historic buildings, Italian food and good hearty sex were on Henry’s menu. Bliss.
He smiled at the prospect as he drew up on his driveway, parking his Mondeo alongside Kate’s recently acquired Fiat 500, a purchase she had not adequately explained to him as yet and which he could not stop himself from frowning at.
The police were on the scene within minutes. The driver of the next car along Charnley Road had almost driven over the old man’s body in the middle of the road, mistakenly thinking it was a bunch of rags. He’d stopped in time, scrambled out of his car, then, shocked, worked out exactly what was lying there. Horrified, but still thinking, the driver reversed his own car ten metres back down the road, flicked on his hazards and called the police from his mobile.
The first cops on the scene were traffic officers from the Road Policing Unit. The incident had been called in as a fatal accident, but it took them only seconds to ascertain this was something far more sinister. They immediately called for back up — local cops, CID and CSIs — then cordoned off the road.
Mark and Rory made their way tentatively back, curiosity driving Rory, caution telling Mark they were doing something silly. They couldn’t get back down along the alley along which they’d followed the old man, as the full length of it was now taped off and a Police Community Support Officer prevented anyone from entering.
Rory, typically, took umbrage about someone in authority telling him what to do. ‘We can go down there if we want,’ he protested.
The PCSO, a pasty-faced young man, not much older than the two lads, and a wannabe cop, stood resolutely at the entrance to the alley, not intimidated by Rory, who he obviously recognized.
‘There’s been an incident on the road at the far end and this is now part of a crime scene — so go away.’
‘What happened?’ Rory asked. ‘Is someone dead?’
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Just a question,’ Rory said. ‘C’mon pal, let’s go round,’ he said to Mark and dragged him away by the arm. They made their way back down Albert Road, cut across a connecting street and tried to turn up Charnley Road, only to find it blocked by cops and tape, lots of both. People gathered and gawked even though there was little to see, and a fully-fledged constable was on duty limiting comings and goings.
Rory and Mark moved through the growing number of onlookers, trying to get a better view.
‘What’s happening?’ Rory asked someone.
‘Bad accident,’ a man said.
‘Oh, right.’ He exchanged a knowing glance with Mark and raised his eyebrows.
Mark took hold of Rory’s arm. ‘I’ve had a thought… suppose the killer comes back? They do, y’know. Killers come back to the scenes of their crimes, like they go to the funerals of the people they’ve killed. Suppose he sees us?’
Rory sighed patiently at his apprentice and shook his sore head. ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance, pal. He won’t come back — trust me.’ Rory pushed a woman out of the way and peered excitedly down the street. Mark hung back, unsettled, wanting to leave.
As well as being able to appreciate a fine pint of Stella Artois, Henry Christie was partial to a finger or two of whisky. He was no connoisseur but could tell the difference between cheap blended and a decent malt. He actually liked both, mixing cheap stuff with lemonade occasionally, and sipping the more expensive stuff with a chunk of ice. His in-betweener, though, his regular tipple, was Jack Daniel’s. He loved its smoky flavour and often imagined the sound of the Mississippi gurgling by as he drank it.
He’d got home, changed into jeans and a tee shirt, put his slippered feet up on the coffee table and had bitten into a baked-ham, Lancashire cheese and piccalilli sandwich on thick bread, prepared by Kate, and was eagerly anticipating the JD to accompany it.
They were chatting about their little holiday, just running through a final check of things they needed to take. Kate seemed to have covered every eventuality, planning to pack as much as possible. Henry was less bothered.
‘It’s not as though Italy is a third world country if we do forget anything,’ he pointed out. ‘They’ve got shops like us, y’know.’ He took another bite of the sandwich and sat back. ‘We can get HP sauce if we need it,’ he teased, but inwardly he liked Kate’s attention to detail. It was rare to go on holiday with her and discover something had been forgotten. ‘All I need is tee shirts, shorts, money, passports and tickets.’
‘You’re very basic,’ she said huffily and sat down next to him on the settee, thigh to thigh. She was very excited about going away.
Henry turned his head slowly to her and slitted his eyes mysteriously. ‘As you’ll discover, babe.’ He held the look for a moment, then took another chunk out of the sandwich, not having realized how ravenous he was. ‘What’s on the box?’
‘Not much.’ Kate sat back and sipped her own whisky and lemonade, made with a supermarket cheapo brand. She sighed contentedly. ‘We need to do a last minute shop tomorrow. I need a new dress.’
‘OK,’ Henry said amiably. He swallowed a mouthful and was reaching over for his JD when his mobile phone rang. It was on the coffee table, next to his drink.
‘Bugger,’ Kate said under her breath. Her mouth warped into a slightly unpleasant shape.
Henry gave her an apologetic look, knowing the call was unlikely to be from anywhere other than work. The display said, ‘Unknown caller.’
‘Henry Christie.’
‘Boss?’ came the first word, making Henry’s heart sink with its inflection. It was the detective sergeant he’d recently left at Blackpool police station to tidy up the Twist case. Henry hoped it was a minor query, but he knew it wouldn’t be.
‘Go on, Alex.’
‘Hope you don’t mind me calling, but there’s a job just come in.’
‘I’ve finished for the day — for five days, actually.’
‘I know,’ the DS — his surname was Bent — said wearily, ‘it’s just that the Chief Constable just happened to be here when it came in, doing one of his unannounced “catch you doing something you shouldn’t be doing” visits and he wants a quick response to it. The nearest on-call super lives in Blackburn, so he said you’d do it.’
I’ll bet he did, Henry thought. His mouth twisted in a similar way to Kate’s — whose face hadn’t changed its expression. She looked as though she’d been given a bowl of fried whitebait when she’d been expecting Dover sole: very annoyed.
‘What’s the job?’ Henry asked.
The DS, who hadn’t yet turned out to it himself, explained what he’d been told. Henry listened, sitting up as he did, paying close attention. He clarified a few points, asked some pertinent questions and issued some instructions. ‘I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,’ he promised and ended the call. He placed the phone down slowly and looked at Kate. ‘Sorry love,’ he said ruefully, giving her a pained expression. ‘Sounds a bit of a messy one. There’s no one else nearby to cover.’
She held his gaze, then said, ‘This better not screw up my holiday.’
‘It won’t. I’ll just cover it, then hand it over. Promise.’
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Same old story.
Henry stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, glanced sadly at the JD, and was aware that the warm fuzzy atmosphere had just turned cold and icy.
The police moved the public further and further away from the scene until they’d sealed off a good two hundred metres either side of the incident and completely closed the road, as well as the whole length of the alley.
Rain started to fall heavily as Henry, having parked his car almost a quarter of a mile away, pushed his way through the dwindling crowd of onlookers, their enthusiasm for the grisly tempered by a downpour. He always preferred to walk up to outdoor murder scenes. It gave him more time to take in things, assimilate matters, rather than racing up and leaping out of cars like the Flying Squad. He hunched up the collar on his raincoat, ducked under the cordon tape and flashed his warrant card at the on-guard constable, who had scuttled up to him thinking he was a member of the public trying it on. After a close inspection of the ID, Henry was allowed through, pulling a knitted cap out of his pocket and tugging it down on to his head, over his ears, cursing the rain. It was one of the worst things that could happen to an exterior crime scene. Nature’s way of swilling away evidence for good. He hoped the
