Big City Jacks

Ten

The two uniformed constables stared impassively at each other. It was a stand-off, neither of them wanting to give way, rather like Robin Hood and Little John.

There was little to choose between the two officers. They had both been patrol constables all their service and their uniforms were very similar, other than for the insignia they bore. The crest on one of them proclaimed him to be a member of Lancashire Constabulary, whilst the crest on the other identified him as a serving officer of Greater Manchester Police.

Although there was nothing to choose from them in this respect, there was, literally, something between them, and this ‘something’ was the cause of their disagreement, their bone of contention.

‘Definitely not on us,’ the GMP officer stated, shaking his head whilst pouting.

‘Cannot agree with that,’ said the Lancashire officer. ‘This,’ he gave a sweeping gesture, ‘is your patch and whatever happens here is your responsibility.’ The Lancashire man folded his arms defiantly.

GMP sighed down his nose. ‘I’ve been working this patch for twelve years and I know where the boundaries are. That,’ he pointed to a patch of grass, ‘is Greater Manchester, and that,’ he pointed a few feet to his right, ‘is Lancashire. No question about it.’

Lancashire shook his head. ‘Wrong way round. That’s yours and this is ours. I’ll get a fucking map if I have to.’ He was getting, as they say in those parts, ‘het up’. ‘The boundary line is there.’ He drew an imaginary line with his forefinger. ‘So that means it’s on you.’

GMP’s left leg was beginning to do a little impatient jig. ‘Not having that.’

Lancashire shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is.’

Both men now had their arms folded.

They were standing about fifteen feet away from each other, an area of grass between them. Lying on this grass was the object of their disagreement — a dead body, burned, charred, blackened beyond all visual recognition.

‘It’s on you,’ Lancashire said.

‘No it isn’t,’ GMP said petulantly, stressing the last word. ‘You have a murder on your patch and you’re gonna have to sort it, OK?’

‘Not OK.’

And on it went. .

There was no other call-out during the night, which meant that when Henry eventually got to bed, he had about five hours uninterrupted sleep — or it would have been uninterrupted if he’d been able to actually get to sleep and not toss and turn and sweat and groan all night long.

But whatever, it meant that he was able to get into work for eight that morning.

He drove from home in Blackpool to Lancashire Constabulary HQ at Hutton, to the south of Preston. The journey took about thirty-five minutes. It was a fairly pleasant trek, cutting down across Preston Docks, now a combination of marina, retail park, fast-food outlets, cinema and a variety of apartment-type accommodation.

He drove into the HQ complex, waving at the security man, then driving to the car park near to the recently built major crime unit building, named the Pavilion in memory of the cricket pavilion which had been demolished to pave the way for it. His office was actually situated in what was once a residential block for students attending training courses at the training centre, but it had been snaffled and converted to provide accommodation for the SIO team. They were housed on the middle floor of the block. Henry’s office (made from two old bedrooms knocked into one) was halfway down the corridor.

With a filtered and very caffeinated coffee in hand (four-star as opposed to unleaded, he would say), he settled down at his desk to review exactly where he was up to with things. A few phone calls brought him up to date with his most recent cases.

The domestic murder in Bacup was as good as sorted. The wife who had stabbed hubby was due to appear in court. It looked as though a not-guilty plea was being entered, but Henry did not have a problem with that. His job was to ensure the case was as watertight as possible. . beyond that, anything could, and often did, happen.

At Blackpool, Roy Costain was still at large, evading the cops at every turn. Henry thought that a personal revisit to the Costain household was on the cards. If he got the chance, that’s what he would be doing later in the day. ‘Look out, Troy Costain,’ he mumbled to himself.

He sipped his coffee — from his own filter machine — and savoured its bitter taste. He loved fresh coffee first thing in the morning and the investment in the machine had been worth every penny. He sat back and listened to the signs of the department coming to life.

