Psycho Alley (10 page)

‘Sorry, pal,' he said, breaking out of his reverie.

‘Something troubling you?'

‘Nah, nothing.'

‘Women problems?'

Henry chuckled. ‘Always have women problems.'

Rik Dean sighed. ‘
Moi aussi.
'

‘Oh?' Henry said, suddenly interested in the scandal of someone else's life. ‘And who is your most recent conquest?'

‘It would be ungentlemanly to reveal a name,' Rik said mysteriously. ‘Other than to say she's in the job and she's a bit jangled. Went a bit far one night, now I can't get rid. She keeps wittering on about love … wouldn't mind, but she's hitched, though separated.'

‘Dangerous.'

‘You said it. And all that baggage – ugh!' He shivered

Henry's mood had brightened a little as he hit the M65, continuing a journey that was all motorway.

‘So what are we looking at?' Rik asked, refocusing on the job.

‘George Uren was released from prison to a probation hostel in Accrington eighteen months ago. He did a bunk from there and hasn't been seen since. Bit of a long shot, but the staff there should remember him and you never know.'

‘Why did you need a sidekick? It's not exactly a two-man job.'

Henry looked coldly at him. ‘I get scared on my own.'

Dean laughed.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled off the motorway and drove down the dual carriageway into Accrington town centre. The place had changed considerably over the years since Henry had spent time there. He had done a lot of teenage drinking, carousing and courting around Accrington, and had loved the place at the time. He'd touched base with it on and off during his police career and seen it evolve, seen the population become much more multicultural, and grown to dislike it. Very different from the town he had known as a youth, now with multi-storey car parks, big shopping centres, car-free zones and blue disc parking – what was all that about, he often wondered.

Although much had changed, the basic layout of the place hadn't, and Henry threaded his way easily across town on to Manchester Road, where the hostel was situated. He drove past the police station, an old building, connected to the magistrates court, which should have been flattened years ago. As cop shops went, Accrington was pretty much the pits. Whilst acknowledging that some officers might have warm feelings for the building, Henry wasn't one of them.

Less than half a mile further, he pulled up outside a large double-fronted house on Manchester Road which had once been a palace, could have easily belonged to a mill owner in days gone by. Now it was a bail hostel, badly maintained and, no doubt, deeply unpopular with its neighbours. It was one of those not-in-my-back-yard things, and Henry felt a great deal of sympathy for people who suddenly found such an institution on their doorsteps – and often inmates from that institution in their front rooms. Pinching the telly.

‘Here we are,' he announced.

Both detectives looked at the building, once a spacious home, now probably divided up into a dozen pokey bed sits in which a dozen criminals resided, supervised by the Probation Service.

‘Let's do it,' Rik said.

They climbed out and walked up the flagged garden, up a set of concrete steps to the front door. Henry pressed the bell which rang somewhere deep inside. They waited.

‘I never asked how you got that eye,' Rik said, nodding at Henry's still-swollen, beautifully-coloured shiner.

‘Hit in the face by an irate woman,' he said mock-proudly.

‘Hm.' It was a doubtful sound.

Footsteps approached from within.

‘Bets?' Henry said quickly.

‘Er, big, overweight guy, been living in his shirt for a week, BO to die for.'

‘Dominatrix. Leather clad. Whip in hand. Eats a lot of pies,' Henry said, and shut up as the big door opened to reveal someone who proved them both wrong.

She led the two detectives along the ground floor hallway to a couple of rooms at the back of the house, one an office, the other a room for staff to chill out in. She motioned them into the latter, then disappeared, leaving them alone.

‘Both wrong,' Rik hissed

‘Only by a mile.'

‘She's very …' Rik began, but stopped abruptly as she came back in. His whole manner changed to one which Henry would have described as ‘fawning'. ‘Hi,' Rik said. Every feature on his face lifted and his smile put the sun to shame.

