Big City Jacks (6 page)

To the policewoman, Carradine said, ‘OK, keep vigilant. Never trust anyone accused of murder.'

‘Sure, boss,' she responded with surly lack of interest, settled back with her magazine and started to flick through the pages.

‘Shall we talk it through?' Henry suggested to the DI.

Carradine nodded and led Henry back through the cell complex, out through the custody office and up into his own cubbyhole of an office on the first floor of the building. There was freshly filtered coffee on the side, smelling wonderful. Carradine poured out two mugs of the steaming black gold.

Easing himself into a chair, Henry took a sip, then, over the rim of the mug, got straight to the point. ‘What's gnawing away at your bones, Barry?'

‘What do you mean?' he replied innocently.

Henry's mouth twisted sardonically. He said nothing.

Carradine shrugged and kept up the pretence.

‘I think you know – the attitude.'

Carradine manoeuvred himself to his desk chair and sat down on it. He swivelled slowly around, stopping at 360 degrees and considering Henry. ‘All right,' he relented. ‘You have severely pissed off a large number of detectives in this force by coming back from suspension and being given your sweet job back – and keeping your temporary promotion to boot! Quite a few people I know were chasing a job on the SIO team.'

‘You being one of them?'

Carradine's narrow eyes seemed to hood over. ‘I'd been made a promise.'

‘By whom?'

‘Can't say, but all I can tell you is that a lot of people think you've been given preferential treatment. Everyone knows you're right up the chief's arse. Pity there isn't a competence in brown-nosing.'

Henry bridled, feeling his whole body shimmer. He reddened angrily and shifted on the chair. It took a lot of self-control to keep himself from banging the mug down and rising both physically and metaphorically to the bait. Instead, he tried to remain unaffected and calm – except for the redness, which he could do nothing about.

‘All I did was return to the job I left,' he explained.

Carradine shook his head slowly, in disbelief. ‘Many, many people are not impressed,' he insisted, sticking to his guns.

Henry cracked a little then and blurted, ‘In that case, a lot of people can go and fuck themselves.' He winced inwardly as soon as he'd said it; not a turn of phrase designed to get ‘a lot of people' on his side. Huffily, he said, ‘Shall we talk about the case in hand?'

Henry stumbled out of Burnley police station into the chill Pennine night. The briefing about the domestic murder had gone well, if a little coldly, after his and Carradine's exchange of views about Henry's predicament. As he slid back in the car, Henry grated his teeth and grimaced as he reviewed what the DI had said.

Henry had known that his return to work would be difficult. He had envisaged it many times in his mind. He knew that the detective fraternity was a close-knit but intensely competitive bunch of individuals who would have been eyeing his post up like salivating dogs – or a pack of hyenas – the stimulus being the SIO job and their response being their tawdry elbowing and kneeing to jockey themselves into position. Henry almost chuckled as he imagined the insistent lobbying and kow-towing that would have been going on whilst he was suspended.

Being a member of the SIO team was one of the plum detective jobs.

And Carradine had the audacity to accuse Henry of being up the chief constable's backside.

However, it was only to be expected. Henry had been suspended for allegations of disobeying a lawful order and displaying judgement that was, to say the least, suspect. The resulting disciplinary action had been dropped and Henry exonerated, but he was intelligent enough to know one thing about cops: when mud got slung, some of it always stuck, usually in big clods.

He now had the difficult task of proving that the allegations that had been made against him were unfounded, not to a disciplinary panel but to his peers. Far more difficult.

In some respects it would have been better to have returned to a less prominent role, somewhere out in the sticks, but he was actually glad to be doing what he was doing. He felt very suited to the SIO role. Only thing was, there would be many out there only too ready to take a pop at him, not least the detective chief superintendent in charge of the SIO team, who simply did not want Henry on the squad.

Henry knew he would have to be meticulous in his approach. He would have to work to the book and yet get results – quick. He had a very tattered reputation to repair and it would not be easy pulling the threads together.

