Backlash

by Nick Oldham

  Joey Costain’s cadaver was on a steel trolley. He was covered by a white plastic sheet. He had not been hoisted across to the slab because the formal identification still had to be carried out before the post-mortem began. It would not have been appropriate to wheel the family in to do the distressing task if he was already on the slab. It was bad enough as it was.

  Dr Baines, the pathologist, was sitting chatting to Jan, the mortuary technician. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties, a prettiness totally at odds with her profession. Many police officers were driven wild by their morbid sexual fantasies about her. Obviously not Henry Christie. He was far too clean living and moralistic to harbour any such dreams. Besides which, she scared him slightly with the air of Morticia Addams she had about her.

  Baines clambered to his feet when he saw Henry approaching.

  ‘Henry old boy.’ He beamed and looked down at the uniform. ‘You don’t half look strange,’ he commented.

  Henry did a fashion-model twirl in his size ten Doc Martens. ‘Like it?’

  Jan, the technician, had a twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘Naah,’ said Baines, ‘doesn’t suit you at all.’

  ‘Actually I like it,’ Jan said in a rather unsettling way. ‘Makes you look sexy. I like a man in uniform,’ she admitted.

  Henry swallowed nervously. ‘Thanks, Jan.’

  She licked her lips provocatively and Henry shuddered inwardly. He knew she was single after a short, disastrous marriage and she was on the look-out, rather like a black widow. Henry got quickly back on track.

  ‘Doc, I think you’re waiting for Jane Roscoe to land?’

  ‘I am. Been waiting ages.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Well over an hour now. She said she had a quick enquiry to make and would be along asap. Bad form if you ask me. Time is money, as they say.’

  Henry knew just how much Baines claimed for call-outs. A small fortune.

  ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but from what I know of her, she’s the sort who wouldn’t let you down without a very sound reason.’

  ‘Cause for concern, uh?’ Baines said quickly.

  Henry shrugged. ‘Unusual, that’s all at the moment. We can’t make contact with her or the DS she’s with.’ He crossed to a desk in the corner of the room and picked up the phone. He dialled the station, feeling very uneasy. He ascertained that communications had tried to call both Roscoe and Evans on their mobile phones without success, paging them had got no response either. What made Henry’s flesh creep even more was that their cars had now been found parked up near to Joey Costain’s flat. Henry thanked the operator and hung up slowly.

  Baines and Jan watched him carefully with concerned looks.

  ‘The family need to be informed of this death,’ Baines said, sliding in some extra information. ‘Perhaps she’s with them. I believe they can be a handful when riled.’

  ‘You could be right, although her and DS Evans’ cars are still parked near to Joey’s flat in South Shore. I can’t see them having walked two miles up to Shoreside. The whole thing seems out of character. I know Mark Evans well. He’s dead reliable.’ That unwelcome feeling in the pit of his guts was starting. ‘What did Jane say when she last saw you?’ he asked Baines.

  ‘That she was following something up. She’d been approached by an oldish, military-looking man in the street and been to see him. Seems he gave her some useful information. She didn’t share it with me, but she looked pretty excited by whatever it was.’

  ‘Who was the old guy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Henry, I don’t know.’ Baines looked wounded. ‘He was seventy-odd, maybe, military bearing as I said, well dressed, walked with the aid of a stick.’

  ‘Right,’ said Henry, ‘do you mind hanging on here for a while longer? We’ll try to get hold of Jane and Mark and I’ll go to see the Costain family and do the dirty deed. I’ll get one of them down here to ID Joey, then you can get on with the PM. I’ll also ensure a detective comes and stays for the PM, and I’ll get scenes of crime.’ Henry nodded sharply to them both.

  ‘Be as quick as you can. I’ve already done one murder victim for you today.’

  ‘Oh, the girl, Geri Porter? Suffocated?’

  Baines nodded. ‘She also had an interesting bump on her head, caused some time before death, which I don’t know what to make of.’

