Backlash

Fifteen

Henry Christie was not a political animal. He did not give two stuffs about councillors and politicians and their sad, power-hungry egos. This was probably why he had not progressed any further than the rank of inspector — as well as being unable to pass the promotion-assessment centres, which was in itself a bit of a stumbling block. He thought it was ludicrous that the police service kow-towed to politicians and found it a huge joke for the claim to be made that the police service was apolitical. Of course it was political.

The truth was that ever since the miners’ strike of 1984 and probably before that, the police had been used as blunt instruments by whatever party happened to be in power to do their dirty work. And to align policing divisions with local political boundaries seemed to Henry to be the ultimate act of self-sacrifice. He waited for the day when there would be an office in each police station for councillors to use.

But that was the way things had progressed and though he hated it with a vengeance, Henry accepted the harsh realities. The government set the policing agenda, chief constables were mere puppets with no real clout whatsoever, and police forces had to remain placid and compliant to keep Whitehall happy. If they were foolish enough to upset the home secretary they went right to the bottom of the queue when the yearly budget begging bowl was rattled under his nose.

So he hated all politicians and resented their continual intrusion into everyone’s private lives as well as the constant nosying into operational policing. All he wanted to do was solve crime, put offenders before courts and hope they got their just desserts — then lock up some more. An old-fashioned concept, he knew, but it was why he joined the police in the first place but somewhere down the line the idea of catching criminals seemed to have been forgotten by high-ranking officers who simply wanted to further their careers by simpering up to politicians.

As in the case of FB.

Henry was extremely displeased to see Basil Kramer in the former officers’ mess where he had been told to report to FB at 5 p.m.

Kramer and FB were deep in conversation, FB nodding furiously, agreeing with everything, eager to please, feathering his nest. Henry hoped it contained vipers.

Also in the room were Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin. They were drinking coffee, idly chatting, both dressed in casual gear.

The Kramer-FB conflab broke up with a raucous laugh and a pat on the shoulder. They looked round guiltily as Henry came in.

‘Come on, take a pew.’ FB waggled his fingers, beckoning him like he was a servant. ‘Managed to get some sleep?’

‘Oh aye,’ said Henry stonily. He felt like a sloth. No energy. No commitment. Not happy. His eyes sported luggage like saddle bags. He flicked his thumb behind him. ‘I’ve brought Sergeant Byrne in. He’s night-patrol supervision. I thought he should be here.’ He was going to add, ‘Hope that’s OK,’ but refrained. He wanted to remain assertive.

‘Sure,’ FB said.

‘Hello, Inspector,’ Basil Kramer said. ‘Nice to see you again.’ He nodded to Byrne. ‘Sarge.’

Henry and Byrne sat down.

FB glanced at Kramer, who took the lead and spoke. ‘Just to put you in the picture, Inspector, the PM is in town, staying at the Imperial Hotel tonight.’

Henry nodded, repressing the urge to say, ‘Woopee doo! Bully for him.’

‘And I think he would like to sleep soundly,’ Kramer added, smiling thinly.

‘Which is where you come in.’ FB emphasised the word ‘you’. ‘So what are your plans to keep the peace tonight?’

Twenty minutes later, Henry and Byrne were walking towards the parade room on the ground floor.

‘I think we got through that OK-ish,’ Byrne commented.

‘Surprisingly,’ Henry said. ‘The problem we now have is making our promises come true with the small number of staff we have available. Not easy, Dermot.’

‘We’ll have to be creative, won’t we?’

‘And pray we don’t have another riot to deal with. God give us rain — lots of it.’

Their radios blasted out. ‘Blackpool to DI Roscoe or DS Evans receiving — DI Roscoe or DS Evans.’

Both Henry and Byrne twisted the volume down on their sets.

Dermot Byrne paraded the twelve-hour night shift, due on just before 6 p.m. Henry stayed for the briefing which was short and precise. The team looked haggard from the previous night’s fun, but they seemed raring to go. A riot gave them something to do. Henry was surprised to see PC John Taylor in the line-up, he had expected him to be off sick. He looked as though he had not slept all day and had watery eyes and a sniffy nose. Henry admired him for coming in.

