Dead Heat (8 page)

They were almost back in Chorley town centre after hurtling through the country roads around Rivington, then combing and re-combing them without success. He had floored the accelerator and spent most of the chase in first or second gear, screwing the car to its limits to catch the 4x4, which seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Hence the reek of the engine.

‘He must've gone like shit off a shovel,' O'Brien moaned and the bitter engine fumes wafted into the cab. ‘We shoulda caught him. I drove like a maniac.'

White-faced, dithery and clinging to the door handle, Jo had to agree. She swallowed, feeling slightly poorly. O'Brien had flung the car around the roads like a rally driver, but unlike her, seemed to be in total control of the machine. Even so, she had hoped they did not meet up with another – or the same – suicidal deer.

Now, it seemed, they had lost Turner for good. Their last chance gone. Or maybe not, she thought. ‘Let's head back the way we came,' she suggested. ‘Nice 'n' slow and have a look up some of those foresty-type tracks. Maybe he turned off for some reason.'

‘Why? Why would he have done that?'

‘How do I know? It's just a thought. Take it or leave it.'

It was close to midnight as O'Brien turned off the road and on to one of the tracks that cut through the forest.

‘Last one, this,' he said, ‘then we go home.'

‘I'll have that,' Jo conceded. She was tired and coming to the conclusion that Turner was definitely gone now. ‘Drive up this one, turn round and we'll call it quits.'

O'Brien nodded. The thrill of the chase had worn off. He wanted to get home, via a late-night hostelry, and get some shut-eye.

Jo peered through the headlights as the car crunched slowly up the track. She, too, had had enough. Just intended to concentrate for a few more minutes.

O'Brien yawned, wide and loud and shook his head.

‘I thought I saw something,' Jo said quickly, leaning forward, almost pushing her nose up to the windscreen.

‘If only.'

‘No, I did. A glint of something in the trees. Stop. Kill the lights.'

‘Now what?'

‘Let's have a look.' Jo reached for the torch under her seat, a powerful dragon-lite. She got out, switching the torch on, then off. O'Brien climbed out too, a less powerful torch in his hand.

‘Let's wander this way,' he said.

‘OK.' They started to walk along the track, torches on. Jo halted suddenly. ‘Look – there,' her voice rasped hoarsely. She directed the torch beam on to the edge of the track, where, clearly, there were indents made in the verge where a vehicle had been driven off into the trees. She flashed her torch into the trees, picking out the shape of the 4x4 in there.

Quickly she shut off the torch. As did O'Brien. He sidled up beside her.

‘What're we going to do?' O'Brien asked.

‘Well, put it this way, there's a good chance we've been spotted now, so I think we might as well go and investigate, don't you? I'm bloody curious to know what's going on, aren't you? The surveillance is cocked up, so we might as well show our hand and see what's happening.'

‘OK, but I don't like this,' he admitted.

‘Me neither. Just stay here, I'll go back and get a radio and see if we can get through.' Jo ran back to their car, then jogged back to O'Brien. She tried to call in, but there was no response. ‘Shit, the bloody things are still not working properly, or this must be a real blackspot here.'

‘Let's have a look,' O'Brien whispered. Their torches came on simultaneously and they both stepped off the track into the undergrowth. They were at the 4x4 within seconds.

‘No one with it,' O'Brien observed as he approached, shining his torch. He walked up to the driver's door and shone it in. ‘Shit,' he gasped.

Jo was behind him. She shone her more powerful beam into the vehicle.

‘Wooo,' she said, pursing her lips.

There was blood swathed across the inside of the passenger door, pools of it on the seat.

‘Not good,' said O'Brien nervously edging his way carefully around the 4x4. He stood by the passenger window, which was pasted in blood. He shone his torch around his feet and saw the drag marks along the forest floor. Jo joined him, saw what he was looking at.

She looked at him, worried. ‘Bloody hell – I think our Mr Turner is a dead un.'

‘Let's follow them, now that we're here.'

Jo nodded. ‘Keep to one side of the marks.'

They found the unattended grave, and the body of Andy Turner. Their torch beams played over him.

Verner was behind them, just feet away. They had not seen or heard him, had no idea he was so close.

He rose out of the undergrowth, his spade held high over his head.

He went for the man first.