Despite it being plainly obvious that the detective superintendent who ran the department did not want Henry in the team, Henry loved this job more than any other he had ever done, including the time he had spent on the Regional Crime Squad, as it was then called, which had been exhilarating. He truly believed he had found his vocation, waiting around, as his daughter described it, for people to die.

He just wondered how long he would be able to hold on to it. The pressure of the boss not wanting him, the bad feeling caused by his posting within the rest of the detective community, could be irresistible. That, coupled with the mystical job that the chief constable had promised him, might prove all too much.

In the meantime he was determined to get on and do the best he could. Then he winced at a thought. There was something else preying on his mind too. Tara Wickson. He shuddered when he thought of her.

‘Henry!’

Henry jumped out of his reverie, swivelled on his chair. That very detective superintendent — Dave Anger — was leaning into the office.

‘Morning.’

‘Bob down to my office, will you?’

‘Yeah, sure. . give me a minute, boss.’

‘Enjoy your brew. Don’t hurry for me.’

He did not hurry. He deliberately savoured his coffee down to the last drops, stood up slowly, stretching a very stiff body. He could feel himself getting out of condition. When he had been suspended from duty he had taken to jogging three miles a day, but since returning to work the long hours he was expected to put in had cut into the exercise regimen. Now, six weeks later, he never ran at all.

He collected some paperwork and strolled casually down the narrow corridor to Dave Anger’s office, knocked, entered.

‘Take a pew.’

Henry sat.

‘Update?’ Anger said brusquely.

Henry briefed him about the last two jobs he had attended. Anger listened and asked pertinent questions which Henry was ready for. He seemed to be satisfied that Henry had dealt with the jobs competently, if not spectacularly. Henry wondered if this irked him, the fact that Henry could actually do the job. In some ways, Henry could understand Anger’s frustration. He had been recruited from Merseyside Police a few months earlier and was trying to build an effective team around him of people he had chosen. To have someone foisted on him, particularly someone he had suspicions about, did not sit well with him.

When Henry had completed the update, Anger paused.

‘How are you?’ he finally asked.

‘OK.’

‘I’ve spent some time going over your personal record, Henry,’ Anger revealed. Henry braced himself. ‘Impressive and appalling at the same time.’

‘Nice of you to say.’

‘You veer between the devil and the deep blue sea, don’t you? You are a very brittle character, too. Suffer from nerves, don’t you?’

‘I don’t suffer from nerves,’ Henry corrected him. ‘Look.’ He held up his right hand, flat and steady. ‘No dithering there. I’ve had a nervous breakdown. There is a difference, but I’ve always done my job, always seen everything through.’

‘Hm,’ Anger uttered doubtfully. ‘Your sickness record is pretty poor.’

‘I’d dispute that. I never, ever go off sick with anything minor. I don’t let colds or flu keep me off, I don’t have a bad back or anything like that. I was off once for a hernia operation, years ago. I think a nervous breakdown is pretty major, don’t you?’ Henry was starting to prickle and speculate as to where this was leading.

‘There’s no place for someone with a nervous disposition on the SIO team.’

Henry sighed. ‘What are you trying, so inelegantly, to say?’

Anger stood up, crossed the room and closed the door quietly. He leaned on the closed door and spoke to the back of Henry’s head. ‘In case you hadn’t already gathered, life for you on the SIO team is going to be very uncomfortable. Heard the phrase “intrusive supervision”, Henry? That’s what you’re going to get and more. I know there are jacks out there more skilled and capable than you and I want them on this team — not you, basically.’

‘Who do you have in mind? I’ll tell you if they are better than me.’

‘The only thing I have in mind is offloading you onto another unsuspecting department. You are a liability and I don’t trust your judgement. You will have to go a very long way to impress me.’

‘Ahh, judgement. . that old chestnut.’

‘You were suspended for it, then you foolishly got involved in something that ended up with people dying. You should’ve left well alone, but your judgement let you down again, didn’t it?’

