Backlash

by Nick Oldham

‘Henry?’

  He stopped, snapped out of his depressing reverie and pulled his hands away from his temples. He shook his head and looked at the car crawling along by his side. The driver’s window was down, and Dermot Byrne’s face looked out. ‘Are you all right?’ There was real concern in his voice.

  ‘Yeah, course, just lost in thought.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  He didn’t really, but it would have felt churlish to refuse. He climbed into the back because PC John Taylor was in the front passenger seat, still looking very shaken and stirred.

  ‘Are you two only just finishing?’ Henry asked, realising he would have known the answer to that if he had been a better manager.

  ‘Just helped John to finish off his statement and stayed with him while a couple of detectives had a chat to him,’ Byrne said.

  Now that was a good manager speaking, Henry thought. Byrne was a caring sergeant who would probably go far.

  ‘John’s going off sick, by the way,’ Byrne informed Henry over his shoulder.

  The constable was hunched down in his seat, head bowed, hands clasped between his thighs as though he was freezing cold, utterly dejected and miserable.

  ‘It’s been a bit too much for you, hasn’t it, John?’ Byrne said sympathetically. The officer nodded.

  Been too bloody much for us all, Henry said to himself, but kept his mouth tight shut. ‘Enough for anybody,’ Henry agreed, though the tone of his voice didn’t. He wondered why, other than the tiredness which permeated his body and soul, he did not feel especially affected by the events of the night. He had been dreading the return to work but despite the ups and downs of the tour he had found he had loved it like mad. The hurly-burly. The here and now. The immediacy of it all. The responding. All in all it had been a great experience, even if at the time it had been very tough. On reflection it had been fun. Not as much fun as being a detective, maybe. Henry hoped his appetite for the job had come back with a vengeance and that innate mechanism most cops had for distancing their emotions from the horrors they witnessed was back with him. On the other hand, Danny’s death still haunted him day and night, but that had been personal. What he had been through last night was not really personal, so yeah, he could cut himself off from it.

  PC John Taylor apparently could not. Despite his length of service, it was getting to him. Sometimes that happened. No doubt he was experiencing great difficulty coming to terms with the death of the girl at the hospital, perhaps blaming himself for it.

  ‘Maybe it’s as well you have some time off,’ Henry said. ‘Get things back into perspective.’ He leaned forward and patted Taylor on the shoulder.

  Taylor jumped at the touch, nearly leaping out of his clothes.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, sir,’ he said meekly.

  ‘Dermot, could you possibly be in for five tonight?’

  ‘Sure, why?’

  ‘I have to see FB to appraise him of our public-order plans.’

  ‘What public-order plans?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Henry said. ‘What public-order plans? We need to get something together, plus there’s some intelligence about the possibility of bomb attacks on some targets. We might have to do some warnings to licensed premises.’

  ‘Bomb attacks?’ Byrne exclaimed. Taylor lifted his head to listen. ‘Where’s that come from?’

  Henry said, ‘I can’t say much about the source, but I’ll brief everyone properly tonight.’

  ‘Fine,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Drop me off here, will you? I’m going for a newspaper. Thanks for the lift.’

  Henry watched them drive away and bobbed into the shop.

  Because virtually all the CID resources had been channelled into the murder investigations, the file on Kit Nevison had been passed down the line like a hot potato, landing squarely in the lap of a probationer constable called Standring who, it was decided, was the only person with any time to deal with it. Fortunately he was approaching the end of his two-year probation and had the makings of a sound bobby. He bounced his few doubts and queries off his sergeant, got told to get on with it and went down to the custody office. The cell keys were tossed in his direction, the custody sergeant pointed to a tray bearing all the prisoners’ breakfasts and told Standring to dish them out before dealing with Nevison. Such were the pleasures of being at the bottom of the pile.

  Standring shrugged philosophically and got to his task with a smile.

