Backlash

Eleven

Tuesday morning was when the party conference really kicked into gear, good style. It was the day Blackpool was deluged by thousands of politicians, would-be politicians, spin-doctors, hangers-on and everyone and anyone else who thought they had any remote connection with the political bandwagon. The prime minister was expected to arrive in the resort today with his controversial wife; they would show their faces at conference, then disappear until Wednesday afternoon and then stay until the conference ended on Friday after what the prime minister hoped would be a rousing, motivational speech, the quality of which would be measured by the length of the ovation.

Tuesday was also the day when anti-government, anti-anything protesters, campaigners and demonstrators landed en masse in Blackpool. Some were harmless slightly potty cranks, who reappeared year after year peddling their skewed points of view to anyone who would listen, regardless of who was in power. Others were seriously dangerous people, dedicated to their, often, warped causes and their right to inflict their message on the world by whatever means necessary.

The media also came into town on Tuesday. TV broadcasters had been in the resort setting up their outside broadcast equipment all weekend, both at the conference venue and at the conference hotel. Tuesday was the day they plugged in and started transmitting in earnest from breakfast to bedtime. They were joined on this day by their brethren from all other branches of the media.

Tuesday was therefore the day on which the massive police operation moved into top gear. Hundreds of officers were flooding into town from the surrounding countryside, rather like descending hordes of vandals intent on rape and pillage. They would work fourteen-hour shifts, day and night, and very few of them would enjoy the experience of the four very long, usually monotonous, tours of duty. The only good thing was the overtime — which came in useful in their December pay packets — and the free food and drink provided.

At 8 a.m. on that morning, now into his fifteenth hour of the first proper night shift he had worked in almost fifteen years, Henry Christie found himself in an emergency planning meeting in FB’s commandeered officers’ mess. FB was describing the get-together as a ‘strategy and resources’ meeting. Henry thought of it more as a ‘shit’s hit the fan, don’t panic’ sort of meeting.

Henry was with such luminaries as the local divisional commander and the head of the conference operation for that day, both chief superintendents. A detective superintendent senior investigating officer was there, together with Jane Roscoe, another DI called Corner and the Met superintendent Andrea Makin. Karl Donaldson, the FBI representative, stood at the back of the room, chewing, coolly taking it all in.

To Henry’s surprise, Basil Kramer was also there, or perhaps he wasn’t so surprised following FB’s word in the shell-like a few hours before. FB was obviously out to impress by being an all-dancing, all-singing, all-round entertainer and Assistant Chief Constable.

Henry struggled to concentrate on the meeting but his mind felt like mush because he was so exhausted. However, when he did manage to focus he rather enjoyed the way in which FB fawned in one direction to Basil Kramer and preened in the other to Andrea Makin as he spoke. It was plain to see that FB was seriously stressed out: he’d had little sleep and now his police force had let him down by allowing two murders to happen right under its nose.

‘We find ourselves in a very grave situation,’ he was saying, ‘and I don’t need to tell you what effect these murders will have on the streets as well as on our image — particularly as this week we are right under the spotlight.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Basil Kramer asked, applying pressure which Henry thought was out of order. ‘The PM will be extremely eager to hear, particularly as tomorrow he will be making his keynote speech on law and order and the home secretary will be making one on how he proposes to relax immigration laws. The PM will be pledging millions of pounds of extra cash to the police service and Lancashire will get a sizeable chunk of this cash. It would be ironic to see the forces of law and order collapsing around his ears as he spoke — wouldn’t it?’ Kramer’s voice held a hint of threat: perform, or you don’t get the dough.

FB blanched. Beads of sweat tumbled down his forehead, his jaw muscles tensed visibly. His eyes criss-crossed the room, landing on Henry Christie whom he blamed totally for the current predicament. ‘Henry,’ he said, ‘maybe you’d like to brief us all about last night’s events.’

Henry had expected this to be dumped on him. FB was a past master at buck passing.