H
enry Christie wondered what sort of reception would be waiting for him on his return to work. There would certainly be no celebrations. It would, he guessed, be a muted affair at best. The banners and the bunting would not be out. There would be no party poppers or streamers and no champagne would be opened. More likely there would be cautious, sideways glances; one or two nods and maybe, if he was lucky, the Chief Superintendent would say hello. The main thing would be that he would have a tattered reputation to repair and to do so would be an uphill struggle of massive proportions. After all, who wanted to work for a supervisor whose judgement had been deemed very, very suspect?

He parked his car on the secure police-rented level of the multi-storey car park adjacent to Blackpool Central Police Station and climbed out, ensuring he locked it. He walked to the door which opened out on to the public mezzanine which stretched between the front of Blackpool Magistrates' Court and the front entrance of the police station. Once through the door, he paused for a moment to savour the ever present chilled sea breeze. He looked upwards at the monstrosity that was the cop shop. Eight floors of concrete ugliness. He had spent many years of his police service here and was returning after an enforced absence – a suspension from duty, actually – having lost his temporary rank of Detective Chief Inspector, back to Detective Inspector – and also his coveted role as a Senior Investigating Officer based at Headquarters in the team responsible for investigating murders and other serious crimes. It had been his ideal job.

To his left he glanced at the steps leading up to the court. A few early arrivals for the day's proceedings had gathered in a motley group, smoking roll-ups, hunched miserably together. They peered up from their huddle and scowled at Henry, who recognized each and every one of the little toerags.

He waved and smiled at them.

They did not respond. Not one of them was brave enough to give him a middle finger or even a lazy ‘V'.

‘Shitbags,' Henry mumbled to himself. ‘Nice to see the faces haven't changed.' He walked to the police station, feeling eight sets of eyes burning into his back.

A few very depressed and grey-looking people were waiting at the enquiry desk.

Henry slid his swipe card through the scanner, half expecting it not to work. But it did. He pushed open the door which led into the innards of the station. With a certain degree of trepidation, he stepped across the threshold and let the door click shut behind him.

It was the first time he had set foot in a police station in four months. It gave him a strange, queasy feeling. He had been to Headquarters on several occasions recently, the last time being for the full hearing into his disciplinary case when he was cleared of any wrongdoing. But other than on those closely supervised visits when he had been treated like a terrorist, he had not been allowed on police property.

But now he was back with a warrant card, swipe card and full police powers.

He allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile. Then the enormity of the situation hit him like a sock full of pennies. He blew out his cheeks and, avoiding the elevator because he wasn't going to risk getting trapped in a confined space with possibly someone he did not want to be with, began to climb the stairs . . .

‘. . . Daddy, Daddy!' The harsh shrieking voice cut sharply into Henry Christie's daydream. He had been well immersed in his thoughts, so deep he had totally lost track of everything in his pipe dream of returning to work totally exonerated by the disciplinary panel. He shook his head and twisted in the direction of his youngest daughter, Leanne. She was standing at the conservatory door, her body language expressing complete impatience with him.

‘Oh, OK, love . . . are you ready to make tracks?'

‘Dad, I have been so ready for an age. I couldn't find you.'

‘I've been sitting here, reading the papers like I do every Sunday, while I wait for you to get ready.'

‘Dad,' Leanne said pointedly, ‘you weren't reading the papers, you were in a trance . . . and now it's time to go or we'll be late.'

‘OK.' He pushed himself out of the low cane sofa and looked at Leanne. She was growing up very quickly now, blossoming out of childhood into a beautiful young woman. As ever, Henry's ticker jarred a little at the thought of his little babykins and at how much he had missed her development over the years because of his misguided dedication to being a cop. His other, eldest, daughter, Jenny, was now in her late teens and he had seen virtually nothing of her growth, other than remembering being surprised and stunned from time to time at her progress.

Not good. Even if he did get back to work, in future the job would come well down on the list from now on. First and foremost was his family.