  And for the first time Henry thought, Now what a coincidence. Two people closely linked to a right-wing extremist organisation murdered within a short time of each other. Some coincidence, even though on the face of it their deaths seemed unrelated. Geri Porter could have been killed because she knew too much. She was expendable. But what about Joey Costain? Was he expendable too? Joey the gypsy. What was a gypsy doing being a member of Hellfire Dawn?

  ‘Henry! You went blank for a moment,’ Baines observed.

  ‘Far from it, far from it,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ He hurried out of the mortuary, already transmitting instructions down his radio.

  ‘Get in,’ Henry shouted to Byrne through the driver’s door window as he screeched the patrol car to a halt on Richardson Street at the back of the police station. Byrne almost slid across the bonnet of the Astra, jumped in and sank down into the tired seat springs. Henry executed a wild three-point turn as quickly as he could, wrestling with the powerless steering. He gunned the clapped-out motor back down the street.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The humble Costain household.’

  ‘Nice.’

  At the Berlin Hotel, Vince Bellamy was talking to one of the Hellfire Dawn committee members, a man called Martin Franklands. He had been a steady member of the organisation for about two years. He helped sort out the money side of things and dealt with day-to-day administration matters for them. The two men were standing in the foyer of the hotel. Bellamy handed Franklands a mobile phone.

  ‘Sorry to ask you to do this. I know it’s a bit of a pisser, but can you get this phone to Don Longton out by North Pier. He’s near the War Memorial. He’s just phoned in from a public call box to say his own phone’s battery is dead. He needs a charged phone.’

  ‘Sure, anything to help,’ Franklands said, slipping the phone into a back pocket. He grabbed his donkey jacket from a coat stand. He knew Don Longton was one of the many observers round the town, reporting on police movements and anything else of interest to the hotel control room. Batteries were always crashing, needing to be replaced.

  ‘Thanks, Martin, see you soon.’

  Franklands trotted out and down the hotel steps, glad of the break and the opportunity to get some fresh air. He turned out of sight of the hotel, onto the promenade.

  Bellamy watched him go. He unhitched his own mobile phone from his belt and called one of the listed numbers.

  ‘Don?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Bellamy went back to his office.

  ‘Anything from Jane Roscoe?’ Henry asked Byrne, just in case he had missed something.

  Byrne shook his head.

  Henry hit the steering wheel with frustration. ‘I suppose she could be up at the Costains, but to remain out of contact for so long is worrying.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Byrne agreed. ‘Is that why we’re going there?’

  ‘One of the reasons, just to check they haven’t beaten the crap out of her and Mark, but I don’t think they would. The other reason is to tell them about Joey Costain, if Jane hasn’t told them already, and the next reason is to quell any possibility of a riot.’

  ‘Oh?’ Byrne twisted in his seat. ‘And how do you propose to do that, boss?’

  ‘Community policing at its best and most basic,’ Henry said mysteriously.

  The chill on the promenade was bitter and came through the fabric of Martin Franklands’ donkey jacket. The wide paved area between road and sea was virtually deserted. A tram trundled past, lit up brightly, the people inside looking warm and protected.

  To his left, Frankla
nds could hear the sea, a sound drowned out as he walked past the entrance to north pier which was basically an amusement arcade. Loud music pumped out, but there were very few punters inside playing the machines. Franklands walked on to the war memorial, leaving the sound of the music behind, once more picking up that of the sea less than twenty metres away.

  There was a dark figure lurking by the memorial where the promenade dropped into an incline behind the Metropole buildings, out of sight of the road. Even without seeing the man’s face, Franklands knew the guy was Don Longton, a fellow with whom he had struck up a passably decent relationship over the past few months. Longton was standing in the shadow cast by the memorial, his face completely obscured.

  ‘Don,’ Franklands said in greeting. ‘Got a charged-up phone for you.’

  Longton did not say a word. Franklands knew he was being sussed up and down through the blackness. He could feel Longton’s eyes on him.

