There 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.
‘I thought you’d noticed, you dirty bastard,’ Pussy squeaked with delight, her male vocal tones having disappeared as they always did in public. ‘Yes, had a great uplift done last year, as well as a tummy tuck and face lift.’ She raised her chin and ran her glittering fingernails across the tight skin. ‘And an ass job.’ She wriggled her shapely buttocks. ‘And just because I can’t bear to let the damn thing go’ – her voice dropped into a hoarse whisper – ‘I had my cock enlarged. I still love it, really … something to play with in the bath.’
‘Too much detail.’ Henry held up his right hand in the police number one stop signal.
Pussy jiggled her boobs. ‘Wanna give them a squeeze, Henry? Just for old times’ sake.’
‘I am very tempted,’ he said wistfully, ‘but let’s take a rain check on that one, shall we?’
‘Suit yourself – bitch,’ she pouted, but not for real.
Henry blinked at her and shook his head, unable to fathom her out at all. It was far too complicated for Henry’s one hundred per cent heterosexual brain. He actually thought of himself rather like a greyhound: he’d once been told that the only thing a greyhound ever thought about was chasing rabbits. All Henry could ever think of was chasing members of the opposite sex and inseminating them, although since his remarriage his eyes and mind were kept solely on Kate.
‘Think he’ll come?’ Henry said.
‘Been here two nights running,’ Pussy said. ‘Flashing the cash.’
‘Somebody else’s cash, I’ll wager.’
‘No doubt.’
‘I’ll keep looking, and you too?’
Pussy nodded, wafted her face with a Chinese fan which he flicked open with a crack, making Henry jump. ‘Show’s on in ten minutes … I’ve got you a place in the royal box, luvvie.’
‘I’m honoured.’ Henry bowed graciously.
‘Aren’t you just.’ She pursed Henry a kiss and flounced off towards the stage. Henry decided to risk one beer, which he took into the main theatre and found his way up to the royal box giving him an excellent slightly raised view of the venue. It was a Victorian theatre that had gone to rack and ruin in the 1950s and been saved by Pussy Beaver in the early eighties and had never seen better days. Henry was alone in the fur-lined royal box, making him glad and uncomfortable at the same time. Glad because you never could be sure who or what you might be sitting next to, uncomfortable because he stood out like a sore thumb. But whatever, he settled down to watch the show and keep an eye out for Downie.
The entertainment was basically an old-fashioned variety act, professionally done with lots of innuendo and dancing girls who were really men in disguise. Pussy did a solo spot for about twenty minutes, rousing the already rowdy audience into a mini-frenzy with a medley of Abba and Bassey songs. The first-half finale was a musical playlet with about as much plot as a porn movie, but some funny lines and good rock music. Henry enjoyed it all, but thought he shouldn’t.
There was no sign of Downie.
He raised himself from his comfortable seat and drifted back to the bars to mingle. There was a thirty-minute interval, during which he found a tight spot at a bar and kept nicks from there. He still could not spot Downie.
The second half of the show began about 11 p.m. It was due to last for an hour and was a salacious romp through the ages – backwards – starting in the present day and regressing to Roman times; it was a shirt-neck-pulling extravaganza and he wondered if he had the stamina to see it through to the bitter beginning. He decided to give it half an hour and if Downie hadn’t shown by then, he’d call it quits and head home to his heterosexual household and curl up next to a warm female bum.
Just as the cast appeared as knights in shining leotards, Henry spotted Downie at a table in the far corner. The hair was thick and curly, obviously a wig, and he sported a thick moustache and goatee. But it was his size that gave him away as he stood up to walk across to the bar. He could not disguise his excessive height. Six-eight doesn’t give much room for manoeuvre.
Henry watched him carefully.
He was sitting with two other men Henry did not recognize.
At the bar Downie ordered a round of drinks which looked like expensive cocktails. He carried them back on a tray.
Now he’d got him in his sights, Henry pondered the next move.
