Backlash (13 page)

The ACC sat down slowly behind his expansive and very neat desk which had a large clean blotter on it – no spilled blood, Henry noticed – and an in-tray and an out-tray, both empty. This seating arrangement retained the psychological advantage for FB, who was physically much smaller than Henry. The ACC sat back, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the spire, critically appraising the lower-ranking officer.

‘You wanted to see me, sir,' Henry said, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

‘Yess,' FB said, drawing out the word. ‘How are you feeling? You've really been through the ringer, haven't you?'

Henry acknowledged this with a slight tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow.

‘And now you're coming back.'

Henry was not sure whether this was a question or not. To compromise he nodded. He found himself increasingly puzzled: FB didn't seem quite sure where to begin or what to say. Even so, Henry didn't liked being here: something bad was going to happen.

‘On Monday,' FB said.

‘Yes, sir. Back Monday. Can't wait to get stuck in again.' He almost punched the air with forced enthusiasm. ‘Too much idle time, too much doing nothing – my head's cabbaged.'

FB's fingertips were still supporting his chin, his lips pursed. He took in a huge deep breath through flared nostrils and laid his hands flat on the desk, announcing via body language that things were about to be declared. Henry prepared himself.

‘Right,' he said with the finality of decision, ‘I've pussyfooted around too long already. Can't stand all this touchy-feely stuff. You know and I know I'm a man who likes to come to the point and I think we've known each other long enough to be able to say things straight to each other. You wouldn't want it any other way, would you?' Giving Henry no chance to respond he steamrollered on. ‘I've looked very closely at what's happened to you over the last few months, then even further back over the last four or five years. You've had to deal with some very high-profile stuff, some dangerous and messy stuff too. And this came to a head for you after Danny Furness died – and the result was that you had a nervous breakdown – a good and proper one.'

Henry stiffened. His mouth dried up and his poor heart began to pound. This felt like the overture to an ill-health pension. The bastard was going to get rid of him. Henry tried to speak but nothing came out.

‘Between Danny getting killed and you going off sick, your work suffered dramatically, I'm sure you'd agree. To be honest, Henry, your performance was a shambles. The whole of Blackpool CID suffered because of you.'

Henry rolled back in his chair, stunned. This was the first time anyone had ever said that to him – that he could recall. So, FB, just say what you mean, don't mince your words.

‘Detections plummeted, discipline was non-existent, there was no management to speak of––'

‘I was going through a bit of a rough patch,' Henry interrupted. He emphasised the word ‘bit' and hoped he sounded reasonable, but was aware of a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.

FB instantly held up a hand to shut him up. ‘Let me finish, and let me be brutally honest, Henry, something this force has been a little short of recently, honesty. The good running of the CID is my responsibility, as you know. The shit stops here, in other words.' He placed a hand on the left-hand side of his chest where he believed his heart to be. ‘And I'm not afraid to make hard decisions to keep the department running smoothly. I believe very firmly that, at the present time, you do not have the capability or the capacity within yourself to go straight back into your former role and operate a hundred per cent effectively, which is what I need – especially in Blackpool. Fourteen murders this year. Fourteen of the fuckers! I need people who are with it.' He clicked his fingers a few times while speaking. ‘On the ball.' Click. ‘Operating slick and fast.' Click. ‘And at the moment you don't fit the bill. So I've had to make a tough decision – even tougher because I know you and like you.'

Henry kept his mouth closed.

‘I've decided to transfer you to another job and maybe in a few months' time we'll review the situation. Your replacement has already been in post for a few weeks.'

‘Transfer to what?' For a moment Henry thought he might get something decent out of this. Major Crime Unit would be nice. The look on FB's face informed him otherwise.

‘Uniform Inspector, Blackpool Central. As of Monday. 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. Reactive cover.'

The words sank slowly into Henry's skull.

‘It'll give you time to settle in, find your feet again,' FB smarmed management bull.

