Backlash (14 page)

‘And this inspector is also very busy – in case you hadn't noticed.' Henry was determined to stand his ground. ‘A whole bloody council estate has been hit by a riot, an officer is lying critically injured in hospital and I've just arrested someone who was carrying petrol bombs who may, or may not, be the one who burned Dave Seymour. I've got one bloody big problem out there and it needs policing – sir.' Henry had decided he'd spent too many years bending over backwards and being used by FB and he'd had enough of it. ‘And if you think that by bunging me back into uniform that life's a gas, then think again, boss. This is the sharp end and it hurts. CID is a piece of piss compared to this.'

FB had been pacing the office as Henry spoke. He stopped right in front of him and rocked on the balls of his feet while considering his response. He clicked his tongue. ‘I'll let it go this once, but that's it. I'm bearing in mind your little “problems” –' he tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to parenthesise the word – ‘and that this is your first day back and you're struggling a bit. But that's it. Now there's no quarter. I've let you blow off steam and have a go and if you speak to me like that again in any forum, I'll cut you off at the knees. Understand?'

Henry said nothing.

‘Good – what you've also got to realise is that I want everyone on the ball and responding because I'm under severe pressure this week – pressure that would just pop you – and I don't need anything else on top of it, like insubordinate subordinates. Get me? This is where it starts.'

This time Henry gave a curt nod.

‘Good.' FB inhaled, suddenly aware he'd been holding his breath. ‘Now come with me. I didn't ask you to come in to see me on a whim. There's people I need you to meet.'

He led Henry wordlessly through the corridors and into the lift. On the seventh floor Henry followed him into what had once been the officers' mess and was now a lounge for everyone to use, even the riff-raff. Except this week it had been commandeered by FB for use as his gold command post.

There were two men and a woman inside the room, sitting, talking quietly, drinking coffee. They looked up when FB and Henry came in.

‘You already know Karl Donaldson,' FB said, waving dismissively towards the nearest and biggest of the three.

Donaldson got to his feet, smiling his big, toothy, Yank smile. His big paw of a hand shot out towards Henry, who was also beaming with surprise. They shook hands warmly. Henry felt a surge of pleasure as his eyes took in the vision of his buddy.

‘Karl – good to see you.'

‘And great t'see you, H.'

Donaldson was assigned to the FBI office in London where he was a legal attaché. He was no longer a field agent as such; his job was to act as liaison between US law enforcement and British and European police forces. Most of his work was taken up with the Metropolitan Police. He and Henry had met several years earlier when they had been investigating links with American mob activity in the north of England. Since then their working relationship had continued sporadically, but their friendship had blossomed. Donaldson had even married a Lancashire policewoman now working in the Met. Henry and Donaldson had not actually seen or spoken to each other for some time due to the former retreating into a hermit-like shell during his bout of sickness.

It was Donaldson Henry had seen earlier that evening in FB's car as it had pulled away from the Imperial Hotel. He had intended to catch up with him then but the riot had slightly diverted him.

‘What are you doing up here?' Henry asked him. Their warm handshake continued as the question was posed.

‘That's what we're coming to,' FB interrupted brusquely, bringing the friendly greeting to a stony close. FB did not have a great deal of time for Donaldson who, for several reasons, tended to rub him up the wrong way. Henry and Donaldson completed their handshake. The American gave a sly wink. The feeling between the American and FB was mutual – he couldn't stand the prick.

The other man and woman in the room got to their feet.

FB indicated the woman with a pleasant, open-handed gesture, totally opposite to the crooked finger he had pointed at Donaldson. In fact his whole manner had changed as he introduced her. He became slick and smooth, almost reptilian and very attentive. It was screamingly obvious he would have liked the opportunity to get into her panties.

‘This,' he said sweetly, ‘is Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin, Met Special Branch. Andrea, this is Henry Christie, the night inspector.' As FB's eyes left her, they changed from languid pools of passion back to hard chunks of ice.

