Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

He flicked open his phone and called Rik Dean, her ex-fiance. ‘Have you heard anything from Lisa yet?’ Henry asked.

‘Should I have?’ he said, a hurt tone in the words.

‘No, maybe not,’ Henry conceded. ‘That said, I haven’t heard anything either and I’ve been calling her all day. I’m getting a bit concerned.’

Rik uttered a cynical harumph . ‘She’s ditzy and it’s not unlike her to do something like this. I mean, she’s hardly likely to be our killer’s next victim. . is she?’ Rik’s voice changed on the last two words as the penny slotted home.

‘Life is full of coincidences,’ Henry said, ‘and I doubt whether she is the next victim, but from a welfare point of view I’d like to know she’s OK. She has been pretty cut up about you two splitting,’ he fibbed a little.

‘It was her freaking fault. Why’s she blubbering?’ Rik demanded.

‘Uh — dunno. . Look, do you know who the guy is she’s. . er. . seeing?’ It was a delicate question. Henry had never enquired, didn’t really want to know if he was honest.

‘I do.’ Henry could almost hear Rik’s teeth gnashing.

Henry waited, nothing came. ‘Well, bloody tell me. He might know where she is.’

‘Peregrine Astley-Barnes,’ Rik said primly.

Henry registered the name. ‘As in Astley-Barnes the jewellers?’

‘One and the same.’

‘The millionaire jewellers?’

‘Henry — you’re twisting the knife here.’

‘Sorry, mate.’

‘I wouldn’t mind, but she met the stuck-up bastard through her work and then we bought our engagement ring from him.’

Henry was glad Rik couldn’t see his grin. The Astley-Barnes family, Henry knew, were diamond retailers, at the very high end of that particular market. They had four stores in Lancashire, two on the coast, two inland, and others in Manchester, Chester and York. They were the kinds of stores with security guards and doors that locked you in — or out — of the shops with thick, unbreakable, plate-glass windows.

‘You bought an engagement ring from them? How much does an inspector earn these days?’

‘Crippled me,’ Rik admitted. ‘I wouldn’t mind but she’d already started seeing the twat, so I don’t know why she let me go through with the purchase.’ Lisa made intricate silver jewellery, very exquisite, and sold it through shops like the Astley-Barneses’.

‘You got a number for him?’

‘Oh yes,’ Rik said ominously. ‘And car details and bank details. .’

‘Stop right there. I haven’t heard that,’ Henry said. ‘If you’re going to get yourself in data protection shit, I don’t want to know. Just give me the guy’s number.’

As much security as the Astley-Barnes family had, it did not make them immune to becoming the victims of crime. Armed robberies at their shops were infrequent, but when they did happen they were usually very violent affairs resulting in severe beatings for the staff and oodles of rocks being stolen. Nor were the family completely safe in their own homes. Henry had once dealt with what is known as a Tiger Kidnapping, when a member of the family was held hostage while other family members were forced to open up the shops and hand over diamonds, otherwise there would be serious bloodshed.

The problem for the robber on that occasion was that the police had a tip-off and were ready and waiting. In a carefully planned operation run by Henry, the whole gang had been caught and subsequently convicted.

In his dealings with the family Henry had found them to be pleasant and not in the least stuck-up, as Rik insinuated. They were clearly members of the upper class, whose fortunes could be traced back to nineteenth-century diamond fields in South Africa.

He phoned the number Rik had given him. It rang, then dropped onto voicemail. Henry left a short message. Then he called Lisa again and left one for her, too. Hopefully, if the two of them were together, maybe holed up in a shag-pad somewhere, they’d put two and two together and get in touch. As he slotted his phone back into his jacket pocket, it rang.

‘Hooray,’ he said and answered it, thinking it might be Lisa.

‘Henry? It’s me, Jerry.’

‘Not gone home?’

‘I wish.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I might have something. .’

‘I’ve been looking at the two victims, as you asked, doing the backgrounds and all that. First thing is, Peters was born in September, Blackshaw in December, both in the same year. So they were both the same age as each other, one slightly older.’

Henry listened hard, wishing he was face to face with Tope. Ingesting vital information over a mobile phone line wasn’t easy, and Tope had a knack for dramatic suspense that was often irritating.

‘And they were both born in Hyndburn.’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘Now, I’ve also been trawling for similar murders in other parts of the country and I’ve unearthed one that looks similar — but this is from Google, so I haven’t got all the details I need. . but. . three years ago, Christmas Eve, a female was abducted and turned up dead — shot and burned near Leeds. She was born in the February of the year after our two. In Hyndburn. A woman by the name of Ella Milner.’

Henry screwed up his face, his urge to say, ‘ And? ’ hard to suppress.

‘The Leeds MO is similar to ours, so I won’t go into it. . but if you look at the dates of birth it means that the victims were all in the same school year, though not necessarily at the same school.’

‘Right.’ Henry still didn’t gee him along. He picked some flaky skin out of his right ear with his fingernail.

‘OK,’ Tope said. ‘Regarding the birthplaces: all three were born in Hyndburn — except they weren’t.’

Henry frowned.

‘I’ve dug through all the records I can and the thing is, their births were registered in Hyndburn, but all three were actually born in their houses in Belthorn, which is a village on the outskirts of Hyndburn, overlooking Blackburn. But it comes under Hyndburn, such are the vagaries of local authority boundaries, hence how the births were registered. Geographically, it’s nearer to Blackburn.’

‘I know Belthorn. Out on the moors.’

‘Exactly, a small place out in the wilds, but with two primary schools, Belthorn School and the Methodist School.’

Henry’s ring piece twitched, a sure sign of excitement.

‘So, yeah. . and you know I just said that just because they were the same age, it didn’t mean they went to the same school? Well guess what? They did all go to the same school — ta-dah! Belthorn School, to be precise. . they were all there in the same year. And, in fact, having trawled through the internet, I’ve even found a picture of the class they were in on some website dedicated to the history of the village. And all three are in it, sat there like little innocent babies.’

‘How old would they be?’

‘We’re talking about the late 1970s, so eleven. . just before they moved on to whichever high school they went to. I haven’t got that far yet.’

‘Two things. First, well done, Jerry. Second, why didn’t we know this already?’

Tope did not reply. In the background Henry heard a phone.

‘Just let me get that, Henry,’ Tope said, giving Henry a moment to take in this information. It was a relief of sorts: at least Lisa hadn’t been born in Belthorn, if that was the connection between the victims, even though she was in the right age group, and she hadn’t been at school in Belthorn, either. Like Henry, she’d been to school in Accrington. Not far away, but far enough.

Tope returned to the phone. ‘Henry, that was the FIM just bringing me up to speed with mispers. . I think we might have one that fits the bill. . let me get back to you.’