Demolition, page 6
Hoping that the castors weren’t locked in place, he spread both hands, placed his palms against the chest and gave a mighty shove.
Much to his relief, the wheels turned and the chest began to roll. He pushed hard, making it gather momentum quickly in spite of its weight.
And as it sped up, Henry emitted a howl of rage like a battle cry.
He fully expected to meet some resistance – more shots being fired or the appearance of the shooter to one side – and he thought he would somehow have to change the direction of the tool chest in order to keep the barrier up, but nothing came at him – no shots, no attack, zilch.
Puzzled, he gave one mighty heave, sending the chest rolling across the workshop floor, but instead of going with it, keeping his head down, he stood up – just in time to see the shooter run out of the workshop by way of an outward-opening galvanized steel fire door in the side wall, closing the door behind as they left.
Keeping to a crouch, Henry ran across, slammed down the panic bar, then slowed down as he pivoted out.
By this time the shooter was a good forty metres in the distance, running across James Twain’s well-tended lawn and heading towards a door set into a brick wall surrounding what Henry assumed was a hidden garden or an orchard.
The shooter stopped at this door, turned, saw Henry, and once more the gun came up and took aim.
Although the gap between the two of them was of a distance that would make it difficult for anyone, however skilled with a firearm, to be accurate with a handgun, Henry wasn’t about to take a chance.
Whoever was behind that mask, dressed in a full-body forensic suit, looked to have got over the surprise of being discovered at the scene of a murder that they may well have committed and was now confident enough to take a breath and drop into a shooting stance.
Henry did a twirl, not willing to find out if this person was a brilliant sharpshooter or just dead lucky.
He twisted back through the fire door into the workshop, closed it behind him, leaned back in relief against the door and almost had heart failure when two bullets slammed into the door either side of his head, not coming through the steel but causing indentations.
Henry sagged instantly to a squat and rolled sideways as a further two bullets hit the door a couple of feet below the first two where his back had been resting. Neither of these bullets penetrated the steel.
He held his position then, wondering if the intruder was going to return, but a few moments later he heard the sound of a motorcycle engine being revved up and then disappearing into the distance.
The breath he exhaled then was long and stuttering.
He was lying on his back, looking up towards the roof of the workshop. He turned his head and looked along the floor at the body of James Twain whose face, distorted and misshapen from the horrific blunt force trauma the back of his head had suffered, was twisted towards Henry. Only one of Twain’s eyes was open, and it seemed, even in death, to be glaring accusingly at Henry.
FIVE
Even though Henry was now back home, sitting in his favourite armchair in the living room of the owner’s accommodation at The Tawny Owl, no matter how hard he tried, he could not erase the image of a dead man’s eye from his own, inner, mind’s eye.
Whether or not his own eyes were wide open or tightly shut, he was struggling to rub out the way in which James Twain’s single eyeball seemed to stare malevolently at him across the blood-soaked floor of the workshop, as though blaming Henry for his horrific demise.
Henry now had his eyes shut and was kneading his eyelids with a finger and thumb as though attempting to massage away that one-eyed accusing glare, but also to try to ease the storming headache that had come thundering on since returning home.
‘Here, old guy.’
He’d been so deep in his own world that he hadn’t even heard the living-room door open and close and someone come in.
His eyes snapped open.
Standing in front of him, in what Henry would have fairly recently dismissed as clothing entirely inappropriate for a detective or any other plain-clothes cop – unless undercover and the role demanded it – was Detective Sergeant Debbie Blackstone. Even though Henry had learned not to judge, sometimes her appearance still had the power to make him blink twice. Today: pink, punk-like spiked hair, a face full of studs including one, he knew from previously, affixed to her tongue and one looped through her nose, plus the others in her ears and lips; clothing consisting of a short denim jacket with Ban the Bomb patches over a Sex Pistols T-shirt, a tartan mini-skirt, deliberately laddered black tights and pink Doc Marten boots.
She was out of control but in a good way, Henry had learned.