To keep Taylor out of mischief for a couple of hours, Byrne gave him the relatively painless task of visiting all the licensed premises in town known to attract gays. He was to speak to the licensees about suspicious parcels and stick up one or two warning posters which Henry and Byrne had quickly run off the computer before the parade.

After the briefing Henry walked back to the inspectors’ office. He needed to catch up with some paperwork, then find out how Dave Seymour was progressing and about the two murder inquiries. After that he intended to hit the bricks with Byrne. He was keenly anticipating the night ahead now that he was at work.

‘Blackpool to patrols,’ communications shouted over the radio again. ‘Does anyone know the present location of DI Roscoe or DS Evans?’

No one replied.

‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ Henry called up. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ the operator said hesitantly. ‘The DI should be at the mortuary for a post-mortem. The pathologist is waiting for her to turn up, but she hasn’t shown. He’s been on the phone.’

‘Roger.’

Odd, thought Henry. He turned into the inspectors’ office and bumped into Burt Norman who was on his way out, his motorcycle helmet in his hand.

‘Burt,’ Henry said pleasantly.

‘Bye,’ Norman said, brushing past and was gone. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, suddenly putting his head back round the door. ‘Tea fund — need to speak to you — tomorrow, maybe — bye.’ Then he was really gone.

Henry smiled to himself. He kitted himself up with all his equipment and picked up a set of car keys. He decided to visit a friend.

Henry had spent many a gruesome hour at the public mortuary, presiding over post-mortems carried out on murder victims. There had been times when the place had been like a second office to him, but instead of being surrounded by stationary and in-trays, he had been surrounded by hearts, livers, dissected brains, entrails and stiffs. He had become so immune to the process that these days he even failed to recoil at the smell of death, that peculiar, all-clinging odour which escapes from the dissected human body. But he could recognise it immediately.

Joey Costain’s cadaver was on a steel trolley. He was covered by a white plastic sheet. He had not been hoisted across to the slab because the formal identification still had to be carried out before the post-mortem began. It would not have been appropriate to wheel the family in to do the distressing task if he was already on the slab. It was bad enough as it was.

Dr Baines, the pathologist, was sitting chatting to Jan, the mortuary technician. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties, a prettiness totally at odds with her profession. Many police officers were driven wild by their morbid sexual fantasies about her. Obviously not Henry Christie. He was far too clean living and moralistic to harbour any such dreams. Besides which, she scared him slightly with the air of Morticia Addams she had about her.

Baines clambered to his feet when he saw Henry approaching.

‘Henry old boy.’ He beamed and looked down at the uniform. ‘You don’t half look strange,’ he commented.

Henry did a fashion-model twirl in his size ten Doc Martens. ‘Like it?’

Jan, the technician, had a twinkle in her eyes.

‘Naah,’ said Baines, ‘doesn’t suit you at all.’

‘Actually I like it,’ Jan said in a rather unsettling way. ‘Makes you look sexy. I like a man in uniform,’ she admitted.

Henry swallowed nervously. ‘Thanks, Jan.’

She licked her lips provocatively and Henry shuddered inwardly. He knew she was single after a short, disastrous marriage and she was on the look-out, rather like a black widow. Henry got quickly back on track.

‘Doc, I think you’re waiting for Jane Roscoe to land?’

‘I am. Been waiting ages.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Well over an hour now. She said she had a quick enquiry to make and would be along asap. Bad form if you ask me. Time is money, as they say.’

Henry knew just how much Baines claimed for call-outs. A small fortune.

‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but from what I know of her, she’s the sort who wouldn’t let you down without a very sound reason.’

‘Cause for concern, uh?’ Baines said quickly.

Henry shrugged. ‘Unusual, that’s all at the moment. We can’t make contact with her or the DS she’s with.’ He crossed to a desk in the corner of the room and picked up the phone. He dialled the station, feeling very uneasy. He ascertained that communications had tried to call both Roscoe and Evans on their mobile phones without success, paging them had got no response either. What made Henry’s flesh creep even more was that their cars had now been found parked up near to Joey Costain’s flat. Henry thanked the operator and hung up slowly.

Baines and Jan watched him carefully with concerned looks.

‘The family need to be informed of this death,’ Baines said, sliding in some extra information. ‘Perhaps she’s with them. I believe they can be a handful when riled.’

