Backlash

by Nick Oldham

  Byrne had a sceptical expression on his face. ‘Don’t kid yourself, boss. That uniform won’t have you in it again.’

  ‘Wishful thinking,’ Henry said.

  He did not feel he had time to go to the flat and change into civvies. He wanted to get straight on with the job, despite the time of day. There was an argument, he supposed, that there would be very little that could be done, but he would have felt incredibly guilty getting some sleep and starting again at eight in the morning without having at first thought about the job. Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans were just as missing at midnight as they would be then. He had decided that at the very least he would do what he could now, then maybe get some rest.

  At 12.30 a.m. he – in his white shirt and black uniform trousers – together with Donaldson and Makin convened in FB’s Gold Command room. Henry had pinched a free-standing flip chart from somebody’s office on the floor below, together with some felt-tipped pens, and set it up at the front of the room.

  Makin had filtered some fresh coffee. She passed a steaming mug of it to Henry. ‘We’ll be operating on this for a while,’ she said.

  Donaldson sat down and looked expectantly at Henry. Makin sat down next to the American, but seemed a little distracted, constantly checking her pager as if she had missed a message.

  Henry was not feeling confident, but he was comforted by the two people sitting in front of him. Donaldson was an outstanding detective. His successes as an FBI field agent had been tremendous and his time as the FBI legal attaché in London had resulted in some major-league international criminals being snaffled in Europe. Henry did not know Makin, but he had every reason to believe that at the very least she would be a competent detective.

  ‘I don’t have a good sense about this one,’ Henry said, curling the fingers of his hands as though trying to grasp thin air. ‘The whole set of circumstances is odd and unsettling. I believe that if we don’t act quickly and push –’ he accentuated the word with a jab of his fist – ‘there will be tears shed.’ He saw Makin check her pager again. ‘So let’s have a quick look at what we’ve got, then take it from there.’

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Basil Kramer came in.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said.

  ‘Actually you are,’ Henry said. ‘Police work, actually.’ He hoped Kramer would get the message. Obviously the ruse did not work.

  ‘Won’t keep you long.’ He pointed at Makin and beckoned her. ‘Andrea, can I have a quick word out here, please?’

  A hard-edged expression came over her face. Reluctantly and very annoyed, she slowly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Does that wanker have carte blanche to go wandering around the police station unchecked?’ Henry demanded of Donaldson. ‘Gets on my tits, it does.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Donaldson said mildly. ‘What does “wanker” mean? Another quaint olde English expression for loathing, I guess?’

  ‘It means,’ Henry said, leaning forwards – but his vivid explanation did not get off the ground. The door opened and a flushed Makin came back in and sat down. She looked vexed.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Donaldson asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, let’s get on with it.’ She smiled warmly at Henry. ‘Over to you, Inspector.’

  ‘OK, so what have we got?’ He picked up the felt-tipped pen. ‘Let’s have a bit of a brainstorm – or do they call it a board-blast, in these days of political correctness? I understand brainstorm is offensive to lunatics.’

  ‘I suggest you stick to brainstorm, then,’ Donaldson said.

  Henry chuckled. A few minutes later the flip chart was full. There was enough things on it for a full team to get their teeth into. For three people there was far too much.

  ‘Who’s going to do what?’

  Makin jumped in. ‘I’ll start looking at the MO aspects of the crime itself. I’ll send a message to all forces asking if they’ve had similar crimes committed, say, in the last year – undetected, that is. That could give us a start.’ She peered at the chart for something else, struggling to read Henry’s spidery scrawl. ‘I think the key to this is finding out who Jane talked to before she disappeared –’ she held up her hands defensively – ‘I know it’s obvious, but I think that’s where you two should be looking. Y’know, trying to track down this “military type”.’

