Judgement Call (24 page)

But he had been through many windows like this, old wooden ones, rotting, splitting. He liked them and he smiled grimly as he forced the jemmy all the way through the frame. Once this was done, he replaced the jemmy with a long-bladed screwdriver, which he inserted through the hole and used it to flick up the catch. He replaced the screwdriver into his belt and carefully pushed open the window, which opened with a faint creak of its hinges.

At this point he started to feel the tummy jitters.

He swung in and dropped noiselessly onto the carpet on the landing at the top of the stairs. He was in. He backed himself into a corner, keeping to the shadows, and caught his breath, tried to reduce his heartbeat, because as usual, he was bricking himself.

Breaking into property was actually terrifying. He had done hundreds but it never got easier and he had been forced to drop his pants at the entry point to many of the houses he had burgled and excrete on the floor. Tonight would not be an exception, even though he wasn't here to steal. The thought of what he was actually doing here was making him even more desperate for the toilet.

His guts churned. He slid his jeans and underpants down, squatted and released his bowels with a huge fart. It was over in seconds and he stood back up, fastening his jeans and feeling a whole lot better stomach-wise, though not emotionally.

The stairs in front of him led down to the ground floor whilst the ones at the far end of the landing would take him up to the second floor. The burglar moved silently along the landing, peering at the doors using his penlight torch, which cast a tight beam. He was searching for the answer to a question, but he didn't try the door handles because he could not afford to make a mistake. It had to be right.

The doors did not give him any indication of what he was looking for either on this or the next floor.

He went down to the ground floor, the stairs actually taking him to the front door, where he hesitated and checked the locks. Three sturdy bolts and a mortise lock, which, he saw with a grin, had had the key left in it.

Like so many places he had broken into, either domestic or commercial, security was often a joke. He turned away from the door and looked along the hallway. Directly facing him was a small reception desk, opposite which was a lounge, dining room and kitchen. There was a door underneath the stairs marked ‘Private – Staff Only'. This, he imagined, went down to the basement accommodation for the live-in manageress.

He dipped behind the reception desk and flicked through the pages of an open A4-size diary, holding the torch with his teeth to read the entries. The one that interested him was the most recent and contained all the information he required.

His job was complete.

He closed the diary and went to the front door, sliding back the bolts and turning the key slowly, hearing the locking bolt move back out of its steel pocket. The door opened directly onto the street outside, the one in which he had been standing in a doorway opposite about fifteen minutes earlier, checking his target premises.

A figure standing in the same doorway sprinted out of the shadows and crossed the road. The burglar stood aside and allowed the man to enter.

‘Room six, first floor,' the burglar whispered. The man nodded. ‘You won't hurt her, will you?'

Vladimir Kaminski said, ‘No, I promise. I only want to talk.'

‘Good. I'm gone now,' the burglar said. He ducked out of the front door and disappeared into the shadows. Kaminski closed the door but left it unlocked. Then he went upstairs to room six.

‘N
o – you get your uniform on and you help us out. We're short-staffed and we need you.'

Though not the words Henry wanted to hear, he didn't allow himself a ‘But, boss,' plea because he knew it would be useless to whine. The patrol sergeant's firm stance said it all and Henry knew his first responsibility was to the uniform section, not to go gallivanting off in the vain hope of catching robbers, murderers and escapees.

‘Once you've done the court run, you can do whatever you had planned.'

‘OK, sarge.'

Henry grabbed a set of car keys and skulked out of the police station, jumped into a car, envying the detectives who were rolling in for their morning briefing in the hunt for Jo Wade's murderers. He drove back to his rented house, chunnering to himself, annoyed he wasn't quick enough not to get cornered for the court run, the thrice-weekly jaunt to take prisoners in custody or on remand to Rawtenstall Magistrates.

He didn't get it.