‘You could be right, although her and DS Evans’ cars are still parked near to Joey’s flat in South Shore. I can’t see them having walked two miles up to Shoreside. The whole thing seems out of character. I know Mark Evans well. He’s dead reliable.’ That unwelcome feeling in the pit of his guts was starting. ‘What did Jane say when she last saw you?’ he asked Baines.

‘That she was following something up. She’d been approached by an oldish, military-looking man in the street and been to see him. Seems he gave her some useful information. She didn’t share it with me, but she looked pretty excited by whatever it was.’

‘Who was the old guy?’

‘I’m sorry, Henry, I don’t know.’ Baines looked wounded. ‘He was seventy-odd, maybe, military bearing as I said, well dressed, walked with the aid of a stick.’

‘Right,’ said Henry, ‘do you mind hanging on here for a while longer? We’ll try to get hold of Jane and Mark and I’ll go to see the Costain family and do the dirty deed. I’ll get one of them down here to ID Joey, then you can get on with the PM. I’ll also ensure a detective comes and stays for the PM, and I’ll get scenes of crime.’ Henry nodded sharply to them both.

‘Be as quick as you can. I’ve already done one murder victim for you today.’

‘Oh, the girl, Geri Porter? Suffocated?’

Baines nodded. ‘She also had an interesting bump on her head, caused some time before death, which I don’t know what to make of.’

And for the first time Henry thought, Now what a coincidence. Two people closely linked to a right-wing extremist organisation murdered within a short time of each other. Some coincidence, even though on the face of it their deaths seemed unrelated. Geri Porter could have been killed because she knew too much. She was expendable. But what about Joey Costain? Was he expendable too? Joey the gypsy. What was a gypsy doing being a member of Hellfire Dawn?

‘Henry! You went blank for a moment,’ Baines observed.

‘Far from it, far from it,’ he said. ‘See you soon.’ He hurried out of the mortuary, already transmitting instructions down his radio.

‘Get in,’ Henry shouted to Byrne through the driver’s door window as he screeched the patrol car to a halt on Richardson Street at the back of the police station. Byrne almost slid across the bonnet of the Astra, jumped in and sank down into the tired seat springs. Henry executed a wild three-point turn as quickly as he could, wrestling with the powerless steering. He gunned the clapped-out motor back down the street.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The humble Costain household.’

‘Nice.’

At the Berlin Hotel, Vince Bellamy was talking to one of the Hellfire Dawn committee members, a man called Martin Franklands. He had been a steady member of the organisation for about two years. He helped sort out the money side of things and dealt with day-to-day administration matters for them. The two men were standing in the foyer of the hotel. Bellamy handed Franklands a mobile phone.

‘Sorry to ask you to do this. I know it’s a bit of a pisser, but can you get this phone to Don Longton out by North Pier. He’s near the War Memorial. He’s just phoned in from a public call box to say his own phone’s battery is dead. He needs a charged phone.’

‘Sure, anything to help,’ Franklands said, slipping the phone into a back pocket. He grabbed his donkey jacket from a coat stand. He knew Don Longton was one of the many observers round the town, reporting on police movements and anything else of interest to the hotel control room. Batteries were always crashing, needing to be replaced.

‘Thanks, Martin, see you soon.’

Franklands trotted out and down the hotel steps, glad of the break and the opportunity to get some fresh air. He turned out of sight of the hotel, onto the promenade.

Bellamy watched him go. He unhitched his own mobile phone from his belt and called one of the listed numbers.

‘Don?’

‘Yep.’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘Thanks.’

Bellamy went back to his office.

‘Anything from Jane Roscoe?’ Henry asked Byrne, just in case he had missed something.

Byrne shook his head.

Henry hit the steering wheel with frustration. ‘I suppose she could be up at the Costains, but to remain out of contact for so long is worrying.’

‘Just a bit,’ Byrne agreed. ‘Is that why we’re going there?’

‘One of the reasons, just to check they haven’t beaten the crap out of her and Mark, but I don’t think they would. The other reason is to tell them about Joey Costain, if Jane hasn’t told them already, and the next reason is to quell any possibility of a riot.’

