Bad Cops

by Nick Oldham

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Save it for the time being.’

  ‘Towards the end of last year, a security guard was shot once during an armed robbery,’ Runcie said. ‘No one has yet been arrested for this offence and the weapon used hasn’t been found. However, the bullet was analysed – a nine-millimetre round. Did you use this gun and commit that robbery, Mr Milner?’

  ‘No,’ he said confidently.

  ‘OK. Tom Salter was murdered six months ago. The bullets used to kill him came from the same gun used to shoot the guard. Did you murder Tom Salter?’

  ‘No.’ Just as confident.

  Daniels said, ‘No, he didn’t,’ to Henry.

  ‘So you don’t actually know yet if that gun is the one used to shoot the guard and later to kill Mr Salter?’ the solicitor said. ‘Because it hasn’t been to ballistics yet.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Runcie said.

  ‘So why, exactly, are we having this conversation?’

  ‘Because I want to give Mr Milner the chance to come clean and make it easy on us all. He is in very deep as regards to his possession of a Section One firearm as it stands anyway, and I’ll bet, once it has been examined, I will be proved right.’

  Milner said, ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Tell me about the gun, then,’ Runcie insisted.

  ‘The gun has sod all to do with me. My guess is you’re desperate and you’ve planted it.’

  ‘A serious allegation.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Henry said, ‘And I too have a funny feeling that the gun will be linked to those two jobs. What do you say, Diane?’

  ‘Call me a cynic, but yeah.’

  Henry said, ‘You’re a cynic.’

  They listened to the interview as it continued. Runcie and Saul outlined the offences in more detail – times, dates, MOs – but Milner remained passive and confident in his responses. He’d obviously been briefed not to lose his cool, even when the detectives piled on the pressure.

  From Henry’s point of view, Milner’s big problem was the discovery of the gun under the shed. He had no rational explanation for it, other than to claim it had been planted there. This was his weak spot. Unless he could come up with something convincing, he was in big trouble, and from Henry’s reading of his body language as the interview continued, Milner began to realize this, becoming increasingly agitated and aggressive, which wasn’t doing him any favours, especially when he raised a fist in anger and received a stern warning from his solicitor – and from Runcie, who had been verbally prodding and prodding him into reacting.

  Finally, the interview was terminated.

  ‘How reliable is he?’ Henry asked of Daniels.

  ‘Town drunk reliable.’

  ‘Two-pence pieces? Covering the peepholes?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Far-fetched.’ Henry cast his mind back to his walk through the old cell complex at Portsea nick, that veritable warren of corridors and dead ends. Visualizing the peepholes, he guessed they were just a bit bigger than a two-pence piece and maybe that size of coin would just about block any view through them. ‘But possible. You didn’t manage to speak to any of the others?’

  ‘Not so far. I can do if you want.’

  Time had gone on. It was well into the afternoon and Henry and Daniels had driven back to the hotel, claimed a table in the bar and ordered afternoon tea. It seemed a long time since breakfast.

  When it arrived, scones with cream and strawberry jam and tiny sandwiches, Henry did the honours, then sipped his Earl Grey tea and ate while thoughtfully watching the outside world on the quayside.

  As nice as the present situation was – the view, the food, the company – he had a horrible feeling in his gut again. Daniels kept quiet.

  Eventually he said, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I was reaching the same conclusion.’

  ‘Part of me has been ducking and diving away from it,’ Henry disclosed. ‘I don’t like to think that cops can be bad – certainly not in this way. I don’t really want to go down any road I might regret, at least not until I’m certain we’re on the right route, Diane.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  Daniels’ unsaid ‘but’ hovered there.

  Henry smeared clotted cream on the bottom half of a scone and added a dollop of thick jam. He was about to open his mouth wide when his phone rang.

  ‘Henry, where the fuck are you?’

  ‘Taking tiffin – afternoon tea,’ he answered, happy to wind up his chief constable who was on the line.

