Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

Henry asked Tope to consider his thoughts about Peters’ assumed name and the ‘more than one killer’ scenario, and also asked him to do a national check for similar crimes — kidnaps, followed by bodies being shot and dumped and set on fire, particularly around Christmas time.

Then Henry called Rik Dean to check on his progress on the opposite side of the county. Getting no reply, he left a voice message,

He decided to visit the scene where Peters’ body had been discovered, thinking dismally that this had all the hallmarks of being a long drawn-out investigation, not made any easier by coming to it late.

Whenever possible, Henry liked to be in at the death.

Another person not especially happy to see Henry on Christmas Day was Bernadette Peters. She opened her front door suspiciously to him. He gave her his best lopsided grin (it was getting a little overused on that day), which became a ‘sorry to disturb you’ expression as he introduced himself.

‘I’m actually just having my Christmas dinner. . but, hey, what the hell, it’s only an M amp;S meal for one. I can zap it back in the microwave. Come in.’ She stood back and let him walk past her. She was still dressed in her sleeping attire, a long towelling dressing gown tied tightly over her nightdress and a pair of fluffy, tatty slippers.

Henry thanked her and entered the lounge of the house, which was situated in Blackpool’s north shore on the boundary with Bispham. It was a careworn semi in need of a lot of TLC.

She had been watching TV with a tray balanced on her knees, on which was her plated-up microwaveable turkey dinner for one. She moved past Henry and picked up the tray, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘I really pushed out the boat this year. . it’s usually a Tesco one.’ She went into the kitchen.

Henry felt a slight jolt within him. Nothing connected with the investigation, but something that stabbed at his own failings as a man and husband. He had an inner vision of the countless Christmas Days that Kate had been forced to endure without him because of ‘work commitments’. He knew she had often prepared meals of proper turkey, slaved over a hot stove, only for them to go to waste, but at the time it hadn’t meant anything much to Henry, not being home at Christmas. Kate had always laughed it off. He swallowed dryly.

And here he was again, working on 25 December. His mouth went tight in self-loathing.

Mrs Peters emerged from the kitchen and Henry smiled again, noting that under the drabness of her unkempt appearance, she was very attractive. ‘Obviously I don’t know why you’re here, but I guess it’s about David. Can I offer you a brew?’

‘That would be great. Tea? Just milk.’

‘Coming up. I’ll go back in here’ — she pointed to the kitchen — ‘and you can have a minute or two doing what detectives do — snoop. I don’t mind.’

Henry chuckled and said, ‘Only on TV.’ But when she disappeared, he snooped, taking in the room, the fixtures and fittings, the framed photographs on the fireplace, one of which was of her and her dead husband. Henry picked it up and studied it, wondering how happy she thought they’d been at the time.

‘Don’t know why I keep it there.’

Henry spun guiltily as she came back in from the kitchen, bearing two mugs of tea, handing one across to him.

‘What do you mean?’

She screwed up her face and sat on the settee, pondering the question. ‘Dunno,’ she frowned. ‘I thought we were OK-ish. Not ab-fab, if you know what I mean, just pretty standard. Dull, unremarkable, rubbed along all right, mostly, tolerated each other. Clearly he thought I was a boring cow. Two kids — who, incidentally, I haven’t seen for six months — then, Wham!’

Henry took a seat on an armchair.

‘He’s having a sordid affair and then he’s murdered. Double-wham, actually. I’m still not sure I can believe either. He wasn’t exactly a Romeo, but mind you, that bitch isn’t exactly Angelina Jolie — but hey! These things happen.’ She sounded sad, resigned and, despite using the word ‘bitch’, not resentful.

‘You think the two are connected, the affair and the murder?’

‘It’d make sense, but I doubt it. Her husband isn’t a killer.’

‘What about you?’

‘If I’d found out about the affair, maybe I would’ve been.’ She looked slyly at Henry. ‘Is that why you’re here? Has some evidence come to light that says I’m the killer?’

‘Now you’re teasing me,’ Henry chided. ‘No is the answer to that, but I am investigating David’s murder.’

‘Isn’t there a link to another murder — a woman in Blackburn?’

‘You know about that?’

‘I got told — and asked a lot of questions.’

‘Do you think he knew the woman?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t know her. . that said, it seemed I didn’t know very much about him at all.’

Henry nodded sagely, not wanting to say anything trite, like ‘No one ever really knows someone else,’ just to sympathize with her. He looked at her, saw a lost soul.

‘So no ideas?’

‘No — and don’t think I haven’t thought about it.’

‘How would you describe your husband?’

‘Dour, intelligent enough, not especially creative. . just a bloke, bit of a country bumpkin in some ways.’

‘What about the year leading up to his death? Was there anything unusual about it, did anything unusual happen? Did he change at all?’

‘No, seemed the same old self. . but it wasn’t a great year. A bit distant, more than usual. Now whether that was because he was seeing Stella. . fuck, Stella,’ she sneered. ‘What a name! Tart’s name.’ She became thoughtful, then said, ‘Maybe he had changed. . we were both a bit too insulated from each other. . drifted apart.’

‘How long had you been married?’

‘Best part of twenty years. . we sort of met at college.’

‘Do you think he kept secrets from you?’

‘What, other than the sordid affair? Probably. Don’t all men?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I’ve just been to have a quick look at the place where David’s body was found,’ Henry said. ‘Does that mean anything to you? Is there any reason you can think of as to why he should’ve ended up there? Is there any significance to it?’

She shook her head. ‘Been asked that before. I gave a detailed statement.’

‘I know. I’ve read it. I’m sorry if I’m covering old ground’ — actually, he wasn’t — ‘but sometimes things come back to people and other things start to have meanings that weren’t there before. And, of course, I’ve taken charge of the investigation, so it’s important for me to get a handle on it.’

‘On Christmas Day?’

Henry’s eyes roved quickly around the room. It was decorated in a desultory way, as if there was no heart or feeling behind the hanging baubles or the weary-looking Christmas tree. Nor was there any sign of presents, or wrapping paper. He guessed she was a lonely woman who lived in a grey world. He smiled at her. ‘Good point. . sorry to disturb you, but at least you know that we’re still investigating your husband’s death. It won’t necessarily bring you good cheer, but I hope it reassures you.’

‘Do you think you’ll get whoever did it?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You sound confident.’

‘That’s because I am.’ And, he thought smugly to himself, Because I’m friggin’ good at it.

There was nothing to report from Jerry Tope, other than more grumblings about his spoiled Christmas, but he let Henry know he was still working on the backgrounds of the two victims to see where their paths might have crossed in the past, if at all. He said he was having problems accessing the national database to cross-check the MOs with any similar murders elsewhere in the country. He moaned that he had been forced to revert to Google, which was throwing up a lot of dross. There was nothing of interest on the missing person front, either. He finished by asking when he could go home.