Nick Oldham - Psycho Alley

‘By bloody dose!’ Harry screamed, trying to stem the flow down his face, neck and chest.

‘How long for the van?’ Henry said to PC Fawcett, who hadn’t had time to shout for it yet.

Fawcett called in. ‘Four minutes,’ he shouted.

‘Then let’s chat for four minutes,’ Henry said into old man Cork’s fizzog.

Henry held on to father Larry; Donaldson stood menacingly over son number one, Barry; the youngest member of the family continued to blubber about his broken nose. He tried to stand, pick himself up from the pieces of the coffee table, and in doing so, inadvertently put his hand on the TV remote control, which clicked the TV on to the channel they’d been watching when Henry and Co returned.

‘Aw, Jesus,’ Larry moaned, sinking to his knees, covering his face as Henry released his grip.

Barry looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. He attempted to rise again, but Donaldson punched him in the chest and he went back down.

All eyes turned to the TV.

Harry tried to grab the remote control, but Fawcett kicked his hands from under him and he went down across the broken table again.

And there was nothing else to do but watch the horrific scene on the screen in front of them as a naked young girl, manacled to a wall, was savagely whipped until she could no longer scream, no longer even form a word. And then it got worse. And there was no doubt about it — what they were watching was for real.

Henry bent down in front of Larry. He could not begin to describe the repulsion he was feeling. He was short of breath and his heart was pounding in a way it never had before. He felt clammy, cold and very empty, yet at the same time filled with a simmering rage.

He spoke slowly.

‘Does this have anything to do with Trent?’ He lifted Larry’s face up with the tip of a finger. ‘Does it?’

‘Yeah,’ he whispered.

‘Tell me.’

‘All I know is, he makes films, sells ’em on. I mean, I don’t know if they’re real or not.’

‘Liar,’ Henry said.

‘Yeah OK, they are real. I just watch ’em, that’s all.’

‘Tell me where he is,’ Henry said softly. He could feel a desire to explode. He still had a fingertip under Larry’s unshaven chin, which was coarse and sweaty. ‘Tell me,’ Henry insisted.

‘He’s a fuckin’ madman.’

‘I don’t care. At this moment in time, I’m madder. Tell me where he lives.’

‘I don’t know, honest.’

‘I do.’ Harry, broken-nosed Harry, piped up. ‘I followed him once,’ he said through a mouthful of blood. ‘I was curious.’

Conflicting emotions jostled for position inside Henry Christie. Part of him was deeply annoyed that he hadn’t done the job properly when he’d gone to arrest George Uren. He hadn’t thought it through, and if he had, Louis Vernon Trent could easily be in custody now. Or at the very least, that lowlife landlord could have been sweated earlier. Another part of him was truly excited. If it all came together, the cops were patient, and Trent hadn’t already done a runner, one of the most wanted men in the country would soon be in his clutches. That prospect outweighed the negative side, but he knew he was fortunate to be in this position and was determined not to let the opportunity pass. And, all being well, he’d be able to stick two fingers up at Dave Anger, too.

It was ten p.m. Things had moved fast over the last few hours.

The trio of Corks were all in custody for various offences relating to child pornography and complicity in murder and kidnapping (though Henry knew the latter two allegations probably would not go far), and they were going nowhere for at least twenty-four hours.

A team from the surveillance unit had been brought in and were watching the address Harry Cork had given them. He had in fact pointed out the house in a quick, surreptitious drive past in a plain car with smoked-glass windows. Harry was now desperate to help the cops and Henry believed what he told them: they had only bought the videos from Uren, but Harry knew that the man called Stoke was supplying them. He had seen Stoke dropping off a package at Uren’s flat one day. He hadn’t even known that Stoke and Uren were buddies — ‘honest to God’ — but he did know that Stoke spent little time in the flat on the top floor. He had subsequently followed Stoke/Trent to a terraced house on Hornby Road, Blackpool, close to the town centre. That was the one he pointed out to the police.

Henry had asked Jerry Tope, the Intel DC, to do some quick utility checks on the address. The billing for gas, electric and council tax came back with the name reference Stoke. He had taken the place over two years before, a fact which sickened Henry. It meant that Trent had been living back in his home town, under an assumed name, right under the noses of the police, within a quarter of a mile of the station, making a living by stealing from old people and abducting children from surrounding forces.

But had he now gone? Had the police presence at Uren’s flat spooked him? And was Henry too late to save the life of Kerry Figgis?

Karl Donaldson was along for the ride. Henry and he were sitting in an unmarked police car two streets away from the target address, speculating, hoping to accumulate. Not far away an armed team were also parked up, as well as other specialists, detectives and uniformed officers. Even a joiner was on standby to repair any damage that might be caused from the house entry. They were all waiting for the final decision to be made.

So far, the surveillance guys reported no sign of any movement from the address. No lights, no activity.

‘It’s chicken and egg,’ Donaldson said. He shifted uncomfortably, having been hurriedly issued with a borrowed stab vest that was too tight for him. ‘And what’s the most important?’

Henry’s jaw rotated. He knew exactly what Donaldson was obliquely referring to: obviously the most important thing was to save Kerry’s life. That should override everything, even if it meant that Trent did not get caught … so should they wait? See if he entered or left the house? Or should they burst in, hoping Kerry might be in there alive? Not that there was anything to suggest she was in there. So many questions. Henry realized there was a good chance she was dead anyway, stats showed that … but, but … even if there was the faintest glimmer of her breathing, there was only one course of action to take. Even if she wasn’t in the house, there could be clues to lead the police to her.

Henry nodded, agreeing with his inner gut feeling: better to lose Trent than a life.

‘We go in.’

It was left to the specialists to get into the house. Once the exterior had been sealed, a team of Support Unit officers, armed with a door-opener, raced up to the front door. When they found it locked, they did the business. Within seconds the door was off its hinges. Immediately the firearms team burst through the gap into the house in a well-drilled manoeuvre, weapons drawn, full body armour protection, ballistic shields, torches and screams. They moved quickly but carefully through the ground floor, searching and securing the rooms one by one until they were satisfied it was all clear; the team at the foot of the stairs then got the instruction to move up, leading the assault on the first floor, which was also secured quickly with no trace of any occupants.

Henry and Karl Donaldson stood inside the vestibule, waiting for the rooms to be declared clear before stepping into the hallway, beckoned in by the sergeant in charge of the firearms team.

‘No one ground or first floor, sir,’ he reported. ‘But there’s a basement and an attic.’

‘OK,’ said Henry. ‘Trent’s a clever sod, so keep a presence upstairs and on this level. Don’t stand anyone down yet. Let’s have a look at the basement first, then the attic.’