Big City Jacks (17 page)

Blankness returned to their faces.

‘How much heat did we start to get from the cops?'

‘A lot,' Cromer ventured.

‘Too much,' Sweetman corrected him. ‘Who's the guy that's been harassing me all the time?' He held up a finger to stop them from replying, even though he was beginning to think that any reply would be good. So far it had been like trying to get blood from millstone grit. ‘Do we now know who we're talking about?'

They nodded unsurely, but guessed he was referring to Detective Superintendent Carl Easton.

‘So why has he had a vendetta against me for the last two years?'

‘Perhaps he doesn't like you.'

‘Or perhaps he had another reason? Perhaps it's not personal, perhaps it's business. Y'know, c'mon, let's think outside the box here. I'm put into bat for a crime I definitely did not commit, one you all know I didn't commit, which he knows I didn't commit . . . why? What's his agenda? A cop with a grudge? OK, they exist, but it's going a bit far, don't you think?' Sweetman's eyes narrowed. ‘So I ask again – why?'

‘Perhaps we should ask him ourselves,' Teddy Bear said. All eyes turned to him. ‘I could put the squeeze on him. He'd chat then.'

‘That,' said Sweetman, ‘could be a bloody good idea.'

‘Hang on, hang on,' Grant cut in, dissatisfied with this thinking. ‘Is he not just a cop who wants to be the one that catches the big bad wolf? Y'know – career aspirations. You're not suggesting he stole your consignment, are you? That's taking it a bit far, isn't it?'

Sweetman considered this, then relented. ‘Yeah, I suppose you could be right.' He sighed, scratched his head. ‘He's just a mean bastard prepared to break the rules for a big result, nothing more . . . you're probably spot on there. Maybe my thinking's skewed because I hate the twat so much. It's a bit much to think he's after my business, isn't it?'

* * *

If he was honest, Henry Christie would say that he could have done without traipsing into Blackpool police station at that ungodly hour on the strength of some half-baked message or other. He would very much have liked to crawl into bed with Kate, clamber all over her for a while, then get some sleep and hope there would be no call-out during the night.

However, he was on-call, no escaping that. Blackpool nick was only a few miles away and he fully intended to fob off the person and head back home ASAP to a warm bed.

It took him less than ten minutes to get to the station. He parked in the basement car park, making his way into the multi-storey building past the entrance to the custody office. There was a lot of noise emanating from there. He took the stairs to the ground floor and went to the back office of the enquiry desk where the front counter clerk was closing down for the night: it was midnight and, like most stations in the county, the enquiry desk closed down at that time.

Henry did not know the woman clerk, so he introduced himself.

‘Oh, yeah,' she said to his query, ‘I've put her in the waiting room.'

Henry thanked her, sauntered to one of the rooms just off the public foyer and walked in.

His heart literally sank in his chest. He felt it drop to the floor, like a lift hitting the basement. His throat dried instantly and he found it hard to get the words out of his mouth, even though they were only short ones.

‘Tara,' he said. ‘Hi.'

T
he two uniformed constables stared impassively at each other. It was a stand-off, neither of them wanting to give way, rather like Robin Hood and Little John.

There was little to choose between the two officers. They had both been patrol constables all their service and their uniforms were very similar, other than for the insignia they bore. The crest on one of them proclaimed him to be a member of Lancashire Constabulary, whilst the crest on the other identified him as a serving officer of Greater Manchester Police.

Although there was nothing to choose from them in this respect, there was, literally, something between them, and this ‘something' was the cause of their disagreement, their bone of contention.

‘Definitely not on us,' the GMP officer stated, shaking his head whilst pouting.

‘Cannot agree with that,' said the Lancashire officer. ‘This,' he gave a sweeping gesture, ‘is your patch and whatever happens here is your responsibility.' The Lancashire man folded his arms defiantly.

GMP sighed down his nose. ‘I've been working this patch for twelve years and I know where the boundaries are. That,' he pointed to a patch of grass, ‘is Greater Manchester, and that,' he pointed a few feet to his right, ‘is Lancashire. No question about it.'

