Dead Heat (38 page)

A procession of police cars turned into the driveway leading to the house, their blue lights flashing dramatically.

At last, Henry thought sourly, help had arrived.

H
enry knew what he had to do, but it was a finely balanced thing. He needed to keep control, to hold people back, and it was damned hard because of one simple fact: he had no power as a cop and no one was obliged to listen to him if they did not wish to do so.

He insisted that Tara was taken to hospital immediately, accompanied by Charlotte. That, at least, got them off the scene and out of the way of any police questioning, which is what he wanted. He needed to get all the attention on himself so he could keep a grip on proceedings.

He faced a barrage of questions from Jane Roscoe and a detective superintendent from the SIO team by the name of Anger . . . by name and nature, Henry thought. Henry did not know Anger, but learned he had recently been appointed on transfer from Merseyside Police.

Henry kept it all as simple as he could, straight to the point, telling them the story he wanted them to hear. When he had had enough of their pressure, he told them he wished to make a statement that he would write himself in his own time.

That did not go down particularly well. The investigators wanted to take his account of the night, to question and clarify, to dig, as they went along, but he told them to sod off. ‘I've been a cop long enough to be able to do my own, thanks,' he said. ‘OK,' he shrugged, ‘you've got three dead people here, but they aren't going anywhere. Concentrate on the scene and see if you can find the person who whacked Verner.'

Anger stared at him hard. ‘Don't tell me how to do my job,' he said.

Henry looked back at him through half-closed lids.

There was a stand-off.

‘OK,' Anger relented, ‘but you do your statement here and now, no matter how long it takes.'

‘Fine,' Henry said, also giving way, knowing he would not be allowed to go anywhere without giving the police at least something. A PC gave him a few blank witness statement forms and Henry went to sit in John Lloyd Wickson's study, noticing, as he sat at the desk, the open firearms cabinet on the wall. He considered it through squinted eyes, then quickly began writing. It took about ninety minutes for him to get a draft of the basics which would suffice for the moment. He would flesh it out later, as appropriate.

He handed it to Jane Roscoe.

‘No trace of the marksman, sniper, whatever you want to call him.'

‘Didn't think there would be.'

Jane glanced through the statement, her brow furrowed as she read. ‘It's a bit . . . thin, don't you think?'

‘It'll do for now,' he said. ‘It's been a tough night and I need some sleep. Unless I'm a suspect, I'm off.'

She gave him a very suspicious look. ‘Don't leave town.'

‘Some hope.'

He jumped into the Astra and drove quickly away, not even daring to look back at the crime scenes: one with a charred, bullet-ridden body, the other with no body at all, just some mush, the other with a virtually headless man.

He had to get somewhere very quickly.

Although he had a very pressing task of his own to complete, Henry drove quickly to Blackpool Victoria Hospital and abandoned the Astra near the entrance to the A & E department. He made certain to lock the car and strode into the hospital and was relieved to find someone he knew working behind the reception desk. He was less relieved to see a few uniformed cops hovering around the waiting area, guessing they were here in connection with Tara Wickson. He hoped it would not come to a blagging contest with them.

‘Hello, Henry,' smiled the receptionist. Then she looked at him properly and saw what a state he was in: muddy face, clothes and shoes. Her eyebrows lifted, but to her credit she did not say anything.

‘Hi, Jackie.' He leaned on the counter and smiled back at her, hoping to recreate his usual air of laid-backness when on business at the hospital, which he often was. ‘How's it going? Busy?'

‘As always.'

‘I'm dealing with a job out at Poulton. One of the witnesses was brought in here a couple of hours ago by the name of Tara Wickson?'

Jackie tapped her computer, pointed at the screen with her finger. ‘Let's see . . . yes, that's right.'

‘Could do with seeing her for a quick chat. It's pretty urgent.'

‘Ooh, is it a murder?' Jackie asked enthusiastically.

‘A most brutal one,' Henry said without a word of a lie. ‘Hence the appearance.' He stood back and showed himself.

‘Let's see now . . . She's been seen . . . head wound . . . X-rayed . . . and admitted. It's Dr Caunce dealing if you want a word with her.'

