Nick Oldham - Psycho Alley
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- Название:Psycho Alley
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- Издательство:Severn House
- Жанр:
- Год:2006
- ISBN:нет данных
- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Psycho Alley: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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The second attack, two hours later: same MO and same result. The child escaped unharmed, although the attacker did manage to drag her to him, but he disappeared empty-handed.
Two more attacks took place that day. The fourth was the most horrifying, but this time the man — if it was the same man — was on foot in a local park, not far from the seafront at North Shore. He made no mistake and grabbed a girl who was walking alone through the park. Within seconds he had bundled her terrified into the boot of his car and driven away. She was released three hours later after suffering a brutal sexual assault. Again, the police had little evidence — that the man had a silver car was about the best they got — and after an intense, but short-term enquiry, they got nowhere. The man went to ground. No arrest was made, but then again there were no more attacks. After a short period of hi-viz patrolling, police resources were channelled into more productive activities. Within a month, the attacks were all but forgotten, except by the victims and their families.
Six weeks later there were two more attacks on the same day — attempts, unsuccessfully, to entice young girls into a silver car by a man with his pants off and penis in hand. These were half-hearted attacks, less serious than on that first day, and it was assumed that they might not have even been committed by the same man. The only evidence linking the two days was the silver or grey car. The problem was that these were not unusual occurrences. A man driving around, flies undone, pants removed, approaching young girls, was the sort of thing that happened quite regularly, unfortunately.
Then nothing. Not one incident for three months.
Then he was back with a vengeance.
A Saturday morning in midsummer. One of the hot days. Scorching sun, people letting their guard down. Nothing bad was supposed to happen on such days, not in England, surely.
He struck hard and brutally.
The girl he abducted was found three hours later, left for dead in a grass verge next to a lay-by, having been strangled and raped. That she lived was a miracle.
It was only then that the police started to click the pieces of the puzzle together, realizing there was every chance they had a serial offender on their hands, someone who could possibly kill on his next outing. In a very short space of time an investigation team was cobbled together and a proper enquiry was underway. Better late than never. By judicious use of skilful bullshit and lies, they managed to avoid too much criticism from the local press, who were ever willing to kick the cops at every opportunity; internally there was some searching questions asked and a lot of arse kicking. A ferocious chief constable insisted on a result, or else.
The results did not come. The local DCI in charge of the investigation found himself miserably sidelined on to a neighbourhood policing project — shamed, basically — and replaced by the newly-returned-to-the-force Henry Christie.
For Henry, this was an unexpected and unwelcome development. He had known about the restructuring of FMIT and his transfer to Blackpool, but had not expected to be handed a poisoned chalice so quickly.
His first two days back in the force had been spent doing his defensive tactics refresher training, which included a great input on how to slap someone, which was both highly amusing and effective; there had also been a demonstration by the Firearms department of the taser stun gun, which was also impressive. On day three he was unwillingly helping out with promotion interviews at headquarters, forming one third of the panel assessing potential sergeants. This was not up Henry’s street, but he had only himself to blame; foolishly he had once volunteered to be trained to carry out recruitment and selection interviews in a moment of weakness several years earlier. Now it was payback time as he found himself press-ganged on to a panel asking inane questions to bright-eyed bushy-tailed constables who believed they had the qualities to be sergeants if they gave the answers the panel wanted.
He became so bored so quickly by the whole, dry, mind-numbing process that he started to apply his own assessment criteria. He started scoring highly if the candidate was female, blonde, slim and attractive, whatever they said in answer to his less-than-probing questions. Just so long as they had a modicum of intellect. His approach was soon spotted by the rather snooty other members of the panel, straight-laced, rod-up-the-arse HR types. He was quickly taken to one side and lectured to by a scary lady who threatened him, but could not actually really prove what he was doing. She looked as though she could have plunged a knife into him, which gave him a warm feeling inside.
‘You can always find someone else,’ he suggested, knowing she was well and truly stuck with him as all the other eligible high-ranking officers had scattered like cockroaches from a light when they saw this task coming up. Just like he would have done if he’d been pre-warned. However, he took heed of the dressing down and when he returned to the interviews he amended his criteria to be more inclusive: redheads, brunettes and blondes.
By three p.m. on the second day of interviews — Thursday of that week — having seen an average of three people an hour over six hours, he was mentally screwed and physically crumbling. The panel were taking a well-earned coffee break, Henry avoiding all small talk about human resource issues, when his mobile phone vibrated silently in his pocket as a text message landed … and by three fifteen p.m., having given his fellow panel members a cheery wave bye-bye, he was sitting in the chief constable’s office wearing a wary expression and wondering if he would be better off choosing blondes or brunettes. Also in the office was Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger, head honcho of FMIT. Even before conversation commenced Henry’s eyes roved the room in search of the metaphorical chalice, or was it the Sword of Damocles?
‘Henry,’ the chief constable began. He was sitting on one of the four low leather sofas arranged into a square, for those less formal gatherings. He leaned forward with his fingers intertwined, facing Henry who was on the sofa directly opposite. Dave Anger was on the one to Henry’s right. ‘I just want to say again that you and your team did a cracking job in GMP.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ The Chief did not hand out praise readily; mostly he insulted Henry, so Henry realized immediately he was being softened up, therefore remained on guard. In terms of the Manchester job, the Chief had actually headed it, though Henry had done the donkey work.
‘No point slacking now you’re back, though,’ he went on.
‘Hadn’t intended to. I’ve just redone my defensive tactics training and I’m involved in PC to PS interviews as we speak.’
‘Very commendable,’ he said insincerely. The Chief’s name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. Henry had known him for many years. FB, as he was known in the force (and it was not necessarily an affectionate term, because most people called him ‘Fucking Bastard’ behind his back), had spent virtually all his service as a police officer in Lancashire. He had been a career detective up to the rank of chief superintendent, then became an ambitious high-ranking chief officer, ending up in his present position quite swiftly after one or two deft career moves. Henry had worked for FB several times over the years and they had developed an unhealthy, one-sided relationship, one in which Henry’s skills were used and abused by a ruthless FB, often to the detriment of Henry’s well-being, mentally and physically. Henry had actually believed FB had gone a little soft on him, but that gentleness seemed to have gone up in smoke. Now he was back to normal, the pleasantness just an unexplained blip on an otherwise uncompromising bastard’s character; FB had resumed his role of devious, manipulative, scheming, result-driven git, and Henry guessed that FB did not possess a conscience.
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