He could call in the troops to effect an arrest. He was loath to do this because it might cause mayhem in the club, especially if Downie kicked off, which he was very likely to do. Secondly there was the question of where Downie had come across his present money supply. The cash flow from the murdered man in Nottingham had been plugged. Downie wasn’t drawing any state benefits, so how was he financing himself? If Henry arrested him now he might never reveal his present living accommodation and what could be a good source of evidence. But if he allowed Downie to walk out of the club with a view to tailing him, that could all go wrong especially if Downie was surveillance-conscious.
‘Spotted him?’ Pussy Beaver had sidled up to Henry in the royal box.
‘Yes, thanks. Who is he with?’
‘Two gay guys. What are you going to do? I don’t want any trouble in here, luvvie.’
‘There won’t be. I’m just wondering what to do for the best. One way or the other, I don’t want to miss him. He’s too dangerous to be free. I could do with knowing where he’s holed up.’
‘Looks like you’re gonna have to make a quick decision.’
The wanted man had just sunk the last mouthful of his cocktail and was getting to his feet. It was clear from the body language, nods, handshakes, that he was on the move.
‘Bugger,’ Henry hissed. ‘Why isn’t he watching the show?
On stage the cast was performing a Monty Pythonesque knees-up and the audience were roaring their approval at the sight of a dozen high-kicking men in knights’ outfits and spandex. Downie walked across the auditorium, glancing at the show as he threaded his way through the tables towards the exit. Henry rose to follow, his right hand dropping into the jacket pocket into which he had stuffed his personal radio, which was switched off. Downie walked across Henry’s bows, less than ten feet away, and Henry had to resist the urge to vault over and grab him. He held back, allowing Downie to reach the exit, then trotted out behind him, wondering whether Downie had clocked him and made him for a cop.
As Henry entered the foyer, Downie was leaving through the front doors, turning left on to the promenade and heading south. Pausing agitatedly for a few moments, Henry then emerged and saw Downie turning left on to New Bonny Street without a backwards glance. Not that Henry made the assumption that Downie hadn’t spotted him. It would have been easy for Henry to do a quick sprint and close the gap, stop at the corner, peer round and come face to face with Downie who might be waiting there to pounce. Instead, Henry dashed across the road and walked quickly down the seaward side of the prom and reached the junction just in time to see Downie turn into Bonny Street near the police station.
Henry jumped the railings and trotted across the prom and into the same street, finding himself fifty metres behind the man.
Bonny Street ran parallel with the promenade; the buildings on Henry’s right, the backs of amusement arcades and Sea Life Centre, had their main entrances on the prom itself. On the left was a huge car park and the multi-storey eyesore that was Blackpool nick.
The road was deserted and dark, allowing Henry to follow from shadow to shadow. At one point Henry walked underneath the huge plastic shark affixed to the wall at the back of the Sea Life Centre. It was a nasty-looking model he had christened ‘Dave’ after Dave Anger. It had Anger’s look about it: a beady-eyed viciousness.
Ahead, Downie walked past the newly constructed ground-floor public entrance to the police station, now locked for the night, then past the pub opposite, the Pump and Truncheon, a hostelry frequented by off-duty cops.
Downie crossed the narrow road and stopped suddenly.
Henry froze, then sidestepped smartly into a recessed doorway, hoping the dark shadow would hide him.
Downie turned slowly.
He stood there for a few seconds, carefully scanning the street behind him. Henry held his breath. Then Downie started moving again with more purpose. At the junction with Chapel Street he crossed the road quickly and entered the maze of terraced side streets opposite which contained a tight mix of B&Bs, guest houses, private houses, pubs and shops bordered by Chapel Street and Yorkshire Street. Henry knew he would have to close in on Downie if he didn’t want to lose him in there.
He sprinted across into Dale Street, keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible, thinking Downie had gone out of sight, but just saw him turn into York Street. Henry bared his teeth. He was starting to sweat now, despite the chill of the night. Crouching low, he jogged up to the junction and saw Downie do a right into Singleton Street – and Henry knew for sure if he lost touch now, Downie would be gone for good. If the man increased his pace he had a variety of choices of direction to take and could disappear without a trace in a matter of seconds.
