Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

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.

Henry 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.