Backlash

Sixteen

A grief-stricken Troy Costain paced up and down the road, displaying a mixture of extreme emotions which surged and surfaced while he ranted, raved and cried like a demon. He flapped his arms like a wounded gull, or wrung his hands like a motor mechanic using gunk. Anger, despair and pain all came and went, sometimes singly, sometimes in combination.

Henry let him have his head for a while, just to get this initial response out of his system.

‘I want to see him, Henry. I want to see him now, my baby brother.’

‘Good, that’s good — we need someone to identify him formally.’

Costain stopped, head to head with Henry. There was a cold intensity in his voice as he said, ‘I want to see what those bastards have done to him.’

‘Which bastards are those?’

Suddenly Costain slumped to the side of the road and down onto his knees and was violently sick. He stood up, wiping his lips with his sleeve. He came back to Henry. His breathing was out of control and now smelled of vomit. His eyes were wide and staring like a mad man.

‘You know which bastards — those fuckin’ Khans. They’ve done this, haven’t they? Don’t tell me they haven’t. They’re all gonna die for this, they’re gonna get torn to pieces and I don’t give a toss what you say, Henry. I’m past caring now. My little brother is dead — and I loved him.’ The last few words brought on a rainstorm of tears. He sank to the ground again, sat on the kerbside and buried his head in his hands.

‘You think the Khans killed him?’

‘Yeah,’ snuffled Costain, snot dripping from his nose. ‘Obvious, innit? Revenge for their father. They think Joey killed him, don’t they?’

‘You’re saying he didn’t?’ Henry asked with surprise.

‘No way, no fuckin’ way. Joey gave him a bit of a kickin’, that’s all. He were well alive when Joey left him. That’s what Joey said, anyway, and I’ve no need to disbelieve him, have I?’

‘Joey would say that, wouldn’t he? I thought Mo Khan was against Joey seeing his daughter. That’s why Joey killed him, isn’t it? Because he wouldn’t let Joey see her.’

‘No, no, no, you got it all wrong.’ Costain, dribbling, spat something substantial into the gutter which landed with a heavy splat. ‘It weren’t serious. He were just shaggin’ the black bint for fun, just to wind the whole family up, to get ’em riled. He didn’t take it seriously. She’s a slag, gaggin’ for white man’s dick and she got Joey’s. He just wanted to stir the twats up.’

Interesting, Henry thought, taking this twist of information on board. Did that fit in with the Hellfire Dawn strategy — to incite racial problems during the week the government came to town? Did Joey Costain really leave Mo Khan in a recoverable state? Henry knew that Mo’s injuries had been brutal and horrific, coming from more than just a slapping, which Troy seemed to think was all that Joey had given Mo.

‘What was Joey’s involvement with Hellfire Dawn?’ Henry slid in.

‘Eh? Oh, that bunch of tossers? Just a bit of fun for him. He liked gettin’ into fights with ’em.’ Using the bottom edge of his shirt, Troy wiped his wet, slimy face thoroughly. ‘Take me to see him, Henry. Yeah, I’ll identify him — and I want to see exactly what they’ve done to him.’

‘Not a good idea, Troy.’

‘I want to see,’ he insisted.

‘Mind if I ask a question, boss?’ Dermot Byrne asked Henry as they drove towards the hospital. ‘How come you didn’t let on about Troy being an informant?’

Henry shifted uncomfortably. The reason was because of sheer bloody-mindedness at the way FB had treated him and also because at the time it did not seem so important. ‘Next question,’ Henry said.

‘OK, you’re not really going to let him see Joey, are you?’ Dermot Byrne said.

Henry’s lips remained tight. ‘If he insists.’

‘Out of order and you know it,’ Byrne said, not afraid to challenge a senior officer. ‘It’ll do his shed in.’ Byrne jerked his head backwards, indicating Troy in the back seat, head lodged between his knees, mentally out of it, immersed in a myriad thoughts.

‘It might knock some sense into the little shit,’ Henry said, maintaining the hard line, but deep down knowing Byrne was right. For anyone to see the body of a relative in such a mess would blow their minds. He refused to relent. ‘It might make him realise that the Khans didn’t kill him and that might just stop any further rioting tonight.’

‘Might, might, might,’ Byrne mimicked him angrily. ‘So this is your master plan, is it?’ he added contemptuously. He screeched the car into the roadside and halted. He opened his door, got out, leaned back in and said to Henry, ‘I need to speak, boss, urgently — out here.’