  ‘Life of Riley … Is Daniels with you?’

  Henry said she was.

  ‘Good. I need to see both of you.’

  ‘We are in Portsea, that’s on the Central Yorkshire coast.’

  ‘And so am I – just visiting my new, if temporary, force. Give me your location, please, and order me what you’re having.’

  Somehow FB managed to find a parking space for his large Jaguar on the quayside. Henry watched him trundle across the road and enter the hotel. His requested afternoon tea was waiting for him. He was thirsty and famished and tucked in with relish and no formalities, only pausing to take a breath when a full scone and half a cup of tea had been devoured.

  ‘I never realized how far it was. Taken me four hours, not including a stop on the way,’ he said. Then, ‘Brief me.’

  Henry and Daniels did so succinctly, and FB’s face turned from simply serious to horrified.

  When they’d finished, he said, ‘Conclusions?’

  ‘As you told me, both Detective Superintendent Culver and Mr Burnham were deeply suspicious of the lack of progress in the two murders and that it could be a symptom of something more serious, though I wish you’d told me that a bit sooner. Anyway, neither man knew what was going on and neither do we, yet. A cover-up, corruption on a big scale or small scale. Could be personal stuff, affairs of the heart, debts, gambling, connections to criminals – but if Culver’s or Burnham’s deaths are connected to all this, someone is pretty desperate, especially if you include all the shit that’s happened to us.’

  ‘Move on it, Henry,’ FB commanded.

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘’Cos I don’t know what the fuck I’m dealing with.’ Henry knew he was one of the few officers of lower rank who could get away with responding like that to FB. Their joint history over almost thirty years gave him that right. But he also knew not to overstep the mark.

  ‘Never stopped you before,’ FB pointed out.

  Daniels laughed. FB glared at her, and she immediately reverted to her professional face.

  ‘I want ducks in a row,’ Henry said. ‘Words on paper, facts recorded, evidence gathered, stuff like that. When I catch my fish I don’t want it wriggling off the hook.’

  ‘You mix metaphors badly.’ FB shook his head. He looked at Daniels. ‘Are you OK after the assault?’

  ‘Fine, boss, thanks.’

  ‘Good. As regards the stop I made on the way over, I did something for you as requested.’ He had come in with his attaché case, which he placed on his lap – it seemed very heavy – flipped the catches and opened it. He handed Daniels a DVD. ‘That’s what you wanted, given to me by a very sheepish guy called Newsham, who had been informed by officers from Central Yorkshire Police, whose names he cannot recall – conveniently – not to hand anything over to either of you because you are both under investigation for corruption.’

  ‘They moved quickly,’ Daniels commented.

  FB nodded. ‘I assume it’s footage of your tyres being slashed. I haven’t looked at it.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I’ll get my laptop,’ Daniels said, and hurried away to her room.

  ‘This force is one big mess,’ FB said to Henry. ‘I’m off to their headquarters at Lowgate next. I have a series of meetings with various key people to see what I can do to save this sorry excuse of a force. I already hea
r the neighbouring ones are lining up for a piece of the pie if it ends up being divvied up or amalgamated.’ He bit another chunk of his scone, getting jam and cream in his moustache.

  Much to Daniels’ surprise, FB had gone by the time she returned with her laptop.

  ‘Something I said?’ she asked, sat down and powered up.

  ‘No, he’s always that rude.’

  She inserted the disc FB had given her and the screen came to life. She made room on the table for the laptop between the cups and plates and angled it so Henry could see, though they had to come together shoulder to shoulder and both were aware of this almost intimate proximity.

  She pressed play and they found themselves watching split-screen images of the car park at the service station.

  They watched a green Peugeot 406 pull in and park, and then themselves get out and walk into the service building.

  The sequence was cut, then a Vauxhall Insignia drove in and parked next to a large motorhome. It had two people on board.

