by Nick Oldham
‘FB really likes you, y’know?’
‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
‘I think his heart is in the right place. He’s got a lot of plates spinning.’
‘I didn’t know he had a heart.’
She watched him take another drink. She sipped her wine, then licked her lips. ‘How would you feel if an ACPO officer made a pass at you?’
Henry considered the question carefully. ‘I suppose it would depend on whether or not I fancied him.’
She giggled girlishly. Henry grinned. ‘What if it was a female ACPO officer, to be more precise? One living alone in a big rented house not two minutes’ drive from here?’ Henry’s pulse quickened. He took a longer swig of his drink. ‘One, say, on the verge of becoming a grandmother at the ripe old age of forty-four and one who would offer no strings attached, because she needed discretion and could not afford any sort of scandal?’
He drained his glass. ‘I need another. You?’ She swallowed the last mouthful of red wine and held out the glass.
‘A large one,’ she ordered. ‘Think about it while you go to the bar. I’m going to the loo.’
Henry’s weak legs just about managed to carry him as far as the bar, where with a husky voice he ordered and bought the drinks, returning to the seats in the conservatory to find Angela had also returned and let her hair down from her ponytail.
‘Er, lost for words, a bit. I mean, I know it’s all hypothetical and sounds a wonderful set of circumstances and my response would be that I would have to think about that sort of thing very carefully.’ He spoke as if he was responding to a business proposition. ‘In my experience, nothing ever comes without strings attached and I’ve got a very poor track record when dealing with females of the opposite sex. The older I get, the less I get them.’
‘This one’s simple, though. I might be an ACPO officer, but I still have pretty basic urges.’ She leaned forward. ‘This one is desperate for a fuck and nothing else. This one will use you and abuse you and toss you by the wayside after literally sucking you dry.’ She licked her lips and looked seductively at him. ‘And she wants to fuck you.’
Despite his good intentions towards Kate, there was a strong stirring in him which equated with weakness of the flesh.
‘I would have to enter such a’ – here, he shook his head, trying to find the right words – ‘relationship, I suppose, with eyes wide open and ground rules set.’
‘That would be acceptable.’
‘Although I do find it amazing that an officer of ACPO rank could even contemplate such a thing.’
‘Let me tell you, Henry, they’re at it like knives the country over.’
‘It’s a bit like imagining your parents having sex.’ He screwed up his face.
‘Even ACPO officers are flesh and blood.’ Then she added provocatively, ‘All I could think of during last week’s debrief was me and you, at it like knives.’
‘I won’t push it, Henry,’ Angela said, ‘and I won’t hold it against you if you’re not interested, but there is one thing I’d like you to think about …’
It was 8.30 p.m., way past Henry’s bedtime. He and Angela had finished their drinks and were on the car park to the side of the Anchor, standing by the open driver’s door of her Mercedes. She turned to him, standing only inches away, face turned up, and he didn’t have to be told that this was the point where they kissed.
‘Tonight probably isn’t appropriate,’ she said. ‘We’re both exhausted and we need clear heads for tomorrow, which’ll probably be an equally busy day, but …’ She didn’t need to say another word, because they instinctively came together and kissed. Their lips mashed together, their tongues sliding into each other’s mouths. Henry could feel her body through her T-shirt and his immediate hardness pressed against her. They broke apart, gasping for air, looking longingly at one another, Angela’s eyes moist with passion. ‘Just a taster,’ she said, ‘and believe me, I taste good.’
With that she pushed him gently away and slid into her car, closing the door and driving away, leaving him, as planned, wanting more.
He stood there until his manhood subsided, drawing a strange look from a couple walking towards the pub. The blood took for ever to drain away.
He sat in his car with the engine idling for a while. On the passenger seat was a slip of paper Angela had pushed into his hand which bore her address, mobile and home phone numbers. There was a big ‘X’ underneath. He picked it up and read it. He knew the road she lived on, just a matter of half a mile away. But he blew out his cheeks and dropped the paper on to the seat and set off down the dual carriageway towards Preston and, ultimately, home.
Henry knew his weakness and had major problems controlling it. And it was particularly tempting to be offered no strings attached sex by a woman who could not afford to get caught out because of her high-profile career.
God, why can’t I change my spots? he agonized internally. He was seriously working out whether he could juggle it when his brain suddenly cleared and remembered how recently it was that he and Kate had made fantastic love and he had said all those things to her and here he was, considering embarking on an affair, or at least a one-night stand, with another woman. Which then spun his thoughts into those dangerous areas of justification … Well, I’m not married, I’m not engaged, so technically I’m a free man; Angela’s free, too, so on the face of it I could screw her without any feelings of guilt … Except nothing was ever so easy … and he knew he had caused so much grief to Kate and the girls over the years and yet they still loved him … and what if Angela turned out to be a less stable character than she appeared?
He headed down Penwortham Hill and bore left over the flyover which spanned the River Ribble to the south of Preston. Then he drove down by the docks and picked up the Blackpool Road.