  Ten minutes later all the prisoners, with the exception of Nevison, were eating a lukewarm breakfast of sausage, beans and toast. PC Standring returned to Nevison’s cell with a breakfast and let himself in. The smell of Nevison was almost overpowering. Sweaty feet, putrid armpits, bad breath and blood-soaked hair all combined to turn up the officer’s nose in disgust.

  Nevison was deep asleep. It took several minutes of shaking and slapping to rouse him. Eventually he sat up, coughing horribly, holding his sore head in his hands, moaning. His skull apparently hurt like hell.

  ‘Want some breakfast?’ Standring asked, offering the plastic plate which had an unappetising display of food on it.

  Nevison glanced at it and retched. ‘No thanks. I’ll have a brew though – shit, I feel fuckin’ awful.’

  ‘Bad news, Kit, you look awful too.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nevison touched his bandaged head and winced, then took the plastic mug from the officer containing weak, but very sweet tea. He sipped it gratefully.

  ‘Come on,’ Standring coaxed him. ‘We’ll get you some aspirin, then you can have a shower and a shave. You’ll feel much better. After that I’m going to interview you.’

  ‘Eh?’ Nevison looked stunned. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘You don’t remember whacking somebody in a pub with a beer glass, then slashing a cop with a Stanley knife and holding a woman hostage?’

  Nevison pouted as he thought about this. He truly did not recall any of these things.

  ‘Hence the bash on the head,’ Standring added.

  ‘Oh, that’s what it was.’ He rose unsteadily to his full height, towering above the constable who was no short-ass. Standring backed out of the cell, praying Nevison did not have a rush of angry blood.

  The big man stretched, yawned and farted. As he relaxed he seemed to contract into himself, become hunched up and round shouldered, and very old-looking for his age. The years of excessive drink, drug and nicotine abuse had certainly taken their toll on him.

  ‘Shower’s down here,’ Standring pointed.

  Nevison emerged from his cell and walked in front of Standring, who stayed and supervised the shower and shave, ensuring the safety razor was returned to the locked cabinet.

  ‘I need a fix now,’ Nevison said, towelling himself dry. ‘And I need to see the doctor and I want a fag.’

  Henry’s meticulous timetable went to plan. At 9.02 a.m. he slid between the sheets in his darkened bedroom and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly.

  Jane Roscoe had been stunned when FB announced she was to lead the investigation into Joey Costain’s murder. She had been expecting to be sidelined and ousted by the big boys.

  At first she flushed with pleasure, but when she began to piece together the implications of the situation, she was swamped by them. If only by virtue of the way in which Joey had been slaughtered, media attention would be intense, certainly in the early days. If the possible racial element came out, always a hot spud for any police investigation these days, it would mean that Roscoe had drawn the shit end of the short straw – and maybe that was why she had got the job. Conspiracy by the rednecks!, she thought.

  Another issue which concerned her, but in which she had little say, was the way in which the few precious resources had been carved up. After Henry Christie had skulked out of the meeting, daggers were drawn and a messy fight had ensued which she had felt unprepared for. She’d said her piece, made her requests and then awaited the outcome which, when it came, h
ad not been good from her point of view.

  The problem was that everyone was making big assumptions about the direction the inquiry into Joey’s death would go. It was obvious that the first port of call would be the Khan brothers. Bring ’em in and get ’em charged had been FB’s simplistic approach. It would be that easy, he had reassured her. ‘Mmm,’ Roscoe had murmured to herself, unimpressed. And for that reason, FB had gone on to explain, she would not be getting half the resources available. Not even a quarter. She had ended up with four detectives. At least the administrative and IT side of the investigation would be shared between the two inquiries. Some consolation.

  The meeting had dispersed about an hour later.

  Roscoe stayed seated while everyone else left the room, deep in thought, wondering how she would kick-start the job. It was difficult to believe that the person whom she had been expecting to arrest for a murder that morning was now a victim himself, so topsy-turvy was the whole scenario.

