Backlash

Two

Once the shakes had stopped and after his jangled nerves had settled, Henry made his way to the CID office. For many years it had been a sanctuary, his comfort zone. Now, as he passed through the door, in uniform, he felt strange and unsettled. Like an intruder.

The office, with one exception, was devoid of personnel. Desks were unmanned and had been left untidy: papers and files were stacked up or scattered about as though the ‘big one’ had come in and everyone, with that one exception, had rushed to it.

Maybe they had.

Henry cast his mind back to the detectives he had seen earlier tearing out of the garage.

The one detective remaining in the office had his back to the door and was hunched busily over something at his desk. Henry walked towards him and tapped him on the shoulder. Anyone else would perhaps have been startled, but not the slightly slow-witted Dave Seymour. He turned ponderously at the touch, giving Henry a view of what Seymour was working on. It was, unsurprisingly, a donner kebab, everything on — chilli sauce, lemon juice, salad — and lots falling off.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Henry,’ Seymour said, munching a mouthful of the dubious meat, chilli sauce trickling down his cheek. He finished the mouthful and wiped his lips clean, using a piece of the toilet roll on his desk. Seymour, a man of not inconsequential bulk, was one of the longest-serving detective constables in the division, now only three pay cheques away from retirement. It would probably be not one of the most significant losses to the service when he started to draw his pension, but despite his myriad faults — sloth, greed, envy, arrogance among them — Henry had a bit of a soft spot for Seymour, but rarely allowed it to show.

Seymour positioned the kebab carefully on his desk jotter and drew his head back slightly to allow his eyes to take in the sight of his ex-boss in uniform. Henry let him gawk. People were accustomed to seeing him in plain clothes. The spectacle of him in uniform was something they would need time to adjust to.

Seymour’s eyes narrowed. ‘Suits you,’ he said diplomatically.

‘Cheers.’

‘Actually, I tell a lie — you look bloody weird.’ Seymour shook his head. ‘Anyhow — at least you’re back at work, albeit. .’ He struggled to find the words to express his thoughts.

‘In uniform?’ Henry suggested.

‘Mmm,’ Seymour murmured doubtfully. He took a long swig from the can of cola on his desk.

‘Anyway,’ Henry said briskly, deciding to get into gear, ‘one of my first jobs is to run an ID parade. I wanted a bit of background. Burt Norman said something about the Khans and the Costains. Can you fill me in?’ Henry shrugged and opened his arms, inviting Seymour to speak.

‘Yeah. . the Khans and the Costains.’ He lifted one cheek of his backside off his chair, screwed his face painfully, and expelled a slow fart. ‘Been at each other’s throats all bloody weekend.’

There had been a series of skirmishes throughout the weekend between the two factions, Seymour explained to Henry. The culmination was a violent confrontation just after midnight on Sunday on a piece of waste ground near to a poorly run nightclub not far away from the main bus station in Blackpool centre.

More often than not such inter-gang conflicts do not involve the police. But things take on a very serious complexion when someone ends up in hospital with a fractured skull, broken cheekbones, a cracked jaw, a face mashed to a gory unrecognisable mush, broken arms, broken ribs, a collapsed lung and testicles the colour, size and consistency of peeled plum tomatoes, being kept barely alive by a machine and with brain scans that did not bode well. In cases like that, the law cannot help but become involved. At the very least it was attempted murder.

That was the basic scenario as sketched out by Seymour.

‘Who’s in hospital?’

‘Mo Khan.’

Henry raised his eyebrows and gave a short whistle. Khan was the head of a tightly knit Asian family and had a range of businesses operating in Lancashire, such as grocery shops, newsagents and taxi firms. Henry knew Khan well. He was a dangerous, violent individual who had a nefarious underbelly to his legitimacy: drugs, prostitution and importing illegal aliens from the Indian subcontinent, the latter line having become the most profitable of them all.

Khan was supported by four sons, their ages ranging from late teens to early thirties. Henry knew Khan had a daughter too but, like her mother, she rarely saw the light of day.

It was pretty unusual for Mo Khan to be caught out on the streets.

‘What was it all about?’ Henry asked.

‘Dunno.’ Seymour shrugged, a little agitated now because his kebab was starting to go cold. ‘Same old crap, I expect,’ he explained, and picked up his delicacy. ‘Drugs, turf. . love, even.’