She was holding a mug of steaming tea which she proffered to him. ‘Here,’ she said again, ‘we need to look after our ageing population even if they have desecrated the future of planet Earth.’
Henry shook his head – not a debate he wanted to rise to, ever. He took the brew.
‘Just as you like it,’ Blackstone said. ‘Full-cream milk, strong as fuck and eight heaped sugars – just that energy boost you clearly need after the shock you’ve had.’
She blubbed her bottom lip with her first and second fingers, indicating he was a cry baby.
Henry took a sip and ignored the jibe. The tea was exactly right – middling strong, a drop of skimmed milk, no sugar, exactly how he liked it, as Blackstone knew.
‘Tastes good,’ he said genuinely, looking at her.
DS Debbie Blackstone had been his immediate boss and running partner during his tenure as a civilian investigator on the Cold Case Unit, and despite her appearance and often grating personality, her unrelenting piss-taking of him about his age and what she called his ‘Gammon views’ (he had no idea what that meant), he found her to be one of the best, most committed detectives he had ever known and now, although he didn’t let it be widely known, a good friend.
‘We’re going to need to talk to you good and proper now, you know that, don’t you?’ Blackstone told him. ‘“We” being the real cops, that is.’
He nodded, curling both hands around the mug. ‘I’m just having a bit of difficulty purging the moment that three eyes met across a blood-soaked workshop floor … his eye and my two.’
‘Really?’
Henry shrugged.
‘Whatever, I’m just forewarning you that Diane will be around to talk to you shortly,’ Blackstone said.
‘I’ve already given her my story.’
‘We know. We need more detail now, apparently, and a written statement.’
Henry shrugged again and sighed, and it was his turn to say, ‘Whatever,’ even though he knew this was coming … it had to.
He had already spoken to the police at the scene of James Twain’s murder.
Half an hour ago, as Henry started to get slowly to his feet in the workshop, Jake Niven had arrived and blundered into the crime scene in his size elevens. Henry shouted a warning as he came through the door from the corridor to stop where he was while Henry went over to meet him. Before he’d had the chance to explain anything to Jake, Diane Daniels, Blackstone and another detective turned up, and Diane instructed Jake to sit Henry down in the police Land Rover once Henry had quickly filled them in on the scene, what had happened and his encounters with Celia Twain.
It seemed that somewhere wires had been crossed. No cops had split off to go to The Tawny Owl and all had converged on the murder scene.
Henry suggested it might be a good idea to get someone there ASAP and take Celia to a police station, either voluntarily or under arrest on suspicion of murder if necessary, so she could be dealt with forensically, her clothing bagged, samples and photographs taken.
Henry then sat like a good boy in Jake’s Land Rover for about twenty minutes while the cops were busy at the scene; he watched further arrivals, including a dog patrol and the police helicopter, the latter taking up noisy station over the Twain’s house, presumably awaiting instructions.
Finally Jake appeared, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
‘It’s like Fred Karno’s circus in there,’ he said, adding nothing more. Except, ‘I’ve been told to get Celia to Blackpool nick and book her in.’
‘Better late than never,’ Henry said caustically. He was now bored and irritable.
‘Agreed,’ Jake said. ‘There’s some big argy-bargy going on about who should have gone to deal with her … obviously, I’m in the firing line, but I know I told comms to send a patrol or a detective to Th’Owl and sort her out, but it got lost in all the excitement.’
‘It’ll be on the log if necessary.’
‘I know,’ Jake muttered, vexed. ‘Anyway, it’s my job now, apparently.’
‘And what about me?’ Henry asked.
‘They’ll see you back there in due course – but you mustn’t come into contact with Celia, and we want your clothing bagged up, too.’
‘OK,’ Henry said wearily. ‘Do you want me to strip here and now?’
‘Let’s split the difference. I’ll grab a couple of evidence bags and you do it at Th’Owl, under my supervision, obviously.’