Lancashire shook his head. ‘Wrong way round. That's yours and this is ours. I'll get a fucking map if I have to.' He was getting, as they say in those parts, ‘het up'. ‘The boundary line is there.' He drew an imaginary line with his forefinger. ‘So that means it's on you.'

GMP's left leg was beginning to do a little impatient jig. ‘Not having that.'

Lancashire shrugged. ‘That's the way it is.'

Both men now had their arms folded.

They were standing about fifteen feet away from each other, an area of grass between them. Lying on this grass was the object of their disagreement – a dead body, burned, charred, blackened beyond all visual recognition.

‘It's on you,' Lancashire said.

‘No it isn't,' GMP said petulantly, stressing the last word. ‘You have a murder on your patch and you're gonna have to sort it, OK?'

‘Not OK.'

And on it went . . .

There was no other call-out during the night, which meant that when Henry eventually got to bed, he had about five hours uninterrupted sleep – or it would have been uninterrupted if he'd been able to actually get to sleep and not toss and turn and sweat and groan all night long.

But whatever, it meant that he was able to get into work for eight that morning.

He drove from home in Blackpool to Lancashire Constabulary HQ at Hutton, to the south of Preston. The journey took about thirty-five minutes. It was a fairly pleasant trek, cutting down across Preston Docks, now a combination of marina, retail park, fast-food outlets, cinema and a variety of apartment-type accommodation.

He drove into the HQ complex, waving at the security man, then driving to the car park near to the recently built major crime unit building, named the Pavilion in memory of the cricket pavilion which had been demolished to pave the way for it. His office was actually situated in what was once a residential block for students attending training courses at the training centre, but it had been snaffled and converted to provide accommodation for the SIO team. They were housed on the middle floor of the block. Henry's office (made from two old bedrooms knocked into one) was halfway down the corridor.

With a filtered and very caffeinated coffee in hand (four-star as opposed to unleaded, he would say), he settled down at his desk to review exactly where he was up to with things. A few phone calls brought him up to date with his most recent cases.

The domestic murder in Bacup was as good as sorted. The wife who had stabbed hubby was due to appear in court. It looked as though a not-guilty plea was being entered, but Henry did not have a problem with that. His job was to ensure the case was as watertight as possible . . . beyond that, anything could, and often did, happen.

At Blackpool, Roy Costain was still at large, evading the cops at every turn. Henry thought that a personal revisit to the Costain household was on the cards. If he got the chance, that's what he would be doing later in the day. ‘Look out, Troy Costain,' he mumbled to himself.

He sipped his coffee – from his own filter machine – and savoured its bitter taste. He loved fresh coffee first thing in the morning and the investment in the machine had been worth every penny. He sat back and listened to the signs of the department coming to life.

Despite it being plainly obvious that the detective superintendent who ran the department did not want Henry in the team, Henry loved this job more than any other he had ever done, including the time he had spent on the Regional Crime Squad, as it was then called, which had been exhilarating. He truly believed he had found his vocation, waiting around, as his daughter described it, for people to die.

He just wondered how long he would be able to hold on to it. The pressure of the boss not wanting him, the bad feeling caused by his posting within the rest of the detective community, could be irresistible. That, coupled with the mystical job that the chief constable had promised him, might prove all too much.

In the meantime he was determined to get on and do the best he could. Then he winced at a thought. There was something else preying on his mind too. Tara Wickson. He shuddered when he thought of her.

‘Henry!'

Henry jumped out of his reverie, swivelled on his chair. That very detective superintendent – Dave Anger – was leaning into the office.

‘Morning.'

‘Bob down to my office, will you?'

‘Yeah, sure . . . give me a minute, boss.'

‘Enjoy your brew. Don't hurry for me.'