This was his sixth week back at work and it was still early days. He had dealt with two other domestic murders successfully and had been given a fifteen-year-old cold case to review. A fair proportion of his time had been spent working on the job he had foolishly got himself involved with whilst on suspension – one of the reasons why the detective super did not want Henry back on the team, because he suspected Henry of telling lies. That case was ongoing and still generating more questions than answers. It would be a long, drawn-out process before the horrible mess was anything like sorted.

In the six weeks he had also drawn the short straw in terms of night cover, having had to cover three weeks in that time. Henry saw this as a less than subtle message from the boss: don't think for one moment you're going to have an easy ride of it.

Yes, Henry had no illusions. He would be up against it for a long time. In the past this could easily have fazed him, but now, being physically and mentally balanced, he was up for the challenge. He felt so confident he believed he could take on the world.

Before setting off home, he spent a few moments ticking off a mental checklist to ensure he had done everything necessary; then, positive he had hit all the buttons, he started the car.

The first call came on his mobile just as he accelerated down the slip road on to the M65. Using his recently acquired ‘hands-free' kit, he kept both hands on the wheel and complied with the law. ‘Henry Christie.'

‘Dave Anger.'

‘Hello, boss.' Henry had been expecting the call. The Detective Superintendent checking up on him. Yes, he was expecting it, but on the other hand he wondered who had informed Anger that he had turned out to a job. No doubt Anger had secretly briefed the control room inspector to call him if Henry was mobilized. Anger would be eager to keep a close eye on the disliked new boy . . . or was it that Henry was being paranoid?

Henry shrugged. Just because you are paranoid it doesn't mean that people aren't out to get you.

Anger skipped the pleasantries. ‘What's the job?'

‘As if you don't know,' Henry wanted to say – but didn't. ‘Domestic murder.'

‘Why haven't I been informed?'

‘You obviously have been, otherwise you wouldn't be calling me,' Henry said, too sharply. ‘Or are you just calling on spec?'

‘Don't push it, Henry. You might well be up FB's shitter, but that doesn't mean to say you're untouchable,' Anger responded with a dangerous undertone. ‘You haven't informed me, that's the point I'm making.'

‘Only because it's a straight-up, no complications murder. All angles covered. One body, one offender – who is too drunk to be properly interviewed now. You don't need to be told. The morning would suffice.'

‘Judgement call, eh?' Anger sneered. ‘We all know about your judgement calls, don't we?'

‘Procedural call, actually,' Henry corrected him.

‘I like to be kept up to date.'

‘OK, fair do's,' Henry acceded, seeing no mileage in annoying Anger any further. He'd made his point. ‘I'll tell you in future.' He did not have the willpower to carry on an argument at that moment in time.

‘So it's sorted?'

‘Yes . . . I'll go back across in the morning. We'll have the offender in court by the afternoon.'

‘OK, fine.' Anger hung up.

‘Twat,' Henry uttered, feeling himself flush red. He took a deep breath and put his foot down. The motorway was quiet and, just to be awkward, he moved out to the fast lane and stayed there.

The second call he received on his mobile was totally unexpected. He received it as he looped round on to the M6 northbound. The display on the phone told him that the person calling had withheld their number. He assumed it would be control room contacting him with another death, perhaps, as all calls from police numbers were automatically withheld.

‘Henry Christie.'

At first all he could hear was a hollow, metallic emptiness. He repeated his name.

‘Hello . . . hello . . . Henry?' came the female voice he recognized instantly.

‘Tara?'

‘Henry – hi.'

He did a double-check of the time on the dashboard clock.

‘Tara – hello.'

The connection seemed to break and then re-establish itself. He knew why it was a poor line. She was calling from Lanzarote.

Her name was Tara Wickson and it was because of a request from her that Henry had become involved in something whilst suspended from duty. A little something, a favour that had ended up in a complex and murderous investigation into Mafia activity and connections across the world. Henry had foolishly become embroiled because he had been bored witless whilst on suspension, then the whole kit and caboodle had got completely out of hand. He could trace his involvement back to the fact that Tara was a very attractive and sexy woman, appealing full-on to Henry's main weakness in life: the female of the species.