Henry suddenly felt exhausted. He scratched his neck and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you need to ask the chief about my involvement with that particular job. . he might have another tack on it.’

‘I’m sure he would,’ Anger said cynically. ‘You’re up his arse, I know. . but don’t use him as your defence, Henry, it’s not a pretty thing to do. Actually, by getting you off this team, I’ll be doing him a favour, protecting him from some other almighty cock-up with your name on it.’

Fuck you, Henry said — but only to himself.

‘Anyway, in the meantime I’ll do my best to get you something not too taxing,’ Anger promised patronizingly. ‘That’s if you get out of this department now. Something you can idle your time away with until retirement. . how long have you left? Three years? How about some nice office job at HQ where you can get a shiny arse, go for fish and chips in the canteen every Friday, work nine to five, ESSO, y’know? Every Saturday and Sunday off. How does that sound?’

Henry rose slowly to his feet. He knew that bright redness had crept up from below his collar. He stepped across to Anger, who, he saw, cowered slightly.

‘Sounds shit, actually.’

It’s funny, Henry thought, how different people can have two completely different perspectives. I thought I was completely right for this job, yet my boss thinks I’m a liability. How does that get reconciled?

He slumped back at his desk and stared glumly out of the office window, through the trees towards the tennis courts.

Anger had got it in for him and there seemed no way in which Henry could change this attitude. He shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another coffee which he sipped thoughtfully, wondering how to play the situation.

The only thing he could think was to keep his head down, work hard and get results.

‘So, therefore, Detective Superintendent Anger,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘you’ll have to prise me out of here with a lever if you want to get rid of me.’ And with that he raised his mug and toasted his boss.

Whitlock was handed a cooked breakfast on a plastic plate with plastic cutlery and a plastic beaker containing hot, strong tea. The cell door remained open as the officer on suicide watch sat down on a chair in the corridor, keeping an eye on the prisoner he’d had to restrain from banging his head on the wall.

Whitlock sat on the bed, looked at his food. He was not hungry, had no desire to touch the breakfast, which was starting to gel obscenely as it cooled. It made him want to retch. He removed the plate from his lap and placed it on the cell floor, holding his tea in both hands, warming himself against the imaginary cold.

He began to shiver.

‘Thanks, Kate. I feel much better now.’ Karl Donaldson kissed her briefly on each cheek.

‘You’re not a good drunk.’

‘Not used to it.’

They gave each other a friendly hug. Donaldson picked up his belongings and turned to leave the Christie household, feeling much better after a few slices of warm toast, a cup of black coffee and, of course, two paracetamol tablets.

‘I need to get going.’

‘Take care and give my love to Karen.’

‘I will.’

Five minutes later the FBI legal attache was on the M55 motorway, heading east away from Blackpool.

‘I need a shower, I need a shave, I need a shit in private and I need a solicitor,’ Whitlock told the constable in the cell corridor.

‘The first two I can sort. You can shit on the bog in the cell. I won’t close the cell door, but I promise I won’t peek. And I can sort out a brief, no probs.’

The cell complex at Rochdale police station was teeming, prisoners being led into and out of doors, corridors, interview rooms and, of course, cells. Whitlock was guided down towards the washing area, where he stripped off his paper suit and stepped into the curtainless shower cubicle. The water was hot and he stood soaping and shampooing himself for about five minutes, emerging clean and scrubbed. He was handed a clean, but grubby-looking towel to dry himself.

He jiggled back into the creased paper suit and tied it at his waist, his heavy gut hanging over the knot.

‘Shave,’ he said.

The bobby pointed to a washbasin on which stood a squeeze tube of shaving foam, soap and a disposable safety razor.

‘Thanks.’

He took his time over shaving his face, hesitating each time he looked at himself in the polished metal mirror attached to the wall with hidden screws. Finally he finished, wiped and dried his face, stood upright and eased the top half of the paper suit over his flabby shoulders. Turning to face the constable, he announced he had finished his ablutions.

