Nick Oldham: Psycho Alley

He drove to the Esplanade, Fleetwood’s seafront promenade, then did a right past the North Euston Hotel on to Queen’s Terrace, the Isle of Man ferry terminal to his left. Way across the mouth of the River Wyre were the lights of the sleepy village of Knott End on Sea, and in the far distance to the north the hulking structures of the nuclear power station at Heysham, illuminated by an eerie orange phosphorescent-like glow.

His intention was to trundle down on to the romantically-named Dock Street, cut right across town then head south towards Blackpool and home, hoping he could make it safely with just the one good eye.

Henry’s bleat to Jane about having worked long, hard hours for the past three months had only been partially true. With the exception of a two-week family holiday jaunt to Ibiza, he had actually been hard at it for nine months. For the first six he had been running a complex and particularly dangerous investigation into large-scale corruption and murder within the ranks of some Greater Manchester Police officers. This had entailed much overtime — all unpaid, of course — and several trips to Spain. During the course of the investigation, headed nominally by Lancashire’s chief constable, but run directly by Henry, his life had been threatened twice and his firm’s car had been regularly damaged whilst parked unattended in Manchester. These worrying occurrences had not deterred him from completing a job which had sent shockwaves through GMP. There were some loose ends, as there always are in such a far-reaching enquiry, but Henry was as satisfied as he could be at the outcome … and then he returned to the force, immediately being handed the reins of his present investigation and a new posting to boot.

He was currently a temporary detective chief inspector, a member of the Senior Investigating Officer (SIO) team which was based at force headquarters near to Preston. Or at least he had been. Whilst busy in Manchester, there had been some changes to the SIO team and its remit. It had been renamed the Force Major Investigation Team (FMIT) and in order to ensure there was an even better response to serious crime, the staff had been divvied up and given responsibility to provide cover to specific police divisions in the county. In the shuffle, during which Henry had no say, nor was consulted, he had ended up with responsibility for ‘A’ and ‘B’ Divisions, covering the west and north of Lancashire. He had been turfed out of his comfy headquarters office and relocated to Blackpool nick, where he had ended up in a shoe-box of an office with no heating and initially no phone or computer.

Having spent much of his career in Blackpool, and living there, the move wasn’t entirely unwelcome. At least he did not have to do the forty-odd mile round trip each day through increasingly horrendous traffic. But in his paranoia, he did suspect the move could be the first step in ousting him from FMIT by putting him at arms’ length and giving him an investigation to run which he had overheard described as having gone ‘tits up’.

‘Tits up.’ A phrase to conjure with. It had been up to him to reverse the grim way in which the investigation had gone so far, and so far it had not gone well.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly as his thoughts spiralled around to his boss, Dave Anger, a man who made the phrase ‘intrusive supervision’ look like something a nanny did. Anger was forever on Henry’s shoulder, overseeing everything he was doing, questioning him, making him feel unsettled, making it known that if Henry did not pull the investigation out of the bag, he would be going on a sideways jaunt. He had made it clear that he did not want Henry on FMIT, for reasons that still remained unclear to Henry; what Henry did know was that although he detested Anger with a vengeance, it would take a crowbar to prise him out of the job he loved and was passionate about.

As Henry cruised along Dock Street, he tried to relax and put these things out of his mind. On reaching the roundabout at which he intended to swing right through town, he stopped at the give-way lines whilst waiting to see what the car coming on to the roundabout from the opposite direction was going to do. At first Henry thought the driver would loop right round, but at the last second, the car carried straight on in the direction Henry had just driven.

‘Thanks for the signal, mate,’ Henry muttered, aiming his best glare of contempt at the man behind the wheel who turned face-on to Henry for the fleeting moment that the two cars were side by side, door by door. The yellow street lighting illuminated the man’s face, very brightly for a flash — just long enough for Henry’s one good eye to go for a ninety-five per cent certainty.

The man driving the car was none other than the slippery Mr George Uren.

As the cars passed in the night, separated by maybe four feet, and the man’s head turned away, Henry caught a flick of the ponytail at the back of his head; Uren was known to sport such a haircut. Henry also caught sight of the dark profile of another person in the car, a man sitting low alongside Uren in the front passenger seat. He could not make out any of that man’s features.

‘Shit,’ Henry blurted, a flush of cop-adrenalin gushing into his system. ‘Even with one good eye,’ he congratulated himself.

He stabbed the accelerator and raced around the roundabout, losing sight of the car for a few seconds. As he drove back up Dock Street, Henry thought he might have lost him. He decided not to race, just cruise easily around — and there he was, stationary at the side of the road, brake lights on, smoke puffing out of the exhaust. Henry sailed past, sneaking a quick sideways look at Uren, who was in deep conversation with the passenger, who remained in shadow. Henry pressed the transmit button on his PR, still on the same exclusive channel as previously.

‘DCI Christie — anyone receiving?’ He would not have been surprised if no one answered. The team would all probably have switched off as soon as he’d stood them down. No one answered. ‘Rory? Jane? Deppo?’ Still no response. Henry cursed silently, annoyed that his radio was inaccessible at the moment inside his jacket and he could have done with changing channels. He swore and drew into the side of the road a hundred metres ahead of Uren’s car. He switched his lights off, kept his foot off the brake pedal and adjusted the rear view mirror so he could observe Uren and partner. They were still chatting. About what, Henry wondered. ‘Anyone receiving?’ he asked hopefully into his PR.

‘Henry? That you?’ It was Jane Roscoe’s dulcet tones. Henry’s face screwed up in frustration. Why did it have to be her? Still, any port in a storm … a saying which had often caused him to get into trouble in the past.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Just sighted Uren. Where’ve you got to?’

‘Almost at Poulton-le-Fylde.’

Henry raised his eyebrows. To get so far in such a short time she must really have been motoring. He had obviously rattled her cage. ‘Can you start heading back? He’s currently sat in a car on Queen’s Terrace, more or less opposite the ferry terminal. In a dark-coloured Astra, blue, I think. Don’t have the registered number yet. One other person on board, male, no other details. Uren is in the driver’s seat. I’m parked further up the road, facing towards the North Euston Hotel.’

‘Sure it’s him?’

‘As eggs,’ Henry said.

‘Be with you as quick as I can.’

Henry sat back, hoping she’d be as speedy returning as she’d zoomed away.

The two occupants in the car continued their discussion, head to head. Henry watched all the while, speculating what subject matter required such deep discussion. Whatever it was, he hoped it would go on and on, giving him and Jane time to get into a position from which they could nab the perv; however, Henry was acutely aware that situations like these were more often than not dictated by the actions of the suspect, not the cops.