Nick Oldham - Psycho Alley

‘Until our scientific people are happy there’s nothing else we need,’ Henry told him.

‘Not good,’ Cork said.

He took them up the next flight.

‘How does Mr Stoke pay his rent?’

‘Cash. Leaves an envelope for me in the lockable post box at the bottom of the steps.’

There were only two doors on the landing on the top floor. ‘It’s that one,’ he said, ‘and this is the spare key.’ He handed it to Henry, who walked to the door and knocked on it. No reply. Last time he caught Trent, Trent was in a guesthouse in Blackpool. That was when Trent had tried to stab Henry, but instead the tables were turned when Danny Furness clobbered him with her baton and laid him out.

‘Police — open up,’ Henry called. Again, no reply. He put the key in the lock and opened the door to reveal a poorly-lit, dingy room which made the word ‘basic’ sound luxurious. A camp bed, a couple of old armchairs, rickety coffee table and nothing else, other than a kitchen sink.

‘Nice,’ Henry said, stepping over the threshold. The flat was empty, devoid of anything, including signs of recent habitation.

Donaldson was behind him. ‘Could just be a bolthole,’ he said.

‘Did he ever have anything more here?’ Henry asked Cork.

The landlord shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

‘Because you sneak around when your tenants are out … look, don’t mess us about, Larry. We’re chasing a murderer.’

Cork held up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine, OK, it was always this empty. Never saw clothing, or food, or anything. I don’t think he spent hardly any time here. Just paid his rent, which is all that bothers me. I wish all my tenants were like him.’

Henry, Donaldson and Fawcett exchanged a three-way glance. Henry sighed, dispirited. ‘Let’s get CSI up here to give it a once-over,’ he said to Fawcett. To Cork he said, ‘Thanks for your cooperation, Larry, but I have to say your choice of tenants is pretty fuckin’ lousy.’

‘I resent that,’ he said haughtily, his cigarette bobbing on his lip. ‘I check ’em all personally, references and everything. I run a tight ship here, despite what you might think, you homophobic bastard.’

‘I’m not homophobic, Larry, but no one, and I stress, no one tries to put their cock into my hand. A mistake you made, if you recall? Little wonder you got bounced from here to kingdom come.’ Henry’s voice was rising at the memory of the little thing that had triggered his treatment of Cork when he’d arrested him.

‘Boss?’ Fawcett said.

‘What?’ Henry snapped.

‘What references did Trent provide? Or Stoke, as he called himself?’

The three waited for Cork to respond. He scratched his dandruffed head, skin flaking on to his shoulder like a snow shower.

‘Did he actually have any references, or did he just cross your palm with silver?’ Henry asked him.

‘I can’t recall. Need to look at my files.’

‘Larry, does it even bother you that a man’s been murdered in one of your flats?’

‘Not specially. Obviously I won’t be getting any more rent off him, and I could do with the flat back to re-let it, and the fire damage has to be paid for, but no.’

After locking the empty flat, Henry pocketing the key, they all traipsed back to the Cork flat where his two sons were slumped on the settee watching TV, which was flicked off as the visitors returned. Both sons were smoking, had beers in their hands and neither moved. They were the antithesis of the stereotypical gay man, nothing remotely effeminate about them at all. The aroma of body odour hung unpleasantly in the air. Cork senior crossed to a desk on which was an expanding file jammed full of papers. He rifled through it, his grubby fingers emerging with a tatty sheet of paper.

‘He filled this one out.’

Henry crossed the room and looked at it, some generic tenancy pro forma agreement, probably bought from W. H. Smith.

‘Did Uren do one?’ Henry asked.

‘Yeah, it’s in here, I think.’

Henry read the document carefully, touching only its edges, but it seemed to hold nothing further for him in the hunt for a killer and saving the life of a young girl which might already be lost. He passed the agreement over to Fawcett for his perusal.

‘What you lot after?’ The voice came from one of the couch potatoes, the most junior member of the family, Harry Cork. He was slumped like a piece of blubber across an armchair, beer resting on his gut and as much body hair showing as his elder brother.

‘That fucker Stoke,’ his dad replied. ‘Him in the top flat.’

‘Oh aye,’ Harry said, losing interest. He broke wind, making Henry wonder how he, or any of the other two, managed to cop off with anyone else. They were gross and unpleasant and why anyone would chose to have dealings with them was beyond his ken.

Cork looked at Henry, shrugged.

‘What’s he done?’ said Harry, surfacing again, a bit like a whale coming up for air.

‘He did that murder,’ Dad Cork informed him.

‘Oh, right.’ Disinterest returned. He slurped his beer.

‘Well, if anything comes to mind, let us know, will you?’ Henry said to Larry and handed him a business card. ‘Call me, OK?’

‘Whatever.’

‘He’s into kiddiewinks, isn’t he?’ Harry piped up again. All eyes turned to him and he looked round astounded by the attention. ‘What?’ he said.

‘How do you know that?’ Henry demanded.

‘Oh no, nothing, nothing,’ Harry blabbered, suddenly realizing he’d said too much.

Cork senior was glaring at Harry in disbelief. ‘You pillock,’ he uttered.

‘Right,’ said Henry, ‘let’s be knowing.’

‘There’s nothing to know,’ Harry said.

‘I beg to differ and I think an overnight visit to the cop shop’s in order here, don’t you? I think you’re withholding information.’ He turned to Fawcett. ‘Call the van — three prisoners.’ Henry had picked up on the fact that Harry had obviously spoken out of turn, revealed something he shouldn’t have done. Being in such a desperate position himself — trying to save a career already going down the pan — Henry was ready to clutch at straws again. These guys knew something about Trent and if they didn’t blab here and now, they would be dragged off to the nick, power of arrest or not. Henry was long enough in the tooth to cross that hurdle when he came to it.

‘What for? We haven’t done a fuckin’ thing,’ Larry protested. The older brother, Barry, rose to his feet. He was a big man, much lard on him.

‘We’re going nowhere,’ he declared.

Henry stared at him. ‘Sit down Barry, and listen.’

‘Up yours, shitface,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going nowhere-’ But suddenly he found himself back down from where he’d risen, with the help of Karl Donaldson’s hand in his chest. He struggled a little, but Donaldson pushed harder.

Henry moved to stand at the door.

Harry Cork was on his feet now, not knowing what to do, but knowing he’d let something vital slip off his tongue.

Larry said, ‘You had to open your silly gob, didn’t you?’ He hit Harry hard, ramming his fist into his nose. Harry stumbled back, caught the back of his knees on the coffee table and sat on it. The feeble piece of self-assembled furniture crumbled into matchstick fragments, but Harry was evidently more concerned about his nose, which had burst into Technicolor red.

Henry grabbed Larry’s shirt at the chest and flung him back against the wall. His face was only inches away from Larry’s, and his eyes were wild and desperate now. ‘A man has been murdered and a girl has been kidnapped. She may still be alive,’ he panted. ‘If you have any information about Trent, Stoke or whatever his name is, fucking tell me now, Larry.’