The inspector was busy up the road in Bacup and Henry knew there was little chance of being interrupted.
Then he began.
The first briefing had gone well. He had revelled in it, despite his nerves, finding himself playing up to the assembled team, which had swelled to include Dave Anger and DI Carradine, the man who saw Henry as a blocker to his career. Even if he said it himself, Henry had performed brilliantly and his gut feeling was that the murder inquiry had got off to a splendid start.
Even the very begrudging Anger commented on Henry’s performance with a curt nod and a ‘well done’. The atmosphere of feeling good did not last long, though, when Anger announced that both Jane Roscoe and Carradine would be attached to the investigation. Henry accepted the two members of staff with good grace and immediately allocated them the shared role of office manager. Their faces told their own stories. Not happy teddies.
Next up was the media, which had descended in all forms on Rawtenstall police station, clamouring to be fed.
Henry dealt easily with them, feeling more relaxed than ever under the spotlight. He gave them a typical holding statement and promised he would hold press briefings regularly as the investigation continued. He took the opportunity to make a quick appeal for witnesses at that point.
By the time he had finished that first evening it was nearly midnight.
He winced when he remembered he had brought Jane Roscoe with him and that he would have to take her back to headquarters so she could pick up her own car before he could head home. That deflated him somewhat, but when she said that Anger would do the honours instead, Henry nearly jumped for joy. He was home and in bed for one a.m., snuggled up tight to a very hot ex-wife who awoke feeling horny. Their love-making was quick, urgent and fulfilling. Two people who knew each other’s bodies, who knew just how to satisfy the other fast or slow. They fell asleep, back pressed to back.
By seven thirty a.m. Henry was forty miles from Blackpool, sitting at Rawtenstall police station a full hour before the second briefing was due.
Everyone was bouncing, ready to rock, motivation and anticipation at a high level.
Early days, Henry thought, knowing that if there was not a significant breakthrough by the end of the next day, spirits would start to flag. At the very least the body needed to be identified, but Henry was confident this would happen sooner rather than later. The nature of the man’s death would see to that. No innocent, law-abiding person would get two bullets in the back and then get bonfired; whoever he was, Henry convinced himself, he would have a string of convictions and would have had his DNA taken, which would be on the national database. He would have bet his next pay cheque on that. Even so, it would have been nice to get a breakthrough before that information came through; a good witness, a vehicle type or number, something to really focus the investigation. It was a hell of a shame the dead guy’s fingers had been burned off.
Overall, he had a good feeling about it.
That whole next day was hectic and, following the evening debrief at nine p.m., Henry lurched home, knackered, was in bed by ten thirty p.m., only to be up and operating at Rawtenstall by seven thirty a.m. next day. At least the journey was nearly all motorway, so he didn’t have to concentrate on driving too much.
He swivelled round in the inspector’s desk chair and squinted through the narrow floor-to-ceiling window out to the public car park in front of the police station and beyond to the entrance to the shopping centre.
‘Have I covered everything?’ he asked himself out loud. ‘Have I done as much as I possibly could in the circumstances?’
He thought deeply about the questions, his mind tumbling, revising it all again.
He supped the last of his coffee, now gone cold.
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘I bloody have. Come and scrutinize me, Mr Anger, if you dare.’ But he sighed deeply as he got to his feet, collected his paperwork and prepared to leave the office as he had found it. ‘A little breakthrough would be nice, though. .’
Which was very much the thought that Rufus Sweetman was having at that moment in time, as he glared angrily at Tony Cromer and Teddy Bear Jackman. They had spent the last two days heaving their considerable and justified reputations around the city of Manchester in an effort to unearth information which would reveal to them who had stolen the property belonging to their boss.
It had not been a pretty sight.
Blood had been spilled and left in their wake. Snot, vomit too. Shit and piss also, and burnt flesh. They had visited many people, most of whom had been more than willing to divulge what little they knew. Some folks, however, had been truculent and not a little belligerent. Foolish people.
Jackman and Cromer were at the top of their game, a game which they loved and revelled in. One seemed to know what the other was thinking and they acted with the precision, if not the grace, of ballet dancers. And, whenever possible, they took turns, because there was great satisfaction in hearing someone scream when a steam iron, on its hottest setting, was placed on their skin as though they were branding a calf. It was an unworldly sound, but music to their ears.
‘Nothing, you say?’ Sweetman said.
‘Fuck all,’ Jackman confirmed to the boss.
Sweetman looked at Cromer, who also confirmed, ‘Fuck all.’
‘I don’t fucking believe it!’ roared Sweetman. ‘You are telling me that you’ve been out and about and no one has heard a damn thing? There’s millions of quids worth of cocaine been stolen, twenty dagos have snuffed it, and no cunt’s heard a thing? No names, sod all?’
‘Sorry, boss.’
Sweetman smashed a fist into the wall of his apartment and strutted across to the huge floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Lowry Museum on Salford Quays. He kicked the window, but it was made of thick, bulletproof glass and did not even tremble.
‘Bollocks,’ he uttered, spun fiercely on his heels and faced his two rather sheepish men, who both recoiled miserably. As tough and as hard as they were, they still feared the wrath of Sweetman. He left them standing when it came to violence.
‘There is a whisper, though.’
Sweetman became very still, waited for Cromer to continue.
‘Just a whisper, that’s all. . that a big player is on the streets, someone new, someone untouchable, but no names, nowt.’
‘And. .?’
‘Supposed to be targeting rich kids, university lot, young bankers, accountants, teachers, even. . no street dealing, just in good class pubs, clubs and offices and on the university campus.’
‘And. .?’ Sweetman insisted again.
‘Er. . that’s it,’ Cromer said inadequately.
‘That’s it? You two are a pair of wankers!’
They coloured up wretchedly.
‘I wish I was still inside,’ Sweetman blasted, shaking his head, his fists clenched. ‘Right, right, right. .’ He paced up and down the thick, cream carpet, thinking hard, pounding his head with his fists, trying to get his brain working. ‘It’s fucked my head up being in the slammer, can’t fuckin’ think straight, can’t get it right.’
He was still pacing when the solicitor, Bradley Grant, entered the room and gingerly took a seat, crossing his legs and raising eyebrows at Teddy Bear and Cromer, gesticulating a question with a shrug of his shoulders: ‘What’s going on?’
Teddy Bear began to speak. ‘We didn’t find anything. .’
‘What?’ shouted Sweetman, looking up abruptly, stopping in his tiger tracks, his thoughts interrupted. He seemed to notice Grant for the first time. ‘Did I say you could speak?’ he snarled at Jackman.
Teddy Bear shook his head like an admonished kid.
‘No I fucking didn’t. I’ve lost four or five million quid’s worth of coke that doesn’t belong to me and you make small talk. I’m tryina work out where it’s gone, who had the bottle to nick it. . I wanna get all the players in and I want to hang the twats out to dry until one of them spills his guts. . like in that film, y’know. . that one with Bob what’s-his-name. . the gangster thing. . c’mon, what’s it called?’ He clicked his fingers rapidly.