Backlash (28 page)

So he lied.

‘Jane Roscoe is a DI dealing with a murder that happened on South Shore last night. I had some information she needed as a matter of urgency, that's all.'

‘So you pass information in the police mouth to mouth, do you? Kissing? Did you have a secret message in your spit?'

‘No, no, no, no,' he cooed, holding up a hand. Here was the lie, ‘She also happens to be a very old friend. I know her and her husband very well. He and I used to play rugby together. It was a friendly kiss, nothing more. Certainly nothing sexual.' God forgive me, he thought, but needs must.

‘Is that the honest truth?' Fiona snuffled.

Henry nodded sombrely.

‘Oh, thank God,' Fiona gasped in relief. ‘I thought you were going off me.'

‘Never,' he said softly. Crisis diverted. He lay back. ‘I could do with a bit more kip before I go back to work, sweetheart,' he suggested.

She seemed not to hear. She pulled off the hair net, shook her gorgeous locks free and kicked her mini-wellington boots off, then slid in next to him. He was very hot and naked.

‘I was worried,' she admitted, hugging him.

‘No need.' He yawned, hoping she would take the hint.

Next thing he knew, Fiona had disappeared under the duvet and his limp cock was in her warm mouth. He groaned, but not with ecstasy. Although he was unable to prevent an immediate erection, he would rather have slept than had a blow job. Which in itself said something about the relationship, he thought.

Gill was changing out of his motorcycle leathers, back into his casual gear. He had a quick glance round the flat to satisfy himself that everything was hunky-dory. He slid his denim jacket on, ready to leave and head to his real home.

When the ‘rat-at-at' spanked on the door, Gill's bowels almost opened. He did not move. He closed his eyes. Maybe they would go away, whoever it was. More knocking. They were persistent. The sound of the letter-box flap opening.

‘Hello,' someone called, ‘could you come to the door, please?'

David Gill's legs turned to a sort of mush.

‘I know someone's in,' the voice called. ‘I heard you moving about, so please come to the door. This is the police.'

J
ane Roscoe decided that any time spent at the scene of Joey Costain's murder was well spent. There was no point in rushing anything and thereby losing evidence. Once the forensic and SOCO people had done their initial work and withdrawn, Roscoe, kitted out in the latest high-fashion overalls and overshoes, together with the pathologist, Dr Baines, reassessed everything.

Baines was useful to have around. He had been to hundreds of murder scenes and had carried out the subsequent postmortems, so his experience was vast. He wasn't very old, either, Roscoe noted. Not like most of the pathologists she had come across before who were usually of or approaching pensionable age. Baines was in his mid-forties at most. He was also modest and helpful which endeared him to her. He recognised she was the senior investigator and that he was there to support her, and seemed to have no problems with that state of affairs.

She bled him dry with her constant questions. Patiently he answered them all, even when they had been repeated several times or were silly. An hour and a half of minutely working through the scene saw both of them parched. A break and a drink was needed. They peeled off their protective outer garments and left the flat, body and entrails still in situ.

Outside there was a good deal of uniformed police activity. The front of the house was cordoned off and uniformed officers guarded the scene closely. Roscoe and Baines ducked under the crime-scene tapes and strolled to a nearby café. Roscoe bought the brews and an Eccles cake each.

‘What do you think then?' she asked Baines. She had a lot of her own ideas but wanted to see if his matched hers.

He chewed pleasurably on a mouthful of currants, swallowed and had a swig of tea from a cracked mug. ‘He was murdered by a maniac – sorry I don't have the correct psychological terminology to go with that rather obvious conclusion.'

‘That's OK – nor do I.'

‘A maniac, but someone who is cold, calculating and very prepared. I think this attack was pre-planned. I'd also hazard a guess that the victim knew his attacker well or at the least trusted the attacker.'

‘What makes you say that?' Roscoe's mug stopped halfway twixt table and lip.

