Free Hidden Witness by Nick Oldham

sinking.
    It was two hours later, two hours spent at the scene of the boy’s murder, ensuring all that could be done was done to secure and preserve evidence. Henry’s second murder scene of the night. The second shooting of the night. Blackpool had its fair share of violence, but two brutal acts of gun crime in one night took the biscuit, and even before Henry knew for certain there was a connection between the two, his gut feelings told him there was. He just knew that post-mortems, forensic and ballistic analyses would confirm his suspicion.
    O’Connell was in the passenger seat alongside him. She had done all she could at the scene, which was now covered and protected, and would later be combed by CSI and Scientific Support teams.
    Henry hadn’t wanted her to come with him, had said he would arrange for her to be driven back to the mortuary, but she insisted. She was coming with him.
    â€˜You know this family?’ she asked.
    Henry nodded. ‘Oh aye,’ he said sourly. He slid his fingers around the door handle.
    â€˜You don’t want me to come with you?’
    â€˜Nothing personal, but not especially.’
    â€˜I may be able to help, be able to offer comfort from a female perspective – maybe.’
    â€˜That,’ he said pointedly, ‘is highly unlikely, but suit yourself, you’ll be in for a treat.’
    He opened the door and climbed out of the car, now hearing the dull thud of music coming from a downstairs room. The rain had abated – slightly – and he steeled himself, getting into the right frame of mind. In terms of murder investigations, the buck stopped well and truly with the SIO in almost every respect. That included the delivery of the initial death message to relatives. It was very much his job, one he would not shirk. The flip side of the coin was that, although he had to tread carefully, be sympathetic, empathetic, firm, caring, supportive and everything else that went with telling someone a loved one had died tragically, he also had to bear in mind that the person he informed, or maybe someone else in the house, could well be the killer. It wasn’t exactly unknown for an SIO to tell the actual murderer about the deed they had just done – which was why the SIO needed to do the task. The reaction from the family could be a vital clue to the whole investigation.
    It was a tricky balancing act.
    Particularly with the Costain family.
    O’Connell joined him and they went to the front door.
    The house was actually two semi’s knocked into one, previously council owned, but now private. They had been big houses to start with – four bedrooms, semi-detached – and now the house was effectively a mini-mansion on a council estate. Henry knew it had been bought for a knock-down price because no one else wanted to buy houses on this estate, one of the most deprived in the country.
    Henry paused at the door and rubbed his eyelids.
    â€˜I sense hesitation,’ O’Connell chirped from behind.
    â€˜You always hesitate before knocking on this door.’ The sound of laughter came from within. The music pounded away, an incessant, never changing beat. Henry raised his knuckles and rapped loudly. No one answered, so he turned his fist sideways and beat the door again, competing with the bass drum. Briefly the music turned down, then reverted to its original volume. Henry then kicked the door, which was flung open moments later by a teenage girl holding a bottle of WKD. She looked wild and unkempt, and was wearing a mini-nightie, had black hair that looked as though it had exploded in ringlets, mascara that made her look like a nocturnal bird and nothing on under the nightwear, leaving nothing to Henry’s imagination.
    â€˜Fuck d’you want?’
    Henry had no idea from which section of the family this girl belonged, but she was definitely a Costain. She had the looks and attitude.
    â€˜I need to speak to a