Psycho Alley (15 page)

Before leaving, as he had done on all his visits, he produced a photo of Uren and asked if the occupant knew him. Up to that point they had all looked very fleetingly at the image and shook their heads. Henry knew not one of them had looked properly – but the guy in the fourth flat said simply, ‘He's next door.'

‘Cheers,' Henry said, hoping to hide his rush. He'd been beginning to think he was on the road to nowhere.

There was a hushed conflab on the dimly-lit corridor – dimly lit because there were no light bulbs in the sockets.

Two more officers were called in from the street and the two from the bottom of the stairs were summoned up to join Henry and the three already on the first floor, six of them altogether.

‘I know you all have, but I'm still checking,' Henry whispered. ‘You're all kitted out in body armour, yeah?'

There was an affirmative from everyone. ‘Right, I'll knock. If he comes to the door, we grab him, overpower him, ask questions later … let's go.'

Henry raised his hand, about to bang it down on the door, but then paused. He glanced round at the officers behind him. ‘Change of plan.' He reached for and tried the door handle, turning it slowly and putting his weight against the door, but it was locked. ‘Shit,' he mouthed.

He knocked, rapping with his knuckles.

There was no response. He glanced down, saw no light from underneath the door; listened, but there was no sound. He glanced at the constable with him, then down at the weighted door opener. ‘Pint of Stella if you open this door in two.'

The constable, clearly experienced in such matters, eyed the door. ‘I'll open that door in one,' he proclaimed proudly.

‘OK, go for it in one.'

He stepped into position, braced himself, swung the opener back with the easy flow of a grandfather clock pendulum and smashed the flat end of the opener over the Yale lock. Hard, accurate, and in keeping with his promise, the flimsy door clattered open without need for a second blow. The smirking officer stood to one side and allowed Henry to stride into the flat, shouting, ‘This is the police!'

It was in darkness.

Henry stood still, awaiting some response perhaps, and at the back of his mind aware that someone was coming down the steps from the third floor, but that fact was just there, of no note, no importance, because Henry could smell smoke in the room.

Jane and his door opening PC were right behind him.

Voices came from the corridor. ‘Yeah, no probs,' he heard someone say – still of no consequence to him. ‘What's your name?'

‘What is it?' Jane whispered.

‘Smoke.'

He flicked on his Maglite torch, one he'd bought himself, more powerful, sturdier and better for hitting people than the tiny personal-issue penlight provided by the firm.

He was standing two feet over the threshold, right in the living room of the flat. The torch played over everything in the room. A settee, armchair, TV, DVD, all basic stuff. No sign of anyone in that room, nothing untoward – just the smell of smoke. The beam crossed to the kitchen area.

‘Why aren't you going in?' Jane hissed.

‘Not happy.'

‘Fancy that,' she said sarcastically. ‘You never are.'

He fought the urge to retort with a classy ‘Fuck off'. Instead he stayed where he was, drawing the torch beam across the room, back over the furniture on to two doors, one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom, he guessed. Still he did not move.

‘Something's burning,' he said.

Then in the torchlight he saw wisps of smoke rising from the gap underneath one of the doors – the bedroom.

‘Call the fire brigade,' he said over his shoulder to anyone who was listening. ‘Just in case. We can always cancel 'em if necessary.'

‘Should we put the light on? Might help,' Jane suggested.

‘No,' he said. He slid his foot forward and moved further into the room, caution screaming at him. The smoke from under the door increased in volume. Something crackled behind the door. A sound Henry knew well: flames.

‘Trumpton on the way,' someone called from behind him.

He still could not get to grips with his reticence to move forward and could feel the impatience of the officers behind him, particularly Jane. The trouble with cops was that they liked the feet-first approach, and in the past – the simple, straightforward world he used to inhabit – that was a pretty acceptable way of working. But no longer. Everything had to be pre-thought because people were out to get cops these days. They made good trophies.

