Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I need to thank you. You saved Gina’s life.’

  ‘How is she?’

  The father blew out his cheeks. ‘OK,’ he said cautiously, ‘but I expect that may change.’

  ‘She’s a brave kid, but she has seen and experienced some bad things. I’m sorry she had to go through it and I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent her getting a battering.’

  ‘The physical scars will heal.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I’ll come and see her soon.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’ He touched Henry’s shoulder, his chin wobbling, then left. Henry sat back, closed his eyes, resting his cup on his knee.

  ‘She’ll be out in a few minutes.’ Henry came to with a start. In front of him now was Karl Donaldson. ‘Don’t fall asleep – you’ll spill. I’ll go and bring the car around.’

  ‘Thanks, Karl.’

  ‘No big deal.’

  ‘Yeah it is – very big deal.’

  ‘Hey, asshole! That’s what friends are for.’ He spun away. Henry watched his departure, as did several google-eyed nurses, including a male one.

  ‘Good-looking bastard,’ Henry said, sotto voce.

  He was now desperately exhausted, but there was still much to do, not least to go and inspect the house and arrange alternative accommodation, two tasks he was dreading. But something else came to mind.

  Henry hobbled through the hospital corridors, suddenly driven, ignoring the pain.

  ‘Bastard, bastard,’ he kept mouthing through gritted teeth.

  He walked, unchallenged, into the intensive care unit, moved from bed to bed until he found the one he was looking for – but he did not find the patient he was looking for.

  He went back to the office at the top of the ward and knocked gently, pushing his tender head through. A nurse glanced up from some forms he was completing. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hello, I’m … er …’ he began, still a little befuddled. ‘Troy Costain … I’m after Troy Costain … he was brought here last evening following an assault. He had surgery?’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘I’m a police officer … and a friend of his.’

  ‘Do you have some ID?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he jerked helplessly. ‘I just want to know how he is.’

  ‘You don’t look like a police officer.’

  ‘It’s been a long night.’

  She considered him thoughtfully, then her eyes softened. She blew a little breath out of her nose. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mr Costain had to be taken urgently to surgery to remove a blood clot from his brain … unfortunately he suffered a heart attack on the operating table and died.’

  Eighteen

  ‘I very much doubt he’ll say a dicky bird.’

  Andrea Makin linked an arm though Henry Christie’s. The two of them were on a three-mile stroll from the front entrance of the headquarters building, through a posh housing estate built on a site which was once an agricultural college, then looping back along a country lane to HQ. Three miles, a distance and route Henry often ran at lunch times from his Special Projects office.

  It was a pleasant, warm day, no breeze. Good walking weather.

  She pulled herself tighter to him and looked up into his face.

  ‘This is non-sexual, by the way.’

  ‘Damn! OK,’ he said, feigning disappointment.

  ‘I can see you love Kate … isn’t it about time you did the honourable thing?’

  ‘We’re pretty comfortable,’ he said, uncomfortably clearing his throat. ‘You were saying about Ingram?’

  ‘He’s still being cared for in hospital, now on a private ward, surrounded by briefs, but guarded by cops. He’s going to live, unfortunately. As soon as he’s well enough, he’ll be in custody.’

  ‘And Mitch?’

  ‘Very much alive, but with a sore head. He’s about to be charged. Your statement, plus the gun, plus the tooth-diamond we found on him, and the drugs, have pretty much sewn him up. He’s in Stratford and once they’ve finished with him, I’ll move in.’

  Henry took a deep breath.

  It was one week later. His physical injuries were still hurting, but improving daily. Mentally he was still a mess, all tangled up. He had taken sick leave and, for the first time in his career, was in no hurry to return to work.

  He’d done what needed to be done in terms of being debriefed and providing statements, even had a session with the police psychologist just to appease the powers that be, in case they got sued later for using an undercover cop who wasn’t fully capable of doing the role. Beyond that, the days had been spent sorting out his private life.

  Kate was a wreck, needing constant reassurance, and his daughters were much the same. He knew he had to be there for them.