‘OK.’ Henry didn’t have the inclination to argue. He slid out of the Land Rover, got into his Audi and they met back at the pub.
Celia was still in the snug being quietly supervised by Ginny and also Maude, who had volunteered to help. As Henry came up the front steps, Ginny ran out to meet him and he quickly explained what was happening and that he could not come into contact with Celia now that he’d been embroiled in the actual crime scene, and that Jake, who had pulled up on the car park, was going to deal with her.
‘Was it bad?’ Ginny asked. ‘Was it like she described?’
‘And more,’ Henry said grimly but didn’t elucidate.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Mmm … has she said anything more?’
‘No, hardly a word since you left, other than she wants to change her clothes, and I don’t blame her – she’s covered in blood.’
‘She’ll have to do that down at the station under supervision,’ Henry said. ‘They’ll want all her clothes for analysis and they’ll want to question her. They’ll probably stick her in a forensic suit.’
Henry went through to the living quarters where he stripped and dropped his outer clothes into evidence bags being held open by Jake, who then sealed the bags. He put them in the front passenger seat of his vehicle and returned to deal with Celia.
Henry, changed into his jogging bottoms and an old hoodie, stood and watched as Jake spoke to Celia, who seemed numb and unresponsive at first, but when Jake told her she was under arrest on suspicion of murder, cautioned and cuffed her, she sagged down to her knees, completely devastated and verging on hysterical. Jake had to catch her and heft her gently through the pub and into the back of the Land Rover.
Henry retreated to the living room where he slumped into his armchair and began reviewing things, but he kept getting stuck on James Twain’s single, accusing, eyeball.
‘There is one thing I might just mention to you, Henry,’ Blackstone began in a hushed, confidential tone of voice as Henry sipped on his mug of tea. ‘A heads-up, you might say.’
‘And that is?’
‘It’s a bit awks,’ she said, using the shortened version of ‘awkward’ often utilized by younger people and applied to problematic social situations.
‘Tell me, I’m a grown man.’
‘Well,’ she said, about to impart some rocket-fuelled news. She was forced to stop abruptly when the living-room door opened and Diane Daniels hustled in, followed by the male detective who had arrived at the murder scene with her. Blackstone’s mouth clamped shut. She looked at Henry wide-eyed and quickly said, ‘Can’t say.’
‘Can’t say what?’ Diane asked, overhearing this.
‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all,’ Blackstone said delicately.
‘OK, good,’ Diane said, all business. To Blackstone, she said, ‘OK, DS Blackstone, I think we can take it from here. I want you to get back to the scene, please. I’m appointing you as crime scene manager for the time being at least.’ She spoke politely, firmly, but with a hint of chill.
Puzzled, Henry watched the exchange and the furrows on his brow grew even deeper when Blackstone answered, ‘OK, boss, on my way.’ He was confused on two fronts. The first was Blackstone’s presence to begin with, because as a cold case operative she did not turn out to murders. Henry was going to ask her earlier but hadn’t had the chance. His secondary confusion was about Blackstone’s subservience to Diane, calling her ‘boss’.
He shrugged inwardly. No doubt the questions would be answered in due course.
Blackstone gave Henry a quick, surreptitious wink and turned to leave as Diane and the detective she’d arrived with moved to stand in front of him. Blackstone stopped at the door and looked at Henry between the two detectives, gave an Eek! expression and left.
Henry looked at Diane and the guy.
‘Mind if we sit?’ Diane asked rather formally.
Henry gestured to the settee and the other armchair. Diane perched on the edge of the settee at an angle to Henry, and the male detective sat in the armchair across the room, directly opposite, and looked appraisingly at Henry as if trying to weigh him up. Henry wondered if he knew of his bad-boy reputation.
He smiled at him, then looked at Diane, who squirmed on the cushion.
‘How are you feeling?’ she enquired.
‘I’ll be honest. I’m a bit shook up.’
‘Only to be expected. Anyone would be – finding a murder victim, then having someone shoot at you.’