The court run seemed to be a surprise to supervisory officers every time it happened, even though it happened three times each week. There never seemed to be enough staff on duty and they were always desperate to snatch officers from wherever they could to do the run. But it wasn't just the run, because officers had to remain with the prisoners in the secure room and then take them up to court for their appearance, and then bring them back afterwards unless they were fortunate enough to be released by the bench. It was a tedious, time-consuming chore that most cops tried to duck.

Henry had turned up for work in plain clothes, expecting to be able to carry on his illicit role as FB's private gofer.

But it was not to be.

The sergeant had descended on him as soon as he set foot through the door, brooking no argument, and Henry avoided conflict by doing what he was told, for once.

He was back at the station in ten minutes, spic 'n' span with an ironed uniform and spit-and-polished shoes.

There were two prisoners that morning, for which Henry was grateful. It meant he wouldn't have to spend long hours at court.

One was a local town-centre drunk called Stuttard, one of those poor unfortunate souls who often became the target for young cops to practise their arrest skills on. Indeed, even Henry had once arrested him for drunk and disorderly just for something to do and regretted it later. He was easy to wind up and subdue, because there was no real fight in him. In reality he should have been in rehab or an asylum, but that would never be. He was destined to remain one of life's misfits and would probably drink himself to death.

The other, much to Henry's surprise, was John Longridge.

But he didn't have much time to enquire into that. The prisoners had to be at court for ten o'clock and it was the responsibility of the court escorts – Henry, in this case, and a young PC called Barnes – to sort out their breakfasts and get them washed and shaved.

Henry did all this with a scowl on his face.

The breakfasts were provided by a nearby pub and Henry went to collect them, managing to tease a bacon sandwich from the landlord for himself. By the time he returned to the station, PC Barnes had made the brews in the huge plastic mugs for the prisoners and the meals and drinks were posted through the observation flaps in the cell doors. This break gave Henry chance to make a tea for himself and slip upstairs to see FB, whose car he had seen in the back yard.

‘I'll have half of that,' FB said, eyeing Henry's large bacon bap with hunger. Henry tore it across and gave FB a chunk which he ripped into ravenously, continuing to speak with an overflowing mouth.

‘Why the uniform?' he asked.

‘Roped in for court escort. Couldn't refuse, couldn't duck.'

FB grunted and snuffled.

‘What's the score with Longridge?'

‘Well, they don't really have anything on him … I, er, didn't mention the Kaminskis to the murder squad,' he said, slightly shamefaced.

Henry smirked.

‘I thought we'd try and see that one through ourselves – if you ever get free from court that is.'

‘I will … then I want to get a statement from Sally and sort out SOCO and a police surgeon for her. I think they have an interview room at the refuge for that sort of thing. Then at least we have something to speak to Kaminski about.'

FB looked at him curiously. ‘What refuge?'

‘Didn't I tell you?' Henry said in all innocence.

‘No … but you better had.'

So Henry did and FB listened, pan-faced. When he'd finished, FB said, ‘And you didn't think to tell me about this?'

‘Uh, sorry … but it's a good thing, isn't it – under the circumstances?' Henry held his breath, ready for the tirade.

‘I'll let it slide,' FB said not impressed. ‘But don't do stuff without my say-so, OK?' Henry nodded. FB went on, ‘Anyway, re Longridge … they're going for a three-day lie down so they can get into his ribs properly, so he'll be coming back here to lodge with us.' A three-day lie down was police jargon for a remand by the court to police cells for further questioning and when requested was rarely denied by the magistrates. ‘I'll keep an eye on how it's going before I reveal what I know about the ID of Spiderman and his link to Vladimir and the gang.'

Henry smirked again. Knowledge was power. Henry didn't exactly know what FB's game plan was, but he surmised he planned to let the murder squad – of which he was no longer leader – struggle for a while with an uncooperative Longridge before suddenly helping them out and regaining his own credibility. Thanks to Henry, of course, although he doubted that his part in the proceedings would feature too highly. He wasn't bothered, just so long as he played some part in it.

‘Presumably they do think Longridge is connected to the blagging team, even if they can't prove it?' he asked.

