Big City Jacks (37 page)

On the second morning at home, still booked off sick from work, he was striding down the promenade at Blackpool, heading north towards Bispham . . . when he suddenly stopped because he had no recollection whatsoever of how he had actually got there.

He knew where he was and that he must have walked there from home, but for the life of him he could not recall putting his feet out of the front door and setting off. To get where he was, he estimated, would have taken him a good hour and a half, but that ninety minutes was just a void.

A sensation of panic rippled through him.

‘This,' he said worriedly to himself, ‘is very bad.' He was convinced that his mind had now completely gone kaput. The madness of Henry Christie. He quickly found a seat in a shelter and plonked himself down next to two old ladies who were openly displaying their underwear. He smiled at them, but it must have been more a frightening grimace and they cowered away from the sex-crazed murderous fiend who was obviously about to rape and kill them.

He sat with his head in his hands for a few minutes, breathing deeply and trying to regain some iota of control. ‘Get a grip,' he instructed himself with a growl.

Gradually he became aware that someone was standing near to him. He raised his eyes to see a man, out of breath, maybe as old as he was, a few feet away, looking at him. The man's right arm was in a sling. He looked dreadful, unshaved, eyes sunken, skin grey and sagging.

‘Can I help?' Henry asked, wondering if this was the start of a new life for him, one in which he played a major part in the care-in-the-community scene. The man looked slightly demented, hunted even.

‘Thank God you stopped,' he said, panting. ‘I thought you'd go on forever. I've been following you for ages.'

Henry's heart missed a beat. ‘Why?' he snarled. ‘Do I look like a nutter?'

‘No, no, no,' the man said. ‘No, I need to talk to you.'

Henry's next thought was that he was being picked up. Maybe the gay scene was actually his next move. ‘I'm a cop, you know,' he said, hoping to fend the man off for good.

‘Yeah, I know,' the man said. ‘You're an SIO.'

This brought Henry upright. At that moment, something else jarred in his tumble drier of a mind . . . something about a clown and a van. ‘How do you know that?'

‘Cos I'm a cop, too.'

Henry's mind was definitely hurting now. ‘OK, so why have you been following me?'

‘My name's Lawrence Bignall,' he said. ‘I know who killed Keith Snell . . . and I need protection.'

It took a few moments for Henry to actually remember who Keith Snell was, then, as quick as a brick flying through a window, everything suddenly slotted back into place. And at that exact moment Henry remembered something else which was vitally important, making a connection that, until then, he had been grasping for unsuccessfully.

He stood up. Everything was now clear.

Lawrence Bignall showed Henry his shoulder, peeling back the dressing to reveal an ugly red wound seeping unhealthily.

‘Keith Snell did that to me,' he said.

They were sitting in an interview room at Fleetwood police station, Henry having decided to go there because it was quiet, out of the way, and there was less likelihood of an interruption. They had flagged a taxi down on the promenade to take them.

Bignall looked fearfully at Henry. ‘I checked myself out of the hospital before treatment was complete . . . I couldn't stay in. It was too dangerous.'

‘Why?'

‘A feeling. More than a feeling, actually . . . I just knew I was a liability to them . . . and the truth is, I am,' Bignall admitted. ‘I got scared and they saw I was scared. I'm surprised he pushed me out at the hospital in the first place.'

‘Hold it there,' Henry said. Bignall was far too ahead of himself now. Henry needed to reel him in, rewind right to the beginning, then press play. But even knowing that, Henry still could not resist asking, ‘Who's they? And who is he?'

Bignall's face screwed up, and he hesitated. This was one of those defining moments and both he and Henry knew that. The moment of no return.

‘They are the “Invincibles”,' he said, ‘and he is Phil Lynch.'

A good sign. Henry recalled both in his recently revamped memory.

He remembered sitting in the CID office at the Arena police station in Manchester – seemed like a year ago – and seeing a poster with the word “Invincibles” on it . . . and then he had been introduced to his Single Point of Contact, his SPOC. A detective sergeant called Phil Lynch.