  The men nodded agreement. ‘We should start in the street Joey Costain lived in,’ Donaldson said. ‘See if any lights are on, then maybe knock a few people up. He sounds like he could be a well-known sorta guy.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s a neighbourhood watch in that area? Maybe a word with the co-ordinator wouldn’t go amiss. I’m sure he or she wouldn’t mind a phone call under the circumstances. Could save us some leg work. I’ll check with communications,’ Henry said

  A silence descended. Triple brain power in action. Lots of heat being generated by grey matter, but little else.

  ‘The husband aspect needs to be checked out,’ Donaldson pointed out. ‘You said Jane Roscoe told you she had an argument with her husband in the morning – could her disappearance be connected?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Henry conceded. His mouth turned down. ‘Doesn’t explain Mark Evans’ disappearance.’

  ‘Unless they were having an affair and the husband has killed ’em both, or Mark Evans’ wife has killed them or they’ve eloped together,’ Makin said. ‘Most murders have a domestic connection and we shouldn’t overlook that side of it, even though we’re pretty sure it’s not the case here.’

  ‘True,’ said Henry. ‘And at the very least, Jane’s husband and Mark’s wife need to know what’s going on and be asked a few searching questions. I’ll fix up for some personal visits.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Donaldson said speculatively, ‘this could just be a very tacky domestic situation, nothing whatsoever to do with Joey Costain.’

  ‘Well, let’s keep an open mind,’ Henry said. But he did not believe that the home life of either of the missing officers had anything at all to do with the present circumstance. He was drawn back to the two words on the flip chart at the bottom of all the others which he believed reflected the true situation. The words were: ‘abducted’ and ‘murdered’.

  Donaldson excused himself and announced he needed to pay an urgent visit to the loo. The excess of coffee, he said, was playing havoc with his bladder and bowels. Henry and Makin were left alone. Makin held her pager in the palm of her hand, checking it, tapping the display with a fingernail.

  Henry sat down next to her. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully, came to a decision and said, ‘Yes – actually there are several things not quite right.’

  Henry waited.

  ‘The first thing is that I want to clear the air between you and me. I made a bit of a fool of myself the other night. I mean, all that “come on” I was giving you was just – naff.’

  ‘I was flattered.’

  She snorted a short laugh. ‘Horrified, more like, I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t think Jane Roscoe was very impressed with me, either.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The look in her eyes?’ Makin’s voice rose at the end of the statement, turning it into a rhetorical question.

  Henry opened his palms, not getting it.

  ‘You dummy: the green-eyed monster. She’s got the hots for you, Henry, and I was muscling in on her patch. I’m surprised we didn’t end up fighting over you.’

  ‘But I’ve only just met her and I know she doesn’t like me very much,’ he protested feebly, knowing the statement was not really true.

  ‘You’d only just met me,’ Makin pointed out, ‘and I would’ve jumped into bed with you.’ She flashed her eyes.

  ‘And she’s married.’

  Makin leaned towards him. ‘That doesn’t stop her being head over heels, so let’s just hope we find her in one piece and if we do, you’ll see I’m right. Anyway, please don’t get the wron
g impression of me. I don’t just jump into bed at the drop of a hat with every gorgeous guy I meet – some I do, but not everyone. The thought of us was quite nice, but it’s a non-starter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Henry, unwilling to let the embers completely burn out. He always liked to keep a welcome in the hillside.

  ‘It was just that getting together with you might have helped me solve the problem of Basil “the bastard” Kramer.’

  ‘How so?’ he asked, intrigued.

  Makin’s face dropped. ‘He’s been harassing me for sex ever since I met him last week. Despite his money and position and power – and his looks – he gives me the creeps.’ She shivered as though a snake had slithered down her backbone. The thought of the man was upsetting her. ‘He uses his power to get what he wants. He’s the most unethical git I’ve come across in a long time. Promised me all sorts for a fuck and blow job.’ She folded her arms defensively.

  ‘Is he bumming FB, then?’

  The thought brought a smile to Makin’s face. ‘It would not surprise me.’

