Big City Jacks (11 page)

At one p.m. Henry decided he had had enough.

He called Dave Anger to let him know where he was up to.

‘Henry, we're just talking about you,' Anger said on hearing his voice.

‘I thought my ears were burning.'

‘They should be,' Anger said darkly.

‘Anyway,' Henry said, clearing his throat, ‘I'm calling it a day. I'm off home to bed for a few hours, but I'll be ready for on-call at six. If that's OK with you.'

‘Yeah . . . you've done a pretty good job actually,' Anger said reluctantly. ‘Oh, Jane Roscoe's here. Do you want to say hello?'

‘I'll pass,' Henry said, feeling his stomach grind over. ‘I'll be back on at six.' He ended the call and stood there thoughtfully, his nostrils flaring. Jane Roscoe, not really a name he wished to be associated with any more, particularly as it seemed she and Anger were gunning for him.

What worried him most, though, was that they had a smoking gun and lots of ammo for it.

The crossing on the
Nordic Pride
had been rough and unpleasant. Whitlock, the lorry driver, was surprised they had been allowed to sail – but perhaps it was more that he would rather not have sailed with his current cargo.

As the ferry docked at Hull, Whitlock dragged himself reluctantly back to his vehicle in the belly of the ship and clambered into the driver's cab, aware that for the first time in his life he did not want to get in.

He loved driving. He loved his lorry. But not today.

He wondered how the people stuffed into the container were doing as he turned on the ignition and started the engine.

The massive doors which formed the bows of the ferry opened with painful slowness, revealing the Port of Hull, a place Whitlock had passed through on hundreds of occasions.

With trepidation he wondered if he would actually pass through it today.

T
he problem with a trial of such magnitude was that you never could tell when you were going to be ambushed.

It seemed to be going well, had been for six weeks now, but there was always the possibility that something unexpected could come up – or, even worse, something that had been buried could rise from its grave like a zombie and screw the whole thing up.

Detective Superintendent Carl Easton gazed around the magnificent Shire Hall courtroom at Lancaster Crown Court within Lancaster Castle, an absolutely splendid setting for such a major trial. It was rarely used as a court venue these days because of the new Crown Court built in Preston and there were good facilities in other locations, too. However, a logjam of cases coupled with a desire to hear these proceedings as far away from Manchester as possible – but yet remain within a reasonable distance for witnesses – had made the powers that be plump for Lancaster.

Easton folded his arms as he squinted at the huge, ornate room, taking in the unique display of heraldic shields adorning the walls, whilst his mind wondered if that ‘something' he was dreading would pop up.

So far, so smooth and in a couple of days all the witnesses would have been through the mill, prosecution and defence, then it would be time for the final address, the summing up, the deliberation by the jury, then the verdict.

Guilty
. He crossed his fingers.

‘All rise in court,' an usher shouted as the spectacularly robed judge regally entered the court and sat down at the high bench. It was Her Honour Mrs Ellison, approaching eighty years old, but definitely still with it, ruling the proceedings before her with a rod of iron, allowing nothing to get past her. Behind the pince-nez, her little grey eyes sparkled with cunning and intellect.

She sat as the prisoner was led into the dock from the holding cell underneath the courtroom. He was book-ended by two towering security guards from one of the private companies now contracted to perform prisoner-escort duties. In terms of sheer presence, though, the guards were completely overshadowed by the man between them, even though he was much smaller in stature. His eyes flickered quickly around the courtroom, resting fleetingly, but obviously, on Easton. The prisoner allowed himself a knowing smirk, bowed graciously to the bench then sat on his seat in the dock, waiting for the jury to be wheeled in.

His name was Rufus Sweetman. He was thirty-three years old. He was dressed smartly and expensively, oozing wealth but restraint. As an individual he looked mild-mannered but at the same time exuded an aura of confidence that made him very special and a little scary. A lot scary, actually, especially to people who got on the wrong side of him.

He was in court charged with murder.

The usher announced that the Crown Court was now in session.