Henry also knew the Costain family very well. Blackpool toe rags born and bred, though they proclaimed themselves — rightly — to be descended from Romany gypsies. Generations of them had lived on the same council estate for years, which they terrorised constantly. They made their living from drawing the maximum amount of state benefits, coupled with burglary, theft, deceptions, low-level drug dealing and protection by intimidation. The big problem they faced was that when the Khan family took over the general store on the estate, they had refused to be intimidated by the Costains. This resulted in numerous incidents over the last two years, usually between Khan’s sons and the younger end of the Costain tribe.

Though racism did play a part in the scheme of things, the main reason for their conflict was that in the eyes of the Costains, the Khan family were not showing them due respect. Often the Khans outmanoeuvred and belittled the Costains — who were not very large in the brain department — and these humiliations only served to fuel a bitter hatred.

It had been an escalating situation observed carefully by the police — and now, apparently, it had got out of hand.

Henry did not relish dealing with either family. They both despised the police.

‘Drugs, turf and love?’ Henry repeated. ‘What do you mean, love?’

‘There is some suggestion,’ Seymour said through his munchings, ‘that Khan’s daughter has been screwing around with Joey Costain and old man Khan had tried to put an end to the liaison.’ He emptied more cola into his mouth. ‘Real sorta Romeo and Juliet stuff.’ He snorted. ‘Anyway. . Joey Costain got locked up for the assault on Mo and then said bugger all in the interview. . it’s unlikely there’ll be any forensic, no weapon has been found, so he’s been bailed and it’s ID parade time and it’s over to you uniforms.’

Seymour smirked. Henry smirked back.

‘Who’s the witness?’

‘Ah well, that’s part of the problem. . it’s Mo Khan’s daughter, Naseema. . not a bad-looking bird for a Paki, actually.’

Henry flinched and stifled an uncomfortable cough. He looked round quickly to see if anyone had overheard Seymour’s offensive remark. The coast was clear. Henry’s unease was because the use of derogatory terms such as ‘Paki’ were a definite no-no in the police these days. It was considered to be an outright racist term and managers were expected to put staff right about such things at the very least. But Henry could not be bothered to tackle it at the moment. He had far too much on his plate and the thought of getting to grips with such a touchy subject on his first day back, his first hour back at that, and probably alienating Seymour at the same time, did not have any appeal. Maybe it was cowardice, but an ally like Seymour in the CID might prove useful — and just at that moment, Henry thought he needed all the friends he could get.

Seymour, unaware of his gaff and Henry’s inner dilemma, checked his watch. ‘She’s due in at seven.’

‘Right, thanks.’

‘And Joey Costain is due to answer his bail at quarter past. . no doubt with tame brief in tow.’

‘Shit — that was a bit of good planning,’ Henry said sarcastically. ‘Suppose they bump into each other on their way in? If they do, you can kiss the parade bye bye — and the job, too.’

‘Yeah, that’s true.’ Seymour did not seem overly concerned.

‘Who’s the officer in charge?’

‘DI Roscoe.’

Henry blew out a lungful of exasperated breath. ‘Better go and sort it out.’ He turned to leave the office but was stopped in his tracks as the new DI, accompanied by a DS called Mark Evans and two detective constables, bustled purposely in through the door. The DS and the DCs acknowledged Henry with muted embarrassment, their eyes running up and down his uniform. Henry caught Roscoe’s eye, gave a nod and edged quickly out of the office, feeling very uncomfortable.

As he trotted down the stairs, he realised why he felt like that. It was because of the eyes and expressions of those three jacks, all members of his team not long ago. They all seemed to be looking and sneering at him as though he’d been demoted and was no longer one of them. An outsider. A uniform. Even though he had expected this, it hurt him. Deeply. But what wounded his fragile ego even more was that his place on the branch had been taken by someone like DI Roscoe.

‘Everything’s sorted.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The witness and her brother are waiting in your office — accompanied by a policewoman — all the stooges are in the ID suite being looked after by a couple of lads and I’ll do the scribing for you. The video cameras have all been set up and everything else that you need to know is on this. . idiot’s guide, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ Sergeant Dermot Byrne handed Henry a laminated A4-size sheet of paper with a blow-by-blow explanation of how to run an identification parade.

‘No, you’re right, Dermot — idiot’s guide.’

The sergeant smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t think so really, but I did think you might need a chuck-up, this being your first tour of duty and all that.’

‘You are dead right. Thanks, I appreciate it.’ Henry genuinely meant it.

‘All we need now is for Joey Costain to answer his bail, but he’s got a few minutes yet.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Henry. He cast his eyes down the idiot’s guide. ‘I think I’ll have a quick word with the witness.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out at the front desk for Joey and let you know when he lands.’

Byrne walked away towards the front desk and Henry thanked God for watching over him and providing a sergeant the calibre of Byrne who was worth his weight in gold.