Actually, he did not think he would get away with it.

But he did, assisted by the bored and distracted constable.

As he walked back to his cell, Whitlock had a small smile of triumph on his face.

* * *

Henry had the telephone to his ear. ‘He won’t stay out of sight for very long,’ he was saying. ‘People like him don’t. . yeah, yeah. . we do need to get him, though. . I was thinking I’d come across, maybe this afternoon, and put some pressure on the relatives. I mean, after all, it’s one of them that’s dead. . yep. .’ Henry became aware of someone standing behind him. He glanced, saw it was Dave Anger holding a piece of paper, flapping it. ‘OK. . probably see you later, Rik, bye.’ He hung up, swivelled round to his boss.

‘Here.’ Anger handed him the paper. ‘Body turned up in the east of the county. . bit of a boundary dispute with it. Could be ours, could be GMP’s. Go and have a look. . and Henry,’ he concluded warningly, ‘do your best to make sure it’s on them.’

Whitlock was informed that the duty solicitor would be with him in about an hour and that detectives would be interviewing him within a couple.

‘I’d like to phone my wife.’

The constable nodded. ‘Sure.’ He unlocked a cupboard in the cell corridor and took out a telephone which he plugged into a socket on the wall. He held out the phone to the prisoner. ‘Nine for a line.’

‘Thanks.’ Whitlock dialled. ‘Glenda? Honey? It’s me. . I know, I know. . I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know sooner. . but I’m in big trouble. . locked up. . yeah, c’mon, love, it’s OK. . eh? Rochdale. Hm? What have I done? Got involved in something very, very stupid. . you seen the news? I’ll bet it’s all over the news. . bodies, yeah, twenty bodies. . me. . yeah, Jesus!’ Whitlock had to hold the phone away from his ear as, after he had explained his predicament, his wife screamed and wailed. ‘Look, calm down. . no, I don’t want you to come here. . just sit tight, wait. . and whatever happens, remember I love you. . bye,’ he finished weakly and hung up.

‘OK?’ the constable asked.

Whitlock nodded. His eyes were moist, he was close to tears. The PC led him back to his cell and he lay down miserably on the bed, staring up at the graffiti-ridden ceiling, calculating how he was going to make best use of the item he had managed to secrete in his sleeve. He needed the right time and the right place for the best effect.

Henry pointed the remote at the car door, looked over his shoulder and saw the all too familiar figure of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him. He groaned, his shoulders drooping. What did she want?

Roscoe was the detective inspector tasked with investigating the incident in which Henry had become embroiled which had led to the death of Tara Wickson’s husband and others. Henry had spent many hours being skilfully interviewed by her and he knew she was not convinced by his recollection of events and was determined to get to the truth. Unfortunately for Henry, part of the truth was that he had gone to the wire for Tara by covering up for her and now he was beginning to regret his rather hasty, if knightly, decision. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but maybe his judgement was suspect — again. He knew that if the cops got to the real truth, and could prove it, he could easily be prosecuted for perverting the course of justice. And that could mean up to seven years behind bars.

He leaned on the car and waited.

‘Hello, Henry,’ she panted, slowing up as she reached him. He nodded, now heartily sick of his interactions with her over the last few weeks. It was like having a Jack Russell terrier attached to his trouser leg. Nor did it help the situation that she and Henry had been lovers in the past and both had a bitter aftertaste of the affair in their mouths. ‘I’ve just spoken to Dave Anger.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘He said you were going on a job down in the Valley.’ By ‘Valley’ she was referring to the Rossendale Valley, but everyone in the Constabulary knew it as the ‘Valley’. A posting that often struck fear into most bobbies’ hearts.

‘He was right.’ Henry braced himself, knowing what was coming.

‘Said I should tag along with you.’

‘That’s nice. As a chaperone?’

‘No, your assistant.’

