Screen of Deceit

by Nick Oldham

  Henry had been in Rik Dean’s office at the time, filling in some paperwork when the thought hit him. He looked out of the narrow, floor-to-ceiling window and tried to remember if it had rained at all over the last twenty-one days. He was sure it hadn’t, not to any great degree anyway.

  With an inner whoop, he grabbed his jacket and shot out of the cop shop.

  He was at Mark Carter’s house within ten minutes.

  It was late afternoon as Henry battered at the front door, still bearing the signs of a shoot out. He shouted Mark’s name through the letterbox and knew the lad was home because his precious BMX was propped up in the hallway.

  Eventually, the door was answered. Mark stood there looking rather flustered, red-faced.

  ‘Mr Christie!’

  ‘Hi, Mark, not an inconvenient moment, I hope?’

  ‘Er, er, no.’

  It obviously was, but nevertheless Henry said, ‘Can I come in? Need a word.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’ Mark stepped aside and Henry entered the hallway. His eyes caught sight of a girl at the top of the stairs who ducked quickly into Mark’s bedroom when she realized she’d been spotted.

  Henry raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Ms Bretherton, I assume?’ He gave Mark a completely salacious, OTT wink.

  Mark squirmed, shrugged and gave a lopsided grin.

  ‘Friends again?’

  ‘Er … we managed to make up … anyway,’ the young man pulled himself together, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘Kitchen.’ Henry pointed down the hall.

  Mark followed him, chuckling as Henry caught his shin on the pedal of Mark’s BMX, cried out in pain and limped into the kitchen.

  ‘Can’t you keep that bloody thing somewhere else?’ Henry whined.

  ‘Beth used to say that …’ Mark began, but his voice faded into sadness. His mouth twisted with the pain of it.

  ‘You OK?’ Henry asked.

  Mark screwed up his features and nodded bravely. Henry realized just how much he had come to like Mark at that moment.

  ‘Good lad.’ Henry turned and looked around the kitchen. ‘When you and Jack were pinned down in the house, you said you sneaked down to the kitchen, didn’t you?’ Mark nodded. Henry went on, ‘And when you were in here, some guy came looking through the window, yeah?’

  ‘And tried to boot the door in. Scared me shitless!’

  ‘Which window did he look through?’

  ‘That one.’ Mark pointed to the window behind the sink. ‘Why?’

  ‘And he tried to boot the door down?’

  ‘As I said.’

  Henry opened the back door, stepped into the back garden, then looked at the panels in the door, which were made of UPVC. His lips pursed when he saw that on the surface there were marks which looked like the sole of a shoe, a trainer by the looks, which had been worn by the bad guy who’s attempted to flat-foot the door open. Some of the marks were better than others. Some were just smudges, some distinct patterns.

  ‘Don’t touch the door,’ Henry said, then took a step sideways to inspect the window. ‘He looked in through this window?’ he confirmed with Mark, who nodded.

  This time Henry’s heart soared.

  ‘Anyone been near this window since?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘It’s not been cleaned?’

  ‘As if we can afford a window cleaner.’

  Henry bent his knees and angled his head to look across the pane of glass so that the light fell on it in such a way he could see any marks on the surface.

  And marks were there: the marks left by the edges of two hands, left and right, which had been cupped over the man’s eyes as he tried to see inside the kitchen where the terrified Mark Carter had been cowering.

  Henry’s smile grew and his bum twitched.

  He pulled his PR out of his jacket. ‘DCI Christie to Blackpool …’ When the acknowledgement came, he said, ‘As a matter of urgency, please contact a CSI and turn them out to’ – he recited Mark’s address on Shoreside – ‘as soon as possible. I’ll be waiting here.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have thought of this before?’ Mark asked cheekily, indicating the window and door. ‘Would’ve saved so much time.’

  Henry eyed him levelly. ‘Fuck off, smarty-pants.’

  The fingerprints came back with an immediate hit – but the shoe impression took a little time. Henry felt like rushing in to make an arrest, but held back while the footwear databases were checked in Lancashire and Greater Manchester.

