The Nothing Job (7 page)

As he emerged from the police car he started to run – but only took three strides before stopping abruptly, turning and making his way back to the police car.

He dragged the officer he'd assaulted out of the car and dumped him on the ground before stomping on his head a couple of times, bringing his whole weight to bear and feeling the skull crack sickeningly under his shoe.

The officer behind the wheel was trying to free himself from his seat belt, scream for assistance over the radio, get out his baton and CS spray and get the prisoner Robinson, or whoever the hell he was.

Downie saved him the trouble of going too far.

He walked casually around the front of the car and opened the door for the officer.

‘Get back or I'll spray you with CS,' he was warned. Downie laughed uproariously as the CS canister was pointed at his face and he was sprayed with a face full of the very nasty, usually effective, irritant …

‘Unfortunately it doesn't work on everyone,' Henry Christie said as he read to the end of the depressing report in Downie's file. Downie had laughed in the cop's face, punched him hard and repeatedly until he was senseless, then dragged him out of the car and thrown him to the ground. He had then stolen the police car, calmly driven back to his rented room, collected an armful of his belongings, then disappeared.

Henry breathed out. He shook his head at the stupidity of cops. Putting a six-foot-eight prisoner into the back of an Astra, being taken in by the willingness to cooperate and then being surprised when it went boob-up.

Shit happened.

If young cops were stupid enough to post videos of themselves breaking traffic laws on YouTube, then they were daft enough to think it wouldn't happen to them.

One was left with a fractured skull and broken jaw, the other a broken cheekbone and hand.

They subsequently found out the true ID of the man they had arrested and some pretty diligent follow-up detective work discovered a whole string of offences connected to gay communities and ID thefts perpetrated by the big man Downie, as well as the previously unknown murder in Nottingham.

Six foot eight did make him a very big, formidable bloke. But as Henry read on in the file, the Intel on him revealed he was known to change his appearance frequently by wearing a variety of wigs and he hunched down to try to give the effect of being smaller than he actually was.

The assaults on the police officers were the last time Downie had been seen by a cop. He was known to have committed further offences in Scotland and northern England and had let it be known to some of his victims that he ‘just loved' the gay scene in Blackpool even though there was no evidence to suggest he was gay himself. The Lancashire connection came about because he had committed further offences in the county and had seriously assaulted twelve-year-old boys in Leyland and Blackpool.

Henry rearranged the file neatly and looked at Downie's photograph.

‘So how the hell am I going to catch you, big fella?' Henry asked the image.

It was going to be through routine, Henry knew that. Delving into the file, checking out where he'd been, who he'd spoken to, what he'd said and let slip, and from that, working out where he was now. In other words, plain old-fashioned detective work. Talking to people, putting two and two together.

Henry's musings were interrupted by a figure at the office door.

He regarded the man suspiciously.

‘You still here, Henry?'

Henry's eyes went into slitty mode. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘I heard you'd been seconded to some elite crime-fighting team.'

Chortling back a guffaw, Henry uttered, ‘What?'

The man – it was Chief Inspector Andy Laker – shrugged and said, ‘Whatever.'

‘What can I do for you, Andy? The comms room is way over there somewhere, isn't it?'

‘I'm stepping into the breach.'

‘What breach would that be?'

‘The one opened by your move.'

Then it dawned on Henry. ‘You're the one who's replacing me here?' He pointed down at his seat and his hands flapped at the office.

‘The penny drops.'

‘You really have upset someone – the chief's bag carrier, to comms and then to this!'

‘The chief chose me personally.' He sounded offended.

‘And I thought you had a career in front of you,' Henry said amused. ‘How wrong I was.'

‘I'm taking over something that hasn't been working well.' Laker turned and regarded the larger Special Projects Office disdainfully, then turned back to Henry. ‘They wanted a mover and shaker in here, apparently.'

‘And who would that be?' Henry asked mischievously.

Laker bristled. He reddened up from the neck and his shoulders rolled.

