Judgement Call

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Tell you what, let’s start simple. Who was the guy in your flat when the cops called yesterday?’

  ‘There was nobody else in.’

  ‘Wrong answer. Who was he?’

  ‘And to be frank, I’m glad the bitch cop is dead …’

  The thing about FB, Henry thought later, was that he might have been round and overweight, but when he moved, he moved like a striking cobra and he somehow channelled the power of his body mass all the way through to his fist.

  Before Longridge finished his sentence, FB had risen, drawn back his fist and smashed it into the prisoner’s face. A superbly delivered blow, catching the side of his head, twisting it round and knocking him backwards off his chair.

  FB was up and around at him, dragging him up by his shirt front.

  Henry watched in open-mouthed awe – and not a little fear – as FB spoke into Longridge’s face, spittle coming from his mouth. ‘I don’t give a fuck who you are, or what you think you are, Johnny Longridge. To me, you’re just a piece of shit on my shoe, a nothing, but that was a decent girl who lost her life and you are nothing in comparison to her – nothing!’

  He dragged a stunned Longridge back up, picked up his chair and repositioned both of them back down.

  He patted Longridge’s cheek and said, ‘Now we know where we stand, don’t we? Who was in your flat?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘Nobody.’

  Even as he spoke, Henry could see the side of his face swelling redly.

  ‘When the cops knocked, somebody appeared on your balcony and shimmied down the outside of the flats. I watched him, you idiot. Who was it?’

  Longridge cupped the side of his face, rotating his jaw delicately, glaring at FB. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Whichever. You choose.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because whatever you think I am, a blagger or a fence or whatever, I ain’t stupid. I don’t deal in names, not of these people, anyway. They’re fuckin’ nuts. They’re off their heads and they went out to kill. If it hadn’t been a cop, it would’ve been some other poor sod. They’re just glad it was a cop that walked in. Made their day. No guilt there. So knock the living shit out of me if you want, I’m saying nothing.’

  Henry had been writing his words down, more or less as spoken, and he put a full stop to the speech.

  ‘If I tell you, I’m dead. They’re in business, these guys, and they don’t take kindly to people grassing on them.’

  ‘I thought you were the big “I am” in Manchester,’ FB said with unhidden contempt and disbelief.

  ‘Even the mighty fall,’ Longridge admitted.

  ‘Where were you on Tuesday morning?’ FB said. That was the day of the robbery.

  ‘Home. Flat.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘All alone – having a wank, watching porn.’ His eyes hooded over as he looked at FB. Henry looked up from his scribing and in that expression he saw the depth of the man’s criminality and corruption. ‘And just one thing, Mr big-shot Detective, if you touch me again, I’ll come for you. You might be the ruler in this place’ – he gestured with his fingers – ‘but not when you step into the outside world.’ Then he looked at Henry. ‘You can write that down if you want, son, but I’ll deny it and there’s no way I’m going to sign anything.’ His gaze returned slowly to FB, who looked far from intimidated.

  ‘Look forward to it,’ he said. ‘Interview terminated.’

  Henry silently gathered his paperwork together, then they led Longridge back to the cells. At his cell door, he turned on FB.

  ‘You gonna beat me up in the cells, fat man?’

  There was no doubt that Longridge was the bigger, but fitter man.

  In reply, FB punched him very, very hard and accurately in the solar plexus. The wind whooshed out of Longridge as he doubled over. FB propelled him hard into the cell. He staggered backwards and as his knees hit the bench, they gave way and he sat down involuntarily with a thump. His face angled up at FB, bearing a twisted, menacing look.

  FB stepped into the cell, saying, ‘Make yourself scarce,’ to Henry.

  ‘You OK, boss?’

  Breathless, FB lowered himself into the seat next to Henry in the canteen. Henry had made two brews, both with pilfered teabags, milk and sugar. He pushed one of the mugs across to FB, who took it gratefully and had a sip.

  ‘I’m OK.’ He said the words, but really he wasn’t.

