Backlash

by Nick Oldham

Henry Christie was not newly promoted.

  He could not believe the way he looked: how transformed he was and how unlike a uniformed inspector he felt. The whole idea was completely alien to him. His usual dress code was a pretty slick suit, a decent shirt and tie, good quality shoes and an air of superiority over all other mortals.

  There was no way on earth he was a uniformed cop any more. He was a fucking detective, for God’s sake. A detective inspector, actually. And a bloody good one at that. At least he had been good. Once. Not very long ago. And now here he was, wearing a uniform, looking like an Italian waiter, and having to work long, unsocial shifts.

  With a snap salute to the mirror, which morphed into a sloppy ‘V’ sign at himself, he collected his brown nappa leather blouson from the wardrobe and slunk out of the bedroom wondering how the hell he was going to deal with it all.

  With almost half his monthly salary going in maintenance payments, Henry could no longer afford a car. He therefore walked to work, using the opportunity to clear his head and get his brain into gear.

  The early evening was dark with a distinct nip in the air. Hunched deep into his jacket, he found the chill to his nose, ears and cheeks pleasant and invigorating. He breathed deeply, expelling stale air from his lungs, feeling new, cold, fresh air circulating round his chest, lungs and heart.

  It was a ten-minute journey on foot, giving him ample opportunity to reflect upon his predicament and how he was going to face people at work. The problem was that most people would see the move to uniform as a demotion, although it was not: busted from CID, they would think. Not many people willingly made the transition out of civvies into blues unless it was a specific career move. Usually it was for reasons of bad discipline or poor performance and was perceived as punishment, whatever the circumstances.

  At the busy junction of Hornby Road and Coronation Street he stopped and got his first glimpse of Blackpool police station. Every window in every one of its eight floors was illuminated. It was the first time he had seen the building in two months, having avoided looking at it on his infrequent forays into town, hoping that it would go away.

  He winced. His insides churned nervously.

  It had not moved. It was still there, large and forbidding.

  The tips of his fingers twitched. He bunched both hands into fists to stop them shaking – and succeeded. But even repeated swallowing did not eliminate the taste of apprehension at the back of his throat.

  He dithered by the kerb edge and almost lost it there and then, almost spun round on his heels and turned back to seek refuge and solace from his friendly and accommodating veterinary surgeon. He knew he could have conned his tame GP to sign him off for a further four weeks. Easy. Another month of grace, avoiding the issue, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, screwing himself silly.

  The green man at the pedestrian crossing began to make his ‘pipping’ noise.

  Henry stepped onto the road, his feet feeling as though they were trudging through treacle.

  No going back now, he told himself firmly. You have crossed the river and the waters have filled in behind you.

  A minute later he was approaching the back door of the police station, puzzled by the sight of two uniformed cops standing there, obviously on security duty. He did not recognise either. He edged past them towards the door.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ one said, preventing Henry from passing, firstly with a hand, then the bulk of his body. ‘Can I see your pass, please?’

  Henry regarded him with incomprehension. ‘My pass. . .?’ he started to say.

  The officer clicked on a small, but powerful Maglite torch and shone the beam up into Henry’s face. Henry squinted, drew his head back slightly.

  ‘Yes, sir, your pass,’ the PC insisted firmly. ‘You need a pass to enter the police station this week . . . party conference?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Henry said as it dawned on him.

  While ensconced in the cosseted world of sickness he had moved out of sync with the real world and its goings-on. He had fed himself a diet of mind-numbing daytime TV and satellite sports channels, occasionally dipping into the Daily Telegraph to keep abreast of crime and rugby, but little else. Certainly not politics – a subject which bored him rigid even when in good health. He had completely forgotten about the annual party conference taking place in town that week.

  ‘I don’t have a pass yet.’ He nodded towards the nick. ‘This is my. . . er . . .first day back for a while . . . here, here. . .’ He rooted through his pockets and produced his warrant card from his wallet, flashing it to the officer. ‘DI Christie,’ he said unthinkingly, then lamely corrected himself. ‘Inspector Christie . . . I’m the night cover inspector this week.’

