Detective Constable Derek Luton was extremely proud of himself.
He had been a police officer for only six years, spending five on uniformed patrol duties at Blackpool. During those years he had dedicated himself to becoming a detective and he had achieved his aim far sooner than he had anticipated.
From his appointment onto the branch, he had been working on Henry Christie’s team and had set himself to learn everything he could from Henry who, it was quietly considered, was a cracking detective.
Not because he broke the rules (though it was rumoured he had once given a prisoner cocaine in return for information); nor was he oppressive to prisoners, nor was he a maverick, but because he was thorough, occasionally a genius, occasionally very brave… and he had a bit of a reputation too, which added to his general aura.
Henry himself would have cringed at this last bit. Eighteen months earlier, he had stupidly become involved with a young policewoman. His marriage to Kate had only just survived it and Henry had learned a salutary lesson: keep your dick in your pants. He didn’t like to be reminded what an ass he’d been.
But Luton worshipped Henry, who had taken him willingly under his wing. He knew he had a lot to learn from Henry’s vast wealth of experience. And now Henry had let him get involved in Blackpool’s biggest-ever murder case. Five civilians, one dead cop.
Brilliant.
‘ The Lottery Killings’, as the media had dubbed it.
Not only that, by pure chance Luton had been paired up with a seasoned detective from the North-West Organised Crime Squad.
Bliss!
Luton had aspirations of being much more than a local CID officer. In the fullness of time he wanted to move to the Drugs Squad, then Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, la creme de la creme, the NWOCS, the gangbusters. Fuckin’ magic, they were, he thought enthusiastically.
The murder investigation — which NWOCS had bulldozed their way into and taken over — would, Luton hoped, provide some sort of insight as to how they operated. Maybe even get him noticed as a potential future recruit.
Initially he was very impressed.
Taking witness statements was a skill most police officers, whatever the department, get good at. Luton considered himself to be above average, as was expected of a CID officer — but the statements taken by the guy Tattersall from the NWOCS he was working with were superb — packed full of detail, and reading like a story.
Tattersall even got the witnesses to sign some blank statement forms so that there would be no need to revisit when they were eventually typed up. Not usual practice, but a time-saver.
The statements had been taken from four witnesses who had seen the first robbery at the newsagents in Fleetwood, the one the gang had done before heading south to massacre the people in Blackpool. They were all very similar.
In fact, the statements were so good that when he got the chance, Luton took a quick photocopy of the originals for future reference. Copying material he judged to be good quality was a habit he had acquired early in his service. He kept everything in a binder and often referred back for guidance, though as his experience grew he went back less and less and the binder was relegated to his locker.
A couple of days into the investigation, Luton began to have vague, nagging doubts about the NWOCS.
He raised some of the questions which Henry had posed on the night of the shooting, that fatal Saturday, because he felt they weren’t being addressed. Or he wasn’t aware of them being addressed.
Questions such as: How did the robbers get from one shop to the other so quickly?
It was possible they could have done it — but only if traffic was virtually non-existent on the roads.
When he put it to them, he was fobbed off with, ‘In their fucking car, how d’you think?’
Questions like: Why should the gang suddenly revert to murder? They were violent, yes, probably capable of murder. But killing six people? Luton was patronised.
‘ Drugs,’ he was told. ‘We believe they were on speed.’
Then he asked if the possibility of two separate gangs operating had been considered.
That really got their backs up. Luton found himself shut out completely, ending up with a lame duck job doing house-to-house enquiries along the supposed route of the gang from one shop to the other. A job for uniforms.
And he couldn’t understand why.
He didn’t specifically link it to the nooky questions he’d been asking.
No one said anything to him, so when he asked he was told it was to give him experience of all aspects of a murder enquiry, which he had to accept. At the back of his mind he had a nasty feeling he’d upset somebody, but didn’t know who, how or why.
Late that Tuesday evening, three days after the shootings, Luton was alone in the murder incident room at Blackpool police station. The usual 9 p.m. debrief of the day’s activities had been done and everyone involved in the job had either gone for a drink or gone home. Moodily, Luton had stayed behind, kicking his heels, drifting aimlessly around the silent room, pissed off with proceedings.
He was pretty sure the NWOCS had a lead on the gang and that only their officers were following it up, keeping it very much to themselves. He was annoyed that he wasn’t being allowed to do anything in that direction.
In one of the baskets next to a HOLMES terminal, having already been inputted, was a thick stack of witness statements. They were all now neatly typed.
Absently, he picked up the top one and glanced at it. He recognised the name of the witness as one of the people he and Tattersall had interviewed about the Fleetwood robbery. Luton’s eyes zigzagged down the page, not specifically reading it closely, until something jarred him into concentration.
He had been present when the statement had been taken and he remembered it quite clearly. This particular witness had been very precise in his recollection of events and had given a quality statement.
Holding the statement in two hands, Luton sat down on a typist’s chair and with a very puzzled brow, began to read it through again — very carefully this time. He hadn’t realised that he had been holding his breath until at the end he exhaled long and unsteadily.
Then he read it again. Just to make sure.
After that he flicked through the statement tray to see if he could find the original. It wasn’t there.
He knew where he could find a copy.
Leaving the typed statement on the desk next to the computer terminal, he got up and walked out of the room. He ignored the lift — too slow — and shot down the stairs three at a time until he reached the CID floor where his locker was situated.
With a cold expression, Jim Tattersall had been watching Luton’s activities from the door of the incident room. As the young detective stood up, he twisted quickly out of sight into a darkened office, from where he saw Luton almost run to the stairs.
When the stairs door closed, Tattersall walked swiftly into the incident room and went to the seat Luton had been using.
He saw the typed statement on the desk.
Tattersall’s face hardened as he realised that Derek Luton had discovered something he should not have done.
The photocopy Luton had made of the original statement was in a binder at the bottom of his locker. He unhooked the binder and pulled it out, together with the three other statements he had witnessed being given. He hurried straight back upstairs, arriving there breathless.
The incident room was still empty. Good.
He crossed quickly to the desk where he’d left the statement, sat down and compared it with his photocopy of the original.
He nearly choked. It was different! Somewhere in the translation from longhand to type it had been changed, only slight changes, but crucial ones.
Suddenly the room seemed airless and hot. He could not believe what his eyes were telling him.
