Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘How much of an interest will the police be taking in the plight of the Wickson’s now?’ he asked.

She yawned. ‘Some, I suppose.’

‘I take it this isn’t the first job you’ve been to tonight?’

‘No — a serious wounding in Blackpool, an iffy suicide in Lytham and another bad assault in Fleetwood.’

‘Busy night.’

‘Normal night.’

‘I’m envious.’

‘Don’t be — it’s generally shite I get turned out to. Thick, poor people, hurting other thick, poor people. Or, as in this case, hurting thick, rich people.’

‘You’ve become a cynic.’

‘You made me into one, Henry.’ She turned to him, sorrow in her eyes. ‘I thought love could see anyone through anything.’

He was stumped.

‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ she said simply and walked away.

Behind him, the stable door opened and Charlotte Wickson, Tara’s daughter, emerged, together with the vet who had been treating the horse. Charlotte was tearful and deeply upset because it was her horse, Chopin, her own, her very own. And someone had violated him again. He had already had an ear severed. Now this torture.

‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ she said to the vet.

‘Yes, he will, but he’s going to need a lot of care and attention from now on. The wounds will heal. He’ll never see again through that eye — but he’ll be able to get used to that, eventually, though I would not recommend jumping any more. It’s the psychological damage that’ll take time to heal. Do you think you can give him all the love and attention he needs?’

Charlotte nodded bravely.

‘I’ll be back later in the day to remove that eye under anaesthetic. I’ll call in to see your mother before I go,’ the vet said, nodded sharply at Henry and ambled across the yard.

Henry heard Charlotte emit a long, stuttering sigh.

‘How you doing?’ he asked her.

‘Shit,’ she said, startling him. ‘He’s a mess, isn’t he?’

‘Yep.’ Henry could not actually shake the vivid image of the injured horse from out of his mind. The slashes, the cuts, the fear in the eyes. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked Charlotte.

The young girl shrugged, her eyes slitting momentarily in a gesture Henry had seen on hundreds of people in the past. It made him become alert, because he had not expected it from her. It meant she knew something, or had some idea.

‘Who do you think did this?’

‘How would I know?’ Her voice contained a trace of irritation. ‘There’s hundreds of suspects out there,’ she said with a sneer. ‘Fucking hundreds — including me.’ She pushed her way past Henry and hurried towards the house. Henry was tempted to give chase, but refrained. She could wait till later.

Jane Roscoe was standing on the other side of the yard, observing the interaction with interest. Henry mooched across to her, hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets.

‘How much time are the police going to dedicate to these particular crimes?’ Henry persisted.

‘How much time would you, Henry? Some wooden buildings have been burned down, a couple of dumb horses have been killed, another one cut to ribbons. No one’s been hurt. I have a desk full of unsolved crimes which are performance indicators and this one isn’t. I’ll refer it to the Arson Team and let them get on with it.’

‘It’ll get a good half hour, then?’

‘If they’re lucky.’

‘In that case, it won’t hurt very much if I do some snooping around on behalf of the family.’

‘You are very misguided, Henry. If I were you, I’d leave it be. The Wickson family are a pretty sad bunch-’

‘How do you know?’ Now she had alerted his senses.

Her eyes went very snake-like. ‘I just do,’ she said in a tone that left Henry in no doubt: Don’t push it, is what she was saying.

‘I haven’t seen John Wickson, husband and father,’ Henry said. ‘Is he knocking about?’

‘Away on business, but on his way back now, I believe.’

Henry and Jane regarded each other. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burnt wood and flesh. Neither spoke even though both of them knew there was a great deal of unfinished business between them. Despite Henry’s urge to delve into her feelings, he held back, not wanting to go down there and relight the flames he had well and truly doused months before.

‘Any news on the inquest? Trial? My discipline hearing?’ he asked instead, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything connected with their emotional entanglement to a subject which he knew was equally controversial. He should not have been surprised when she said, ‘You know I can’t talk to you about that. I’ve been warned not to.’

‘Seems like we have little common ground, then.’

‘None at all, I’d say.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘But if you’re in any way curious, I’m well over you, Henry. I might miss you, but that’s all, and that’s receding nicely. It would be silly to rake over old coals.’ She sniffed and glanced at the remnants of the stables and tack room. She looked back at Henry. ‘Ironic, eh, that we should meet again and be talking over something that’s been destroyed?’

‘Highly.’ Henry was suddenly distracted. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently, his face screwed up as he concentrated.

‘What is it?’

‘Approaching helicopter.’ He lifted up a finger for hush. The noise, faint at first, increased steadily. He looked east towards the rising sun, squinting and shielding his eyes. The noise grew to a throb.

A helicopter appeared over the horizon, the sun behind it.

At first Henry thought it was the Force helicopter, but it wasn’t. It was too small.

It buzzed overhead and in one flash of sunlight across the fuselage he made out the words ‘Wickson Industries’.

‘John Lloyd Wickson,’ Jane shouted over the sound of the rotor blades.

‘Daddy’s come home. . that’s nice.’

The helicopter swooped and dropped gently to the heli-pad on the other side of the main house. It hovered, then came to rest. Two figures climbed out, heads low, running towards the house.

‘I’m going to go and meet him,’ Jane said, adding, begrudgingly, ‘Come if you want.’

‘How kind.’

They set off together.

‘Oh, got some news for you, Henry.’

‘What would that be?’

‘We’re getting a new Chief Constable. Have you heard?’

‘No.’

As they walked, Henry could actually feel a rift between them which seemed insurmountable. It was a mistake for him to have turned out, he realized, but then again, how could he have known he would be bumping into Jane Roscoe, someone he hadn’t seen or spoken to for such a long time? If it had been any other detective inspector, there might have been fewer problems.

Henry — unknowingly — grunted in frustration.

‘What?’ Jane asked.

He gave her a look of query. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You did.’

‘Nothing, it was nothing.’ As he looked at her, something caught his eye in the distance behind her — on the hillside, maybe a quarter of a mile away. He thought nothing of it. Just his eyes playing tricks or just the early dawn sun catching something. Then it was there again. He stopped, stared, thought better of it and caught up with Jane, who had not paused.

‘I think we’re being spied on.’

‘Paranoid as ever.’

‘No — someone’s watching us from up there.’ Jane started to turn. Henry snapped, ‘Keep going, don’t look.’

When he reached the house he said, ‘I’m going to have a look. I’m curious.’

Jane shook her head sadly. ‘It’ll be nothing. Just hens.’

‘Hens?’ The reply puzzled him, then he shook it off. ‘Maybe it is hens, or maybe it’s the person who set fire to the place, noseying about what’s going on. . returning to the scene of the crime. One of life’s true cliches, I know, but one that’s served me well in the past. People come back to gloat. Human nature.’