  There was actually nothing in that moment to give it away; even so, Frankland’s instincts burst into life like a ruptured appendix. He knew there was big trouble afoot and that he had been lured to this spot for some reason.

  ‘Everything OK, Don?’ he asked the big, silent figure, almost unable to utter the words, he was so frightened.

  It was not.

  Franklands heard a shuffling noise behind him, turned quickly and found two men standing there, having stepped out from the other side of the monument. Franklands edged away a pace, recognising the two immediately. They were the men who had been acting as doormen for Vince Bellamy at the Berlin, the ones who had been done over earlier by some mad guy or other. Their names were Baxter and Higgins. Both were peas out of the same pod. Hard nuts, London upbringings, Nazi tattoos, brainless cunts. Baxter had a plaster over his nose where he had been head butted and a cottonwool bud screwed into each nostril. Both his eyes were black and swollen. He did not look well. He and Higgins – who had been kneed in the balls by the mad guy – looked like two pissed-off individuals who wanted to vent some spleen.

  Franklands quaked in his boots.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked shakily, knowing his time had come, but not knowing why. His eyes flicked back and forth between all three men, weighing up the distance between them and him, calculating if he could make a break for it.

  As if reading his thoughts, Longton stepped menacingly out of the shadows.

  ‘Snitches need sorting,’ Longton growled like a bear. ‘Good style.’

  All three towered as he cowered.

  ‘Hey, this is shit,’ Franklands pleaded. ‘What’s going on? I ain’t no snitch to anyone. There is a fucking error here.’ His hands rose defensively, palms out, trying to pacify them and make them keep their distance.

  He decided to try and run for it. It was his only option. They had obviously been given their instructions and nothing he said would change that – rather like the Gestapo, he thought. He turned, about to leg it.

  With no warning whatsoever, Longton turned towards the bouncer called Baxter, the one with the plastered nose. The other man, Higgins, grabbed Baxter, who was not expecting this, and gripped him in a vice-like bear hug.

  ‘What the––?’

  The word ‘fuck’ was cut off as Longton, who had eased a spiked knuckle duster onto his right fist, smashed Baxter heavily and accurately in the face. Baxter’s face exploded. His already broken nose burst open. Blood sprayed everywhere. The next blow slammed into his left eye and cheekbone, the spikes of the knuckle duster piercing his eyeball, breaking his cheekbone. The third blow, in more or less the same place, tore the eye socket open and put Baxter into semi-consciousness.

  Higgins opened his arms and let the limp body crumble to the ground.

  Franklands, appalled, looked on, his hands covering his wide-open mouth. ‘Jesus, Jesus,’ he kept repeating, never having witnessed such dreadful, focused violence.

  Longton and Higgins started kicking Baxter. Kick, after kick, after kick. Both were wearing steel toe-capped boots. After this they began jumping up and down on his head, smashing the soles of their shoes into his skull with as much power as they could muster. He was dead before the two of them dragged his body to the sea wall. Longton and Higgins rolled him to the edge and kicked him underneath the railings into the waves below. His body made a splash, then the waves tugged him away and pounded him back against the sea wall like flotsam.

  Longton and Higgins stood there breathing heavily before turning to each other and exchanging a high-five of victory.

  Franklands, silenced and terrified, watched them. His whole being shook. He felt physically sick.

  Longton put an arm around Franklands’ shoulder.

  ‘Got that phone, pal?’

  ‘Y-yeah,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Give it here.’

  He handed it over. Longton punched in a number.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘It’s a done job.’ He ended the call and gave Franklands a big hug and a pat. ‘Well done, mate.’

  Shoreside was still like a war zone. The council had been unable to start any repair work during the day, so the estate remained in absolute darkness.

  ‘Spooky,’ Henry observed, driving onto the estate, speculating whether it was really such a good idea to go to the Costains. Perhaps Jane and Mark had made the same mistake, had been ambushed and were lying injured in some dark alley – or worse. But that still did not explain their cars down on South Shore.

