Bad Cops

by Nick Oldham

  Two arrests were made and one of them easily discounted because he had a broken leg and an ankle tag. The other one, a scrawny male aged twenty from a notorious council estate in Bacup, was detained, but the officers had been told to be slightly cagey about exactly which houses he had been arrested on suspicion of breaking into.

  Rik wanted to talk to him.

  He had been conveyed to Blackburn Police Station, where all detainees from Rossendale were now housed, however inconvenient that might be, the days of prisoners being bunged into cells in their home towns being very much a thing of the past as police stations closed down following budget cuts. He was searched and shown to a cell; when Rik eventually arrived, the prisoner – surname Mullen – was ushered into an interview room, where he was represented by the on-call duty solicitor.

  ‘Bin arrested fer nowt,’ Mullen said after the tape had been switched on and interview formalities completed.

  ‘Not true – you’ve been arrested on suspicion of committing a series of burglaries in Bacup over the last few months,’ Rik told him, keeping his eyes level with the prisoner. ‘Right now, officers are searching your flat, your sister’s flat, your mum’s flat and your best mate’s flat.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Mullen was unimpressed.

  ‘But I’ll be honest,’ Rik said, leaning forwards, ‘I’m really more concerned about the man you murdered last night.’

  That statement seemed to get his attention.

  Rik saw Mullen’s eyes flash and his throat visibly contract.

  ‘In fact, you are now under arrest for murder. You don’t have to …’ Rik began to caution him again, but Mullen broke in.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ He shot up from his folded arm slouch. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Fuck is you broke into a house on Todmorden Road, Bacup last night and killed the man you disturbed in the house, didn’t you?’

  ‘Is this a fucking joke?’

  ‘I’m deadly serious, Mr Mullen. I’m investigating a murder, and you are my prime suspect.’

  Mullen looked desperately at his brief.

  ‘What were you doing between the hours of ten p.m. and six a.m. last night stroke this morning?’

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘Have to do better than that.’

  Mullen twitched. Rik knew he was a drug addict, burgling and then fencing the stolen property to fund a serious habit.

  ‘I think you were breaking into that house, were disturbed and, in a panic, maybe, you killed the guy by whacking him with a wrecking bar, because I know you use a similar tool when you break into houses, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied stubbornly.

  ‘What do you use, then?’

  Mullen looked blankly but challengingly at Rik.

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Mullen; at this moment in time you are right up here’ – Rik gestured with his hand as flat as a blade, reaching high – ‘and it’s looking like you.’

  ‘I don’t use a jemmy. I use a screwdriver. Flat-bladed. Wide.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, let’s start to make some progress,’ Rik said, glad this would not be a protracted process. Deep down, he knew that Mullen probably wasn’t the killer, but he had to be ruled out. A short time later, Mullen started to blab and reveal he had committed two burglaries overnight in Rawtenstall and was nowhere near Bacup. Once he knew this, Rik left the two arresting detectives to continue the interview. This ultimately involved Mullen taking them to an address where he kept his burglary kit, consisting of two flat-bladed screwdrivers, a Maglite torch, a small hand drill and masking tape, plus the property he had stolen overnight. This led to further admissions and the revelation he had burgled over three hundred houses in the valley that year.

  Rik Dean then had a post-mortem to attend.

  ‘How did that go?’ Henry asked Rik, continuing the phone call.

  ‘He was killed by the wrecking bar with a double-claw head, which was still imbedded in his skull. One blow, major trauma, probably died instantly according to the pathologist. You could see the hole in his cranium, all the way through, and the damage to his brain. One hell of a blow. Cold and brutal.’

  ‘And the property stolen from the house? I know you’ve told me, but remind me again.’

  ‘A couple of items from the mantelpiece, figures, an old clock, plus Burnham’s briefcase and laptop. I’ve had house-to-house and search teams in the area all day, but nothing as of yet. It’ll all resume at first light tomorrow.’

  After a few more words, the conversation was over.

  Henry leaned back against the pillows in the soft, wide bed. His painkillers were having some effect. When his phone next rang, it was Alison.

  ‘You’ve been busy chatting.’

  ‘Speaking to Rik and Jerry Tope.’

  ‘About what?’ She knew who both Rik and Jerry were, but she didn’t know that Henry had called in on a murder scene on his way to Central Yorkshire that morning.

  ‘Just stuff,’ he said nebulously.

  ‘I thought I’d phone you again,’ Alison said. ‘Just wanted to hear your voice.’

  Henry glanced at the time, already close to midnight.

  ‘I’ve cleared the pub – no one more drunk than usual.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You settled now?’

  ‘For the night. All alone in a fluffy bed.’

  ‘I should bloody think so.’

  TEN

  Henry and Daniels met on the hotel corridor at eight a.m., the former not quite able to look into her eyes.

  ‘Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t,’ Henry said, and apologized for his remark last night when he thought he’d ended his call to her. She smiled. ‘I’m taking so many drugs that I become delirious sometimes.’

  She held up her hand to stop his blabbering. ‘That’ll do. It was funny and I’m not offended or harassed. I’d have been more hurt if you hadn’t been thinking those thoughts. Breakfast.’