‘Unless I'm mistaken, there is no sign of forced entry to the flat, no sign of any defensive wounds on the victim's hands or forearms, although when I get the poor sod on a slab, such wounds might become apparent, though I doubt it. My cursory examination of the skull shows a massive concave dip around the crown, consistent with something like a ball hammer. Joey had been comfortable enough to have turned his back on his killer, so he wasn't expecting trouble.'

‘Unlikely to be a member of the Khan family then.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Nothing, just musing out loud. Go on, please.'

‘Little more to add at this stage. I think he knew his killer and I also think this killer has killed before.'

‘Two issues there,' Roscoe picked up quickly. ‘Him? How do you know it's a him?'

‘A man or a very strong woman. I think the victim had been dragged and placed where he was. I don't think most women could have achieved that. It's not a sexist remark, it's factual.'

‘I'll go with that. Now why do you think he might've killed before?'

‘I've been to a lot of murder scenes. Murders committed by first timers are always rushed and messy. This one was done by someone who took his time, was supremely confident, who knew what he was doing. Probably one of a series, I'd guess.'

‘I'll look into that, thanks, Dr Baines.' Roscoe picked up her Eccles cake and bit into it, experiencing a moment of pure, unadulterated joy as the sugar and fruit burst onto her tongue. How could anything that tastes so good be so bad for you, she thought – ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips'. Sod it! She took another bite.

‘I believe you know Henry Christie quite well,' she said through the mouthful.

Baines perked up visibly at the mention of the name. ‘Henry? Yes – we go back a long way. Haven't seen the old libertine for some time. How is he? I'm surprised not to see him, actually. This kind of thing is right up his street.'

‘He's OK. Sends his regards. He's been transferred into uniform.'

Baines almost choked on his cake. ‘Uniform? Well I never.'

‘I came here directly from seeing him. We'd been discussing the murder. He has some views on it. He was the first officer on the scene.'

Baines looked languidly at Roscoe, a hint of knowledge in them.

She thought abruptly, He thinks Henry is shagging me. She could tell from the look on the good doctor's face. Something inside her said she should be angry, but she wasn't. Instead she wished it were true and, fleetingly, she imagined making love with Henry.

‘You OK?' Baines asked with a slight smile.

‘Yes, yes,' she murmured, trying to disguise the flush up her neck.

They chatted further about the murder, finished their food and drinks and decided to get back.

Next thing on the agenda was how best to transport Costain's body to the mortuary while disturbing as little evidence as possible. Roscoe was also starting to think about the Costain family who had to be informed of Joey's demise. There would need to be a formal identification before the post-mortem could start. It would be an uncomfortable time. She was not looking forward to it. Not just because of the unpleasantness of having to deal with the family, a responsibility which rested firmly on her shoulders as senior investigating officer, but also because of the knock-on effect as far as the streets of Blackpool were concerned.

There would be a war unless she could convince the Costains that the Khan family had not killed little Joey.

Evening was fast approaching as Baines and Roscoe walked back to the murder scene; with it came a very Blackpool chill tasting of salt, directly from the Irish Sea. They were about to cross the road when there was an ‘Excuse me, excuse me' from behind. They turned.

An elderly gentleman, waving a walking stick at them, shuffled towards them at a fair pace. ‘I take it you are in charge of the investigation?' he said to Baines. His accent, though northern, did have a trace of plum-military to it. He sounded like someone used to getting their own way.

‘No, I . . .' stammered Baines, but was chopped off mid-sentence.

‘I,' said the man huffily, ‘have been sitting and waiting for someone, preferably a detective superintendent, to come and speak to me. I was expecting house-to-house enquiries would be commenced. That is usually what happens when a murder occurs – am I correct, officer?'

‘Er – yes,' said Baines unsurely, eyeing Roscoe for some support.

She stayed quiet, smirking. It was often the case that members of the public assume that a man would take charge of any investigation, even in this day and age.

‘So why haven't they begun yet?' the old man demanded. ‘I've been sitting at my front window waiting. It's no dashed wonder the police can't solve anything these days when they don't even ask the questions.'

