by Nick Oldham
Henry went along with this psychological game for a few moments until he could stand it no longer.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Uh?’ FB still didn’t bother to raise his eyes.
‘I said what’s going on?’
Then he did look up, a pained expression on his face at the interruption to his thought process. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked innocently.
‘All this.’ Henry gestured.
‘All what?’ FB continued to play dumb.
‘You told me to come in at nine.’
‘And you’re here, aren’t you?’
‘And you’ve kicked everything off without me, or so it seems.’
‘Yeah – I’ve kick-started a large police operation intended to round up some big villains,’ FB said, matter-of-factly.
‘What about the info about the robbery at the building society?’
‘I decided to disrupt and arrest, rather than take the chance of getting an innocent bystander injured in the crossfire.’
Henry blinked and swallowed drily, his bubble bursting spectacularly. ‘And my part in this is …?’
FB held his gaze. ‘You don’t have a part.’ He collected up some papers and rose from the desk. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me, I have an operation to coordinate.’
Lost for words, Henry watched him disappear through the door. But then something galvanized him. He caught up to FB as he entered his office. Henry framed himself in the doorway.
‘How can you do this?’ he demanded.
FB sat at his desk and coolly gestured for Henry to come in, close the door.
‘Sit.’
Henry sat slowly.
‘You gotta learn some moves in this job, Henry. I’m now back running the investigation into Jo’s murder, where I should be.’
‘How have you pulled that off?’
‘You know the sportsman who stays behind, practising when the rest of the team goes home, the one who wants to be the best? Or the swot who stays up till all hours because he wants the best grades? Well, that’s me. I work hard. I stay at work longer. I lobby. I forge meaningful relationships, so that when all the others have tootled off home, I’m the one still at the grindstone. And that’s what I did after you went this morning. You know – when you went to bed? I stayed here and picked up the phone and that’s how you get on. And suddenly that completely useless detective super is binned and I’m back in charge.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Henry whined. He knew it sounded pathetic.
‘On what? Do you carry a phone around with you, or something? No, because such things don’t exist … and because …’
‘Because you want all the glory for yourself?’
‘Something like that,’ FB admitted with a proud pout.
‘You used me. Everything I put together, you nicked. Just to feather your own nest.’
FB guffawed. ‘Team effort, Henry. No “I” in team and all that shite. Within half an hour of bending the ACC Crime’s ear, I had it all sorted. GMP and us, hitting eight addresses as we speak, rounding up all the usual arseholes and preventing a robbery and probably arresting Jo’s killer in the process, and hopefully Sally Lee’s, too. And a high-profile operation around the valley to discourage any possible robbery – just in case.’ He sounded smug. He gave Henry a half-smile and a wink. ‘Man up and look upon it as a learning process.’
‘Well, at least I’ve learned what FB really stands for.’
‘You be very careful about what you say, Henry.’
EIGHTEEN
Henry rejected the offer of getting changed into uniform, putting on his big hat and patrolling the town centre, the only role that FB could come up with for him. Instead he retreated into the shell that was paperwork. Deflated, he didn’t even bother to book out a PR because he didn’t even want to hear if anything was happening. He went to his tray and found that another Crown Court committal file had appeared and needed some attention, made a mug of tea then found a quiet corner in the report-writing room and sat down granite-faced at a desk and began leafing through the file. At the back of his mind he tried to work out what had just happened and how he could bounce back from it.
He was gutted.
He had worked hard, produced results, and then been sidelined.
He would not have minded so much if FB had simply called him in and made him an integral part of what he had decided would happen. But no. FB had used the information that they had unearthed together – with Henry having done most of the digging – and applied it to his own career.
Henry gave a short laugh, mainly at himself. A lesson well learned, he thought. The price of an education.
And although that lesson might be ‘screw others’, Henry wasn’t prepared to do that. It wasn’t in his nature.
He began to work on the file.
At noon he had boxed off the paperwork. He leaned back and stretched. There was other stuff to do and he decided to do it after grabbing some lunch. He piled it all together and walked into the sergeant’s office, where his tray was located.
Emerging and looking down the back corridor, he saw the rear doors of the nick burst spectacularly open. Three cops crashed through, wrestling with one prisoner that Henry instantly recognized: John Longridge, the second person to have escaped from his clutches recently.
He braced himself to step in and help if necessary.
The four of them tripped and rolled, but Longridge ended up pinned face down on the tiled floor, blood flecking out from a busted nose and split lip. He squirmed like a trapped leopard, kicking, spitting blood and saliva, and cursing vehemently. His hands had been cuffed behind his back, so the damage he could inflict was fairly minimal, but he fought all the way as he was carried and dragged straight through the charge office and heaved bodily into a cell where the officers, with the station sergeant – PS Ridgeson – barking instructions above them, immobilized and searched him. He was then left in the cell, still handcuffed, shouting, swearing and head butting the door. Not a happy person and completely different in demeanour to how he had been on his previous arrest, all cocksure, cool and arrogant. This made Henry wonder if he’d been caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t.
