Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

‘Mm, I’ve heard about it, obviously. But he got moved from place to place. Got better, got out, went mad again, got locked up again. Vicious circle. Eventually they stopped taking him back when the secure units became more scarce with cutbacks and the drugs got better. He’s just another care in the community stat, I guess.’

‘How long has he been home?’

‘Couple, three years. Gran wanted to have him back, but he’s too much of a handful when he goes off the rails. And Dad doesn’t have any time for him. Usually just beats him up — Dad beats Freddy, that is.’

‘Out of curiosity, which one of those ladies I just saw was your mother?’ He tried not to put too much of an inflection on the word ‘ladies’.

‘None. . she went years back,’ she said, but did not elaborate.

Henry drove on. To his right was the huge Shadsworth council estate, a grim sixties throwback that Henry remembered well from his early days as a uniformed cop, and subsequently on a few murder enquiries. And sat alongside him was the daughter of one of Lancashire’s best crims. He couldn’t resist asking again, ‘Come on, what’s going on? All the guns ’n’ stuff?’

Janine remained silent as they reached the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill, at the junction with the main road that connected Blackburn with Accrington. She said, ‘Do a right here and the club’s on the right. . just called The Moss.’

Henry knew it. It had been there for as long as he could remember and didn’t look as though it had ever seen any decoration. It was a single-storey, detached premises, constructed of Accrington brick with metal grilles on all the windows which were never removed, and a roller-shutter that covered the door when the place was closed. Henry knew it must have been refurbished at least a couple of times over the years because it had been firebombed twice. It was basically a very grotty working men’s club.

He pulled into the almost empty car park.

‘Freddy likes this place. They don’t mind giving him booze, but they know when to stop — mainly because he trashed it single-handed once after too much.’

‘OK,’ Henry said and reached for the door handle.

Janine laid a hand on his arm. ‘Mr Christie, whatever my family is involved in, I can’t help. I don’t have any part in it, but I’m not going to grass on them either. They’re my family and I care about them. I won’t betray them.’

‘Fair do’s.’

Henry got out and, with Janine beside him, he walked to the front door of the club and entered.

He stood inside the threshold and surveyed the geography and clientele. One long bar served the whole place. There was a small raised stage in one corner with a tatty-looking drum kit on it. Bench seats clung to the outside walls and battered-looking brass-topped circular tables and chairs were scattered throughout. Music played from speakers hung up high and there were eight middle-aged men, in four pairs, sitting either at the bar or the tables, or playing the gaming machine. They all looked to be drinking mild, a type of beer Henry hadn’t tasted for a long, long time. For good reason.

Smoke hung in the air. It appeared that the non-smoking legislation did not apply to this particular enclave of society, and each man, without exception, was smoking. That included the barman, who watched Henry and Janine approach with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

For a brief moment Henry’s feet got completely stuck in something on the sticky carpet and he thought he might not make it across the floor. He had to stop and roll his shoes out of whatever it was. Very sticky.

With his face a picture to behold, he carried on up to the bar.

The man behind it could have been aged somewhere between forty and sixty, but many years of serious drinking and smoking had taken its toll on his complexion and his pock-marked face, bulbous red nose, veined face and watery bloodshot eyes told the story, as did his rasping voice.

‘Can I do for you guys?’ he asked his new customers. He took a deep drag on his fag and blew a thick cloud up amongst the rows of cleanish glasses that hung above the bar.

‘I’m looking for Freddy Cromer,’ Henry said, wafting a path through the haze of smoke.

The barman regarded him. ‘Who might you be?’

Henry revealed his warrant card and county badge. ‘A cop.’

The barman remained unimpressed. ‘Don’t know him.’

Henry said, ‘He’s a regular, apparently.’

The barman shrugged, replaced the cigarette between his lips, inhaled and exhaled again.

‘What’s this? Licensee-customer confidentiality?’

‘No. Just don’t know the guy. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Can I get you the local authority?’

‘Already had ’em. Didn’t make much difference.’

‘Excuse me.’ Janine eased Henry gently aside and stepped into the breach. ‘I’m Janine Cromer. Freddy’s my uncle. Terry Cromer is my dad.’ She allowed those names to permeate the barman’s smoke-addled grey matter, knowing they carried great weight. ‘Was Freddy in here last night? Simple question.’

‘Yes,’ he answered instantly, a changed man.

Janine waited for more information and when it didn’t come, she opened her palms in a gesture designed to encourage him.

‘Yes, he was here.’

‘Times? Was he drunk? When did he leave? Who was he with?’

‘Uh. . landed about seven, left at midnight. He’d had a few and was alone,’ the barman blurted. ‘Just normal, I’d say.’

‘He left here in one piece?’

‘No one messes with him,’ the barman said. ‘He gets left alone, he leaves others alone. That’s how it works with him.’

‘I assume you actually spoke to him?’ Janine said.

‘Only to get him drinks. Other than that he just sat in his usual place — over in that corner by the drums.’ He pointed to the spot by the stage.

‘How did he seem?’ Henry asked.

The barman shrugged. ‘Like I said, just usual.’

‘Did anyone else talk to him?’

‘Not that I recall. Y’know, we were pretty busy last night, Christmas Eve and all that.’

‘Yeah — the place looks well festive,’ Henry said. The barman shot him a look.

‘OK,’ Janine said, ‘let’s go. There’s other places he could’ve gone to.’ She took Henry’s arm. Henry nodded at the barman but refrained from threatening the local authority again. Like the man said, it probably wouldn’t be much use.

Outside it was chilly. Snowflakes wafted gently down from the heavens.

‘White Christmas,’ Henry said, catching a few flakes in his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be too heavy a snowfall otherwise the journey to Kendleton would be a nightmare. They walked over to his car and got in.

‘Right,’ Janine said stiffly, turning to him. ‘Can you now tell me why you’re interested in Freddy’s disappearance? It isn’t a job for a detective superintendent, is it?’

‘It could be,’ Henry said defiantly.

‘Only if he’s gone missing in suspicious circumstances — or, God forbid, turns up dead in suspicious circumstances. At the moment none of those things apply. So — were you just being nosy, or is there another reason?’

‘Well, I’d be a poor cop if I didn’t take the chance to look into the house of a big bad gangster, wouldn’t I?’

Janine uttered an exasperated gush of breath. ‘I bloody thought so.’

‘Actually,’ Henry began — just as his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out and answered it. ‘Jerry. . you still not gone home?’

‘No — too engrossed,’ Jerry Tope said. ‘Just had the FIM on again. . are you still in Belthorn?’ Henry said yes, as good as. ‘In that case you might want to get to the A amp;E department at Royal Blackburn Hospital. Shit’s hit the fan. . there’s an ARV on the way. . and Freddy Cromer’s turned up saying he’s just escaped from a kidnapper. He’s also waving a kitchen knife about and has taken a nurse hostage.’