Judgement Call

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Looks like he came in through the window,’ the DC explained. The two detectives glanced at the entry point. In his head, FB was visualizing the MO and what he would have to write on the crime forms he would be submitting.

  ‘Offender(s) approached rear of terraced house used as a women’s refuge during hours of darkness. Scaled wall after first breaking security light, believed with an airgun pellet, and cutting a gap in the security wire. Offender climbed soil pipe and jemmied open a window in order to gain access to the first floor.’

  That’s how it would begin. It would end in tragedy.

  ‘Good climber,’ the DC commented. ‘Not many about these days.’

  ‘Unh,’ FB grunted. He could not stop his teeth from grinding.

  ‘There’s a few who still leave calling cards,’ the DC said, looking down at the shit.

  ‘Yeah, there are,’ FB confirmed.

  ‘So he gets in here, goes into the room …’ The DC’s voice faded.

  ‘Let’s have another look.’

  FB was led along the landing to the second door on the left. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it wider with his fingernail, looking into the horrific tableau beyond.

  A sudden feeling overwhelmed him as he looked at Sally Lee’s body, naked and spread-eagled on the bed. He held it together.

  ‘Battered to death,’ the DC said.

  FB took a step inside.

  ‘Apparently Henry Christie phoned about ten o’clock last night and asked the manageress to check on her. Didn’t her house go up in flames, yesterday evening?’ the DC said, pulling a face. FB nodded. ‘Anyway, Mrs Edge checked and she was fine, watching the box in here, baby asleep in the cot, whisky in hand. This morning the baby was heard crying but no one thought anything of it until the little bugger didn’t shut up, so Mrs Edge checked up, noticed the broken window and the crap on the carpet, then when she couldn’t get an answer at the door, she entered the room with her pass key. Found her, called us, I came.’

  FB moved forwards. Already marked with tape was the route to the bed which anyone entering the scene would have to take from now on. He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice.

  ‘Looks as though she was pinned down and pummelled. Blow after blow after blow,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ll bet he had his hand over her mouth.’ He glanced at the blood splatters all over the bedroom, up the headboard, up the wall, across the carpet. There was a shoeprint in the blood.

  Sally Lee had been pounded to death.

  ‘Where’s the child now?’ FB asked.

  ‘One of the other women’s looking after it. Social services are coming.’

  FB nodded. He looked at Sally, her face pulped and unrecognizable. That feeling almost had him again. But he steadied himself. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Yeah,’ the DC agreed. ‘Who takes a shit and beats a woman to death?’

  ‘Not the same person,’ FB said. ‘Whoever came in through that window let the killer in.’

  ‘Y’reckon?’

  ‘I know so.’ Then under his breath, FB said, ‘Shit,’ again. And again.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Judgement call my arse,’ Henry Christie said bitterly, unable to remove the look of distaste from his face, or the taste from his mouth, even now, two hours after he had eventually finished work that day. It was 10.30pm, only half an hour to go before last orders, and he was hunched over a pint of Stella Artois accompanied by a Bell’s chaser in the pub close to the street where he lived. It was his second pint. The first had gone down too quickly, but this one he was sipping. It was his first chaser but he had yet to taste that. He was in a mood to get drunk and mean, and somewhere at the back of his mind he knew he was bringing something home from work with him he shouldn’t, despite his earlier thoughts on the subject.

  But how could he leave it?

  He was alone at a round brass-topped table. He had phoned Kate earlier and told her he wouldn’t be able to link up with her that evening.

  She sounded hurt.

  He knew he should have cared but at the moment of phoning, and because of being fired up by what was going on all around him, he didn’t. Which he knew was wrong.

  His fingers continually curled into fists, his breath came in short bursts, his thoughts bleak and terrifying.

  The thing that most cut him up was the fact that both of the big events of that day could have been prevented.

  It would not have taken a person of any great intellect to have predicted them.