Henry’s mouth distorted and morphed into a sneer. He shook his head and opened the driver’s door. ‘You’d better get in,’ he said with resignation, knowing he would be powerless to fight the decision. Under his breath he mouthed the word, ‘Fuck’ and his lips twisted grotesquely as his face took on the expression which, in Lancashire, would have been described as ‘like a bulldog licking the piss off a nettle.’

They drove in silence for the first part of the journey, Henry at the wheel of his Mondeo, acutely aware of Jane Roscoe’s presence, trying to concentrate fully on the road, yet desperate to glance at her. He was certain she was eyeing him surreptitiously. The tension between them was almost like a living, breathing thing, could be felt, could be touched. Like a pair of lungs being pumped up, it was almost ready to explode.

In the end it was Henry who broke. He could stand it no longer.

As the car accelerated on to the M65, he blurted, ‘OK, so what’s the bottom line here?’

There was a beat of silence as Roscoe considered the question, then came back, ‘Why Henry, whatever do you mean?’

‘I mean — what are you doing here? Why are you here? Why are you accompanying me to this job? Are you harassing me, or what?’

‘Henry! Questions, questions, questions,’ she tutted, then sniffed. ‘Superintendent Anger thought this would be an interesting case for me. He wants me on the SIO team, so he thought I should go and “sit by Nellie” as they say, and watch a master detective at work.’

Henry grunted. ‘It might not even be on our patch.’

‘But if it is. .’

‘I think we’ve worked closely enough together in the past, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, well, this is on a professional basis, not clouded by any personal agenda. As we are no longer “seeing” each other’ — here Roscoe tweaked the first and second fingers of each hand to indicate speech marks — ‘I’m just happy to learn.’ She smiled.

‘Mm,’ Henry murmured doubtfully. ‘How is the investigation going?’ he asked, referring to the Tara Wickson debacle. ‘You still not happy with my version of events?’

‘Not remotely. . something just doesn’t sit right with me.’ She and Henry then did look at each other, eye to eye. Henry felt a cold chill ripple through his heart and guts as he thought, Shit, she might get me here if I’m not careful. . tenacious bitch.

‘Still,’ Roscoe continued, ‘I’ll keep digging.’

Henry looked back at the road again, grim-faced. At least the only living witness to the murder he had covered up was Tara Wickson. The other people present were now dead and gone. Henry took a crumb of comfort from that, but not a big one: Tara was still a wild card and he was not sure which way she would fall, especially now that the full inquest was looming.

‘You’re woofing up the wrong tree,’ Henry said, trying to sound confident. ‘You’re looking for something that isn’t there.’

‘Am I?’ Roscoe said. ‘Did you know Tara Wickson’s back in the country?’

‘Yes. . no,’ Henry said quickly. Fuck, he thought again.

Roscoe sniggered. ‘Seen her, have you?’

And it was on that question that Henry closed his mouth and said no more on that subject because he wondered whether Roscoe was wired up to record the conversation. His mind, however, returned to the early hours of the morning, when he had, indeed, seen Tara Wickson.

‘He’s in with the duty solicitor,’ the detective superintendent said to Karl Donaldson. They were seated in the canteen at Rochdale police station facing each other over a coffee. Donaldson was feeling a little better, but not much. His head still felt hollow and achy. The superintendent’s name was Brooks. He was a member of GMP’s SIO team and had been drafted in to run the inquiry into the deaths of the illegal immigrants. He was looking very stressed about the whole thing. He shook his head. ‘As you can appreciate, this is a mega-job. The press are all over it, the immigration service — God love ’em, the useless bastards — Customs and Excise, the Home Office, the local MP, you and every bugger else and his dog and I’ve got to keep them all sweet. The hospital mortuary is full to bursting with dead bodies, none of which have any ID on them. . we think they could be from Albania, but who knows? It’s a mess,’ he admitted. ‘Our chief constable is very twitchy about it, as you would expect. He wants to know everything. Our ACC Ops is running the show, but I’m the one doing the donkey work.’ He gave an imitation of a silent scream, shook his head and blew out his cheeks. ‘And you, where do you come into all this, Mr Donaldson? Other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. . which I’m having trouble buying, by the way.’

