Backlash

Eight

‘It’s the way their twisted minds work.’ Andrea Makin was walking alongside Henry Christie as he descended the steps towards the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station. She matched him step by step. ‘Do you know the rationale behind the name Combat 18, for example?’

Henry had to admit that he did not.

‘It’s a number-letter combination, related to their good leader, Adolf Hitler.’

Henry thought about that. ‘You got me there.’

‘The number one relates to the first letter of the alphabet — A; the number eight refers to the eighth letter.’

‘Which is?’

‘H.’

Henry stopped suddenly on one of the landings. Makin too.

‘A-H?’ he questioned.

She smiled. ‘Come on, get a grip, Henry,’ she said lightly. ‘A is for Adolf and H is for Hitler — hence 18. They are devoted followers of Adolf Hitler and all his fine works and deeds.’

‘It’s a good job he wasn’t called Xavier Zakynthos, then, otherwise it’d be Combat 24–26.’

Makin smiled and ignored him. ‘They just haven’t got round to genocide yet — but on Allport’s Scale they’ve got well off the bottom rung.’

Henry’s simple mind was getting confused now. He knew he should have known something about Allport’s Scale, but in what context he could not remember.

‘What’s Allport’s Scale?’ he asked stupidly.

‘Gordon Allport wrote a book in the fifties about the nature of prejudice. He devised a scale about prejudice which runs from simple avoidance to extermination in extreme cases. Like Hitler and the Jews.’

‘Oh. So, anyway, what does Hellfire Dawn relate to?’ he asked, trying to mask his ignorance with a half-passable question. He waited with bated breath.

‘H is for Hitler — obviously.’

‘Goes without saying.’

‘D is for Disciples: Hitler’s Disciples.’

‘Sad bastards.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, it’s a pastime, though.’

‘Yeah — a dangerous one, don’t forget that. One which doesn’t keep them off the streets.’

‘And Allport’s Scale — where do Hellfire Dawn figure on that?’ He hoped that sounded a reasonably intelligent question too.

‘They believe in extermination, but they’re pretty much round the level of physical attack. In other words they beat people up.’

‘Just what I thought,’ he said knowledgeably, continuing downstairs. ‘Do they have a leader, other than the late, lamented Adolf?’

‘Guy by the name of Vince Bellamy leads the main political group, but we also believe he is the leader of the paramilitary wing, although he denies their actual existence. Very clever individual. Former university professor. Very political animal and has the ear of several right-wing MPs, we believe.’

‘How are they financed?’

‘Don’t know. Sympathetic businessmen, probably. But anyway, Bellamy is a real stirrer. Very motivational in a dark way.’

‘Sounds like Hopper out of a Bug’s Life,’ Henry chuckled. They had reached the basement.

‘Looks like him too — and he’s got a bunch of grasshoppers around him who’ll do whatever he wants them to do. He’s also a bit like Fagin too, and apparently he does a great Hitler impersonation.’

‘Or maybe he’s more like FB,’ Henry mused, mainly to himself as they approached the custody office.

‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

‘Is it that obvious? I must be slipping.’

They stopped at the barred door leading to the complex. He turned and looked at Makin. ‘He and I have a pretty sordid history, shall we say?’ Makin’s mouth opened to respond, but before she could ask, Henry was talking into his radio, ‘Inspector to Blackpool — custody door please.’ He leaned on the door as, accompanied by a loud buzz, it was released.

He intended to hold a short interview with the nameless female prisoner he had arrested, just to see if he had some of the old magic left, see if he could get anything out of her before handing the job over to CID. Makin had volunteered to have a look at the woman to see if she could identify her through her extensive knowledge of right-wing activists.

As Henry pushed the door open there was the sound of van doors slamming from the car park and of voices and two constables appeared steering Kit Nevison between them, just back from hospital. He was stitched up and very subdued, like a sleepy baby, compliant and easy to handle. Henry held the door open and allowed the trio in ahead of himself and Makin. Nevison did not even look at him.

Inside the custody office there was a delay caused by a backlog of prisoners. Henry drew Makin to the back of the room.

‘Where does this Bellamy guy hang out?’