  It was worth the wait. The shoe prints were an exact match for a pair of trainers belonging to a young man who’d been arrested only six weeks earlier for a suspected murder in Moss Side, Manchester, a drive-by shooting. He was out on police bail pending further enquiries.

  The prints from the window also belonged to the same male, an extremely violent individual who was suspected of many brutal crimes in Manchester and who, intel reports suggested, was a gun for hire and cheap at the price.

  And now, in a joint operation with Greater Manchester Police, the home of the suspect was surrounded. A surveillance team had tracked the man to the address in Rochdale earlier in the evening and now it was hoped he was tucked up in bed, ripe for the picking.

  Henry shivered – but not from the cold. A strange sense of unease had flitted through him.

  ‘Call me a suspicious old geezer,’ Henry said, holding up his hands to prevent Rik from doing just that, ‘but this guy has been trailed to this address and seen to walk in through the front door at eight and hasn’t moved since … pretty unusual behaviour for someone like him, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Having a night in, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly … people like him are usually out and about, mixing it, aren’t they?’

  ‘Even crims stay at home and watch telly occasionally. Maybe Crimewatch was on tonight.’

  ‘Mm, maybe,’ Henry said doubtfully.

  ‘What time are we going in?’

  Henry checked his watch for the umpteenth time: 12.15 a.m. ‘Now.’

  The suspect’s name was Danny Todd. He had been involved in the Manchester crime scene since the age of seven and by the time he’d reached twenty-two, his present age, he had clocked up numerous convictions, been arrested over a hundred times, been in and out of custody, suspected of over fifty things that could not be proved, and made his living with the gun and the baseball bat. He had a fearsome reputation and Henry was itching to get face to face with him.

  Only he wasn’t home.

  Henry waited with growing disbelief as the back-up search team entered Todd’s residence after the initial entry by the firearms team and arrest squad, knowing full well that there would be no sign of Todd. He had been seen to enter the house by the surveillance team, but, Henry guessed, he’d gone straight out back and made good his escape along a disused railway line which ran along the back of the house, thereby outsmarting the surveillance bods. Todd was known to be surveillance conscious and Henry suspected this was a ploy he often used to fool the cops, whether he thought he was being followed or not.

  There were two people in the house, Todd’s seventeen-year-old girlfriend, multi-pierced, tattooed and blessed with a super bad attitude, and smelling of booze, and her sixteen-month-old son, possibly Todd’s, who was also pretty cranky.

  The girl, Natasha, held on to her offspring defiantly, positioning him on her left hip. Too defiantly, Henry thought as he entered the house following the negative search for Todd, and faced the sneering teenager and bawling baby, both in their night attire.

  He looked coldly at her.

  Rik stood behind Henry, wondering if she had a knife or a gun, not wishing to find out.

  ‘Where is he?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Don’t know who you mean.’

  Henry’s eyes flicked to the kid and back to her. ‘Danny – where is he?’

  ‘Shove it right up your arse,’ she said, and jerked her middle finger up at Henry, who winced. ‘And get the
hell out of this house.’

  Henry turned his head and looked at the sergeant who had been running the search side of the op. ‘Has she been searched?’

  Natasha took a defensive step back, clutching the baby.

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘I’ll do it with pleasure.’ A well-built female officer stepped up and shouldered her way towards the girl.

  ‘No effin’ way are you touching me!’ the girl snarled aggressively and suddenly she dipped her hand down the back of the baby’s nappy and pulled out a short-bladed kitchen knife which she waved threateningly at the police. ‘I’ll stab you, I will.’

  ‘Out of my way,’ the large female cop growled. She heaved her way past Henry and Rik, surprising both of them with her speed and strength, and in a flash she had grabbed Natasha and twisted her arm back and disarmed her. The knife dropped out of her grip and she was suddenly being held in a well-rehearsed wrist lock, whilst still holding the baby who was staring wide-eyed and stunned at the events unfolding in front of it.