Henry took a chance. He legged it up to the next corner and just spotted Downie bearing left into Back Shannon Street. Henry ran.
With his back to a wall, he peered around the corner and saw Downie was now stopped outside a terraced house, inserting a key in the door and with a quick check each way, stepping inside the property.
Henry had found his lair.
There were two uniformed constables hidden in the back alley behind the address. Henry had picked them purposely, two of the biggest, meanest-looking guys on duty that night. They had to be in case Downie managed to break out at the rear. He would be like an angry lion and they had to be ready to flatten him without compromise.
That left him and a female PC to do the front door.
Having said that, she was a pretty-sturdy-looking girl and she certainly knew how to swing the door opener, the two-handed tube of solid metal used by the police to smash down locked doors. She had given Henry a quick demo for his benefit and nearly caved his ribs in.
‘You two guys in position?’ Henry asked the two PCs at the back via the PR.
‘Affirmative.’
‘You ready?’ he asked the female officer.
‘And willing,’ she said, brandishing the lump of metal with relish.
‘Let’s do it, then.’ Henry patted himself down. This time he had made sure he had his handcuffs and extendable baton with him. And he wore a lightweight stab vest.
They walked side by side down Back Shannon Street and stopped at the front of the house. It was in darkness. Henry inspected the front door, a fairly flimsy piece of joinery needing replacement. It would not withstand the door opener and its operator for long.
But before resorting to that, he gave it a gentle push and tried the handle to confirm it was in fact locked. It was.
Henry touched his stab vest for reassurance, then cleared his throat.
He gave the PC a nod and at the same time radioed the two at the back to tell them to get ready, the door was about to go in.
With a grunt like a tennis player, the PC drove the flat-end of the opener against the Yale lock.
The door didn’t even try to resist. It flew open on first impact, clattering back. The PC stepped aside and Henry strode over the threshold shouting, ‘Police officers.’
The hallway was in darkness. On the right was a closed door leading to the lounge and straight ahead was the kitchen door, the stairs being slightly offset to the left.
For a very brief flash, Henry relived a memory of not too long ago when he had entered a similar hall and had to fight for his life against a man armed with a knife before discovering two murdered cops in the front room.
He shook away the memory, shouted ‘Police officers’ once more, louder, flicked on the light and went to the living room door, which he flung open. He held back from entering as this room too was in total darkness. The light switch was next to the doorjamb. Henry reached in, flicked it on.
The room was empty – as was the kitchen.
Henry told the female PC to stay at the front door while he went to the back door, opened it and beckoned the two cops in from the alley. He gave them the once-over and chose the slightly smaller one to accompany him upstairs.
Leading from the front with his trusty Maglite torch on, Henry went up cautiously, the steps creaky. He stepped on to the landing and tried the lights. They did not work. Looking up, he saw the bulb was missing. There were three doors off the landing, all open, and no lights on in any of the rooms. A quick check of what were two bedrooms and a bathroom found them uninhabited.
‘He definitely came in here … let’s see if there’s a loft and a cellar.’
The entrance to the loft was in the ceiling above the landing and it took only a glance to see that it hadn’t been opened for a long time. The gaps between the frame and the flap had been thickly painted over, probably years before.
‘Cellar?’ Henry said and went back down to the hallway. The cellar door was in the kitchen. Henry opened it slowly and peered down the tight and steep concrete steps ending at another door on the left at their foot. It was closed and obviously led into the cellar under the house. Even from the top step, Henry could see chinks of light around the edge of this ill-fitting door.
He exchanged a glance with all three officers, then a nod. After a quick readjustment of his stab vest, and pinning his warrant card to his chest so it was clearly visible, he took out his baton and flicked it out with a crack like a whip.
‘He’s got to be down here,’ he hissed.