Henry looked blandly at him, his mouth slightly skewed. He considered advising the sergeant to fuck off, get back in the car and drive, follow orders and stop being such an insubordinate twat. Instead, groaning inwardly, he got out, slammed his door and stood on the pavement. On the rise above them, across the road, loomed Blackpool Victoria Hospital. Henry folded his arms defensively and waited for Byrne.

The sergeant got straight to the point. ‘There is no way on God’s earth that I will allow you to show him the body of his brother other than as much as is necessary to identify him — his face, in other words. I know he’s a shit, but you can’t do this, otherwise you’re as bad as he is.’

Henry’s lower jaw rolled left to right and back again. He stood firm, silent.

‘I fuckin’ mean it, Henry. I fuckin’ mean it.’ Byrne was resolute. And what was more, the angels were on his side. ‘It’s ethically and morally wrong, don’t you see? And it won’t solve a damned thing.’

Henry spun and glowered into the darkness behind which was Stanley Park. He swallowed and lifted his head skywards towards dark clouds spitting a light rain. He knew Byrne was exactly right and wondered what the hell he himself had been thinking of. He knew what was overriding his professionalism — the unknown whereabouts of two officers. He was desperate to solve one problem by whatever means possible so he could concentrate on the one he really wanted to get to grips with — Jane’s disappearance, even though he knew other officers were already out searching for her. Logic told him that if the Costains were satisfied that the Khans had not killed Joey, then the problem on Shoreside could be reduced somewhat. It seemed that the best way to convince them was to show Troy Joey’s mutilated body, because otherwise they would just think Henry was spinning them a line in order to quell a riot. And maybe, Henry admitted to himself, that was the logic of a man who was back at work too soon and not fully recovered from stress.

He would have to convince Troy by being the good cop he knew he was and not resorting to means which were well below the belt.

He sniffed. ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ he admitted.

Dermot Byrne watched and listened to Henry Christie in action and was impressed. Not only by his interpersonal skills, but because Henry, unlike most other officers of higher rank, was prepared to take on feedback and change his opinion.

The inspector sat next to Troy Costain in the mortuary waiting room. Both men were hunched forward, heads low, elbows on knees. Henry talked softly but firmly, empathetic-ally and sympathetically. He was good.

Costain’s emotions were still on a roller-coaster ride of extremes, but Henry hung in there like a cowpoke, staying with the young man all the way, coaxing, cajoling, resting a hand on Troy’s shoulder or back when necessary.

Yes, Byrne thought: Henry Christie was very very good when he wanted to be. The organisation had shot itself in the foot by taking him off CID. The good side of it was that the uniform branch had gained. But, if Byrne was as good a judge of character as he believed himself to be, it would not be long before Henry was back where he truly belonged.

It took thirty concentrated, wearying minutes, before Henry felt he was in a position to signal to Byrne that things were ready to proceed to the formal ID. On the nod, Byrne slid quietly through to the mortuary viewing room where Joey’s body had been wheeled in on a steel trolley and laid out next to the viewing window. He had been draped with a white sheet which was held off the body by a raised cage.

Byrne pressed a button on the wall. The whirring electric motor drew back the purple velvet curtains, revealing Henry and Troy Costain on the other side of the window, standing in half-light. Costain looked beleaguered.

Henry nodded. His arm was around Costain’s shoulder.

Byrne took the edge of the sheet and folded it back to reveal Joey’s head. It was not too bad, not disfigured by the attack at the front, but because it had not been cleaned up, was blood splattered.

‘Is that your brother, Joey Costain?’ Henry asked softly.

Troy stepped out of Henry’s grasp, pressed his nose up to the glass, smearing it. His eyes were red raw from crying.

‘Yes,’ he said simply.

Henry nodded to Byrne. The sheet was drawn back over Joey’s head.

Troy screamed, making both Henry and Byrne jump. He twisted away and ran out of the viewing room before Henry could grab him. ‘Liars!’ he yelled. ‘Fucking liars!’ He ran like a rugby player, dodging out of the door, down the corridor, skidding through a door marked, ‘Technicians Only’.

