Judgement Call (25 page)

When the cases were called, the prisoners were taken up a narrow set of stairs leading to the dock in the main court where they faced the bench. If remanded, they came back down and the journey was reversed.

Much of the smooth running of the operation was dependent on the compliance of the prisoner. One who wasn't happy could make the whole thing a real nightmare. Henry was just surprised that most villains were so acquiescent and went along with it and that very few escaped or were sprung from custody.

But that morning he wasn't taking anything for granted.

They made it into the back of the van with the prisoners, climbing in and sitting opposite them on the fitted bench seats that ran on either side of the van.

Henry settled directly opposite Longridge, whose eyes never once left his. Henry returned the compliment, a slight smile on his face. He knew the type of intimidatory tactics that tough nuts like Longridge played with cops, but it didn't work with him.

The van driver, that morning's PC on section patrol duties, slammed the cage doors shut, then the rear doors, then climbed into the front cab and set off.

Longridge continued to survey Henry.

In a whisper he said, ‘You and me.'

Henry felt the PC sat alongside him stiffen.

‘You and me what?' Henry asked.

‘Here. Now. You. Me.'

Henry shook his head, faintly amused. ‘You live in fairyland, mate.'

‘Chicken.'

Henry made a clucking sound.

The van lurched around a corner, then braked sharply, jerking the four occupants along the seats. Longridge used the momentum to pretend to come at Henry, his left hand bunched into a big fist, his face twisted into an aggressive snarl.

Henry didn't move, but simply folded his arms and gave Longridge a sad shake of his head. ‘You're an idiot, mate.'

Longridge sat back.

Then the van stopped. Glancing through the rear window Henry saw they had reached the traffic lights at the junction with Queens Square. Not too far to go now.

FB had hoped to catch Henry but by the time he had finished the phone call, pulled on his jacket and legged it down to the back door, the section van was drawing out of the yard.

FB shrugged and jumped in his car, squealing the tyres as he accelerated out of the yard, choosing to go in a different direction to the van, cutting through Rawtenstall centre and gunning his car up Haslingden Old Road, his fingers gripping and re-gripping the steering wheel, beads of salty sweat dribbling from his scalp, down his forehead and temples.

He was a small man in height, large in girth, but he didn't often sweat. He was usually one hundred per cent cocksure of every course of action he chose to take and if he showed a misjudgement, or something went belly-up, he would use his bullying bluster, the sheer force of his personality and the general ‘do not question' power that DIs exercised to bluff his way out of a bad decision.

Thing was, bad decisions didn't usually cost lives.

But this one had.

The section van went slowly through the lights in the heavy traffic, turning left onto Queens Square, moving across to the outer lane to circumnavigate the roundabout and then peeled off up to the Magistrates' Court.

Henry and Longridge continued to size each other up. Henry was a bit dumbfounded by Longridge's antagonism, directed at him for no real reason. But he knew that was how people like Longridge functioned. They lived in a sub-stratum of humanity where violence was offered and taken like currency, and a good payday included smacking a copper with or without reason – which partly explained Longridge's attitude to Jo Wade's murder. Nothing wrong with a dead cop. Henry enjoyed being on the outside of this knuckle-headed community, having to delve into it on a daily basis, but always leaving it behind at the end of a tour of duty to return to his normality. It was one of the things that Sally Lee had chided him about.

Sometimes bits of it came with him, such as bearing the mark of an assault, or the frustration at not being able to achieve justice, or being involved in something as tragic as the murder of a colleague. But on the whole, if he could, Henry left it behind and he hoped that as he progressed in the job in years to come he wouldn't be one of those cops who got depressed and took work home and then had, as they said in Lancashire, a ‘shed collapse', meaning nervous breakdown. He didn't ever want to be one of them.

The van circled the roundabout, came off onto Haslingden Road, then bore sharp right across a traffic island and over into the steep side street by the court building. The driver cut left into the car park, stopped, then allowed the van to roll back. He turned and manoeuvred it alongside the steps leading up to the side entrance.