  ‘What a fantastic picture,’ Henry said, imagining the scene. He became serious again. ‘If you want me to speak to him, I will,’ he offered.

  ‘No.’ She put a hand on Henry’s forearm and squeezed gently. ‘I’ll try and sort him myself – oops!’ Quickly she removed her hand as though struck by electricity. ‘There I go again. You must be irresistible.’

  Donaldson came back into the room, singing some obscure country music song.

  ‘Anyway,’ Makin said, ‘that’s the personal dross over with, the real big problem is that, as you know, I have an officer working undercover with Hellfire Dawn. He should have made contact and hasn’t done. I’m worried. It’s not like him. He’s missed his second fallback call, too.’

  ‘That is a problem,’ Henry sympathised. ‘But going under cover is not rocket science,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Been there, got the T-shirt.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, her face anxious. ‘There is another fallback at noon. If he doesn’t call by then, I’ll really need to look at it.’

  The three of them were about to leave the room and start their enquiries when FB and Basil Kramer entered the room rather like the Blues Brothers, though without the style or the sunglasses.

  ‘Bloody hell, I’m glad we caught you,’ FB breathed. ‘Come with us now.’

  ‘Why? Where? We were just about to get cracking,’ Henry complained.

  ‘Have to wait, have to wait,’ FB blithered, his underpants apparently twisted around his testicles.

  ‘Why?’ Henry’s question this time was more forceful. He did not want to get sidetracked by any more garbage.

  Basil Kramer cut in with a ‘Tch!’ at FB. ‘Because the prime minister wants to see you all now.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ Henry asked.

  They all bundled into FB’s police BMW. Donaldson ended up in the front passenger seat where Henry would have expected Kramer to sit. The MP hovered and held back, jockeying subtly for position, and Henry realised what he was doing when he slid in next to Makin on the back seat. Henry sat on the other side of her, boxing her in between them.

  Makin crushed herself up against Henry in an effort to keep away from Kramer. It was tight and uncomfortable for Henry, but not altogether unpleasant as he found that Makin had all the right bulges in all the right places.

  FB gunned the car out of the police car park, ensuring the people in the rear were continually thrown against each other.

  ‘What does he want?’ Henry asked casually – as though the prime minister often asked to see him.

  ‘To see us all,’ said FB unhelpfully.

  The car veered round a corner, tyres squealing. Makin got tighter into Henry. She was very warm, he noted. Her mouth turned to his ear, less than an inch away. Her hot breath blew against his ear lobe and he quivered. ‘He’s got his hand on my leg,’ she hissed.

  Henry looked down. There it was. Like a nasty, albino spider, right at the top of her thigh, his little finger lost in one of the folds of her jeans by her crotch. The hands squeezed, the little finger moved against the denim above her vagina.

  ‘Do something.’ She sounded afraid.

  Henry leaned across. He lifted Kramer’s fingers up and bent them backwards. Kramer gasped and tried to wriggle free. Henry’s eyes looked into his astonished face. He did not release his grip. Between the two men, Makin tried to push herself out of the way, deep into the seat cushion. Suddenly Henry yanked at Kramer’s hand, pulling the man down so they were face to face, their noses inches apart in front of Makin. Henry said one word, ‘Don’t.’ He let go.

  Kramer sat back quickly, anger contorting his features. He rubbed the joints in his fingers and glared at Henry who deliberately held the look with an impassivity designed to inflame Kramer’s temper. Henry did not wilt under an expression which uttered a thousand silent warnings.

  Kramer was first to give in. With a sneer of contempt, he looked away.

  Henry relaxed. Makin’s lips voiced a silent, ‘Thanks.’ Henry thought bleakly that it did not seem to matter what rank or how high up women go, it seemed they are always liable to be the targets of the power of men.

  FB drove into the car park of the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, home of the British Prime Minister for the week.