  The PC scrutinised the laminated card – a document which invested an individual with incredible power – comparing the photograph on it with the reality of the bearer. Satisfied, he nodded at Henry, stepped to one side and said, ‘There’s somebody dealing with emergency accreditation inside . . . you’ll need to get yourself a pass.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Henry found his swipe card and went towards the pedestrian entrance next to the shuttered garage door. He did not have to use it because the garage door itself clattered upwards and open. As it rose on its rollers it revealed two CID Ford Mondeos, waiting to leave, two detectives in each motor, engines revving dramatically.

  The first car accelerated past him, followed by the second. Henry caught fleeting glimpses of the detectives in both cars, but it was one person in particular in the second car who caused him to draw breath; the one in the front passenger seat. It was the officer who was now doing the job of the detective inspector, Henry’s old role. The officer did not look up, or acknowledge Henry in any way, just stared dead ahead. The second car tailgated the first, as they tear-arsed down to the end of the street.

  They were in a hurry. On their way to a job.

  A pang of bright-green envy hit Henry in the solar plexus, making him wince.

  He ducked under the already descending door, and walked through the dimly lit garage to the rear entrance of the police station. As he entered, the custody office was to his left. He glanced quickly through the bars and, with relief, saw that the place looked reasonably quiet. A major part of the job of the reactive inspector was responsibility under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act for what went on in the custody office. It was a duty he had never performed before, having been promoted directly into the DI’s job from detective sergeant. He knew that he would have to swim rather than sink and by the end of this first night, he intended to be doing the butterfly. The custody office had to be got right straight away if he was to survive with any degree of credibility in his new role.

  Shaking his head at the prospect, he walked to the lift and took it up to the level where the CID office was situated. He needed to get a few things from his locker before taking over.

  Henry slid his key into the padlock and twisted. The lock did not snap open. He tried again. Nothing. He peered at the key, wondering if he was using the correct one. Yes – the only one of its type on the fob. He put it back into the lock. Again it failed to open. Only at that moment did he notice that his name was not on the locker as it always had been. It had been scrubbed and replaced by the name of the new DI who had superseded him. The next thing he saw was the bulging black bin liner on the floor next to the locker with his name on a tag. He bent down and opened the bag, an acerbic expression on his face. All his gear had been taken out of the locker and dropped into the bag. Now, like a cuckoo, the new incumbent ruled the roost.

  The message could not have been more obvious: Henry Christie’s days as a detective were over.

  The illusion that the day-shift inspector, who had been on duty for twelve hours, would be pleased to see him was shattered as soon as Henry walked through the door of the inspectors’ office.

  Burt Norman gave him one nasty glance, looked pointedly at the clock on the wall, then returned to the report he was reading on the des
k in front of him, giving Henry a view of the top of his balding head. Before Henry could say anything, Norman muttered gruffly, ‘What fucking time do you call this? We don’t keep CID hours down here, y’know; we arrive early so everything can be passed over properly and give the one who’s finishing – me, on this occasion – the chance of an early dart.’

  Norman turned a page of the report, still not having looked up, though, plainly, he was not really reading it.

  Henry sensed there was more to come. He leaned against the door jamb, his lips twisted cynically, and waited for the bollocking to continue. He was not wrong.

  ‘That happens day in, day out, without fail, whether you want to be here or not. Unwritten rule. Get my drift?’ Norman sniffed superciliously and raised his eyes, inviting Henry to challenge him.

  The ex-DI shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Norman was long in the tooth, bitter, twisted, an acknowledged dinosaur. He had never been able to pass a promotion board to chief inspector, having had six unsuccessful attempts in consecutive years which nearly destroyed him and his marriage. But he was an extremely efficient reactive inspector, dealing well with the nuts and bolts of day-to-day policing. He ran a tight custody office and knew his job in terms of the ‘here and now’ intimately. These days, though, that was not enough when so much was expected of someone who earned over thirty-five grand a year. The force wanted strategic thinkers and leaders who could do so much more than be ‘gung-ho’ with the troops. Norman, who did lead from the front, was extremely popular with the officers under him, but that was not what was wanted by the service. So he had been sidelined.

