Judgement Call

by Nick Oldham

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  BACKLASH

  SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

  DEAD HEAT

  BIG CITY JACKS

  PSYCHO ALLEY

  CRITICAL THREAT

  CRUNCH TIME

  THE NOTHING JOB

  SEIZURE

  HIDDEN WITNESS

  FACING JUSTICE

  INSTINCT

  FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD

  BAD TIDINGS

  JUDGEMENT CALL

  JUDGEMENT CALL

  A Detective Superintendent Henry Christie Novel

  Nick Oldham

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street New York, N. Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Nick Oldham.

  The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Oldham, Nick, 1956- author.

  Judgement call. – (A Henry Christie mystery; 20)

  1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Police–England–Blackpool–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8333-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-476-8 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To my former partners in the pursuit of crime:

  Dave Briggs (RIP), Ian Carney, Graham Street and Greg Plummer.

  ONE

  1982

  ‘Seriously, I don’t want much,’ Henry Christie mumbled to himself. ‘All I want is a job, one measly deployment … anything’ll do … sheep straying … sheep-rustling … sheep-shagging … a murder, even,’ he said hopefully. ‘Literally anything, please.’

  He was at the wheel of the unmarked dark-blue Mark 1 Vauxhall Cavalier, one of the two crime cars that worked the Rossendale Valley, and he was alone, so no one heard his mutterings. His usual partner in pursuit of crime had reported in sick that morning – from over-indulgence, Henry knew – so twenty-three-year-old PC Henry Christie was out on solo patrol on the steep streets of the valley in one of Lancashire’s far-flung corners. And so far, over two hours into his shift, nothing of great interest had come his way. Unlike in Blackburn, that incredibly busy industrial town a few miles west, where Henry had just had a short and bitter-sweet secondment as a CID aide, which was a place where every cop was run ragged from start of their shift to finish, whatever time of day. Here in the sleepy valley, by comparison, jobs were few and far between – or at least that’s how it seemed to Henry, who champed at the bit for something to get his teeth into.

  And, to add insult to injury, he was back in uniform.

  He’d been cruising the town centre and council estate streets of Rawtenstall and Haslingden, covering the western half of the Rossendale Valley, the side he had been allocated to patrol that day with the call sign Hotel Romeo Seven – ‘HR7’. He’d come on duty at eight o’clock that morning and after having attended a couple of burglaries first thing, other than being roped into the fiasco that was the court run – escorting overnight and remand prisoners from the police station to Rossendale Magistrates’ Court – he’d had nothing. He’d been so bored that he’d randomly pulled two cars and issued the drivers with HORT1s – document ‘producers’ – requiring them to take their driving documents to a police station of their own choice within five days.

  Both drivers had whinged and asked why they’d been stopped and the young PC had snarled, ‘Because I can,’ a claim which in law was totally valid, though not really an excuse to stop/check people because of feeling mean. He had also stopped and checked a prolific valley criminal he’d spotted sauntering innocently along the main shopping street in Rawtenstall, got the man to empty his pockets and patted him down, but found nothing of interest. He did manage to wind the guy up, though, which was quite satisfying.

  And now he found himself in the slipstream of a tatty flat-back Transit van, stacked with scrap household goods, driven by Lancashire rednecks, certain the only way he was going to uncover anything of interest that morning was by self-initiated work.

  The van coughed out plumes of purple diesel exhaust as it dropped down a gear and the whole load on the back shifted dangerously.

  Henry’s right forefinger slid into the key ring dangling just above the side window which was attached by a thin cable running underneath the roof lining to the ‘police-stop’ pop-up sign hinged face down along the back parcel shelf. A not very hi-tech contraption, requiring the driver to pull the key ring (which often, mysteriously, got stuck) and draw the stop sign upright, hook the key ring around the protruding head of a screw that had been driven into the door stanchion, then flick the switch on the dashboard to, hopefully, illuminate the sign, which sometimes didn’t work.

  Henry pulled up the sign, looped the key ring around the screw head. His intention was to overtake the Transit van at an appropriate place, pull it and see what transpired. Vans and lorries carrying scrap were always worth a tug any time of night or day as theft of metal was still rife in the valley.

  He waited for a break in the approaching traffic and eased the nose of the Cavalier out for an overtake … at which moment the half-brick sized Burndept personal radio slung on a harness around his neck, tucked under the front of his tunic, came to life.

  ‘Romeo Seven?’ It was the communications room at Rawtenstall calling him up, using the abbreviated form of his call sign.

  Henry eased off the gas, dropped back, and pressed the transmit button. ‘Receiving.’

  ‘You free to attend a job?’