‘Here we are.' Henry heard his muted voice on the other side of the toughened screen separating the driving cab from the rear compartment.

The driver climbed out, unlocked and opened the rear doors, then the inner cage door which had a metal bar handle on a fulcrum that looked like it could have been used to secure castle gates. It opened on its spring with a loud clatter and the driver looked inside, grinning.

‘We've landed,' announced. He wasn't wearing his hat, which was unfortunate. Even his flat cap would have helped a bit.

His head suddenly jerked sideway and he stepped back. He had seen someone coming at him.

Fast. Low. Hard.

His right arm angled up in a protective gesture. Too late.

At which point Henry simultaneously saw and heard a Ford Granada screaming through the stone gateposts of the Masonic Lodge fifty yards up the street.

And the ski-masked, black-clad, baseball-bat-wielding man who had run up to the section PC brought the weapon around in a wide arc and smacked him across the skull, making a sickening noise as it connected. The PC did a full body shimmy like 10,000 volts of electricity had passed through him, his head split open and he disappeared from view as he collapsed.

The Granada slewed to a stop just feet behind the van. Open-mouthed, Henry peered out, his heart pounding, as the back two doors of the Ford opened and two men, dressed exactly the same as baseball-bat man, jumped out. Dressed, Henry noted sourly, exactly the same as the gang who had violently robbed shops in Rawtenstall, shot at him and gunned down WPC Jo Wade.

The men from the car carried sawn-off shotguns and they ran to the van and pointed their weapons into the confined space, screaming almost indecipherable warnings.

Henry exchanged a glance with Longridge, who held up his handcuffed right wrist towards him, dragging Stuttard off the bench seat onto his knees.

‘Do it,' he snarled at Henry.

Alongside Henry, PC Barnes sat petrified. Henry said to him, ‘Unlock the cuffs, Dave.'

With his hands dithering almost uncontrollably, Barnes took out his handcuff key and inserted it into the cuff and released Longridge.

‘Radios,' Longridge said, holding out his hand.

Henry and Barnes took their personal radios out of their harnesses and handed them to the prisoner, who dropped out of the van but turned to Henry. ‘Tell your DI I'll be coming for him.' He then slammed the cage door and the metal bar self-locked.

Then he and his rescuers were gone, leaving two cops locked in the back of their own van and a badly injured colleague just surfacing into consciousness on the ground.

Henry bashed the back of his head against the van side in rage-fuelled frustration and creeping humiliation.

With a face that betrayed no emotion, Detective Inspector Fanshaw-Bayley was walked through the scene once more by the detective constable from Haslingden. They were at the top of the stairs on the first-floor landing of the women's refuge, looking down at two perfect turds on the carpet.

‘Looks like he came in through the window,' the DC explained. The two detectives glanced at the entry point. In his head, FB was visualizing the MO and what he would have to write on the crime forms he would be submitting.

‘Offender(s) approached rear of terraced house used as a women's refuge during hours of darkness. Scaled wall after first breaking security light, believed with an airgun pellet, and cutting a gap in the security wire. Offender climbed soil pipe and jemmied open a window in order to gain access to the first floor.'

That's how it would begin. It would end in tragedy.

‘Good climber,' the DC commented. ‘Not many about these days.'

‘Unh,' FB grunted. He could not stop his teeth from grinding.

‘There's a few who still leave calling cards,' the DC said, looking down at the shit.

‘Yeah, there are,' FB confirmed.

‘So he gets in here, goes into the room …' The DC's voice faded.

‘Let's have another look.'

FB was led along the landing to the second door on the left. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it wider with his fingernail, looking into the horrific tableau beyond.

A sudden feeling overwhelmed him as he looked at Sally Lee's body, naked and spread-eagled on the bed. He held it together.

‘Battered to death,' the DC said.

FB took a step inside.