Saeed Khan, scowling sullenly and lounging indolently against a filing cabinet, did not move when Henry walked into the inspectors’ office. Henry gave him a quick once over, then ignored him and directed his attention to Naseema who was seated. Behind her, arms folded, looking very stern and intimidating, was a policewoman.

Henry had often had dealings with the Khan family, but had only ever caught glimpses of the daughter. She never seemed to be involved in any of the business, legit or otherwise, and Henry had never really given her much thought. Except for now — he had to agree that Dave Seymour’s grudging accolade of her looks was spot on.

Naseema was an exceptionally beautiful young woman, exotically so, with dusky mysterious eyes, a wonderfully smooth complexion the colour of milk chocolate, and a small mouth shaped like a heart. She was dressed in a stunning red Indian trouser suit. Her slim legs were crossed, displaying finely boned ankles and petite feet in sandals. Henry knew she was twenty-three and unmarried. He did not know enough about her culture or religion to be certain as to whether this was an unusual state of affairs.

He introduced himself and offered her his hand which she shook with such delicate fingers that he could easily have crushed them. ‘I’ll be running the identification parade, so there’s just a few things I need to go through with you beforehand, OK?’

She nodded and looked past Henry towards her brother. Her face clouded over with annoyance as Saeed pushed himself away from the filing cabinet and said, ‘No, not OK. You’ll talk to her through me — is that understood?’

Henry bristled. He pursed his lips and slowly reappraised Saeed, a young man he had arrested twice previously for quite serious assaults. He had a quick temper and was always ready with a fist or a knife to ram home his point of view.

‘It’s our custom,’ Saeed stated.

‘And it’s a necessity for me to talk directly to witnesses — unless they don’t speak English, in which case I’ll use an official interpreter. And I know that your sister speaks English, so while I respect your customs, I have a job to do here and not much time to do it in — so we’ll achieve more, quickly, if you let me get on without interruption, OK?’ He spoke to Naseema, ‘If that’s OK with you?’

Throughout the exchange Henry had noticed that she had been glowering stonily at Saeed. Henry knew, therefore, he was on to a winner. She smiled radiantly, if falsely, at Henry. ‘That will be just fine, Inspector,’ she said with a hint of triumph.

Henry shot Saeed a quick warning glance and he backed down with an angry snarl of his lips, eyes blazing at his sister.

Henry wondered what the undercurrent of tension was all about; maybe Dave Seymour had hit the nail on the head with the Shakespearean scenario. It was obvious there was a sparking friction between the two siblings and Henry began to suspect that maybe the family had lost control of Naseema. Was she a wild child? Was she seeing one of the Costains? If so, this whole job could be a tricky one to handle. For the most transient of moments Henry was glad that his only involvement was the ID parade. . but it was only a passing shiver of thought: secretly he would have given his back teeth to be the Officer in Charge.

‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘You’ve already made a statement, I believe.’

‘Yes, she has,’ Saeed interrupted rudely, ‘which says that Joey Costain assaulted our father in her presence in an unprovoked racist attack. This parade will just confirm that.’

‘Saeed!’ Naseema clucked with hostility. ‘Let me speak, please.’

‘And don’t give me the pleasure of showing you out of the police station. Just let her answer — OK?’ Henry had had enough of Saeed now.

Saeed’s nostrils flared wide.

Henry turned slowly back to Naseema. ‘Did you actually see Joey Costain assaulting your father?’

She thought hard for a few seconds. ‘They had a push and shove while I was there, but nothing much. I saw them walk away together towards the bus station. I knew they were going to fight. Next time I saw my father he was being put in an ambulance.’

Henry nodded. He was about to say something when suddenly the office door burst open, no knock. A huffing and puffing Dave Seymour stood there, his bulk filling the doorway, tie askew, shirt stretched over his expanding gut. But for the hair — Seymour’s was short, neatly trimmed — he reminded Henry of Kojak’s sidekick, Stavros. The journey from the CID office, with his insides recently filled with kebab and cola, had exhausted him. ‘Henry. . can I have a quick word?’ His eyes took in the Khan brother and sister, then returned to Henry. ‘In private. . urgent.’

‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ Henry smiled at Naseema, stared coldly at Saeed, then followed Seymour outside. As he closed the door, Saeed launched a verbal assault on his sister in Urdu.

‘What is it, Dave?’

‘Bit of bad news, actually.’ Seymour flinched. ‘Mo Khan clocked out about half an hour ago. We’ve now got a murder investigation on our hands.’

‘Fuck,’ said Henry eloquently.