He surprised Dr Baines and Jan, the mortuary technician, both of whom were slurping a slice of rather sloppy pepperoni pizza, which resembled body parts, into their mouths. With wide eyes, and pizzas poised above their mouths, they watched Costain tear past. He ran to the viewing-room entrance where Byrne was waiting to receive and stop him. Costain’s screams turned into an ear-piercing war cry. He swung his weight into Byrne and heaved him back against the wall, winding him, and burst through into the viewing room. He dragged the sheet off Joey’s body.

And stopped dead. He did not move other than for the rise and fall of his heaving chest, transfixed by the horrifying sight of the gutted body which had once been his brother.

Henry came in behind, too late.

‘Now do you believe me?’ he said quietly. ‘Not even the Khans are capable of doing this.’

Troy Costain nodded dumbly, then keeled over in a faint. Henry caught him before he hit the tiled floor.

Her eyes were open, but she could not see because the darkness was total, absolute. Not a sliver of light. Not even enough to dimly make out anything.

She listened. Somewhere there was the hum of something. Indistinct, but constant. She was unable to tell what it was. An engine, perhaps.

She tried to move her hands, but they were bound tightly behind her, no play in the binding, whatever it was. Some sort of sticky tape. Same with her legs, bound together tightly by tape — thick, parcel tape.

Christ! Parcel tape! She started to sob. Parcel tape — just like the tape that had bound and gagged Joey Costain.

While ensconced in the rather cosseted world of the detective, Henry had forgotten just how much pressure the uniformed side of the constabulary was under. Not that there wasn’t the pressure on the CID, it just seemed easier to manage and there seemed more time to get things done. The uniform side, and in particular those engaged in response duties, were being run ragged and had little quality time to devote to jobs.

That evening Henry was painfully very aware that, as he kept one ear attuned to the radio round his neck, the officers on his shift — scale D — were constantly busy, going from job to job relentlessly. Henry was finding it quite hard to keep abreast of what was going on because in the past he had always used the radio for his own selfish means, as and when needed. He had never been at its beck and call as he was now. He just wanted to turn the sodding thing off, but could not.

‘Let’s get back in,’ he said to Byrne as they pulled away from the Costain household. They had delivered Troy back into the bosom of the family, broken the news and then spent three-quarters of an hour dealing with the emotional fall-out. Henry was exhausted by it all. He had enough of his own baggage; dealing with other people’s was draining. ‘Head into the nick and we’ll take stock of things.’

Byrne drove through Shoreside.

‘What the hell’s happened to Jane and Mark?’ Henry mused out loud. It was bugging him.

The estate was alive with activity. Things seemed to be hotting up for another night of fun and games. This would be Henry’s priority, keeping the peace on the streets. It frustrated him because he believed he should be searching for Jane and Mark. This was where his skills would be used to their best advantage — detecting. He was pragmatic enough to realise he would not be given a chance at it and would have to do what he could when he could.

‘That support unit from Blackburn should have arrived by now,’ Byrne said, and to confirm this, in one of those moments that never happen in real life, Blackpool communications called Henry.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

‘The Eastern Division PSU have just arrived and they’re awaiting deployment.’

‘I’ll be in shortly to brief them.’

‘Roger. There’s some other things you need to know about, too.’

Henry’s heart sank.

‘The custody sergeant wants to speak to you urgently about last night’s attempted suicide.’

‘Yep, got that.’

‘And I’ve just deployed a patrol from the station to a report that someone thinks they saw three guys throw something into the sea that looked like a body.’

‘Got that, too.’

‘ACC Fanshaw-Bayley wants to speak to you as soon as possible. He’s in the Gold Room.’

‘Got that. Anything else?’

‘Standby — ’ There was a pause. ‘Inspector?’

‘Receiving.’

‘Blackburn have just been on — you’re not going to like this much — ’ Henry did not say anything, but waited, ‘and report that twenty-odd cars have just left the Whalley Range area of Blackburn, en route to Blackpool, all containing Asian youths. Intelligence is that they’re out for trouble on Shoreside, led by Saeed Khan. They’re going after the Costains.’

‘That’s all I need,’ Henry said to Byrne. Into the radio, he said, ‘Roger. There couldn’t be anything else, could there?’

‘Standby — treble-nine just come in,’ the voice of the operator rose a couple of tones. ‘From the Pink Ladies’ Club on the promenade. The landlord thinks there’s a suspect device in the premises. Repeat, a suspect device.’

‘On my way,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Blue light,’ he said to Byrne, who flipped the rocker switch and jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal.