Psycho Alley (29 page)

He showed it to Donaldson, then decided to reply to it.

Who are you?
he asked simply and sent it.

old frend,
came the response, which he again showed to Donaldson.

‘Crank?' he suggested.

‘Or kidnapper?' Henry took a deep breath, wondering what he should be doing about the texts. If they were from a pay-as-you-go number, there would be little hope of tracing them. SIM cards were easy to register in false names. If they were from contract phones, which he doubted, there was a good chance of locating the source. ‘I'll see what I can do about tracing these now,' he said. ‘It's getting beyond a joke. But first let's get my car from the pub, then get your device checked out, then I'm going to see the Figgis family.'

‘Holy shit!'

‘Must've happened after we'd left.'

‘You really have upset someone, Henry.'

They were standing on the Tram and Tower car park inspecting Henry's Ford Mondeo. The pub landlord, Ken Clayson, was with them.

‘You not see anything?' Henry asked Clayson.

The bearded landlord shook his head. ‘Not a sausage.'

The Mondeo, once a lovely shiny blue colour, had been the first brand-new car Henry had ever owned. He'd got a good deal on it and, though dubbed ‘Mondeo Man' by his colleagues, had been pleased with it and looked after it well. Now, with a metal pole smashed through the windscreen, four tyres slashed, deep gouges scarred along each side and the headlights shattered, he did not really like it very much. He rubbed his tired face and groaned. He walked round the car and saw that the pole through the windscreen was actually a metal bar, possibly a piece of railing, with a spike on the end now embedded in the driver's seat. A warning? Threat? You next?

‘It's got to be someone from GMP,' Henry said, shaking his head. Donaldson knew what he was talking about because he had been involved with that too. ‘Or maybe an irate husband,' he muttered under his breath. ‘Or maybe even my boss.'

‘What you gonna do?' Donaldson asked.

‘Report it as a crime, get CSI out, then get it towed to a garage and get it repaired. Claim on the insurance,' he finished. ‘Going to have to get a runabout from work, I suppose. Bugger,' he blasted. ‘Just what I need.'

Donaldson patted him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, old chap.'

‘Cheer up? Fuck off, Karl,' he said. ‘And you can fuck off as well, Clayson,' he said to the landlord. ‘If it wasn't for you, I'd only feel horrendously bad; as it is, your trade, the way you insidiously force drink down unwary men who should know better, is making me feel like my head's stuck down a bog.'

Clayson took it all in good part and invited the pair of them in for a coffee, gratefully accepted.

A cleaner, accompanied by an extremely loud Dyson vacuum, was working her way round the empty pub, ensuring that Henry, Donaldson and the landlord had to shout to make themselves heard. They had a general conversation about how crime had got out of hand and considered options for a new car for Henry; Henry also asked Clayson questions about the possible identities of his assailants last night, but he did not have any ideas. When his mobile rang, he excused himself and went to stand outside the pub in the spot where he'd been attacked.

‘Hello … sorry … Henry Christie.' It was not a good line, lots of echo and fading signal.

‘Mr Christie, this is Jackie Harcourt from the bail hostel in Accrington.'

‘Oh, hello Jackie, sorry, Ms Harcourt.' Henry remembered her well. He had never heard her voice over the phone, but there was something strangely familiar about it.

‘Remember me?'

‘Yes, of course.' Bit of a chilly woman, he recalled. It was only a few days earlier he'd met her, but it seemed an eon ago. She had not been too impressed by Henry, and Rik Dean in particular.

‘I'd like to see you,' she said quickly, as if, if she hadn't been quick, the words would not have come out.

‘OK, when and why? I'm pretty busy at the moment.'

‘Look … look …' Suddenly she sounded fraught. ‘It has to be today, this morning, it has to be, otherwise forget it.'

‘Are you OK? You sound upset.'

‘I need to see you today. I need to see you about George Uren. Please. If not today, forget it.'

‘All right,' he said, mystified. This did not sound like the in-control, businesslike woman who had expelled him and Rik from the hostel for stepping out of line.

‘It's important,' she stressed, gasping back a sob.

‘Where and when?' Henry said. Something told him it was more than important. ‘Bearing in mind I'm in Blackpool. I can set off in a few minutes, though.'

‘Right … er … not at the hostel … er.' It was obvious she couldn't think of anywhere.

‘Do you know the Dunkenhalgh?' Henry cut in, realizing her thought process was addled for some reason. The Dunkenhalgh was the name of an hotel just off the M65 motorway on the outskirts of Accrington.

‘Yes, I do.' She sounded relieved.

‘I'll be there in an hour, traffic permitting. We can have a coffee there.'

‘Yes, thanks, that'd be good.' She hung up. Henry checked and saw the number she had dialled from was withheld.

‘Thank you too,' he said to thin air. Before going back inside the pub, he made a call to John Walker, the detective from technical support, had a quick conversation, then headed indoors.

‘Yeah, yeah, I've seen someone fried,' Donaldson was telling Ken Clayson, the landlord. Their discussion had moved on to the death penalty. ‘Jump about like catfish on a pole – zzzz!' Donaldson demonstrated, twitching in his chair.

Clayson winced uncomfortably. ‘Ugh!'

‘Sorry to interrupt such an intellectual discussion,' Henry said. ‘Work to be done.'

‘You really seen someone burn?' Henry's curiosity had got the better of him. They were on the M55, heading east into Lancashire, away from the flat coast towards hill country. Henry had commandeered Donaldson and his Jeep to drive him across to the industrial hinterland and Donaldson had agreed without a murmur of dissent. Now the big vehicle was ploughing its heavy way through a torrential downpour with the assuredness of a tank.

‘Nah. Seen videos. Never been up close and personal, though.'

‘Thought as much, you bullshitter.'

They lapsed into silence as they came to the end of the M55 and joined the M6 south, a stretch of motorway spanning the River Ribble, which held some shaky memories for Henry. Since those days the motorway had been widened and looked nothing like the carriageway on which he'd seen a bomb explode with devastating consequences.

‘What does this broad want?'

‘Hard to say. She sounded upset by something. I do think she knows more than she let on originally, though, but something held her back from blabbing. I could tell.'

Donaldson powered on to the M61. The rain continued to drive hard, the road surface running like a river, the day black. His headlights cut through the wall of water thrown up by other vehicles. He took a quick glance at Henry. ‘Someone means business with you, Henry,' he said, changing the subject.

‘I know.' He was glum, worried.

‘Who is it?'

Henry made a raspberry sound. ‘I've already speculated with you.'

‘You think the guys who went for you last night are the ones who did your car?'

‘Stands to reason, I suppose.'

‘Or could it be someone else?'

‘Fuck knows – but I'll find out.'

‘How?'

‘I'll find out – trust me.'

Silence descended again. He could have told Donaldson he had something up his sleeve to identify the car wrecker(s), but it was something he wanted to keep to himself for the time being.

Donaldson joined the M65, heading in the direction of Blackburn and Accrington.

‘It's over three years since I spoke to Mark Tapperman's wife,' Donaldson said thoughtfully.

‘You never told me he'd been murdered.'

‘No real need. I knew you didn't know him, so he would've meant nothing to you. I don't tell you everything I know, pal.'

‘And I thank God for that … but there was the Danny Furness connection.'

Donaldson shrugged. ‘He helped her out, is all.'

‘Whatever.'

‘He was a good cop, Tapperman. It must've taken someone very evil to get the better of him.'

‘It's always the routine jobs that catch you out,' Henry said. ‘Next junction.'

The Dunkenhalgh was a nice hotel, set in lovely wooded grounds close to the motorway. It had even been the location of several of Henry's drunken excesses during the earlier years of his service. He'd been to quite a few police functions there. He'd even had to work there on police business occasionally. Once, during the mid-eighties when he was on Support Unit, he'd spent a night there policing the local annual hunt ball at a time when anti-hunt protesters were causing a lot of problems. In the end, nothing happened that night, except that Henry and a couple of his wilder colleagues got drunk on duty and, to his everlasting kudos, Henry actually ended up getting a blow job from one of the lady hunt members on a four-poster bed in her room. It had been an exciting indiscretion, made all the more hazardous because her husband was on the dance floor and Henry's sergeant, a vindictive little man who despised Henry, was trying to find him.

Heady days, very special times, he thought as Donaldson drove up the long driveway to the hotel. How the hell he got away with some of the things he did he would never know. It was a classic notch on his headboard, one he occasionally relived with much pleasure and, sometimes, a cold sweat.

In those days of pre-marriage, he had often been wild and reckless.
So what's changed?
he asked himself, then realized at that exact moment, on a complete tangent, why Jackie Harcourt's voice was so familiar over the phone: she had been the crying woman.

Ms Jackie Harcourt was waiting in the conservatory, a mineral water in front of her. She looked perplexed when she saw Henry had brought a colleague with him, and Henry saw her face drop. He introduced Donaldson and explained he was simply the taxi service, and that seemed to appease her. Donaldson took the hint.

‘I'll get me a coffee,' he said, backing away.

‘Do you want one?' Ms Harcourt asked Henry. He nodded. A waiter came over and took his order as he sat down on the opposite end of the comfortable sofa on which she was seated.

Her eyes did not meet Henry's, but she asked, ‘Can we wait for the coffee to come before we start?'

‘Sure,' said Henry, wishing he'd asked for a water now. He'd had so much coffee that morning, he was starting to shake.

He looked at her, reaffirming that she was a lovely-looking lady, even if her lines were slightly angular. She was wearing a black trouser suit with a buttoned-up peach blouse, no visible jewellery. ‘Nice spot here,' Henry said.

‘Mm. I use the fitness club …' she said quietly, looked down at the carpet. ‘Or did … kinda let myself go to seed a bit recently.'

Henry would have disagreed.

The coffee came. Rich, dark, Brazilian, probably containing a double shot of caffeine. He sipped it and it hit the spot with a frisson. ‘Now then, you have something for me?' he ventured. She nodded, still avoiding his eyes. Henry waited a couple of beats. ‘And?'

Ms Harcourt sat up, fidgeting, pulling at her earlobes, her head bobbing as though an internal wrestling match was taking place. Finally she sighed whilst smoothing down her trousers.

‘Remember you told Walter Pollack you'd come back to haunt him?'

‘Yes – not my exact words, though the sentiment is about right.'

‘I said it was a frightening thing to say.'

‘So I recall.'

She paused. Her lips went tight, thin, bitter-looking. Her nostrils flared and she took an unsteady breath. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘What is it, Jackie?' Henry said quietly.

Now she did turn and look at him. ‘I'm glad he's dead,' she said passionately. ‘So, so glad.'

‘I take it you're referring to George Uren?' Henry said.

She nodded. ‘But even so, the nightmare's not over.' Her voice was barely audible now against the background. She inspected her fingernails. ‘Not for me, anyway.'

‘Something happened between you and him,' Henry guessed.

‘It did.'

Another pause ensued in what had become a very stilted conversation, but Henry knew not to push anything in case it all fell apart. It was an understatement to say his inquisitiveness was burning him up, but something was telling him he had to play this very cagily.

She continued. ‘Whilst he was at the hostel I could sense he had a “thing” about me.' She tweaked her fingers on the word ‘thing'. ‘And it wasn't an ego thing on my part, God forbid,' she said defensively. ‘I wouldn't want anyone in that place to have a “thing” about me, particularly him. Fact is, most offenders who come to the hostel don't even give me a second glance. They're all usually pathetic cowards, anyway. I'm just another authority figure and most of them despise me. But Uren …' She closed her eyes. Her body shuddered. ‘The looks he gave me, the one-off comments, the sneer in his expression … he made me feel very uncomfortable and vulnerable.'

‘Did he ever do anything?'

‘Not while he was at the hostel.' She shot Henry a look of warning not to interrupt. ‘Let me finish.' He nodded. She sipped her drink, hands quivering. ‘When he did a runner, I was glad. He really, really made me scared, not like the rest of them. I was happy he'd gone.' She did more fiddling about, hesitating unsurely. ‘He had a visitor once, a creepy guy who gave some details – all visitors have to sign in, but I didn't tell you that the other day because I was annoyed with you. I'm pretty sure the details are false, though. I've got the book with me, if it's of any use.'