by Nick Oldham
Henry sat hunched, listening to his sergeant bringing him up to date with topics he should have really known more about. Although the policing of Blackpool was his main responsibility, as Burt Norman had made plain, he decided to make himself au fait with the strategic and tactical written orders issued for the conference. He was not naive enough to believe that the conference had nothing whatsoever to do with him. If something did happen it was more than likely that he and his shift would be called in to assist.
Byrne drove past the Imperial and up to the Gynn Square roundabout where they passed an armed response vehicle or ARV, whose occupants had stopped a suspect van. The firearms the officers were carrying were overt and very frightening.
‘Serious stuff,’ Henry commented.
‘Yeah – four ARVs on the road twenty-four hours a day from now until Friday afternoon, instructed to be high profile and very proactive.’
Byrne negotiated the roundabout and doubled back along Dickson Road which ran directly behind the Imperial.
‘How many have we got out on nights this week?’ Henry asked.
‘Four double-crewed cars and two pairs on foot in the town – which is pretty good going. Usually lucky to get five out, but all leave has been cancelled this week. It’s Scale D, by the way,’ he added, referring to the shift which was on duty.
Henry’s eyebrows shot up. Scale D, hm? They had a reputation, well deserved, as a team of hard nuts who went in tough and asked questions later. They generated complaints by the bucket load. ‘Lucky me,’ Henry mumbled. ‘Scale D. D for Death.’
‘The very ones . . . they’re my shift now, for my sins.’
Henry peered at Byrne in the half-light, aware he and his sergeant hadn’t been properly introduced to each other yet. Henry knew very little about Byrne’s background, other than that he had transferred into Blackpool while Henry had been off sick. He was about to ask what Byrne’s sins were when he looked out of the car and spotted someone he knew. ‘Hey – pull in next to that guy, will you?’
It was a constable, standing on a street corner, looking ultra-wretched, obviously glued to the point to which he had been assigned. Byrne slewed in and stopped alongside him. Henry wound down his window.
‘Dave – all right?’ he called.
The officer peered suspiciously through the sheets of rain, seeing only the pips on Henry’s shoulder and wondering what he was going to get a bollocking for this time. As he approached the police car his look of wariness turned to one of pleasure when he recognised Henry.
‘Bloody hell! What the fuck are you wearing?’
‘Pantomime gear. How the hell are you, mate?’ Henry had joined the police at the same time as this guy back in the seventies when times had seemed so much simpler and more clear cut, when cops could get away with most things unpunished and juries believed them. They had been good mates for a short while back then, but had since maintained only irregular contact because their respective postings, shift patterns, job progressions and private lives had made anything more substantial an impossibility.
In reply to Henry’s question, Dave lifted the palms of his leather-gloved hands to the downpour, ‘Other than this shite, I’m OK . . . but I’ll tell you one thing –’ He sidled up to Henry’s window, leaned in and spoke with a conspiratorial air. ‘This must be the most important fucking point in the whole shagging operation.’ He pointed down to the concrete pavement underneath his size eleven Doc Marten boots.
‘Why’s that?’ Henry had a smile on his lips, ready for the punchline.
‘Why the hell else would they put their best fuckin’ officer on it and tell him to stay there, get wet through and not move on pain of death and discipline – and stay positive?’
Henry’s smile became a chuckle. ‘You’re obviously happy with your work.’
‘Normally – yes. But this? Fuckin’ politicians! Why can’t we just let the bastards get blown up? And it’s all right for those twats, too – just look at ’em.’ He nodded towards the rear gate of the Imperial Hotel car park where a sleek BMW saloon was pulling out onto Dickson Road. Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘They never get fucking wet, do they?’
As the BMW drove off towards Blackpool centre, Henry made out the figure of Assistant Chief Constable Robert Fanshaw-Bayley at the wheel. He was the Gold Commander of the whole operation for policing the conference – which meant he had overall responsibility and accountability. He had a front-seat passenger and there was a dark figure in the back of the car. Henry caught a profile of the front passenger and, with a jolt of surprise, recognised him.
‘Fanshaw-Bayley, the ignorant, arrogant twat,’ Dave bleated. It was another remark Henry should have challenged. He didn’t this time because he agreed with the sentiment expressed.
The constable’s personal radio blared loudly, operating on a channel dedicated exclusively for the conference, separate from the normal radio channel used by Blackpool section patrols, the one to which Henry’s set was tuned. The officer listened then acknowledged the message. He stepped back to Henry and pointed up to a CCTV camera high on a lamp post nearby. It was trained directly on them. ‘That message was for you. They say that even though this is a police car, you’re not allowed to stop here and I’m not supposed to be chatting to you, so I’ve had a rollocking too. If you don’t move, they’ll get the bomb squad in to blow you up.’
‘Fair enough,’ Henry said, understanding. Any unauthorised vehicle parking near to the hotel would be seen as a potential bomb this week. ‘See you, Dave.’ He gave his old mate a quick wave. To Byrne he said, ‘Let’s follow Fanshaw-Bayley and see if he’s on his way into the nick. I recognised one of his passengers and I’d like to have a word.’ He wound his window up gratefully – his arm and leg had got quite wet.