  ‘You friggin’ bitch … Argh!’ she gasped as the officer applied some pressure to her wrist, making her jerk in pain. The officer then manoeuvred her down on to the settee, the baby still clinging on.

  ‘Sit there and shut it.’ The officer looked at Henry. ‘Boss?’

  Henry was inclined to keep Natasha pinned down for the moment. ‘The choice is yours, girl … the offences are stacking up on you … threatening behaviour, offensive weapons, threats to kill, breach of the peace, drunk in charge of a child … if you get locked up now, Social Services will have a field day with you and I guarantee you won’t be cradling your little babbie for a long, long time—’

  ‘You bastard!’

  The officer twisted her wrist – just a little bit.

  ‘Where is he? That’s all I want to know. If you don’t tell me, the baby goes into care and you go on remand … that’s a threat.’

  Natasha’s face contorted with pain, but she was doing the sums.

  ‘He’s gone on a job,’ she relented.

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Can’t tell you, can I? He’ll bleedin’ kill me, yeah?’

  ‘What job, Natasha?’

  ‘Tell this bitch to let go and I’ll say.’

  Henry nodded to the policewoman who slowly eased off the pressure.

  Natasha shook her head.

  ‘Well?’ Henry asked. ‘I keep my threats,’ he assured her.

  ‘Look, all I know is, yeah, he’d been paid to do some guy who’s at court later today … that’s all I know, yeah? I haven’t heard anything more than that.’

  Henry glanced worriedly at Rik, then back to Natasha. ‘I want more – otherwise you’re going down, lass.’

  ‘I don’t know any more.’

  ‘Well in that case, you just lost babykins here.’ Henry looked at the snotty-nosed kid with what looked like a candle dripping out of its nose.

  ‘You complete and utter twat!’ Natasha responded in a ladylike manner.

  ‘If the cap fits,’ Henry acknowledged. To the policewoman, he growled, ‘Lock her up and turn out the on-call Social Services.’

  The largely-built lady’s face morphed into one of delight. She turned on Natasha, ready to grab her.

  ‘No, no!’ Natasha screamed. She looked desperately at Henry, who shrugged indifferently in an ‘it’s your choice’ gesture. ‘You utter, utter bastards,’ Natasha wilted, beaten. ‘You’d take a kid away from its mum?’ Henry remained silent, hard faced. Shaking her head disgustedly, she licked her lips and seemed to struggle for a few moments with her conscience, such as it was. Then her watery eyes rose to meet Henry’s. ‘He can never know it was me,’ she begged.

  It was 9.45 a.m., later that same morning. Henry Christie and Rik Dean paced the corridors of Blackpool Magistrates Court, each man wearing a ballistic vest underneath his jacket. The court was teeming with customers and their relatives, uniformed and plain-clothed police and a few members of the public out gawping for the day.

  ‘Think he’ll show?’ Rik said. They paused outside court number one.

  ‘Who knows?’

  They moved to the entrance foyer where a couple of sullen private security guards were searching people as they entered the court building, then making them walk underneath the arch of a metal detector before being allowed in. Such were the modern security requirements of any court these days.

  Henry watched the filter of people, a great tiredness welling over him. He had been up over twenty-four hours and was flagging. He checked his watch and nodded for Rik to follow him to court number two, in which the remand hearings were being held that morning.

  At that time the court was virtually empty. The clerk was arranging her papers on the desk below the bench and the prosecuting solicitor was doing the same on his table, which faced both the bench and the clerk. A sight Henry had witnessed hundreds of times in his career. The wheels of justice getting ready for the day ahead.

  He crossed to the prosecutor and spoke quietly to him, then took a seat next to Rik at the side of the court, which gave him a good view of the whole room.

  A few people drifted in. Henry recognized one or two of them, people he’d had dealings with over the years. There was no nod, or how do you do.

  Rik was looking at them, too. ‘You know you’re a cop,’ he said reflectively, ‘when you think that seventy-five per cent of people are a waste of space.’