When his heartbeat settled back to normal, he slotted a Stones CD into the player, one he had burned himself, and relaxed as the opening chords of ‘Streets of Love’ filled the air and Jagger began to croon about unrequited love. The dual carriageway out of Preston continued past the docks and inclined upwards through Lea. Henry was not in a rush, his main aim being to stay awake and make it home in one piece. He stuck to the speed limit as he passed the Lea Gate pub on his right and approached the traffic lights at Three Nooks, intending to go straight on.
He attempted to erase the memory of the kiss, not entirely successfully, and thought fleetingly about the last woman he’d almost had a fling with. He recalled how he had got her so drunk that she wasn’t physically capable of sleeping with him. That action itself was a turn up for the books, a turning point in his life maybe. The ‘new’ and faithful Henry Christie. Or possibly the ‘old and getting past it’ Henry. The Henry who only wanted a plasma-screen TV and a quiet life. He had actually ordered the plasma and maybe the same was true of his life: it was on order, expected to be delivered at any time, but meanwhile he had to make do with what he had.
The lights were on red. He stretched, yawned and skipped the next two tracks on the CD and found, ‘Tell Me’, one of the first songs the Stones had ever written and recorded. He always thought it was a lovely song, written when Jagger and Richards were just testing their wings.
As the amber lights appeared, he moved off reasonably slowly, now thinking about Eddie Daley and the fact that Eddie’s mobile phone had not been found. He’d taken it out with him when he’d gone to the office, so it stood to reason that the killer had stolen it. And was there anything else missing that should have been there? Something continued to bang away at Henry’s brain.
His mobile phone rang. ‘Yeah?’
‘Henry, it’s me, Angela.’
‘Deputy Chief Constable Angela?’
‘How many Angelas do you know?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
He was driving with his mobile cradled to his ear by his right shoulder. Totally illegal, but still with both hands on the wheel.
‘The kiss was nice.’
‘No pressure, honestly.’
‘Cheers, goodnight, boss … see you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, bye,’ she said throatily.
Henry tossed the mobile phone on to the passenger seat and, not for the first time, cursed the device. How did life go on before they existed? Sometimes that more simple life was hard to bring back to mind.
A few minutes later he drew up on the drive outside his house in Blackpool. He climbed jadedly out of the car and walked to the front door and stepped inside to the warmth and welcome. He relaxed as Kate appeared in the hall, already in her dressing gown, looking ravishing and more beautiful than ever.
‘Long time, no see,’ she said with a grin. She gave him a tender hug, then pushed him away, screwing up her nose. ‘This is nothing personal, darling, but I think you need a bath.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Then some decent food, a bit of a chill and a good night’s sleep. Again, nothing personal, but you looked wrecked and uptight.’
‘Spot on.’
‘You do the bath side of things and I’ll put something together for you and bring up a glass of JD for the bath. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds good. Are the girls in?’
‘Yeah – in their rooms. Dying to see you.’
The tension drained from him as he exhaled. ‘It’s been a helluva day.’
He placed one foot on the first stair tread, the bath beckoning him with the prospect of hot water, Radox bubbles and wrinkly skin. He never got to the second step because the blight of his life intruded once more. The mobile phone which, even with its ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ ring tone, pissed him off severely, blaring from out of his jacket pocket.
He wished he’d left it in the car.
He fished it out, was relieved to see it wasn’t the deputy chief calling – unless she had withheld her number. He answered it.
‘Henry—’ he started to say, but before he could utter ‘Christie’, a woman’s voice cut in coolly.
‘It’s me, Jackie Kippax …’ He opened his mouth to say something, but she continued, ‘I’ve caught Eddie’s murderer for you.’
‘What?’
He heard her take a breath. ‘He’s right here in front of me …’
Henry heard a male voice say, ‘You got it wrong, lady.’
Jackie said, ‘Shut it, you fucker … Henry, I’m sat right opposite him now and I’m going to do exactly what he did to Eddie.’ She screamed out the last few words, ‘And blow his fuckin’ brains out!’
There was the sound of scuffling. Then a clatter, a scream and a loud gunshot – and suddenly the phone went dead in his hand.
Nine
Contacting the police these days could be a nightmare. Henry had heard some real horror stories about members of the public trying to phone in and either just never getting an answer or being passed from pillar to post with no one willing to take responsibility. One story, which might have been exaggerated over time, was that of an old-aged pensioner wanting to report a burglary at her house in Blackburn. Instead of phoning treble-nine – because she didn’t want to cause any bother – she phoned the number of her local nick. The phone rang and she waited for a reply. And waited. Ten minutes later, still no reply. She hung up and patiently tried again … and waited … then was relieved when a recorded message cut in and told her no one was available, but that her call was being forwarded and she was very important. The phone continued to ring out until another recorded message forwarded her on again … and again … until one hour later, the phone was answered – by a gruff, no-nonsense detective in Skelmersdale who told her she had the wrong number, try again, and hung up. She got through six days after the burglary, by which time she’d been done again.
Fortunately for Henry Christie, he could cut through all that crap. Even he, as a fully paid up member of the constabulary, often had problems making contact with people because no one seemed to want to answer their phones, preferring the non-confrontation of voicemail which meant that the recipient could decide when and if they should respond, and always did so at their leisure. Henry almost hated voicemail as much as mobile phones.
