The Nothing Job Read online

  The suspect – as the man now was – had taken up a similar position, like a mirror image of Henry, but with one major difference: there was now a knife in his right hand, long, slim-bladed. In Henry’s right hand was a tiny torch.

  The men paused in a stand-off.

  Henry gulped, finding his mouth still barren. ‘I’m a cop,’ he reiterated so there was no misunderstanding. He held out the warrant card again. ‘Don’t be silly. Drop the knife.’

  ‘No,’ the man uttered, his voice slightly muffled by the crash helmet.

  ‘You drop it,’ Henry said warningly. He slowly placed the warrant card in his jacket pocket, extracting his PR, his eyes transfixed on the man and knife. He raised the PR to his face and pressed the transmit button and managed to say, ‘DCI Christie to Preston …’ They were the only words he got out before the man lunged at him.

  Henry saw it coming, prepared for it.

  He sidestepped and crashed the PR down on to the man’s wrist, hard and violently, intending to hurt him with the solid radio.

  The knife clattered to the cobbles, but the man curved into Henry, driving him back against the wall. Henry’s arms flailed upwards like a broken windmill and everything was released. The PR crashed down and his torch skittered away towards the main channel in the centre of the alley.

  The man came on. He grabbed Henry’s right arm and with a display of great strength hurled him bodily against the Fiat Panda.

  Henry lashed out desperately with his foot, feeling his right toecap connect somewhere on the man’s right shin – but the man still powered in, his crash-helmeted head rearing back about to head-butt Henry in the face.

  Even in that brief flash of time, Henry was able to visualize the damage such a blow could do to his handsome features. He squirmed away and his right hand shot underneath the jawline of the helmet, grabbing for the windpipe. He squeezed his fingernails either side of the Adam’s apple, then using all the force he could muster heaved the man backwards – a man who was now fighting like a demented being. Henry’s muscles screamed with the effort, his face contorted, his neck sinews like steel twine. The man broke free and reeled away, but gave Henry only a moment of relief because he was back on the cop again, laying into him with a series of well-placed body blows. Henry was powerless to resist them and was not a skilled enough fighter to avoid them.

  He sagged down as the man punched and kicked, raining blow after blow on him. He toppled over, groaning, and found himself belly-down on the cold ground, his face twisted and able to see underneath the Fiat Panda. And even despite the violent onslaught he registered another slip-on shoe. Then his vision swam as though he’d dived into a swimming pool – but the sight of the second shoe and the certainty that he’d accidentally come across a murderer had a massive surging effect on him. He managed to roll away and back up to his knees – only to be kicked in the side of the head and sent splaying across the car again.

  He gasped, his senses ebbing and flowing, expecting more, to be pounded into oblivion – but the man picked up the knife, ran to the motorbike, leaped on it and fired it up instantly. He revved the engine and slew away up the cobblestoned alley, doing a sharp right at the end and disappearing.

  ‘Fuck!’ Henry spat in rage, forcing all the feelings of pain aside and shaking his head to clear his thinking. He yanked himself to his feet by using the wing mirror of the Panda and rescued his PR, which he began to scream into whilst being completely embarrassed and annoyed at himself. He calmed his voice and relayed the situation, then in pure anger kicked out at the Fiat Panda. As he did he noticed a glint of something hanging in the steering column. The keys were in the ignition.

  He wrenched the driver’s door handle, found it open and dropped in behind the wheel. Slamming the clutch down and jabbing the accelerator, he twisted the key with all his might, subconsciously hoping that his display of strength would transfer through the ignition system to the starter motor and start the car. It seemed to work, as the engine fired up first time.

  He almost cheered, but muttered, ‘Long time since I commandeered a car.’

  Not that he had any real right to do what he did, but there was no way he was going to allow a murder suspect to get out of his clutches so easily, especially not one who’d assaulted him.