  Gangs of kids roamed the streets, hanging out on corners like packs of wild dogs. They were dark shapes, evil and frightening, even though they were only kids. People were trapped in their houses again, afraid to step out. Henry could taste the fear and the tension in the air coming through the partly open car window. Fires burned on waste ground.

  Henry drove slowly past a dozen youths gathered at the entrance to a ginnel. They jeered, spat and flashed V signs at the car, making his blood simmer. He did not react but drove on by, gritting his teeth, pulling on his shirt collar to let steam out.

  There was a loud crack on the car roof: a half house brick lobbed by one of the gang. Henry and Byrne ducked instinctively. Henry’s right foot slammed down on the gas pedal.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yes – shit,’ Byrne agreed, thankful they were quickly out of range.

  Both men were tense.

  Henry did not stop to check the damage. They could do that later, somewhere safe. Nor did he try to root out the offender. Both acts would have been foolish and potentially dangerous. The gang would have loved it and things could have got very nasty very quickly. It was always the wise cop who knew when to let things be, because every dog has its day.

  There were no further incidents and they reached the Costain household unscathed. The house was lit up. Faces peered through the window at the car and its unwelcome occupants.

  Henry sat pensively for a moment, elbows resting on the lower rim of the steering wheel.

  ‘How are you going to handle this, boss? I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Let me put it this way, Dermot, my plan is still in its infancy, but I think I have an ace up my sleeve. Let’s just hope the cards get dealt my way. Come on.’ He got out of the car and strode confidently up the path to the front door.

  It opened before he even reached it.

  Henry breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was: Troy Costain, Joey’s eldest brother. Named, Henry suspected, after the great Troy Tempest of Stingray fame. He was the first person Jane Roscoe’s search team had encountered on their early morning raid, the one who had wanted a fight.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Troy yelled.

  Henry did not break his stride, but bore down on Troy and stuck his forefinger into his chest and said, ‘You, Troy. I want you, now. I want you in your coat, out of this house and in the back of that cop car before I can say “Alakazoo” – get me?’

  Troy swallowed. ‘Why, what the fuck have I done?’

  Henry poked his chest again. ‘Fucking do it now,’ he hissed and u
nder his breath, so that only Troy could hear, he said, ‘Do not piss me about, Troy. This is serious shit.’

  Costain sneered, but wilted. He withdrew with a nod and closed the door behind him.

  Henry glanced back at Byrne, some ten feet away at the garden gate. Henry smiled and tossed the car keys to his sergeant. ‘Stand by the car and get ready for a quick getaway.’ Henry looked past Byrne’s shoulder. A bunch of youths were beginning to filter in and gather on the opposite side of the road, drawn by the police presence, looking for any excuse for trouble. If Troy did not co-operate with Henry as he hoped he would, it could be a signal for bother and the two cops could be in for some real grief. Henry licked his dry lips. He had policed the streets of Blackpool, on and off, for a lot of years. Never had he known such a feeling of hatred in the air, never before had he felt so vulnerable on Shoreside where he was very well known by the good guys and the bad guys alike. He’d had moments of anxiety, even been whacked a couple of times, but they had been run-of-the-mill things that every cop got at some time or another. This was different. Dave Seymour had made it different. Cops had become game animals. ‘C’mon y’prick,’ he whispered.

  ‘Black bastard,’ one of the gang across the street called – terminology often applied by scrotes to police officers, no matter what the colour of their skin.

  Byrne walked to and stood by the car.

  Henry was about to rap on the door again when it opened. A waft of shouts and abuse flowed out from the family inside as Troy came to the door. ‘It’ll be right,’ he shouted back into the house, pulling on his denim jacket. ‘This better be good,’ he growled low to Henry. ‘My folks are going ape-shit in there. I’ve had to really think on my toes to give ’em some bullshit.’