Her expression was disdainful. She gave Rik a withering look and turned to Henry, her face set hard, which he thought was a shame, because she was extremely pretty. Though she was dressed in a severe, businesslike way in a grey trouser suit which did nothing for her, it was screamingly obvious to the two testosterone-filled males that underneath the outer coating there was a curvaceous, wonderful body. Her hair was scraped tightly back and clipped at the back of her head, but that accentuated the delicate features of her face, which were slightly offset by a crooked nose that made her outstanding. She was dressed for work, for practicality, and Henry could see that, scrubbed up and ready to rock, she would be stunning.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't catch your name.'

‘Henry Christie … DCI Henry Christie.'

‘And where are you from?'

‘The Force Major Investigation Team, based in Blackpool … er, sorry, I didn't catch yours, either.'

‘Jackie Harcourt.'

‘And you are?'

‘The manager of this facility,' she said haughtily. ‘And it's obvious you haven't liaised with your local colleagues, because police visits here are strictly by prior appointment and only when absolutely necessary. So,' she sighed, ‘I'll have to ask you to leave and make an appointment. I apologize for even asking you in.'

‘We've come a long way, Jackie. I'm Rik Dean, by the way … Detective Sergeant Rik Dean.' He sounded like James Bond. He flashed his warrant card.

Her eyelids closed and opened slowly. She looked down her imperfect nose at him. ‘I'm sorry you've had a wasted journey, but the fact is that police officers on the premises upset the residents. We are trying to create a positive atmosphere here, working to try and rehabilitate offenders, provide a secure environment in which they can thrive … So.' She made a ‘shooing' gesture, waving her fingers away.

‘What about inter-agency cooperation?' Rik blurted, getting mad.

‘And what about procedures?'

‘You don't even know why we're here, do you?'

‘No, I don't …'

Henry could see Rik bristling in front of him. ‘Look,' he interjected, hoping to pacify things. ‘I know we've jumped the gun by turning up unannounced and I'm sorry about that, but if you'd just hear us out, maybe you'd make an exception in this case?' He knew he had a habit of not phoning ahead, but he always liked to catch people on the hop, especially during a murder investigation, even if sometimes time was wasted. He gave her his best lopsided, boyish grin, which he knew was wearing thin at his time of life, but he believed there was still a few miles left in it.

Jackie Harcourt regarded him thoughtfully and for a tiny moment, Henry thought he had lost. But then her lips pursed, the shoulders dropped and victory was his. ‘Come into the office. I'll give you a couple of minutes.'

‘Thanks, appreciate it.'

There was a male member of staff sitting behind a desk.

‘Can you give us a few minutes, Guy?' Jackie Harcourt asked him pleasantly.

He scowled, but responded to the request without a murmur, collecting his papers and leaving them to their business.

‘OK, so which one is it?' she asked. ‘Which one of my little angels had been doing wrong?'

‘Actually it's not about one of your present residents. It's about one who should be a resident, but isn't,' Henry explained none too clearly, though Ms Harcourt immediately understood.

‘An absconder? Which one? Carl Meanthorpe? Danny Livers?'

‘I take it they're recent absconders?'

She nodded.

‘Neither,' Henry said and saw Ms Harcourt's lips pop open and a cloud quickly scud across her face; he saw something in her eyes which made him watch even more closely when he said, ‘George Uren.'

Her lips came together, tight. She blinked and swallowed, then coughed nervously. Her composure, for a brief but telling moment, had been lost. It was quickly regained. She said, ‘Ah, him. What do you want to know?'

‘Anything you got, love,' Rik slid in, getting her back up again.

‘I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you. He was released from prison on licence, conditions to stay here until he settled back into society, received counselling, got himself a job … that sort of thing. He didn't stay long.'

‘Have you got a file on him?' Henry asked.

‘It's confidential, can't let you see it.'

Henry noticed her hand was dithering as she ran it across her face. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but before he could speak, Rik intervened like a panzer tank again.

‘We need to see it, love, and if you won't show it to us, we'll just get a court order.'