‘Oh?’ Byrne twisted in his seat. ‘And how do you propose to do that, boss?’

‘Community policing at its best and most basic,’ Henry said mysteriously.

The chill on the promenade was bitter and came through the fabric of Martin Franklands’ donkey jacket. The wide paved area between road and sea was virtually deserted. A tram trundled past, lit up brightly, the people inside looking warm and protected.

To his left, Franklands could hear the sea, a sound drowned out as he walked past the entrance to north pier which was basically an amusement arcade. Loud music pumped out, but there were very few punters inside playing the machines. Franklands walked on to the war memorial, leaving the sound of the music behind, once more picking up that of the sea less than twenty metres away.

There was a dark figure lurking by the memorial where the promenade dropped into an incline behind the Metropole buildings, out of sight of the road. Even without seeing the man’s face, Franklands knew the guy was Don Longton, a fellow with whom he had struck up a passably decent relationship over the past few months. Longton was standing in the shadow cast by the memorial, his face completely obscured.

‘Don,’ Franklands said in greeting. ‘Got a charged-up phone for you.’

Longton did not say a word. Franklands knew he was being sussed up and down through the blackness. He could feel Longton’s eyes on him.

There was actually nothing in that moment to give it away; even so, Frankland’s instincts burst into life like a ruptured appendix. He knew there was big trouble afoot and that he had been lured to this spot for some reason.

‘Everything OK, Don?’ he asked the big, silent figure, almost unable to utter the words, he was so frightened.

It was not.

Franklands heard a shuffling noise behind him, turned quickly and found two men standing there, having stepped out from the other side of the monument. Franklands edged away a pace, recognising the two immediately. They were the men who had been acting as doormen for Vince Bellamy at the Berlin, the ones who had been done over earlier by some mad guy or other. Their names were Baxter and Higgins. Both were peas out of the same pod. Hard nuts, London upbringings, Nazi tattoos, brainless cunts. Baxter had a plaster over his nose where he had been head butted and a cottonwool bud screwed into each nostril. Both his eyes were black and swollen. He did not look well. He and Higgins — who had been kneed in the balls by the mad guy — looked like two pissed-off individuals who wanted to vent some spleen.

Franklands quaked in his boots.

‘What’s this?’ he asked shakily, knowing his time had come, but not knowing why. His eyes flicked back and forth between all three men, weighing up the distance between them and him, calculating if he could make a break for it.

As if reading his thoughts, Longton stepped menacingly out of the shadows.

‘Snitches need sorting,’ Longton growled like a bear. ‘Good style.’

All three towered as he cowered.

‘Hey, this is shit,’ Franklands pleaded. ‘What’s going on? I ain’t no snitch to anyone. There is a fucking error here.’ His hands rose defensively, palms out, trying to pacify them and make them keep their distance.

He decided to try and run for it. It was his only option. They had obviously been given their instructions and nothing he said would change that — rather like the Gestapo, he thought. He turned, about to leg it.

With no warning whatsoever, Longton turned towards the bouncer called Baxter, the one with the plastered nose. The other man, Higgins, grabbed Baxter, who was not expecting this, and gripped him in a vice-like bear hug.

‘What the-?’

The word ‘fuck’ was cut off as Longton, who had eased a spiked knuckle duster onto his right fist, smashed Baxter heavily and accurately in the face. Baxter’s face exploded. His already broken nose burst open. Blood sprayed everywhere. The next blow slammed into his left eye and cheekbone, the spikes of the knuckle duster piercing his eyeball, breaking his cheekbone. The third blow, in more or less the same place, tore the eye socket open and put Baxter into semi-consciousness.

Higgins opened his arms and let the limp body crumble to the ground.

Franklands, appalled, looked on, his hands covering his wide-open mouth. ‘Jesus, Jesus,’ he kept repeating, never having witnessed such dreadful, focused violence.

Longton and Higgins started kicking Baxter. Kick, after kick, after kick. Both were wearing steel toe-capped boots. After this they began jumping up and down on his head, smashing the soles of their shoes into his skull with as much power as they could muster. He was dead before the two of them dragged his body to the sea wall. Longton and Higgins rolled him to the edge and kicked him underneath the railings into the waves below. His body made a splash, then the waves tugged him away and pounded him back against the sea wall like flotsam.

