Nick Oldham - Substantial Threat

Henry nodded, processing this information. He glanced down at his notes. ‘This would be Thomas Dinsdale, would it? He’s the manager?’

‘Was at the time,’ Burrows corrected him. ‘He quit shortly after the girl got killed.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Absolutely no idea.’

‘No forwarding address? Contact number? New place of work?’

She shook her head and pouted.

Henry was just about to get very annoyed with her because he knew she was lying. He opened his mouth but his words were cut short by the pager affixed to his belt, which began to ring. Frustrated he unhooked it and read the scrolling message. He sighed and fitted it back on to his belt, then looked at Jacqueline Burrows.

‘Saved by the bell,’ he said coldly. ‘But just for the record, Miss Burrows, I don’t believe you didn’t know anything about the dead girl, nor do I believe you haven’t got a clue as to the whereabouts of Mr Dinsdale.’ He finished his tea and struggled out of the settee. ‘So I’ll just have to find him myself, won’t I? And, as a muscular movie star once said, “I’ll be back.” I’ll find the front door myself, thanks.’

Burrows, stony-faced, let him go without uttering a word. She watched him from the living-room window as he got into his Vectra. She was feeling very nervous, dithery almost, as though her blood sugar was low. There was something about Henry Christie which made her very wary indeed. It wasn’t as though she had not been cautious of the detectives who had interviewed her initially, but she had not felt challenged by them in any way. In fact, when she had lured one of them into her bed, she had known she was completely safe. But Christie was different. There was something about him that worried her and gave her the feeling that even if she could get him into bed, he would still be a danger to her.

She picked up her phone and dialled a mobile number.

Annoyingly the call was immediately transferred to the answer-phone. She slammed the receiver down and swore.

They made their way to a small terraced house in South Shore, not far away from the Bloomfield Road football ground used by Blackpool FC.

Crazy dropped Ray and Marty off at the front door and parked the Astra some distance away and walked back to the house by another route, checking for any signs of surveillance by the cops. It was time to be careful because things were about to get very serious. He walked down the back alley behind the house and entered through the rear door.

Ray and Marty were already upstairs in the front bedroom where they had stripped off and were naked. They were folding their clothes into black plastic bin liners. Crazy joined them and stripped off too, placing his clothes into a third bin liner.

‘It’s all in the back bedroom,’ came a voice from downstairs. ‘When you’re ready.’

The three naked men trudged down the short hallway into the room where everything was laid out on the uncarpeted floor for them.

Each man had a pair of jockey shorts to put on, a pair of black socks, a fairly tight-fitting pair of dark-blue overalls, latex gloves and a ski-mask. Their feet were to be covered by Hi-Tek trainers. It had all been newly bought, but no two things had been purchased from the same supplier, with the exception of the latex gloves, which came in a box of a hundred pairs.

All dressed, but without the masks, they trooped downstairs to the kitchen where the man who was known as the Supplier waited patiently for them, brew in hand, a selection of handguns laid out neatly on the Formica-topped kitchen table.

‘Fuckin’ World War Three,’ exclaimed Marty.

‘Everything fit okay?’ the Supplier asked, appraising the men.

‘Yeah, good,’ said Ray. He stared greedily at the guns.

‘Got a bit of a choice for you here,’ the Supplier said proudly, displaying his wares on the table with a regal waft of the hand. ‘And every one is guaranteed to be as clean as a whistle.’

‘How do we know that for sure?’ Ray asked cynically.

‘Stole them myself. Every gun here is clean and cannot be connected to any other criminal act.’ The Supplier smiled. ‘Guaranteed.’

Ray nodded.

The Supplier selected one of the handguns — a 9mm Glock, very light and compact. He removed the magazine, showed the three men that it wasn’t loaded and handed it to Ray, butt first. ‘Used by a lot of police forces in the country. Easy to use, reliable, kills people.’

Ray weighed the gun in his hand. ‘Very light,’ he admitted.

‘Accurate, deadly,’ the Supplier confirmed.

‘Will it jam?’

‘No,’ he said with confidence.

Ray handed the weapon to Marty, who appraised it, nodded sagely and passed it to Crazy, who did the same.

‘Twelve rounds in the mag, one in the chamber.’

‘Unlucky for some,’ smirked Ray.

‘Eh?’ said Marty, a quizzical expression on his face.

‘Nowt,’ said Ray, shaking his head. ‘What else you got?’ he asked the Supplier, looking down at the table full of guns.

‘I think you’ll like this one, too,’ the Supplier said. He picked up another weapon and showed it to Ray Cragg.

By the time Henry Christie arrived it was all over. He parked some distance away from the flats and sauntered to the scene, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Now that he was a member of the ‘circus’ — the HQ team brought in to assist the local cops to investigate serious crime — he did not like arriving in the time-honoured traditional fashion, bursting into crime scenes, throwing his weight about like they did in days gone by. He liked to do things his way, a way that reflected his personality: quiet and sneaky. So he came on foot, approaching from an oblique angle, taking his time, letting his eyes, ears and nose do the work; coming up from below as opposed to pouncing from above as some senior investigating officers had a reputation for doing.

There was a lot of activity at the flats. Ambulances, fire engines and police cars and all their occupants. It all looked pretty confusing, but Henry was pleased to be able to pick out one of the local jacks, Rik Dean, doing some directing and supervising, getting the uniformed branch to push back gawping members of the public and generally make some room.

Rik saw Henry approaching. He cut off from what he was doing and scurried to meet him.

Henry liked Rik. As a uniformed bobby he had been a good thief-taker with a superb nose for rooting out villains. His transfer to CID could not have come soon enough and he showed himself to be a very capable detective, having recently been promoted to sergeant.

‘Hi, Henry.’

‘Rik.’ The DCI nodded.

‘Hope you didn’t mind the call. . just seemed to be a bit of an odd one, that’s all.’

Henry shook his head. He never minded the call. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He led Henry round two fire tenders, stepping over hoses which were coiled like an annual convention of boa constrictors, up a flight of steps leading to a block of flats. Henry had expected to be taken up to the fourth floor where he could see a lot of activity taking place on the landing.

‘We’re not going up there?’ he asked.

Rik shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

Henry frowned, but kept an open mind.

‘Come on, John, get those kids away from there,’ Rik shouted at one of the uniformed PCs who was having problems keeping a bunch of youths away. He continued to walk around the perimeter of the flats, taking Henry to the back where even more things were happening. A group of people — paramedics, firefighters and cops — were gathered around an object on the ground. They all looked up as Rik and Henry came towards them, parting as they got nearer. Henry saw they were standing around a body which had been covered by a green sheet from the ambulance.