As soon as this was done, the next prisoner arrived, this one a bit more dignified in his lack of liberty. At first Henry thought it was Vladimir Kaminski, but as he was brought closer, he recognized Constantine, the slightly younger brother, who Henry had tackled in Manchester and come off worse. The sight of him made his balls ache. He was not exactly compliant, but not as violent as Longridge, just awkward. He was flanked by two officers and a third behind, gripping his jacket collar and holding his cuffed hands as he was manhandled firmly along the corridor. His eyes caught sight of Henry and he raised his chin with a smirk, giving Henry an unobstructed view of the tattoo across his throat – the serpent wound around a rifle. Henry smirked back … so Constantine was definitely the one who had scaled the walls and then assaulted him.
He was compliant enough, the sergeant decided, to be uncuffed, searched, booked in and then taken to a cell.
After this flurry of activity Henry stepped into the charge office where Ridgeson was completing the paperwork for the detainees.
‘How’s it going?’ Henry asked. He was unable to contain his curiosity, despite himself.
Ridgeson glanced up. ‘Oh, hi, Henry. Well, I think.’ Then he frowned. ‘You not part of this?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Henry waved his hands and tried to keep his body language neutral, but a knowing look came over the sergeant’s face. ‘Are these the only arrests?’
‘No, there are others but we’re using Accrington and Blackburn cells, too. Keep them apart a bit.’
Henry nodded and stood aside when FB came into the room. ‘Hi, sarge,’ he said breezily to Ridgeson, giving Henry a quick, guilty glance.
‘They’re trapped up,’ Ridgeson said, anticipating the question. ‘Longridge kicked off and hark’ – he cupped a hand to his ear
– ‘you can still hear him. He’s on speed, I’d say.’
From the cells came the dull thud-thud-thud of Longridge’s head as he beat it against the cell wall.
‘Great stuff,’ FB said ‘Property searches are going on as we speak and when I know where we stand, I’ll let you know, sarge. Good signs so far, I hear. Shotguns and ski masks … looks like we grabbed the bastards just in time – and we know the cash drop to the building society has been made without incident, so that’s good news, eh? But whatever happens, neither of these two will be going anywhere. Longridge is an escapee and Kaminski assaulted our Henry here,’ he said mock-affectionately and looked at Henry again who, for a moment, thought of saying he wasn’t going to pursue a complaint – just to annoy FB. He didn’t.
‘What about Vlad?’ Henry enquired. ‘Has he been locked up yet?’
‘Not so far, but it’s only a matter of time,’ FB said with certainty. He then swung away happily and disappeared, leaving Henry and the sergeant, who gave Henry that knowing look again.
‘He cut you out?’
‘To some tune.’
‘He’s very focused.’
‘And selfish.’
‘Learn from it,’ the sergeant advised. ‘That man will go far.’
‘Not far enough,’ Henry grunted, ‘but cheers anyway.’
Henry hesitated, desperately wanting to be involved – at the very least to interview Constantine – but he didn’t want to be seen to be begging. It was unbecoming. Already he was thinking ahead, planning how he would move on and get onto CID. He would not be battered down by this, no way.
He walked back to the report-writing room and put on his jacket, which he’d left slung over the back of the chair.
There was a little errand to make in the town centre, then he’d drop by to say hi to Kate in the insurance brokers, though he doubted if he’d be able to entice her to repeat their sexy encounter in the consulting room. Even Henry had to admit that, at least for today, he’d had enough sex in a scary place, that being Kate’s kitchen. He didn’t want to push it. After that he would have a brew and a toastie at a town-centre cafe, then go home, creep under his duvet and sleep.
That was his short-term plan.
He left the station via the back door and strolled into town.
As ever, Rawtenstall was fairly quiet and reasonably pleasant to saunter through. He dropped by Kate’s workplace. She was busy with a client at the counter and although he caught her eye, it was clear she was unable to extricate herself, so he gave a wave and left, walking up Bank Street to complete his errand at another shop. The result was excellent and he thanked the manager, who shooed him away without having to pay, even though Henry did genuinely offer.
‘No,’ the man insisted. ‘You’re doing a good thing here, so I’ll play my part in it.’
Henry thanked him and took the item which the man had slipped into a strengthened envelope. He then walked further along Bank Street to a cafe where he found an empty seat on a stool at the bar by the window and ordered a milky coffee and cheese-and-onion toastie. He sipped and ate whilst considering life, death and the universe.
He didn’t manage to reach any firm conclusions about any of the subjects. He wasn’t such a deep thinker.
But he enjoyed his coffee and food and watched life go by, including the slow cruise past of a couple of traffic cars and a couple of cops he recognized as authorized firearms officers in a plain car, no doubt part of FB’s cunning plan for today’s operation to discourage violent crimes. And it would seem that, with the success of the op so far, there wouldn’t be an armed robbery.
‘Git,’ Henry said between gritted teeth as his mind spun to FB. Again. The man infuriated him, but he could not stop thinking about him. Henry was pretty sure that Bill Ridgeson’s prediction about FB’s future would come true. Based on the way the man operated – if advancement came from stepping on others’ heads – he was definitely going to be chief constable one day. A chilling thought.
Time for bed, Henry thought.
He finished his coffee, picked up his envelope, paid, and stepped onto Bank Street, pausing at the door for a few moments before setting off to his car. He didn’t plan on showing his face in work again that day, nor the next, because it was a rest day.
Then he quickly stepped back into the cafe doorway.
The man across the street was wearing a green parka jacket, with a grey hood pulled up over his head. His left hand was tucked into the pocket, right arm hanging stiffly down by his side, the hand hardly visible, covered by the hem of the coat sleeve. He wore grey tracksuit bottoms but it was the blue and white Adidas trainers on his feet that clinched it, because not many days ago Henry had held them in his own hands and given them back to the person who was now walking down the main street.
His head was tilted forwards and he seemed to be staring at the ground as he walked up the opposite side of the street to where Henry stood. Not that there was anything bad about that. Lots of people walked with their heads down, looking at their feet, avoiding eye contact. That was just the way people were.
Henry knew this man was doing it for a specific reason. He knew that normally this individual would be lording it along, swaggering and cocky, hoping someone would be daft enough to bump into him or look into his mad eyes and give him a reason to start an argument that would lead to a fight.
Not today.
Because today, Vladimir Kaminski wanted to hide his face.
Henry hadn’t clearly seen the face, only a sliver of it. It was the overall body shape, broad, stocky, muscled, that Henry recognized and could not be hidden underneath a parka that looked a size too small anyway … Henry’s mind flashed back … Could it be the parka he had seen hung in Sally Lee’s hallway that first time he had met her?
And the trainers.
Henry remained where he was for a moment, then went back into the cafe and asked a waitress to look after the envelope for him, stepped out of the cafe onto the pavement and started to follow Kaminski at a discreet distance, about fifty yards behind him. Then Henry crossed over so he was on the same side as Vlad, having decided that he would be tackling him within the next few seconds. He plotted it through quickly: upping his pace, keeping as silent as possible, then a final surge – the shoulder smashing into the small of Kaminski’s back to flatten him, knock the wind out of him, keep him down and then scream for someone to call for help.
Excitement shuddered through him – not just at the prospect of the physical encounter, but at the thought of seeing FB’s face as he marched his prisoner into the charge office. A dream.
He turned onto autopilot as he surveyed Kaminski’s broad back, working out exactly where his shoulder would connect, just at the base of the spine. Then he noticed the very stiff right arm again, hanging by his side as if it was false, or as if something was secreted up the sleeve and he was holding whatever it was in place with his fingers like a shoplifter hiding a bottle of stolen whisky.
Kaminski’s pace increased slightly but noticeably.
Henry was certain that the guy had not spotted him.
Still heading along Bank Street, he crossed the junction with Grange Crescent, then the next one with Kay Street, the shops to his left as he walked.
Henry began a half jog, starting to speed up his pace. When he hit him, he wanted it to be as hard as possible and at full pelt and bring him down in one.
Kaminski then did a sharp left into the square that was the main shopping centre, sending a cold feeling of dread through Henry who hoped that he was wrong as he slotted things together, his thought processes working in parallel. Located on the square was the Rossendale Valley Building Society which had, earlier that day, successfully received a very large cash infusion. And suddenly Henry began to wonder just what the hell Kaminski had secreted up the right sleeve of the parka. A sawn-off shotgun? It could just about fit. Was Kaminski about to try and do a solo job on the building society, a rash act driven by several factors, his desperation
to leave the country, that he could guess he was wanted for murder, would probably also know that Jack Bowman had been arrested and could be grassing on him at that very moment (such an irony, Henry thought) and the fact that the cops had started to round up his associates? The cash they’d planned to steal was now with the rightful owners and all it would need would be to shove the shotgun – if that’s what he had – into the face of one of the tellers and get her to fill up a bag with nice new notes. About thirty thousand pounds’ worth.
Rightly or wrongly, that was how Henry put it all together in those fleeting moments.
But it didn’t actually matter what Kaminski’s intentions were. What remained a necessity was to arrest him.
He was now about thirty yards ahead of Henry, almost outside the door of the building society.
And then he was at the door.
Kaminski stopped suddenly, pivoted ninety degrees and jerked his right arm a couple of times, and proved Henry right.
A single-barrelled sawn-off shotgun slithered out. He caught the stock with his fingers and his left hand came up to grip the short barrel as he flipped off the hood of his parka with a backwards jerk of his head, revealing for the first time that his features were distorted by the stocking mask pulled tight over his face. Old hat, maybe, but it was still one of the scariest sights ever, an armed robber with such a mask over his face, skewing the facial features grotesquely. Great, tried and tested psychology.
Then he set himself with a roll of his broad shoulders and charged to the door.
He had been so tunnel-visioned, so deep in getting himself in the right frame of mind to commit this act, that he did not see or hear Henry’s approach from the side until it was too late.
Henry had been moving from the instant that Kaminski turned to face the door of the building society.
He had seen the shotgun slide down the sleeve, the hood get flicked off, all in the time he started to run at him, and had to completely reappraise his approach as he was now going to have to hit him sideways.