  Firstly the escape from the court escort was just a very bad incident waiting to happen. Everyone knew it, no one did a damn thing about it … but they would now – now that it was too late. A dangerous criminal had been sprung by an armed gang and a cop had been whacked by a baseball bat.

  He took a sip of his lager. It tasted bitter and unpleasant.

  But at least no one had died. The cop had been hurt. His head was sore and swollen and eight stitches now decorated his half-shaven skull – and the police just looked incompetent. But in the other case …

  … Sally Lee had died.

  Needlessly.

  She had been treated as unimportant. That she didn’t matter. That just because she was a bit of a girl, she had no right to be protected. OK, she was a bit of a girl, making complaints and then withdrawing them, but that was just a symptom of the life she was trapped in – and no one seemed to have seen that, except Henry.

  And her killing could have been avoided.

  Vladimir Kaminski, the prime – and only – suspect, was still free and, Henry thought despairingly, would probably stay that way. He would be well on the run now, Henry guessed … probably all the way back to Poland.

  Henry felt utter shame for having followed orders. He had been told not to take her claim seriously and boot her out of the nick on that first occasion. Following orders. What sort of connotation did those words have? But yet, that was the way of things. Do what you are told to do, even if it’s wrong and you know it. Questioning by subordinates in the cops at that time was stifled. It was the accepted order of things: the bosses knew what was right and their judgement should not be challenged.

  Henry’s only solace was that he had taken some steps to protect Sally, even if it was too little, too late. Ironically he had even mentally patted himself on the back for doing it.

  She was destined to die at the hands of a violent madman.

  ‘Fuck,’ Henry said into his lager.

  In the periphery of his vision he noticed a figure standing close to him. He raised his eyes. It was Steph, the landlady. She smiled sympathetically. ‘Another tough day, I hear.’

  ‘Kinda.’ Henry swallowed and returned a washed-out smile. Steph arched her eyebrows.

  ‘I could soothe your fevered brow,’ she offered.

  Henry considered the proposition. Was it too good to refuse?

  ‘It’s … kind of you … but I’m meeting someone,’ he fibbed.

  ‘Someone special?’

  ‘Extra-special,’ he said firmly and realized he really had reached a major juncture in his life. ‘She’s called Kate, and I’m going to marry her,’ he announced.

  ‘Lucky girl.’ There was a slight trace of disappointment in the words but they were supplemented by a nice, genuine smile. She turned and threaded her way back to the bar.

  ‘Henry, you arsehole,’ he admonished himself, ‘turning that down!’ He took a drink of the beer, but did not finish off the pint, nor even taste its golden companion. He pushed both drinks away, stood up and made for the pub door but came to a sudden standstill at the sight of the bulky figure coming in the opposite direction.

  DI Fanshaw-Bayley.

  They eyed each other malevolently.

  ‘Buy you a drink?’ FB asked cautiously.

  ‘I’d rather you offered me out,’ Henry retorted. ‘Quite fancy punching your lights out.’

  ‘I can understand that – but we need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’ Henry teased seriously. ‘M
e wrecking your career?’

  ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  ‘To what end? Like I said, I’d prefer to screw a broken glass into your face, DI or otherwise.’

  They were face to face, but their voices were not raised. To all intents, they looked like a couple of blokes having a reasonably friendly conversation.

  ‘Let me explain things.’

  ‘What? About judgement calls?’ Henry’s voice did rise. Other customers glanced in their direction. ‘The bigger picture? You know, sometimes the bigger picture leaves the little, unimportant people out of focus, you twat.’

  ‘I’ll let that insult ride, Henry,’ FB said. ‘Siddown, let me buy you a drink.’

  Henry relented and went to sit back at the table he had just vacated. FB eased his way to the bar and returned a short while later with two pints of Stella. He settled his wide backside across the round stool opposite Henry.

  ‘Nice landlady,’ FB commented. Henry merely raised a jaded eyebrow. FB took a sip of his pint as Henry observed him. To be fair, he looked drained, seemed to have lost some of his cocksure edge, maybe because he had discovered that sometimes he made shitty decisions and could be vulnerable. Or maybe he was just tired. ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ FB said. ‘You and me need to sort out this shit.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Look, you’re right, OK? But who could’ve known, eh? Who could’ve predicted she’d end up dead?’