Leanne was dressed for her new hobby. Tight jodhpurs, riding boots and a sleeveless fleecy top, finished off with a short riding crop, thin leather gloves and a hard hat. She was now into riding horses each Sunday morning. Since Henry's suspension from duty he had been able, and willingly volunteered, to take her to the riding school and pick her up. It was one of those fatherly type of duties he had never been able to carry out. It had always been Kate who had taken the girls to Brownies or to swimming lessons, or to birthday parties. Henry was trying to make up for lost time . . . and whereas most other parents he met whinged and bleated about the dreary tasks, he found he loved every minute of it, could not get enough.

‘So what were you thinking about?' Leanne asked as they went out to the car.

‘Going back to work,' he admitted. ‘If it ever happens.'

‘Oh,' she said, knowing how delicate a subject it all was. She knew he was nowhere near going back yet; that the date for the discipline hearing had not been set and that the court proceedings surrounding it all had not even been listed. ‘Anyway,' she said, changing the subject with the subtlety of a sledge hammer, ‘I hope I get to ride Silver today.' She sighed longingly. ‘He's a wonderful horse . . . so responsive . . . I've heard he might be up for sale.' She looked slyly at her father, who was reversing the car out of the drive.

‘Not a chance,' he said without even glancing at her, keeping his chin firmly on his right shoulder as he manoeuvred into the road.

‘I didn't mean we should buy him,' Leanne lied.

Henry rammed the car into first. ‘Yeah, right.'

‘But if we did, I'd look after him, Dad, honest.'

It was Henry's turn to sigh. It was a short, irritated sigh, accompanied by the word, ‘Nope.'

Leanne folded her arms and stared directly forward, jaw rotating crossly.

‘Maybe I'll get you a hamster,' Henry offered.

The jaw ceased its rotation.

‘How about a pet rat?'

‘Dad – shut it,' she told him, but a smile flickered on her lovely lips and suddenly her cross mood changed. ‘I hope Kelly's there and Charlotte . . . if they are, can we go for a McDonald's after?'

‘We'll have to see.'

‘Oh good,' she beamed and clapped her hands at the thought.

It was about four miles to the riding stables, which were situated in the countryside in the Marton area of Blackpool. As Henry slowed down at the stables, Leanne leapt out of the car almost before it had stopped because she had spotted Kelly already. Henry drew to a halt on the rough area of hard ground they called the car park and chuckled to himself as he watched Leanne run off. She was totally happy. Doing well at school. Brilliant at home and great company to be with. Kate had told Henry that both girls were more content than they had ever been for years. Henry knew that implicit in that remark was that their happiness was directly related to his regular presence at home.

A big Mercedes coupé pulled in alongside Henry's Mondeo. It was driven by the mother of Charlotte, one of the girls mentioned by Leanne, whom she had met through riding.

Charlotte was in the front passenger seat next to her mother. Henry saw that the youngster was looking pretty morose. She got out and sauntered towards the stables, dragging her feet, watched by her mother from the car.

Henry smiled at Charlotte's mother as he got out of the car. She gave him an eyes-to-heaven look.

With a couple of sections of the
Sunday Times
under his arm which he'd brought from home, Henry went to the indoor riding school. It had become his practice to watch Leanne begin her hour-long session, then mosey out to the portacabin-cum-café near to the main stable block where he would consume copious amounts of cheap coffee and a sausage sandwich and read the paper until Leanne showed up, usually red faced, exhausted and exhilarated after the lesson.

There was a small seating area down one side of the school with two tiers of benches. He sat himself down, shivering in the chill, blowing out his breath in spurts, trying to make smoke rings.

Riding was not for him. Horses did nothing for him. Not since the time when, as a young, headstrong police constable, he'd thought that life in the Mounted Branch looked glamorous, controlling football crowds and attracting young ladies who swooned over huge sweaty beasts – and horses too. He had managed to get a place on the coveted sixteen-week equitation course, where he then discovered it was not as pleasant as it seemed from the outside. The course was held in deep mid-winter and stables are harsh, unforgiving places to be when the temperature drops below zero. He found he detested the hard work involved, nor – and more fundamentally – did he particularly like horses either. But he stuck it until the eighth week, when he came a cropper. During a lesson on a particularly stroppy horse, it bucked and threw him. He broke his right wrist and bruised his lower spine. And that was the last he ever saw of the Mounted Branch. He had learned enough about riding to see him through the occasional holiday escapade when the girls wanted an hour's cross-country, but that was all. No regrets about not becoming a mounted officer.