back the covers. Anger coupled with disappointment creased her face. ‘Same old story. All right, I’ll let myself out. And by the way, I’m called Maureen, not Monica,