  Henry could not believe his ears. ‘You want an honest answer to that? He regularly beat her up. Then he raped her because she didn’t feel like having sex because she’d just had a kid. Then he beat her up again. Sense a continuum here? Sir?’

  ‘There are two sides to every rape,’ FB said.

  ‘Do you really fucking mean that?’ Henry was flabbergasted.

  ‘Women usually get what they deserve.’

  ‘NO – you’re so fucking wrong. You live in the dark ages, mate. Men don’t have a God-given right to violate women. I’m not saying there isn’t a story to be told, but surely it’s up to us to protect women and put those stories before a court and let a judge decide – not us! Surely.’

  ‘We don’t have time to be messed about,’ FB said, sticking to his guns, ‘by hysterical females.’

  ‘I’m clearly not going to convince you. Y’know, just because it isn’t a stranger abducting and raping a woman or a girl, doesn’t mean to say it’s not just as serious … and if we don’t get our shit together on things like this, we’ll come unstuck in a big way.’ Rant over, Henry took a long pull on his lager, then, wiping his lips, said, ‘Anyway, how come you’re so soft on pond life like Kaminski, your informant – at least before you found out he was twirling you? He must have given you some real good stuff.’

  ‘He got locked up a couple of months back for a town-centre disturbance, head-butted some guy. I talked to him the morning after when he was sobering up, like I do with a lot of prisoners because I’m always after intelligence and information and if it means a trade, then I trade – if it’s worth it. He promised me something good and meaty if I got him out without a charge sheet in his back pocket and he came up with Jack Bowman for loads of burglaries. Obviously knew him and what he was up to through Sally Lee. When you pulled him for raping Sally, he offered me more.’

  Henry’s face remained impassive. ‘What did he offer?’

  ‘Another burglar. Y’know, it’s rife in the valley.’

  ‘And you’re going to make your name by detecting a shed-load of burglaries rather than arresting a rapist?’

  FB did not respond, but the answer was yes.

  ‘He was playing you,’ Henry said. ‘His freedom in return for a phantom burglar while what he really wanted to do was get out because he knew a robbery was going down that day and he was involved somewhere along the line.’ Henry had a thought. ‘Know what? You’ve killed two women now, FB.’

  The colour drained instantly from FB’s tired face and his bottom lip sagged. ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘Kaminski would have been in custody and maybe the gang wouldn’t have hit the shop that Jo walked into.’

  ‘Tenuous … and don’t you dare ever voice that, or I’ll kneecap you for ever,’ FB warned ferociously.

  ‘No smoke without fire,’ Henry said cheekily, enjoying himself in a perverted way. But he realized he could not take it too far. He wasn’t naive enough to think that FB didn’t have friends in high places and that he had the power to crush Henry’s career like a bug under his winkle-pickers. It would be no contest and would be done in a subtle, underhand way. Henry’s aspirations would be poleaxed and he’d be a cop on the beat for the next twenty-six years, though from where he sat in the here and now, it seemed a pretty good career choice.

  Henry also understood FB’s dilemma. A good grass was worth his weight in gold and there was always a trade-off because all informants were in it for selfish reasons – money, revenge, power – not altruistic ones. That was the way it worked. The hope was, it didn’t go wrong – as in this case.

  Henry also knew that if any shit should fly, none of it would splat FB because he was a sneaky reptile and would just claim that he’d been the one to get Sally Lee in the women’s refuge. It wasn’t his fault that the security in the place wasn’t up to much.

  The two men regarded each other.

  Henry had finished teasing.

  ‘Question being – what’s the next step?’ FB said.

  ‘Catch Vlad.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be a simple job. He won’t be hanging around Rossendale if he’s any sense. Been trying to pin the bastard down all day as it is. No luck. But I do have an idea that might be worth exploring.’