  The house had been gutted by the fire and they were now living in a rented house, courtesy of the insurance company. An early estimate to restore the house to its former glory was two hundred grand, give or take.

  ‘You OK, Henry?’

  He screwed up his face and looked at Andrea. He had come in at her request to discuss how things would move forwards.

  ‘If you don’t feel up to it, we can take a rain check.’

  ‘I don’t want to procrastinate, but I do feel like shit.’

  The idea for the walk had come from him. He had thought it might help clear his head and channel his thoughts, but he was still having problems putting everything into a logical, coherent sequence. ‘Let’s see, I went undercover to get information about Ryan Ingram, ended up witnessing a double murder, somehow how had my cover blown, presumably by Troy Costain, got threatened with execution and then shot Ingram. Meanwhile my family home is being torched by a mad man who we cannot find and my ex-wife is almost killed. Then to cap it all, Troy Costain actually died because I got him involved in it. I mean, shit! I screwed up.’

  ‘Hold on!’ She snapped at Henry, swinging him around to face her. ‘You did a brilliant job, Henry. You saved a young girl’s life and you’ve gathered enough evidence to put Ingram and Mitch away for a long time – which was the whole idea.’

  ‘I’ve known Troy since he was a teenager,’ he said simply. ‘I used and abused him and finally got him killed.’

  Andrea’s eyes searched Henry’s expression desperately. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Bad, bad judgement – again,’ Henry spat bitterly. ‘Dave Anger’s going to have a field day with me.’

  ‘You are so wrong. He thinks you did a great job. Begrudgingly, of course. But everyone does, even the chief constable.’

  ‘Fanshaw-Bayley?’

  ‘Yes, he’s right behind you. You’ll be supported every inch of the way, here.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I’m feeling very rocky about this, Andrea. The shit’ll hit the fan. They’ll find out that Troy was my informant – unofficially – for years and that I put him in a dangerous situation.’

  ‘One that he agreed to. He knew the risks, lived by them, died by them … and anyway, we’ve yet to get Ingram to admit to killing him. Could be a tricky one.’

  They reached a particularly pleasant section of the walk, about halfway around, on a path through a wooded area.

  ‘Henry? Just ruminating here … but do you think there’s a connection between who ever it is causing you personal grief and Ingram?’

  ‘I wonder about it constantly, but it doesn’t add up, so I’m sure there isn’t. I’ve been through the reasons before.’ Henry suddenly had a jarring thought: something he had not followed up.

  ‘You’ve just had a brainstorm,’ Andrea said.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it that way, just something I need to do.’

  It was cooler under the trees, the sunshine dappling through the leaf canopy. Lots of insects buzzed, but it was quiet, felt like a million miles away from real life.

  Two HQ joggers on their lunch break came up behind them at an easy pace. Henry and Andrea sidestepped to allow them through.

  ‘Has anything come
from the scene of the fire yet?’ Andrea asked as they resumed their stroll, still linked to him.

  He shook his head. ‘The police in Blackpool have worked hard on it, but nothing’s come yet, other than a foot impression on a flowerbed, the same trainer sole as the one who’d terrorized Kate before, the one I chased.’

  ‘Perhaps this is aimed at Kate?’

  ‘It did cross my mind and we have discussed it, but I don’t think so. She’s led a pretty blameless existence.’

  ‘What an angel,’ Andrea quipped.

  Henry let it ride. ‘Whoever it is, though, has stepped things up a gear and seems determined to cause real harm, death even. She could easily have been killed.’ His voice faded bleakly. ‘It’s just whether or not he’s finished, satisfied with what he’s done – or is there more to come?’

  Two hours later he was in the DI’s office in Blackpool nick, looking across the desk at Rik Dean, an old friend, who, years before, Henry had been instrumental in getting on to the CID. Rik’s subsequent rise from DC to DI had been all his own doing. He was now proving to be a good manager, too. Secretly, Henry was proud of him, thought of him as a protégé.