  He stifled a guffaw at the stupid question. ‘Yes – go ahead.’

  The house was on the largest council estate in Rawtenstall, within walking distance of the town centre. It wasn’t the most notorious est
ate in the valley, though. In fact Henry thought most of the estates in Rossendale were pretty tame in comparison to the ones he had wistfully left behind on his short – and ultimately sour – secondment to the CID in Blackburn.

  He found the address and pulled up outside. It was a well-constructed fifties semi-detached in a fairly pleasant setting on a hillside with great views across to the flat-topped hill that was Musberry Tor, Rossendale’s mini answer to Table Mountain. But the house had a kicked-down garden fence with the gate still standing uselessly, and a debris-strewn garden.

  His mouth twisted sardonically.

  He was four years into his police service and in that time had already visited numerous houses like this one, the stock in trade properties that cops regularly found themselves inside, or trying to enter. Henry was not fatigued by this because he was always curious as to what slice of humanity he might find behind the door.

  He clambered out of the Cavalier and fitted his chequer-banded flat cap that somehow always seemed to tilt backwards on his head like a joke bus conductor’s. He ensured his handcuffs were tucked into his waistband and that his trusty staff – which he’d hit only two people with so far, without much damage – was slotted down the specially sewn-in pocket running down the side of his right thigh, inside his uniform trousers.

  So, fully kitted out and with one tug of the hem of his tunic, he walked up to the front door, which opened on his approach.

  A young woman stood there, dressed in a baggy, low-cut T-shirt, equally loose-fitting shell-suit bottoms, huge fluffy slippers and nothing else. The usual fashion for young ladies of leisure on the estate. They often also sported black eyes – as did this lady. Hers was accompanied by a matching lip, swollen like an inner tube sticking out of a split bicycle tyre.

  ‘Sally Lee?’ Henry asked, feeling a tremor of rage course through him at the sight of her injuries. Already he wanted to arrest the person responsible … the man responsible.

  She nodded and dropped her gaze, a bit shamefaced, Henry thought. She stepped aside, opened the door wider and flicked her fingers for Henry to enter the house. He did, removing his cap. She closed the door behind him then slid ahead and led him into the lounge, which was scattered with baby clothes, empty cups, overflowing ashtrays. There was a big-screen TV in the corner, a monstrosity of a thing, and a Betamax video-cassette player underneath it.

  ‘Sit down if you want.’

  Henry moved aside a grey-hooded parka jacket and found space on a ragged armchair whilst Sally Lee sat on the settee amongst child’s clothing. It was only then that Henry spotted the actual baby, lying camouflaged by the clothes, sleeping soundly, a dummy in its mouth. He couldn’t quite decide what sex it was, but it was very young, a matter of months at most. Henry’s eyes flickered to the woman’s face, assuming she was the mother – but not taking it for granted. Anything was possible on this estate.

  ‘You’ve been assaulted.’ He stated the obvious.

  ‘My boyfriend.’

  ‘And you want to make a complaint about it?’

  Her eyes fell again. ‘Not just about him hitting me,’ she muttered.

  ‘What else?’

  She swallowed. ‘He raped me, too.’ She eased her hand between two cushions in the settee and came out with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. She shuffled one out with a shaky hand, lit it with a throwaway lighter that she then inserted back into the pack.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what happened?’ Henry said softly. ‘Or if you prefer you can speak to a policewoman.’

  ‘You’ll do … I don’t mind … I’ve just had the kid – his kid – four months ago and you know what,’ she said defiantly, ‘I don’t want sex. Don’t feel like it. It hurts. Just don’t want it … but he does … He just got angry with me, knocked seven bells out of me.’ She tilted her head so Henry could see what he’d already seen. Then her eyes did meet his. ‘And he raped me … here, on the baby clothes … in front of the kid, a kid he doesn’t give a monkey’s about, anyway.’

  Henry nodded as she spoke.

  ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do,’ he said, puzzled by the question. He squinted. ‘Look, the best thing would be for you to come down to the nick so we can talk without any interruption. It’ll be better if there’s just you. Is there anyone who could look after the kiddie for you?’

  ‘Aaron? Uh, yeah, suppose so.’ She took a deep drag of the cigarette and exhaled. A cloud of smoke hung listlessly a few inches above the child’s sleeping face. Henry wondered if little Aaron would grow up psychologically damaged with the image of his mother’s rape permanently etched into his little brain, and with ravaged lungs from inhaling someone else’s smoke. The little guy’s future, he thought, was already bleak.

  Henry thought he heard a noise at the back of the house. A click. A scrape. A creak. Maybe a soft footfall. He thought nothing of it.

  ‘Who is your boyfriend?’

