Critical Threat

Five

9 a.m.: Henry Christie, feeling grimy and dishevelled, still dressed in the overalls and boots he had worn all night, sat glumly on a chair in the office occupied by the chief constable’s staff officer and other associated staff. He was leaning forwards, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the floor, trying to keep his grit-filled eyes open. He stifled a big yawn, which took some doing and almost broke his jaw, sat up and rubbed his weary face, taking in a deep, slow breath. His eyes flickered around the room. All the desks were occupied: two secretaries, the deputy chief constable’s staff officer and Chief Inspector Laker, the chief’s bag-carrier, last seen by Henry several months before when Henry had been demanding to have an audience with FB. He was pretty sure Laker had not forgiven him for that day, but to be honest, he didn’t give a monkey’s something.

He swallowed. God, his throat was dry. He smiled in the direction of the chief’s secretary, a young lady by the name of Erica, in an effort to catch her eye. She was engrossed in word processing. Henry coughed. ‘Excuse me, any chance of a cup of coffee?’ As there was a kettle, milk and a jar of instant coffee on a table behind her, Henry assumed there was every chance.

‘Yes, certainly.’ She saved her work, smiled at him in a sad way, and spun around in her chair.

Henry noticed Laker looking at him, a scowl of disapproval on his mush. He said, ‘Been up all night — operational stuff, y’know?’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said the bagman.

Henry stiffened. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Laker refocused on his computer. A surge of trepidation rushed through Henry.

The kettle boiled.

‘Here we go.’ Erica handed him a cup of coffee, the colour of which reminded Henry of the tidal water in the Wyre Estuary, a sort of murky red-brown.

‘Thanks.’ He sipped it. Laker’s little off-the-cuff remark had just knocked him off kilter for some reason. He had been summoned to the chief’s office following the less than smooth raid in Accrington, he assumed for a pat on the back, but Laker’s jibe had made him think differently — or was Laker just being a bastard, wanting to wind Henry up? If that was the case, it had worked.

The coffee tasted as bad as it looked and Henry winced, but managed to transform it into a smile for Erica.

Yes, Laker’s remark made Henry wonder, but not for very long because the chief constable’s door opened and FB beckoned Henry in.

There was a polished oak conference table in the centre of the chief’s office and every seat round it, bar one, was taken. The table itself was an untidy mess of paper cups, mineral-water bottles, catering flasks of coffee and tea and lots of documents.

There was silence as Henry was ushered by FB to the vacant space at the far end of the table. He sat, uncomfortably aware of the looks, and nodded to the assembled dignitaries, several of whom he knew; others he didn’t and had never seen before. He wasn’t over the moon to see Dave Anger’s cruel face amongst them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ FB said with the same breath he exhaled as he settled his rump back into his chair, ‘may I introduce Chief Inspector Henry Christie …’ Henry did note that FB hadn’t used the term ‘detective’ on the front of the introduction. ‘And just for his benefit, could we go round the table as a matter of courtesy? I’m Bob Fanshaw-Bayley, chief constable of Lancashire Constabulary,’ he announced, then looked to his right.

‘Dave Anger, FMIT commander … I think you know me.’ He gave Henry a slitty sideways look.

Next along said, ‘Percy Greek, detective superintendent, Lancashire Special Branch.’ He gave Henry much the same sort of look as Anger had.

‘Mary Dearden, Security Services.’

‘John Threlfall, Security Services.’

Henry had spotted those two skulking around at the briefing and had rightly tagged them instantly as spooks. They were both young, mid-twenties, and looked wet behind the ears, as though they’d come straight out of Oxbridge and gone into MI5 or 6 to protect the country without having even seen the place.

Next along was Detective Superintendent Jerry Carruthers from the Metropolitan Anti-Terrorist Branch. Henry knew him by sight, having seen him on TV following the 7/7 atrocities in the capital, but had never met him. Carruthers had also been at the briefing.

‘I’m Angela Cranlow, deputy chief constable, Lancashire,’ the next person said. She was fairly recently appointed and as Henry had previously noted — when FB had been pushing him out into the corridor following his unannounced gatecrash a few months earlier — she did not look anything like the stereotypical high ranking woman cop. In her mid-forties, with soft features, quiet voice, but with an air of cool authority and, Henry guessed, a trim figure under that unflattering uniform. Based on what he had heard, he had nothing but respect for her. She had done her time on the streets, been a detective at several levels, seen some tough times and was nobody’s fool.

‘Martin Beckham, Home Office,’ said the last person, a bespectacled, middle-aged man in a nice suit who looked like he might have walked to work over Westminster Bridge every morning at eight, then back home for seven in some leafy south London suburb. He nodded at Henry.

Without a doubt, Henry knew that these were probably some of the main players in the planning and execution of Operation Enid. They all looked weary, as though they’d been up all night.

‘Thanks everyone,’ FB said. ‘As you know, I’ve asked Henry to come in for two reasons … firstly,’ he cleared his throat, ‘for him to tell us firsthand what transpired a few hours earlier in Accrington; then for us to bring him up to speed, as a matter of courtesy, with some aspects of today’s operation that were, by necessity, not dealt with at the briefing.’ FB looked squarely at Henry. ‘That OK with you, Henry?’

‘Mm-yeah,’ he stretched out the word hesitantly, ‘so long as it’s all right for me to chuck in some personal observations, as well.’

FB shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not.’ One or two people shifted uncomfortably.

