Hidden Witness (10 page)

However, it did not stop her from standing up and sidling in behind him, wrapping her arms around him and pushing her nose into his back. ‘You smell great,' she murmured, throatily, one hand sliding across his stomach.

‘The heady fragrance of pure soap,' he said.

Henry had dashed home for a revitalizing shower and a change of clothing with a view to getting through the day. His head had been thumping and he'd taken a couple of Nurofen to ward off the worst effects of a tiredness headache. His intention had been to be in and out of the house within a few minutes, but the stand-up ‘discussion' with Kate about the holiday had delayed him somewhat.

She'd backed off a little and now Henry felt guilty on two fronts. Firstly, today was actually a leave day – and he was working. It was a day on which they'd planned to do all the last minute holiday prep, a bit of shopping, a lingering coffee at Starbucks, stuff like that. Kate had been looking forward to it. He also felt terrible about the encounter he'd had with Keira O'Connell and berated himself for being so weak in the flesh – still. He had almost returned to his bad old ways. Could so easily have done. He thought he was better now.

With those thoughts in mind, he turned into Kate, pushed himself against her, kissed her face, lips and neck, and felt himself harden, legally this time.

‘If you're interested,' he said – as she squeezed his testicles gently – ‘I might have time for a quick one.'

One thing was certain, he thought, the old Henry knew how to appease a woman. But even as he pushed Kate back on to the bed and peeled off her tight jeans, he was thinking how dearly he would love to run this double murder that had all the hallmarks of a professional hit. So juicy.

The everyday sounds of the morning had not woken Mark Carter. The estate coming to life. The whirring and clattering of, possibly, one of the last milk floats in existence trundling by. Cars passing, kids yelling, bin men shouting to each other as they made their way by with their noisy truck.

None of that woke him.

The sound that jerked Mark Carter awake was that of footsteps creeping past the door, someone sneaking about.

He came to, suddenly and sickeningly, cursing himself for having fallen asleep in the first place – into a slumber of shadows, flashes, bangs and death.

And now, in real darkness, he was sure he had heard footfalls.

Although his heart was slamming against his chest wall, he tried not to move, to remain immobile, hardly breathing, watching the line of light around the ill-fitting door to see if anyone walked past. Then he heard a knock on the door.

Mark shivered.

After having locked himself in his bedroom on arriving home, there was no way he could get to sleep. He didn't even try, but kept a vigil at the window, watching the avenue apprehensively.

Alone in the house he began to feel even more vulnerable. So much so that just after two a.m., still wide awake, but exhausted, he collected up his quilt and pillow and went downstairs, where he let himself out the back door and went to the side of the house. Out here were two outbuildings with a lean-to roof connected to the house, making a tight passageway up the side. One of the buildings had once been a utility room and even though there was still an old sink in it, it was no longer used. Now it was basically a rubbish tip for things Mark's mother couldn't be bothered to take to the dump. Adjoining that was another ‘room', a space where, in days gone by, coal was delivered to and stored. With the advent of gas central heating, this was also somewhere no longer used and because it was still full of coal dust, it wasn't even used as a dumping ground for rubbish. It was into this ‘coal-hole', as it was still referred to, that Mark sneaked, thinking he would be safer here than in the house. He wrapped himself in the quilt and fitted his pillow between his head and shoulder.

The door, poorly fitting, rotting at the bottom, still had an old mortise lock on it that worked and Mark was able to lock himself in.

His reasoning was that if the killers somehow managed to identify him and discover where he lived, he'd be better able to escape from the coal-hole than his bedroom because they wouldn't be expecting him to be hiding there.

He made himself as comfortable as possible in the cold, brick-built, dusty space – then looked at the cordless phone he'd brought with him from inside the house, wondering if it still worked out here. There was a dial tone, so he entered 141 and then dialled treble nine and asked for the police. When the connection went through, he said, ‘Have you found the body in the car park behind Preston Road shops?'

The operator seemed taken aback. ‘I'm sorry, could you repeat that?'

