Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘I fibbed.’

‘I know.’

‘So what’s you plan, unofficial boss?’

‘I’m going to drop you off at home, I’m going to go and see John Lloyd Wickson, then you’re going to see Mrs Wickson and hopefully keep your dick out of her gob, and get her to spill some beans.’

‘Oooh, good plan.’

‘Got a better one?’

‘Yes, but it involved me, you and sex.’

Jane’s head remained dead straight. Henry saw redness creep up her neck. She was easily embarrassed and driven to anger. She did not respond, but gripped the steering wheel tighter. Henry was very sorry he had said it. Once again he knew his forefinger was hovering over the self-destruct button. He apologized — and meant it.

She relaxed, allowing her shoulders to droop.

‘Y’know,’ she said wistfully, ‘the sex was the best ever. . but it’s never going to happen again.’

Henry knew she meant it. ‘By the way,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘by the way, I haven’t got a car to use, as mine is in dock. How can I be expected to get out and about on all this unofficial business without one? Hm?’

‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

It was approaching midday when Jane dropped him off at home. He watched her drive away, but she did not look back to see him all forlorn. Once her car had gone, Henry let himself into the house, which was quiet and empty. It was good to be alone.

He sat down by the phone in the lounge with his Filofax. It was a dog-eared specimen, almost ten years old, which he updated regularly, unable to grasp any of the benefits of having a palm-sized computerized personal organizer. He preferred the substance of pen and paper, could trust it more. He opened the leather-bound book and rooted out the card Tara Wickson had given him. He dialled her home number: engaged. Then her mobile: no response. He hung up and riffled through the Filofax to find another number he wished to call, that of a Detective Inspector in Greater Manchester Police called Brindle. He knew this would be a long shot, because cops work numbers change with the wind. He was not disappointed. It came back unobtainable. It was a number the guy had given him six years before.

This made him move to the number of another officer in GMP with whom he’d had dealings recently. This was a successful connection and he gave Henry the new number of the DI, who, he was told, was now a DCI.

Before phoning, he tried the Wickson numbers again. They were as before.

Then he tried the DCI’s number, which, he had been told, was a direct line to his desk.

It was answered on the first ring. ‘DCI Brindle, can I help?’

‘Hi, John, it’s Henry Christie from Lancs Constab.’ Henry determined it was more appropriate, if slightly deceitful, to let the man think Henry was still officially a cop, even though doing so made Henry feel nervous. ‘Didn’t know you’d moved up a rank. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks, Henry.’

They exchanged the usual pleasantries before the DCI asked what he could do for Henry. He explained about bumping into Jo Coniston’s mother and what she had said.

‘Obviously I don’t know anything about it, so I was just curious and felt a bit of an obligation to ask a few questions. Quite clearly Mrs Coniston believes that not enough was done at the time.’

‘Hm. I wasn’t involved in any way, but it was a strange one. A MIR was set up and ran for a few months, but nothing came of it. There was no actual evidence of foul play, but yeah, it was an odd one. No bodies, nothing really. I don’t know if there’s anywhere you can go with it, to be honest.’

Henry asked, ‘Is there any way of looking at the file papers?’ He did not want to push things, knew he really had no right to ask, whether he was a real cop or not. ‘Fresh pair of eyes?’

‘Are you offering your services?’

‘I am an SIO and whilst my workload is crippling — ’ here Henry winced — ‘I wouldn’t mind having the chance to have a glance through the stuff if at all possible. Just as a favour to this woman.’

The DCI considered the request. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

Henry gave him his mobile number and thanked him. When he hung up he found he was sweating and his hands were still shaking a little. The result of lying. And lots of coffee.

He was unsure what to do next, having retried the Wickson number and still getting no response.

So having found himself with some time on his hands and being such a good new man, he did some cleaning up, got the washer working (with washing in it, even) and after a short wrestling match with the recalcitrant ironing board, did some ironing too.

It was one of the most therapeutic activities he had ever done. He could quite easily have bragged that he had never ironed clothing very much during his life, other than when he had no choice in the matter. Now he loved it. Smoothing clothes down with a hot, steaming iron, putting razor-sharp creases into things, transforming crumpled items into nice, presentable, lovingly pressed clothing: from knickers to shirts. He was amazed at what he had been missing all his life.

He was half-way through the pile of clothing, lost in thoughts, when his mobile rang. It was the DCI from GMP.

‘Henry, done a few minutes digging on Jo Coniston. It’s still an open murder/missing person’s file. Her team leader at the time, a sergeant called Al Major on the surveillance branch, might be worth having a chat with. I’m sure he’d be able to give you some initial background. I don’t really know more than that.’

‘Is he still on surveillance, based in Prestwich?’

‘Yeah. . I’ve had a word with the SIO who ran the initial investigation and he’d be more than happy for you to take a look at it.’

‘Thanks, that’s good. But it is unofficial, though if I do find anything, things could change.’

‘Understood. . Bye, Henry. . Speak again soon.’

And let’s just pray that you or the SIO don’t phone Lancashire and ask to speak to me, or I’m goosed, Henry thought. He plugged his mobile phone into the charger and resumed ironing, wondering if he could make some sort of living by taking in other folks’ washing. It could supplement his meagre income from the private eye business.

Half an hour later, ironing done, he put his feet up.

The house phone rang. It was Jane Roscoe.

‘Got off your lardy fat arse yet?’ was her opening salvo.

‘I’m doing telephone enquiries in between washing, ironing and general household duties,’ he came back haughtily.

‘I’ve seen Wickson.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. He claims all innocence. No idea why anyone would want to take a pop at him or burn his stables down. No one has any grudges against him. He’s as white as a white person can be.’

‘And a liar.’

‘A big fat one,’ Jane confirmed. ‘But he’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want any police rooting around him or his business.’ Jane snorted. ‘No chance of that. Do you think you’ll be able to get into Tara?’

‘I’ll try. . I’ve been trying. . no reply on the phone. Where did you speak to Wickson?

‘A huge building site is being cleared off Bloomfield Road, near to the footy ground. He’s got a site office there, got a few machines on it, crushing the stone and tidying the place up.’

‘You wouldn’t know if missus was at home then?’

‘Nope.’

‘OK, I’ll try her again, but only if I can claim the cost of my calls back.’

‘Henry — just fucking do it. You still get paid an inspector’s wage, don’t you?’

‘You sound like FB-’

He was left holding a dead phone, which he placed back in its cradle, then lifted back to his ear. It was only then he heard the peculiar tone that indicated a message had been left on the answerphone service. He had been called whilst on the line to Jane. He dialled 1471 first.