Critical Threat (19 page)

‘She sounded genuine enough … definitely needs bottoming, though. Even if she's just pissed up and drowning her sorrows and maybe got hold of a gun.'

‘Yeah, you're right. I take it you're on the way?'

‘Yep. Are you turning out?' Henry asked.

‘Would you like me too?'

‘That's not the issue.'

‘In that case, no … keep me updated and it might be that you have to personally debrief me after.'

Henry's heart sank. How the hell did he get himself into such predicaments? He shocked and amazed himself sometimes … most times. His phone beeped, indicating there was another incoming call.

‘Speak soon, boss, got another call.' He thumbed to it and saw it was from a withheld number. ‘Hello, Henry Christie …' There was nothing, just a rustling sound as though the other phone was in someone's pocket. ‘Hello?' he said hopefully. Still nothing. He glowered at his phone as though it was offending him, then put it back to his ear and lodged it on to his right shoulder, realizing he should have plugged it into the hands-free. At one hundred miles per hour, that would have been the safer option. Then the phone went dead. He looked at it again, this time in frustration, then concentrated on the transmissions from his PR.

‘Echo Romeo Seven, just arrived at the address.' That, Henry knew from the call sign, meant that the ARV had arrived at Jackie Kippax's flat, the first patrol to get there. The comms operator acknowledged him and Henry waited impatiently, nervously, for any developments, although he doubted whether Jackie would be there.

‘Echo Romeo Seven to Blackburn,' the ARV chirped up after a few minutes.

‘Go ahead.'

‘No reply at the flat and it's all in darkness. Any further instructions?'

‘Standby … DCI Christie, are you receiving?'

‘Receiving,' Henry said.

‘Did you hear Echo Romeo Seven's transmission?'

‘Yes.'

‘Anything further for him?'

Henry cogitated for a moment. ‘Just tell him to hang fire there, will you – or at least in the vicinity of the flat. I'm, about fifteen minutes away, just on the M65 now.'

‘Echo Romeo Seven, I received that.'

‘Blackburn to DCI Christie – what about the other patrols? Can I stand them down? I've got a lot of jobs outstanding which need to be allocated.'

‘Yeah, carry on,' Henry said, feeling a little foolish he'd got so many people rushing round. He slowed as he reached junction 4 of the motorway and turned on to the A666 whilst continually looking at his phone, willing it to ring again. ‘C'mon Jackie,' he urged. He would only be happy when he had seen her face to face and assured himself she hadn't actually blown someone's head off.

He drove past Ewood Park, retracing the journey he'd made when he had turned out for Eddie Daley's death. He dropped the phone and picked up his PR as an idea struck him.

‘DCI Christie to Echo Romeo Seven.'

‘Go ahead, boss.'

Henry thought he recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Bill?'

‘Certainly is – doing my duty on division.'

It was Henry's old friend, Bill Robbins, the firearms trainer who he'd bumped into at the training centre a while back and who'd given Henry a blast down the firing range with a .44 Magnum. Henry remembered him moaning about having to turn out for regular operational duty as well as doing his ‘day job'.

‘I'm sure everyone in Blackburn will sleep safer in their beds knowing that,' Henry said. ‘However – you're certain there's no one in at Jackie Kippax's flat?'

‘Affirmative.'

‘Do you know where the Class Act is?'

‘Yeah, Mincing Lane?'

‘Meet me there in a few minutes. I've an idea where this woman might be.'

The A666 squeezed into Blackburn town centre, morphing into Great Bolton Street under the massive railway bridge at Lower Audley, then for a short stretch became Darwen Street before the one-way system kicked in and Henry was obliged to bear left into Mincing Lane. It was an area he knew well, mainly because this was the section of town, including Clayton Street, where most of Blackburn's on-street sex trade was plied.

At 10.30 p.m., Mincing Lane was quite busy traffic- and pedestrian-wise as there are a number of pubs in that area. The figures of the prostitutes were easy to spot; usually alone, sometimes in pairs, hanging around on the corners of their patches dressed in tight-fitting mini skirts and blouses. Henry had once dealt with the murder of one several years before.

