Psycho Alley Read Free Page A

first step in ousting him from FMIT by putting him at arms’ length and giving him an investigation to run which he had overheard described as having gone ‘tits up’.
    â€˜Tits up.’ A phrase to conjure with. It had been up to him to reverse the grim way in which the investigation had gone so far, and so far it had not gone well.
    He gripped the steering wheel tightly as his thoughts spiralled around to his boss, Dave Anger, a man who made the phrase ‘intrusive supervision’ look like something a nanny did. Anger was forever on Henry’s shoulder, overseeing everything he was doing, questioning him, making him feel unsettled, making it known that if Henry did not pull the investigation out of the bag, he would be going on a sideways jaunt. He had made it clear that he did not want Henry on FMIT, for reasons that still remained unclear to Henry; what Henry did know was that although he detested Anger with a vengeance, it would take a crowbar to prise him out of the job he loved and was passionate about.
    As Henry cruised along Dock Street, he tried to relax and put these things out of his mind. On reaching the roundabout at which he intended to swing right through town, he stopped at the give-way lines whilst waiting to see what the car coming on to the roundabout from the opposite direction was going to do. At first Henry thought the driver would loop right round, but at the last second, the car carried straight on in the direction Henry had just driven.
    â€˜Thanks for the signal, mate,’ Henry muttered, aiming his best glare of contempt at the man behind the wheel who turned face-on to Henry for the fleeting moment that the two cars were side by side, door by door. The yellow street lighting illuminated the man’s face, very brightly for a flash – just long enough for Henry’s one good eye to go for a ninety-five per cent certainty.
    The man driving the car was none other than the slippery Mr George Uren.
    As the cars passed in the night, separated by maybe four feet, and the man’s head turned away, Henry caught a flick of the ponytail at the back of his head; Uren was known to sport such a haircut. Henry also caught sight of the dark profile of another person in the car, a man sitting low alongside Uren in the front passenger seat. He could not make out any of that man’s features.
    â€˜Shit,’ Henry blurted, a flush of cop-adrenalin gushing into his system. ‘Even with one good eye,’ he congratulated himself.
    He stabbed the accelerator and raced around the roundabout, losing sight of the car for a few seconds. As he drove back up Dock Street, Henry thought he might have lost him. He decided not to race, just cruise easily around – and there he was, stationary at the side of the road, brake lights on, smoke puffing out of the exhaust. Henry sailed past, sneaking a quick sideways look at Uren, who was in deep conversation with the passenger, who remained in shadow. Henry pressed the transmit button on his PR, still on the same exclusive channel as previously.
    â€˜DCI Christie – anyone receiving?’ He would not have been surprised if no one answered. The team would all probably have switched off as soon as he’d stood them down. No one answered. ‘Rory? Jane? Deppo?’ Still no response. Henry cursed silently, annoyed that his radio was inaccessible at the moment inside his jacket and he could have done with changing channels. He swore and drew into the side of the road a hundred metres ahead of Uren’s car. He switched his lights off, kept his foot off the brake pedal and adjusted the rear view mirror so he could observe Uren and partner. They were still chatting. About what, Henry wondered. ‘Anyone receiving?’ he asked hopefully into his PR.
    â€˜Henry? That you?’ It was Jane Roscoe’s dulcet tones. Henry’s face screwed up in frustration. Why did it have to be her? Still, any port in a storm