  Henry sat upright and Daniels felt his tension.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know that car – pretty sure I do.’ A Vauxhall Insignia parking at the front of The Tawny Owl as he sat perusing the murder books.

  On screen, the passenger door opened and a man got out and made his way, at a crouch, along a row of parked cars, keeping low until he reached Daniels’ Peugeot, where he squatted down beside it. He wasn’t there long, then he was scurrying back to the Vauxhall and climbing into it. Moments later, it drove away.

  ‘How do you know?’ Daniels asked.

  Then it clicked in Henry’s brain – one of those ‘somethings’ that had been evading him.

  ‘The guys in that car came to The Tawny Owl.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I was sitting outside, watched them pull up and come in. They ate there, for God’s sake, claimed they were agricultural reps. Obviously complete bullshit. Didn’t know cow shit from horse shit. Didn’t have business cards. Didn’t even want to know about selling anything. You know what I thought when I first laid eyes on them – a tall white guy and a shorter, stockier black guy? Cops! And when they walked towards me I was having my first read of the murder books. I closed them but I’m pretty sure the tall, lanky white guy was close enough to read the cover – see the Central Yorkshire crest at the very least.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘No one knew that Burnham had copied the books and no one knew he’d given them to me.’

  ‘Like I said, is that important?’

  Henry looked at Daniels, their faces only inches apart. ‘On my first meeting with Runcie here in the bar, she knew I’d seen the murder books. She shouldn’t have known. Those guys could have told her – must have. They’re the only ones who saw me with the books.’

  ‘You think they’re detectives?’

  Henry turned away, feeling desolate and tired. ‘Yes, I do, and I also think they pushed me down the steps, even though I thought they’d gone. I also think the guy who assaulted you this morning is that guy there.’ He pointed accusingly at the laptop screen.

  ‘You can say black guy, you know.’

  ‘Black guy,’ Henry said. ‘Plus something Rik Dean told me this morning: a white man and a black man seen in a car close to the house in Bacup where Burnham was murdered.’

  ‘What’s the next step, then?’

  Henry looked at her bleakly. ‘Take control of everything, then start arresting people and fuck the consequences.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ she said as Henry’s mobile started to ring, as did Daniels’.

  Being thin on the ground, they had to go their separate ways with a view to reconvening in a couple of hours, all being well.

  Henry walked back to the police station.

  Daniels drove out towards a house she had visited earlier.

  The CID offices were virtually empty, as was the Serious Crime Team office, a situation Henry understood. These were the quiet hours, between five p.m. and seven p.m., when most self-respecting jacks would be out having their tea somewhere.

  Henry wandered through the almost-deserted offices, trying to look disinterested to the couple of detectives who were at their desks, typing away. He almost put his hands in his pockets and whistled.

  ‘Help you, boss?’ one asked.

  ‘Just waiting for DCI Runcie to return.’

  ‘OK, no probs.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know where she is, would you?’

  ‘No, but I could call her if you wanted.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll wait.’

  He continued his mooch, pretending to read the various posters and other notices on the walls, pausing to glance at family photos on desks and the occasional group photos either on walls or in frames on desks. He found Saul’s desk, on which was a photo of the man himself and maybe his wife. Henry looked at it. Next to that was an old class photo from some detective course or other. He picked this up and saw that Saul was on the end of the front row. It was an advanced detective course run at a regional training centre near Harrogate – the course Henry remembered giving a lecture at.

  In the far corner of the room, Henry saw two desks pushed together, each with a plaque on giving the name of the incumbent: DS Silverthwaite on one, DC Hawkswood on the other. Unlike the other desks, these were meticulously tidy and impersonal – no photos of anything or anyone.

  He frowned. He had met very few tidy detectives in his time. Certainly not this tidy, and very few, other than those in the throes of divorce, who didn’t have personal photos on their desktops.

  Silverthwaite and Hawkswood.

  He logged the names.

  Then he made a show of checking his watch and pretending to make a decision. He walked out of the office, mee-mawing to the detective he had spoken to that he would be back.