  ‘That would be?’

  ‘Well,’ FB drawled, ‘if we ID the burglar who broke into the refuge, we might also find the link to Kaminski and his whereabouts.’

  ‘If we knew who the burglar was, that would be logical.’

  ‘Well,’ FB drawled again. ‘It’s someone who’s good at climbing. Must be a beanpole of a chap. Very experienced. But when he gets into the property, he shits.’

  ‘You’ve been keeping that under wraps,’ Henry accused FB. He had heard the theory that someone else had let Vlad into the women’s refuge to murder Sally, but no names had been bandied about. Nor had it been written down anywhere about the excrement at the point of entry, something else that FB had been holding back. Henry had not even had time to think who it might have been because he’d not been involved in anything connected with Sally’s death, having spent his day dealing with the fallout from the custody break – which had included a visit to the sub-divisional superintendent’s office for a very serious bollocking.

  ‘All day,’ FB admitted.

  ‘It’s Jack Bowman, isn’t it?’

  ‘It fits his MO – as you know.’

  ‘Why would Jack do that to his own sister, or whatever relation he is to her? And why tell me? Why not go after him yourself, cover yourself in glory. That’s your MO.’

  ‘Because …’ FB’s eyes narrowed, then he sighed, ‘Because it’s only right to include you. You deserve a chunk of it.’

  ‘Or is it to buy my silence?’

  ‘That too, obviously.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  FB checked his watch. Henry noticed it was a Rolex, a make of watch he had always coveted and had promised himself he would own one day … he hoped. ‘How drunk are you?’

  ‘Stone-cold sober,’ Henry said.

  ‘No time like the present, then.’

  They climbed into FB’s Jaguar XJS in the car park, Henry’s backside slithering on the leather upholstery. FB fired it up, pumped the accelerator and the engine gave a throaty feline growl.

  ‘Nice motor,’ Henry commented.

  ‘Ta.’ He reversed out of his spot and then motored effortlessly towards Rawtenstall.

  ‘Where we heading?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Might try Sally’s house on the estate. It looks like
she’d been harbouring Jack there so he might’ve sneaked back to get his head down,’ FB suggested. ‘Even though we’ve been in and out of there all day, there’s no one guarding it now. Plus, it’s almost burnt to a cinder, but even so he might see it as safe. From what I know of him, he has nowhere else to crash.’

  FB drove along the quiet roads, then up onto the estate which they cruised around for a couple of minutes. It wasn’t particularly late but there wasn’t much happening. Most Rossendale estates closed for business after the pubs kicked out and there wasn’t always much activity on the streets themselves. It was a time for domestic disputes and often the only people out and about were the ones who couldn’t easily be spotted, such as burglars and thieves.

  They drove past Sally’s house a couple of times. It was a sorry sight, the windows boarded up by the council, black scorch marks fanning up the brickwork above the living-room window. Henry felt very sad.

  There was no obvious activity, so FB parked up a little away, but with a view of the front of the house. He switched off the engine and lights.

  And waited.

  Ten minutes later Henry had sunk low into the comfortable seat and was having major problems keeping his eyelids from slamming shut. The low point came when his chin dipped onto his chest, he started dreaming in very odd, disconnected images, then woke with a start as if he had been prodded. He had – by FB, who had jabbed him in the ribs.

  ‘Wake up.’

  ‘Why? Why?’ Henry said gloopily. For a moment he couldn’t quite work out where he was and tried to recall the dream, but it had gone. Then he realized. ‘You seen something?’

  ‘No – but I do have the house key.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘We could wait inside.’

  ‘What about the car? You wouldn’t want to leave it parked up, would you?’

  ‘When I said “we”, I meant “you”.’

  ‘Ahh. But I don’t have a radio.’

  FB dipped his hand into the driver’s door pocket and came out with a PR that he handed to Henry. ‘Boy scout,’ he said, and also gave him a Yale key and a penlight torch. ‘You might need that – the electric’s off.’