‘South London, usually, but not this week. This week he’s right on your doorstep, one of your residents. Set up in hotel in central Blackpool fairly near the Winter Gardens, so no doubt he’ll want to be made to feel safe, involved and reassured.’ Makin smirked as she quoted the words from Lancashire Constabulary’s mission statement.

‘If I’ve got anything to do with it,’ Henry growled, ‘he’ll be unsafe, uninvolved and totally unassured — if there is such a word.’

In interview room 2 they sat awaiting the arrival of the nameless prisoner who was, at that moment, consulting with the duty solicitor. Henry had a sealed double pack of tapes in front of him, together with the necessary paperwork he was obliged to hand over to the prisoner at the end of the interview which explained her legal rights.

There was silence, but not uneasy, between him and Makin. He gave her a pallid smile, which she returned.

‘How long will you be up here?’ he asked, making conversation.

‘How long is a piece of string? As long as your ACC wants me to stay, as long as I have something to offer.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘At the conference hotel.’

‘The Imperial?’ Henry said, surprised.

‘Basil fixed a room up for me.’

Ahh, Basil, Henry thought. ‘Nice,’ he said.

Makin turned in her chair to look squarely at Henry. ‘I’m fascinated by your relationship with FB. It’s as though you can say almost anything to him and get away with it. It’s unheard of.’ She sounded amazed, impressed, almost.

‘Not true. I can’t say anything to him and get away with it. After all, he’s an ACC and I’m only an Inspector. But our joint past does give me certain rights, I suppose. What it boils down to is that I hate him and he despises me, it’s a very balanced thing.’

Makin’s lips pursed thoughtfully. Her eyes roamed his face.

‘You married?’ she asked out of the blue.

‘No — What?’ he spluttered, suddenly very hot under the collar. ‘Why?’

‘Just wanted to know.’ She smiled.

The interview-room door swung open and the female prisoner sauntered in cockily, followed by the duty solicitor. Henry exhaled with some relief. He shot Makin a quick, troubled glance and turned his attention to the job in hand. Something he felt more equipped to deal with than Makin’s highly personal questions.

The tapes were running. For their benefit Henry had introduced himself, as had Andrea Makin and the duty solicitor. The only person not speaking was the prisoner. Henry shrugged when she refused to talk and cautioned her to the letter. He asked if she understood the caution. She blinked blandly at him, made no movement and betrayed no body language, other than indifference. Henry almost smiled. He loved the ‘no response’ interview to bits, especially these days when it had been made explicit that a person’s defence could be harmed if they did not say something during an interview which they later relied on in court. In the past, too many defendants had used the ‘ambush’ defence and got away with things unfairly. Now the defence was obliged to reveal all before any proceedings, just like the prosecution had always had to do.

It amused Henry that people still thought they could get away with saying nothing. Still, it was their prerogative. She could stay dumb for as long as she wanted because Henry would just throw the allegations at her. If she chose not to respond, it was her hard luck and bad judgement.

‘My client has decided to remain silent during the interview,’ the solicitor said. He looked annoyed at her decision. Henry guessed he had told her to speak and give her side of the story. She obviously had not taken this advice.

‘Fine,’ Henry said. He went into his opening gambit. ‘So far you have declined to reveal your name, address and date of birth. I hope you realise the fairly immediate implications of this for yourself. You have been arrested for several serious offences — possession of petrol bombs, as well as on suspicion of causing damage by fire, which is arson, serious public-order offences and the attempted murder of a police officer. If you do not reveal your personal details, your fingerprints will be taken, by force if necessary, and, should you be charged with these offences, don’t even begin to think that bail will be considered. It won’t.’

‘I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself here, Inspector. The question of bail is not a matter for you, but for the custody officer,’ observed the solicitor.

‘I am simply letting your client know the harsh realities of the course of action she seems intent on taking.’

‘That is very kind of you, Inspector, but she is already fully aware of the implications. I have already outlined them.’ The solicitor scribbled down some notes.

Before Henry could continue, Makin said, ‘Could I just say something?’

Henry sat back. ‘Fire away.’

Makin addressed the solicitor. ‘I think it would be wrong of me not to appraise your client of the situation in terms of her identity before we proceed. I know her name.’

The girl, who had been sitting fiddling with her fingertips, raised her face sharply. Her eyes darted between Henry and Makin. The colour drained from her face to match that of the white zoot suit she was wearing.