‘You heard – send a patrol to that car park.' Then he hung up. He stared at the phone a while longer, fully expecting a call back, believing they had the technology to trace any call, even if it was a withheld number. No call came.

He rested his head on the pillow and tried to stay awake.

Then he heard the footsteps and realized he'd been asleep for hours. Someone knocked on the front door of the house and he heard a voice shout through the letter box, ‘Answer the door, Mark Carter, or you're fuckin' dead.'

‘I've had a CSI do a quick comparison of the impression in the dog pooh with the sole of Rory's trainer and his assessment is that it's a match – but we'll need a footwear analyst to confirm it. Being sorted.'

Henry looked at Alex Bent, a man who'd had about the same amount of sleep as himself in the last thirty-six hours. None. ‘I think we're on to a winner, then. So let's assume Rory was at the scene of the old man's murder.'

‘And got whacked for what he saw?'

‘It's a hypothesis,' Henry said, his mind churning. ‘But it doesn't explain why the old man might have smacked Rory across the head with his cane – if that's what happened – and we won't actually make that connection scientifically until at least the end of business today, and only then if we're lucky.' The walking stick, samples of skin, hair and blood from Rory's head had already been sent by police motorcyclist to the forensic science laboratory.

The two detectives were in an office just off the major incident room at Blackpool police station from where the investigation would be run. It was eight thirty a.m. Henry's quickie had been unromantically but successfully executed to the satisfaction of both parties, and now he and Bent were in the process of pulling things together for later briefings, tasking and press releases. Henry wanted a chance to review everything beforehand so the murder squad, which was now being cobbled together, could hit the ground running. Henry had a feeling this would be a fast running investigation.

Already the dry-wipe board was full of lines of enquiry and several sheets of flip-chart paper were being filled up.

‘How are we doing with the chip shop owner?'

‘No joy yet, boss.'

Henry nodded, frustrated. He scanned the board, muttering and murmuring to himself as he read through the scribble that would later be translated into something more meaningful for others to understand.

‘Have we missed anything?' he asked Bent, who was also checking the board.

‘Don't think so.'

‘Good – let's grab a brew, then head up to comms.'

‘You scared the crap out of me, sneaking around like that.'

‘What the hell are you doing in there?'

‘Long story,' Mark said sheepishly. ‘Anyway, what're you after?'

‘I was just taking the chance of asking if you were coming to school today, for a change. You know, school? That place you seem to be avoiding these days.'

‘I'm probably going to give it a miss.'

His friend Bradley sighed despairingly. ‘Mark, you're really going to get yourself in deep crap.'

‘You don't know the half of it.'

‘And what're you so jumpy about?'

‘Nothing – just get lost, will you, Brad?'

Instantly, Mark regretted his snappy words as an expression of deep hurt came on to Bradley's face. He and Brad had been mates since junior school, but they had seen less and less of each other since Mark's sister had died of an overdose. At that time Mark had been a half-decent student with plans to get himself out of Blackpool and find a proper career. However, the subsequent conviction of his older brother for numerous drug trafficking offences, and the implication he could have supplied the drugs cocktail that killed their sister, had knocked Mark off balance. Without a mother to guide him either – she was too wrapped up in her own life, work, drink and a succession of men, to be bothered about Mark – he had almost lost the will to live. He'd certainly lost the will to keep trying. Nothing seemed important to him any more, and after missing school on several occasions and suffering no consequences, he started to drift aimlessly. It wasn't long before he hooked up with known dead-leg Rory Costain.

It had been downhill from there.

Bradley hadn't let him go easily, but the lure of a lifestyle with no authority figures beckoned Mark with a seductive crooked finger. Mark's girlfriend, Katie, one of the brightest young lasses at school, also got to the end of her tether with him and cast him adrift, especially after spotting him in an amusement arcade snogging a well known slapper.

‘Thanks, mate,' Bradley said indignantly. ‘But you're not a mate any more, you're just a self-centred, uncaring, selfish git.'