  ‘Vladimir Kaminski … you’ll have heard of him.’

  He had. ‘Vlad the Impaler’ was his nickname. He was allegedly the cock of the town, a young man with a fearsome reputation as a very dirty fighter. No doubt he would have been christened the ‘Impaler’ anyway, but there was a certain truth to it. He had once impaled a lad’s hand onto an iron fence post. Henry had yet to come across him, but he knew it would only be a matter of time.

  ‘Real violent bastard, he is,’ Sally confirmed.

  There was another creaking noise from the hallway, a definite sound of movement. This time Henry knew for certain there was someone else in the house. He went still, then turned his face slowly towards the closed living-room door. He saw a shadow move in the gap at floor level.

  He glanced at Sally. The colour had drained from her already pale face, a look of fear in her eyes. He placed a finger across his lips – shhh – and pointed to the door and mouthed, ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Think so,’ she mouthed back, nodding.

  Henry stood up slowly, reaching his full height of six-two. He reached for the leather strap of his staff and looped it around his hand, ready to draw it if necessary.

  Suddenly the door was booted open, clattering back on his hinges, crashing all the way to the wall.

  Henry Christie was approaching his sporting prime. He was broad-shouldered, physically fit, a sports fanatic. He played rugby for Lancashire Constabulary, swam for them too, played squash three times a week, seven-a-side football once. He lifted weights and ate like a horse that loved curries. He was pretty big and handy, his police lifestyle – rotten shifts, fast food, greasy pies, beer and little sleep – not yet having taken a toll on him, and he was proud of his physique.

  However, the man who had just kicked open the door of Sally Lee’s living room, whilst about the same age as Henry, was wider, slightly smaller, but much stronger-looking – and he had a mean disposition that often resulted in violence, whereas Henry was quite mild-mannered and it took a lot to ignite him.

  ‘Vladimir Kaminski?’ Henry said unnecessarily.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ His beady eyes bore into Henry’s.

  ‘Me. My name is PC Christie,’ Henry said evenly, trying to work out how he was going to flatten this muscle man, because even before things had got going he knew it would come to a rough and tumble.

  ‘I don’ give a flying fuck who you is,’ Kaminski spat. His accent was an uncomfortable blend of East Europe and East Lancashire.

  ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of rape and assault. You’re not obliged to say anything …’ Henry began to recite the caution and took a step toward his prisoner to be.

  ‘You come near me, I kill you,’ he warned Henry and pulled his shirt sleeve right up to his bicep to reveal a huge arm with muscles like Popeye’s and an array of interlinking tattoos, instantly making Henry think, ‘Steroids.’ No one got muscles like that legitimately.

  Henry gave him a lopsided ‘Sure you will’ grin. He was no fighter, but his strength was the ability to overpower people
without the need to punch their lights out. But above all, he wasn’t afraid. ‘Like I said, you’re under arrest,’ Henry told him again. He didn’t bother mentioning the ‘easy way/hard way’ option. Everything emanating from this guy screamed, ‘Hard way!’

  So be it.

  Henry wrapped the truncheon strap tightly around his hand as he worked out the best place to whack Kaminski with his rather pathetic light wood stick. At training school he had been taught to go for the upper arm or leg, but he was already thinking, from the bulges under Kaminski’s clothing, this would be useless. It would be like hitting a side of beef. It was going to have to be a head shot, even though the guy’s skull looked pretty dense, too.

  But then Kaminski did the last thing that Henry expected.

  He turned and legged it.

  Still gasping and gulping for breath, Henry repeated the word.

  ‘Rape.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ The bulky station sergeant blinked, took a carefully measured sip from his apparently endless steaming hot mug of tea, adjusted his pince-nez and his slightly bemused focus to examine the young, bedraggled constable standing on the opposite side of the charge-office desk. The PC was breathless, almost to the point of exhaustion. His uniform trousers were ripped, Doc Marten boots sodden, he had lost his clip-on tie somewhere down the line – but to his credit, was still tightly gripping the arm of the prisoner, his prize, who was equally out of breath and knackered.

  To the sergeant, the tale that this little scenario told was obvious.

  During the course of the arrest, the prisoner had done a runner at some juncture (‘juncture’ being one of the sergeant’s favourite words). The constable had given chase (‘Ah, the eagerness of youth,’ the sergeant had thought patronizingly. He had not demeaned himself to run after anyone since the summer of 1962. So undignified, especially in uniform) and the foot pursuit had taken cop and fleeing felon through fields and puddles, maybe a farmyard, and had ended up in a messy rugby tackle and scrum.

  ‘Yes,’ Henry reiterated. ‘I’ve arrested this man on suspicion of rape.’ He drew breath.