Psycho Alley (23 page)

He and Sheena were in the canteen on the eighth floor of the police station. She had said little, but had herded him up in the lift, sat him down and made him chill out.

‘I thought you were going to kill him.'

‘As Clint once said, “Killing's too good for him”.' He smiled again to try and reassure her, but his boyish grin wasn't working on her. She was clearly upset and unsettled by Henry's attack on a prisoner. ‘It's probably a good job you put a hand on my shoulder when you did, though,' he conceded. ‘He's a bit too smackable.'

‘Mm,' she said doubtfully.

‘Reckon he's a possible for your other jobs?'

‘Fits the description well enough.'

‘He'll have done them.'

‘I take it you know him of old … I sensed a certain history there?'

‘We go back a long way,' was all Henry would say. That Costain was an informant was not known for sure by anyone else, nor was Costain even in the new informant handling system. Henry was handling him the old, unethical way, totally against modern procedure. Not that he would be doing that any more. He'd protected him for too long and now Troy had overstepped the mark. Time to jettison him.

‘I'd better get down and start interviewing him,' Sheena said, standing up. She vacillated. ‘Look, Henry, if he makes a complaint or this gets asked about, I don't think I'll be able to cover for you,' she said anxiously, unable to look Henry in the eye. ‘I've got my job to think about, y'know.'

‘I know, don't worry. I wouldn't expect you to do anything but do the right thing. It's fine. But he won't rock the boat. Thanks for looking after my mother.'

‘Pleasure.'

Henry watched her walk out of the canteen, then sat back and finished his tea and cake alone, two blissful flavours combining to de-stress him.

‘Time to get back to a murder enquiry,' he announced to himself.

H
enry was alone. He stood in the major incident room and surveyed the walls. On them were photographs of the burned-out Astra, the body of Jodie Greaves inside the boot; George Uren's dead body was also displayed up there, his neck gaping with that dreadful wound. Charts abounded: timelines, ‘family' connection trees, flip charts with ‘to do' lists on them, staff availability and commitments. Henry mooched around, his brain taking in everything, ticking over, trying to get back on track.

Thinking the case had been solved with Morrison's false confession, the incident with his mother and the Jane Roscoe fiasco had all managed to knock him off track, make him take his eye off the ball.

His mother's burglary had triggered something in his cogitations, but the importance of it was eluding him. He wasn't sure if it was a valuable thought, but it was annoying him that he could not draw it up to daylight from the depths of his grey matter.

His hands were thrust deep in his pockets.

He was alone in the room because it was six thirty p.m. and everyone had gone for food. The room would start to refill in about ten minutes. He sat down at one of the desks, thinking hard.

‘C'mon, dumb-ass,' he chided himself. ‘Think.' He reached over and picked up the Intel file on Uren, skimming through its contents. He paused at the section devoted to Uren's finances. It detailed his National Insurance number and that he drew meagre unemployment benefit. A paltry figure, Henry thought, hardly enough to sustain anyone. So how could he afford to run a fairly new Vauxhall Astra? Uren's bank accounts had been discovered and there was little in them. Yet if he was travelling and was responsible for the other abductions in other forces, and maybe beyond, he needed cash to operate.

‘Show me the money,' Henry muttered to himself.

Uren travelled and committed crime, so therefore he was a travelling crim, but the offences he was suspected of committing were not cash generators. Abducting kids did not make money. But he needed cash to operate.

Henry sat back and wondered if he had the answer.

Quickly walking back to his office, he picked up the Intel reports that Jerry Tope had dumped on his desk when he'd hypothesized that Morrison was not the man they were after. The reports detailed the three other abductions from surrounding forces, including MO, locations, times and dates.

‘I bloody wonder,' Henry said – again to himself. He was doing too much of that lately, chatting alone. Not good. The first sign of madness.

His mobile rang:
‘
Jumpin' Jack Flash', the ring tone the chief constable had once told him to get rid of as it was unprofessional. Because of that, Henry had kept it. It was Debbie Black.

‘How goes it?'