Henry knew Caunce. He knew most of the A & E doctors because so much police business came through the hospital doors and the relationship between cops and doctors was usually pretty good.

‘Where can I find her?'

Jackie was about to pick up a phone when she glanced up past Henry and said, ‘There! Doctor Caunce,' she called.

Henry turned as the good doctor came towards him. She was stereotypical of the harassed doctors of the casualty wards the country over: young, tired, world weary, good-looking, stethoscope hanging around the neck, clipboard in hand.

‘Hi, Henry, what can I do for you? God, you look a mess!'

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,' he said. ‘Tara Wickson?'

‘Ahh . . . in deep shock . . . bad wound to the head. I've admitted her for observation on one of the general wards, but I have some concerns over her mental health at the moment. What exactly happened to her? I haven't been able to get a straight tale from anyone.'

‘She witnessed a murder.'

‘Ahh,' Caunce said again. ‘That explains a lot.'

‘Can I see her? Which ward is she on?'

‘Not actually been taken to the ward yet. She's still in a cubicle down there.' The doctor pointed. ‘She's sedated, not with it at all. Traumatized.'

‘Is her daughter with her?'

‘Yes.'

‘I do really need to talk to her.'

‘Fine,' said Caunce, ‘but it won't be easy.'

Henry nodded and peeled away down the corridor.

‘Henry,' Caunce called after him before he had gone two steps.

‘Yep?' He turned.

‘You still damned-well married?'

His face looked pained. He and Caunce had, in the past, done a lot of serious flirting which had never gone anywhere, but which had a lot of potential.

‘As good as,' he admitted.

‘Well, just so you know – I'm between relationships as we speak.'

‘Good to know. I'll bear it in mind.'

They were in a curtained cubicle. Charlotte was sitting beside the bed, holding her mother's hand, her head resting on the edge of the bed. Henry slid in through the curtain and observed the scene for a few moments. Tara's eyes were closed, with deep, recessed black marks around them, reminding Henry of a panda. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. She looked nothing like the glamorous woman he knew she was. The bandage wrapped around her head did not help, either. Henry winced, knowing that to treat the wound, they would have had to shave part of her hair off.

Charlotte raised her head and looked at Henry. She was an exhausted mess, hardly able to keep her eyes from shutting down. It did not help, Henry thought, that she had been taking drugs earlier and had then been raped. The night would have been bad enough without those added bonuses. He wondered who would be available to give her some immediate care. Obviously she could not go home.

‘Hi,' she croaked weakly.

‘Hi.' He stepped over to her and took her hand. ‘How's your mum?'

‘Totally out of it. I've never seen anyone like this before. She's really, really ill, I think.'

‘She's been through a lot.'

‘Henry, what happened? What was it all about? Where's my dad?'

She didn't know and Henry found himself at a loss. ‘Look,' he said, not wanting to duck out of the responsibility of telling her, but believing it was the better course of action at this moment in time. ‘I'm not completely sure myself. Don't worry your head about anything at the moment, other than looking after your mum, eh? She needs you right now.' Charlotte looked devastated and unable to cope with that. He lifted her chin. ‘How are you?' he asked tenderly.

She raised her chin off his fingertips and then stared at the floor, making no reply.

‘Your mum's going to get looked after in here, but you need to be looked after too, Charlotte, at least for a few hours.'

‘I'm staying here,' she bristled. ‘I'm staying with my mum.' Her eyes watered. ‘Is Dad dead?'

Henry nodded. ‘Sorry.'

She took that initial blow well, looking more puzzled than anything. He knew that sooner or later, no matter how bad the situation had been at home, Wickson's death would hit her hard. No matter which way it was looked at, he had been her father all her life, even though he wasn't biologically. She would be unable to think of him differently, ever, Henry guessed.

‘Your mum's going to get transferred on to a ward shortly and all she'll be doing is sleeping all day. There is nothing you can do to help her here. You really can't stay. They've nowhere to put you.'

‘I want to,' she protested.

