Bad Cops

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Can I help yuh?’ Saul asked with great effort.

  ‘I want to catch up with DCI Runcie. I realize she’s on a job, so I thought I’d join her.’

  ‘She’s probably busy enough, I’d say,’ Saul answered.

  Henry paused a moment, then crossed over to him and whispered, ‘See me in the corridor please.’

  In the space of a few minutes, Henry Christie had been made to feel very annoyed and unwanted. His skin was beginning to prickle at the back of his neck as he spun away from Saul and walked back out through the CID office into the corridor, feeling the eyes of the detectives on him. He waited a few moments before Saul appeared.

  As Daniels knew, Henry rarely pulled rank. He preferred to use what people skills he possessed to guide others, and the belief that most members of staff really wanted to do their best.

  Plus, any bollockings he did care to dish out always came from him. He never distanced himself from any uncomfortable tellings-off.

  This time, he had a point to make.

  Saul appeared, his expression sullen.

  ‘Let me tell you this, DC Saul. I’m here at the request and with the authority of your chief constable, and although that man is now unfortunately dead, that authority still stands and is reaffirmed by my chief, who is now in charge for the time being. So, though you may not like me being here – and I get the feeling you don’t – here I am, and here I’ll be staying until my job is done.’ Henry paused. ‘Now, into that little mix, I hold the rank of superintendent, and I fucking well expect full, complete and unfettered cooperation from you, your colleagues and DCI Runcie, busy or not. Do I make myself clear, DC Saul?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said unhappily.

  ‘So in that case, this is what I want. I want you to provide DC Daniels with more mugs of tea and bottles of water than she can possibly imbibe; I want you to be nice and kind to her and afford her the respect she merits. She is a very experienced detective, and don’t you forget that. Then I want you to provide me with a CID car, OK? And I want you to tell me exactly where I can find DCI Runcie and give me directions. Got that?’

  Saul nodded.

  ‘So, tell me, what do I want?’

  ‘Refreshment, respect for DC Daniels and a car for you.’

  ‘Oh, and friendliness.’

  ‘And friendliness.’

  Henry returned Daniels’ car key to her then found his allocated car in the police car park at the back of the nick. It was a battered Ford KA, as basic a model as was possible to find, and had all the accoutrements of a CID car down to the fish-and-chip wrappers in the door compartments and an empty can of Red Bull rolling about in the passenger footwell. It also had the aroma of sweaty detectives and ground-in grime – and 102,000 miles on the clock.

  Using the satnav app on his phone, coupled with the directions given to him by Mr Reluctant (Saul), Henry drove out of Portsea north along the coast road, suddenly realizing he was in fact driving along the same stretch of road on which Mark James Wright had been dragged out of his car and stabbed to death in a field. He recalled it from the Google Earth search he’d done previously. He pulled in and called Daniels, asking her to check through Wright’s file to see if he was correct.

  He could hear her riffling through papers as he waited.

  ‘What did you say to DC Saul?’ she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s suddenly as nice as pie. Coffee, bikkies.’

  ‘I told him tea, actually. Does that guy not listen?’

  ‘Well, whatever, a sea change has come over him. He’s almost human.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Ah, here we are …’ Daniels read out the road number and location of Wright’s murder and he thanked her, then realized he had stopped in the exact lay-by in which Wright’s car had been left running, the body found in the adjacent field. Henry climbed out of the KA, leaned on it and surveyed the scene.

  He sniffed, then looked further afield, turning a slow, full circle, seeing how remote the location was, how few vehicles there were on this stretch even at this time of day. Late evening and into the night, he guessed, the place would be deserted. It was literally in the middle of nowhere.

  And, confirming his previous conversation with Daniels, it was a good place for a killing, especially if it had been premeditated, but just as good if not.