  Henry considered him, not entirely sure of what to make of him as a man. As a cop, he knew FB was a ruthless pursuer of criminals, though not necessarily of truth. Henry had a feeling that whilst justice might get done, it was at the expense of truth.

  He could see FB was seething and he suspected that Longridge had suffered that morning not just because a policewoman had been killed but also because FB’s nose had been put out of joint and his ego severely bruised by being replaced as head of a murder investigation he’d thought was his. Henry could see that the kudos that went with heading a successful investigation to catch a cold-blooded gang and the murderer of a policewoman could well lay the foundation of a glittering career as a detective. Being usurped by a headquarters boffin must have rankled.

  ‘You want to talk?’

  FB gave a scornful laugh. ‘About what?’

  ‘About what just happened and why.’

  ‘You a counsellor now?’

  ‘No, but I’m someone who witnessed an unprovoked assault that has possibly put me in a vulnerable position.’

  FB shook his head. ‘He won’t say anything.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it’s all part of the game. He has got some connection to this shite and we’ll never be able to prove it because he’s too far up the food chain, but he’s involved, I’m certain. And he knows that I know. So don’t worry, PC Christie. He only got a slap, anyway – and I thought he was going to assault me, so I got the first thump in. At least that’s what a judge’ll hear if it comes to that.’ FB smiled conspiratorially. ‘Won’t he?’

  Henry said nothing to that. ‘What happened in the cell?’

  ‘We came to an understanding, and that’s all you need to know.’

  Henry sipped his tea. ‘And it had nothing to do with you being sidelined from the murder enquiry?’

  ‘Oh yeah, that as well. A lot. Bastards.’

  ‘Must suck.’

  ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong, I think murders should be run by superintendents, but the guy who’s taken charge is a fast-track arsehole who wouldn’t know a murder scene from a fuckin’ landscape portrait. It’s just grist to his career mill.’

  ‘Just like it would be yours,’ Henry ventured cheekily.

  ‘Difference is, Henry, I want to make a difference. Yeah I want to be a high-ranking career detective, but I want to bring bad men to book, not show off bird shit on my uniform. So, at the moment, they can all just fuck off.’

  Henry nodded. He could see the difference. Just.

  Then he sat back smugly. ‘How would you feel if I could prove a connection between Longridge and the gang?’ Then, as a rider he added, ‘Possibly.’

  FB looked at him curiously.

  ‘And say,’ Henry went on, ‘I could prove that mystical local connection, too? And suppose I knew who Spiderman was – and that Peter Parker is a fully paid-up member of the gang.’

  ‘Hold on, who’s Peter Parker when he’s at home?’

  ‘Spiderman’s real name.’

  FB screwed up his features. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘I think I know who the other guy was in Longridge’s flat, but, but, but,’ Henry gabbled, ‘it doesn’t actually, really prove anything, except to ID the climber and show that he has a local connection.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, the one who you allowed to escape?’

  ‘And who told me he’d already killed one cop.’

  FB dragged Henry into his office. ‘Why didn’t you tell
me this before?’ he bleated.

  ‘Didn’t have time.’

  FB sighed heavily but also looked thoughtful. His flabby jawline tightened as he worked something through, then his expression changed to one of realization, as a penny dropped.

  ‘Bastard,’ he hissed.

  And Henry knew exactly what FB had just concluded – that Vladimir Kaminski was the one playing him, not vice versa as it should have been.

  ‘Run me through it again, just so we’re singing off the same hymn sheet.’

  ‘When I locked Kaminski up for raping Sally Lee, I couldn’t help but notice his tattoos. His skin’s packed with them, but I saw one in particular when I was releasing him back – to reoffend …’ Henry paused for effect. FB gave him a pissed-off, ‘get on with it’, look. ‘I followed him down the corridor and saw one in particular on the back of his neck – a serpent wrapped around an automatic rifle. Just a crap, macho thing, I thought. So, I thought no more of it.’ He shrugged.

  ‘OK,’ FB said.