He had the direct, emergency number of the force incident manager, who was basically the boss of the Control Room at headquarters – and that night he used it, but even then it was not easy to get his message across.
‘No, I don’t know where she was calling from,’ Henry jabbered down his mobile whilst reversing out of the drive. With a squeal of tyres and a quick wave to Kate on the doorstep, he accelerated off the estate.
‘So, er, what exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Get someone round to her address for a start?’ he suggested.
‘In Blackburn?’
‘Yes, in Blackburn.’
‘What was the address again?’
‘Jesus – don’t you listen?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to take that sort of tone with me, sir,’ the affronted FIM said. He was an inspector Henry did not know and guessed was fairly new to the job.
‘Look – sorry, OK … but there’s a pretty serious incident happening somewhere and I know this is all pretty vague, but we need to get patrols to her flat and for others to be made aware that something’s going down … the ARV crew need to be put on alert, too … authorize them to arm, please.’
‘On the strength of an iffy phone call?’
‘Just do it, OK? It’s a precautionary measure.’
‘Your name’s on the log.’
‘Whatever.’ Fucking jobsworth, Henry thought as he sped towards the motorway junction at Marton Circle. He was travelling through a forty zone and as he passed a speed camera he was doing sixty – and it flashed. The least of his problems, he thought, knowing he could get it written off under the circumstances.
‘Have you got your PR with you?’ the FIM asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Tune into Blackburn’s channel, will you?’
‘Will do.’
Henry hit the motorway at ninety whilst at the same time reaching across to the glove compartment to fish out his PR, which had been stuffed in there, hardly used since his transfer to a desk job. Somehow, he didn’t seem to need it all that often in the office. He switched it on, praying there was some charge left in the battery. There was, and as he reached a hundred, he was fumbling with the channel selector to find Blackburn’s wavelength. Once he’d done this, he helped himself to one of the cheese, ham and piccalilli sandwiches Kate had rustled up for him and stuffed into his sweaty mits as he ran out of the house, still unwashed. He devoured the food and felt an immediate benefit to his system.
As he drove, he listened to the deployments initiated by the FIM though actually carried out by a radio operator from Blackburn comms. Two patrols were sent up to the Kippax address, blue lighting it. Other patrols were asked to make to the area in readiness for something untoward happening and the ARV crew covering the division were given the authority to covertly arm. It is a fairly widely held belief that mobile firearms officers patrol with their weapons on their persons. In fact, their guns are secured in a safe in their vehicle, which they can only unlock in certain tightly controlled and authorized circumstances.
Henry’s mobile rang.
‘What’s going on?’ It was Angela Cranlow. He was going to ring her personally once he’d finished his snack, but the FIM had beaten him to it. With a mouthful of sandwich, which he tried to swallow as he talked, Henry briefed her.
‘And that’s it? Not much to go on.’
‘I agree.’
‘Could it be a wind up? Just to annoy you?’
‘She sounded genuine enough … definitely needs bottoming, though. Even if she’s just pissed up and drowning her sorrows and maybe got hold of a gun.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I take it you’re on the way?’
‘Yep. Are you turning out?’ Henry asked.
‘Would you
like me too?’
‘That’s not the issue.’
‘In that case, no … keep me updated and it might be that you have to personally debrief me after.’
Henry’s heart sank. How the hell did he get himself into such predicaments? He shocked and amazed himself sometimes … most times. His phone beeped, indicating there was another incoming call.
‘Speak soon, boss, got another call.’ He thumbed to it and saw it was from a withheld number. ‘Hello, Henry Christie …’ There was nothing, just a rustling sound as though the other phone was in someone’s pocket. ‘Hello?’ he said hopefully. Still nothing. He glowered at his phone as though it was offending him, then put it back to his ear and lodged it on to his right shoulder, realizing he should have plugged it into the hands-free. At one hundred miles per hour, that would have been the safer option. Then the phone went dead. He looked at it again, this time in frustration, then concentrated on the transmissions from his PR.
‘Echo Romeo Seven, just arrived at the address.’ That, Henry knew from the call sign, meant that the ARV had arrived at Jackie Kippax’s flat, the first patrol to get there. The comms operator acknowledged him and Henry waited impatiently, nervously, for any developments, although he doubted whether Jackie would be there.
‘Echo Romeo Seven to Blackburn,’ the ARV chirped up after a few minutes.
‘Go ahead.’
‘No reply at the flat and it’s all in darkness. Any further instructions?’
‘Standby … DCI Christie, are you receiving?’
‘Receiving,’ Henry said.
‘Did you hear Echo Romeo Seven’s transmission?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything further for him?’
Henry cogitated for a moment. ‘Just tell him to hang fire there, will you – or at least in the vicinity of the flat. I’m, about fifteen minutes away, just on the M65 now.’
‘Echo Romeo Seven, I received that.’
‘Blackburn to DCI Christie – what about the other patrols? Can I stand them down? I’ve got a lot of jobs outstanding which need to be allocated.’