  ‘As ever, Henry, you look disgusting.’

  ‘You should see the other guys.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘I’ve come for an update.’

  ‘On what in particular?’

  ‘Oh, y’know, the fact that some bastard tried to burn down my house and fry Kate.’

  Henry knew that Rik had taken a personal interest in the investigation. It was being treated as attempted murder and a detective superintendent from FMIT, Henry’s old team, was overseeing the whole thing. The reality, though, was that just two DCs had been put on to it full time, all the resources the force could manage.

  Rik leaned back, but not uncomfortably. ‘Nothing to report, I’m afraid.’

  Henry gave him a blank look. ‘Run that past me again.’

  Rik shook his head, bit his top lip. ‘There’s two good jacks on it,’ he said brightly. ‘Maybe if you came up with a list of names of scrotes that bear you grudges it might help.’

  Henry pretended to belly laugh, holding his sides. ‘Have you investigated the whereabouts of Dave Anger?’ he suggested, then saw Rik’s expression. ‘It could be anyone I’ve dealt with over the last twenty-eight years, mate. They all hate me.’

  ‘How about a list of the favourites?’

  The house they were renting, a four bedroom detached, was on an estate in Kirkham, a town about halfway between Blackpool and Preston. This meant that Henry, on leaving Blackpool Police Station to get home had, more or less, to drive past the estate on which his own fire-damaged house was situated, close to the motorway junction at Marton Circle. A feeling of morbid curiosity made him turn down his cul-de-sac to see how it was all looking.

  It was a strange, unsettling journey, driving along those familiar avenues until he reached his house.

  Then he wished he hadn’t come.

  He parked up and sat looking at the sorry state of it. Now boarded up, the brickwork extensively charred, it looked more like something from a sink council estate. Still on the lawn outside were the remains of all the burned furniture and carpets, dragged out and dumped by the fire service and not yet collected and disposed of a week later.

  ‘Two hundred grand,’ he breathed, but wasn’t sure if that was enough to get the family back there. He knew he didn’t want to return. Kate hadn’t said anything, but he sensed her reluctance. She would never settle again, Henry knew that. The work would take months and months, anyway, so there was adequate time to decide on their future. Sitting there, he could feel his breathing becoming laboured, that tightness across his chest returning with the stress.

  Who? he thought. Who? Who? Who? Dammit!

  Henry was about to slam the car into gear and move off when there was a sharp tap on the driver’s door window. Henry opened it and cricked his face upwards to look at the man standing on the footpath.

  ‘Mr Christie.’ He was an oldish man, mid-seventies, and lived on the edge of the estate in one of the two-bedroomed semis with his invalid wife. The man, Mr Jackson, could often be seen out walking with his dog, a West Highland White terrier that looked about as old as him. The dog was down by his heels now, looking up at Henry, pink tongue lolling.

  ‘Hello, Mr Jackson.’ Henry tried to sound bright.

  ‘This is a very nasty business.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you, it must be scary.’

  ‘It is, but thanks for your words.’ Henry laid his hands on the steering wheel in a gesture that meant, ‘must get on’.

  ‘I was wondering …’ Mr Jackson bent to look in his car, his lined, grey face only inches from Henry’s. The dog jumped up the side of the car, its claws scraping on the metal.

  ‘Wondering what?’ Henry eyed the dog distastefully.

  ‘Why the police haven’t come knocking on my door. They’ve been doing house-to-house, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Why, do you have something for them?’

  ‘Might have … my house, as you know, has to be driven past in order to get on to the estate, or walked past, come to that – unless one uses the public footpath off the main road …’

  Henry suppressed a shimmer of excitement. ‘Would it be worth the police calling?’

  Mr Jackson pouted. ‘Might be.’

  ‘Would it be worth me calling?’

  Jackson nodded. ‘I need to take Trevor for a poo on the back field and I’ll be home in ten minutes. Meet me there.’

  Trevor, the Westie, had had a rather messy poo which meant he had to be placed on a plastic sheet whilst his whole back end was washed off with a flannel, kept just for that purpose, Mr Jackson assured Henry.