Longton and Higgins stood there breathing heavily before turning to each other and exchanging a high-five of victory.

Franklands, silenced and terrified, watched them. His whole being shook. He felt physically sick.

Longton put an arm around Franklands’ shoulder.

‘Got that phone, pal?’

‘Y-yeah,’ he stuttered.

‘Give it here.’

He handed it over. Longton punched in a number.

‘Me,’ he said. ‘It’s a done job.’ He ended the call and gave Franklands a big hug and a pat. ‘Well done, mate.’

Shoreside was still like a war zone. The council had been unable to start any repair work during the day, so the estate remained in absolute darkness.

‘Spooky,’ Henry observed, driving onto the estate, speculating whether it was really such a good idea to go to the Costains. Perhaps Jane and Mark had made the same mistake, had been ambushed and were lying injured in some dark alley — or worse. But that still did not explain their cars down on South Shore.

Gangs of kids roamed the streets, hanging out on corners like packs of wild dogs. They were dark shapes, evil and frightening, even though they were only kids. People were trapped in their houses again, afraid to step out. Henry could taste the fear and the tension in the air coming through the partly open car window. Fires burned on waste ground.

Henry drove slowly past a dozen youths gathered at the entrance to a ginnel. They jeered, spat and flashed V signs at the car, making his blood simmer. He did not react but drove on by, gritting his teeth, pulling on his shirt collar to let steam out.

There was a loud crack on the car roof: a half house brick lobbed by one of the gang. Henry and Byrne ducked instinctively. Henry’s right foot slammed down on the gas pedal.

‘Shit.’

‘Yes — shit,’ Byrne agreed, thankful they were quickly out of range.

Both men were tense.

Henry did not stop to check the damage. They could do that later, somewhere safe. Nor did he try to root out the offender. Both acts would have been foolish and potentially dangerous. The gang would have loved it and things could have got very nasty very quickly. It was always the wise cop who knew when to let things be, because every dog has its day.

There were no further incidents and they reached the Costain household unscathed. The house was lit up. Faces peered through the window at the car and its unwelcome occupants.

Henry sat pensively for a moment, elbows resting on the lower rim of the steering wheel.

‘How are you going to handle this, boss? I’m intrigued.’

‘Let me put it this way, Dermot, my plan is still in its infancy, but I think I have an ace up my sleeve. Let’s just hope the cards get dealt my way. Come on.’ He got out of the car and strode confidently up the path to the front door.

It opened before he even reached it.

Henry breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was: Troy Costain, Joey’s eldest brother. Named, Henry suspected, after the great Troy Tempest of Stingray fame. He was the first person Jane Roscoe’s search team had encountered on their early morning raid, the one who had wanted a fight.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ Troy yelled.

Henry did not break his stride, but bore down on Troy and stuck his forefinger into his chest and said, ‘You, Troy. I want you, now. I want you in your coat, out of this house and in the back of that cop car before I can say “Alakazoo” — get me?’

Troy swallowed. ‘Why, what the fuck have I done?’

Henry poked his chest again. ‘Fucking do it now,’ he hissed and under his breath, so that only Troy could hear, he said, ‘Do not piss me about, Troy. This is serious shit.’

Costain sneered, but wilted. He withdrew with a nod and closed the door behind him.

Henry glanced back at Byrne, some ten feet away at the garden gate. Henry smiled and tossed the car keys to his sergeant. ‘Stand by the car and get ready for a quick getaway.’ Henry looked past Byrne’s shoulder. A bunch of youths were beginning to filter in and gather on the opposite side of the road, drawn by the police presence, looking for any excuse for trouble. If Troy did not co-operate with Henry as he hoped he would, it could be a signal for bother and the two cops could be in for some real grief. Henry licked his dry lips. He had policed the streets of Blackpool, on and off, for a lot of years. Never had he known such a feeling of hatred in the air, never before had he felt so vulnerable on Shoreside where he was very well known by the good guys and the bad guys alike. He’d had moments of anxiety, even been whacked a couple of times, but they had been run-of-the-mill things that every cop got at some time or another. This was different. Dave Seymour had made it different. Cops had become game animals. ‘C’mon y’prick,’ he whispered.

