The Nothing Job (19 page)

‘Can we be friends?' Henry said. ‘Pretty please – or shall I just pull rank?'

Tope's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. ‘Whatever.'

‘Come to my office, then.'

‘Do I need to bring anything?'

‘You can find out how much I've got left of my budget.'

‘I also still have some information for you – but you never rang back or asked.'

‘What information?' Henry wracked his brain.

‘About a Yank living in Cyprus?'

‘Oh, God, yeah.' Henry had a sudden recall and his face fixed in a shocked expression. But then his mobile phone rang. He hung up on Tope and answered it. Two minutes later, once again having put Jerry Tope completely out of his mind, he was striding through the corridors on the way to the chief constable's office.

Henry breezed into the office that housed the staff officers working for the chief and deputy chief constable. Both higher-ranking officers had offices accessible only from this kind of ante-office. It was a bit like stepping into a depressurization chamber in a rocket before being flung out into space. The office was quiet, two secretaries tapping away at their keyboards, a space at the desk of the deputy chief's staff officer, but there was someone sitting in the desk once occupied by Chief Inspector Andy Laker.

Henry's breeze stopped abruptly two steps into the office. He halted in his tracks. Henry knew, of course, that Laker had been unceremoniously dumped and was presently causing havoc with the Special Projects Team, so rumour had it. Henry hadn't even given a second thought as to which fool Laker's replacement might have been in this office. It was a job Henry could not even have imagined himself doing. He would have hated it.

She swivelled on her chair and their eyes met across a virtually empty room.

And Henry Christie felt as though he'd been hit in the guts by a medicine ball.

He made a reasonable effort of giving the impression of being unfazed by the shock appearance of Jane Roscoe, a former detective with whom Henry had once had a sticky, tricky affair. It had ended, as most affairs did, with recriminations and bad feelings – particularly when Jane ended up working for Dave Anger on FMIT and Henry suspected her of colluding with Anger to bring about his own downfall.

‘Jane,' he said. The word clogged his throat.

‘Henry.' She stood up and crossed the office to meet him with a very stilted handshake.

‘I didn't know you were …' He gestured at the room.

‘Thought I'd have a go for it when it was advertised. Got it!'

‘And a uniform to boot.'

‘That too.'

‘Never seen you in uniform.' He squinted at her, appraising. ‘And a third pip – congratulations, Chief Inspector.'

‘Thanks,' she smiled. ‘Come and sit down at my desk. He'll be a few minutes yet.' She jerked her head at the big oak door leading to the chief's office. Almost on cue there was the sound of raised voices from within. The two secretaries jerked up and looked at the door, startled. They eyed each other with an ‘Oooh!' expression. ‘Mm,' Jane said, then headed back to her desk, Henry in tow. He sat on a chair positioned at the end of the desk, gave her a nervous smile and struggled for something to say. At least with Laker he could have traded insults.

‘How you doing?' he asked.

‘Good, good.'

Silence.

‘How's … er …?'

‘My husband?'

Henry nodded.

‘Not my husband any more.'

‘Thanks to me?'

‘Actually, no thanks to you.'

Another loud outburst from the chief's office caused everyone to look at the door again.

‘What's going on in there?'

‘None of your business.'

‘Mm.' Henry looked at Jane. No one could have said she was a raving beauty, but she was a very pretty woman and he had once thought her stunning. As he took her in now, he felt something stirring within. He could tell she was experiencing something similar. ‘But you're all right?'

‘As can be. You?'

Henry shoved his left hand towards her and wiggled his third finger.

‘I'd heard,' Jane said mutely. ‘How is Mrs Christie? You could never let her go, could you?'

He said nothing, just swallowed.

Fortunately the chief's door opened at that point and Dave Anger stormed out of the office. Henry turned to see. Anger gave him a poisoned stare, didn't stop, just flew out of the door and, had a pneumatic arm not controlled it, he would no doubt have crashed it shut.

‘Not a happy bunny,' Henry observed.

Jane regarded him knowingly. ‘I wonder why?' she asked primly.

Taken aback, Henry stage-whispered, ‘So it was something to do with me! I haven't shagged his wife recently. He just can't be mad at me.'