Donaldson filled him in with as much as he felt he needed to know, which wasn’t much, but when he had finished, Brooks said, ‘What’s your view on how we progress this?’

The American glanced briefly at the townscape of Rochdale, gathering his thoughts. ‘Depends on how deep, long or complicated you want it all to be. The easy thing is to charge the driver with the appropriate offences, try to ID the bodies and pretty much leave it at that. Just another sad tale of illegal immigrants.’

‘Or?’

‘Or do your job. Go deeper. Spend time and resources on ensuring the bodies get identified — and that will cost a lot of money in man hours — interview relatives, friends, trace their journeys back to source and start identifying the people behind this whole sorry mess. . whilst at the same time trying to track down the guys who robbed the driver. My guess is that both lines of inquiry will intermesh somewhere along the way.’

Brooks eyed Donaldson. ‘What do you think was stolen from the driver?’ The two men stared knowingly at each other. ‘Drugs?’ Brooks ventured.

Donaldson shrugged slowly. ‘Who am I to say? But whatever you choose to do, I would like to speak to the driver, if that is possible.’

‘Why?’

‘Purely from an intelligence point of view,’ Donaldson parried.

Brooks nodded sagely. He was a very experienced detective and reading people was his game. ‘So you were at the scene purely by accident?’ Donaldson nodded. ‘An FBI legal attache on the scene purely by accident — when twenty bodies turn up and a robbery takes place. . mmm. . let me think about that one.’ He put his chin on his thumb and gazed at the ceiling. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘There always seems to be a doctor or nurse on the scene on a road accident, doesn’t there? Same sort of thing.’

‘Run it by me again — why do you want to see the driver?’

‘Intelligence-gathering. . the FBI are heavily involved in investigating human trafficking.’

‘I’ll let you speak to the driver just so long as the interview is fully recorded and a member of my team is present. . how does that grab you?’

‘How about if you are present?’

‘OK. . but remember, I’m only doing this because I’m one of those blokes — and call me old-fashioned if you like — who doesn’t believe in coincidence.’

‘Henry, hello,’ Tara had responded to Henry’s words of surprise in the waiting room at Blackpool police station. She stood up and crossed over to him. She looked as good as ever. Slim, blonde, highly attractive if a little too heavy around the jawline to make her stunning. Since Henry had last seen her, she had acquired a golden tan which set off her azure eyes and blonde hair brilliantly. She took hold of Henry’s hand, tiptoed into him and kissed him on the cheek. She was wearing a beret tilted at an angle on her head. Henry knew it was covering the injury she had received to her head, the blow from the handle of a gun administered ruthlessly by the man who had gone on to murder her husband. She’d had to have part of her head shaved for the wound to be treated, but six weeks on, it looked as though much of the hair had grown back, at least enough to provide some cover.

Henry recoiled slightly from her lips, even though they felt soft, warm and wonderful, sending a little twelve-volt jolt through him. She gazed with disappointment at him. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ he shrugged it off. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to talk. . talk things through.’ She looked awkwardly around the waiting room. ‘Can we go somewhere else? I don’t feel at ease here in the police station.’

‘Such as where? It’s very late.’

‘I have a suite down at the Imperial. . maybe there?’ She saw his disinclination to say yes. ‘In the bar, I mean.’

He relented. Less than five minutes later he was driving northwards along the promenade, Tara’s Mercedes behind him, wondering what the hell he was doing.