  He went down to the custody suite, juggling the loose change in his pocket. He had at least one two-pence piece in there.

  It was quiet in here also – again, teatime, when the guests were fed.

  He was pleased to see that the custody sergeant was the same one from earlier. She looked up from the desk and her face fell.

  From the custody records he’d copied, he remembered her name was PS Anna Calder.

  ‘Sarge.’ He greeted her affably.

  ‘Boss. Hello.’ Her voice was guarded.

  ‘I want to see Milner, please.’

  ‘Uh, he’s having his tea.’

  ‘What’s he having?’

  ‘Burger on a bun, chips, mug of tea.’

  ‘In that case, he can come and eat it in the interview room – one without an A/V feed, please. In fact, I’ll tell you what, I’ll go and get him.’ He opened his palm for the cell keys.

  ‘I’m not sure I can let you.’

  Henry leaned over the desk, just enough to be on the brink of intimidation. ‘Yes, you can. Put an entry into the record to that effect and I’ll gladly sign it. Something like, “Detective Superintendent Christie, Lancs Police, requests to speak to the detainee on matters not connected to the present enquiry.” Something along those lines. Keys.’ He waggled his fingers. Reluctantly, she eased the keyring off her belt and gave the keys to him. ‘Cell four, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  If she’d had an Adam’s apple, Henry was sure he would have seen it rise and fall.

  Wearing a thin smile, he left the custody office and entered the cell corridors, firstly going to the wing of cells in which Martin Sowerbutts had been detained.

  He walked slowly past each cell and stopped at an empty one, the door open, ready for the next occupant.

  The cell doors were heavily built and very old fashioned. Even new ones had to be heavy to withstand the constant battering they got from aggrieved inmates, but in this wing of the complex they were Victorian-heavy with a sliding hatch just below eye level and the peephole just above this, a circle of toughened glass set in the thickness of the door. Very basic stuff. Inmates often
stuck toilet roll over them to prevent gaolers looking in.

  And sometimes detectives put two-pence pieces in them to stop inmates looking out.

  Henry got the two-pence coin out of his pocket and held it with his thumb over the glass. It fitted nicely, almost covering the whole area of glass and making it impossible for anyone in the cell to see out. Simple and cost-effective.

  He smiled at his own little joke.

  Then he moved down the corridor to cell number six, currently empty, which Sowerbutts had been in. He stood on the threshold. There was nothing to see: it was basic and clean. There was a bench bed and steel toilet.

  He spent a few moments in contemplation, then turned away and headed towards Milner’s cell, which was in another wing.

  Behind the custody desk, PS Anna Carter watched all of Henry’s movements on the CCTV screen.

  Although she was not certain, she was pretty sure that her legs had just turned to mush.

  SEVENTEEN

  Daniels knocked on the door instead of using the bell. She – like most cops – preferred to knock. Just one of those mini-psychological things, as knocks could be varied from timid to ‘answer the fucking door or I’ll kick it down’.

  This was her mid-range ‘I’m back’ knock.

  She stood back slightly and scanned the front of the house while waiting for an answer, then cast her eyes around this well-heeled cul-de-sac.

  From inside, she heard someone approaching, saw a shape through the frosted glass, then heard a bark and the rush of a dog again. Its nose to the glass.

  ‘This better be good,’ Daniels said to herself as Melissa Phillips yanked the beast away and opened the door a few inches. From the first glance of her face, Daniels could see she had been crying.

  Milner balanced a plastic plate on his lap, his mug of tea on the bench next to him. He’d half-devoured the burger and was putting some chips into his mouth when the cell door opened to reveal Henry Christie beckoning him with a jerk of the head.

  ‘Yeah, right, it’s teatime. I know my rights,’ Milner said.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I don’t even know who the hell you are. I’m presuming some detective or other, so unless my brief is back, which I doubt, no talkee.’