After it was over, Tara and her daughter had gone away to help them recover from the trauma they had undergone.

‘What's up?' Henry asked.

‘I'm sorry to call. I half-expected your phone to be off . . . I was just wondering how things were going,' she said weakly.

Why at this time of day, Henry wondered. ‘Oh, slowly,' he said. ‘It's all very complicated. Another of my colleagues is actually dealing with it. I'm involved, obviously, but it's not my job, if you know what I mean?'

‘Yeah, yeah.' She sounded distant. More than just in a geographical way.

‘What's the matter, Tara? How are you?'

‘OK – ish. Physically battered, as you know; mentally fucked up, feeling guilty.'

‘Don't,' Henry counselled her quickly, firmly. ‘There's a lot to get over, a lot to come to terms with, but you can do it. I have total faith in you.'

Once again, the line seemed to go dead. Then Tara's voice came back. ‘No one has ever said they have faith in me,' she said tearfully.

This time it was Henry who hit the pause button. He gulped. ‘How's Charlotte?'

‘Bearing in mind what she went through, pretty good.'

‘Nice to hear that.'

‘Henry?' Tara's voice faltered. ‘I'm really sorry to bother you . . . it's just that I can't stop thinking about you . . . and what you did for me.'

‘Don't . . . it's OK,' he insisted.

‘But I can't stop thinking about you . . . you put yourself out for me and you did something that has deeply affected me . . . shit!' The line then did go dead, leaving Henry open-mouthed, hurtling along at ninety miles per hour, his mind not on the driving, and he almost missed the Blackpool exit off the M6. He could easily have landed in Lancaster, but he veered left just in time and gunned the car west towards the coast, wondering what the hell Tara had meant.

Was it that she had fallen for him?

Or was it that she'd been thinking about what Henry had actually done for her and she was now having mega problems in coming to terms with it?

The former thought was reasonably pleasant; the latter made him shudder, because if Tara bottled out, Henry would be finished for good. He could say ‘ta-ra' to his pension and possibly ‘g'day' to a prison cell.

The third call on his mobile was the one that kept him from hysteria. It was another job, this time much closer to home.

In some ways, Henry was relieved. This, too, looked as though it would be pretty straightforward to solve: stolen car, pursued by police, driver crashes and legs it, one dead passenger in the car. They knew who the felon was – local toe-rag, prolific offender – the only problem being tracking him down. Only a little problem, because people like Roy Costain are creatures of habit and sooner, rather than later, he would be caught. This would be an easy one to bottom, Henry thought as he surveyed the wreckage. The hard part here would be dealing with the media uproar that would be caused. Another fatality caused by a reckless police chase. Henry could visualize the headlines now.

Bugger
, he thought.

He walked round the stolen Ford Escort, now mashed sideways on to the front end of a black cab. Stopping at the front passenger side window, Henry bent down and looked at the young girl, the body not yet having been removed from the scene.

Henry knew Renata, just as he knew Roy and the rest of the Costain family, which had a notorious and fearful reputation in Blackpool. He had encountered Renata a couple of times. Young though she was, she dallied on the periphery of the main activities of the Costains; bit of a shoplifter, bit of an assaulter on other girls, bit of an old-lady mugger. Her future was pretty much mapped out: crime, unwanted pregnancies, abuse . . . probably. Who was Henry to say? Maybe she would have turned her back on it all, become respectable.

Whatever, her death was a tragic waste. Henry hated it when young people died.

Standing upright, he turned. Looking north up Dickson Road he saw the figure of a man hurtle across the road as though his life depended on it.

‘Mr Christie?'

Henry's puzzlement about what he had seen was curtailed by the appearance of the local road policing sergeant. But before he could respond to the officer, another figure raced across the road, as though in pursuit of the first one.