Nick Oldham - Instinct

Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn’t like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool’s most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work — as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up — and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry’s own guess, but he’d be happy to lay down money — ‘a pound to a pinch of shit’ — it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.

But none of that mattered.

What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.

‘I’m truly, truly sorry,’ Henry said gently.

Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.

‘The thing is,’ Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie’s description, we can only be certain after formal identification.’ Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.’

‘I know.’ She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?’

‘Later today. We’re not exactly sure when.’

She nodded again. Henry eased the photograph from her fingers and looked at it, a posed picture of Natalie, smiling up at the camera, wearing a grey and pink silk scarf.

Henry and Rik exchanged glances. Henry said, ‘I know this is a terrible time, but we really need to ask you some questions about Natalie and her…’ He was going to say ‘life’, but changed the word, realizing the girl hadn’t really had one to speak of yet. Instead he said, ‘Y’know, the things that were going on for her, who she knew, boyfriends if any, her mates, comings and goings. It’s vital we build up a detailed picture of her.’ Clare nodded numbly. ‘Can I just ask a quick question, first?’ Henry indicated the photograph. ‘This scarf, was she wearing it when you last saw her? It’s not mentioned in the clothing description on the Missing from Home forms.’ He did not recall seeing it at the murder scene either.

‘Yes — couldn’t get it off her. She loved it. I thought I’d mentioned it, mustn’t have done.’

‘OK,’ Henry said. ‘Is there anyone we can contact for you? Anyone to be with you?’

This time she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said thinly.

Henry’s chest was becoming heavy. He was on the settee alongside her, a couple of feet away, knees angled towards her, offering comforting body language. The tension in the room was incredible and he was being affected by it all. He had to breathe in, catch himself. He’d done this sort of thing dozens of times before, got through it, never let it affect him. But he found himself staring at Clare Philips, feeling her pain.

Not good. Empathy — OK. Sympathy — OK. Going to hell with the victim’s mother — not OK.

He breathed out, rubbed his face.

‘Henry?’ Rik asked worriedly. He’d noticed Henry’s change in demeanour.

Henry gave him a wave of dismissal. He was all right now. Had almost lost it, but had yanked himself back from the abyss.

‘What I’m going to do is get someone up here for you now, OK? A family liaison officer…’

‘What family?’ she demanded. ‘I have no family now. She was all I had. And now she’s gone.’

Henry reached across to place a hand over her nicotine-stained fingers.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing the word was ineffective. ‘But one thing I promise is that I will track down whoever did this and I will catch him. It’s what I do, what I’m good at.’ He spouted the claim confidently, but underneath he wasn’t certain he truly believed it.

His eyes blinked sadly. Henry knew she was in shock. The news had hit her like a steam hammer even though she might have been expecting it, and may well have mentally tried to prepare herself for the worst. At the moment she was being scarily calm but Henry knew grief intimately and that this stage was unlikely to last. However, she did give him a nugget when she spoke.

‘I know she had a big fall out with her ex-boyfriend,’ she whispered. ‘Had some horrible rows with him.’ Henry remained silent, and despite how he was feeling emotionally — on edge, likely to crumble — the old ring piece did the dance of excitement, the bum twitch that meant he was on to something. ‘It’s that little shit, Mark Carter. You’ll know him, I’ll bet.’

As much as Henry would have liked to march out of Clare Philips’s house and grab Mark Carter, who he did know, events in murder investigations rarely happened just like that. And in some respects Henry was glad he didn’t rush out, because the nugget that was Mark Carter actually just became another coin in a handful of loose change as he and Rik Dean talked further to Clare.

Other names came into the frame and Henry realized that quite a few individuals needed to be interviewed very carefully, not just Mark.

Natalie’s current boyfriend was one. A guy by the name of Lewis Kitchen (and at the mention of the name, Henry and Rik exchanged a knowing glance). They didn’t delve at that point and they guessed that Clare possibly didn’t know that Kitchen was known to the police as someone with a conviction for assaulting a female.

Next there was Natalie’s real father, a lowlife called Scott Newton, again known by the detectives. He was someone who had reappeared recently in Clare’s life after eighteen months inside for robbery. By Clare’s own admission the ‘family’ had had some violent rows and Natalie had taken her mother’s side and found herself taking a slapping from a pissed-up Newton, who threatened to kill them both. He needed to be tracked down and interviewed p.d.q.

Then there was a succession of previous boyfriends — a bit of a who’s who of petty crims in Blackpool — that Natalie seemed to have succeeded in upsetting by ruthlessly dumping all of them. One had bombarded her with threatening texts and indecent Facebook entries and had been stalking her.

On top of that, one of the lecturers at Shoreside College, where she attended the hairdressing course, had shown an unhealthy interest in her. Clare suspected that Natalie and this guy had had sexual relations at some stage, but Natalie had been very secretive and Clare had only discovered him by accident — by looking in her diary which had disappeared after Natalie found this out. Diaries were always useful and Henry made a mental note to ensure it was searched for thoroughly.

As she spoke, Henry realized that unless there was a quick breakthrough, this could be a long slog of an investigation.

They left the house two hours later, with Clare being attended to by a female constable until a fully fledged FLO could be briefed. Both men were ravenously hungry and Rik suggested a KFC drive-thru, to which Henry agreed; then they could eat and drink on the move, which is what they guessed they would be doing for the next few days. Might as well get used to it.

The nearest Kentucky was on Preston New Road and Henry, at the wheel of his Mercedes — which he’d been dubious about driving into Shoreside in the first place — headed off the estate in relief. All four wheels were still on it and there were no key scratches down the sides.