Henry collected the three files in front of him, logged out of the computer, picked up the framed photograph of Kate and the girls and stood up. He walked slowly across to Laker, who shrank away from him.

‘That was your induction,' Henry said. ‘That's the in-tray, pending and out-tray … I'm sure you'll be able to work out the rest for yourself, being so smart.'

‘Uh – what?'

Brushing ignorantly past the smaller man, Henry closed his ears to the babbling and, now office-and-desk-less, he clutched the files and his meagre personal possessions and walked upright and erect out of the Special Projects Office without a backwards glance.

T
here was something about the whole Downie saga that made Henry believe it would be a relatively easy task to track him down. A quick win, one out of three, a tick in the box. The hard bit would be physically getting hold of the big bastard and getting him into a police cell. Not an encounter Henry relished, but something he would have to deal with. He was only just getting over the pounding he'd had on the back streets of Preston.

He had looked at the file repeatedly and wondered how best to approach it and eventually decided he would kick the enquiry off in Rochdale, the last place Downie had come into contact with the cops, by visiting the family he had befriended and then stolen from. He had thought of speaking to a couple of Downie's more recent victims from two attacks in Blackpool and one in Leyland. From all accounts, though, these people were still traumatized.

Unusually for Henry he made an appointment. He preferred to drop in on folk unexpectedly and catch them on the back foot, but because of the rising fuel costs and the possibility of a wasted journey, he made the call instead.

He cleared his throat and looked at the family, mother, father, gay son.

They were in the living room of their terraced house in Rochdale, close to its border with Whitworth, which was in Lancashire.

‘You found the bastard yet?' the father demanded. He was a gruff, no-nonsense working-class man struggling with the concept of having a gay son. He continually shot dagger-like glances at his lad, who sat there with his hands wedged between his thighs, uncomfortable and shamefaced.

‘That's why I'm here,' Henry said. ‘I've been given the job of finding him.'

‘Hm,' the father breathed, unimpressed.

‘How can we help?' the mother asked. She was dressed in a dour skirt and apron and could have been a character from an early episode of
Coronation Street
. All that was missing was a hairnet, curlers, blue rinse and bottle of stout. ‘We didn't have much to do with the man … at least, me and Norman didn't.' She glanced at her husband, then at her son. ‘Eric did …' Her voice trailed off uncertainly, disappointment evident.

Eric, the son, mid-twenties, slim build, round face and long eyelashes, gave Henry a wan look and a shrug.

‘He was a thievin', devious, perverted bastard,' the father blurted. ‘A conman and a killer. It's lucky you're still alive, by all accounts,' he said to Eric. ‘You could've ended up under a fuckin' patio.'

‘Norm!' the wife cut in. ‘No need to swear.'

Norman's mouth clamped shut with impatience and became a tight line of disapproval. But then he muttered, ‘Shit-shovellers.'

Henry observed the exchange, feeling the tension in the room.

‘Perhaps if I could have a word with Eric – alone?' he ventured.

Eric breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You're welcome to him,' Dad said and barged out of the room.

‘Do you want me to stay, darling?' Eric's mum asked him.

‘Ma, I'm twenty-three. I know I'm gay and I know I got conned, but I can deal with this.'

She nodded, smiling sadly at Henry and rose to leave.

‘Thank Christ for that,' Eric breathed when they were alone. ‘They make everything ten times harder than it has to be. OK, I'm a big disappointment to them, can't help it. Dad wanted me to be a mechanic like him. Not into cars.' He raised his eyebrows. ‘Embroidery, yes.'

Henry chuckled. ‘OK, Eric. I've read your statement and I don't really feel I need to go over the actual offences Downie committed against you …'

‘I knew him as Robinson.'

‘I'm aware of that.'

‘So what do you want from me?'

‘A chat about the man himself, anything he might have said to you, any indication where I might start looking to find him. That sort of thing.'