  ‘But then as I drove Sally back home, I saw Vladimir on Bacup Road … and I’ve only just remembered this, it’s only just clicked. I watched him in my rear-view mirror. He crossed the road to a car that pulled in opposite the bus station. Didn’t think anything of it at the time, even later really, but now I’m certain it was a two-tone brown Rover 3.5. It’s been nagging me … but I only saw it fleetingly in the mirror …

  ‘Next thing all hell breaks loose, the post office in Crawshawbooth is getting hammered and then I’m chasing a two-tone …’

  ‘Brown Rover 3.5,’ FB finished for him.

  ‘It was only after it all finished that I thought there was something familiar about the car, but it only just dawned on me this morning as I was looking through the files and sifting it all through my brain …’

  ‘OK, enough of the thought process,’ FB interrupted rudely. ‘So you’re saying you thought you saw Vlad talking to someone in the getaway car.’

  ‘I think it was the same car. Hands-up, y’know, I can’t be one hundred per cent, but it was a Rover, and the right colour. Just saw it fleetingly but I’ll bet Vlad parked it up for the gang.’

  ‘OK, go on.’

  ‘I’ve also spent a lot of time going through the very few and very shit-quality security tapes from the targeted shops. Something no one else seems to have got a grip of.’

  FB looked slightly shamefaced at this. ‘And?’

  Henry held up one of the tapes that he’d had the foresight to bring with him into the office. He knew FB had a VCR and portable TV in his office.

  ‘May I shove this in?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The equipment was on a small table in the corner of the room. Henry switched the machines on and inserted the tape, which started to run automatically.

  ‘This is from the second shop, up on Haslingden Road, a week before it was robbed.’ Henry stood aside to let FB see the screen. ‘An off licence … and again, I know this doesn’t actually prove anything but watch this.’

  It was the customer at the counter. The shopkeeper turning to get cigarettes. The customer leaning over the counter, checking, the shopkeeper handing over the cigarettes.

  Then the customer glancing up at the camera.

  That customer being Vladimir Kaminski.

  Henry paused the screen, which froze unsteadily, Kaminski’s face still angled up.

  ‘I think he’s been the one choosing and sizing up the targets for the gang.’

  FB remained stone silent. The pulse behind his double chin made it wobble and throb. His watery eyes were focused on the screen.

  ‘That said, it doesn’t prove anything,’ Henry admitted. ‘Just a guy buying fags. But it may have something to do with why he ran from me that morning at Sally’s. He didn’t want to get locked up because he knew the gang were due to strike that morning and he’d probably sorted out where to place the Rover, the second getaway car. He needed to be out and about – and I guess he must have sold you some bullshit, to make sure he walked.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t prove anything,’ FB whispered, his whirring brain-cogs almost audible. ‘Circumstantial and fleeting glimpses of a car that might’ve been the getaway car; him in the shop a week before it was robbed.’ He looked at Henry. ‘What was all this tattoo shit you started to say? Is it relevant?’

  ‘I’ve got throbbing bollocks and a sore face,’ Henry said, ‘and my brain hurts.’

  ‘I know all that.’

  ‘And I know who did it.’ Henry had also brought a folder with him which he opened and removed some sheets of paper from, placing them on FB’s desk. He slid them across the polished surface. ‘Vladimir Kaminski …’

  ‘You’re saying Vlad was, is, Spiderman?’ FB butted in again. ‘The guy from Longridge’s flat? Surely not.’

  Henry tutted and regarded FB with impatience. ‘If I could just finish … When I was on the ground, all alone, facing an escaping and very violent masked felon, armed with a flick knife, I saw his neck at the moment he looked up when you decided to come and help me. I saw his throat and he had a tatt across his Adam’s apple – the exact same one that Vladimir has tattooed across the back of his neck. A snake wrapped around a rifle.’ FB stayed silent this time. ‘So, I did a bit of digging this morning and found that Vlad has a younger brother called Constantine who has a criminal record for assault and robbery according to PNC and who lives in Manchester … but with no current address shown. I spoke to a PNC operator this morning who put his file up and confirmed the tattoo from the descriptives on the computer … and, apparently, this tattoo is the insignia of a criminal gang based in Gdansk, around the shipyards there. A particularly violent bunch, by all accounts.’