Henry could not find a response. He almost went for the cliché, the line so beloved of the second-rate movie where the hero gets busted (usually for gung-ho antics as opposed to a stress-related sickness), the line, which in an army flick, might be something like, ‘It's the SAS or nothing, sah!'

However, Henry's reality was that he was a real person, a cop, a small cog in a big, lumbering organisation which rumbled on from day to day, decade to decade, oblivious to the movement of its staff. Even if it was ‘CID or nothing', the police force would not bat an eyelid if he chose the ‘nothing' option. It would get along just fine and dandy without him, as it had done for the last couple of months. He was, he realised, very dispensable.

‘I haven't got any uniform that fits me any more,' he whined weakly.

‘I thought of that,' FB said paternally. ‘Clothing stores will be expecting you.'

FB glanced at his wall clock and gave Henry a look which said, meeting over. And that was it. Dirty deed done.

Henry had left the office immediately.

Henry could have delegated one of the PCs to present the woman prisoner to the custody officer. Just to be awkward and keep FB waiting, he chose to do the job himself.

The girl walked meekly from the carrier into custody reception, standing with head bowed in front of the desk, not looking directly at anyone, but muttering under her breath. Henry outlined the circumstances of the arrest and the amount of force he had used in effecting it. The custody sergeant dutifully recorded everything. When it came to the girl's name, she refused to give it.

A female PC was brought in to search her and found nothing. Henry suggested that a strip search should be carried out because she could well have articles concealed on her which might be used to injure herself or others. After all, the stick she had whacked him with had been hidden somewhere, so there could be more secreted inside her clothing.

‘You'd love to strip search me, wouldn't you, you bastard,' the girl said, sneering at Henry. For the first time she lifted her face to the light and Henry got a proper look at her. She had a harsh, white face, with an embittered expression which looked incapable of cracking into a smile.

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘What about you, then, lesbian bitch?' She nodded her head at the female officer.

‘I'd rather search a decomposed body, luv,' the officer responded.

‘Liar!'

The custody officer summoned another female officer to help out and they steered her away to an interview room.

Henry took the opportunity to ring communications and got them to tell FB that he would be delayed slightly because of the prisoner.

The strip search was carried out quickly and efficiently and the policewomen emerged with victorious smiles. They had found a packet of white powder secreted between the cheeks of her bottom and a flick knife sellotaped uncomfortably in her bra, underneath her left breast. Her clothing was bundled up for forensic examination and the girl, dressed in a white paper suit was led away to the cells.

As Henry walked out of the custody office towards the lift, Dermot Byrne was walking out of the building.

‘Good arrest that,' he said to Henry. ‘You ran like a whippet, boss.'

‘Thanks.' Henry beamed, thinking: Whippet? More like a cheetah, actually.

T
he pleasure was short lived. It lasted all of the four strides it took Henry to walk out of the custody office and turn left into the dingy corridor leading to the stairs and lift. It lasted until he came face to face with ACC Fanshaw-Bayley who was storming down in the opposite direction.

Henry came to an abrupt standstill. FB scowled angrily at him, his mouth a tight line, his eyes ablaze. The silence was short and sour. Just long enough for Henry's Adam's apple to rise and fall.

FB's voice, initially, was measured and precise in its tone. ‘When I ask a lower-ranking officer to come in and see me, I expect him to drop everything and come in straight away.' Then he erupted, having kept his cool for long enough: ‘I do not expect to be kept waiting for almost three-quarters of an hour! Do you understand, Inspector?'

The hairs on the back of Henry's neck crawled like a mass of insects on his skin. He could feel redness creeping up under his collar. His nostrils dilated. He was aware that Dermot Byrne was now standing in the corridor behind him, witnessing this very public dressing down. He managed to keep his voice controlled. ‘I understand.' However, he could not manage to add a respectful ‘sir'.

‘I am not fucking accustomed –' FB continued with the tirade, seeming not to have heard Henry – ‘to having lower-ranking officers taking the piss out of me. I've a bloody good mind to put you on paper for insubordination.'