  ‘Good.’ Burt Norman gave a curt nod, closed the file with deliberation and tossed it into a tray. ‘Anyway, having said all that, good to have you with us, Henry. Just a pity you’re here because you’ve been shafted by the powers that be . . . bunch o’ twats . . . I know what it’s like. Still, never mind, it’s a good job and at the end of a shift you go home knowing –’ and here Norman counted using his fingers – ‘one: you’ve earned your crust and two: you can put the job out of your mind until you’re next on duty. In other words, you can forget this shit-hole . . . now then, what do I need to hand over to you?’

  There was not much. Four prisoners were currently in custody, but Norman had taken care of their reviews, which Henry was thankful for. It gave him some time to play with at the start of the shift to get his feet under the table. As Norman pulled on his leather biking jacket to leave, he said, ‘Obviously there is the conference going on, as you know – but steer clear of it. Not your job to get involved in any aspect of it.’

  Henry nodded. It was his responsibility to police the streets of Blackpool. There were enough cops drafted into the town from all over the county specifically for the conference.

  Norman scooped up his helmet and gave a quick wave.

  ‘Bye,’ said Henry, slowly taking off his coat, hanging it behind the door and looking dejectedly round the office. He sighed deeply.

  ‘Oh – I knew there was something.’ Norman stuck his head back round the door. ‘Forgot to mention it. There’s an ID parade being held at 7.30. You’re running it. Some Asian done over good style by one of the scummy Costains last night. Still alive, but well whacked. Could pop his clogs, I believe. One of the Khan family, I think. Anyway, the suspect is coming back in on part four bail tonight. There’s one witness I think . . . see ya.’ He disappeared like a shot, clearly and absolutely aware of what he had just dropped on Henry’s toes on his first tour of duty as a uniformed inspector.

  A certain queasiness overcame him. He sat down slowly at the desk, cursing. An ID parade was the bane of a uniformed inspector’s life. Difficult to manage and co-ordinate; so much could go wrong and often so much depended on their success. They had never bothered Henry before because as a detective he just smugly handed them over to uniform and waited for the result. Now he was on the other side of the fence and the grass was not very green. He blew out his cheeks and wondered where the best place to hide would be.

  Before Henry could slide under his desk, curl up into a foetal ball and start sucking on his thumb, his senses were invaded by a shrieking, piercing, screaming noise which erupted all round him, stunning him. For the briefest of moments he thought it was the onset of a major panic attack. Then realised the noise was external.

  It was the personal attack alarm from the custody office.

  Without further thought or hesitation, Henry hurled himself out of his chair, grabbed the personal radio on the desk and bolted through the door towards the origin of the sound, one floor below. Even as he ran he was grateful that his cop conditioning had kicked in so quickly. One of his recurrent fears over the last few days was that he might have lost his edge.

  The prisoner had struck without warning, although the custody sergeant had been wary of the guy from the moment he had been presented to him by the arresting officer, PC Rod Phillips.

  He had started off placid and compliant, happy to stand where he had been told, a stupid lop-sided grin on his chops, while the PC outlined the circumstances of the lock-up, which was for an assault: whacking a beer glass over somebody’s head and then gouging the broken end into the guy’s face. The heavily blood-stained prisoner intimated he understood the reason for his arrest, and offered his name – Kit Nevison – address and date of birth quite willingly. He seemed to be acting rationally, did not smell too strongly of booze, and kept that inane smile on his face. The custody sergeant did notice he had glassy eyes with dilated pupils and he wondered if the prisoner was on speed. When asked, Nevison emptied his pockets and dropped the contents onto the desk.