Makin smiled and proffered her hand, which Henry shook. He nodded pleasantly and gave her the once over – discreetly – but did not feel too sexist by his actions because she did exactly the same to him. Henry had only the most fleeting chance to take her in before returning to business, but he liked what he saw. A tall, rangy woman, with a lovely face – wide nose, full lips – and a body which he knew instinctively would be in tip-top shape under the practical, well-tailored suit she wore. He put her in her late thirties – the minimum she would have to be, realistically, to have achieved her rank, unless she was a high flier.

‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘Same here ma'am,' he responded formally, almost clicking his heels and kissing the back of her hand.

‘And this,' FB said – a slight trace of annoyance in his voice because he had picked up the exchanged glances between Henry and Makin, ‘is Basil Kramer, MP, who I'm sure you'll have heard of.'

Henry turned his attention to Kramer: early thirties, cool, suave, plausible and impeccably dressed. Henry had heard of him, as had most of the population of England and Wales. At least those who possessed a TV set.

Kramer was extremely rich, having inherited the family business in his late teens following the death of his father and then doubling its already massive profits within five years, making it a leading global clothing manufacturer. Then, bored with business, he turned with equally spectacular success to the murkier world of politics. He was a bachelor, reputed to have dated and bedded several high-profile, but legally available females. Even in Henry Christie's self-woven cocoon, he had heard of Basil Kramer. The man with the potential to go all the way. The young flier who, having been given the chance to fight a by-election three years earlier in a constituency which was blatantly anti-government had, by dint of his charm and endeavour, turned round a massive loss into a tiny majority and become an MP at the first attempt and in so doing he had become the prime minister's blue-eyed boy and chief spin-doctor into the bargain.

He had all the necessary attributes to go far: boyish good looks, charisma, credibility, a fine brain and, unusual in a politician, the ability to actually answer direct questions with apparently direct answers. If the press wanted a soundbite on any subject, Basil Kramer obliged. If the government needed spin, he provided it. And if Jeremy Paxman wanted a TV lashing, Kramer was the man to crack the whip.

He had become the PM's right-hand man. It was rumoured in hushed tones that it was Kramer, not the PM, who ran the country.

They shook hands. Kramer flashed Henry a winning, professional smile. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Inspector. I know you've been extremely busy for the last few hours . . . even just arrested someone, I hear?'

‘That's right.'

‘Good to know the streets of Blackpool are in such capable hands – at least this week, anyway.'

‘Thanks.' Little did Kramer know that Henry's hands felt about as safe as a sieve.

‘Very unfortunate about your colleague, Mr Seymour,' Kramer said, adopting the correctly sympathetic tone of voice.

Henry's heart crashed to his stomach. He spun to FB, his face betraying his anxiety.

FB held up two hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. ‘No need to worry – he's still alive,' the ACC said quickly. ‘Grab a coffee, Henry. Then take a seat.'

He did as bid, then sat in one of the low, comfortable leather chairs – remnants of the good life of the officers' mess – and sniffed the aroma of the coffee. It was real, filtered, very strong. He took a sip. The caffeine hit the spot immediately.

Henry looked expectantly at the four faces, waiting for one of them to begin.

‘I think you should kick this off, Andrea,' FB said to Makin.

She cleared her throat. ‘OK.' She sat down opposite Henry and leaned towards him. ‘One of my specific responsibilities is to keep a check on the activities of extreme right-wing organisations and their members. It's pretty much my main job, actually, because they are increasingly active, mainly on the back of the Nazi movement in Germany which is very powerful at the moment. Their British counterparts do tend, on the whole, to be less inclined to violent action, even though they promote and support it through their literature and rallies. That said, they are a very organised and nasty bunch of individuals driven by a warped philosophy aimed primarily against black and Asian people, lesbians, gays, Jews – the last group probably inherited from the Germans.'

‘Who are we talking about here?' Henry asked

‘The Right Wingers, the National Socialist Party, the One True Race and Combat 18 among others – but those are the main players.'

Henry had heard of them all. Thoughts and images of them made the corners of his mouth twist down in distaste. It made him sad and angry that such groups could exist and thrive in Britain, but they did. They prospered.

