Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

Henry knew when to say nothing. He waited.

Tope went on. ‘Remember a rape and murder quite a few years back? In Darwen? Young girl abducted on the way home from school. Body found a few days later in an industrial dustbin?’

Henry knew it. Even knew the little girl’s name — Tina Makinson. Twelve years old. Even though he hadn’t been directly involved in the investigation, Henry recalled it being a heartbreaking case. The murderer, found by good, solid detective work, had been one Rafe Liversage, a man whose offences against children had been growing increasingly serious and violent. He had been released from prison only days before he took Tina.

Henry leant forward and tapped his computer mouse. His monitor came to life, still on the school photograph he had been inspecting before turning out to deal with the arrest of Clovelly. He looked at it closely. His jaw sagged as he focused on one particular boy in the class.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, raising his eyes to look at a smug Jerry Tope, who licked his finger and ticked the air again.

‘He was released on licence seven days before Christine Blackshaw’s body was found. They must have known each other,’ Tope said. ‘Same school, everything.’

Henry thought back, recalling the media coverage of Tina Makinson’s murder. The angst of the parents. The massive police searches and an equally big investigation, some seventy detectives grinding on it full-time. Then her tiny, broken body being found behind a factory in Darwen, and soon after, Liversage’s arrest. Then his conviction for life — but, such are the vagaries of the criminal justice system, the man was already legitimately back on the streets.

He looked through narrowed eyes at Tope. ‘MO?’ he said.

‘I knew you’d rain on my parade,’ Tope said, but not seriously. ‘I know it doesn’t quite fit what we’re looking at, but maybe he has some pent-up, festering grudge against these people. Peters and Blackshaw.’

‘Mm,’ Henry mumbled. ‘What about the Milner woman who was killed in West Yorkshire the year before Blackshaw was killed? Where was Liversage then? In prison, or what?’

Tope had a pained look. ‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’d been out on Christmas leave.’

‘See if you can find out.’ There could be a grudge thing going on, but he wasn’t convinced Liversage was involved, certainly not as an offender. Just a gut thing. ‘Whatever, he needs looking at. Have you got a current address for him?’

‘From the Probation Service. A room in a bail hostel in Accrington.’

‘Right.’ Henry pondered this new information. Without doubt Liversage was a cruel and violent man, but he didn’t somehow fit what Henry had in mind as the Twixtmas Killer. But he had been known to be wrong on occasion. Liversage needed careful attention. ‘OK — tomorrow we pull him, how about that?’

‘Can I?’ Tope pleaded.

‘Got a taste for blood now, have you?’

Henry conducted the debrief in a way, he hoped, that would be clear and logical to all concerned.

The detectives now dealing with the shootings at Blackburn went first, followed by those sorting the drive-by on Shoreside, then Runcie Costain’s death in John Rider’s old club. There had been lots of people to see, grieving, angry relatives to deal with and keep calm; post-mortems, forensics, crime scenes and a deteriorating public order situation on Shoreside, which was keeping the uniform branch busy.

With Clovelly’s arrest, things were going well — although he was still acting ‘like a shithead’ in custody, it was reported. Terry Cromer was still at large, but Henry was convinced he would be found soon.

In all, he was pretty happy. Next day he had negotiated for more bodies to be drafted in and it would all surge ahead nicely.

He didn’t keep the murder squad any longer than necessary, thanking them and telling them to be back for a briefing at nine next morning.

Henry had used one of the classrooms at the Training Centre for the debrief, and as he walked back to his office his mobile phone rang, cutting into his thoughts.

‘Mr Christie, it’s Bernadette Peters.’

‘Oh, hi Mrs Peters, how are you?’

‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked hopefully.

‘You called earlier, remember?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘You asked about infant school. I might have something for you.’

It was 9 p.m. when Henry drove into Blackpool and around to Bernadette Peters’ home. She was waiting for him this time, and although Henry didn’t want to be sexist in his thoughts, he had to admit that she scrubbed up well and looked much more with it than when he’d interrupted her on Christmas Day. She was still dressed sloppily, in a baggy T-shirt and tight-fitting Lycra bottoms, three-quarter length, that showed her shapely legs to good effect. Her hair was pinned back, but touches of subtly applied make-up gave her face a pleasant look — and she was smiling this time. And she smelled nice.

She let Henry in and showed him to the lounge. She sat on an armchair across from him, curling her legs underneath her.

Henry smiled back. He was impatient to get a move on, to see his mother. He had been checking throughout the day and she had been in good spirits. Then he wanted to get back to Kendleton, eat a good meal and chill out in front of the box before bed. He was determined to be asleep before midnight.

‘You said you might have something?’

‘Oh yeah, yeah. . I was thinking after your call this morning. . really going through things in my head. And something came to me.’ Henry waited, the smile still affixed. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ she admitted with a derisive laugh.

‘Anything could be helpful.’

‘I just remember David once reminiscing about Belthorn School and some of the characters he remembered. . he mentioned mad Freddy Cromer and Terry, his brother.’

Henry blinked, tried not to look too interested. But deep below, his ring piece twitched.

‘He said everybody picked on Freddy, including Terry. I don’t really remember either of them. Like I said, they were all older than me and I was only there a few months. I think Freddy was a bit backward, or something. He’d probably have gone to a special school these days. But back then, he was just looked on as dim and stupid, I suppose.

‘Anyway, one day after school, David and some of the others went to a nearby farm. Don’t know which. . there’s a lot of farms up there. They’d heard that some chicks had been hatched, or something. I think it was chicks. In one of the coops on the farm. Chicks? Maybe kittens, I’m not certain.’

‘And something happened?’ Henry kept his voice level, but he was holding his breath.

‘Well, that’s where David went a bit vague and I can’t exactly recall what he said to me. I think there was a fight or something. Freddy was involved, and Terry and David. I think they all ganged up on Freddy. .’ She looked pained at Henry because her memory was letting her down. ‘Sorry. . vague.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘It was something to do with him being locked in.’

‘In where?’

‘The chicken coop, or whatever you call them.’

‘Who was locked in?’

‘Freddy, I think. I think he went totally doolally. .’ She shrugged. ‘That’s it. Sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’

‘No you haven’t,’ Henry said, his sphincter relaxing. ‘It could be very useful.’

They looked at each other and a beat of silence passed. Then Bernadette said, ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ It was said shyly, but her eyes were sparkling.

‘I must get going,’ Henry said, ‘but thanks anyway.’

A wave of disappointment washed over her face. Henry could see loneliness in her. ‘What you’ve told me is very interesting,’ he assured her. ‘It could well have some bearing on David’s death.’