‘Well,' Pussy Beaver said. From his face he pushed back his superbly trimmed, bobbed silver hair, dusted with a sprinkling of glitter. ‘Let's have a proper look.' He held out his finely manicured hand and tapped his thumb and forefinger together indicating he wanted to peer more closely at the photograph Henry Christie was showing him. Beaver was smoking a cigar-ette which had been inserted into a long, fat penis-shaped holder.

Henry handed him the photograph of Anthony Downie and gave Beaver a quick once-over. As ever, he found that he looked stunning. From the low-cut silk blouse, tightly wrapped around and displaying one of the finest pairs of breasts Henry had ever seen wobble, to the equally tight, short skirt with a split, from which a pair of long, tapering legs extended of which Cyd Charisse would have been envious. The effect was slightly marred by the unmistakable male bulge at the groin, which Beaver made no effort to conceal. Pussy Beaver may have had the breasts, but was just as proud of his tackle and never wanted to lose it.

He and Henry were in the admin office behind the box office at the Pink Ladies' Club, which Beaver – real name John Howard – ran efficiently and well above the law. Howard described himself as Head Pussy and by running this establishment on the Promenade at Blackpool, one of the country's leading nightspots, he had become a multimillionaire.

The two had known each other for several years and had first met in the dark days when the club was petrol-bombed by some local youths who despised what people like Howard stood for. Henry investigated the offence and arrested and convicted two nineteen-year-olds who, to this day, were still in prison for their crime. The last time Henry had had any dealings with Beaver was when a bomb had exploded at the club, but since then things had been fairly quiet.

‘Mm,' Beaver said as he carefully looked at the photo.

‘Apparently he's drawn to this place,' Henry said, basing the statement on the interview with Eric. ‘Always comes in here when he's in town.' Henry knew that Pussy always held court in the bars of the Pink Ladies' in between his stage act and kept a sharp eye on the comings and goings of the clientele.

Beaver nodded, took a long drag of the cigarette, making Henry wince.

‘Big man,' Beaver said, ‘very big man.'

Henry had purposely not given Downie's height, so as not to lead the witness.

‘Spot on,' Henry confirmed.

‘Six-seven, six-eight, I'd hazard.' Beaver exhaled the smoke upwards through lips coated in a perfect cherry gloss. He looked at Henry. ‘About right?'

‘Yup.' Despite himself, Henry had difficulty keeping his eyeline level with Beaver's, constantly allowing them to drop and ogle the breastwork. Beaver had once let him feel them and they had felt good. Henry guessed that Beaver had had another boob job since then and he found himself curious.

‘Hair's been dyed, though. He's blond now – and has a goatee.'

‘He's been in the club, then?'

‘Yes. He kind of tries to hide his height with a stoop.' He handed the photograph back. ‘What's he done?'

Henry rolled his jaw. ‘Many, many bad things … Particularly against gay men and transvestites.'

‘But he's not gay himself?'

‘Who knows what he is, other than a violent and dangerous individual.'

‘Has he killed?'

‘Oh yes – after a four-day period of torturing.'

‘He was in here last night.'

A feeling of great satisfaction came over Henry as he thought, They always come home to roost.

The club, as ever, was packed to the gunwales, as it was six nights each week, pulling in an excess of £40,000 per night. Henry took up a position in one of the quieter bars in the complex, just off the foyer, and watched life go by. There was a heaving mixture of girls' nights out and stag parties, as well as the club staff and performing artists providing wicked colour and gaiety as they pranced and paraded amongst the clientele before the first show of the night got underway in the main auditorium, known as the ‘Willy's Womb'.

He leaned on the bar, mineral water in hand, mesmerized by the scene of surging colour and laughter. Everyone was here for a good time and there had never been any serious public-order problems that Henry was aware of.

Adorned in spangles, sequins and feathers, now attired also in a pink latex leotard, shimmering stockings and high heels, Pussy Beaver stepped up to Henry.

Henry gave him/her the once-over.

‘You look terrific, I have to admit.' Henry's eyes were automatically drawn to the boobs. ‘Have you?' Henry could not resist asking, nodding at Beaver's chest.