‘Not good. Family distraught, getting worse by the minute. Even so, I need to get home for a day or two, if that's OK? The incident room is up and running here, as you know, so I could do with a breather, please. Need to get my washing done.'

‘Yeah, no problem … just one thing I could do with you to have a look at first, if you don't mind.'

‘Go on,' she said unenthusiastically.

‘The location Jodie was taken from? Is there any sheltered housing, old people's accommodation, anything like that nearby?'

‘If you remember,' she said in a rather pedantic way, ‘Jodie was actually on her way to see her granny, who lives in an old people's complex nearby.'

Henry did remember, after being reminded, that is. He resisted the temptation to say, ‘I've got a lot on my plate,' but bluffed by saying, ‘Right, yeah, I recall.' Debbie's silence at the other end let him know she wasn't taken in. ‘This is a bit of a long shot, but could you make some enquiries with the police over there, just see what other crimes have been reported in the area, say up to two weeks before Jodie was taken … I suppose I'm looking for burglaries, bogus official-type offences, distractions.'

‘Henry, I'm completely goosed. I've been living out of a suitcase over here, in a hotel room, all at short notice, I might add.' She sounded harrassed. ‘I've got a hire car, but I've had enough and need a bit of a break. I need to get home and sink into my own bath, y'know?'

Henry bit his tongue, fighting back the urge to tell her she was also being paid well enough for her time and that she was a cop twenty-four hours a day, blah, blah, blah. He didn't. ‘I know it's hard, but if you could just do that for me, then come back and we'll reassess everything. How's that sound?'

‘Urgh,' she said sullenly.

‘If you can make it back before closing, we could have a drink,' he volunteered, then winced. Why the hell he'd said it, he didn't know. She would surely see it as a come-on.

‘I'll hold you to that,' she said, suddenly sounding eager. ‘We have unfinished business, don't we?' she added, sultry now.

Henry hung up, doing a silent scream again. Mr Self-Destruct was at it again, the man who could not say no. He growled at himself and picked up the Intel reports again, sure there was something else he was missing. Before he could concentrate, his desk phone rang, making him jump.

‘Henry, it's me, Jane. I'm in comms on the seventh floor.' Her voice was urgent. ‘A report's just come in … a young girl's gone missing on Shoreside. There's something about it. I'm not happy.'

Kerry Figgis, nine years old,' Jane Roscoe said, reading out loud from the report on the monitor of the computer screen in comms. ‘Mother sent her to the shop at six o'clock and she never returned.'

Henry automatically checked the wall clock: six fifty-three p.m. Missing for almost an hour now, the report having come into the police at six forty-five. A uniformed patrol was at the family house and another mobile patrol was combing the streets. Henry swallowed, a trickle of seat beaded from his hairline down his temple. He tugged at his collar. He was torn. As senior officer it was incumbent on him to keep an overview of what was unfolding, but as a hands-on cop he wanted to be at the scene, directing people, pointing this way and that.

Jane was eyeing him, sensing his tension. ‘Could be nothing,' she said. ‘We deal with thousands of mispers each year. Most turn up unscathed.'

‘Not all go missing when we're hunting for a child murderer, though,' he said.

‘Might be no connection whatsoever.'

‘Well, until we know different, we'll treat it as though it's the next victim, although, again, it doesn't fit the pattern. But then again, where is it written down that crims have to stick to patterns?'

‘It isn't, though they often do.'

‘And, remember – we interrupted something when we spotted Uren and his pal in Fleetwood; if Morrison isn't the mystery guy, and it looks like he isn't, then we have to assume that whoever he is, is still out there, still on the prowl. Maybe we've made him act outside his normal pattern?'

Jane understood. There was no egg-on-face to run an MFH enquiry as though it was a murder. Better safe than stupid. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘All the bread-and-butter stuff. Make sure the bobby on the scene does the initial house search and get a real story from the parents or whoever's in charge. Take it from there.'

‘Alpha Six to Blackpool,' the voice of the first officer at the scene called up.