As he drove slowly up Mincing Lane he wound his window down, allowing the symphony of the street to assault his eardrums. Music blared from quickly opened and shut pub doors; groups of youths moved around, shouting. There was a siren in the distance. And the smells, too, invaded his nostrils: chips, burgers, curry, the odd, strange waft of cheap perfume and above all, the aroma of hops from the beer being brewed by the giant brewery on the other side of town.

The Class Act, a name which belied the reality, was situated exactly where it should have been to attract the trade it did: just on the edge of the town centre and the cusp of the sleazy district of the sex trade, catering for the people who often crossed that line.

The place had been in existence for as long as Henry could remember, its reputation well known to most members of the constabulary. The name had changed a few times, but its nature, as in the spots of a leopard, had not. Even though Henry had never had any direct dealings with the place, he could recount numerous incidents off the top of his head which had taken place there, the most notorious ones being a double murder in the late 80s and a serious assault in which a man had had his left leg sawn off in the 90s. The Class Act frequently featured in the chief constable's daily bulletin of news from around the county, but despite numerous efforts by the police to close it down, it remained stubbornly open.

And to be honest, Henry loved this sort of place.

It said so much about the town itself.

But it wasn't open that night.

The Ford Galaxy with smoked out windows, which was the Armed Response Vehicle, was parked with two wheels on the kerb ahead of him on the opposite side of the road to the club, hazard lights flashing.

Henry drew his Rover in behind it, clicked on his hazards and looked across to the club, which was in darkness. The building stood alone, its front entrance opening directly on to the pavement, but the double wooden doors were firmly closed. Dark alleyways ran down either side of it, places where many people had been assaulted over the years.

Henry got out and was approached by Bill and his ARV partner, a female officer Henry did not know. They wore reflective jackets over their body armour and Henry could just see their holsters poking out below the hems of their jackets – including the muzzles of their pistols. They were both still tooled up and Henry realized that the authorization had not been revoked. Both were sipping coffee from polystyrene cups with lids on. Bill handed an extra one to Henry.

‘Hope you don't mind, boss,' he said. ‘We did a quick drive through on the way down from Fishmoor. Thought you'd appreciate one, too.'

‘No probs.' Henry gratefully accepted the drink. He knew it all looked pretty slack, drinking like this in the eye of the public, but he was gagging after his sandwich and his adrenaline-fuelled dash across the county which had dried him up like a kipper. He broke back the seal on the lid and took a gulp, burning his mouth.

‘So, no sign of life up at the flat?'

‘Nothing, boss.'

‘Isn't this place usually open by now?' He pointed at the Class Act.

‘Too early,' the WPC said. She was a local officer and Bill had been teamed up with her for the night. ‘Doesn't usually open until eleven thirty-ish.'

‘Oh, yeah,' Henry said, realizing. ‘Of course, silly me.'

‘You think this Kippax woman might be in here?' Bill asked.

Henry shrugged. He had some more coffee, which tasted amazingly good. ‘It's something we were going to look into tomorrow as there might be some connection with the people who run this place and Eddie Daley's murder … his girlfriend, Jackie Kippax, thought they might have some grudge against him, but we haven't had the chance to make that inquiry yet.'

‘I take it you know who owns the place now?' the WPC asked rhetorically.

‘I take it you do.'

‘Johnny Strongitharm.'

‘Really!' Henry knew Strongitharm by reputation, though he'd never had any dealings with the guy. Strongitharm, an appropriately named crim from Blackburn, was one of a dying breed of violent armed robbers who specialized in money on the move. Security vans, in other words. It was estimated he had made millions from highway robbery over the years and Henry recalled several unsuccessful crime squad operations against him. He was finally convicted of a very brutal robbery-gone-wrong about ten years before at a Royal Mail sorting office when a security guard was maimed when a shotgun blew off part of his leg. A big NCIS investigation had finally nailed Johnny, but not the money, some £600,000. ‘I thought he was still inside,' Henry said.

‘Released last year and bunked off to Spain, but not before buying this shit-hole for some reason,' the WPC said.