  As the sergeant listed the property on the custody record, a female duty solicitor was shown into the office. The sergeant glanced past Nevison and smiled at her. ‘Come to see Grant?’ he asked, referring to another prisoner. The solicitor nodded. ‘Be right with you – soon as this chap’s been booked in.’ The solicitor moved to the back wall of the room and leaned patiently against it.

  Nevison turned slightly so he could watch her unobtrusively.

  ‘Just stand back a bit and extend your arms out to the side, Kit,’ PC Phillips instructed him.

  The prisoner obeyed and the body search began. But as the arresting officer moved in and invaded his personal space, he reacted – or, in police terminology, ‘kicked off’.

  Somehow, from somewhere – probably from down a sleeve – a triple-bladed Stanley knife appeared in the man’s right hand; triple bladed in that three blades had been superglued together side by side, thus ensuring that the injuries it would cause would be three times more difficult to stitch together.

  With a manic scream, Nevison slashed the knife down across PC Phillips’ face, first one way, then back the opposite way, literally slicing the cheeks open wide. The officer reeled away, emitting a yowl of agony, his hands coming up to cover his face.

  The custody sergeant immediately pressed the panic-alarm button underneath the desk and reached for his side-handled baton.

  Things then went from bad to worse. Nevison spun round and grabbed the female duty solicitor.

  It took Henry less than thirty seconds to reach the custody office.

  ‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ he said into his radio, ‘buzz me through to the cells.’

  He leaned on the barred gate, his eyes surveying the scene as the communications operator several floors above released the catch. He stepped into the danger zone. The high-pitched alarm still sounded.

  PC Phillips was doubled over on the floor by the custody desk, holding his damaged face, blood dribbling through the gaps in his fingers. He was making a noise which was a cross between a gurgle and a moan of pain. Henry could see the wide-open gashes across his face.

  Beyond the wounded PC was the custody sergeant, baton extended, standing there hesitantly. When he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Henry, the relief on his face was visible. Beyond him was the cause of the problem: Kit Nevison holding a woman hostage, the triple-b
laded Stanley knife stuck into her neck, a line of blood trickling down from the cut, disappearing behind the high collar of her blouse and then blossoming out into a crimson stain.

  Henry recognised Nevison immediately. Local trouble maker and hard man. Convictions well into double figures for petty dishonesty offences and a string of assaults which were becoming progressively more serious. He was a man on the verge of being a psychopath, a man who, one day, would definitely kill someone, enjoy it and then probably kill again – unless he got caught. He was a heroin addict and the combination of an unbalanced mind and dangerous chemicals made him very unstable and volatile. Henry had dealt with him several times over the years and had tried to have him sectioned into mental institutions, but had never succeeded beyond the short term.

  Henry allowed himself an inner smile. He had been back on duty less than ten minutes and was already faced with a bit of a challenge. The good thing was that he was relishing it.

  ‘Fuckin’ come any closer and I’ll cut the bitch’s head off,’ Nevison warned. ‘Especially you.’ He pointed at Henry with the blade. ‘Especially you,’ he reiterated more strongly, ‘because you are a CUNT!’ he screamed.

  Henry and the custody sergeant were perhaps eight feet away from Nevison.

  ‘OK, Kit, we’re moving back,’ Henry said placatingly. He laid a steady hand on the sergeant’s arm and intimated a slight withdrawal, just a couple of steps. ‘Who’s the woman?’ Henry rasped under his breath.

  ‘Beth Young, duty solicitor,’ the sergeant hissed through the side of his mouth.

  ‘Is there an ambulance coming?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  Henry looked over his shoulder. A gaggle of onlookers had gathered at the barred door, gawping in. ‘Someone call an ambulance – now,’ he instructed. He turned back and kept his eyes on Nevison who was jigging agitatedly, the knife dangerously close to the woman’s throat. ‘You see to Rod,’ he said to the sergeant, gesturing at the injured PC. ‘Get him out of here and away.’

  ‘What about you?’