‘Double murder, husband and wife,’ the roused DI, by the name of Harrison, said. ‘Hubby stabbed to death in the kitchen, wife murdered in the bathroom. They had marks on their chests indicating they could have been subdued by a stun gun, or similar. We think she was the target and husband got in the way because the killer had spent time with her. Wrapped her in parcel tape and gutted her, bit like a ripper murder. Forensically the place was as clean as a whistle.’
‘Who were the victims, what did they do?’ Henry asked.
Pause. ‘She was a solicitor specialising in discrimination cases and she was black, husband was white. He was an accountant. They were pretty loaded. Lots of avenues we’re following up.’
‘Anything stolen? Anything written on the walls?’
‘Nothing stolen, nothing written on the walls. They’d spent the day with friends up to about three-ish, then spent the afternoon alone, bumming around the house we reckon. We think the killer came into the house about eight o’clock and they died sometime between then and midnight.’
‘Anything unusual at the scene?’
‘A butchered body is pretty unusual — what do you mean?’
‘Who found the bodies?’ Henry said, still fishing.
‘The cleaner — she found them just after nine in the morning.’
‘Did she mention anything unusual?’
‘Um — yeah, she found two dead people,’ Harrison said gruffly. He was beginning to feel tired again. ‘Just tell me what you mean, will you?’
‘Sorry, yeah. Was there any music playing?’
‘She didn’t mention anything. I’ve read her statement dozens of times, so I should know.’
‘OK. It sounds similar to ours in some respects. Have you found any more around the country?’
‘One in Surrey, two in the Met, one in West Midlands, but they’re not a hundred per cent tied in yet, you understand.’
‘And do you have any strong leads?’
‘Nothing much. One witness saw a motorcyclist in the area, but it’s not tied in for definite, nothing more than that. It’s maddening. I think it was a planned, organised job, not a spur of the moment thing. We have some observations from a psychological profiler.’
Henry stifled a yawn. Profilers, in his experience, while of some use, tended to generalise so much that half the population became suspects. He thought they were a bit like mediums, conning the shit out of people, ripping them off. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘White male, twenty-five to forty-five years old. Bears a grudge against women and black people.’ Henry could almost hear the DI’s brain ticking over. ‘University educated-’
‘Where did that come from?’
‘Search me. Look, mate, I’m falling asleep here. I’ll send you everything I have so you can review it. I’m not precious. I just want to catch a killer. I’ll send a motorcyclist up with it first thing — nine at the latest, promise.’
The phone call ended. Henry hung up thoughtfully. All eyes were on him. ‘It’s a beginning.’
The communications room was buzzing with activity. Phone calls were coming in constantly even though it was the early hours of the morning. Officers were being deployed. Nothing ever changed in Blackpooclass="underline" the tide came in and out twice a day; eighteen million people visited every year; and the cops did their best.
Dermot Byrne and PC John Taylor came in and headed towards Henry.
‘How’s it going, Dermot?’ Henry asked. He had forgotten that other things were happening — such as twenty-odd car loads of Asian youths heading into town to cause ructions. ‘How did my little plan pan out?’
‘Pretty good. They all got snarled up in the traffic chaos from the bomb which took about three hours to clear. They got split up and didn’t have any plans for regrouping, so they all seem to have sloped off home. Shoreside has been boxed up and it’s all quiet up there, more or less. Some bits of trouble, but nothing we couldn’t nip in the bud. So it worked.’
‘Good — and how are you feeling, John?’ Henry asked Taylor who was as pale and insipid as Henry had ever seen him.
‘I’m all right, sir.’
‘Any news on Jane or Mark?’ Byrne inquired.
Henry shook his head.
‘Not looking good, is it?’
‘Keep a positive attitude. Which reminds me — neighbourhood watch co-ordinators, where do we keep a list of them? I want to know who the co-ordinator is for the area where Joey’s flat is situated. Just before Jane and Mark went AWOL she spoke to some military-type old man. I thought that if we got hold of the co-ordinator for that area, he or she might know who the guy is.’
‘Could I look into that, sir?’ Taylor volunteered, perking up a little. ‘I know where the list is kept.’
‘Thanks.’
Taylor scuttled away.
‘Is he really OK?’ Henry asked Byrne about Taylor.
‘I think so. He’s keen to make amends. He’ll be fine.’
Byrne gave a quick wave and said he had to go to the custody office.
It was 3 a.m.
‘Well, team,’ Henry said in a less than motivational tone, eyes moving from Makin to Donaldson, ‘I want to be able to say, “do this” or “do that”, but at the moment I’m not sure there’s anywhere to go. Perhaps we should get some sleep, then reconvene in Gold at eight and give ourselves a full day. Observations?’
‘I think you’re right — we can’t do anything now,’ Donaldson conceded.
Makin nodded her acquiescence.
‘Right — back here at eight, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
Even though he was shattered, the idea of taking some sleep did not appeal to Henry, but he had to admit that realistically there was nothing that could be done until morning. It would be far better to rest for the next five hours instead of sitting around doing nothing, only to find that when he needed a brain later in the day it was just cottonwool. It was imperative that he should be able to think straight because he had a feeling there would be a breakthrough some time during the day. There had to be, he thought desperately. If there wasn’t, then statistically speaking, the chances of finding Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans alive were nil.
He shrugged his leather jacket on and made his way out past the custody office into the car park.
‘Sir, sir,’ came a voice behind him. It was PC Taylor, holding an index file card. ‘I’ve found the name of the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator,’ he panted.
‘Well done.’
‘It’s a Captain Blackthorn, lives more or less opposite Joey Costain’s flat. It could even be the person DI Roscoe spoke to. Sounds like a military type.’
‘Yeah, it’s a possibility.’
‘Anyway, whatever,’ said Taylor, eager to please, ‘I’ll go round now and speak to him, rather than phone. It’d be better, wouldn’t you think? If he’s in and has any useful information, should I contact you?’
‘Yeah. I’m going home now. My number’s on the board in communications. If you think there is anything, give me a call.’
‘OK, sir — if you don’t hear from me, it’s a dead end.’
Taylor sauntered smugly back into the building and went up to the CID office, humming to himself. The office was empty and he helped himself to a set of car keys on the rack by the door. He thought it would be more discreet to go and see Captain whatever-his-name-was in a plain car. It would draw less attention than a bright marked one. PC Taylor did not really like drawing attention to himself.
No one saw him take the keys or leave the station.
Five minutes later, in South Shore, he pulled up away from a street light, got out of the car and left his hat inside it.
The house in which Captain Blackthorn lived was divided into a number of good-quality flats, unlike most of the others in the area which were nothing more then glorified bedsits. Taylor pressed the door bell and kept his thumb on it.
‘Who’s that for goodness sake?’ a sleepy voice said groggily.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ Taylor said into the intercom. ‘I’m PC Taylor from Blackpool police station. Can I speak to you on an urgent matter, please? I really do apologise, but it is extremely urgent.’