  He scrunched the car into first gear, shaving away some of those nasty cogs, and gunned the little car up the alley, causing the small engine to howl. He braked hard at the junction before turning in the direction the motorcyclist had taken – and at the same time hearing and feeling something heavy roll in the boot of the car with a dull thud.

  Braking at the junction with Friargate, Henry was amazed to see the motorcyclist race across his headlights, having just avoided contact with the ARV car driven by Bill Robbins which was now, according to the shouted airwave traffic, enmeshed in some roadside railings.

  Waiting a moment to hear that Bill was OK – he was – Henry rammed the accelerator down and went in pursuit of the bike.

  Arrogantly, the rider reared the machine up on to its back wheel and executed a superb wheelie along the centre line of the street, then dropped the bike back down. With his left hand he cut a dismissive ‘You’ll never get me’ gesture and twisted down the grip.

  The Panda – bless it – accelerated gamely as Henry, with one hand on the wheel and the other operating his PR, and still trying to clear his brain, relayed his position and mode of transport.

  ‘And what exactly has this person done?’ the comms operator asked Henry. ‘Other than assault you?’

  ‘I think that’s enough to start with, don’t you? Let’s just get him stopped,’ Henry snapped in his best DCI tones. He wedged his PR between his thighs, but even as he gave chase he realized there was little chance of success here as most of the available cops in Preston were trudging around the city centre on foot and Bill Robbins’ ARV was now connected to railings.

  Catching this man would now be down to Henry Christie – armed with an ancient Fiat Panda.

  ‘Do you have a registered number?’ the comms operator asked.

  ‘Only partial,’ Henry admitted after picking up his PR again. He gave the control room the first two letters, all he’d seen through his swimming vision. ‘Which,’ he added, ‘if I’m correct means the bike’s registered in Liverpool.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ the operator said. Meanwhile Henry had reached the junction of Friargate and Moor Lane, where there was a huge double roundabout. He saw the bike tearing down Fylde Road in the general direction of Preston docks.

  He imparted this piece of information over the air and screwed the Panda as hard as he dared in the same direction, acutely aware that the distance between hunter and hunted was ever-increasing. And he knew there were no cop cars in the area. So though he had no way of telling in what direction the bike had gone, he still carried on hopefully, never one to call off a chase just because he couldn’t see his quarry.

  He was also acutely aware that the little engine was now emitting a horrible overheating smell and he hoped it wouldn’t blow.

  Then he thought, Fuck it.

  He was chasing a murderer.

  He found second gear and made the engine scream for mercy, feeling the whole thing almost lift off the ground as the front wheels smacked up and across the first of a series of traffic-calming ramps (Why not sleeping policemen any more, Henry thought) in the 20mph zone surrounding the university campus. As the car crashed down on to worn shock absorbers, it rattled worryingly, and once again, something hefty bounced in the boot.

  He fully expected the car to fall apart at any moment.

  It didn’t.

  He was so pleased about this, he hit the next ramp at fifty.

  ‘DCI receiving?’

  ‘Go ’head.’

  ‘A BMW F800GS motorcycle was stolen earlier this evening from Merseyside,’ the comms operator came on to inform him. ‘Could this be the one?’

  ‘Could be,’ Henry said, not knowing the first thing
about motorbikes, other than they were dangerous things. ‘Let’s work on that assumption and get it circulated. It could be linked to the incident in Friargate, so it needs stopping and the rider arresting. Approach with caution … he is armed with a knife … How about calling out the helicopter?’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘Plus, if it has been stolen from Merseyside, there’s every chance it could be going back there, so get a checkpoint set up on the A59 at Tarleton, please.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The checkpoint would ensure that any vehicle travelling on the five-nine towards Liverpool would be seen. There were other routes, obviously, but there was no way they could all be covered.

  Re-wedging the radio between his thighs as the Panda lifted off the last speed ramp, Henry sped down the incline that was Fylde Road under the stone-built railway arch which held up the west-coast line, then under the next railway bridge and left on to Strand Road. He was still working on the assumption that the bike was returning to Merseyside, but he knew he didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of catching it in a ropy Fiat Panda. He began to calm down a little, putting his theft of this vehicle down to his anger at having been bettered in a scrap.