  He didn’t spend too much time there. The murder, after all, was months old and there would be little to gain from a re-inspection of the scene, although he wouldn’t necessarily rule it out. He continued following the satnav, which was taking him further north, then sharply east towards very rugged coastline where the road became narrow and winding until he arrived at an area of police activity at the entrance to a wooded track. He found a parking spot for the KA in some bushes so as not to block the road, then walked back to the track, where a marked police car was parked across the opening and a fairly scruffy bobby slouched next to it, looking at his mobile phone. His flat cap was tipped on the back of his head, bus conductor style.

  On seeing Henry, the cop pushed himself reluctantly off the car and raised his eyes from the screen of his phone. ‘You can’t go down there,’ he said, raising a hand.

  Henry produced his warrant card. ‘I’d guess that DCI Runcie is expecting me by now,’ he said.

  The call had been logged at 6.30 a.m. from a farmer out tending livestock on his land that encompassed Salterforth Cliffs. He had spotted a gap in his fencing, through which several of his sheep had already ventured and were precariously negotiating the cliff face with much less finesse than the mountain goats they were clearly trying to emulate.

  He had aimed his ATV towards the break, noticing tyre marks running right across the field from the gate near the woodland to the cliff edge, but he hadn’t really thought much about them. He’d been having problems with youngsters in cars driving on his land for a while now.

  What he hadn’t expected to see was the car at the bottom of the cliffs, smashed to smithereens, and a hand sticking out of the window.

  DCI Runcie had been awake most of the night in her swish waterfront apartment in a block close to the river. It had cost her in excess of half-a-million pounds but she’d blagged that she’d got it at a knockdown price of just over £200,000 because a sale had fallen through and the developer was desperate for a sale. Not true, but she had to keep nosy people away from her business.

  She’d stalked around, vaping and smoking, irritated and not a little concerned by Henry Christie’s arrival.

  From what she’d read about his background, she knew his reviews would be detailed and searching, and that she’d have to prepare herself for some awkward questions.

  Sleep came about five a.m., instantly deep and dreamless, but interrupted by the bonkers ring of her iPhone, jerking her back to wakefulness.

  The car – and the body – had been found at the bottom of the cliffs.

  The further unsettling news of Henry Christie’s imminent arrival at the scene of the ‘suicide’ had, while not totally unexpected, made Runcie glad she had turned out immediately and not left it to some lackey not under her direct control.

  Under normal circumstances, she would have taken her time, but Christie’s presence in town gave her the impetus to get there and start to cover up any problems there might be – such as explaining away two sets of vehicle tracks across the field to the broken fence, one set going over the cliff, one set returning.

  On her way, she called into comms and asked them to urgently turn out a mobile crane operator she knew, thinking that if they got to the cliffs quickly enough, the crane tracks would obliterate any tyre tracks and any requirement to field awkward questions.

  When, at the scene, she took a rather frantic call from Saul about his frosty encounter with Henry and Henry’s decision to turn out, there was no surprise there.

  ‘You just keep an eye on the black bitch. I’ll take care of Henry.’

  Henry walked down the country lane seeing police cars, an am
bulance and a fire engine parked right in the trees, then saw the reason why they’d been shoved to one side. They had been moved to allow a mid-sized low-loader to reverse down and pull up where the lane widened out. There was nothing on the back of the truck and the ramps were down.

  Henry went on to the end of the lane. It widened out slightly and the woods ended where they met a big, wide field.

  He stopped and saw the activity on the far side which he guessed would be the cliffs, as beyond he could see the grey North Sea.

  A small mobile crane on tank-like tracks had obviously been offloaded from the low-loader and was at the cliff edge with its jib jutting out to sea. A gathering of people surrounded it, peering over the edge. Henry could hear lots of shouting in the wind.

  He stopped at the gate, looking at the deep indentations made by the heavy crane tracks across the field and just thought, ‘Hm.’ He contorted past the stone gate post, keeping well off the tracks, and headed towards the activity at the cliff edge.

