recognized.
‘Corrie run,’ he said.
‘Eh?’
‘That car,’ Henry jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s the plain car from Poulton.’
‘And how would you know that?’ Rik asked. He hadn’t clocked the car.
‘Because even though I had a mini collapse at the scene of Natalie Philips’s murder, I did notice the car that the PC who had found her had been driving.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t remember the PC’s name, though I sort of recall talking to him. He was pretty upset.’
‘Paul Driver. He found her by the crematorium gates.’
‘That’s the one.’
They continued their slow patrol, parking up here and there. A few kids were out on the streets. A couple of lads, a couple of girls, maybe walking home from a pub. Then they saw one lone female walking swiftly and with purpose. Not really many targets for an opportunistic rapist, if that is what the offender was. But maybe a quiet night was the best. Fewer targets, even fewer witnesses.
Henry checked his phone — again — slightly disappointed he didn’t have anything from Alison. Maybe she’s just used me, he tried to rationalize. But he knew that wasn’t true. She was honest, genuine, quite bloody gorgeous and wonderful.
Points which suddenly hit the nail on the head for him. His guts lurched as he suddenly realized how lucky he had been to meet Alison and get into a relationship with her. He knew he couldn’t afford to lose her.
‘Once more round the block,’ Rik said, ‘then let’s call it quits.’
Henry nodded. He was concentrating on sending a text. It began, ‘ SORRY ITS LATE. CAN WE TALK? B HOME IN BOUT AN HR ’. As an afterthought, he added, ‘ XX ’ so it could not be interpreted as one of those, ‘We need to talk, it’s time to end it’ texts.’ If he got one back without a kiss, he would be worried.
He found Alison’s number in his phone’s contacts list and after a moment of hesitation, pressed send, then raised his head from the task to see where Rik was taking him.
And then he saw the car parked up.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he said. He craned around to look as Rik drove on past the car that was parked on the roadside, in amongst a line of other cars. Henry did not see anyone in the car and Rik obviously did not know what Henry was talking about.
‘Who?’ Rik said. He’d reached the next junction. They were on a nice, well-established housing estate just off Garstang Old Road. If Rik drove straight across the junction, he would reach a T-junction at which a left turn would take him out towards Poulton, and right back into Blackpool.
Henry, ignoring his questions, said, ‘Go across here, pull in and switch everything off.’
‘Eh?’
‘Just do it.’
Rik complied, drove across, pulled in to the side of the road and parked about twenty metres along the next avenue, doused the lights and turned off the engine. Henry wound down his window — electric ones not being standard on the old Nissan — and adjusted his door mirror manually to give him a view back up the road.
‘What is it?’
‘That plain car from Poulton is parked back there in that line of cars.’
Rik jerked his head and squinted at Henry. ‘Your point being?’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe he lives there. Maybe he’s popped home for a brew. Maybe he’s shagging, maybe-’
Henry held up his right hand. ‘Stop. Too many maybes. Whatever he’s doing, he’s off his patch.’
‘But he has to come off his patch to do the corrie run.’
‘I know that, but he’s taking the piss here, isn’t he?’
‘Henry — why are you bothered? You’re not his sergeant. Did you never sneak off for a brew now and again — or something else?’
‘All the time. But I’m a superintendent now. I have double standards and I’m therefore above that sort of thing.’ Henry wasn’t actually too bothered what the PC was up to, simply curious.
Rik’s mouth snapped shut, then he sighed. ‘Do you want me to talk to the inspector at Poulton tomorrow? I’d kind of like to get that nightcap now, you know? I don’t get paid overtime.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘But you earn almost twice as much as me.’
‘Stop bickering, will you?’
Rik murmured something incomprehensible, but was annoyed.
Henry finely adjusted the mirror, slumping in the seat for a clear view back up across the junction, enough to see if anyone approached the car along the pavement, but not necessarily if they came at it from any other direction. Rik also slid down his seat and adjusted his door mirror, so between them, they pretty much had it covered.
‘This just seems absurd,’ Rik said.
‘Have you got the number of Lancaster comms in your mobile?’ Rik muttered that he had. ‘Then call them and ask them to radio PC Driver and ask him for his current location.’ Although geographically adjacent to Blackpool division, Poulton-le-Fylde was actually in Northern division, the HQ of which was Lancaster, where the divisional control room was situated. Logically it would have made more sense for Poulton to belong to Blackpool as it had much in common with the resort, but such were the vagaries of political boundaries on which policing areas were more or less based.
Rik found the number and dialled.
As he was speaking, Henry’s own mobile bleeped with a text landing. It was Alison. Nervously he tabbed it open.
It said, ‘TIME DONT MATTER. THINKING OF YOU. LOVE YOU. WANT TO TALK. XX’.
Oh my God, Henry thought, and a shudder ran through him.
Rik was speaking to Lancaster comms room. ‘Yeah, uh, can you tell him that DI Dean wants to see him at Poulton police station?’ Rik gave Henry a desperate what-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-say expression. ‘OK, I’ll hold.’ Rik then snatched up his PR from the door pocket next to him and tuned it over to the radio channel used by Lancaster just in time to hear an operator call PC Driver’s collar number and ask for his location.
There was a long pause, then the operator repeated the call.
Then Driver responded. ‘Yeah, just leaving Blackpool nick, en route back to Poulton, correspondence run.’ Henry and Rik exchanged a surprised look. ‘Can I ask why?’ Driver said.
‘DI Dean on the line, would like to see you at Poulton.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Stand by.’
The comms operator came on to the line and asked Rik the question. He said, ‘It’s a slightly delicate matter, not suitable for the airwaves. Just tell him I want a quick word on a personal matter.’
This was then relayed to Driver, who came back, ‘I’ll be about half an hour. I have a job I need to attend to on the way back.’ His voice was cool and not harassed.
‘I’ll pass that on,’ the operator said, and did so.
Henry pouted and said, ‘Fibber. Vinegar strokes.’
There was no guarantee that the man would even leave the club. He seemed pretty comfortable, lording it at the bar. Nor was there any guarantee that if he did leave, Flynn would be able to follow him anywhere of interest or without being sussed. As much as he wanted to confront the guy, he also wanted the other men involved in Boone’s death. That was the problem with life: no guarantees. As Boone had found out. As Flynn had once discovered when he lost the woman he loved. Life was the dealer of a pretty shitty hand sometimes.
The club door opened. Flynn leaned back in the doorway opposite, deep into the shadows. Several customers tumbled out, laughing. But not the man who interested him.
Flynn exhaled. The Glock, silencer fitted, was uncomfortable in his waistband.
A police Land Rover rolled slowly down the street, past the club, past where Flynn stood. Two uniforms on board. He tensed but the officers were more concerned with eyeballing women on the street.