  Frustrated, he banged the wheel, cursed and jammed the brakes on at the next set of lights, once again feeling something shift in the back. He wondered if he should bother going right out of the city, or should he return the Panda to where he’d found it and leave the chasing to others. He had a crime scene to get back to and manage as well as the discovery of a pair of shoes, which was probably connected to it, to investigate.

  At the lights, which stayed on red forever, his adrenaline evaporated and his body started hurting from the hammering he’d just had. He glanced around the inside of the car for the first time. In terms of spec it was spare and very lacking; in terms of being a complete mess, it was excessive. The passenger footwell was littered with fast-food cartons, newspapers and plastic bottles. The back seat was strewn with discarded female clothing.

  Henry had a thought.

  He was still at the lights. He pulled through them, parked at the side of the road and applied the handbrake, and got out. He called the registration number in for a PNC check, again noticing that the letters denoted that the vehicle’s origin was Liverpool. He frowned.

  ‘No trace, no current keeper,’ the comms operator came back to him.

  Henry acknowledged that. He glanced up at the sky and saw the police helicopter curve across the River Ribble and head out towards Liverpool. ‘Good luck,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s hope he’s not the one that got away.’

  He walked around to the back of the Panda and twisted the handle on the hatchback, pulling it open.

  And there, folded into the cramped space between the back seat and the hatchback, was the naked body of another young woman. Her face was scrunched up at an acute angle, looking at him through wide-open, but dead eyes.

  THREE

  Henry Christie sat on the kerb, his heels in the gutter, his bare knees drawn up, short pants exposing his gangly tanned legs. Securely positioned in the ‘v’ formed at his groin he had wedged the bottom half of an empty tobacco tin, the lid removed and placed on the kerb next to him. In his right hand he held a four-day-old chick, warm, fluffy, yellow, very much alive, recently stolen from its mother. It was held firmly but gently in his small palm and Henry looked at it, smiled and wondered innocently if it would fit in the tobacco tin. The tin was just about the right size, as was the bird, and he guessed that if he pushed it in and pressed down with his thumbs, as though it was modelling clay, it would fit very nicely, thank you very much. The chicken’s legs flapped and it made a strained sort of noise. Henry smiled, certain the chick would fit well, then he’d be able to put the lid on and take it round to show to his mates.

  He placed the bird sideways in the tin and began to use his thumbs, feeling its tiny wings and delicate bone structure give as he kneaded it into place …

  Henry shot bolt upright, perspiration cascading off him.

  He groaned and took deep breaths, turning to Kate as she reached out for him.

  ‘Oh God, sorry love,’ he said, flopping back into the bed, the back of his right hand on his brow.

  ‘Was it the chicken dream?’ she muttered sleepily.

  ‘Yeah … other people dream about running naked through shopping centres; I dream about filling a tobacco tin with a baby bird,’ he whined. ‘Give me naked any time.’ He wiped his eyes, yawned, exhaled.

  ‘Difference is,’ Kate mumbled, turning over and hauling the duvet back over her head, ‘you haven’t done naked …’ And then she was asleep again.

  ‘No, but I’ve done chicken,’ he said.

  He twisted his head and checked the time: almost 6 a.m.

  Was there any point, he wondered, even trying to get back to sleep? He decided not, gently eased the cover off and pulled on his pyjama shorts, then dressing gown, before inserting his feet in his slippers and sneaking quietly out of the bedroom. He walked past the two empty bedrooms that belonged to his daughters, Jenny and Leanne, feeling a fatherly twinge of guilt. They had almost flown the coop now, he thought wryly, keeping up the chicken analogy, and as a dad he had missed most of their growth. He swallowed back something big and emotional in his throat then wondered which of the rooms he would use for his planned model railway and Scalextric combined. Humming at this prospect he made his way down to the kitchen.

