‘OK, good stuff,’ Henry said to the DC. He looked up as the support-unit sergeant came into the room, dressed in her search overalls and looking like a cat with a mouse. ‘Hello, Hannah,’ Henry said, noticing she had a small, clear plastic bag in her hand and a video cassette in the other.
‘Can I have a word?’ she said. Roscoe and Carradine’s eyes turned to her as they stopped their little scrum down. ‘Think I might’ve found something.’
They drove into an old mill yard in Stacksteads, a township situated on the long stretch of road in the valley bottom between Bacup and Rawtenstall.
Once there had been many mills in the area, now most had been demolished; those remaining were either derelict or had been converted into factory units. None produced cotton any more.
This particular mill had a long, proud history, but it was now deserted and falling to pieces. Rufus Sweetman had bought it at a knock-down price with the intention of converting it into classy apartments. It stood by the trickle of the River Irwell and may have had some development potential, but Sweetman had owned it for three years and had done nothing with it.
The yard at the rear of the mill was bounded on three sides by twenty-foot-high stone walls and on the fourth side by the mill itself. The entrance to it was by way of a gap in the walls which had once been a proper gate.
Cromer drove the Bentley into the yard, stopping in the middle, gawking up at the multi-storey mill which in its day had produced millions of yards of cotton material. Behind, Jackman parked up the second car at the entrance to the yard.
‘Ahh, some history here,’ Cromer said. He shook his head sadly. ‘All gone now. Everything produced by chinks and wogs these days. . sad. . what do you say, Spinksy?’
Spinks sat upright and tight in the back seat, mouth clamped shut, a premonition of horror to come shuddering through his veins. He could not speak.
Cromer patted the steering wheel. ‘This is a lovely bus, y’know? Really smooth. Can’t quite hear the clock ticking, though. . ahh, no wonder, it’s digital!’ He laughed at his joke, twisted his head and looked over his shoulder at his captive with an evil smile.
There was complete silence between the men, the only sound being the gentle, very muted rumble of the huge powerful engine under the bonnet.
‘What’s going on?’ Spinks squeaked, his mouth a dry cave.
‘Someone’s taken something that doesn’t belong to them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Something that belongs to me boss.’
‘Like what?’ Spinks asked desperately.
‘Like a lot. . I mean a lot. . of drugs.’
With that, Cromer snapped the automatic gearbox into drive. He rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The heavy car surged forward like a sports car half its weight, the front end lifting regally as power transferred to the wheels. Cromer held on tight, bracing himself.
Spinks let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream as he saw the mill-yard wall getting closer and closer as the car sped towards it.
‘Jesus fucking. .!’ he uttered. Something inside him did not believe that Cromer would do it. No one, no one, in their right mind would, whatever the reason, drive such a beautiful piece of machinery head first into a three-foot-thick stone wall. Surely.
Cromer did.
The car, still accelerating, hit the wall with a sickening thud, throwing Spinks out of his seat, sending him sprawling through the gap between the front seats. Before he could recover himself, Cromer selected reverse and the wheels were skidding as the car began a journey towards the opposite wall.
‘You idiot!’ screamed Spinks.
The Bentley connected.
Then Cromer was in drive again, but instead of going for another straight-on hit, he went for forty-five degrees, slamming the car into the wall so as to destroy the front offside headlights.
Then back in reverse.
‘This is my fucking car, you prick!’ Spinks shrieked.
To no effect.
Smack! The car hurtled into the wall behind again.
‘Jesus, this is fun!’ Cromer yelled with a whoop. ‘It’ll be a Peugeot when I’ve finished with it.’
‘You bastard!’
Cromer found drive again, but anger, fear, horror, self-preservation all combined in Spinks and he went for Cromer’s neck and head. He reached over the seat and his right forearm went under Cromer’s chin whilst his fingers went to gouge out Cromer’s eyes.
A grim smile came across Cromer’s distorted face. He twisted his head downwards and tried to evade Spinks’s probing fingers, trying to protect his eyes. The arm across his windpipe he could endure for a few moments, but he needed his vision. He pushed his right foot down and the car sped on, taking a swerving, tyre-squealing course across the mill yard until it rammed into the opposite wall again, smashing the radiator grille. The impact threw both men forward and Spinks lost his grip for a millisecond, just long enough for Cromer to twist and turn away from his attacker, shoulder open the driver’s door and roll out of the car.
He hauled open the rear door and snarled at Spinks. ‘Out.’
Spinks launched himself at Cromer, leaping out, arms like a pincer, going for the waist.
Cromer sidestepped easily. Spinks crashed to the ground, hurt, humiliated.
There was nothing clinical about what Cromer did next.
He knew it was childish, but even so he took great pleasure in it. With the highly curious eyes of both detective inspector foes on him, Henry ushered the support-unit sergeant out of the MIR, down the corridor into the inspector’s office. As he left the MIR, he could not resist a supercilious glance in Roscoe’s direction. Nor could he hold back a smirk at Carradine. He almost gave them both the swivel finger, but that would have been one step too far.
Hannah laid out the two items on the desk. ‘It’s a good job you made us search the scene again,’ she said gratefully. ‘We were all for packing up.’ Henry nodded as he listened, his heart hammering. ‘We did the whole area around the scene and found this about twenty-five feet away from where the body was found.’ She pointed to the clear plastic bag with a waterproof seal on it — a Lancashire Constabulary evidence bag. Inside it was a piece of crumpled paper which Henry recognized immediately as a sales receipt. ‘It’s for petrol.’ Hannah’s eyes caught Henry’s. ‘And for a petrol can,’ she added wonderfully. Henry uttered a short guffaw and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s for the purchase of petrol and a petrol can at a twenty-four-hour garage on Bury Road, timed and dated. I took the liberty of calling into the garage on the way back here and found they videoed the forecourt and the shop continuously with two cameras, giving a split screen. This is the video tape which covers the relevant period relating to the sales receipt. . paid for in cash, by the way. One of the lads is taking a statement from the garage owner and we’re trying to track down the cashier who was on duty at the time.’
‘Have you viewed the tape?’
She shook her head.
‘OK, let’s get both items booked into the system. Get the sales receipt off to fingerprints immediately — get a motorcyclist to do it — and then let’s you and me sit down and watch a video together. . well done, by the way.’
‘Thanks. . but down to you, Henry.’
He blushed.
‘But then again,’ she added, ‘it might be nothing.’
It would have been totally unprofessional of Henry to have kept the discovery of the tape to himself. Whilst it irked him, he invited his office managers into the refs room at the station and commandeered the TV and video for the first screening. Time and date were stamped on the bottom of the screen, so it was simple enough to fast forward to the right spot on the tape to link it in with the receipt.