  ‘I thought I was the cynic,’ Henry said. But he did have to acknowledge that it sometimes seemed hard for cops to think well of people. Then he suddenly forgot what he was thinking about and jerked upright when he saw Mark Carter come into the courtroom. ‘Bugger,’ he said. He stood up and approached the boy.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Bit of moral support for Jack,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘I thought you’d ditched him?’

  Mark gave a gesture that encompassed a shrug and a wince, letting Henry know he didn’t really have a proper answer. ‘He’s my brother,’ he said simply, ‘and he’s up at court on remand and I thought it would do him good to see I haven’t deserted him – as much as I hate what he did, what he was.’ He gave the gesture again.

  ‘I know,’ Henry said. ‘No need to explain.’

  ‘What time is he due up?’

  ‘First one.’

  ‘Well, at least I won’t be hanging around all day.’

  Henry left it at that and returned to sit next to Rik.

  ‘What’ve you told him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Henry said.

  The court convened at 10.15 a.m., only fifteen minutes later than it should have done, which wasn’t bad, Henry thought impatiently. The wait had been getting to him, but he sat back and tried to give the impression of not being bothered and chatted amiably with Rik, mainly about women and football, although the latter did not do much for Henry unless he was laid out on a settee with a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other. His eyes and Mark’s often caught and Henry wished the lad wasn’t here. He didn’t want him to get involved in anything that was going to happen that morning.

  In his left ear, Henry had a tiny earpiece; in his right lapel he had a miniature microphone. Together they made up a mini personal radio which kept him in constant contact with the team of plain-clothed officers roaming the court in several disguises, from cleaners to court staff, and the firearms team on standby in the police waiting room.

  Henry knew that Jack Carter had been safely conveyed to the holding cells below the court from the remand centre this morning and that the only time he would be on public display was when he actually stepped into the dock for the remand hearing, formality that it was. Henry doubted whether Danny Todd had the resources to hold up a prison bus, so he guessed that if Todd was going to do anything, it would be when Jack was in court. A hit and run, he guessed.

  ‘Your Worships, the first case on the list today is the remand hearing of Jack Carter.’ The clerk was addressing th
e three dour magistrates on the bench.

  Henry checked the people sitting in the court.

  No one looked remotely like Danny Todd.

  He might not even come, Henry hoped. If he’d got wind that his house had been raided and that his delicious girlfriend Natasha had been arrested (Henry had gone back on his word to her, just to keep her from getting in touch with Danny … all being fair in love and justice), then Danny would definitely abort the job. But if he didn’t know, then maybe he would chance his arm … hence Henry’s hastily prepared operation.

  Henry had been faced with a dilemma.

  He could easily have flooded the court with hi-viz uniforms and done a preventative op, but that would have meant that catching Danny would have been much harder … and the thought of catching him with a gun in his pocket was a very strong motivator for Henry. Just arresting him because his fingerprints were on Mark Carter’s window would not necessarily have been enough to prove that Todd was the shooter hired by the Grice family. He would be able to come up with all sorts of excuses as to why his prints were there – but if he were arrested with a gun, that would put a whole new complexion on the matter. Henry could use that as a negotiating tool with Todd to get to the Grices.

  A chance Henry did not want to miss.

  And, amazingly, with his reassurances that no one would get hurt, that Danny Todd would be lifted as soon as he showed his face at court, his bosses and the court had said give it a go.

  The chief magistrate leaned forward on his elbows and said to the prosecutor and defender, ‘Are you gentlemen set?’

  Both nodded.

  ‘Jack Carter,’ the clerk said, raising his voice for the benefit of the court ushers who would pass the name down to the gaolers below.

  Then the court room door opened and one final member of the public joined the others in the gallery. A young man, dressed in jeans, trainers and a hoodie (hood down) with short-cropped hair with a swastika zigzag cut into it. His eyes were mean, his face pockmarked and his bloodless lips thin.

  Danny Todd.

  ‘Shit!’

  The clerk gave Henry a look.

  Henry ran his forefinger across his throat, then he was up on his feet, crossing quickly to where Todd had taken a seat, right next to Mark.