A curious sensation travelled all the way from Henry's heart to what is affectionately known as the ‘ringpiece'. He kept a calm, outward exterior, although inside he was almost having a cardiac arrest at this information. When he said, ‘Let's take it back to square one, shall we? Tell me in a logical, chronological sequence, then I can understand everything you are telling me,' he did manage to keep a straight face and not jump up and down with excitement.

Two hours later, Henry, Dave Anger and Jane Roscoe were with Bignall. Henry had realized immediately that he could not keep any of this to himself. It was far too big for one man to handle and although it stuck in his gullet to go to Anger, he did it because it was the right thing to do.

Following Bignall's revelations to Henry, he had actually decided to relocate the witness away from any police station. Even though Fleetwood was a pretty quiet backwater, the police family is a pretty small one and word travels fast. He wanted to keep a lid on what was happening, so he contacted Rik Dean, the DS at Blackpool, and ordered – yes, ordered – him to drop everything and pick him and Bignall up at Fleetwood cop shop. Henry did not explain anything to Dean and Dean did not ask. It was unusual enough for Henry to ‘order' anyone to do anything – he usually worked by persuasion – so Dean instinctively knew something big was afoot. He kept his questions to himself.

‘Take us to headquarters,' Henry said quietly, ‘and don't tell anyone anything.'

‘OK.' Dean only glanced the once at Henry's less than professional appearance – unshaven and in a tracksuit and trainers.

Henry hustled Bignall out of the police station into the back of Dean's waiting car.

‘Any news on Roy Costain yet?' Henry asked Dean in a whisper.

Dean shook his head. Henry shrugged, certain that before the day was out the police would know, at the very least, where Roy was, if not have him in custody. He kept that little nugget from Dean, not wishing to divulge anything just yet.

As they headed out of the fishing town, Henry keyed Dave Anger's number into his mobile and called him.

When he said, ‘It's Henry Christie,' Anger barked, ‘You're supposed to be off sick and I'm in a meeting, trying to sort out the sorry mess you left behind, actually.'

‘I need to see you urgently.'

‘Yeah, right . . . your head still playing tricks with you? I'm surprised you can remember who I am.'

‘Don't be an arsehole,' Henry found the courage to say, eliciting a couple of very raised eyebrows from Rik Dean at the wheel, and a silent whistle of respect.

‘Who are you calling an . . .?'

‘Just shut it and listen, OK,' Henry interrupted firmly. ‘This is urgent and I can't talk to you over the phone. I need to see you face to face.'

‘About your transfer request, I hope.'

Henry was a pan of water just about on the boil. ‘No, it's about the accident . . . and the other stuff . . . the gun, all that. Take this seriously, it's very urgent,' he reiterated.

‘OK,' Anger relented unhappily. ‘Are you coming to see me at HQ?'

‘No . . .' Henry's mind scrambled for a location, suddenly deciding that HQ was not the best place for Bignall. ‘The Holiday Inn Express at Bamber Bridge, the new one just built near to Sainsbury's, just off the M6.'

‘Why there?'

‘Just be there – forty-five minutes, tops,' Henry snapped and folded his phone. He glanced sideways at Rik Dean. ‘OK, change of plan.'

‘Whatever.'

‘And after we've booked in, there's something I'd like you to do for me.'

‘Whatever.'

The hotel, as Henry said, was newly built, the paint barely dry. It was situated close to junction twenty-nine, overlooking a very busy part of the A6. Henry's journey took less than thirty minutes, which gave him time to book two adjoining rooms and settle Bignall down before Anger appeared on the scene. He purposely said very little to Bignall, but remained at the window, watching the road for Anger. When he spotted Anger's car going through the traffic lights, two people on board, he called him and told him what room to come to.

‘This better be spot on, Henry,' the superintendent said, ‘or I'll have your guts, mate.'

Henry simply laughed and was still sniggering superciliously when his mobile rang again, the number calling withheld.

‘That you, Henry?'

He recognized the voice at the other end instantly. ‘Christ – is that you, too?'

‘I'll refrain from saying no, it's not Christ, but I have risen from the dead, so I have a great deal in common with the Messiah.'

‘What the hell happened to you?' Henry demanded. Up until last night he had been in regular contact with Karen, Karl Donaldson's wife, who was growing ever more desperate as nothing had been heard about Karl. She was increasingly fearing the worst, as had Henry.

