the
contents. He had been hoping that there would be something in here
to give him a quick lead, even though there was nothing to suggest
the bag even belonged to the dead girl.
And the contents of the bag were, at first glance, going to be
of no use whatsoever in solving the murder.
A crumpled packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes, three
left in, a plastic throwaway lighter and a syringe with a rusty
needle. Everything soaked in sea-water, the cigarettes being not
much more than tobacco mush.
‘ Fuck,’ said Henry, disappointed, but not completely
surprised.
It would have been nice to have tipped out a driving licence
and passport with her name on and a diary detailing her most recent
acrimonious split with her latest lover who had threatened to kill
her ... but it was not to be.
He tipped the cigarettes out of the packet then carefully
ripped out the gold paper innards. Nothing.
He looked closely at the lighter, flicked the mechanism and
found it worked. It gave him nothing else.
Neither did the syringe. Inside it, though, looked to be the
crystallised remains of some controlled substance.
He turned the bag inside out, finding the black nylon lining
to be ripped, he probed with his fingers into the space between the
lining and the bag. Nichts.
‘ Don’t suppose you found anything else?’ he asked the Support
Unit Sergeant hopefully.
Negative.
Shit.
Despondently Henry picked up the bag again and twirled it
around between his hands. He looked through it once more ... and
saw something. Tucked into the bottom corner of the mirror pocket,
folded several times, was a small piece of paper.
Very easy to miss, he reassured himself.
He pulled it out, holding it tentatively between finger and
thumb, laid it out on the desk. It was sodden, almost to the point
of disintegration.
Using the tip of a ball-point pen he unfolded it, trying not
to tear it. He ended up with a triangular piece of paper which
could have been the corner of a page, possibly a telephone
directory. Some words - thankfully in pencil- were written on the
paper and quite legible. An address - a house number and a street
name, but no town specified.
Henry made the assumption it was Blackpool.
Ten minutes later, together with another detective, he was
pushing his way through the main door of a block of flats in South
Shore, about to do one of the things he most enjoyed doing:
knocking on doors.
It looked a likely place, and although he tried not to
stereotype people, he could well imagine the dead girl to have
lived in such surroundings.
He rapped his knuckles sharply on the first door he came to
and looked around whilst waiting for a reply.
The hallway, which reeked of cat piss, was littered with
uncollected post, milk bottles - empty, unwashed - and a baby
buggy. Oddly enough, no cats were to be seen. Henry glanced over
his shoulder at the tubby Detective Constable who was accompanying
him. ‘See, told you. They all smell the same, these
places.’
The detective, Dave Seymour, nodded. ‘I know, boss.’ He was an
experienced officer with more years on the CID than Henry and only
a couple to go before retirement.
Henry raised his hand to knock again just as the door opened
reluctantly - but only as far as the flimsy security chain allowed.
Henry could easily have put his shoulder to the door and burst
through.
Behind the door stood a thin, pale-faced female holding a
screaming baby to her flat chest. Her eyes were red raw, sunken.
One of them bore the remnants of a nasty-looking green bruise. From
inside the flat came the sound of a TV turned up to a high
volume.
She clocked the two men as detectives straight
away.
‘ What do you want?’ she asked cautiously, appraising
them.
‘ We’re investigating a death,’ Henry told her, having to raise
his voice to compete with the baby-TV combination. ‘Could we have a
word, please? Inside.’ He showed his warrant card.
‘ I don’t know nothin’ an’ I haven’t done nothin’,’ she
contents. He had been hoping that there would be something in here
to give him a quick lead, even though there was nothing to suggest
the bag even belonged to the dead girl.
And the contents of the bag were, at first glance, going to be
of no use whatsoever in solving the murder.
A crumpled packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes, three
left in, a plastic throwaway lighter and a syringe with a rusty
needle. Everything soaked in sea-water, the cigarettes being not
much more than tobacco mush.
‘ Fuck,’ said Henry, disappointed, but not completely
surprised.
It would have been nice to have tipped out a driving licence
and passport with her name on and a diary detailing her most recent
acrimonious split with her latest lover who had threatened to kill
her ... but it was not to be.
He tipped the cigarettes out of the packet then carefully
ripped out the gold paper innards. Nothing.
He looked closely at the lighter, flicked the mechanism and
found it worked. It gave him nothing else.
Neither did the syringe. Inside it, though, looked to be the
crystallised remains of some controlled substance.
He turned the bag inside out, finding the black nylon lining
to be ripped, he probed with his fingers into the space between the
lining and the bag. Nichts.
‘ Don’t suppose you found anything else?’ he asked the Support
Unit Sergeant hopefully.
Negative.
Shit.
Despondently Henry picked up the bag again and twirled it
around between his hands. He looked through it once more ... and
saw something. Tucked into the bottom corner of the mirror pocket,
folded several times, was a small piece of paper.
Very easy to miss, he reassured himself.
He pulled it out, holding it tentatively between finger and
thumb, laid it out on the desk. It was sodden, almost to the point
of disintegration.
Using the tip of a ball-point pen he unfolded it, trying not
to tear it. He ended up with a triangular piece of paper which
could have been the corner of a page, possibly a telephone
directory. Some words - thankfully in pencil- were written on the
paper and quite legible. An address - a house number and a street
name, but no town specified.
Henry made the assumption it was Blackpool.
Ten minutes later, together with another detective, he was
pushing his way through the main door of a block of flats in South
Shore, about to do one of the things he most enjoyed doing:
knocking on doors.
It looked a likely place, and although he tried not to
stereotype people, he could well imagine the dead girl to have
lived in such surroundings.
He rapped his knuckles sharply on the first door he came to
and looked around whilst waiting for a reply.
The hallway, which reeked of cat piss, was littered with
uncollected post, milk bottles - empty, unwashed - and a baby
buggy. Oddly enough, no cats were to be seen. Henry glanced over
his shoulder at the tubby Detective Constable who was accompanying
him. ‘See, told you. They all smell the same, these
places.’
The detective, Dave Seymour, nodded. ‘I know, boss.’ He was an
experienced officer with more years on the CID than Henry and only
a couple to go before retirement.
Henry raised his hand to knock again just as the door opened
reluctantly - but only as far as the flimsy security chain allowed.
Henry could easily have put his shoulder to the door and burst
through.
Behind the door stood a thin, pale-faced female holding a
screaming baby to her flat chest. Her eyes were red raw, sunken.
One of them bore the remnants of a nasty-looking green bruise. From
inside the flat came the sound of a TV turned up to a high
volume.
She clocked the two men as detectives straight
away.
‘ What do you want?’ she asked cautiously, appraising
them.
‘ We’re investigating a death,’ Henry told her, having to raise
his voice to compete with the baby-TV combination. ‘Could we have a
word, please? Inside.’ He showed his warrant card.
‘ I don’t know nothin’ an’ I haven’t done nothin’,’ she
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