‘Yes, sir, no problem.’ He cleared his throat and began to recount the happenings of the busy night to his attentive audience. He had spoken in such forums before and was unfazed by it. He knew all the Lancashire detectives in the room well, having worked extensively with them all, bar Jane Roscoe. He concluded by recapping his thoughts on the two murders, because as an ex-detective, he believed he had the right to do so and as FB had given him the floor, he was going to take advantage. He kept it pithy and to the point, though. He didn’t want to bore or alienate his audience with too many details.

‘Geri Peters had already intimated she knew something about the right-wing extremist group, Hellfire Dawn, but that she was afraid to tell us. I think she would have said something to us eventually and whoever killed her believed this too. I know that an impulse killing will have to be a consideration, but I believe the answer to her death lies with the knowledge she possessed. So what was that knowledge?’ Henry stopped, allowing the question to hang in there. He went on, ‘Joey Costain was linked to Hellfire Dawn, too. He was an activist, although his own ethnic background doesn’t quite sit with their ideals of white purity — he’s from a gypsy background,’ he explained to the one or two puzzled expressions in the room. ‘So how come he was doing their dirty work for them? Having said that he was the main suspect for Mo Khan’s death, so things point to the Khan family taking retribution, right down to the slogan written in blood on the wall. So, yeah, the Khan brothers have to be pulled in for questioning, but the way he was butchered doesn’t sit easy with that line of thought, not to my mind anyway. The Khans are very handy with knives and guns and I think they would quite happily have slit Joey’s throat and let him bleed to death. They wouldn’t have carried out the post-mortem.’ Henry’s face screwed up. ‘The Khans don’t feel right for it — that’s it,’ Henry ended.

‘Right, thanks for that. . er. . insight,’ FB said insincerely. ‘You can go home now,’ he continued, dismissing him. ‘Now, gents — and lady — we need to make some decisions about how we are going to divide up our meagre resources for these murders.’ His eyes roved the room and landed back on Henry, who had not moved. ‘You still here, Henry? I thought I’d told you, you can go home to bed now.’

A titter of laughter rippled round the room: Henry Christie was being publicly shown his place in the new order of things. Reactive inspectors were very low on the food chain, somewhere just above plankton.

‘And by the way,’ FB rubbed it in, ‘be back here for five o’clock. I want to know your plans for keeping the peace tonight — because they weren’t very good last night, were they?’

Patronising twat, Henry thought as he rose, red-faced, not making eye contact with anyone. He slunk out of the room thinking, Stuff you!

FB continued, ‘We might well be overrun with bobbies, but each and every one of them is tied up with the conference, so you can forget them. The next few days are going to be very tight manpower-wise so you can forget full murder teams until the weekend. As I see it, we need to get two investigations up and running side by side, but linked by the same senior investigating officer — anybody disagree?’

No one did.

‘Detective Superintendent Thomas — Dave, you’re in overall charge, OK?’ FB indicated the man, who nodded. ‘DI Corner, you can have Geri Peters, and DI Roscoe, you can have Joey Costain because his death seems like a follow-on from the job you were already running.’

By the time he was putting his arms into his leather jacket Henry had calmed down somewhat and was glad to be going home. Maybe some of the dubious words of wisdom from the great Burt Norman from last night were not far off the mark: do your tour, go home, forget about the job. There had spoken a man who felt he had been shafted by the organisation and now Henry was on the verge of agreeing with him because had Henry not also been shafted? The problem with Henry was that he loved the job. He had loved being a detective. And, if the truth were known, if FB had offered him an office cleaning job on a murder team he would have grasped it with both hands and kissed his feet in gratitude.

You sad bastard, he told himself.

Burt Norman, who had arrived for work at 5.40 a.m. that Tuesday morning, was out of the office, making his presence known over the radio, constantly giving orders to the troops. Sometimes Henry wished he was a bit more like that, with an assertive, almost aggressive management style. The truth was he felt uncomfortable dishing out instructions like a bloody general, leading from the front all the time. When it was necessary, yes. But overall he preferred a more laid-back approach, leaving the shouting and bawling to people who revelled in it. Like FB.

He put the man out of his mind.