  Then, coffee in hand, he retreated to the chilly conservatory to watch the day arrive.

  It was Tuesday morning, the week after he had been called out for the murder on Friargate, which had turned into a double murder. The girl in the back of the Panda had been stabbed to death by the same knife as the girl in the alley, tests had shown.

  Henry had done as much as he could on the night, but had been obliged to hand it all over to a ‘real’ senior investigating officer to deal with, as much as it stuck in his craw. The remainder of his week-long stretch on cover had been fire-brigading call-outs from all over the county, most of which he had resolved. By the end of the stint he was exhausted and was grateful when Monday morning came around. Just because he was on call did not mean he could forget his day job and despite a call-out each night he had still been required to be in his office at headquarters in the mornings at least to show his face. As the week had progressed, he’d become more and more dog-tired than he’d been in a long time and had slept in most of Saturday and Sunday, much to Kate’s annoyance.

  His week on the rota had finished at 6 a.m. on Monday. He had rolled into his office later to shift the paperwork which continually appeared on his desk and then he had an ED – early dart – at 3 p.m. so he could make up for the weekend and spend the evening with Kate and have his first touch of alcohol in a week.

  He’d expected to sleep well for a change, but as usual he’d tossed and turned and had a recurrence of the chicken dream when he eventually got to sleep, which is what had thrown him back to wakefulness.

  The chicken dream was actually a retelling of a real-life incident, something that had happened to him at the age of five but had resurfaced from his subconscious only in the last few days. At that age, he and his family were living in a rural, but fairly tatty village in Lancashire in a tumbledown house that came with a few acres of land. His father, God rest his soul, decided to keep hens to make ends meet. The only problem was that there was no one in the family who could bring themselves to execute a chicken for food and that foxes and rats had no such qualms and continually caused mayhem in the run.

  But for a young Henry James Christie, the hens were a delight, particularly the newly hatched chicks, which is why he liberated one for himself and pushed it into a tobacco tin, finding that it fitted really well if squeezed in hard enough.

  Fortunately his mother spotted what he was doing and saved the life of the poor chick just before Henry clamped the lid down.

  The bird lived, but it would always have a limp, and Henry – his bu
m smacked soundly at the time – had never really lived it down for the rest of his life. It became one of those embarrassing family anecdotes trotted out on birthdays and Christmases and was something he was never allowed to forget until recent years when the family became more fragmented.

  The memory had been brought to the surface by the dead girl in the back of the Panda. The way she had been folded into the meagre space available made a direct subconscious mind-link for him to the chicken incident, only surfacing when he fell asleep. Obviously the chicken incident had left him deeply psychologically scarred. He just hadn’t realized it.

  Henry laughed at the comparison – girl v. chicken – and looked out across his back garden to the fields beyond.

  It really wasn’t in the same league, except that in his dream the head of the chicken had been replaced by the face of the dead girl and in the dream he was stuffing a huge hen with a human head into the back of a Fiat Panda.

  He always suspected himself of being slightly bonkers and perhaps this was proof of that pudding.

  ‘Too friggin’ old for this,’ he muttered. Finishing his coffee he made his way back upstairs and got into the shower, which he turned on hot and hard. He had intended to take the day off but had changed his mind … there was something he needed to do to help save his own sanity.

  ‘Henry, we’re talking about something that happened over twenty-five years ago.’ The chief constable peered over his half-rimmed glasses and across the expanse of his highly polished desk at the chief inspector who had managed to blag a last-minute appointment with the man who now led Lancashire Constabulary. His name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley and all those years ago he had been a rough-diamond DI who would think nothing of stooping to the lowest level – including the planting of evidence – to get a conviction. FB, as he was known by friends and enemies alike, sighed in a very pissed-off way. ‘What is it with you, Henry, that makes you rake up muck and get everybody’s backs up?’