  He had the best suite in the hotel, of course, overlooking the promenade with distant views across the Irish Sea. The plush curtains were drawn at this time of night, blocking a view which was actually slightly distorted anyway. Three-inch-thick toughened glass, capable of withstanding a small rocket, does have a tendency to bend the light somewhat, as well as protecting the prime minister.

  Only after two Metropolitan diplomatic protection officers had searched all three of them for a second time (the first being when they entered the hotel and had to submit to an electronic and manual search) were they admitted into the room.

  The prime minister was sitting on a large sofa, legs outstretched across a coffee table. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck, jeans and sloppy slippers. He looked casual and relaxed. He was leafing through a stack of official-looking papers. On the floor next to him was a tatty-looking red leather briefcase.

  ‘Ahh, people,’ he said. He tapped his papers straight and dropped them into the briefcase. He jumped up, smiling broadly. ‘Basil.’ He beamed at Kramer. They shook hands and patted each other’s shoulders like old buddies.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ Kramer said, turning to face the four people he had brought with him, all standing there rather sheepishly. ‘You already know ACC Fanshaw-Bayley from our host force, who is in charge of the conference operation.’

  ‘Ah yes, we have met from time to time.’ He shook FB’s hand. ‘How is your son, by the way. He was going to university last time we met, if I recall.’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine, fine,’ babbled FB, thrown. ‘In his last year now, doing well.’

  ‘Good,’ the PM said benignly.

  Kramer continued with the introductions. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Makin from the Met.’ Handshake, more smiling. ‘Karl Donaldson from the FBI legal attaché in London.’ Handshake. ‘And last,’ Kramer said, missing out the ‘but not least’, ‘Inspector Christie, Lancashire Police.’

  Henry and the PM shook hands. Henry had only ever once been this close to a prime minister before. That had been in the early 1980s when Margaret Thatcher had visited Rawtenstall and Henry had accompanied her, with other officers, during a walkabout through the shopping centre in the days when a terrorist attack on the mainland was unthinkable. His lasting memory of her was that she was very hairy.

  The first impression he got of the present PM was that he looked about twenty years too young to be doing the job. Like coppers get younger and younger, maybe the same applied to politicians.

  ‘Please,’ the PM swept a hand round, ‘everyone take a seat.’

  As bums touched seats the prime minister’s wife, Diane, c
ame out of the bedroom wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown and big bunny slippers. This was the PM’s second wife, his first having died of cancer five years before. There had been uproar when he remarried not just because she was nearly ten years younger than him, or because she had been married before and was divorced, or because she owned a media-related business, or because she was very beautiful, or because it did not seem that enough time had passed between the PM’s first wife dying, but mainly because she was black. And was now pregnant with the PM’s baby.

  Henry was agog at just how attractive she was in the flesh.

  She smiled at everyone. ‘Should I arrange tea, Richard?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ he said. She nodded and returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her, presumably about to use room service.

  The smile dropped from the PM’s face and he became all business.

  ‘Now, people, Mr Kramer informs me that we have some problems out there. I would like to be briefed from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

  Kramer eyed FB.

  FB spluttered at being put on the spot, overawed by the company. ‘Er . . . yes . . . erm . . . I actually think that the appropriate person to explain is Inspector Christie. He has hands-on control of the situation. Inspector?’ FB faced Henry, turning right away from the PM, giving Henry a nod and a look which said, ‘Let me down at your peril.’

  The uniformed inspector had a bit of a problem in stopping his bottom lips from dropping. He did a double-take on his boss, then looked at the PM who was already pissed off with the farce taking place in front of him.

  More rapidly than he would have liked in normal circumstances, he got his thoughts together and spoke. ‘Several things have happened this week. Firstly there was a large disturbance on a council estate in which one of our officers was badly injured. Three murders have been committed and now two of our officers have disappeared while investigating one of these, and a bomb has also exploded in a gay bar, but thankfully no one was injured.’

  The suite door opened. A waiter and trolley came in, bearing tea, coffee and biscuits. Henry paused until the waiter left.