Detective Superintendent Easton settled himself down and waited for proceedings to commence.

He was feeling pretty confident in the way that things had gone. A life sentence for Sweetman would be just the ticket he needed career-wise, both inside and outside the job. Getting rid of Sweetman from under his feet would be very good all round.

Easton had expected the prosecuting council to rise to his feet and was puzzled slightly when the defence QC stood up instead. The judge looked slightly perplexed too. She pulled her glasses down her nose.

‘Your Honour, if I may . . .?' the QC said politely. His name was Sharp and his way of operating reflected this. He was good and costly. The judge nodded at him. ‘As of this morning we are in receipt of new information concerning these proceedings. Could I please approach the bench . . . together with my learned colleague, that is?' He nodded sourly in the general direction of the prosecution.

Both berobed, bewigged men made their way across no-man's-land to the high bench.

Easton leaned forward, straining to catch any snippets of the hushed conversation. He glanced at Sweetman, who was sitting comfortably cross-legged, his fingers tightly intertwined, thumbs circling, looking extremely smug.

Easton's attention returned to the conflab at the bench. Suddenly he had a very queasy feeling in his stomach.

The sweat and pounding in his heart made Whitlock think he was about to have a cardiac arrest. His breathing was shallow and stuttering, his vision swimming, unfocused.

There was some hold-up ahead. He had only reached the lip of the ferry's ramp where he was now poised in the queue down to the quayside. A lot of activity was going on, lots of people in yellow jackets strutting about. More than usual, he thought.

‘Oh God,' he murmured. ‘I am fucking dead.'

The thought of dropping out of his cab, doing a runner and leaving his lorry behind entered his head.

The two counsels backed respectfully away from the bench and retreated to their respective tables, a smug expression on the countenance of the defence QC, who also managed to catch Detective Superintendent Easton's eye.

‘What's happening here, boss?' the detective sergeant sitting next to Easton in court whispered harshly.

‘Don't know, but I don't like it,' Easton said through the corner of his mouth. His eyes twitched. He looked across at Rufus Sweetman in the dock, who deliberately remained firmly focused ahead, although there was a wicked glint in his eyes and the glimmer of a grin on his face.

The prosecuting counsel sat, grim, unhappy. Defence remained on his feet, rearranging and straightening his papers on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat in preparation for an address to the court. Easton thought,
Bombshell coming
.

‘If it may please your honour,' he began formally, ‘I would like to recall a witness to the box.' The judge nodded her assent. The lawyer turned slightly in Easton's direction. ‘Detective Superintendent Easton please.'

An usher repeated the summons.

‘Fuck!' Easton muttered under his breath as he stood up and crossed the courtroom. His legs felt as though lead weights were attached to them as he stepped into the witness box, all eyes on him, all curious and excited by this new development. The press box seemed particularly energized.

‘Officer,' the defence QC smiled. He was a fantastically experienced defence QC, the one the wealthy villains always chose to represent them, his fees running into thousands even for short trials. But he was worth it. His track record was phenomenal. He went on, ‘May I remind you that you are still under oath?'

Easton spoke to the judge. ‘Yes, Your Honour, I understand that.'

Then it began and the gates of hell opened for Easton.

Henry Christie was almost home when he received the call. With a groan he u-turned the car and drove to the garage premises to which the stolen and very mangled Ford Escort had been towed for safe keeping. He knew the firm well, respectable and reliable, and through twenty-four-hour call-outs and the rota garage system, the police had put a lot of business their way over the years. This garage in particular was one which would always turn out, any time of day, and had never yet let the cops down.

Henry pulled up outside and strolled into the office, staffed by a single female – Joyce – the wife of the proprietor. Henry had known her for a long time, had lost count of the number of cars he had sent her way.