And here he was, entering the flat of a man suspected of murder. The lights in the corridor had been tampered with, something he had not really thought about until now, and not long ago he'd been in a flat when a fellow officer had been stabbed and almost killed by someone who was not suspected of violence towards police. He was feeling very jittery here, because this did not sit well with him and he didn't want any other casualties. Things did just not seem to be right. Could this be more than just a house fire? Shit. He was dithering, and feeling a bit stupid, too. At some stage you had to either go in, or retreat … Henry had to do the business, despite his reservations. It was always possible that someone might be on the other side of the door that needed help.

‘I want everyone out into the corridor.' He turned. No one had moved. They were lined up behind him like actors in a farce. ‘Out,' he ordered, ‘and keep away from the door.'

One by one they left, albeit with reluctance, though none questioned him. Once he was sure they were gone, he crossed to the bedroom door and touched it: warm. He bent low, reached for the handle and turned it, knowing the possible consequences of opening the door. He'd seen enough episodes of
London's Burning
to know that fanning the flames with an input of oxygen could result in a fireball.

‘Is there a fire extinguisher out there?' he called.

‘Not a chance in hell,' came the response.

‘OK, here goes,' he yelled.

Then, all caution to the wind, he threw the door open, stood quickly to one side just in case there was a backdraft, knowing in his mind that if there was, he'd be fried, but also believing in the naïve way that human beings do, that he would be quick enough to save himself.

Flames did lick out of the door momentarily, but died back almost immediately. He waited for a second blast – none came – before peering into the room, fully expecting his clothes to be burned off.

It was a bedroom, and the bed itself had been pulled into the centre of the room and was almost encircled in flame which rose from the carpet. The body of a man sprawled untidily across the single, metal-framed camp bed. Henry's torch beam played across the figure from head to toe, finally resting on the man's ghastly face through the flames – the very dead face of George Uren.

‘Shit,' he uttered.

Then there was a crack, like a bullet going off, making Henry duck instinctively, and more flames began to rise from beside the body. This was followed by another crack, then flames, then two more until the body was amass with fire, like a funeral pyre.

‘Incendiaries,' Henry shouted. This time he threw caution to the wind, pulled the corner of his jacket over his nose and mouth and dived into the room, stepping through the gap in the flames and sweeping the four recently-ignited devices off the bed with his torch. They landed on the floor, breaking up as they hit, flames scattering across the carpet like mini firecrackers.

‘Get in here,' he screamed, then began dancing like a maniac as he attempted to stamp out some of the less nasty-looking flames, ‘but don't turn the lights on … Ow! Ow!' he yelled as the heat penetrated the soles of his Marks & Spencer slip-ons, footwear not designed for walking on hot coals.

Jane and two PCs crowded urgently into the room and began a stamping dance with him, then two more PCs barged in with fire extinguishers they'd sourced from somewhere. ‘Out the way, out the way,' they shouted and started using them, spray going everywhere.

Within moments, they had done the trick, amazingly.

‘OK, OK,' Henry coughed, smoke now being the problem, lots of it. ‘Well done, folks, well done.'

Debbie Black appeared at the door. She reached for a light switch, her forefinger only centimetres away before Henry bellowed ‘NO!' at her, possibly louder than he had ever shouted. She froze instantly. ‘Don't switch on the lights,' he said through gritted teeth, teetering on the edge. ‘Just don't,' he added almost irrationally. Then he calmed down. ‘Not until they've been checked, OK … just fuckin' leave 'em, OK?' He was terrified that the light bulbs could have been tampered with in some way, maybe injected with petrol, primed to explode when the light was switched on. Paranoid, maybe, but he'd taken enough chances for tonight. ‘Right,' he went on, ‘I want everyone, except Jane, to go out of the flat. Retrace your steps and get out, please.' The two bobbies holding their fire extinguishers looked affronted. ‘Thanks for coming to my assistance,' Henry said to them, ‘but this is a murder scene.'

To reinforce his words, he shone his torch into George Uren's dead face and then allowed it to linger on the deep, jagged cut under the chin where his throat had been sliced open and a gaping, horrendous gash smiled grimly at him.