‘You are Geri Peters, aren’t you?’

Her face cracked into a flood of tears.

As quickly as it had begun, the interview ended. The girl was clearly in no fit state to continue. The tears grew into a crescendo of racked, desperate sobbing, which developed in intensity until it morphed up a gear into hysteria and there was no way she could continue.

The duty solicitor requested a break. Henry agreed, saying that he thought he had done enough for the moment and perhaps the best course of action would be to let her get some sleep and continue the interview process in the morning when the CID took over. The solicitor, who should not have been on duty that night anyway — he was covering for the woman who had been attacked by Kit Nevison — readily agreed.

The gaoler led the girl away.

Henry and Makin watched her go.

‘Sorry about that,’ Makin said. ‘Her name came to me in a flash — you know what it’s like. She’s on the periphery of Hellfire Dawn. She’s been seen in the company of Vince Bellamy a few times.’

‘That’s OK. I think she’ll be a different proposition in the morning when they get to her — all soft and pliable.’

‘Rather like me,’ Makin suggested, then stifled a yawn and laid a hand on Henry’s chest. ‘Excuse me.’ She shook her head and slid her hand slowly down his shirt, her eyes fixed on his. She checked the time — nearly 2 a.m. ‘Time I got to bed. What time do you finish?’

‘Six.’

‘Another four hours! I’ll be all tucked up and warm.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

DI Jane Roscoe stood just inside the door to the custody office, out of the eyeline of both Henry and Makin. She was watching their verbal and non-verbal exchange, but was unable to hear any of the words passing between them. Henry seemed stiff and stilted. Nervous. Worried, maybe.

Roscoe could see why. The woman was all over him.

It was so bloody obvious, Roscoe thought angrily, that the woman, whoever the hell she was, was coming onto Henry in a big way with the preening gestures: touching the hair; smoothing her clothing down; a hand on her hips which were pointed towards him; that clumsy hand on Henry’s chest, which Roscoe had seen with delight, had made Henry jump as though stung by a wasp; her increasing attempts at eye contact. Henry was not responding, but Roscoe could see it was only a matter of time before the woman dragged him into her web.

For some inexplicable reason, she found herself fuming as she walked towards the couple as nonchalantly as she could, confused over why she should be feeling this way. After all, she did not even like Henry very much.

‘I’m sure you will,’ she overheard Henry say to the woman.

‘Henry — have you got a moment?’ Roscoe interrupted breezily.

As they both turned towards her, Roscoe was pleased to see a shimmer of annoyance cross the woman’s face.

‘Hello, Jane,’ Henry said. ‘Have you met Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin? Metropolitan Special Branch.’

‘No.’ The single syllable sounded curt, rude and unprofessional.

‘Call me Andrea,’ Makin said coldly. She did not offer a hand, merely a faint smile.

‘This is DI Jane Roscoe,’ Henry said, completing the formalities. ‘She’s investigating Mo Khan’s murder.’

‘Ahh — so I’ve heard.’ Makin regarded Roscoe with a smirk. Suddenly Roscoe felt she wanted to crawl away and hide under a stone somewhere because she realised what a God-awful state she was in. Although she had washed and freshened up since the riot, her make-up was long gone and she probably reeked like an old settee and her rat’s tail hair was a disgrace. The complete opposite to Makin, who was damned near perfection, the bitch. Makin looked up at Henry with soppy eyes. ‘Anyway, Henry, no doubt you’ll be able to fill her in on the details she may need about Joey Costain. Goodnight.’ She shot Roscoe a false smile and swayed off with a last glimpse over her shoulder at Henry, who completely missed it.

Roscoe dropped her shoulders in relief and opened her hands.

‘What?’ Henry said, perplexed.

‘I’m surprised she didn’t shag you here and now.’

‘Who? Andrea? What do you mean?’

‘Are you a complete numbty?’ Roscoe hissed. She would have said more, allowed her mouth to run away with her, but held back because she was not yet sure where she was coming from with this. She shook her head sadly and almost said, ‘Men!’

The gaoler returned from the female cell area.

‘Said she wants to speak to you, boss,’ the PC said to Henry. ‘Off the record.’

‘Right, thanks. Coming?’ he asked Roscoe.

