Nick Oldham - Hidden Witness

The DS, who hadn’t yet turned out to it himself, explained what he’d been told. Henry listened, sitting up as he did, paying close attention. He clarified a few points, asked some pertinent questions and issued some instructions. ‘I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,’ he promised and ended the call. He placed the phone down slowly and looked at Kate. ‘Sorry love,’ he said ruefully, giving her a pained expression. ‘Sounds a bit of a messy one. There’s no one else nearby to cover.’

She held his gaze, then said, ‘This better not screw up my holiday.’

‘It won’t. I’ll just cover it, then hand it over. Promise.’

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Same old story.

Henry stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, glanced sadly at the JD, and was aware that the warm fuzzy atmosphere had just turned cold and icy.

The police moved the public further and further away from the scene until they’d sealed off a good two hundred metres either side of the incident and completely closed the road, as well as the whole length of the alley.

Rain started to fall heavily as Henry, having parked his car almost a quarter of a mile away, pushed his way through the dwindling crowd of onlookers, their enthusiasm for the grisly tempered by a downpour. He always preferred to walk up to outdoor murder scenes. It gave him more time to take in things, assimilate matters, rather than racing up and leaping out of cars like the Flying Squad. He hunched up the collar on his raincoat, ducked under the cordon tape and flashed his warrant card at the on-guard constable, who had scuttled up to him thinking he was a member of the public trying it on. After a close inspection of the ID, Henry was allowed through, pulling a knitted cap out of his pocket and tugging it down on to his head, over his ears, cursing the rain. It was one of the worst things that could happen to an exterior crime scene. Nature’s way of swilling away evidence for good. He hoped the first cops on the scene had acted swiftly and professionally to protect and preserve evidence.

The local DS, Alex Bent, the one Henry had received the phone call from on this murky night, hurried towards him, head down against the rain that was now a torrent. Henry looked past him to see a lighting rig and a crime scene tent being erected. Good, he thought. DS Bent briefed Henry quickly, then led him up to the body.

The younger of the two boys had noticed Henry Christie’s arrival and slid into the shadow, not wishing to be spotted. Rory backed off too. Both boys knew Henry, but for different reasons, and neither wanted to come face to face with him.

‘There’s nowt to see now,’ Rory said.

‘We saw it all anyway,’ Mark said.

‘Pity we couldn’t find that phone,’ Rory said. ‘Anyway, let’s bog off… down to the arcades, eh?’

Mark screwed up his face. He wanted to go home, although there wasn’t anything to go home for. His mother would be out and there was no one else. He just wanted to get back to his room, curl up in bed and rid his mind of the image of the murder.

Rory took his arm. ‘Come on, or we’ll get pissed wet through.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mark whined.

‘Stop being arsey… let’s check out what’s happening in town and if there’s nowt, we’ll hike it home. The chippy’ll be open — and hey — we can afford the full hit. You could take it home from there.’

The prospect of taking home fish, chips and mushy peas was mouth-watering.

‘OK then.’

It was an old adage: you don’t get a second chance at a crime scene. So Henry quickly ensured that everything was done to protect it, particularly when its seriousness became apparent when he saw the poor mangled body of the old man, crushed under the wheels of a car, and the bullet wounds to the head that had left horrendous exit wounds. Standing underneath the hastily erected tent against which the rain pounded incessantly, Henry took it all in, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, letting his brain start to work on hypotheses.

He inhaled, asked Bent, ‘Any ideas who he is?’

‘Not as yet. I haven’t allowed anyone to go through his pockets. Didn’t want to spoil anything.’

Henry nodded. ‘We’ll save that for the mortuary. Witnesses?’

‘Uniform are knocking on doors, but nothing yet.’

He nodded again, trying to piece it all together. His instinct was to go through the pockets for an ID, but there was a lot of stuff to do before that stage was reached. He needed the CSIs and a forensic team to do their job; he wanted the Home Office pathologist on scene, too. He didn’t mind speculating, but didn’t want to be drawn to any firm conclusions that could lead him down a blind alley. The man had been run over and shot, and though he was pretty certain in which order that had happened, he didn’t want to get it wrong, as the sequence of events would have a fundamental bearing on the investigation.

Then the tent flap was drawn back and a rain-drenched constable said, ‘Can I have a quick word, boss?’ to Henry. He went to him, but stayed under cover.

‘Fire away.’

‘Might be nothing, but I’ve been having a look down this alley.’ The PC turned and pointed to the alley that ran at right angles to the road. Henry poked his head out of the tent and squinted through the rain into the passageway.

‘And?’

‘Dog shit — right up by that wall.’

‘Dog shit,’ Henry said.

‘There’s a footprint in it, but it’s sort of tight up against the wall and not generally in a place where someone would step in it. Just wondered if it was worth preserving…’ His voice trailed off uncertainly, as if preserving a mound of canine excrement was as ridiculous as it sounded. ‘Y’know, before it gets washed away.’

That’ll be a popular one to get a cast from, Henry thought, already visualizing the CSIs tossing a coin over who drew the shit end of the stick. He nodded. ‘Cover it up. You never know.’

‘OK, boss — I already got a seed tray from a resident,’ the officer said triumphantly.

‘Good man,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

The boys ran down to the promenade through the rain and into one of the amusement arcades they frequented, where they mingled with a few of their mates for a while. Rory’s head injury caused a stir of interest. He kept it vague as to how he got it, making up a cock and bull story about a cop whacking him with a baton that no one believed, until all interest dwindled and the two lads stood at a one-armed bandit, feeding it change from a fiver they’d cashed.

Finally, they lost it all and decided to call it a night, emerging into the rain and heading back up to the estate they lived on, which was about a twenty-minute walk away.

‘We should nick a car,’ Rory suggested.

‘That would be pushing our luck,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve robbed three people, not been caught, and watched an old bloke get murdered… nuff’s enough,’ he went on, clearly uncomfortable with the whole evening. Rory picked up on his friend’s tone of voice.

‘You can’t go to the cops, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, course.’

‘More friggin’ trouble than they’re worth. Do not get involved. They hate my family as it is, especially that Henry Christie.’

Mark looked quizzically at him. ‘Christie?’

‘Yeah, that detective who turned up.’

‘I know the one you mean. You know him, do you?’

‘Bastard — always mixing our family a bottle. You know him too?’

‘He dealt with my sister’s death.’

‘Ahh,’ Rory said sagely, knowing a touchy subject when he came across one. ‘What are you having from the chip-hole?’

‘Going for pie, chips and peas, me,’ Mark said, having reviewed his options, ‘covered in that stodgy gravy they do.’