‘Apparently Henry Christie phoned about ten o'clock last night and asked the manageress to check on her. Didn't her house go up in flames, yesterday evening?' the DC said, pulling a face. FB nodded. ‘Anyway, Mrs Edge checked and she was fine, watching the box in here, baby asleep in the cot, whisky in hand. This morning the baby was heard crying but no one thought anything of it until the little bugger didn't shut up, so Mrs Edge checked up, noticed the broken window and the crap on the carpet, then when she couldn't get an answer at the door, she entered the room with her pass key. Found her, called us, I came.'

FB moved forwards. Already marked with tape was the route to the bed which anyone entering the scene would have to take from now on. He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice.

‘Looks as though she was pinned down and pummelled. Blow after blow after blow,' he said bleakly. ‘I'll bet he had his hand over her mouth.' He glanced at the blood splatters all over the bedroom, up the headboard, up the wall, across the carpet. There was a shoeprint in the blood.

Sally Lee had been pounded to death.

‘Where's the child now?' FB asked.

‘One of the other women's looking after it. Social services are coming.'

FB nodded. He looked at Sally, her face pulped and unrecognizable. That feeling almost had him again. But he steadied himself. ‘Shit,' he said under his breath.

‘Yeah,' the DC agreed. ‘Who takes a shit and beats a woman to death?'

‘Not the same person,' FB said. ‘Whoever came in through that window let the killer in.'

‘Y'reckon?'

‘I know so.' Then under his breath, FB said, ‘Shit,' again. And again.

‘J
udgement call my arse,' Henry Christie said bitterly, unable to remove the look of distaste from his face, or the taste from his mouth, even now, two hours after he had eventually finished work that day. It was 10.30pm, only half an hour to go before last orders, and he was hunched over a pint of Stella Artois accompanied by a Bell's chaser in the pub close to the street where he lived. It was his second pint. The first had gone down too quickly, but this one he was sipping. It was his first chaser but he had yet to taste that. He was in a mood to get drunk and mean, and somewhere at the back of his mind he knew he was bringing something home from work with him he shouldn't, despite his earlier thoughts on the subject.

But how could he leave it?

He was alone at a round brass-topped table. He had phoned Kate earlier and told her he wouldn't be able to link up with her that evening.

She sounded hurt.

He knew he should have cared but at the moment of phoning, and because of being fired up by what was going on all around him, he didn't. Which he knew was wrong.

His fingers continually curled into fists, his breath came in short bursts, his thoughts bleak and terrifying.

The thing that most cut him up was the fact that both of the big events of that day could have been prevented.

It would not have taken a person of any great intellect to have predicted them.

Firstly the escape from the court escort was just a very bad incident waiting to happen. Everyone knew it, no one did a damn thing about it … but they would now – now that it was too late. A dangerous criminal had been sprung by an armed gang and a cop had been whacked by a baseball bat.

He took a sip of his lager. It tasted bitter and unpleasant.

But at least no one had died. The cop had been hurt. His head was sore and swollen and eight stitches now decorated his half-shaven skull – and the police just looked incompetent. But in the other case …

… Sally Lee had died.

Needlessly.

She had been treated as unimportant. That she didn't matter. That just because she was a bit of a girl, she had no right to be protected. OK, she was a bit of a girl, making complaints and then withdrawing them, but that was just a symptom of the life she was trapped in – and no one seemed to have seen that, except Henry.

And her killing could have been avoided.

Vladimir Kaminski, the prime – and only – suspect, was still free and, Henry thought despairingly, would probably stay that way. He would be well on the run now, Henry guessed … probably all the way back to Poland.

Henry felt utter shame for having followed orders. He had been told not to take her claim seriously and boot her out of the nick on that first occasion.
Following orders
. What sort of connotation did those words have? But yet, that was the way of things. Do what you are told to do, even if it's wrong and you know it. Questioning by subordinates in the cops at that time was stifled. It was the accepted order of things: the bosses knew what was right and their judgement should not be challenged.

Henry's only solace was that he had taken some steps to protect Sally, even if it was too little, too late. Ironically he had even mentally patted himself on the back for doing it.