As the car drew away, their personal radios screamed to life.
‘All patrols, please be making to Shoreside Estate. Officers requesting assistance. Repeat, officers requesting assistance, Shoreside Estate. Large disturbance in progress, officers under fire. Repeat large disturbance officers under fire. Patrols to acknowledge.’
Four
Following her conversation with Henry Christie about Mo Khan’s death, DI Jane Roscoe had not been looking forward to her next encounter with Henry with any degree of anticipation. In fact she was dreading it. She was sharply aware that their embryonic relationship had got off to a very rocky start right from the moment she had first seen him when the garage door had opened, and her driver, DS Mark Evans, had said through the side of his mouth, ‘That’s Henry Christie, boss,’ and she had not even dared look at him as she was driven past. Then there had been the frosty, wordless encounter in the CID office when Henry’s gaze had settled on her oh so fleetingly with an expression that seemed to scream at her, ‘I’d like to tear your heart out with my fingernails.’ And lastly, the blatantly unethical request she had made to him, which Henry, much to her surprise and shock, had agreed to. Because of all these things and more, Roscoe knew that their association would be edgy at best, most probably doomed.
Although she was certain Henry would not have believed it she had not gone out deliberately to poach his job. It had been offered to her out of the blue by ACC (Operations) Fanshaw-Bayley. Apparently he had decided on a whim that she was the right person for the job, though it was never explicitly articulated to her why she was that person, but such was the way the Constabulary worked: mysteriously.
As anyone else would, she had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Not knowing Henry Christie personally, though having heard of him by reputation, and being unaware of any of the background to the situation, how could she have refused the offer?
At the time she had been a uniformed inspector at Chorley, to the south of the county, living in Fulwood, near Preston. Travelling to Blackpool, in the opposite direction, therefore, presented her with no real problems. In fact it was an easier journey – motorway all the way. She had been working long, tiring shifts which were causing serious ructions within
her married life, and saw little of her solicitor husband. She knew the DI’s job would also mean long hours and would not solve any problems at home, but at least she would be happier at work because having spent much of her time in the CID, both as a DC and a DS, she had always wanted to progress to detective inspector.
Her feelings for the job itself did not change when she got to Blackpool, but she soon discovered that her appointment was not a popular one, particularly within the CID office. And it was all down to one man: Henry Christie, even though he wasn’t even there in the flesh. Everyone regarded him as some sort of icon. But to Roscoe, his reputation hung around like a bad smell.
He was worshipped by the DCs and could do no wrong in their eyes. Within hours of starting the job Roscoe knew she was on a hiding to nothing and that everything she said and did would be judged by the benchmark of Henry Christie. The man whose job, she overheard one detective remark, Roscoe had ‘fucking nicked’.
She had rehearsed numerous times for the inevitable meeting with Henry. She had practised nonchalant facial expressions and devil-may-care body language and one or two sharp-tongued phrases which would put him slap-bang in his place. But all her good intentions had deserted her when the moment finally came. She’d become like an overawed dithering schoolgirl unable to think of the words to finish her little speech about the Khans. Then she had been so completely taken aback by Henry’s unexpected reaction she had made that stupid, inane closing comment. Where the hell had that come from? ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’ Jesus. She might as well have rolled over on her back like a submissive puppy and given in there and then. She had been furious with herself, mentally kicking her own arse down the corridor after the meeting and gritting her teeth to stop snarling, because, without trying, Henry had firmly taken the psychological upper hand. And, whether it was true or not, she perceived herself to be in his debt. She owed him one. It was a hole she had unthinkingly dug for herself, fallen into and didn’t know how to climb out of.
As she waited for Henry to come to her office to give her the result of the ID parade, she fidgeted, wondering how to play it to get back on top, how she should manipulate Henry, what the strategy should be.
She reached for the Khan/Costain file which contained all the statements taken so far and opened it, plugged in her little travel kettle and made a mug of tea, no sugar, skimmed milk. She switched on her laptop on the desk and slotted an audio CD into the drive, volume low.
This was how it would be when Christie showed his face: she would be concentrating deeply, reading the evidence, brew in hand, Handel’s ‘Water Music’ just audible, drifting softly out of the tiny speakers. She would be halfway down a page, glance up at him as he entered, show slight annoyance and say, in a friendly way, ‘Just give me a second, will you?’ She would point to a chair and pretend to continue to get to the end of whatever it was she was reading. Then she would close the file, look up at him, having kept him waiting – albeit for a very short time – and allow him to speak. It was a good plan, she thought wickedly.
But it never came to fruition. Firstly because the waiting was intolerable. She began clock-watching. And a watched clock never damn well moves, does it?
She finished her tea and re-read the file twice. Then she needed to pee. The urgency to do so increased slowly but inexorably.
Forty-five minutes. Just what the fuck was going on down there? Her bladder seemed to be bloating to the size and weight of a medicine ball.
Almost an hour. No sign. Shit.
She tossed the file back into her in-tray with an angry flick of the wrist. It missed, skittered across the desk, and fell on the floor fanning the contents out across the carpet. She surveyed her handiwork, her right leg shaking rhythmically.
