Nick Oldham - Psycho Alley

‘Where is here?’ Henry looked round.

‘Just on the other side o’ the school’s like a little cul-de-sac of lock-up garages. Half of ’em are derelict, but some still have doors on and are used. He went to one which was padlocked, unlocks it, goes in, pulls the door down behind him.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘No bleedin’ idea, but I think it’s sus. This time o’ night? This is a pretty dodgy estate, this.’

‘Tell me about it. Have you had a listen?’

‘Didn’t want to get spotted, so I called you, like you said — any time.’

‘Show me.’ Henry jerked his head at his companions for them to get out of the car and tag along. Costain led the way around the perimeter of the school, up a back alley, then down a narrow ginnel which led out on to a colony of garages. In the past, they had been allocated to houses in adjacent streets, but over time they had become neglected. Now, though still owned by the council, they were only used by anyone who could be bothered sticking a lock on them. Henry had been here before. He had once found a stolen Land Rover in one; another time he’d discovered four pedigree poodles which had been stolen from a woman in Cheshire.

‘It’s that one,’ Costain pointed. ‘Third along.’

Henry glanced at Donaldson and Fawcett, did a quick explanation, which drew a wide-eyed response from Fawcett, who looked first at Costain and then in awe at Henry, putting two and two together. Henry clocked Fawcett’s response and whispered a warning in his ear. ‘You say fuck all — understand?’ To have Costain revealed as a source would be damaging to both Henry and Troy if the wrong people found out. Henry because he would end up being chewed up and spat out for committing a major disciplinary offence, and Costain because he might end up dead for being a grass.

He told Costain to stay put, then indicated for the other two to follow him towards the identified garage. As with all the others, it was single, just about wide enough and long enough to accommodate a medium-sized saloon and little else. There was a light showing under the door and Henry could hear an engine running and thought he could also make out the sound of muffled music. He waved for Troy to join them. ‘What’s at the back of the garage?’ he whispered. ‘Is there any way out?’

‘Just a brick wall, as far as I know.’

Henry assessed the garage door. A common-or-garden metal up-and-over door, nothing special. It had a handle in its centre about two-thirds of the way up, and extra security was provided by a padlock on one edge of the door, which had obviously been removed to allow Callum to get in. He was contemplating how difficult it would be to rip the thing open if it was locked from the inside. With four pairs of strong hands, he sussed it would be pretty easy. Even if it was locked, they would be able to twist and wrench it open, he was sure. He guessed that, at best, it was secured with only a flimsy latch.

He turned the handle slowly and pushed the door, found it to be unlocked. It moved easily and with one more heave, he opened it.

There was a car inside with its engine on — a silver-grey Toyota — parked nose in. Two people were inside on the front seats. Immediately Henry noticed the hose coming out of the exhaust pipe, fed into the interior of the car through the rear side window. The inside of the car was clogged with dense exhaust fumes and there was music playing, that old funeral favourite, ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams.

‘Driver’s side!’ Henry yelled at Fawcett, whilst he himself dashed to the front passenger door and yanked it open, hoping he wasn’t too late. He had dealt with this type of suicide before and it always surprised him just how quickly the fumes killed.

‘Shit,’ he cursed. He wafted away the pungent smoke and plunged his head and shoulders into the car, grabbing the seemingly lifeless, naked, and trussed-up body of Kerry Figgis. Her wrists and ankles were bound by parcel tape.

At the same time, from the opposite side, PC Fawcett had opened the driver’s door and was trying to manhandle Callum Rourke, the boyfriend of Kerry’s mum, Tina, out of the car. He had been affected by the fumes, but put up a fight and tried to punch Fawcett. Donaldson came in behind the young cop and helped subdue the man.

Meanwhile, Henry eased his arms under and round Kerry’s naked body, her head flopping worryingly against her chest and his shoulder. He manoeuvred her carefully out of the car and down the side of the garage into the fresh air, where she started to cough horribly across his clothes, but he did not care, because the only thing that mattered to him at that moment in time was that Kerry was alive.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he said gently to her, then caught Troy Costain’s eye. They regarded each other with expressions on their faces that defied words.

‘Nice one,’ Henry said to him.

It was nine fifty-five a.m. Henry Christie stood at the entrance to the FMIT block at police headquarters at Hutton, a large reinforced envelope in his hand. The campus was quiet, being Saturday morning, and no one else was to be seen or heard. He had not yet had any sleep since he’d nodded off and then been so rudely awoken in Louis Vernon Trent’s living room, but his mind was active, as the night since had been so frantic and stressful. Now he was all set to meet Dave Anger, as instructed.

He was nervous but, at the same time, certain.

Using his swipe card, he stepped into the building and trotted up the stairs to the first floor, walking along the narrow corridor until he reached Anger’s office. The door was open and the superintendent was at his desk. Anger did not look, even though he must have at least sensed Henry was there.

Henry did not move, did not knock or cough, just waited.

Finally Anger raised his head. His piercing, angry black eyes turned to Henry.

‘Come in. Sit,’ he said tersely. Henry did as ordered, sitting down primly on the low, pink-cushioned chair that was a feature of the whole complex. Someone must have bought a job lot of them years before, and they were ubiquitous. He placed the envelope on his lap.

Anger made a weary, psychological one-upmanship show of finishing some report or other just to show Henry where his place was, closed the folder, tidied the desk, then rose and closed the door softly, before returning to his chair.

Henry blinked dumbly.

‘Well, you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you?’ Anger said, ‘And I couldn’t be happier.’

‘If you mean I’ve caught Louis Trent and arrested someone else for the crimes I was originally investigating for you, and saved a young girl from certain death, then yes,’ Henry nodded enthusiastically, ‘I’ve done it. Good result, I’d say, despite the odds.’ Henry looked meaningfully at Anger, who sighed.

‘Not even that lot can save your sorry arse, Henry.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to be transferred off FMIT. You’ll be starting work on some pen-pushing, half-baked project in Corporate Development starting Monday. Where you can’t do any harm.’

‘And why’s that?’ he said again.

‘Because officers who assault prisoners the way you do are not fit and proper to be on FMIT, nor or they fit to be police officers full stop. You assaulted a prisoner, namely Troy Costain, in front of a witness, then compounded this by allowing him to be released on bail. I suspect this was because you did a deal with him so he wouldn’t complain about you. Am I right?’

‘No comment,’ Henry said, realizing who had grassed on him. Sheena Waters, the woman DC so aggrieved that Henry had released Costain, had gone straight to the big cheese. Henry didn’t bear her a grudge, though.