‘Maybe not you directly.' She raised her eyebrows, then looked over to the open door of the chief's office, where the rotund boss of the constabulary leaned wearily against the door jamb.

‘Henry – in here, please.' He pushed himself up, a tight look on his face, and disappeared into his inner sanctum.

‘Have you come to terms with your ethical dilemma, Henry?' FB asked as he slid round his desk, tugged up his shirt cuffs and sat down heavily on the luxuriously padded leather chair. Henry saw the Rolex on his wrists, thick and chunky, and felt that familiar pang of envy again.

‘I've reached an impasse, I guess.'

‘In that case, can we move on from it?'

‘Sure.'

‘By the way, I heard about the ruckus in Cyprus. You did a good job there. Need any counselling?'

‘Nah.'

‘Good – counselling's for nancies.'

And with a quick change of subject, FB said, ‘What do you know about the shooting of Jonny Motta in Liverpool?'

Henry blinked, pouted and said, ‘Only what bits I read in the newspapers, seen on Teletext … thank God it wasn't one of our jobs.'

‘Yeah, thank God,' FB agreed. ‘So what
do
you know?'

Henry considered a moment. He did not know much, as he'd admitted because it had happened during his there-and-back and back-again trips to Cyprus. ‘A police firearms operation gone wrong, in as much as a weapon was discharged and someone, a shady guy called Motta, got shot. Happened in Liverpool – well, in the Merseyside police area, because it was a job in Southport, actually. Motta was a low-life, very gang-related and supposedly wanted for a shooting in Liverpool city centre, I think. So he was known to carry firearms …' Henry plundered his poorly functioning brain. ‘Police raided a multi-occupancy block of flats … They enter Motta's flat, he jumps up with a gun in his hand, fails to heed a warning and takes two in the chest. Dead gangster, no boo-hoo. Sounds like a straight-up job. The cop who fired the gun looks pretty watertight by all accounts. It's certainly not a Jean Charles de Menezes shooting cock-up,' he said referring to the debacle that faced the Metropolitan Police after gunning down an innocent Brazilian in Stockwell tube station, ‘and that's as much as I know.'

FB hadn't interrupted, but as Henry had spoken, he'd moved out of his big chair, silently indicated for Henry to sit himself down on one of the leather settees, then sat opposite him, crossing his chubby legs. In passing, Henry had noted another sign of FB's wealth – the loafers he wore with Gucci tassels. Henry didn't like loafers, so wasn't troubled by any pang of envy on that score. But they did look comfortable and very, very expensive. FB nodded while Henry went through his meagre background knowledge of the case, which had been in and out of the north-west headlines for a few weeks.

‘You obviously know a bit.'

‘A bit.'

FB sat back and displayed his broad stomach. Although not as large as the Fat Controller from the Thomas the Tank Engine series, Henry was reminded of him. All he needed was a hat and a flag … but having said that, FB was a much more dangerous character.

‘Why, boss?'

‘Well, like you say, it seems a pretty open-and-shut case, but the IPCC investigation has stalled.'

Henry waited. The IPCC was the independent body charged with investigating any complaints against or alleged wrongdoing by the police.

‘The lead investigator went and got, er, killed in a road accident … not, obviously, connected with the investigation, just a tragic accident and coincidence. So,' FB took a breath, ‘the IPCC are after somebody to pick up the whole thing and run with it, tie it all up into a little bow and get it filed.' He smiled grimly. ‘They've asked me.'

Someone, somewhere, holding a scythe and wearing a hood and cloak, stomped on Henry Christie's grave. The feeling barged through him like a lead weight in his veins. Suddenly his mouth was parched.

‘Really, it's a bit of a nothing job, Henry. An important one, don't get me wrong, but it's just a tidying-up thingy,' he finished weakly.

Henry thought FB would never make a salesman.

‘Do you fancy taking it on, H?' he asked with a nice smile, now. ‘All the work's been done, more or less.'

Ahh, the shortening of the name to a single letter, that sign of intimate affection. Henry was often referred to as ‘H' by mates. The Grim Reaper started doing a sand dance on his grave.

‘Why me?'