  Having had little sleep – she had only just got into bed before she had been called out again – and a fleeting but bitter argument with her husband about her apparent lack of commitment to home and marriage (again!), her grey matter was struggling to get going. She was only partly conscious of someone sitting down in the chair beside her. Only when an outstretched hand cut into her line of sight, did she react by jumping out of her skin.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’

  Roscoe did not have a clue in hell who this person was. She had seen him earlier, standing at the back of the room – you could not fail to notice him. Tall, square-jawed, good-looking – drop-dead gorgeous, actually – in a Clark Kent sort of way, broad shouldered, athletic-looking physique, with his blond hair trimmed into a crew cut. He had a bright twinkle in his eye and looked so fit and healthy he made her feel like a slob.

  She gripped his big warm hand, feeling herself go slightly giddy.

  ‘Name’s Donaldson, Karl Donaldson.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Her eyes quickly dropped to his left hand. She saw the wedding band on the appropriate finger. It was just a check for interest’s sake, she told herself. ‘I’m Jane Roscoe, detective inspector.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he drawled in his very pleasing American accent.

  ‘Er . . . I was wondering – what’s your role in all this?’

  ‘Just liaison with the Metropolitan police. I’m a legal attaché for the FBI. I work from the American Embassy.’

  ‘Oh wow – a spy.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Anyway – lovely to meet you,’ Roscoe said with finality, but he made no move to go.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, ma’am, but would you indulge me for one moment?’

  When you call me ‘ma’am’ like that, she thought wickedly, you could indulge me for a good hour. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Could I be so bold as to offer you some advice? One law enforcement officer to another?’

  Roscoe sat back. ‘I’d be rude not to listen.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Donaldson said with a smile that must have sent a thousand women’s hearts a-flutter, as well as their erogenous zones. She was wondering what the words of wisdom were going to be. She had a horrible feeling, nice and sexy as the guy was, she might be in for some down-home, good ole Yankee yee-hah balderdash here.

  ‘Having noticed you’ve been given a pretty tough assignment and seen your reaction to it––’

  ‘My reaction! What d’you mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘Your non-verbals screamed discomfort.’

  ‘I don’t think they did.’ Roscoe fidgeted haughtily, offended, her body language betraying her again.

  Donaldson held up a hand to calm her down. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to be burning with the hot redness which flushed her. She gritted her teeth. Donaldson could see he had to get his say in quick.

  ‘On and off for the past five years, I’ve worked with Henry Christie. He’s also a good friend.’

  ‘Well woppy-doo, I’m so pleased to hear it.’ Her face was drawn as tight as though she’d had plastic surgery gone wrong. Livid was the term which sprang to her mind.

  ‘What I’m saying is that despite his faults – I mean, he’s always close to the edge – he is one of the best detectives I’ve ever known and I’ve known some of the best detectives in the world, believe me. He has a remarkable instinct about people, things, situations, so I truly think you should take heed of what he said before he was belittled out of the room by Fanshaw-Bayley, who I also know well and find to be a first-class asshole and I’ve known the best assholes, too.’

  ‘Well thanks for taking the time to offer me that advice,’ Roscoe retorted primly. ‘But, y’know, I think you probably misinterpreted my body language and I know exactly what I’m going to do in respect of this inquiry.’

  Donaldson flicked a mock-salute. ‘In that case, accept my apologies, ma’am, but to quote, “Many people receive advice, only the wise profit from it.”’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Pubilius Syrus – first-century Roman writer – bye y’all.’ Donaldson was gone.

  Roscoe sat speechless for a few beats, then gasped. ‘First-class asshole, my arse.’

  PC Standring inserted the timed interview tapes, switched on the recorder and robotically went through the pre-interview spiel with Kit Nevison and the duty solicitor now representing him.

  Nevison, now clean shaven, showered and smelling of soap, had a large plastic mug of sweet tea (six sugars) on the table in front of him. He said he understood what PC Standring had said and the interview commenced after he had been cautioned.