‘Long story . . . tell you sometime . . . but just thought I'd tell you I'm fine, Karen's fine, I'm in trouble at the Legat, but what the hell, and that I'm on my way to Manchester to sort out some Spanish business, hopefully. I hear you had a nasty accident, too.'

‘Manchester?' Henry ruminated, not hearing the rest of what Donaldson had said after that word. ‘Karl, there is one thing I do need to mention to you.' Henry was still by the hotel-room window, watching Anger park up, get out. Jane Roscoe was with him and he squirmed slightly when he saw her climb out of the car, wondering briefly if Anger was fettling her. ‘Clown masks . . . black van . . . ring any bells?'

It was a cautious ‘Yep, why?' from the American.

‘I've been upsetting people in Manchester . . . result was I got forced off the motorway by a guy in a van . . . a guy wearing a clown mask and driving a black Citroën van.'

Donaldson did not respond for a few moments, making Henry think the connection had been lost. He hated mobile phones.

‘You still there?'

‘Yeah . . . Henry, I need to talk to you before I go snooping around with both barrels,' he said decisively. ‘Where are you now?'

Henry told him. ‘You?'

‘M6 heading north, just before the M62 turn-off for Manchester. I'll keep going. Should be with you in about twenty minutes, traffic notwithstanding.'

There was a knock on the hotel-room door. Henry finished the call and opened the door, revealing Dave Anger and Jane Roscoe standing in the corridor, both their faces set with cynical expressions and their non-verbals indicating impatience verging on infuriation. This told Henry that neither of them was a very happy bunny.

He greeted them warmly, holding back an urge to act like the lunatic they clearly thought he was. ‘Come in, please.' They edged past him and caught sight of the man sitting on the bed in the adjoining room.

Anger turned to Henry. ‘Who the fuck's that?'

‘A witness to a murder . . . Keith Snell's murder.'

Their faces changed dramatically, Henry saw with satisfaction.

To coin a phrase, Detective Superintendent Carl Easton was up to his neck in it, rather like standing in a midden.

The Sweetman trial had been bad enough and the fact that an outside force had been contracted to investigate was not great, but he had totally believed he could wriggle out of that one; what was now giving him more trouble than ever began when he received a phone call.

It came on a particular mobile phone, a number known only to a select few, so he answered it without hesitation. But the voice he heard and recognized within one or two syllables sent an icy spike down into his bowels.

The voice was calm and measured. It was Rufus Sweetman.

‘Hello, Carl, my friend.'

‘Who's this?' Easton demanded, reckoning he did not know.

‘You know who it is.'

‘How did you get this number?'

‘Contacts,' Sweetman said smugly.

‘What do you want?'

‘My property back – that's all.'

‘You got all your property back at court,' Easton reminded him. ‘I gave it to you personally.'

‘I think you know which property I mean . . . fell off the back of a lorry, so to speak.'

Easton gulped, fell silent.

‘Penny dropped?' Sweetman inquired.

‘No, don't know what you mean.' He clicked the tiny red button on his mobile and terminated the call. He spun round to Lynch and Hamlet, his two detective sergeants, and stared at them, shocked.

‘Who was that?' Lynch said. They were in Easton's office at the Arena police station.

‘We've nicked Rufus Sweetman's cocaine,' Easton announced.

Hamlet whistled. ‘Way to go!'

Lynch said, ‘Effin' hell.'

Easton raised his eyebrows. ‘He wants it back . . .' He smiled. ‘But he can't have it.' He had opened his mouth to say more when his mobile rang again. ‘Sweetman,' he guessed, and answered it. ‘Yep?'

‘Put it this way,' Sweetman's voice said coldly. ‘All we want is our goods returned . . . and if we don't get 'em, one cop will die every day from now on. An innocent cop, that is, not a bent bastard like you.'

Click. Phone dead.

That had been two days before and no cop had died – yet.

One uniformed PC from the city centre was lying in intensive care after being approached by a man who asked for directions and then shot him in the lower gut, below the line of his ballistic vest; another officer had been treated for shotgun wounds to the arm after being ambushed in an alley by a masked gunman. Sheer luck and body armour had saved him.