‘I’ve just got back from the hospital,’ Roscoe said to Henry’s back as they walked to the cell. ‘I’ve come in to let you know how Dave is getting on.’

Henry continued to walk and waited for the news, guts churning.

‘It’s touch and go,’ Roscoe said. ‘He’s critical, in intensive care. Badly burned upper chest, neck and face. He’s breathed in smoke and fire which has caused major injuries to his mouth, throat and respiratory system. He’s in a very bad way. The doctors say we did well to keep him alive.’

‘More by luck than judgement on my part,’ Henry said.

‘No it wasn’t,’ Roscoe stated firmly. ‘It was professional life saving. You did a great job. Don’t do yourself down.’

‘And so did you,’ he responded genuinely. ‘But enough of this mutual congratulation and back slapping. Let’s just hope he pulls through. Are his family aware?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Hmph,’ Roscoe snorted. ‘Two ex-wives, neither interested. A daughter of twenty-six who hasn’t spoken to him for three years and doesn’t want to start now, and a son somewhere in Europe on his year out, or whatever they call it, between school and university.’

‘Parents?’

‘Both dead.’

‘Jeez, that’s a shame,’ said Henry. He blinked a tear away at the thought of Seymour’s lonely predicament, only because it made him realise he could so easily end up in a similar position. The prospect of becoming a sad, old, lonesome bastard hit him with the force of an express train. He could end up on the verge of retirement with no one to care for, or to care about him. He swallowed dryly and thought: What the hell have I done with my life? Just cocked up time after time after time. That was the stark reality of adultery.

At Geri Peters’ cell door Henry dropped the loosely fitting inspection hatch and looked in. In her white, oversized zoot suit, the prisoner reminded Henry of the Michelin man. She was sitting on the edge of the low bed, head in hands, desperately alone. She looked up through her fingers. A little girl lost.

‘You wanted to see me.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she snuffled, wiped her eyes on a paper sleeve. She crossed the cell, stood by the door. The crying had abated. ‘What’ll happen to me?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Put it this way — don’t bank on seeing next Christmas, or the one after that,’ he said cruelly. ‘And if we make everything stick, you’ll be eating cold turkey Christmas dinner a lot longer than that, even.’

She closed her eyes despairingly, then raised them to the ceiling, rocking unsteadily on her feet. Henry thought she was going to fall over.

‘I’m frightened. Frightened of being here alone. Frightened of what might happen to me.’

‘You should be.’

‘I didn’t bomb that police officer.’

‘You’re the only suspect we have at the moment, dear, so I’m sure we’ll do a pretty good job of placing you at the scene and the petrol bombs we found in your possession are pretty good supporting evidence — unless you want to tell us who actually did it, and the name of the person you were with.’

She leaned her back against the door, arms folded.

‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’ Henry probed, picking up on the vibes emanating from her. She wanted to save her own skin, he could tell. ‘Or do you want to take the rap for committing murder — that detective could well die.’

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said, banging the back of her head on the cell door in time with each word. She whacked it hard, making Henry wince with vicarious pain. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whined pitifully. ‘I’m afraid to tell you the truth.’

‘It’s your decision. I can’t influence it, other than by laying the cards on the table.’ Henry was cooing now, knowing full well he was seriously influencing her thought process. ‘What’s the point going down for someone else?’

She did not respond and shuffled back across the cell, and sat heavily on the bed, looking down, blanking Henry out.

Slowly he closed the inspection flap.

He winked at Roscoe and gave her a thumbs up. ‘She’ll crack,’ he said positively.

They turned away from the cell door and were slightly surprised to see Dermot Byrne, Henry’s patrol sergeant, standing behind them. Neither had heard his approach.

‘Boss,’ Byrne said. ‘Ma’am,’ he acknowledged Roscoe with a bluff nod of the head. ‘I’m turning out to have a look round Shoreside. It all seems to be quiet, but I thought I’d give it the once over and if it is, we could start standing patrols down.’

‘Good idea. I’ll come with you if you can hang on for twenty minutes so I can make sure I’m up to date with the custody office. And then I’ve got a few things I need to brief you about, very pertinent to this week. We need to have a heads-together to sort something out.’

Byrne looked intrigued. ‘Right. I’ll catch up with you shortly.’ He walked on, ahead of Henry and Roscoe.

‘He seems pretty good,’ Henry said to her.