  The operation took place in the kitchen, Henry hovering in the hallway, confirming his reasons for never getting a dog.

  ‘He’s got a delicate tum,’ Mr Jackson explained, ‘and therefore shits, mostly, like a flock of sparrows, if you’ll pardon the description. Very runny indeed.’

  Henry went just a little queasy.

  Mr Jackson held up Trevor’s tail and dabbed the flannel on the dirty arse.

  ‘Anyway, one of my hobbies is watching the comings and goings on the estate. I’ve often seen you and Mrs Christie – although I know she’s not your wife – on the way to the Tram and Tower, then on the way back,’ he said dubiously. ‘I also know you owned a blue Ford Mondeo, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But I didn’t immediately pick up, to my chagrin, that you’d exchanged it for that Rover 75 … I’m nosy, but not that nosy.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Mrs Jackson, who Henry knew was bedridden in the front room, coughed and spluttered. Mr Jackson waited a moment before carrying on. ‘And when I put two and two together, I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then I did.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Mr Jackson dried the dog’s bottom on a tea towel, again retained exclusively for the purpose. At least, Henry hoped that, as he was holding a cup of tea in his hand.

  ‘At first I thought you’d passed the car on to a member of your family, but then it didn’t seem to fit.’

  ‘Why?’ seemed the obvious question.

  ‘Because the occupant of the car parked it up on several occasions on the cul-de-sac opposite and walked away from it, towards your house. Then I saw it cruise by on a few occasions, but only after you’d gone out to work, though. Then I saw the man who had been driving it walk past a few times, but I didn’t see the car anywhere. I presumed he had parked it off the estate, somewhere. Then, of course, the car was set on fire outside your house … then your house was burned down.’ He looked at Henry. ‘Coincidence, or what?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Henry sounded tired. ‘I don’t suppose you …?’

  ‘Kept notes? No, I’m not a Neighbourhood Watch person … but I did take some pictures.’

  ‘
Shame, but they’re not much use even blown-up and enhanced. Back of the head, side of the head, no real way of identifying the guy.’ Henry was explaining this to Karl Donaldson that evening as they sat in a pub in the middle of Kirkham. It was Henry’s new local now that he was living in the town and was rather nice, slightly olde worlde with a bit more character than the Tram and Tower. He had almost snatched Mr Jackson’s digital camera from his hand and tear-arsed to the Scientific Support department at HQ, but the journey had been less than fruitful. ‘But at least it gives us something … male, white, five-eight, mid-to-late thirties.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who it is?’

  ‘I’ve stared and stared: nothing.’

  ‘Has Kate looked at them?’

  ‘Yeah, nothing.’ He had shown the photographs to Donaldson, now he gathered them together, slid them back into an envelope.

  Donaldson had been in London for the last few days, immersed in paperwork and visiting the children. There had been no visible thaw in Karen, who had remained aloof, not wanting to talk. He had not pushed her. Now, with the blessing of his boss, he was back in Lancashire for a few days, ostensibly in his FBI liaison role, but really there to link up with Henry and also take time to get himself together.

  ‘Let me put a possibility to you,’ Donaldson said. ‘Supposing that Troy Costain didn’t blab to Ingram …’

  ‘Troy was a tough guy, except when the tables were turned against him, then he was pathetic.’

  ‘I know that, but he was pretty loyal to you in a screwy sort of way, wasn’t he?’

  ‘In a very screwy sort of way.’ Henry took a sip of his Stella.

  ‘But just supposin’ he held out and said nothing to Ingram … no!’ – Donaldson held up a cautioning finger to Henry as he started to protest – ‘If that was the case, who blew your cover?’

  The question stumped Henry. ‘I always assumed—’

  ‘Yeah, and we all know what assumption did.’

  ‘In which case, who did blow me out?’

  ‘What about that guy?’ Donaldson pointed at the envelope containing the photos. ‘What if he knew what you were doing, y’know, working undercover?’