‘You need to get some sleep yourself. You need somewhere to crash out, because when your mum wakes up, she'll need you to be strong and if you're a wreck, you won't be strong, will you?'

Even through her bewildered thinking, Charlotte could see the logic of this. ‘I don't want to go home, though . . . I saw Jake,' she said. The expression on her young face made Henry want to get hold of her, hug her and reassure her that it would be all right, that the memory of the horror would fade in time.

He hoped he did not live to regret his next offer. He hoped also that it did not sound perverted. ‘Would you come to my house? You could crash out on Leanne's bed. She wouldn't mind. My wife's there. You'd have a good sleep, some food and then get back here refreshed. That's what your mum will need.'

‘Please . . .' Charlotte started to crumble. ‘That would be nice.'

Henry led her out of the hospital via Dr Caunce. Henry gave her his home and mobile numbers and told her to instruct staff not to let the police interview Tara before Henry had had a chance to speak to her.

Caunce gave him a strange look, wondering what was going on. ‘But you're a cop, aren't you?'

Henry winked. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘I won't,' said the doctor, ‘because I now have your mobile phone number.'

There was no natural-looking way of disposing of a gun and a bag of drugs, Henry realized. He had driven out past Poulton-le-Fylde and over Shard Bridge, which spanned the River Wyre, which flows into the Irish Sea at Fleetwood. He was relieved to see that the tide was in and the river, consequently, was high. Just what he needed. He parked the Astra on Old Bridge Lane, just on the northern side of the river, and strolled back along the bridge with a plastic bag in his hand containing the said illegal items.

He walked as casually as he could, trying to give the impression he was out on a morning stroll. He could not get rid of the feeling that everyone who drove past him was looking at him and knew he was a villain.

There were no other pedestrians on the bridge.

He stopped half-way across, leaned on the parapet and gazed down the river toward the meandering right-hand curve on which the Blackpool and Fylde Yacht Club was situated. He then stared directly down at the water below him. It was a muddy brown colour, as ever. He had passed over the Wyre hundreds of times during his life and never seen the water any different colour. He would not have liked to swim in it. It was not the least inviting.

From the direction of the flow, he could tell it was on the ebb.

Several cars drove past. Then there was a gap in the traffic. He scanned around furtively. No one in sight. No cars, no people.

He acted quickly, opening the bag and tipping out the contents into the river.

The gun dropped into the water with a splash and sank immediately.

The bag of drugs fell on to the surface and kind of settled there, floated away like a tiny boat towards the sea. He watched it sail away, then sink.

A big sigh of relief made his body shudder.

‘She's still asleep,' Kate whispered to Henry on his return home. ‘She had a shower then went straight to bed. She's exhausted, poor soul. Just what has been going on, Henry?'

‘Don't really know where to start,' he said, ‘other than I would really like a massive hug.'

There was no need for a second request. She needed one as well. Kate fell into his arms and they both squeezed tight.

It felt very, very good.

Henry needed his bed too, so following a long, hot power shower, he fell on to the kingsize, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. He was deep out of it for about four hours but when he woke to visit the loo he could not get back. He tossed and turned for an hour, thoughts and plans tumbling through his brain, some jumbled, some very clear.

In the end he gave up and got up.

Kate was downstairs, pacing the house on pins. ‘She's still asleep,' she answered Henry's question. She gave him another hug and then held him out at arms' length. ‘Now are you going to tell me what's happened? It's all over the TV news. It sounds horrible.'

‘It is, was,' he confirmed. ‘I'll tell you over a brew.'

They sat in the conservatory and he told her what she needed to know, stunning her with the violence of the night. Her mouth regularly drooped open as he recounted the grim details.

When he had told her enough, she asked, ‘And how are you, love?'

He thought about it for a long time, then nodded. ‘I'm OK, actually,' he said, surprising himself. He knew that not long ago he would have been very deeply affected by the night's events, that they could have sent him over the edge, but now he was a much stronger man. He looked into Kate's eyes and knew why. He felt like he could face anything with her behind him. She was his rock and it had taken him a long time to realize it. Kate and the children. They were all he needed.