Mark squared up to him.

‘What're you gonna do, beat me up? You're getting a bit of a reputation as a hard nut, aren't you?'

‘I will if you don't go,' Mark warned, tilting his face aggressively at Bradley.

The two lads stared at each other until Bradley finally shook his head sadly and said, ‘You've got no real friends any more. You just shit on everybody. I'm still here, but not for much longer.'

Bradley spun away and stalked off without a backward glance.

‘Have you found the body in the car park behind Preston Road shops?'

‘I'm sorry, could you repeat that?'

‘You heard – send a patrol to that car park.'

Henry, Alex Bent and the comms room inspector were listening, for the third time, to the recording of the telephone call alerting the police to Rory's murder. It had been downloaded on to a disc and they were in the inspector's office off the main communications room in the station. There was also a written transcript of the short call, including the time it was made and its duration.

Henry rubbed his eyes and the three officers listened again, all of them shaking their heads.

‘I don't recognize the voice, but it's obviously that of a young lad, maybe the one who'd been with Rory,' Bent said.

Henry nodded. ‘I feel like I know the voice, or I might just be kidding myself.' He sighed and looked at the comms inspector. ‘Thanks for this,' he said, taking the CD from the player.

‘No probs.'

Henry handed him a sheet of paper on which he'd scribbled out a basic circulation regarding the shootings, which was for the information of the force, other forces and other agencies that might be interested. It was headed, ‘NOT FOR PRESS RELEASE.' All it contained was the basic details of the two murders and little else. No speculation that they might be linked, even though this was implicit by virtue of the fact that both were referred to in the same message. Even though he was sure there was a connection, he wasn't going to admit that just yet. SIO's had to keep open minds otherwise they screwed up. The message also contained a description of the old man, including a reference to the old bullet wound in his side and asked for suggestions as to identity, giving a number to call.

‘Can you circulate that as normal?' he asked the inspector, then stood to leave but stopped in his tracks, took the message back. He thought for a moment, then scribbled something else on the sheet and then handed it back to the inspector adding, ‘Can you also send this person a copy of the circulation by email – including a few actual photos of the dead man?'

‘Sure, boss.'

Henry looked at Bent. ‘Shall we go back and work the crime scenes?'

Scowling, Mark had jerked a middle finger up at Bradley's retreating back, then retrieved his filthy quilt and pillow from the coal-hole, which he rolled up and dumped in the kitchen.

He was famished but could not be bothered making anything for himself, and the thought of a fast food breakfast was very appealing. He hadn't eaten anything for over twelve hours – since his last burger, in fact – as his intended supper had been whacked into the face of last night's attacker. He had some money left over from his little crime spree and the McDonald's on Preston New Road was just about walkable.

He had a quick shower and shave – bum-fluff was sprouting all over his top lip and chin these days and annoyed him intensely – got changed and headed out across the estate, taking all the back routes to keep out of sight.

It would have been easy to avoid Psycho Alley and the car park, but morbid curiosity drew him in that direction. He needed to know if it hadn't all been a sick dream, because that's what it felt like.

The fact that the alley was cordoned off with crime scene tape was Mark's first indication that it definitely wasn't his imagination. The barrier meant he had to come at the car park from a different direction, and he emerged on to it from the main road to see a huge amount of police activity and public gawping going on. Cops were crawling everywhere, literally in some cases, as a team of overall-clad officers did a fingertip search in a line across the car park. The whole area had been cordoned off. A huge tent had been erected over the exact spot Rory had been shot. Mark wondered if the body was still there, or had it been removed? People in white forensic suits entered and left the tent, clasping samples.

Mark's empty guts wound sickeningly. He closed his eyes momentarily and thought himself back to the town centre alley, seeing the old man get mown down, then seeing the face of the gunman as he turned to look at Mark and Rory, startled. It had been night-time and the face had only been illuminated by orange street lights, but Mark had seen him clearly with his young, sharp eyes and was certain that if he came face to face with him again, he would be able to ID him.