Henry said, ‘no one “Oi’s” me at my house.’ He bustled past and got into his car, feeling a bit of a shitbag himself at his outburst. But also unrepentant. He didn’t like the guy and whilst Leanne was old enough to make her own mistakes, he still felt a certain parental responsibility towards her. It was odd, though, that she could not see what an out-and-out bastard the boyfriend was, yet he could. Why was life like that?
He reversed the Mercedes off the driveway and burned a bit of rubber to emphasize his disapproval. As he hit the roads of Blackpool, he exhaled, took a mental chill-pill and concluded that a ten minute tootle up the prom might give him chance for reflection on what had been, in Henry’s own words, ‘One hell of a fucking day.’
In complete contrast to the way in which his brain had imploded at the scene of Natalie Philips’s murder, Henry had remained clinical and professional on the motorway.
From the moment the young man from the Ford Fiesta had raised his right hand with the detonator in it, shouted words to his God that were scooped away in the wind, Henry had gone into Superintendent mode, shouting instructions to the firearms officers — which, incidentally, had not been heard by anyone else.
The AFO did everything that was expected of him in assessing the threat posed by the youth. That said, there was no time to shout a warning.
And even though the officer was only armed with the Glock self-loading pistol, and the distance between him and his target was at least ten metres — which is a long way to shoot a pistol accurately, even on a blustery motorway — his shooting was superb.
The two 9mm bullets he fired ripped the top portion from the lad’s skull and also destroyed his facial features.
Henry, although pirouetting away defensively, was still looking at the youth. He saw the lad’s face disintegrate as the bullets passed through and completely stopped all bodily function — which was the intent. It had to be an instantly fatal shot, otherwise there might have been a chance for the boy to either deliberately press the plunger — one last act of hatred — or to do so because of a twitch of the thumb. The latter chance still existed but was lessened by the complete and utter destruction of the brain.
It was technically brilliant shooting.
The lad jolted backwards as though yanked by a cable and landed on the carriageway between the Fiesta and the traffic car. His fist opened with a spasm and the detonator lay across his palm, looking for all the world like a ballpoint pen.
Then Henry took control — a calm, cool, efficient, effective presence. And he was pretty proud of himself.
Lots of things had to be concurrently and consecutively considered. A series of parallel and intercrossing thoughts tumbled through his head, like a four-lane Scalextric track with side by side racing, crossovers, chicanes, bridges and no excuses for collisions.
He had to secure and preserve the scene and save life. All traffic had to be stopped — properly this time, and from both directions. The motorway had to be closed immediately. The shooting officer had to be seated in his car, his gun seized. Extra resources had to be called in, such as more cops, the ambulance service, forensic and crime scene teams. Everyone had to be informed — but above all, Henry had to keep a firm grip, which he did, and focus on the task.
On autopilot he drove to the Chinese takeaway, a journey he’d made a hundred times or more over the years, and picked up the trial new dish. Spicy Ku Bo King Prawn, with boiled rice and an appetizer of Salt and Chilli spare ribs. The place was also licensed, so he added three large bottles of chilled Chinese beer. The aroma of the food filled his car and he became ravenous.
Then his mind wandered back to the day he’d just experienced.
He had had spent six bone-chilling hours on the motorway and as the day dragged on, even though the weather was good, it got colder and colder. Even as he was dealing with the shooting, he was also thinking about Natalie Philips and feeling guilty because he’d become involved in something that wasn’t really his business. In the end, he realized he wouldn’t be able to get away from the motorway scene, so he sent Rik Dean back to Blackpool to carry on with the investigation.
It was seven p.m. by the time that Henry made it to the public mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. He stood alongside a stainless steel slab, looking across the stripped body of Natalie Philips at the pathologist, who was ready to carry out a post-mortem that had already been delayed for four hours. She had been formally identified by her distraught mother some hours earlier, accompanied by Rik Dean and the Family Liaison Officer.
In the reception area outside, preparations were also underway for the arrival of the Asian youth, whose body, with explosives strapped to it, had eventually been scooped off the motorway tarmac and was next in line for the pathologist’s scalpel. That was a post-mortem Henry would not be attending because that incident had been taken over by a detective chief superintendent, much to Henry’s relief. He’d done his job at the scene and that was plenty.
Not long ago Henry would have fought hard for the opportunity to lead such a job but now, although he’d done well at the scene, it would have been too much for him. One murder at this delicate moment in his life was enough, thank you.
Professor Baines looked at Henry over the top of his surgical mask, which moved comically when he talked.
‘Been a busy day,’ he said, voice muffled by the mask.
‘I assume you’re going to do the PM on the boy?’ Henry knew the question was superfluous because Baines had been out at the scene to carry out his preliminary tasks. His second killing of the day, too.
‘I am.’
‘Best of luck.’
Natalie’s post-mortem lasted three hours. Baines concluded that she had been sexually assaulted, beaten about the head, most likely with fists and a blunt instrument of sorts, and then strangled, probably with something like a scarf. The pattern of the indentations in the skin around her neck, he believed, could possibly be matched to the item if it was ever recovered. He took all necessary samples from her.
Afterwards, Henry had a brief chat with Rik Dean to go over arrangements for the next day, then he’d gone home and started riffling unsuccessfully through his kitchen cupboards.
And by 11.30 p.m., Chinese takeaway propped up carefully in the front passenger footwell, he was returning home, relishing a midnight feast, maybe with an old Clint Eastwood film for company.
His phone rang. He answered without taking his hands from the steering wheel, still quite amazed by Bluetooth. ‘Henry Christie,’ he said, trying to sound brusque and businesslike. There was silence on the line. Henry repeated his name.
‘It’s me, Mark Carter,’ came the feeble sounding voice of the teenager who’d done a runner on Henry and Rik at the KFC. Mark had Henry’s mobile number from previous encounters, none of which had been pleasant.
‘Go on,’ Henry said coolly.
‘I’ve heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘About Natalie.’
‘What about her?’
‘I didn’t do it… kill her.’
‘Well, we need to talk about that, don’t we? Blackpool nick, nine tomorrow morning. Be there,’ Henry said.
‘What about now?’
‘You heard — and don’t make me come looking for you.’ Henry ended the call. Instantly another one came in. ‘Henry Christie.’
Again, there was silence on the line. Henry wondered how Mark could have rung back so quickly. With irritation, he said, ‘Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.’
‘Henry, it’s me.’
The voice was female, slightly breathless, hesitant and sweet. Henry recognized it immediately and he swerved to the side of the road, heart pounding.
‘Alison?’ he said.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry… I’ll hang up… this is ridiculous.’