Henry knew just how empathetic Diane would be because she had been shot and badly wounded not so long ago; Henry had saved her life, and she had been on the critical list for a long time, could have died, had first-hand experience of it.
Henry just nodded. His head was really beginning to throb now.
‘We need you to go through everything step by step, Mr Christie,’ the male detective said from across the room.
‘I think I already told you,’ Henry said, although he knew it hadn’t been in the detail required.
‘Tell us again,’ the male detective said, and in three patronizing words managed to wind Henry right up.
‘So,’ Henry said, just to wind him up in turn, ‘I think we’ve yet to be formally introduced. You know who I am … you are—?’
‘Uh, this is DCI Wellhaven,’ Diane interrupted. ‘Mark Wellhaven, my new boss on FMIT.’
‘Ah,’ Henry said, as though the name meant something to him, which it did. Now he understood what Blackstone had meant by ‘awks’.
Wellhaven smirked.
And Henry swallowed a chill pill. ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’ he said.
Wellhaven continued with the smirk. ‘Nope.’
‘You’re a transferee from another force, I believe?’
‘West Yorkshire,’ he confirmed, eyes narrowing.
Henry’s eyes went sideways to Diane. ‘And I’m assuming you’re Detective Inspector Daniels now? Are congratulations in order?’
‘I’m substantive, yes,’ she confirmed.
Their eyes held each other’s for a moment longer than necessary, and Henry could not help but feel a steel blade of hurt penetrating his heart as he looked ever so briefly into the eyes of the woman who had publicly, if accidentally, dumped him not so very long ago – and yes, it still riled him – and who had now turned up with her new boss who, Henry had heard on the gossip grapevine, was also her new boyfriend. Or lover. Or whatever.
And the mischievous devil on Henry’s left shoulder urged him to look at Wellhaven, hold up his right hand, cross his fingers and say, with arched eyebrows, ‘You two, huh?’ with a nod and a wink.
Wellhaven stiffened, and Henry regretted his childishness immediately, but his little red friend danced a jig.
Diane said frostily, ‘Can we just get on, children?’
With a very false smile affixed to his face, Henry said, ‘It would be a pleasure to further assist the police.’
‘We will need a written statement, but this will do for now.’ Diane had voice-recorded Henry’s ‘version of events’, as she liked to call it, on her mobile phone, followed by a short question-and-answer session to clear up some points.
She picked up her phone from the coffee table and switched off the record function, at which moment the phone rang. She checked the screen. ‘It’s the boss,’ she said to Wellhaven, which Henry understood to mean Rik Dean. ‘I need to take this. Excuse me.’
She stood up and left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Henry and Wellhaven alone.
There was a period of tense silence, broken when Wellhaven said, ‘I hear you were a good detective back in the day.’
Henry snorted a laugh.
‘That probably didn’t come out as I intended,’ Wellhaven said quickly. ‘I just meant you have a good reputation.’
‘I did OK,’ Henry said vaguely.
More tense silence.
‘Look … mate … we didn’t mean this to happen.’ Wellhaven crossed his fingers. ‘You know. This. Me. Diane.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything.’
‘I love her,’ Wellhaven blurted, then fidgeted and reddened up.
‘Best of luck with that,’ Henry said sourly.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Before Henry could formulate an answer that would have prevented this uncomfortable exchange – he hesitated to call it a conversation or discussion – from going tits up, Diane came back in and hurriedly announced, ‘We need to go, Mark – another murder’s come in, a shooting.’
Wellhaven shot out of the armchair, and Henry could tell the guy was relieved at having to attend a murder rather than spend any more time with Henry. Typical bloke, Henry thought, would rather see a dead body than talk feelings.
‘Got a name?’ Henry asked.
Diane hesitated, obviously wondering if she should tell Henry, then relented. ‘Marcus Durham. Ring any bells?’
It did, but Henry didn’t get the chance to say anything as Diane’s phone rang again, and she and Wellhaven left without waiting for an answer.