‘Yes, sir, you're absolutely correct,' Roscoe said assertively, stepping forward. ‘May I introduce myself?' She offered her right hand. ‘Detective Inspector Roscoe. I'm the senior investigating officer. This is Dr Baines, the Home Office Pathologist – and you are?'

The man shook Roscoe's hand formally and almost clicked his heels. ‘Please excuse my faux pas – understandable error, wouldn't you say? It's a man's job, after all.'

Roscoe stared coldly at him. ‘Is it?'

‘I'll get back up there,' Baines said to Roscoe and moved away.

The old man cleared his throat. ‘Ah hem . . . anyway, I am John Blackthorn, Captain John Blackthorn, Durham Light Infantry, and I am the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator for this area and let me tell you – there's not much goes on around here without me knowing about it.'

‘Resources, you see,' Roscoe said, tutting apologetically and explaining at the same time, ‘or lack of them. House to house would have come sooner rather than later, I can assure you, Captain Blackthorn, but we are very stretched at the moment, with the party conference and all.'

‘Yes, resources and money are always a problem these days,' Captain Blackthorn said. ‘But it astounds me that two million can be spent protecting politicians, yet hardly anything is spent protecting the public who put them in power.'

‘Quite,' said Roscoe.

They were sitting in the lounge of his well-appointed flat on Withnell Road. The wide bay window overlooked the street and was about fifty metres away from the entrance to the converted terraced house in which Joey Costain's flat was situated on the opposite side of the road. There was a good view across to it.

Roscoe tried to stay cool, but inside she was shimmering with excitement at what Blackthorn might be able to tell her because it was the early leads which often led to solving a case. If things dragged beyond seventy-two hours, the likelihood of a result lessened dramatically.

From the look of things, Captain Blackthorn was a widower. Photos of a dignified old lady were all around the room on windowsills and on the raised hearth where a solid brass companion set with brush, tongs, shovel and poker stood ornately by the gas fire. He probably spent a lot of time at his front window, secreted behind thick lace curtains watching life go by. There was a high-backed reclining chair in the bay which looked extremely comfortable, next to this was a small coffee table on which was a monocular, telephone, note pad and pen. Underneath the table was a stack of quality daily newspapers. In all, the perfect nosy-parker outfit.

People like this could be gold to the police. People who sat, observed and made notes. Roscoe was the first to admit that they were not used effectively enough. She nibbled her fruit cake. Slightly damp and musty, but OK. She sipped tea from a delicate translucent China cup with a large black crack in it.

‘You have some information, then?'

Blackthorn got up from the settee and hobbled across the room, using his walking stick for support. ‘Bad hips,' he explained, ‘soon to be plastic ones.'

He picked up his note pad, returned to the settee next to Roscoe and handed it to her.

‘Yesterday afternoon, pretty early, one p.m.,' he said in a clipped tone, ‘that little good for nothing Costain arrived on foot.'

Roscoe read his notes. ‘“Mon.1. Cost app.” What does this mean?'

‘Monday, 1 p.m., Costain arrives.'

‘And “Cost ent”?'

‘Costain enters the building,' he said proudly. ‘Here,' he indicated he wanted the book. She handed it back. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . . right, he goes inside. Two minutes later another chappie arrives in a van and goes into the building, though I'm not saying this is connected with Costain's death, you understand? Obviously he should be questioned. He was carrying what looks like a tool box.'

‘How do you know Joey Costain?' Roscoe asked, just holding Blackthorn back a touch.

‘Ever since he moved in a couple of weeks ago he's been round to people in the area offering insurance – if you know what I mean?' Blackthorn winked. ‘Bloody protection racket in other words. Got short shrift from me. Sorry to say he won't be missed in the neighbourhood.'

‘Can you describe the man who entered the building after Costain?'

‘Well, I didn't get that close a look at him.'

Roscoe tried to hide her disappointment.

‘But to be honest, seeing the van the man came in was enough for me.'

‘Why?'

‘As I said, there's not much I don't know around here. I always keep my eyes open for anything suspicious or any toerag good for nothings. I make it my business to know them and their vehicles.' He sat back, smiling.