H
enry's neck cracked as he raised his chin, rolled his head and tried to ease some of the tension in his shoulder and neck muscles. He gave himself a minor shoulder massage, feeling stiff all over, exhausted all over, and wondered why he did this shitty job.

He was standing on the street outside the block which contained Uren's flat, There was some satisfaction gained by looking at the police and fire brigade activity which had awoken nearly every resident in the vicinity, the old adage ‘If I'm awake, you sods can be too' spinning through his brain, though he knew this was just him being cranky.

The whole building and the ones either side had been evacuated just in case there were more devices to be discovered which might not yet have ignited. Two had actually been found underneath Uren's bed, a good find, valuable evidence.

As the building was declared safe, residents were allowed back into their homes, and the CSIs, Scientific Support and the Home Office pathologist began detailed work up at the scene, a place from which Henry had done a runner for a breath of fresh air, and a coffee if he could find one.

A car turned into the street, Henry recognizing it immediately. Anger's Shogun with personalized plates. Henry's heart did a little sag. The car pulled in behind a fire engine and the occupant got out, marching purposefully toward Henry who, for a fleeting moment, thought of diving for cover behind a wall. His indecision meant he was captured. Dave Anger collared him, the man he loved most in life.

‘Henry,' Anger called. ‘Hot briefing, please – if you'll pardon the pun.'

‘Er,' Henry hesitated, looking around.

‘There'll do.' Anger pointed to the Support Unit personnel carrier parked away up the street, just the driver on board. He pushed past Henry, who turned into his slipstream like a little puppy and followed. Anger ousted the driver and the duo had the bus to themselves, sitting between riot shields, helmets and assorted kit bags. Henry took a seat by the door, sliding it shut. ‘What've you got?' Anger demanded, though he knew quite well what Henry had because he'd been briefed in detail over the phone. However, Henry wasn't going to argue. Didn't have the time and was too tired.

He took a breath. ‘Basically, acting on information obtained from Percy Pearson – the guy who stuck a knife in Rik Dean earlier – we came to this address and started working our way through the flats until we eventually found Uren. He was as dead as a dodo, throat cut, knifed in the chest and stomach, though not long dead. He was on a single bed in the middle of the bedroom, surrounded by several incendiary devices, some on the floor, some on the bed itself. Some went off, others didn't – which is good for us. Obviously the plan was to destroy as much evidence as possible by fire, and it nearly worked. As it is, we've got Uren's body almost untouched by the fire, and these incendiary devices.'

‘Suspects?' barked Anger.

Henry shrugged. ‘Probably the guy who was in the Astra with him … maybe … dunno yet.'

‘And we don't have a clue who he is?' Anger said impatiently.

‘Not as yet.'

‘So where does this leave the murder investigation into the young girl in the back of the Astra?'

‘With one unknown suspect still outstanding and the girl yet to be identified, which we hope to achieve later today based on the DNA swabs obtained from some people in Harrogate.'

‘Square One, in other words,' Anger said unfairly.

Henry bristled and held Anger's gaze for a moment. ‘The girl's body was discovered in the early hours of Saturday morning, it's now the early hours of Monday morning and we've made significant progress, so, come on, give it to me.' He flicked his fingers as though inciting Anger into a brawl. ‘What the fuck have I done? I've asked you before, but now I want to know.'

Anger reached across and opened the carrier door, moving across Henry and dropping out on to the pavement. He leaned back in. ‘Just catch that murderer, OK?' He slammed the door shut and strutted away, leaving Henry speechless.

Henry opened the door and slid out, rubbing his eyes. One thing was for sure: once this murder scene had been tied up, he was leaving some bugger else in charge and going home to bed, whether or not there was a murderer still on the loose.

Under the very pressurized circumstances, Henry was amazed he managed to get five hours sleep, a period of time that successfully recharged his batteries. He did continue to ache all over, as though he was coming down with some bug or other; the leg which had been glanced by the Astra was very sore and his face had turned a nasty shade of green underneath his eye. But he wasn't going to let the small matters of serious physical injuries and illnesses deflect him from his tasks.