  ‘So, Kit, do you know why you’ve been arrested?’

  ‘Other than what you’ve told me – no.’

  ‘What recollections do you have of last night’s events?’

  Nevison thought about the question for a moment. ‘None.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Drugs ’n’ booze, I expect. I was very drunk and I took loadsa different shite.’ He shook his head at the recollection. ‘Everything’s just a blank after about the ninth pint. My mind was clouded,’ he said proudly, ‘and so was my judgement I expect.’

  Standring sighed. This was going to be a pretty short, one-sided interview.

  Back at his flat David Gill exercised to the limits of his physical capabilities: sit-ups, press-ups, ten thousand metres on the rowing machine, and then progressed onto cocaine which he was refining on the surface of a shaving mirror using a razor blade.

  ‘Chop, chop, chop, chop,’ he intoned breathlessly to himself with each downward stroke of the blade. ‘Chop and separate, chop and separate, make some nice lines, just like soldiers marching along, one, two, three, four, left, right, left. But I’m not going to dip these soldiers into my boiled egg.’

  With extreme care he perfected the lines of the white powder so they were all the same length and width. He had an eye for such things. Very precise.

  ‘I deserve this,’ he said.

  He used a shortened straw to inhale, following the lines quickly, sniffing deeply, tossing his head back as though swallowing a pill. Then he licked the mirror clean and waited for the rush. He gasped as the drug entered his system.

  It had been a hell of a night. Much achieved, much more yet to do and he was not remotely tired. The coke had cleared his head. The physical exertions, far from exhausting him, seemed to have given him more energy, more desire. There was no way he could sleep.

  He jumped up and paced the small living room, tensing his muscles, bouncing on his feet, growling like a leopard – which was often how he saw himself. A leopard, but one which could change its spots, could adapt, but could remain camouflaged in the undergrowth, waiting to strike and destroy. He needed to feel the rip of flesh again. He wanted to get his fingers around someone’s hot heart.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No.’ He tried to get a grip.

  He forced himself to sit down, but he needed to be on the move, on the
hunt.

  Twelve

  After the short conversation with Karl Donaldson, Jane Roscoe had wandered through the corridors of Blackpool police station, going round and round, worrying about the enormity of the task that lay ahead of her. Despite the brave face for Donaldson, it made her feel quite ill because she did not know how she was going to tackle the murder inquiry.

  In the canteen, now transformed into a rather plush dining room following the privatisation of the catering side of things, she found an empty table near a window overlooking the rear of Sea World on the promenade. She devoured three slices of hot buttered white toast and had a cappuccino (unheard of pre-privatisation).

  Her thoughts turned to the American. Despite his glaringly obvious physical attributes, he had managed to irritate her by offering advice. And that quotation of his by who? Some bloody first-century writer no one on God’s earth had ever heard of fuelled her annoyance. Supercilious git, she thought, what does he know? An FBI legal attaché – in other words some pen-pushing diplomat’s lackey. Not even a field agent. What really riled her was that he had been able to read her body language as easily as a book of ABC. If he had been able to, so had others.

  The other thing that made her seethe was that the words of advice he had offered actually sounded like common sense: speak to Henry Christie, listen to what he has to say. Something she had failed to do when Henry had said his piece before leaving the pre-breakfast meeting with his tail between his legs. Foolishly, the only thing she had been thinking about then was the fierce confrontation she had left behind with her husband. It had been going round and round in her head and, for the first time, had contained the word ‘separation’. It had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Hence she had missed Henry’s little speech and to be truthful, the only time she had started concentrating was when FB had singled her out and said, ‘You can have Joey Costain.’

  Yikes! He had chosen her as a DI and now he expected her to get results.

  So an approach to Henry would be a sensible thing. After all, he had been the first officer on the scene along with PC Taylor. For very practical reasons, an in-depth chat was a must. Yet she did not want him to perceive it as a cry for help. She would have to be a bit clever in the way in which she tackled him. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel superior again.