‘Rik,' Henry snapped. ‘Just fuck off, will you?' Actually he did not say it, but was very tempted. Instead he said, ‘Jackie … we're investigating the murder of a young girl and we have reason to believe Uren was involved. Unfortunately we can't find him. By coming here we hoped to generate some leads which might take us to him. I know it's an imposition.'

‘I don't know where he is,' Ms Harcourt said.

‘I appreciate that, but maybe you know who he knocked about with, any residents past or present who might know anything about him, anything really that might be of use.'

‘OK, OK,' she sighed. ‘I'll get his file, but this is strictly against policy. All client information is confidential.'

‘I understand,' Henry said, ‘but please trust us. This is a very fast-moving investigation and the quicker this man is caught, the safer the streets will be … and that's not just rhetoric. It's God's honest truth.'

The file was fairly thin, containing details of Uren, his background, conditions of release and then a log of his time at the hostel which ran for a couple of pages, then ended abruptly on his unauthorized departure. Henry slam-read it, his eyes taking it in quickly, realizing that it did not actually tell him very much. He sniffed as he finished it and passed it over to Rik who started to peruse it. Henry regarded the hostel manager.

‘There's a visitor referred to … who was that, do you know?'

She shook her head. Henry could tell her teeth were clamped tightly shut. He watched the muscles in her jaw pump as she tensed them. ‘He only came the once, a sort of rat-faced man, but he didn't spend much time here. He and Uren spoke in the residents' lounge for a few minutes, then he left. I don't remember much about him. It was eighteen months ago.'

‘Yeah, yeah … so what sort of resident was Uren?'

‘Nasty, unpleasant,' she said with feeling. ‘Glad to see the back of him, to be honest.'

‘Are there any people here now who were resident when Uren was here?'

‘We have an ever-changing clientele, but old Walter Pollack was here, still is and probably will be this time next year. He's institutionalized.'

‘Did he have any dealings with Uren?'

‘Not specially, I don't think.'

‘Is he in now?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘We'd like to chat to him, please,' Henry said firmly. Ms Harcourt backed off, still flustered underneath her smooth veneer. Henry could not make out what was troubling her, but something was bubbling.

‘He's in his room – upstairs, number three.'

Rik, who'd had his head in the Uren's file, looked up and snapped shut the ring-binder. ‘Bugger all in here,' he announced, words which drew an expression of condemnation from Ms Harcourt.

‘What's Pollack in for?' Henry asked.

‘He feels up little boys.'

He was sixty-four years old, thin and wiry, had the hook nose and eyes of a predator, which is exactly what Walter Pollack was. Henry recognized a dangerous individual when he saw one and Pollack was one of those horrendously dangerous people who pick on the young – and destroy them. Ms Harcourt had been obliging enough to show the two detectives his file, including his list of previous convictions. They stretched back over thirty years, many with a common theme: indecent assaults on young boys, gross indecency with some, and stealing to subsidize his lifestyle. Pollack was obviously a lost cause, his perversions not mellowing with age, and the best thing society could think to do with him was keep an eye on him until he slipped away and re-offended, and then jail him again. It was something Henry would have bet his last week's lottery winnings on happening, all ten pounds of it.

His room was neat and tidy with a metal-framed bed, wardrobe, sink and desk, reminding Henry of the rooms at the police training centre at Hutton where he'd spent many a sleepless night over the years. Pollack was sitting at his desk, smoking, emptying his lungs out of the open window overlooking Manchester Road.

Pollack's head turned slowly as the detectives entered, Ms Harcourt in their wake.

‘Walter, these men are—' she began.

‘—the filth,' Pollack finished for her, a sneer of contempt on his face. He stumped out his cancer stick and coughed, a rasping harsh noise which sounded as though a lot of fluid was gurgling around inside his chest. Henry hoped it was nothing minor. ‘I clocked you walking in and made you straight off. I've done fuck all.'

‘Never said you had,' Rik retorted.

‘They want to ask you about George Uren, Walter,' Ms Harcourt said over Henry's shoulder.

‘Why, what's he done?' There was smirk on Pollack's face.

‘We just need to talk to him. You don't need to know what he's done,' Rik said.