The Imperial Hotel is on the sea front at North Shore, Blackpool, a five-star hotel used most famously by visiting politicians during the annual party conferences in the resort. All the great and good had stayed here, some not so good either. Henry knew the hotel well, inside and out, though he was glad to say on that night he did not recognize any of the staff as he sat in the bar being attended by a waiter who brought him a large cappuccino and Tara a black coffee and double brandy.

She took a big mouthful of the spirit and aahed as it sank down into her chest and stomach.

Henry waited, sipping his hot frothy coffee.

‘The full inquest is in a month,’ she said, opening her gambit.

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘I’m worried about things. About what to say, about being questioned by barristers, about slipping up and telling the truth.’ She spoke the last three words in a hush.

Henry rubbed his eyes, scratched his head. ‘Just stick to the script and it’ll be fine.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re used to being cross-examined, I’m not.’ She supped the rest of her brandy, gestured for the waiter to return with a refill.

‘It’s not like a court of law,’ Henry said patiently.

‘That’s not what I’ve heard. They’re just as hard on you, or they can be, and I feel like I might crack under pressure. . this isn’t easy, you know.’

Henry could feel his heart changing up a gear, whilst his stomach seemed to contract. This was not a reassuring thing to hear. As he massaged his tired face again, his hands shook slightly as though his sugar levels were low.

‘If you tell the truth, you’ll go to prison for murder,’ he said harshly. ‘Is that what you want?’

Henry’s mind came back to the present. He shivered apprehensively.

‘You OK?’ Jane Roscoe asked.

‘Somebody just walked over my grave.’ He saw Roscoe smirk.

‘How are you and the chief these days?’ she asked out of the blue.

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You and FB. Like that, aren’t you?’ She held up two crossed fingers.

‘Oh,’ Henry said dubiously, ‘haven’t seen or spoken to him in weeks.’

‘You and he reckon to dislike each other, but actually he looks after you, doesn’t he?’

Henry’s mouth turned down at the corners. It was true to say that the relationship between him and the chief was a complex one. Henry often thought that Fanshaw-Bayley simply used Henry’s skills and abilities callously without any thought to the damage it did to Henry, just so long as a result came about. Having said that, Henry had some things to be grateful to FB for, recently in particular, so there was a two-way exchange, though much of the bias was tilted towards FB. Most lately FB had secured Henry’s return to work following suspension, but that in itself was now having repercussions which left Henry feeling a little numb.

‘I think we know each other well enough to call a spade a spade, don’t you?’ Roscoe pummelled on. Obviously she believed she had a right to say anything she wanted to Henry following the acrimonious end to their brief affair. Henry braced himself for something unpleasant. ‘Dave Anger wants rid of you from the SIO team.’ Henry sighed. So what’s new, he thought. ‘He’s come into the force and been given the job of running the team and he feels hampered by having you in it — someone he first met under very dubious circumstances, someone he suspects is not being quite straight with him. Not a good start, is it? He wants to get people in he knows and can trust.’

‘How many people can he know? He’s only just come into the force,’ said Henry crossly.

‘He knows people. . me, for example. I’ve shown him how well I work and he wants me on the team. There’s others, too. Having people like you dumped on him gives him very little room to manoeuvre.’ She paused, then pounced. ‘Can I be blunt with you, Henry?’

Henry sighed through his nostrils. ‘Would it make any difference if I said no?’

‘No.’

He waited nervously.

‘This is just between you and me, Henry, and if you repeat any of it, I’ll deny it, OK?’ Their eyes locked at seventy mph on the M65. Henry had once thought Roscoe beautiful, but now to him her face seemed hard and callous. She had lost a lot of weight and her face had become thinner, chisel-like. ‘He’s out to get you and so am I. . but actually all we want is for you to request a move. . if you don’t, life will be very uncomfortable because we’ll keep digging and digging into this Wickson thing. We won’t let it drop. . unless you ask for a transfer out.’

Henry, jaw clamped tight, muscles in his face tense, turned his eyes back to the motorway and felt himself begin to waver.

