Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

Terry was the favoured son because the other, Frederick, was always a liability. Weak-willed, mentally unstable and prone to outrageous violence, even against his own family. Nor did it help that he was built like a brick shithouse. Freddy was farmed out of the way to live in Rossendale with an aunt, but his isolation from the family only increased his paranoia.

Henry had come across Freddy in the mid eighties when, as a teenager, he tried to strangle his aunt, then attempted to kill Henry. It was during Henry’s days in uniform, working on the crime car in the Rossendale Valley before he moved on to CID

Frantic neighbours had called in the job after every window of the council house in Rawtenstall was smashed from the inside, closely followed by items of furniture being jettisoned into the garden — and, as Henry drew up in the police car, Freddy’s aunt joining the broken furniture from an upstairs window.

Henry was alone, not unusual for a cop down the valley, and he just missed catching her as she slammed down hard and awkwardly onto her pelvis, which he distinctly heard go crack, and which he later learned had shattered into six brittle pieces. He had been doing the obvious, caring thing and bending down on one knee to check out the moaning lady, when Freddy leaned out of an upstairs window and fired an air rifle at him. The pellet thudded into his chest, hitting the personal radio swinging around his neck, one of those Burndept things made of tough plastic, about the size of half a house brick slit lengthways.

Incensed, the younger, angrier Henry kicked open the front door and barged through, only to meet Freddy leaping down the stairs like a silverback gorilla, uttering a terrible demented scream. He launched himself at Henry from the fourth step, landing on him and driving him backwards out of the door, catching the raised threshold with his heel. Henry tipped over, cracked the back of his head — which split — and Freddy straddled and started to strangle him with big, thick thumbs and fingers, about the circumference of pork sausages.

Henry struggled, punching young Freddy on the side of the face repeatedly and as hard as he could, but even though Freddy was only a teenager, he was impossible to dislodge. Freddy’s red, rage-filled face still often came to Henry in nightmares, the wild eyes bulging, the sweat dripping, the jagged but smooth-surfaced lines of a burn mark down the side of his face.

Fortunately, backup was en route, though for Henry it couldn’t get there quickly enough. Freddy’s windpipe-crushing grip was having a serious effect on his vision as blood and oxygen were effectively cut off from his brain and his punches were losing force and coordination, becoming more like weak slaps as Freddy simply rolled with them.

The real ignominy for Henry was that he was going to die at the hands of a deranged teenager, which would only go to prove the old police adage that it was the routine jobs that were always the most dangerous.

First on the scene to assist was the local detective inspector, who just happened to be in the neighbourhood on an unrelated matter. He ran up and kicked Freddy’s head like it was a rugby ball — which did the trick momentarily.

Freddy released the killing grip on Henry’s throat as he rolled away. Beautiful, fresh, clean, lovely air rushed back into Henry’s lungs and he sat up, clutching his throat, but he didn’t have time for much convalescence because Freddy simply rolled over a few times, came back up as though he was on starting blocks and charged Henry and the DI.

The ensuing scuffle was messy and a bit dirty.

The DI — a certain Robert Fanshaw-Bayley — got stuck in and he and Henry managed to subdue Freddy, but only by getting him face down on the front lawn and, Henry having dropped with all his weight on one knee onto his spine between the shoulder blades, forcing Freddy’s thick arms around his back. They got him double-cuffed: in those days the police were issued with rather flimsy cuffs connected by metal links, not rigid handcuffs, and sometimes it was prudent to put two sets on a violent prisoner, ratcheting them tight into the skin. They then both sat on Freddy, gasping for breath as he continued to squirm and curse underneath them like a trapped crocodile.

‘Can’t believe this fucker is only a teenager,’ FB said, ruddy faced. Even back then he was a big, unfit bloke.

‘Big lad,’ Henry agreed, massaging his neck.

Freddy was arrested — thrown into the back of the section van by four officers. Having caused a lot of problems in the cells down at Rawtenstall nick, not least because he suffered severe claustrophobia, he was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and spent much of the rest of his life after that in secure and non-secure institutions, depending on his state of mind.

Henry didn’t bother to pursue the assault on himself (and neither did Freddy’s aunt, even though she was badly injured). The main reason was that when Freddy’s room at his aunt’s was searched, Henry found fifty beheaded pigeons, the heads having been bitten off by Freddy, two dead dogs that had been gutted, four dead cats — hung from the ceiling by their tails — and numerous rodents that had met their deaths in various ways, all stacked neatly away in Freddy’s sock drawer.

It was plain that Freddy was not remotely stable ‘up top’ and to prosecute him would be a pointless exercise, a waste of public money. It was going to cost the state enough to provide him with the care and treatment he needed, so Freddy pretty much disappeared into the system, never to be heard of again.

Until now.

Terry Cromer looked at Henry through half-lidded eyes, an expression of contempt on his face, and a little surge of something skittered through the detective. Apprehension and excitement.

Henry knew about this family. Despite their outward appearance as country hicks, they had become a well-oiled money-making machine, very disciplined and ruthless. To be honest, Henry hadn’t had much contact with them over the years. He was someone who investigated murders — and if asked, he would say that he had been put on this earth to do just that.

In an earlier period of his service, Henry had been a detective sergeant on the Regional Crime Squad, involved in long-term operations against outfits like the Cromers. Now he wasn’t, and he only really came into contact with such people when they had some connection with a murder that had been committed. But he did know that the Cromers were often the subject of long-range investigations by major crime units; they may possibly have been so at that moment as Henry stood there, facing off with one of the north-west’s scariest gangsters — a man who shared a little of his younger brother’s mental state. Henry wasn’t routinely kept up to date with ongoing operations, which were often run very secretively.

He could imagine that if the Cromers were the subject of any sort of ongoing job by NCIS or the MCU, he might easily end up being bollocked by someone further up the line for stepping on toes without permission and putting a well-planned op in jeopardy by simply barging up to their house.

Maybe.

But needs must. Everyone had a job to do. He just hoped that he wouldn’t come across an undercover cop he might recognize who had infiltrated the family and was having Christmas dinner with them.

So, Terry Cromer.

He was the older brother. Mid forties, and although he was a stocky, muscled guy, he wasn’t built to the same proportions as Freddy. But he was still intimidating — or would like to be. He obviously worked out with weights, his arms being all Popeye muscle and tattoos and the tight vest he wore outlining his pecs and rippling six-pack. His shaved head and accompanying snarl harmonized with his tough persona.