He dipped his head, wondering just how big folk used to be when these houses were built. Must have been midgets, he guessed and began to sidle down the steps and on to the tiny landing at their foot. The cellar door was secured by a latch, which he unhooked, then pushed the door open on hinges that groaned.
‘Police officers,’ he said again loudly.
The cellar was low-ceilinged – probably for the midgets of yesteryear – dank and poorly lit, but he could see across to the wall opposite, where a naked man was manacled and chained. The smell that hit his nostrils was atrocious: a miasma of vomit, urine and shit – and the man across the cellar was covered in all these. He was on his knees, sideways on to Henry, with handcuffed wrists in front of him as though he was praying. A chain hooked through the cuffs was secured to the wall by a metal ring. He turned to Henry, eyes wide, pleading and terrified. A strip of parcel tape was wrapped around his face. Henry heard him try to shout something from behind the tape, a muffled scream, and the man’s head started to bob furiously.
Downie’s latest prisoner and no doubt his current, unwilling, paymaster.
Henry’s first instinct was to go across to the man – but he checked himself and stayed put at the door, a hand holding back the three officers who were behind him, unable to see what he could, eager to move forwards.
Where was Downie?
‘Anthony Downie? This is the police. I’m DCI Christie. Please show yourself now.’
Henry’s voice echoed around the painted brick cellar walls, but he got no response.
The manacled man continued to nod his head frantically and gesture as best he could with his hands.
He was telling Henry where Downie was hiding.
‘Downie – I know you’re in there. You are wanted for murder, so please show yourself.’
Henry’s words were greeted by no response again.
He glanced at the constable on the step behind him. ‘He’s in here, I’m sure,’ he whispered, ‘and knowing him, the first cop through that door gets it.’ He paused. ‘That’ll be me, I guess. If I go down – don’t hesitate with him, do what you have to.’ Henry turned his attention back to the dingy cellar. ‘Downie, I’ll count to three and if you haven’t given yourself up by then, we’ll be coming in mob-handed to get you. One … two …’ He paused again, just to build up the tension because he wanted Downie to believe he’d be charging through that door on three, when in fact he wouldn’t. He was hoping the cheap con would flush him out. ‘Three,’ Henry bawled – but didn’t move.
And it did draw Downie out from the shadows like a huge vampire emerging from hell – but armed with a machete raised menacingly.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ Henry uttered.
The problem for Downie, as it was for Henry, was space, or the lack of it. He was an extra-tall man and the ceiling was low and he could not stand upright, nor slash the machete down the perpendicular from ninety degrees. He had to swing it almost horizontal to the floor and so instead of being able to chop Henry in half from the head down, he had to slice him sideways.
Henry was trapped on the bottom step, unable to move either way, literally one of the tightest situations he’d ever been in.
Downie’s speed increased as he rushed towards Henry, screaming, the machete raised at forty-five degrees in his right hand. If he got it right, timed it right, aimed it right, he would slash the blade across Henry’s chest from his shoulder to his hip. He might well have been wearing a stab vest for protection, but at that moment he felt very vulnerable.
In response, Henry had to time his reaction perfectly, whatever the reaction might be. No decision was made in his head. For a millisecond he was transfixed like an idiot, watching a man he didn’t know, hadn’t even had any sort of interaction with, intending to slice him up like a tuna.
Henry saw his opportunity as Downie whisked back the weapon. He launched himself low and hard, his right shoulder connecting with a crunch into Downie’s lower intestine and driving him back across the cellar.
Henry was not as fit as he could have been, but the technique of a rugby tackle had not completely deserted him even though it was fifteen years since he’d pulled on a jersey in anger. He bowled Downie over on to the concrete floor as his three uniformed colleagues careered in behind him, no hesitations, as instructed. Within a few flurried moments he was pinned to the ground, then disarmed, flipped over on to his front and his wrists cuffed behind him. Henry kneeled triumphantly on his back, the policewoman lay across his legs and the two PCs held his arms down.
Henry breathed heavily and nodded his appreciation at the three officers. ‘Thanks guys – and gal.’
He settled his breathing and thought, One down, two to go.