‘All thoroughly bad, but why are you telling me this?'

FB uttered a short ‘Tch!' intimating that Henry should have automatically made the connection already. Actually he did have an idea where it was leading, but wanted someone else to say it. He kept his eyes firmly on Makin and pretended not to have heard FB.

‘Conference week,' she said patiently.

Henry nodded.

‘I've had an undercover cop working in some of these groups for the last three years – a pretty hairy job, as you can imagine,' Makin said. Henry could imagine. He had been undercover several times. It was not glorious or pleasant. It was an awful job which wrecked nerves and marriages. ‘Two years ago there were big ructions in the top level of the Right Wingers. Their leaders fell out big style. The issue was that some of them believed the Wingers had become soft. Not enough direct action going on. All the right words being spouted, all the right-wing posturing being done, but the only thing that was happening in a co-ordinated manner was football violence, and even that was pretty poor. Some people in the Wingers wanted more – much more.'

‘Such as?' Henry asked.

Makin cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Forgive the use of the language, this is their terminology: they wanted Paki bashing; they wanted queer bashing; they wanted racial hatred and tension stirred up endlessly; they wanted Jews harassed – and the Wingers were not delivering. In essence, a lot of the people wanted to provoke a race war.'

‘So there was a split?' Henry suggested.

‘Spot on.' Makin clicked her forefinger at Henry. ‘And then for a short, intense period there was violence on the streets – but it was between themselves. Power struggles. Beatings, counter-beatings. The Right Wingers were in disarray.'

‘It was in the newspapers,' FB chipped in.

Henry remembered reading it. Such a long time ago – two years.

He glanced at FB and then at Basil Kramer. The latter had not spoken or tried to say anything while Makin was speaking. Henry admired him very slightly for that – but only slightly, because he did not like politicians. However, he knew that most would have tried to hog the limelight, whatever the forum. His eyes returned to Makin who was massaging her face and yawning.

‘Yeah, it hit the papers,' she said. ‘Bit of a nine-day wonder as far as the media was concerned, but it threw up lots of useful intelligence for us because people were arrested left, right and centre for assault. Then it all went quiet. The Right Wingers regrouped and a splinter group began to get their own act together. They consisted of the more militant-minded ex-Wingers. They got their strategy together and from that came their plan and from the plan came action. They are well organised. Tight little cells all on a need-to-know basis. I put an undercover cop in, but it's been difficult to get much information.' She stopped.

Henry blinked dumbly, waiting for her to continue.

‘So the information that's come to us is very late and caught us on the hop because things have already started to happen on the streets.'

‘The disturbances you've been quelling tonight,' Kramer said.

‘Yes.' FB grunted. ‘They've already kicked off on our patch.'

Makin said, ‘The information we have received is that this new splinter group has decided to use conference week to bring their cause to the streets and in their words – “Blackpool is gonna burn this week”.'

Makin wrapped her fingers around her left knee and smiled at Henry.

Occasionally he had a flash of clarity, usually accompanied by extreme anger. Like for instance, just then, just for a moment. Everything up to that point had been a meaningless jumble. A whirl of multi-layered, slow-moving images, colours and pain. Nothing seemed to make any sense. Even his own voice had sounded strange to him: deep and inhuman as it responded to the distorted sounds coming from other people's mouths. It had been awful.

Suddenly it cleared. Like a gate opening. Like the beam of a searchlight in the night sky. Almost like the light of God.

And here he was, knowing exactly what had happened over the last few hours, where he was, why he was here and how long he had been waiting for treatment, flanked by two burly uniformed cops in the A&E department of Blackpool Victoria Hospital.

‘Hours!' he blurted unexpectedly, making both cops jump. He twisted round and tried to get to his feet. ‘I've been waiting friggin' hours – yet that bastard cop got treated right away. All patched up and nice, the twat! Not me. Nooo! A second-class citizen, me. Kit Nevison – cunt and troublemaker. You don't care about me, do you? A junkie. Out of work. Out of fuckin' money!'