  ELEVEN

  Daniels had a good eye for detail, as any good detective should have, and she was happy to settle down in the small, strange room with the two murder files in front of her and start to read while making notes on a pad.

  An hour into the first file on Salter’s murder, she realized she hadn’t altered position and found she was stiffening up. She stood up and stretched her arms and legs, then rolled her neck and hips, just to loosen off.

  DC Saul came in, knocking but entering without being beckoned in, at a point where she was halfway through one of her hip rolls. His creepy eyes took her in. Having removed her jacket, her curves were easy to see as her clothing strained against her with the exercise.

  She stopped immediately.

  ‘I thought you might want a break,’ he said. His eyes lingered on her breasts, then ascended slowly up her neck to her face. His expression did not falter, even though he knew she’d clocked his gaze. He did not know that she was not remotely intimidated by him, but she guessed that was how he wanted her to feel. ‘Been at it for a while now, haven’t you, lass?’

  ‘Yeah, could do with a leg stretch.’

  ‘Want me to show you where the dining room is on the top floor? Coffee and snacks always available.’

  ‘Point me in the right direction and I’ll find it.’ She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, then paused to look at him. ‘You were one of the detectives on the Tom Salter murder, weren’t you? You took some witness statements.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did you make of the whole thing?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ she half-shrugged, ‘nobody gets killed like that for no reason, do they?’

  ‘Robbery, maybe. He supposedly had a couple of grand in the office safe. Probably stumbled on some low-life trying to rob it.’

  ‘Still … a strange time for him to be in the office anyway, wasn’t it? Gone midnight.’

  ‘That’s my point of view,’ Saul said abruptly, bringing any further speculation to a dead halt. ‘Dining room.’

  Henry peered over the dangerous cliff face to see members of the local mountain rescue team scaling the rock face and running steel harnesses through and around the body of the car, securing them with hooks and giving the thumbs up to someone also on the cliff edge in a hi-viz jacket, who then thumbed-up the crane operator, who began to lower the hook. This was attached to the harness around the car. It took the weight, and the crane began to haul the vehicle upwards. With the crane jib extended, the operator managed mostly to keep it away from the cliff face, bringing it up slowly and surely, then rotating and depositing the mangled car on the field.

  Henry could see the equally mangled body of a man behind the steering wheel.

  Not a pretty sight.

  Runcie came towards Henry, who had kept his distance while the cops and CSIs worked around the car following instructions given by Runcie. As she approached him, she was deep in conversation on the phone, and Henry caught the last few words just before the mobile crane’s engine revved up, turned 180 degrees where it stood, churning up more ground under its tracks, then commenced its slow journey back across the field to the low-loader.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Henry heard Runcie say into the phone. ‘If you can do it as soon as possible, that would be good … So, yes, shall we say three p.m. at the local mortuary?’ Words were then drowned out by the crane and Runcie ended the call, watching with a scowl on her face as it churned away until it was finally quiet enough to talk.

  ‘You didn’t need to come. I’m a big girl,’ she said sourly. ‘Quite capable.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Henry agreed. ‘I don’t doubt your abilities.’

  ‘And yet, here you are.’

  ‘Thing about me is this: I can’t resist turning out to jobs. It’s in my blood. Why sit reading a dusty old murder file when I can leave someone else to do it and get out to the sharp end?’

  ‘I thought you might be spying on me.’ She was wearing Wellington boots chopped off at the calf and they looked incongruous against her smart trouser suit. ‘That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, but I thought it might be an opportunity to talk.’

  ‘To be fair, I don’t think I’ll have much time,’ she said. ‘The ambulance crew are going to help us, somehow, get this poor, mashed-up guy out of the car and get him to the mortuary. I want to watch all that for evidential continuity, and then I’ll accompany the body to Royal Portsea Infirmary. By that time I might want to have my lunch – I always eat alone – and then it’ll be time for the PM, which I’ve just arranged.’ She held up her phone.

  ‘I’ll stick with you,’ Henry said with a fixed grin, knowing when he was being held at arm’s-length. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been to a post-mortem.’

  Runcie’s chin almost crashed to the grass.

  ‘Look, I do know you’re busy, I get it,’ Henry said.

  ‘Well, then?’

  Henry didn’t take her up on that, but instead asked what this job was all about.

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘Do you know him? The dead man?’

  ‘Pretty sure I do.’

  Henry waited.

  ‘Martin Sowerbutts. He was in police custody yesterday. I was the officer dealing with him.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Suspicion of abducting, raping and murdering four young girls.’

  Henry was taken aback.

  ‘He admitted nothing and we could find nothing but some circumstantial evidence against him, so he was released without charge. It looks like he did do it, and this shows he’s committed suicide in his remorse.’

  ‘Not a great way to go about it. Car over cliff.’

  ‘I’d guess his mind was in turmoil, not thinking straight. Not thinking, full stop.’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ Henry admitted.

  ‘It’s a fact, sir.’

  ‘Not until it’s proven.’

  ‘What exactly are you getting at?’

  Henry turned his head and his eyes followed the churned-up track in the field. ‘Forgive me for saying “bread and butter” here, DCI Runcie, but what is the first thing you should be thinking with something like this, until the evidence shows otherwise?’

  Henry watched a red rash rise up her neck.

  ‘Murder,’ he answered for her. ‘I only hope that, at the very least, the CSI managed to take photographs of this field before that dumb piece of machinery ploughed the shit out of it.’ He paused. ‘I’ll see you at the post-mortem … three p.m. at the infirmary, if I heard correctly?’

  Henry drove back to Portsea police station, calling Jerry Tope on the way to see if he had anything from the searches Henry had asked him to carry out. The detective was evasive and finally admitted that his services had been snaffled by Rik Dean to do the Intel work relating to CC Burnham’s murder in Bacup. Henry chuckled at this, and understood. Tope was the in-demand analyst of the moment and Henry wasn
’t surprised by Rik’s move. He would have done the same. Henry asked him to do it when he found a moment to spare.

  At the station, he found Daniels hard at work in the room provided for them, deep into the Tom Salter murder, making copious notes.

  ‘Boss. How did it go?’

  Henry slumped on a chair. ‘Not impressive.’ He was going to say more when he clamped his jaw shut. ‘Let’s go get a coffee. I’ve noticed a Costa just down the road. Let’s wander out, get a feel for the town.’

  ‘Will this stuff be OK left here?’ Daniels swept her hand at the murder files.

  ‘Let’s tell the delectable DC Saul we’re leaving the room for a while, get him to lock up. I’m sure he’ll have a key.’

  Ten minutes later, they were in the café on the high street. Henry had a medium Americano (he refused to say Medio when ordered) and Daniels had a medium tall and milky latte.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

  She’d brought her notebook with her. It was on the table, but not open. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, then wiped away the line of froth from her top lip.

  ‘Gaps,’ she said, her mouth twisting. ‘Two major ones, I’d say. What exactly was he doing from his last sighting until he was killed? And I can’t find a major analysis of his phone records, which must surely exist somewhere. His property does include a mobile phone. Who did he call, who called him and what was he doing in his office at such a godforsaken hour? None of these things have been answered.’

  Henry listened.

  She said, ‘Like you, I’m not impressed.’

  ‘What about the ballistics on the weapon?’

  Daniels opened her notes for this one. ‘No actual weapon was recovered but he was killed by nine-millimetre bullets, probably from an automatic pistol of some sort. The rifling …’ she looked quizzically at Henry, ‘… I’m not exactly sure what that means – I’m not a firearms buff.’

  ‘It’s the pattern the bullet takes from inside the barrel of the gun as it spins out when it’s fired. They’re a bit like a fingerprint – all vary slightly, even on the same model of weapon.’