The chance came as Whitlock had planned. He had been wheeled in to see the duty solicitor in an interview room specifically reserved for such private consultations between client and brief. The room was not monitored by either CCTV or audio.

He spent an hour in discussion, told the solicitor everything that had happened to him. In some ways that was good. A cathartic release, but finally the conversation was over.

‘Are you ready for the police to interview you now?’

Whitlock nodded. ‘There is one thing. . I don’t want to go back into the cell just yet. . is there any way I could sit here for a while? It’s so depressing and claustrophobic, even with the door open. This isn’t much better, but at least it’s brighter.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, but I do need to have a chat with the interviewing detectives first. You could be here for a good ten minutes.’

‘That’s OK. . just as long as it isn’t a cell. It’s doing my head in.’

‘No probs.’ The solicitor pressed the attention button. After a minute the door opened and a civilian gaoler poked his head in.

Karl Donaldson was allowed to listen to Detective Superintendent Brooks’s chat with the duty solicitor, together with the two other detectives who would actually be carrying out the interview with Whitlock.

The solicitor did not give much away and the purpose of the interaction was more about setting ground rules than anything else. This was a very big job and everybody wanted to get it right. It took about ten minutes, then they were ready to proceed.

They had been ensconced in one of the interview rooms just off the custody reception area. They emerged like rats out of a tunnel and headed towards the desk.

Brooks said to Donaldson, ‘I want to get the initial interview done before I let you loose on the prisoner. We have the facility to watch interviews taking place, so you and me can sit back and watch my detectives talking to this guy for a while.’

It was as good as it was going to get. Donaldson accepted it.

At the custody desk, Brooks spoke to the sergeant. ‘We’re ready now, Colin.’

The sergeant opened the custody record and made an entry in the log. He turned to the civilian gaoler and asked him to produce Whitlock from his cell.

‘He’s still in the solicitor’s room.’

‘What? Why? He should’ve gone back in a cell.’

‘The brief asked if it was OK if he could stay there,’ responded the gaoler petulantly.

‘And you agreed?’ The sergeant stared askance at the duty solicitor, who wilted slightly.

‘Er, yeah. . didn’t seem to be a problem. The door is locked.’

‘Next time, cell, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Go get him.’

Donaldson watched and listened to the exchange with interest. He knew that there was a move within the British police service to appoint civilian gaolers because they were cheaper to employ than constables. The problem was that, unlike cops, who were steeped in custody procedure and dealing with deceitful baddies, civilian gaolers tended to be rather naive and trusting.

The gaoler strolled sloppily down the short corridor to the solicitor’s room, swinging his keys. He inserted one, unlocked it, pushed.

The door would not open.

He pushed harder, a puzzled expression on his face, which turned worriedly towards the custody desk.

The duty solicitor, Brooks, the interviewing officers and the custody sergeant were huddled in a chat-scrum and were unaware of the gaoler’s difficulty. Donaldson, however, had watched him all the way and seen the struggle to open the door. He pushed himself off the custody desk. ‘There’s something wrong down here.’ He hurried down the corridor. ‘What is it?’

‘Can’t get the door open.’

‘It is unlocked — yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ snarled the gaoler.

Donaldson pushed the door. It opened an inch, no more. He looked around the door frame and then stepped back, his foot slipping on something. A moment passed before he realized he had blood on his shoe, blood which was seeping underneath the door.

Without further vacillation he placed his shoulder to the door and pushed hard, his feet slithering in the blood. Slowly the door opened, inch by inch. People gathered behind him. He pushed and the door finally opened wide enough to allow him entry, revealing exactly what Donaldson expected to see: Whitlock’s body hanging by the neck from the inner door handle, his wrists slashed up each arm.

Donaldson twisted into the room, bending down to look at Whitlock, whose bloodshot eyes bulged, his tongue hanging thickly out of his mouth. The American knew even before he reached for a pulse that there was nothing that could be done for the long-distance lorry driver.