‘A bolt hole,' Henry suggested. ‘Allows him to keep tabs on comings and goings in town.'

‘Maybe … anyway, he owns it, but someone else manages it.'

‘That someone is?'

‘Guy called Darren Langmead.'

‘Dear me, bad to worse,' Henry exclaimed. He also knew of Langmead, a vicious low-life enforcer and tax collector who revelled in breaking people's fingers.

‘The licence is in someone else's name, of course,' she explained. ‘Some clean-sheeted guy called Jones, who is never there. Way of the world,' she shrugged. ‘That's how they keep the licence.'

‘Right, OK,' Henry breathed, taking in these facts and not being surprised that Langmead could well have been embezzling from a boss who lived two thousand miles away, whatever his ruthless rep might be. He looked across at the club. ‘Let's check it out.'

The three of them crossed Mincing Lane and spent some time at the front door, getting no response from inside and finding the door well secured, so they entered the narrow, cobbled alley running down the right side of the club. They were hit by the immediate stench of rotting food from several overfilled wheelie bins and plastic bin bags which had burst, their contents scattered by the indigenous wildlife – cats, dogs, rats and tramps. It wasn't easy to tell what was being stepped on and Henry tried not to think about it as he dropped his coffee cup on to a pile of trash.

They reached a door in a wall surrounding the rear yard of the club. Henry tried the handle, but it was locked.

‘I have an idea,' the WPC announced, looking fairly repulsed by her present situation. ‘Why don't I go and ring the bell again? And I'll see if comms can get hold of a key holder. You boys have fun.' She didn't wait for an answer, just turned on her heels and picked her way carefully back down the alley.

‘She should be a sergeant,' Henry sniffed.

‘She will be,' Bill sniffed, too.

Henry tried the handle once more, confirming it was indeed locked. He put his shoulder to it, but it didn't budge. Taking a step back he surveyed the height of the wall and wondered if he was capable of scaling all seven feet of it. He thought he could, but what bothered him was what might be on top of it, such as glass shards embedded in concrete or razor wire, and what might be lurking on the other side, such as something with sharp fangs, a bad attitude and hunger pangs.

He and Bill exchanged glances in the dark.

‘Is there anything to say she's actually in there?' Bill asked hopefully.

‘Nothing, a hunch, could be a million miles off the mark … but it needs to be checked out. Once we've eliminated this, we'll try elsewhere.'

‘Better get over, then.'

‘It's what we like doing best.'

Henry jumped at the wall, his fingers gripping the top of it, and found a purchase for his left foot on the door handle and, shakily, eased himself up so his elbows were on top of the wall and his head high enough to peer over.

‘No broken glass, anyway … doesn't seem to be any wildlife in the yard, just junk and barrels.'

He scrambled on to the wall and perched there, one leg on either side, letting his eyes adjust themselves to the shadows beyond. He could see the backdoor of the Class Act reached by half a dozen steps. It looked like a reasonably easy door to break down, if necessary. He swung his legs over and dropped clumsily into the yard, jarring his knees, causing his right one to give unexpectedly, though he managed to remain upright, stumbling slightly.

Bill was with him moments later, landing heavily with all his kit on.

The yard was quite large and, as Henry had seen, full of discarded waste, wheelie bins, barrels and crates, all pretty typical of the back of a poorly managed licensed premises.

They walked towards the backdoor, stepping in and out of the mess, until they reached the foot of the steps – when Henry noticed something to his left, pushed up against the wall. As he realized what it was, he gulped and tapped Bill and at the same time thought he heard something behind which could've been a low, guttural growl.

He froze. ‘That's a kennel,' he hissed.

‘Yep,' said Bill, also having seen it.

‘Did you hear what I heard?'

‘Yep.' Bill was never the most chatty of people.

They rotated slowly and in the shadow between two wheelie bins stood a beast which had cunningly allowed them into its lair, stalked and trapped them. It stepped forwards, revealing itself, its powerful head and shoulders protruding from the darkness.

‘Shit.' Henry swallowed, experiencing fear like nothing before. A kind of desolate emptiness, a panic of epic proportions.