  ‘A Polish gang? Then why …?’

  ‘Why are the Kaminskis over here?’ Henry raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They’re both quite young so maybe they were brought over here by desperate parents to get their kids away from organized crime … dunno, just guessing. There are lots of Polish people in this neck of the woods and Russians, too. According to Constantine’s antecedents, which are also on the PNC, the family came over here about four years ago, but there’s nothing more than that, and I don’t need to know. All I know is that they’re here, they’re involved in violent crime and I’m sure they’re connected to the crew that’s terrorizing us and I think Vlad is doing the local legwork.’

  ‘Shit,’ FB said. ‘You’ve been an early bird, Henry.’

  ‘How do you want to play it, boss?’

  FB rubbed his face. ‘Close to the chest. For starters, let’s go and arrest Vlad the Impaler.’

  THIRTEEN

  The estate was quiet as Henry drove FB up into it in one of the unmarked CID cars – a ‘Danny’ as they were called for some reason no one could adequately explain. To Henry it was a shit heap of a Metro, badly looked after and hardly roadworthy. They combed the avenues and alleyways first, just in case Kaminski was out for a stroll, but they saw no one of interest.

  ‘Let’s give Sally a knock,’ FB said.

  Henry nodded and headed towards her house. He thought about parking up some distance away but decided against a sneaky approach. If Kaminski was at the house, he wouldn’t necessarily be aware of the reason why cops were knocking at the front door and seeing FB might possibly work to their advantage and lull him into a false sense of security, although Henry doubted this.

  He parked directly outside.

  ‘If he’s there, two things are likely to happen. He’ll try to run and/or he’ll kick off,’ Henry predicted.

  ‘Good reasons to kick the shite out of him then,’ FB said.

  FB had been seething silently on the short car journey. Henry guessed it was at the way Kaminski had played him. Just as FB didn’t suffer fools gladly, neither did he appreciate being treated as one. Henry further guessed he was plotting a cold revenge on his informant.

  They knocked hard.

  There was some movement from within, but
it was impossible to see what was going on as the door in the window had been panelled over and the letterbox nailed shut since Henry had last visited.

  Eventually it opened.

  The sight that greeted the two cops made them both react with horror.

  It was Sally Lee, dressed in her usual attire, low-cut T-shirt exposing a large proportion of her breasts and her shell-suit bottoms.

  That wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was her battered face.

  Her eyes were swollen, the purple colour reminding Henry of the deep shade often found in chapels of rest. Her right one was virtually closed, just a pus-lined slit, nothing more; her left was a touch wider and it was clear this was the one she was looking through. Her right cheek was also swollen and Henry thought her cheekbone could be cracked. Her lips had been smashed, too. The injuries were similar to the ones she had previously, but they were now much, much worse.

  A wave of rage washed through Henry because as well as being angry at the person who had inflicted these injuries – Kaminski – he was also very pissed off at himself, FB, and the cops in general for letting this happen to her again. Whatever her reputation, she did not deserve this.

  Henry also saw bruising on her neck in the oval shape of thumb prints around her windpipe.

  He could not be certain of what expression she had on her face underneath the veneer of those wounds, but guessed at contempt and resignation.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice grated huskily, but Henry knew it wasn’t sexy-husky. It was that way because she had been half-throttled. He glanced at FB, who was staring at Sally and Henry was wondering if he, too, realized he’d let her down in a very big way.

  ‘Is Vlad in?’ FB said, shaking himself out of his reverie.

  ‘No.’ She peered at Henry through her good eye.

  ‘Did he do this to you?’ Henry indicated her face.

  ‘Who the hell d’you think did?’ she rasped accusingly, still looking at him. ‘Looks like he’s had a go at you, too.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Henry said, suddenly aware of his own bruised face, caused by another member of the Kaminski clan. ‘Can we come in?’