‘Uh-huh – but he won't admit anything without hard evidence and even then,' FB shrugged. ‘But I have a little something, don't I?'

So Henry was right. FB was playing his cards close. He corrected FB by saying, ‘Yes,
we
do,' and turned to leave.

‘Oh – you went up to the fire, I believe, at Sally Lee's place?'

‘I did. Two seats of fire. Place was a mess,' Henry said.

‘And?'

‘No suspicious circumstances according to the initial assessment by the chief fire officer. Chip pan left on, and a discarded ciggie on the settee. I haven't crimed it – yet.'

‘Kaminski, you think?'

‘Well, the chip pan was off and Sally picked her fags up when we left yesterday – so, definitely Vlad.'

‘And how is Miss Lee, liar, cheater and manipulator?'

‘Miss Lee, the abused girlfriend, you mean? She was OK when I checked with the refuge last night. I didn't mention the fire, though. I didn't want to wind her up. She deserved a decent night's kip. But I'll tell her when I see her. Don't know how, but I will.' Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Time for my court run.'

‘Watch out for Longridge, by the way. He won't be averse to doing a runner if he can – and I know you've got form for not keeping hold of prisoners …' Now FB smirked.

Bristling and reddening, Henry spun out of the office.

The prisoners had eaten their breakfasts. Henry and PC Barnes supervised them washing and preening themselves, Henry believing this was one of the few occasions when Stuttard, the drunk, was sober, clean, presentable, affable – a completely different person to the one normally found rolling around the streets, inebriated on cheap cider mixed with vodka.

But Henry's eyes were mainly on Longridge.

That prisoner remained calm, quiet and within himself. He moved with tough confidence and maintained a look of distaste on his face, compounded by a half-smirk. Henry did not trust him and he didn't need FB's words of warning to tell him he was an escape risk. He had to be carefully watched.

When they were ready, Henry cuffed the prisoners to each other, Longridge's right wrist to Stuttard's left. Although Longridge didn't tower over his fellow detainee, he was bigger, wider and much more of a presence than the drink-ravaged Stuttard.

The call came over the radio that the section van had pulled up outside the back door of the nick. Henry told Barnes to grip the links between the handcuffs whilst Henry steered the prisoners out of the cell area into the back corridor. He took up a position just to one side, but slightly ahead of them and always walked at an angle so he was able to keep an eye on them and react to anything as necessary.

The preposterous nature of prisoner escort from Rawtenstall police station to the Magistrates' Court was never lost on Henry.

With the premises being just under a mile apart by road, it was always fraught with danger and Henry was surprised the cops hadn't been caught out more times than they had.

There were so many weak points in the journey it was laughable.

First of all, cops themselves did not make the best prisoner escorts. It was a task, without exception, they hated doing, but the idea of bringing in private security companies to do it usually appalled most police officers. The inbred culture of the service meant that they wanted to hang on to the task for as long as possible. Even so, they did the escort under duress and always moaned about it.

Next, the journey itself was a potential minefield.

The short walk from the back door of the nick to the van was a temptation for the baddies to make a break for it. The police vans themselves, although fitted with an internal steel door behind the back doors – though not an internal cage – were designed for transporting prisoners from the streets to the station. They were not prison buses and nor were they armoured.

The journey to court was a stop-start affair, usually in rush-hour traffic, giving serious villains plenty of opportunity to ambush the van and have a go at liberating their partners in custody if they so wished.

Once at court, things didn't get much better.

There was no secure garage or area for the van to reverse into because the old court did not have such a facility. The van stopped outside a side entrance which was also a public entrance, and the prisoners were unloaded and escorted in, often through bunches of milling, unhappy relatives or friends. A situation that had often resulted in nasty flare-ups. They were then put into a secure room at the top of the first flight of steps which only had a flimsy door and could be accessed by members of the public who constantly hammered on the door, demanding to see their loved ones either before or after their court appearances.