‘Go ahead,' The radio operator dealing with the incident was sitting close to Henry and Jane, earphones on. The two detectives could hear the conversation through their own PRs.

‘Done a quick search of the house, no trace of the misper. Got a description if you want to circulate?'

‘OK, go ahead – you're on talk-through,' meaning the officer could be heard by all other patrols on that frequency.

He began to relay the description of Kerry Figgis over the airwaves. Henry listened, nostrils flaring. In his uniformed days he had reported dozens of kids missing, and most had turned up just as he was circulating their details. Without exception, they had all come home or been found sooner or later. He'd even found one hiding in a wardrobe, another in a garden shed, just to wind up the parents, which was why an initial house search was essential.

‘DCI Christie to Alpha Six,' Henry said when the officer had completed the transmission, using his PR. ‘Can you talk?'

‘Yes.' Meaning he could not be overheard by the family.

‘Quick situation report, please.'

‘OK, boss. Kerry left home at six from the house on Cloister Parade to go to the shop next to the pub on Preston Road.'

‘By what route?'

‘Down the Parade, up through Song Thrush Walk and out on to Preston Road.'

‘Is it a route she's done before?'

‘Yeah, lots of times, apparently.'

‘How long should it take for her to get to the shop?'

‘Three minutes, maximum.'

‘Did she get there?'

‘No.'

‘OK – first impressions?'

‘Genuine,' he said firmly. ‘She's never been missing before, family say there's been no falling-out or disagreements … I'm concerned at this moment in time.'

‘Thanks for that,' Henry said.

‘Alpha Nine to Blackpool,' another patrol called up. ‘I'm at the shop now and they know this girl well. Just to confirm, she hasn't been in, not today anyway.'

‘OK, could she be with friends?'

‘Just starting that enquiry now.'

‘Shit,' Henry said, but not down the radio. Panic welled up, but he controlled it, looking thoughtfully at Jane Roscoe. ‘Song Thrush Walk,' he said quietly. ‘AKA Psycho Alley … bugger.' He made a decision. ‘Whether or not this is linked to our job or not, we do this properly because I'm not taking any chances. Get all available resources to the area, road-policing unit, dogs, ARV's, Support Unit and whoever else is knocking about. I want some initial hasty searches and I want the patrol inspector to get his or her arse down there, get an RV point sorted and this all coordinated.' He was almost breathless, counting off the things on his fingers. ‘You stay in here, Jane … I'm going to speak to the family.'

‘No surprise there,' she muttered.

‘I'll feel better on the ground, at least initially.' They regarded each other. ‘Have I missed anything?'

In the gap between question and response, the radio blared again.

‘Alpha Nine to Blackpool – urgent!'

‘Go ahead,' the comms operator replied.

‘Got a witness who saw a young girl getting into a car on the Preston Road side of Song Thrush Walk, on the car park behind the shops … from the description of the girl, it sound like our misper.'

Henry Christie did not want to make any more assumptions. Without exception, they always came round like an angry alligator and bit your arse – rather like his blind, but short-lived, belief that Morrison was the killer he was after. Which was why, as he sat in the living room of the Figgis household, he was not going to immediately decide that George Uren's mystery partner and probable murderer was responsible for what appeared to be the disappearance of Kerry Figgis.

In most cases, it was someone close to the victim anyway; a friend, relative, work colleague, who was responsible for the crime. As much as TV drama, films and the factual news liked to sensationalize, most abductions and murders were committed by someone in this category, not a super serial killer. Most murders were grubby, unspectacular, sordid, brutal affairs committed by half-wits and doom-brains, not by masterminds.

Which was good in one respect because Henry usually felt intellectually superior to the majority of people he locked up.

He looked at the room. It was comfortably, if cheaply, kitted out, with mainly self-assembly furniture, all of which was chipped and knocked. The three-piece suite was tatty, worn and looked very comfy. The pictures on the walls were inexpensive but reasonably tasteful prints bought from DIY superstores.

Henry had never come across the Figgis clan before, so that was a positive for him as he sat there, trying not to stereotype another family existing on a council estate.