Henry found the address easily — a grotty office over a Spar shop on the edge of the estate. He remembered the row of shops from years ago when he had done a spell on Support Unit in the mid-eighties. As part of a mobile, go-anywhere, crack heads/kick shins team, he had spent many a head-banging weekend in the vicinity in the days when he’d thought it great sport to go around winding people up, then arresting them just for the hell of it with a bunch of like-minded knuckle-heads. The row of shops had been a magnet for badly behaved juveniles and there had been regular police operations to combat it and, Henry thought as he pulled up, probably still were.
His only surprise as he drew to a halt in the Rover 75 was that the shops were still standing, still trading. It was often the fate of such businesses to end up firstly trading behind steel bars and mesh, then for the owners to call it a day because they couldn’t stand the heat of the local kids making their lives hell. Only the strong survived.
He parked a good way down the road and spent a few moments savouring the police activity, which, despite the time of day, had already attracted a gaggle of onlookers, mostly kids. Mind you, he thought, four marked cars, one section van, an unmarked car — which he immediately categorized as that of the night duty detective — and a little white van marked ‘Scientific Support’ were bound to attract the public at any time of day.
The climb out of the car was a little stiff, but he stretched, adjusted his tie, then approached the mayhem, his mind already back in SIO mode, even though he was no longer one.
The zoot-suited night duty detective had obviously been keeping an eye out for Henry and strode up to him as though he wanted to cut him off at the pass.
‘Morning, boss,’ said the DC. His name was Hall.
‘Trevor,’ Henry said, a shiver making his spine judder when a blast of cold air from the moors swirled around him. Henry had known Hall for a long time. He was a career DC who kept his nose just above water, was competent, but hardly a Poirot. In fact he was a blueprint for many of the older detective constables in the county. Henry liked such people, in a way. They were reliable, knew their jobs, had a regular number of arrests, knew a lot of people, often had good informants, but didn’t break any pots. ‘What’ve we got?’
Hall shivered too. No doubt he had been dragged out of a warm CID office. But he smiled. ‘I was glad when I heard it was you turning out. A blast from the past, a rave from the grave, you might say … someone you know well — knew well, I should say.’
Henry’s paper suit was about two sizes too big for him, but at least the elasticated paper shoes fitted reasonably tightly over his shoes. He climbed the dingy, poorly lit steps behind Trevor Hall, and on the landing followed him down a short, uncarpeted hallway to an open door that led to the crime scene.
‘Unfortunately there’s only one way to get in and out of the scene,’ Hall said over his shoulder, ‘but so far there’s only been me, you, CSI and the PC who found the guy, plus the witness, who’ve been to the scene. It was pretty quickly secured.’
One of the problems with a murder scene inside premises was often the ingress and egress, meaning that valuable evidence could potentially be lost because of an army of size elevens tramping back and forth along the route probably also used by the offender. Hall’s rundown of the people who had already been to it was discouraging, but inevitable. Henry decided that once he’d had a quick look, no one else would be allowed up until all the scientific work had been done.
Henry was irritated by Hall for keeping him in the dark regarding the identity of the deceased, but allowed him his little charade because he seemed to be getting some amusement from it and he did brief Henry on everything else with a fairly succinct narrative before they entered the premises …
‘Treble-nine came in about half past midnight to Blackburn comms. Hysterical female by the name of Jackie Kippax … yeah? Jackie Kippax?’ Hall seemed to expect Henry to know the name, but at that moment in time with a brain still slightly dulled by sex and sleep, it meant nothing to him. ‘Hm, OK … so hysterical female calls, a double-crewed car attends and finds her down at the phone box there’ — he pointed to the box down the road — ‘which, surprisingly, worked … anyway, they speak to her, get some sort of story. One stays with her and the other, with trepidation, goes up into the flat over the Spar shop here and finds the dead body, who had been shot through the head. I’m already en route and get here about ten minutes later, speak to the woman, still hysterical, and get her carted off to the nick to be looked after — emotionally and evidentially — and then I lumber up to the scene and lo and behold, I’m pretty sure there’s a murderer on the loose.’
‘Unless it’s the hysterical woman.’
‘Unless it’s her, which I doubt. She, by the way, is the dead man’s common-law wife, Jackie Kippax?’ Hall raised his eyebrows.
‘Means nothing.’ Henry shook his head.
‘It will,’ Hall said confidently.
Henry remained to be convinced, but gave a shrug, then walked across to the Scientific Support van and helped himself to a paper suit and shoes, introduced himself to the young copper who had been detailed to note the comings and goings to the crime scene. He told the young lad not to let anyone else in until further instructed. He’d then followed Hall into the property, through the ground-floor door adjacent to the front door of the Spar shop.
As he’d entered the premises behind Hall, Henry had checked to see if there was any sign of forced entry at the front door and seen nothing to suggest it; no splintering of wood either on the door or its frame …
Hall stepped into the room which was the crime scene ahead of Henry, then took a sideways step to the left to give the senior officer an unrestricted view.
Henry placed his feet on the threshold but did not move into the room, just stood and let his eyes wander.
‘It’s the dead guy’s office,’ Hall explained. ‘He’s a private investigator.’
It was sparsely furnished: one desk with a black swivel chair behind it and a chair on the other side of it, one of those uncomfortable plastic ones found the world over. He could see a pair of feet sticking out from behind the desk, trainers on. Behind the desk was a wall and on it Henry could see the mess and blood that had once been the innards of the dead man’s head. His eyes lingered on that for a few seconds.
And that was about it.
No other furniture, just a calendar on the wall; nothing on the desk either, other than a pen and an old-fashioned telephone.
A blank canvas. Something Henry was grateful for. Cluttered rooms were a nightmare. At least with an empty one it was generally pretty easy to work out what might be missing or what might be extra, two things that could be crucial to any investigation. And already, Henry was thinking that there was something missing that should be there, but he didn’t know what.
So the dead man was lying on the floor on the far side of the desk.
Henry’s eyes narrowed as he started to put the pieces together, even though he hadn’t yet got a clue what the picture looked like.
He glanced at Hall, who was looking enquiringly at him.
‘I like to take my time, think about things,’ Henry said. ‘Only one chance at a pure crime scene before everyone gets their mits on it.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘What are your thoughts so far, Trevor?’
With a meditative pout, he said, ‘Just practicalities at the moment, boss.’ He munched his words. ‘Front door not forced, which could mean one of several things. Either the offender had a key or was allowed in, unless the door was actually open. It’s a Yale lock, so if it was closed, whoever comes in either needs a key or has to be let in. My first thought is that he knew his killer and met him here.’ Hall shrugged.