‘Oh my God, Henry Christie!' Joyce rose from the swivel chair behind her desk and Henry tried to disguise the fact that his male antennae had registered the voluptuous and curvaceous lines of her well-stacked body. She was approaching fifty – not necessarily a bad thing, Henry thought, as he too wasn't that far away from that landmark – and was built like a racing yacht, all the curves in all the right places. She pulled down her tight figure-hugging woollen sweater, accentuating everything even more perfectly. It was no secret that she had been trying to bed Henry for a long time now. For himself, he was terrified of being devoured.

‘Hi, Joyce.'

‘Haven't seen you for quite a while.'

‘I'm too important now,' he laughed.

She literally batted her heavily mascara'd eyelashes. ‘I'll bet you are.'

‘I've come to see the car involved in last night's accident.'

‘Out back, darling. One of your crime scene guys is with it.'

‘Thanks, Joyce.' Henry paused, unable to prevent his eyes giving her a critical once-over. ‘You're looking well, by the way.'

‘You do know I'm ripe for an affair right now, don't you?' She looked demurely at him. ‘Particularly one based purely on sex . . . very dirty sex.' Her voice had the timbre of a gravel driveway.

‘Joyce!' a man's voice called from the office behind. ‘Leave him alone, you'll scare the poor bugger to death.'

Her lipsticked mouth turned down with disappointment as her husband, Lee, emerged from the office.

‘Morning, Lee,' Henry nodded.

‘Henry . . . keep your hands off her, she's mine, all mine,' Lee said dramatically and grabbed her from behind, his arms encircling her. She melted her ass into him and Henry beat a hasty retreat. He moved quickly through the reception area into a yard at the back of the premises. Beyond this was a security-fenced area, inside of which was a variety of vehicles. Henry went through the open gate and found the smashed-up Escort, next to which stood an individual Henry recognized as one of the crime scene investigators based at Blackpool. Dressed in a white paper suit pulled up over his clothes, he was bespectacled, rather short and a bit ugly, the complete antithesis of his American counterparts portrayed in the slick TV series, CSI.

‘Hello, sir,' he said.

‘Hello, Tom. You got something of interest?' Henry stifled a yawn.

‘Am I boring you?'

‘Just been on the go a long time.'

The CSI reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a clear plastic bag, about four by four inches, with a strip-seal across the top. Resting in the bottom corner of it was a misshapen blob of metal, not much bigger than a thumbnail.

‘Bullet,' the CSI announced. Henry had already recognized it as such. ‘Found embedded in the back seat of the car, having entered same through the front windscreen.'

Henry peered at it. ‘Any idea of calibre?'

The CSI shrugged. ‘Maybe a thirty-eight.'

‘Well found,' Henry congratulated him. ‘Do what you have to do with it, will you?'

‘Yes, I know my job.'

‘And for that we're all thankful.' He bade farewell and headed back to the main garage building, entering reception as Joyce emerged from her husband's office looking rather flushed and ruffled. She gave Henry a wry smile as she straightened her jumper. Despite himself, Henry could not prevent his investigatory instincts from noting that when he had first seen her she was definitely wearing a bra; this had now disappeared.

She sat down at her desk and said, ‘Could've been you, Henry.'

He was out of the door real sharpish.

‘Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I be so bold as to refresh your memories?' Sharp smiled at Easton. ‘You were the senior investigating officer in charge of the inquiry into the murder of Jackson Hazell. Is that correct?'

‘That is correct,' Easton responded guardedly.

‘So,' the QC said, his brow furrowed, ‘you were the person who was responsible for the policy log . . . the log, that is, which decides the route and key decisions made in the investigation?'

‘With others,' Easton said, a little too hurriedly, ‘but yes.'

Sharp screwed up his face, looked pained – all for effect, obviously. ‘But you made the final decision?'

Easton sniffed and shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, but all decisions are outlined and backed up with sound arguments based on facts, information, intelligence and good practice. As you know, the policy log has been scrutinized on several occasions during this trial.'

Sharp nodded sagely. The policy log had stood up well to the rigours of the scrutiny.

‘So, basically, though, as SIO, you decide the direction of the investigation?'

‘I think we have ascertained that,' the judge interceded, a slightly impatient note in her voice.