‘Black bastard,’ one of the gang across the street called — terminology often applied by scrotes to police officers, no matter what the colour of their skin.

Byrne walked to and stood by the car.

Henry was about to rap on the door again when it opened. A waft of shouts and abuse flowed out from the family inside as Troy came to the door. ‘It’ll be right,’ he shouted back into the house, pulling on his denim jacket. ‘This better be good,’ he growled low to Henry. ‘My folks are going ape-shit in there. I’ve had to really think on my toes to give ’em some bullshit.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘I said you wanted me to identify some property.’

‘Not far off the mark,’ Henry muttered. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Every shadow hid a potential petrol-bomber, every wall a rock-thrower. The two officers expected to be attacked at every turn but although the estate was buzzing, they drove off safely.

Byrne was at the wheel, Henry in the sagging passenger seat. He turned and looked at Troy, a less than debonair man of the Shoreside underworld where violence and intimidation were currency and drugs meant power. Henry knew the Costain family were driven by violence and held much of the estate in fear of them, hence few people ever willingly came forward as witnesses against them for fear of reprisal. The only challenge to their dominance had been the Khan family and now that challenge had erupted into violence and death.

‘Where we going?’ Costain demanded.

‘Head out towards the hospital, but find somewhere to pull in on the way — somewhere intimate,’ Henry instructed Byrne. He squinted nastily at Costain. ‘Somewhere we can have a chat. Woodside Drive sounds nice.’

Byrne nodded.

Henry smiled at the back-seat passenger. Troy was very much like the rest of his family in many ways. He came across as a tough cookie, was respected by kids who’s dads were never home. Troy liked beating people up who could not or would not fight back, but sometimes, unless backed up by other members of his family, he could not always pull it off. He often hid behind the reputation of the Costain clan because in truth, like so many other bullies, he was a coward at heart, something which Henry had turned ruthlessly to his own advantage.

Although the use of police informants was tightly controlled due to past abuses, many detectives unofficially still ran informants, or ‘sources’ as they were correctly known. Strictly against force policy, but what the hell. Some jacks had sources going back twenty years who did not want their relationship ‘formalised’ and monitored. As was the case with Henry and Troy Costain.

Troy had been the ripe old age of fifteen when Henry had first arrested him on an allegation of assault. Once in custody, Troy had crumbled and offered the arresting officer information in return for leniency. Their relationship had blossomed into a financial footing and had lasted well over twelve years. Troy had served Henry well, giving him some good information leading to good arrests. He’d also given him some duff gen too.

Costain had become Henry’s direct link to Shoreside — and Henry had kept it to himself.

Henry had decided that his contact with Troy would have to be stretched or even broken now because of the present circumstances. The greater good, corny as it might sound, was more important than information leading to an arrest.

‘OK, what’s this about?’ Costain said.

‘Let’s just go somewhere where we can park and talk, eh? Be patient.’

Costain put on a sulky pout and watched the street lights spin by.

‘Sorry you had to witness that,’ Vince Bellamy said. He was speaking to Franklands who now had two large whiskies circulating in his stomach, though the alcohol content of them was not getting into his blood stream as quickly as he would have liked.

‘What was it all about?’ he spluttered.

‘You don’t need to know, other than the fact you have just helped rid our sweet organisation of a traitor who could possibly have destroyed us,’ Bellamy explained. ‘He had to be lured to a place and dealt with and the best way of doing it was to let him think he was going to help us sort you out. But as we know, you’re not a traitor, are you, Martin?’

‘No.’ He helped himself to another shot of whisky. He was sitting on a chair in Bellamy’s office at the Berlin.

Bellamy sat down in front of him. ‘It was vital,’ he said reassuringly, ‘and you’ve proved your worth. We know we can trust you ultimately because,’ and here he dropped the bombshell, ‘that man was a cop.’

Franklands swallowed the vomit in his throat. He pictured images of the assault: the first blow, the kicking, the jumping on Baxter’s head, crushing his skull like they were stamping on a beetle. Franklands could hear the noise. It was horrible and he shuddered. Oh God, a cop, he thought bleakly.