The walk back to the flat on his tired, aching legs did not have great appeal. He squinted out of a window at the sky. The day was bright and clear, which lifted his spirits a little.

In his head he planned the next half-hour in fine detail: Stroll home via the newsagent’s, pick up a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Back to the flat, avoiding Fiona if at all possible. He craved silence. Into the shower to soap and shampoo off the night and get that fresh over-all feeling. Into the kitchen wrapped in his dressing gown. Tea and toast. Skim the headlines. Two Nurofen, then approach the bed. Slide in between the cool sheets by nine and then go for seven uninterrupted hours sleep and pray that Fiona would be too busy neutering dogs and spaying cats to have time to pay any attention to her overactive libido.

Henry knew he could not have responded, even if the flesh had been willing. For the first time in his life he did not want sex, he wanted sleep. The realisation startled him.

His plans were unfolding as he walked through the station and out through the back doors of the huge covered garage and he suddenly remembered that he had not yet got a conference pass. Must do that tonight, he thought.

The place was buzzing with cops and their vehicles, all for the conference.

Henry’s butterfly-like musings — the product of a tired mind — turned briefly to his ex-wife Kate and his two daughters, Jenny and Leanne. He longed to be going back to the marital home, with a doting wife who would once have done anything for him, gone anywhere with him, and the chaos of the two girls who adored him and would not give him a minute’s peace, demanded cash with menaces, drove him up the wall and gave him the most wonderful cuddles. .

Stop! Cease those unproductive thoughts. Live with the fact you have fucked up your life good and proper. There was no going back now. No restarts, either, he thought. Kate was all cried out of second chances and the business with Danielle Furness had effectively ensured that.

Which spun his thoughts to Danny — but all he could see was the last moments of her life, the twist of her head as her neck had broken and she had died with his unborn child inside her.

Stop! he told himself again. Move on! He put his hands over his ears and screamed silently. Stop this fucking nonsense.

‘Boss — can I give you a lift?’

At first the words did not register with Henry. He was still in that Tenerife bedroom watching Danny’s attacker, one arm around her neck, the other smothering her face. The man had broken her neck expertly in one flowing motion. He had probably done it a hundred times before, practising on prisoners held in Soviet prisons. One loud crack. Instant death. Danny was the last person that man ever killed. Henry had seen to that as he fired a bullet into the man’s throat. But it had not been a sweet revenge, just revenge. No consolation for the loss of the woman he had grown to love.

‘Henry?’

He stopped, snapped out of his depressing reverie and pulled his hands away from his temples. He shook his head and looked at the car crawling along by his side. The driver’s window was down, and Dermot Byrne’s face looked out. ‘Are you all right?’ There was real concern in his voice.

‘Yeah, course, just lost in thought.’

‘Want a lift?’

He didn’t really, but it would have felt churlish to refuse. He climbed into the back because PC John Taylor was in the front passenger seat, still looking very shaken and stirred.

‘Are you two only just finishing?’ Henry asked, realising he would have known the answer to that if he had been a better manager.

‘Just helped John to finish off his statement and stayed with him while a couple of detectives had a chat to him,’ Byrne said.

Now that was a good manager speaking, Henry thought. Byrne was a caring sergeant who would probably go far.

‘John’s going off sick, by the way,’ Byrne informed Henry over his shoulder.

The constable was hunched down in his seat, head bowed, hands clasped between his thighs as though he was freezing cold, utterly dejected and miserable.

‘It’s been a bit too much for you, hasn’t it, John?’ Byrne said sympathetically. The officer nodded.

Been too bloody much for us all, Henry said to himself, but kept his mouth tight shut. ‘Enough for anybody,’ Henry agreed, though the tone of his voice didn’t. He wondered why, other than the tiredness which permeated his body and soul, he did not feel especially affected by the events of the night. He had been dreading the return to work but despite the ups and downs of the tour he had found he had loved it like mad. The hurly-burly. The here and now. The immediacy of it all. The responding. All in all it had been a great experience, even if at the time it had been very tough. On reflection it had been fun. Not as much fun as being a detective, maybe. Henry hoped his appetite for the job had come back with a vengeance and that innate mechanism most cops had for distancing their emotions from the horrors they witnessed was back with him. On the other hand, Danny’s death still haunted him day and night, but that had been personal. What he had been through last night was not really personal, so yeah, he could cut himself off from it.