He did not hurry. He deliberately savoured his coffee down to the last drops, stood up slowly, stretching a very stiff body. He could feel himself getting out of condition. When he had been suspended from duty he had taken to jogging three miles a day, but since returning to work the long hours he was expected to put in had cut into the exercise regimen. Now, six weeks later, he never ran at all.

He collected some paperwork and strolled casually down the narrow corridor to Dave Anger's office, knocked, entered.

‘Take a pew.'

Henry sat.

‘Update?' Anger said brusquely.

Henry briefed him about the last two jobs he had attended. Anger listened and asked pertinent questions which Henry was ready for. He seemed to be satisfied that Henry had dealt with the jobs competently, if not spectacularly. Henry wondered if this irked him, the fact that Henry could actually do the job. In some ways, Henry could understand Anger's frustration. He had been recruited from Merseyside Police a few months earlier and was trying to build an effective team around him of people he had chosen. To have someone foisted on him, particularly someone he had suspicions about, did not sit well with him.

When Henry had completed the update, Anger paused.

‘How are you?' he finally asked.

‘OK.'

‘I've spent some time going over your personal record, Henry,' Anger revealed. Henry braced himself. ‘Impressive and appalling at the same time.'

‘Nice of you to say.'

‘You veer between the devil and the deep blue sea, don't you? You are a very brittle character, too. Suffer from nerves, don't you?'

‘I don't suffer from nerves,' Henry corrected him. ‘Look.' He held up his right hand, flat and steady. ‘No dithering there. I've had a nervous breakdown. There is a difference, but I've always done my job, always seen everything through.'

‘Hm,' Anger uttered doubtfully. ‘Your sickness record is pretty poor.'

‘I'd dispute that. I never, ever go off sick with anything minor. I don't let colds or flu keep me off, I don't have a bad back or anything like that. I was off once for a hernia operation, years ago. I think a nervous breakdown is pretty major, don't you?' Henry was starting to prickle and speculate as to where this was leading.

‘There's no place for someone with a nervous disposition on the SIO team.'

Henry sighed. ‘What are you trying, so inelegantly, to say?'

Anger stood up, crossed the room and closed the door quietly. He leaned on the closed door and spoke to the back of Henry's head. ‘In case you hadn't already gathered, life for you on the SIO team is going to be very uncomfortable. Heard the phrase “intrusive supervision”, Henry? That's what you're going to get and more. I know there are jacks out there more skilled and capable than you and I want them on this team – not you, basically.'

‘Who do you have in mind? I'll tell you if they are better than me.'

‘The only thing I have in mind is offloading you onto another unsuspecting department. You are a liability and I don't trust your judgement. You will have to go a very long way to impress me.'

‘Ahh, judgement . . . that old chestnut.'

‘You were suspended for it, then you foolishly got involved in something that ended up with people dying. You should've left well alone, but your judgement let you down again, didn't it?'

Henry suddenly felt exhausted. He scratched his neck and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you need to ask the chief about my involvement with that particular job . . . he might have another tack on it.'

‘I'm sure he would,' Anger said cynically. ‘You're up his arse, I know . . . but don't use him as your defence, Henry, it's not a pretty thing to do. Actually, by getting you off this team, I'll be doing him a favour, protecting him from some other almighty cock-up with your name on it.'

Fuck you
, Henry said – but only to himself.

‘Anyway, in the meantime I'll do my best to get you something not too taxing,' Anger promised patronizingly. ‘That's if you get out of this department now. Something you can idle your time away with until retirement . . . how long have you left? Three years? How about some nice office job at HQ where you can get a shiny arse, go for fish and chips in the canteen every Friday, work nine to five, ESSO, y'know? Every Saturday and Sunday off. How does that sound?'

Henry rose slowly to his feet. He knew that bright redness had crept up from below his collar. He stepped across to Anger, who, he saw, cowered slightly.

‘Sounds shit, actually.'

It's funny, Henry thought, how different people can have two completely different perspectives. I thought I was completely right for this job, yet my boss thinks I'm a liability. How does that get reconciled?