  Henry had woken just before six a.m. One of the perils of living life in the fast lane of a country pub/hotel was that days started early and finished late and his body clock had made the adjustment. He called Alison and had a muzzy conversation with her, after which he rooted out his running gear he’d managed to stash in his small holdall – just a pair of screwed-up shorts, a creased T-shirt and old trainers. No Lycra.

  Outside, it was chilly on the old waterfront. A fine mist hung over the harbour. Steeling himself after stretching carefully to loosen off, he set off for a short trot around the port and city, inhaling the wonderful aroma of the sea deep into his lungs.

  He followed the quayside of the old port, now mainly populated by day-trip cruisers and a few fishing boats. On the quay itself was a vast array of fish-and-chip shops, cafés and amusement arcades, and a few old pubs which would bring in the summer crowds. As he jogged along the river, the tourist area petered out and the landscape became much more industrialized, with berths long enough for container ships, a series of cranes, their tips just visible through the mist, and one medium-sized container vessel alongside the dock, looking empty, maybe waiting to be loaded up with the containers stacked alongside it. Henry hoped its journey would be to somewhere exotic.

  As he ran, keeping the river to his left as he went upstream, there were even more containers stacked up – certainly hundreds of them on areas of flat land. The sight was nowhere near as extensive as big ports like Felixstowe, but still quite impressive.

  He jogged on.

  And then came to the entrance to a large, high-fenced business, a haulier by the name of Tom Salter Ltd.

  Henry stopped, amazed to find this here, so close. He wasn’t sure where it could have been in his imagination, but he wasn’t expecting to be running past the scene of the crime of one of the murders he was reviewing.

  The fence was his height, the double gate locked, secured by chains and padlocks, remnants of police cordon tape flapping in the breeze. He peered through the mesh and saw more stacks of containers
beyond, and a few HGV tractor units and trailers parked neatly, like huge snails awaiting shells to be fitted.

  Beyond them was an industrial unit, ground floor and first floor. The big, corrugated door was high and wide enough to allow the HGVs to drive inside. The first floor was, he presumed, the office in which Salter had been shot to death.

  The scene of the crime.

  Henry took it in, gave the gate a thoughtful rattle, then jogged slowly back through the city – a nice blend of old and new – back to the hotel, where he went straight into the shower and slithered down on to the floor because he was sore and exhausted.

  ‘Yes, breakfast,’ Henry said. They walked down the corridor side by side.

  ‘Did you enjoy your run?’ Daniels asked him.

  ‘How did you know I went for a run?’

  ‘I saw you set off, just as I circled back from mine in the opposite direction.’

  ‘You’ve been for a run?’ Henry was respectfully astounded.

  ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? Just a five-miler. I’m presuming you must’ve done the same, judging by the time you took?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … much the same, I’d estimate,’ Henry fibbed with a white-ish tinge. ‘Just trying to get back to some modicum of fitness, but it’s graft.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  In the dining room, they secured a table at a window overlooking the harbour. Daniels helped herself to what Henry thought looked like very dry and unappetizing cereal with skimmed milk, some fresh fruit and a large glass of orange juice.

  He ordered the full English, a real ventricle slammer.

  The only similarity was that each had a cafetière of strong, fresh coffee.

  Henry brought her up to date with what he had learned from Rik Dean last night, then Daniels asked about the plan for the day ahead.

  He admitted it would consist mainly of winging it.

  Daniels grinned.

  Henry said, ‘What?’

  ‘She was after you. I’d be on my guard,’ she told him.

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘You know, that giraffe-like woman, Runcie. She would’ve had you pinned down if I hadn’t arrived.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I’m a woman. I know how we operate, and she was operating.’ She spooned a mouthful of wheat and oats into her mouth and crunched them. ‘Watch her, Henry … she has an agenda.’

  ‘I’m a big boy.’

  ‘That’s what she’s depending on.’

  Henry tried to look thoughtful as he placed a slice of Cumberland sausage into his mouth. He frowned. There was something in his brain he couldn’t quite seem to access, something unsettling, and it concerned Runcie.

  It was Daniels’ turn to say, ‘What?’

  But he could not rake it out, so he made a bacon sandwich with his toast and ate that instead.

  They left the hotel at exactly 08.42 hours. This fact was transmitted to DCI Runcie from the back of a very old surveillance van, a Ford Transit fitted with a chemical toilet, no aircon and only the most rudimentary ways to keep an eye on a target, such as one-way mirrors fitted in the back doors and false flip-up air vents in the vehicle side panels. Inside, it had two rudimentary wooden benches, one either side of the vehicle, and no other creature comforts. An old-style aerial lead hung down from the roof, so old it was impossible to plug into the new-style police radios used by the two miserable detectives now sitting in the van.

  They had been on the harbour side a couple of hundred yards away from the hotel since five a.m. and had seen both Daniels and Henry set off for their early morning runs, then return. Daniels looked as fit as when she’d set off, but Henry had lumbered back looking as though he was ready to collapse.

  ‘Looks like they’re on their way,’ Hawkswood radioed through to Runcie on the dedicated encrypted radio channel only their little team used.

  Henry and Daniels had walked down the narrow drive leading to the hotel car park at the rear of the building. About a minute later, the old Peugeot stuck out its nose and turned into the traffic that was beginning to build up.

  ‘Received,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Want us to do anything?’ Hawkswood asked. He hoped the answer would be no because Runcie’s insatiable sex drive had completely wasted him. He looked over at Silverthwaite on the bench opposite, looking weary and unpleasant.

  ‘No, just stay out of sight,’ was the order back.

  The Peugeot came towards them and both men crouched low in their seats, even though it was impossible for the occupants of the car to see them.

  ‘Roger that,’ Hawkswood said.

  Daniels found a space in the visitors’ car park at the front of the police station and she and Henry walked into the public enquiry desk and presented themselves. The Public Enquiry Assistant (PEA) had been briefed and told them to take a seat while she called up to the CID Serious Crimes office.

  Henry and Daniels moved away from the desk and stood at the back of the foyer, saying nothing, just watching as the PEA used the internal phone. She finished the call, slid open the toughened glass screen and beckoned to them.

  ‘I’m afraid something’s come up, apparently. I don’t know what, but DCI Runcie has turned out to something. But someone will be down for you shortly.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said stonily. He didn’t like to be kept waiting and Daniels noticed his body language change. He’d assumed his all-business role of being a top cop now and she guessed he would not put up with being messed around. Although he had a reputation for not pulling rank, she knew that, if he did, you were in deep shit.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were still waiting, at which point a stern-faced Henry approached the desk and tapped on the screen. The PEA slid it open and he leaned in, invading the woman’s space. Daniels did not hear what was said, but a look of horror came over the lady’s face and she quickly picked up the phone again.

  Henry pushed himself away from the counter and stalked back to Daniels, who now realized she would not like to get on his wrong side. He could certainly put on the mantle of ‘superintendent’ when he had to. There was a definite core of steel running through him.

  He arched his eyebrows at her.

  A few moments later, the door next to the desk that led through to the innards of the police station opened and a sour-faced man wearing a loose-fitting suit appeared, held open the door and called, ‘Mr Christie?’

  Henry strutted across with Daniels in tow and the man stepped aside and gestured for them both to enter.

  Once inside, Henry turned to the guy, who held his right hand out to shake.

  ‘I’m DC Saul. I’ll be looking after you, boss.’ He spoke directly to Henry, not taking in Daniels at all. She knew already that, to him, she didn’t exist.

  Henry shook his hand and peered at him. ‘Don’t I know you? Weren’t you on a CID course I once lectured to?’

  ‘You have a good memory, boss.’ Saul looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Henry indicated Daniels. ‘This is DC Daniels – and you can shake her hand, too.’

  A look of outrage came to Saul’s craggy face and his lips tightened as he withdrew his hand from Henry’s grip then held it out to her. Daniels took it with a genuine smile and made Saul wince when she clasped his hand with the other and said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He couldn’t extract it quickly enough.

  ‘This way.’ He led them through the station.

  ‘Where’s DCI Runcie?’ Henry asked.

  ‘She’s had to turn out to a job … a suicide, we think, but she went anyway.’ Saul didn’t turn as he spoke.

  Henry grinned at Daniels. ‘What are the circumstances?’

  Henry could see the man’s shoulders tighten. ‘Guy drove over a cliff,’ he said unwillingly.

  He led them through a series of tile-lined corridors, reminding Henry of the old-fashioned swimming baths he used to go to when he was a lad – cream, grey and green tiles. Then they went up some stairs by the entrance up
to the first floor where the CID offices were located. On that level, he took them to a small room with a table in the centre of it, together with four chairs around it. There was a window high on one wall through which Henry could see other high walls, which he presumed belonged to the police station. Essentially, though, there was no natural light, the illumination provided by three long fluorescent tubes hanging on metal frames from the ceiling.

  Lined up in the middle of the table were four loose box files, two marked with the name Tom Salter and two with Mark James Wright. They were murder boxes containing everything connected with the two deaths under review.

  ‘I made sure all the shit’s here for you.’ Saul waved an indifferent hand towards the files. ‘Help yourself, guys.’ He looked deliberately at Daniels on the word ‘guys’. Then he was gone.

  ‘I get the impression we’re not really welcome,’ Henry observed, narrowing his eyes at Daniels. ‘How do you feel about letting me borrow your car?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with it.’ She shuffled the ignition key out of her pocket and lobbed it to him. ‘What’re you thinking?’

  ‘That I might just go and look over DCI Runcie’s shoulder at the job she turned out to. I might be able to chat to her about these two jobs while her mind is slightly distracted. In the meantime, you start with the Salter murder, if you don’t mind staying here?’

  ‘No probs with that.’

  Henry gave her a nod and left the room, finding his way along a corridor to the main CID office, where a couple of shirt-sleeved jacks were working at desks. Across the room was a door marked Serious Crime Team, to which Henry headed.

  It opened out into a large open office with a couple of doors off, one marked DCI. Saul was chatting to a woman at a desk and his head turned rather like the Devil’s, slowly and frighteningly. Henry beamed disarmingly at him.