‘Could we possibly do this elsewhere?' Henry asked mildly. To say the least, it was very poor management practice to bollock people in front of others.

‘I'll decide where and when I speak to you,' FB raged at this insolent suggestion. His face was crimson. He was trembling. In passing, Henry half-prayed that FB's heart would explode, but realised it was unlikely, and he had no desire to give the man the kiss of life.

Henry shook his head. ‘I'll be in my office,' he said stiffly, ‘and you can speak to me there if you wish – but I will not be spoken to by anyone like this in a corridor with other people watching. It's embarrassing – and not just for them.' He brushed roughly past the smaller, rounder, man before another word could be uttered, and bounded up the stairs three at a time. He was on the ground floor before FB could formulate a response.

He virtually booted open the inspectors' office door. It crashed back on its hinges, smashing against the cabinets behind it. Henry stormed in and slammed the door shut behind him.

‘I do not have to put up with this kinda crap,' he said through his teeth and threw his heavy leather public-order gloves across the room.

Slumping into his chair, he began to unfasten his boots, drawing out the long laces, muttering angrily at the same time. ‘I do not have to do this, for Christ's sake. I don't have to put up with the likes of him.' He yanked the boot off and threw it against a locker. It stuck for a moment, then thudded to the floor like an injured crow. He started to untie his other boot and by the time it was unfastened, much of his annoyance had dissipated. He removed the boot slowly and lobbed it gently across the room where it fell against its companion.

Henry stood up and began to peel off his outer layer of clothing: the public-order overalls which he rolled up and placed on the desk. The uniform underneath was now even more creased than when he had initially put it on. The white shirt was grubby and sweat streaked around the collar and cuffs.

‘Shit,' he said, sitting down and putting his elbows on the desk. He dropped his head into his hands, intending to spend some quality time feeling sorry for himself.

The office door inched open. Henry looked up, wiping his grimy face, expecting the row with FB to continue. But it was Dermot Byrne bearing a mug of steaming tea and Henry's now very scuffed uniform shoes which had been left in the carrier.

‘Thought you might like these.'

‘Thanks, Dermot.' He took a sip. Hot and life saving, it tasted superb.

Byrne placed the shoes neatly on the floor and stood on the opposite side of the desk, nervously realigning the correspondence trays so they were edge to edge with the desk as he spoke. ‘If it's any consolation, I thought he was bang out of order . . . if you don't mind me saying so. He had no right to speak to you like that.'

‘He does and says what he wants and everybody's expected to roll with it. That's FB. It's just that I'm too long in the tooth now to be taking crap like that. There's nothing he can really do to me, so he can get stuffed.'

‘He's an ungrateful bastard,' Byrne said with feeling.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Oh, nothing,' he said back-tracking sharply. ‘Nothing. Anyway, you must be finding it hard, Henry, coming back to this – thrown in at the deep end – and your job given to someone else . . . and a woman at that.'

A big sigh escaped Henry and he said, ‘At least she seems capable.'

‘Still a woman, though, doing a man's job.'

Henry shrugged. ‘That's life – especially these days.'

Byrne shook his head, saddened by the state of affairs. ‘I'm surprised FB gave your job to a woman, actually, after all the shit he's been through recently.' He was alluding to the Employment Tribunal FB had faced recently, accused of sexual harassment which had never been proved.

‘Maybe that's exactly why he did it, to show he still believed in fairness and equality.'

Byrne opened his mouth to say something but the office door opened revealing FB. With a flick of the thumb he gestured for Byrne to get lost and leave the room. He came in, closed the door softly behind him, leaned against it, hooded eyes on Henry.

‘You and me need to talk,' he said. ‘I take your point about the corridor being an unsuitable place for a bollocking, but I still stick to what I said, even though I could have phrased it more . . . eloquently. I am a very busy man this week and I don't have the time to be waiting around for anybody, let alone a bloody inspector.'