‘Fuckin' good question!' FB rolled upright. ‘Because you're a very good, nay excellent, detective who also happens to be brilliant at tying up loose ends and pulling complex files together. Why wouldn't I choose you?'

‘In that case, why am I not on FMIT as an SIO? Or doing other detective work, SOCA, maybe?'

The chief steeped his stubby fingers in front of his chest, more like a grain silo than a church tower, and said, ‘I think we've travelled down that road before.'

‘OK, then – but why me?'

‘Because you are a good detective and I'd like you to do it – isn't that enough? Oh, and,' he added, ‘Dave Anger doesn't want you to do it. Thinks you're not capable. I told him to go to hell, defended you.'

Henry's visions of death were suddenly replaced by a warm glow of contentment.

‘Again – it's probably something of a nothing job,' FB said apologetically. ‘Just dotting I's and crossing T's.' Henry caught him giving a quick look that actually said,
This is much, much more.
It was an expression that crossed his face briefly, but Henry was really too far engrossed in the possibility of getting one over on Dave Anger to take in the meaning properly. That must have been the reason Anger had given Henry such a terrible look when he left FB's office a little earlier, and maybe the reason for the loud exchange everyone outside had heard.

‘I'd love to do it,' Henry said.

FB flipped his left wrist around and checked the Rolex. ‘Best get on to it, then.'

As much as he tried, Henry could not prevent himself walking cockily back through the corridors. Suddenly his stature had grown – at least in his own mind – and this fuelled a rolling-shoulder, balls-of-the-feet gait, reminiscent of someone who might have won the lottery.

‘Henry!'

He was on the ground-floor corridor, the narrow one which basically ran the whole length of the building, with one or two dog-legs in it. He had just passed the crossroads in the middle, turn right to go to the garage, left to the front exit, straight on to the Intelligence Unit, and the voice came from behind.

It was a sharp, barking noise, one he knew well.

He stopped sharply, hoping the smug, supercilious look adorning his face wasn't too extreme, as he turned to face the person who had called his name: Dave Anger, Detective Chief Superintendent, Head of FMIT – and Henry's recurring living nightmare.

‘Dave!'

‘Did you take it?'

Henry didn't feel like playing games by saying, ‘Take what?' Instead he simply said yes, knowing exactly what Anger was talking about.

Anger stood there, a file under his arm, his hair cropped tightly to his skull, his national-health John Lennon-style spectacles making him look like a fully paid-up member of the secret police. His head nodded as he considered Henry's response.

‘Thought you would. Did FB tell you I didn't want you to take it?'

‘He alluded to it.'

‘Did he tell you why?'

‘Nope.'

‘I'll tell you.' He pointed a warning finger. ‘A job like that needs a delicate touch, some finesse, sensitive handling – and someone like you,' Anger stood in close to Henry, ‘a bull in a fucking china shop, is not something that's needed.'

Someone walked behind them. Anger stepped back, his snarl turning into a bright smile.

Henry was puzzled for a moment. Then it dawned. ‘What you mean, Dave, is that you don't want anyone upsetting your old chums in Merseyside.' He saw the quick, almost hidden flinch and knew he'd hit the spot. ‘Why's that? Surely they won't have anything to hide, will they?'

The two men – who hated each other so much it almost devoured them from within with the virulence of Ebola – stared at each other, until Henry stepped back and grinned. ‘In that case, I'll do my very, very best. Rest assured.'

Henry's cocksure walk turned into one of determination as he made his way to the Intelligence Unit and let himself in, brushing all thoughts of Dave Anger aside. He stopped at Jerry Tope's desk. The DC looked up, searched for something and handed Henry a piece of paper. It was the balance of the Operation Wanted
budget, which Henry scanned quickly, not really taking it in, but seeing it had been depleted even further, mainly, he guessed, by the cost of the flights back and forth to Cyprus. Even so, it seemed to have gone down an awful lot more than it should, but he wouldn't be certain how much until he checked it against his receipts.

‘Hey, guess what?' Henry said, glancing up from the numbers.

Tope drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk and pretended to think. ‘Er, you're being transferred back on to FMIT … Oh, sorry, pigs ain't got wings yet, have they?'