PC John Taylor apparently could not. Despite his length of service, it was getting to him. Sometimes that happened. No doubt he was experiencing great difficulty coming to terms with the death of the girl at the hospital, perhaps blaming himself for it.

‘Maybe it’s as well you have some time off,’ Henry said. ‘Get things back into perspective.’ He leaned forward and patted Taylor on the shoulder.

Taylor jumped at the touch, nearly leaping out of his clothes.

‘Yeah, thanks, sir,’ he said meekly.

‘Dermot, could you possibly be in for five tonight?’

‘Sure, why?’

‘I have to see FB to appraise him of our public-order plans.’

‘What public-order plans?’

‘Exactly,’ Henry said. ‘What public-order plans? We need to get something together, plus there’s some intelligence about the possibility of bomb attacks on some targets. We might have to do some warnings to licensed premises.’

‘Bomb attacks?’ Byrne exclaimed. Taylor lifted his head to listen. ‘Where’s that come from?’

Henry said, ‘I can’t say much about the source, but I’ll brief everyone properly tonight.’

‘Fine,’ Byrne said.

‘Drop me off here, will you? I’m going for a newspaper. Thanks for the lift.’

Henry watched them drive away and bobbed into the shop.

Because virtually all the CID resources had been channelled into the murder investigations, the file on Kit Nevison had been passed down the line like a hot potato, landing squarely in the lap of a probationer constable called Standring who, it was decided, was the only person with any time to deal with it. Fortunately he was approaching the end of his two-year probation and had the makings of a sound bobby. He bounced his few doubts and queries off his sergeant, got told to get on with it and went down to the custody office. The cell keys were tossed in his direction, the custody sergeant pointed to a tray bearing all the prisoners’ breakfasts and told Standring to dish them out before dealing with Nevison. Such were the pleasures of being at the bottom of the pile.

Standring shrugged philosophically and got to his task with a smile.

Ten minutes later all the prisoners, with the exception of Nevison, were eating a lukewarm breakfast of sausage, beans and toast. PC Standring returned to Nevison’s cell with a breakfast and let himself in. The smell of Nevison was almost overpowering. Sweaty feet, putrid armpits, bad breath and blood-soaked hair all combined to turn up the officer’s nose in disgust.

Nevison was deep asleep. It took several minutes of shaking and slapping to rouse him. Eventually he sat up, coughing horribly, holding his sore head in his hands, moaning. His skull apparently hurt like hell.

‘Want some breakfast?’ Standring asked, offering the plastic plate which had an unappetising display of food on it.

Nevison glanced at it and retched. ‘No thanks. I’ll have a brew though — shit, I feel fuckin’ awful.’

‘Bad news, Kit, you look awful too.’

‘Thanks.’ Nevison touched his bandaged head and winced, then took the plastic mug from the officer containing weak, but very sweet tea. He sipped it gratefully.

‘Come on,’ Standring coaxed him. ‘We’ll get you some aspirin, then you can have a shower and a shave. You’ll feel much better. After that I’m going to interview you.’

‘Eh?’ Nevison looked stunned. ‘What have I done?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘You don’t remember whacking somebody in a pub with a beer glass, then slashing a cop with a Stanley knife and holding a woman hostage?’

Nevison pouted as he thought about this. He truly did not recall any of these things.

‘Hence the bash on the head,’ Standring added.

‘Oh, that’s what it was.’ He rose unsteadily to his full height, towering above the constable who was no short-ass. Standring backed out of the cell, praying Nevison did not have a rush of angry blood.

The big man stretched, yawned and farted. As he relaxed he seemed to contract into himself, become hunched up and round shouldered, and very old-looking for his age. The years of excessive drink, drug and nicotine abuse had certainly taken their toll on him.

‘Shower’s down here,’ Standring pointed.

Nevison emerged from his cell and walked in front of Standring, who stayed and supervised the shower and shave, ensuring the safety razor was returned to the locked cabinet.

‘I need a fix now,’ Nevison said, towelling himself dry. ‘And I need to see the doctor and I want a fag.’

Henry’s meticulous timetable went to plan. At 9.02 a.m. he slid between the sheets in his darkened bedroom and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly.

Jane Roscoe had been stunned when FB announced she was to lead the investigation into Joey Costain’s murder. She had been expecting to be sidelined and ousted by the big boys.

At first she flushed with pleasure, but when she began to piece together the implications of the situation, she was swamped by them. If only by virtue of the way in which Joey had been slaughtered, media attention would be intense, certainly in the early days. If the possible racial element came out, always a hot spud for any police investigation these days, it would mean that Roscoe had drawn the shit end of the short straw — and maybe that was why she had got the job. Conspiracy by the rednecks! she thought.

Another issue which concerned her, but in which she had little say, was the way in which the few precious resources had been carved up. After Henry Christie had skulked out of the meeting, daggers were drawn and a messy fight had ensued which she had felt unprepared for. She’d said her piece, made her requests and then awaited the outcome which, when it came, had not been good from her point of view.

The problem was that everyone was making big assumptions about the direction the inquiry into Joey’s death would go. It was obvious that the first port of call would be the Khan brothers. Bring ’em in and get ’em charged had been FB’s simplistic approach. It would be that easy, he had reassured her. ‘Mmm,’ Roscoe had murmured to herself, unimpressed. And for that reason, FB had gone on to explain, she would not be getting half the resources available. Not even a quarter. She had ended up with four detectives. At least the administrative and IT side of the investigation would be shared between the two inquiries. Some consolation.

The meeting had dispersed about an hour later.

Roscoe stayed seated while everyone else left the room, deep in thought, wondering how she would kick-start the job. It was difficult to believe that the person whom she had been expecting to arrest for a murder that morning was now a victim himself, so topsy-turvy was the whole scenario.

Having had little sleep — she had only just got into bed before she had been called out again — and a fleeting but bitter argument with her husband about her apparent lack of commitment to home and marriage (again!), her grey matter was struggling to get going. She was only partly conscious of someone sitting down in the chair beside her. Only when an outstretched hand cut into her line of sight, did she react by jumping out of her skin.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’

Roscoe did not have a clue in hell who this person was. She had seen him earlier, standing at the back of the room — you could not fail to notice him. Tall, square-jawed, good-looking — drop-dead gorgeous, actually — in a Clark Kent sort of way, broad shouldered, athletic-looking physique, with his blond hair trimmed into a crew cut. He had a bright twinkle in his eye and looked so fit and healthy he made her feel like a slob.

She gripped his big warm hand, feeling herself go slightly giddy.

‘Name’s Donaldson, Karl Donaldson.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Her eyes quickly dropped to his left hand. She saw the wedding band on the appropriate finger. It was just a check for interest’s sake, she told herself. ‘I’m Jane Roscoe, detective inspector.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he drawled in his very pleasing American accent.

‘Er. . I was wondering — what’s your role in all this?’

‘Just liaison with the Metropolitan police. I’m a legal attache for the FBI. I work from the American Embassy.’

‘Oh wow — a spy.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Anyway — lovely to meet you,’ Roscoe said with finality, but he made no move to go.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, ma’am, but would you indulge me for one moment?’

When you call me ‘ma’am’ like that, she thought wickedly, you could indulge me for a good hour. ‘Sure,’ she said.

‘Could I be so bold as to offer you some advice? One law enforcement officer to another?’

Roscoe sat back. ‘I’d be rude not to listen.’

‘Thanks,’ Donaldson said with a smile that must have sent a thousand women’s hearts a-flutter, as well as their erogenous zones. She was wondering what the words of wisdom were going to be. She had a horrible feeling, nice and sexy as the guy was, she might be in for some down-home, good ole Yankee yee-hah balderdash here.

‘Having noticed you’ve been given a pretty tough assignment and seen your reaction to it-’

‘My reaction! What d’you mean?’ she demanded.

‘Your non-verbals screamed discomfort.’

‘I don’t think they did.’ Roscoe fidgeted haughtily, offended, her body language betraying her again.

Donaldson held up a hand to calm her down. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to be burning with the hot redness which flushed her. She gritted her teeth. Donaldson could see he had to get his say in quick.

‘On and off for the past five years, I’ve worked with Henry Christie. He’s also a good friend.’

‘Well woppy-doo, I’m so pleased to hear it.’ Her face was drawn as tight as though she’d had plastic surgery gone wrong. Livid was the term which sprang to her mind.

‘What I’m saying is that despite his faults — I mean, he’s always close to the edge — he is one of the best detectives I’ve ever known and I’ve known some of the best detectives in the world, believe me. He has a remarkable instinct about people, things, situations, so I truly think you should take heed of what he said before he was belittled out of the room by Fanshaw-Bayley, who I also know well and find to be a first-class asshole and I’ve known the best assholes, too.’

‘Well thanks for taking the time to offer me that advice,’ Roscoe retorted primly. ‘But, y’know, I think you probably misinterpreted my body language and I know exactly what I’m going to do in respect of this inquiry.’

Donaldson flicked a mock-salute. ‘In that case, accept my apologies, ma’am, but to quote, “Many people receive advice, only the wise profit from it.”’

‘Eh?’

‘Pubilius Syrus — first-century Roman writer — bye y’all.’ Donaldson was gone.

Roscoe sat speechless for a few beats, then gasped. ‘First-class asshole, my arse.’

PC Standring inserted the timed interview tapes, switched on the recorder and robotically went through the pre-interview spiel with Kit Nevison and the duty solicitor now representing him.

Nevison, now clean shaven, showered and smelling of soap, had a large plastic mug of sweet tea (six sugars) on the table in front of him. He said he understood what PC Standring had said and the interview commenced after he had been cautioned.

‘So, Kit, do you know why you’ve been arrested?’

‘Other than what you’ve told me — no.’

‘What recollections do you have of last night’s events?’

Nevison thought about the question for a moment. ‘None.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Drugs ’n’ booze, I expect. I was very drunk and I took loadsa different shite.’ He shook his head at the recollection. ‘Everything’s just a blank after about the ninth pint. My mind was clouded,’ he said proudly, ‘and so was my judgement I expect.’

Standring sighed. This was going to be a pretty short, one-sided interview.

Back at his flat David Gill exercised to the limits of his physical capabilities: sit-ups, press-ups, ten thousand metres on the rowing machine, and then progressed onto cocaine which he was refining on the surface of a shaving mirror using a razor blade.

‘Chop, chop, chop, chop,’ he intoned breathlessly to himself with each downward stroke of the blade. ‘Chop and separate, chop and separate, make some nice lines, just like soldiers marching along, one, two, three, four, left, right, left. But I’m not going to dip these soldiers into my boiled egg.’

With extreme care he perfected the lines of the white powder so they were all the same length and width. He had an eye for such things. Very precise.

‘I deserve this,’ he said.

He used a shortened straw to inhale, following the lines quickly, sniffing deeply, tossing his head back as though swallowing a pill. Then he licked the mirror clean and waited for the rush. He gasped as the drug entered his system.

It had been a hell of a night. Much achieved, much more yet to do and he was not remotely tired. The coke had cleared his head. The physical exertions, far from exhausting him, seemed to have given him more energy, more desire. There was no way he could sleep.

He jumped up and paced the small living room, tensing his muscles, bouncing on his feet, growling like a leopard — which was often how he saw himself. A leopard, but one which could change its spots, could adapt, but could remain camouflaged in the undergrowth, waiting to strike and destroy. He needed to feel the rip of flesh again. He wanted to get his fingers around someone’s hot heart.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No.’ He tried to get a grip.

He forced himself to sit down, but he needed to be on the move, on the hunt.