‘Mmm,’ she sounded doubtful. ‘He gives me the creeps.’

‘Oh, right. So, what are you going to do now, Jane?’

‘If I can keep awake, I’m going after Joey Costain. The sooner he’s off the streets, the better. I could do with a chuck-up, though, maybe borrow a few bods? I’d like to spin a few drums simultaneously.’

‘Sure. I’ll see who I can spare.’

‘And you have some information for me, I believe,’ Roscoe said. ‘That. . that Met superintendent seemed to suggest you had something to tell me.’ Roscoe hoped she had kept the dislike she felt for Andrea Makin out of her voice, but she doubted it. Then, without warning, it struck her why she had reacted so strangely to Makin’s obvious come-on to Henry.

She was jealous.

Apart from wanting to clear the decks in the custody office, which he managed to do in about ten minutes, Henry also wanted to try and catch Karl Donaldson before he left the building.

After concluding his custody reviews, he hurried out of the office and saw Fanshaw-Bayley returning from the underground car park adjoining the police station.

‘Is Karl Donaldson still here?’ he asked FB.

‘No — gone. He’s staying at the Jarvis, which I presume is the answer to your next question.’

‘Thanks.’ Henry tried to edge past FB in the narrow corridor. FB’s hand shot out across Henry’s chest, stopping him.

‘A word.’ FB applied some pressure, then lifted his hand off Henry’s chest and pointed towards the car park. ‘Out here.’ He brushed past Henry, who followed.

FB walked a few metres down the car park, stopped, glanced round edgily. No one was nearby. He beckoned Henry closer.

‘I’ll let you into a little secret, just between me and you.’ On ‘me’ he pointed at himself; on ‘you’ he pointed sharply at Henry. His voice was no louder than a whisper. Henry had to cock an ear. ‘Just so you know where you stand — OK?’

Henry wondered what the hell was coming this time.

‘It’s imperative I make a good impression this week,’ FB said flatly. His eyelids were half-closed, nose tilted upwards slightly, looking down at Henry and reminding him of Kenneth Williams. ‘A very good, lasting impression. That is because very good things could happen for me if everything goes well — which is where you come in. You have to do your job, I mean, really pull out your tripe this week, and keep Blackpool well under control. You do not allow a bunch of yobs to take over — understand?’

Henry’s eyebrows knitted together.

FB huffed in frustration at Henry’s apparent lack of comprehension. ‘Because if you think that being a uniformed inspector in Blackpool is bad enough, how would you like to be one in Barnoldswick, or Bacup for God’s sake? Out in the sticks with members of the public who resemble the cast of Deliverance? Or maybe Skelmersdale, full of fucking scousers? Because I’ll tell you now, Henry Christie, if you don’t keep a lid on it, you’ll end up in some Godforsaken hole where the only pastime is whittling and making people squeal like pigs — and I’ll do it in such a way that everyone’ll think you’re an incompetent cunt.’

Henry’s jaw cracked. ‘Why?’ he croaked.

‘Because Basil Kramer is my ticket out of here, my passport to promotion. He has the home secretary’s ear and if this week goes well, under my leadership, I’ll have the choice of plum jobs at the HMIC or NCIS.’ FB delayed a second for effect, letting his words sink in. ‘Now do you get my drift? He is my meal ticket. And you never know — if you do well this week, maybe you’ll get a CID job back sooner than you thought. You scratch my back. .’ He arched his eyebrows, but then his face became very dark. ‘If you cock up, you’ll suffer big style. Get me now?’

‘I think so,’ Henry said.

‘Good.’

Without a further word, FB patted Henry patronisingly on the shoulder and left him standing in the chill of the car park.

‘It’s been a very good night,’ David Gill said. ‘The movement has started.’

‘Yes, you’ve done well,’ Vince Bellamy said down the phone. ‘We’ve all done well but I have a little problem that has cropped up which needs sorting out. David, I know it’s asking a lot, but I want you to oblige.’

‘Tell me,’ Gill said.

After Bellamy had explained the situation, Gill paused in thought for a long time. ‘That’s tough,’ he said. ‘It could really backfire on me if I’m not a hundred per cent careful.’

‘David, you are always a hundred per cent careful. I want you to try. Do your best — it’s all I ever ask of you.’