‘You are truly one of us, Martin.’ Bellamy’s voice became lilting and hypnotic. ‘Sometimes these small things have to be done for the good of the movement — you know how true that is, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ he croaked, his breath coming in judders.

‘Will you do something else for us?’

Franklands looked up quickly into Bellamy’s eyes. ‘I. . I don’t know. . I’m in shock, Vince.’

‘I know, but again, it is only a small thing, another piece of the jigsaw which will eventually lead us to power.’ Bellamy paused, smiled and reached across to put his fingertips on Franklands’ jaw line, tilting his head up so their eyes were on a level. ‘You are one of my boys, Martin, part of the top team now. Yes, I mean it — irreplaceable.’

‘What do I have to do?’ Franklands could not stop himself asking.

‘Deliver a package.’

Woodside Drive was off the busy East Park Drive which leads up to Blackpool Zoo, now closed for the day. It was an unlit road, often used by courting couples at night. A perfect place for a conversation.

Byrne pulled the car into the kerb, switched off the engine, killed the lights. Henry laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay put. We won’t be long.’ He jerked his head at Costain, meaning ‘out’.

Costain reluctantly complied and Henry ushered him away from the car.

‘You could’ve fucking compromised me, you silly twat,’ Costain hissed worriedly. ‘If they find out I’m a grass, I’m dead. My family’ll fucking do me, never mind any cunt else. What’s happened to your fucking carefulness?’

‘Just at this moment in time, Troy, I don’t give a monkey’s,’ Henry said. A sentence which, even under the circumstances, made him smirk because on the word monkey’s, a tribe of them started howling loudly in the nearby zoo, obviously offended by Henry’s turn of phrase.

‘Then it better be better ’n good,’ Costain spat.

‘Shut it and let me speak.’ Henry’s tone of voice, coupled with the forefinger poked threateningly an inch from Costain’s face, made the young man clam up. ‘Has DI Roscoe been round to see you and your family?’

‘Yeah, bitch rousted us all early this morning, searching for Joey.’

‘Has she been back since, this evening?’

He shook his head.

‘You sure?’

‘Course I’m fucking sure. Look, what’s going on?’

‘She’s gone missing. Her and another detective.’

‘Well at least that’s two less of you fuckers.’

It was the wrong thing to say and Troy knew it immediately when a chill came over Henry’s face. He snapped and his open-palmed right hand came out of nowhere and whacked Costain across the face. The blow lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling onto the ground. Henry stepped over the prostrate form with menace. Anger, like an internal demon, rushed through him.

‘Not a good choice of words under the circumstances,’ he said. ‘I am not here to play silly fuckers with you, Troy, so I suggest you get up to your feet, keep a civil tongue in your head and answer my questions nicely and listen to what I have to say, because it’s very important. Now get up.’

Henry hoisted him up, but Costain drew his arm away, frightened and cautious of a side of the policeman he’d never really seen before. He cradled his sore jaw which was starting to swell. Henry had hit him very hard.

‘Right — has she been back to your house since the raid?’

Costain shook his head.

‘When she raided your house, did you know where Joey was?’

‘Might have,’ he said sullenly.

‘Did you, or not? Just fucking tell me.’

‘Yeah. At his new flat.’

‘Why didn’t you tell DI Roscoe where he was?’

‘Oh, get real, Henry. Like we would — no effin’ way. We just wouldn’t, would we? We tell the cops fuck all — well, y’know what I mean.’

‘When did you last see Joey?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Think!’

‘Er. . yesterday mornin’ I think. . I really don’t know. He comes and goes — Look, Henry, what is this? Tell me what’s going on.’

Henry knew that what he was about to say was probably untrue, but because he was feeling bad, he wanted Troy to feel even worse.

‘If you had told her exactly where he was, Troy, you might — just might — have saved his life.’

She could have been dead and not known it. There had been blackness — nothing, just nothing. No dreams, nothing. It was only now she knew she was alive. The first thing she felt again was her heart beating. It was unpredictable, all over the place. Fast, slow, irregular. That was what had woken her, the beating of her heart.

Next some kind of consciousness seeped back into her brain, like water dribbling through stones. Drip. Trickle. Senses returned. She shivered and knew she was alive, knew she was naked, could feel goose bumps on her skin. Then pain returned.

And with pain, fear.