‘He’s getting to you again,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t let him . . . don’t. . .’
There was just a cold dribble of tea remaining in her cup. She sucked it out with a vulgar slurp, banged the mug back down and stood up abruptly. Suddenly there was an incredible itch on her rib cage underneath her left boob. It screamed out to be scratched. She went for it. Flipped open a button on her blouse and inserted a hand, her fingernails easing the irritation, only to experience another itch, this time at the top of her right leg below the cheek of her backside. Sod’s law, Roscoe thought. No doubt Henry Christie would walk in through the door to find me scratching away like mad, contorted like a bloody baboon.
He did not arrive.
Over an hour gone now.
Roscoe made her way around the desk and began to pick up the scattered papers from the file – and it was then Henry came into the room as, on her hands and knees, Roscoe was at full cat-like stretch underneath her desk, reaching for that last sheet of paper beyond her fingertips.
She heard the office door open behind her. She closed her eyes momentarily, an expletive formed silently on her lips. Unsaid but definitely there. She could sense Henry Christie standing behind her, gazing down at her slightly overweight rear end which was stuck up in the air like an offering to the gods. She waited a beat. Waited for the smart-aleck remark which would surely come. She could guess what it was going to be.
But there was nothing. Silence.
Roscoe withdrew from under the desk, pushed herself to her feet and brushed herself down. ‘Sorry about that.’ She could feel the prickle of redness in her cheeks.
‘That’s OK,’ Henry said. ‘Costain didn’t show up for the ID parade, so I’ve sent everyone packing. The Khans are waiting for you in the front foyer. I haven’t let on about Mo. Thought I’d leave it for you.’
‘Right, thanks Henry.’
He gave a short nod and paused briefly before spinning on his heels and leaving.
Roscoe stood there, lips parted.
For the second time that evening, Henry Christie had confounded her expectations. Now he really was beginning to irritate her.
Ten minutes later she was being driven by Dave Seymour to the Shoreside Estate. In the back of the car were Saeed and Naseema Khan. Roscoe was taking them home.
Immediately after Henry had gone, Roscoe had spoken to the brother and sister in a quiet waiting room and broken the tragic news to them about their father. Saeed had taken it like a stomach punch – badly. Naseema’s grief, if there was any at all, had been more controlled and dignified.
Roscoe, who had been thinking about her bum sticking up in the air, shook the picture out of her mind and looked over her shoulder at the Khans in the back seat of the CID car. Saeed was doubled over, face in hands, head between his knees, rocking back and forth, uttering guttural howls of anguish. Naseema was sitting staidly next to him, a cool hand resting on his back, patting him.
Roscoe gave Naseema a wan smile, which she ignored. Roscoe settled down into her seat as Seymour turned the car into Shoreside. She was wondering how the family would take the news of Mo’s death. Unless they already knew, of course. That was a distinct possibility. Her eyes scanned the wet pavements which glistened under the halogen lighting of the few street lamps which were still intact and working. She peered down dark alleyways into the black shadows between houses, but she was not really concentrating on what she was looking at – her mind still stuck on Henry Christie – until she spotted the first unusual movement.
‘Stop, Dave,’ she said quickly, using a chopping motion of the hand to reinforce the order. Seymour pulled in.
‘Back up a few feet. I want to get a look up that alley we just passed. Thought I saw something.’
Saeed raised his head, his cheeks were smeared with tears. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Don’t know yet. We won’t be a second, then we’ll get you home.’
Seymour coaxed the unwilling gear lever into reverse and backed up to the entrance to the alley, one of numerous rat-runs which criss-crossed the estate. They were often used by kids to rob other kids of their Reeboks, or grannies of their purses, and to then evade the cops when pursued. Roscoe’s eyes probed through the rain, sha
ded by her hands cupped over her brow.
There was a quick flash of torchlight. Some movement. Several people were up there. Doing what?
Then they were gone.
‘Kids.’ Seymour spat – just another spectrum of society he despised.
‘Mm,’ Roscoe agreed without certainty, a funny feeling in her bones. ‘C’mon, let’s get these people home.’
A couple of minutes later the car drew up outside the general store. It was a large, low-roofed, purpose-built shop, with living accommodation at the rear. It was part of a row of other smaller shop units, one of which was a fish and chip shop, the others were boarded up. Mo Khan’s shop had once been part of the Spar chain until he took it over to join the growing number of his shops scattered throughout Lancashire. They all opened from six until midnight. Tonight, even though there was a family crisis, the shop was open and trading.
Roscoe got out of the car and opened Naseema’s door, scanning the area. Opposite the shop was a small grassed area with a children’s playground. The swings had all been dismantled and only the frames remained, rather like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Beyond that was a curve of houses, quasi-semis, all council owned. A few were occupied, most were boarded up, others just burnt-out shells. Shoreside was not an estate people clamoured to live on; it was one of the poorest and most deprived in the region, if not the country. Unemployment was sky high, crime rife.
Roscoe felt uneasy. She knew the place was tense because of the Khan/Costain confrontation. Standing outside the shop she could almost taste the atmosphere. It was quiet – too quiet. She didn’t like it, her instincts nagged at her.