But had he now gone? Had the police presence at Uren’s flat spooked him? And was Henry too late to save the life of Kerry Figgis?
Karl Donaldson was along for the ride. Henry and he were sitting in an unmarked police car two streets away from the target address, speculating, hoping to accumulate. Not far away an armed team were also parked up, as well as other specialists, detectives and uniformed officers. Even a joiner was on standby to repair any damage that might be caused from the house entry. They were all waiting for the final decision to be made.
So far, the surveillance guys reported no sign of any movement from the address. No lights, no activity.
‘It’s chicken and egg,’ Donaldson said. He shifted uncomfortably, having been hurriedly issued with a borrowed stab vest that was too tight for him. ‘And what’s the most important?’
Henry’s jaw rotated. He knew exactly what Donaldson was obliquely referring to: obviously the most important thing was to save Kerry’s life. That should override everything, even if it meant that Trent did not get caught … so should they wait? See if he entered or left the house? Or should they burst in, hoping Kerry might be in there alive? Not that there was anything to suggest she was in there. So many questions. Henry realized there was a good chance she was dead anyway, stats showed that … but, but … even if there was the faintest glimmer of her breathing, there was only one course of action to take. Even if she wasn’t in the house, there could be clues to lead the police to her.
Henry nodded, agreeing with his inner gut feeling: better to lose Trent than a life.
‘We go in.’
It was left to the specialists to get into the house. Once the exterior had been sealed, a team of Support Unit officers, armed with a door-opener, raced up to the front door. When they found it locked, they did the business. Within seconds the door was off its hinges. Immediately the firearms team burst through the gap into the house in a well-drilled manoeuvre, weapons drawn, full body armour protection, ballistic shields, torches and screams. They moved quickly but carefully through the ground floor, searching and securing the rooms one by one until they were satisfied it was all clear; the team at the foot of the stairs then got the instruction to move up, leading the assault on the first floor, which was also secured quickly with no trace of any occupants.
Henry and Karl Donaldson stood inside the vestibule, waiting for the rooms to be declared clear before stepping into the hallway, beckoned in by the sergeant in charge of the firearms team.
‘No one ground or first floor, sir,’ he reported. ‘But there’s a basement and an attic.’
‘OK,’ said Henry. ‘Trent’s a clever sod, so keep a presence upstairs and on this level. Don’t stand anyone down yet. Let’s have a look at the basement first, then the attic.’
‘Roger,’ the sergeant said sharply. He turned to direct his squad. The door to the basement ran off the hallway, under the stairs. Moments later the lead two firearms officers were ready to enter the basement. ‘Go,’ came the succinct order. The officer nodded and with Glock handguns drawn, ballistic shields in front of them, they tried the basement door — unlocked — reached through, simply switched on the light and charged down the concrete steps into the basement, followed by their back-up team.
It all fell spookily silent. Henry and Donaldson exchanged worried glances, then looked at the team leader who was at the top of the steps.
‘Situation report?’ the officer said into his radio.
‘All clear … hell,’ came the reply.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘You need to get down here … the DCI needs to get down here.’
Henry, his PR tuned to the firearms frequency, heard the exchange through his earpiece, as did Donaldson who had been loaned a PR.
The sergeant turned to Henry, who nodded and eased past him, followed by Donaldson. They went down the steep, narrow steps to the basement, hitting the stench as they descended. The four shocked-faced firearms officers who had made the entry, stood aside for them, allowing a view of the well-lit basement.
Trent’s studio. His lair.
Sophisticated-looking video and DVD recording equipment. Two expensive cameras on tripods. Hundreds of DVDs and videos stacked up by a wall. A mixing desk. Spotlights. And the small stage in the corner of the room which Henry recognized because he had seen it on Cork’s TV set, the one with the girl manacled to a metal ring in the wall.
She was still there, kneeling up to the wall, hanging by her wrists, which were chained to the ring that looked like a towel rail.
She was dead. Her head lolled through her arms, her lower legs starting to show signs of decomposition. She almost looked like she was praying. Her little naked body was stripped of flesh where she had been whipped and tortured.
‘Boss.’ Someone tapped Henry’s arm. He tore his eyes away from the girl. One of the firearms team pointed across to another corner of the basement, the only poorly-lit area. Henry walked across and found a blanket draped over something. He lifted it carefully, then reeled back instinctively before regaining his composure and looking again at the two small bodies on top of each other, decomposing. One was nearly a skeleton; another still had quite a lot of flesh and skin on the bones.
He dropped the blanket, horrified.
‘You guys — well done, but out, now, please,’ he said to the firearms team. ‘The attic needs sorting, please.’ They did not need telling twice, withdrawing silently.
Henry and Donaldson looked at each other.
‘Three dead girls,’ Henry said, unnecessarily.
Donaldson’s jaw jutted.
‘And he’s not here — unless he’s in the attic.’
‘No,’ said Donaldson.
Henry turned to the body of the girls chained to the wall. ‘I don’t think that’s Kerry Figgis. That’s the girl on the Cork’s video … could be the one from Manchester, maybe.’
‘Which means Kerry could still be alive. Maybe she’s with Trent now.’
‘A plus point … and another plus point,’ Henry said, stunned by his thoughts. ‘I know that Jodie Greaves died in the back of that Astra, and she went through hell, but at least she didn’t have to suffer this. Not that it’s any consolation … fuck, just look at these poor kids. Shit.’ Henry was close to tears. ‘He cannot be allowed to escape.’
‘Maybe we’re not too late,’ Donaldson said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Because there might still be a chance of him returning here. I know it’s a long shot, buddy, but just suppose he hasn’t seen us here,’ Donaldson said urgently, making chopping gestures with his hand to emphasize what he was saying. ‘These unfortunate kids aren’t going anywhere, so is there anything lost in shutting up the house, getting the door repaired — there’s a joiner with us, isn’t there? — and maybe waiting a few more hours. Whaddya think? Kerry isn’t here, so it’s not as though we’ve totally lost her yet; you did the right thing coming in, now let’s continue playing out our luck. You never know. He might just come back, whistling a happy tune.’
SATURDAY
Twenty
Alone in the darkness, he was aware of the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart, even the noise of his eyelids coming together as he blinked. All magnified, all giving away his position, or so it seemed.
He looked around the living room, his eyes now well adjusted to the dark, the heavy curtains cutting out most of the illumination from the street outside. It was a normal room. Three-piece suite, TV, DVD, pictures on the walls. A normal room in a normal house in a normal street in Blackpool — a far from normal town. But hadn’t 25 Cromwell Street been a normal address? Yet what had Fred West’s home revealed? A trail of multiple murder stretching back over many years.