‘OK … I assume you know the task allocated to my team of officers, but in case you don’t, as part of the wider operation, the results of which I don’t know anything about yet, other than what I heard on Radio Lancashire, we were to enter and secure an empty terraced house in Accrington which was believed to have been used as some sort of meeting place for suspected terrorists … that’s about the long and short of it … a “nothing” job, really, and that’s what we did … except the intelligence was wrong and the place wasn’t empty.’ Henry’s eyes caught those of Dearden and Threlfall, the MI5/6 bods. Their eyes, however, would not meet his.

‘We followed instructions and found ourselves faced with one young man armed with a pistol and another packed to the ribs with high explosive.’ As he talked, he felt himself begin to tremble slightly, reliving the incident and realizing again how close he and others had come to being murdered by fanatics. ‘I need a drink, if that’s OK?’

He had left his horrible coffee outside.

‘Help yourself,’ FB said.

He found a clean polystyrene cup and poured a black coffee from one of the flasks, which he took neat. It was almost stone cold and tasted like River Wyre mud this time. When would he get a decent brew? he wondered, despairing. He put the cup on the table, noticing his fingers were trembling.

‘Henry?’ It was FB again, almost looking concerned. Almost.

‘Well, big do’s and little do’s, the two young men were disarmed, shall we say, and arrested. We then discovered there was evidence of a third person in the house which we partially searched, but found no one. And the front door was booby trapped, but no other devices were found. A neighbour came and told us that someone’d dropped through his loft hatch and done a runner. Seems that the lofts in the row of terraced houses are separated by breeze block walls which, it transpires, had all had holes knocked into them big enough for someone to slide through and the third person from the house used this as a pre-prepared means of escape. As the neighbour had seen him, we decided to do a street search to see if we could spot him-’

‘By “we”, don’t you mean “I”?’ Dave Anger interjected.

Henry looked quizzically at him, shrugged and said, ‘Whatever … but we ended up chasing a stolen BMW which crashed, severely injuring the occupant.’

‘And who was the occupant? The missing terrorist?’ Anger asked.

Henry licked his lips. ‘Unlikely … he was a local car thief, name of Spencer Crawford, a fourteen-year-old … he’s in intensive care now, but not likely to prove,’ he added, meaning there was a good chance the lad would live. He rubbed his tired eyes, which squelched, and shook his head.

‘So let me get this straight — you left the scene of a major incident, which you should have stayed on site to manage, and went gallivanting around town in some half-baked search which resulted in a Starsky and Hutch car chase and a near fatality which had nothing to do with the task you were given?’ Dave Anger had spoken these words and they rose in fury as he reached the end of them. He threw down his pen and looked away from Henry in disgust.

Most people at the table had their eyes averted, FB and the deputy chief being exceptions.

Henry sat back and closed his eyes, the combination of tiredness and the bollocking making him feel faint. He fought a wicked battle inside himself to remain calm, then reopened his eyes.

‘The only half-baked thing here is Operation Enid,’ he rejoined. ‘It seems to have been based on sketchy intelligence and poor planning.’ FB opened his mouth to speak, but Henry, having none of this, said, ‘Let me finish, boss … I won’t say anything I shouldn’t … at least that’s how it appears, particularly, as the radio reported that only two arrests were made from what, six raids? I presume those arrests were the ones I made …’

‘And what the hell made you tackle two heavily armed terrorists?’ Anger demanded.

‘I saw that the wire connecting the switch to the detonator had come free and the lad with the gun had been distracted by it,’ Henry explained. ‘But, what I’m saying is that officers were put in danger as a result of poor intelligence, which I won’t even ask where it came from. More work should have been done, more surveillance to ensure that unarmed officers were actually going to raid an empty house, not a bloody bomb factory!’

‘You have no conception of the complexity and scope of the work that went in to this operation, Chief Inspector,’ Threlfall, the Security Service guy piped up with a round, plummy, authoritative voice.

Henry held up a hand. ‘No, I think I do … do not patronize me.’

‘Henry!’ FB shot warningly.

Henry shrugged a submissive gesture. ‘I’ll back off, but only after I’ve said one more thing.’ He thought he heard a collective groan from around the table, but he was on a roll. ‘Which is … because it all went awry’ — here he refrained from saying “shit-shaped” — ‘it became a very fast-moving incident and yes, I made a judgement call in the way I dealt with it.’

‘So you’re saying your judgement shouldn’t be challenged?’ Anger asked. ‘Your judgement which has been, at the very least, suspect in the past.’

‘I’m not saying it shouldn’t be challenged-’ Henry’s mouth was still open when Anger cut him off.

‘In that case, I’ll challenge it.’

‘OK, OK, OK, enough’s enough,’ FB barged in through the crap with a chopping motion of his hand. ‘End of, OK?’ He shot Anger a cold stare. ‘Let’s save it for the formal debrief.’

‘All I’m saying is that if he’d done his job right and stayed at the scene and directed it all from there instead of swanning off, we might have had a result on the third guy, but no, he had to take it all on himself and now one of the world’s most wanted terrorists has escaped …’ Anger’s mouth snapped shut.

‘Enough!’ FB said again.

‘Cop in-fighting,’ Threlfall the spook chuckled.

‘Sooo professional,’ his female colleague added. They both shook their heads pityingly.

FB glared at them, but the smirks stayed on their faces. ‘Let’s pull all this back, please … Henry, despite the, er, questions, you did a brave thing earlier.’

‘Lucky, if you ask me,’ Anger said under his breath. ‘And stupid.’

‘I’ll have that, brave and lucky, they go together hand in glove,’ Henry said, raising his chin. ‘Maybe stupid, too.’

‘Well, whatever … by all accounts you put your life on the line and two terror suspects have been apprehended. So well done,’ FB said.

‘Thanks.’ It was a pretty muted word. ‘What do we know about these guys … kids?’ Henry asked, looking at the SB and spook contingent.

‘Not much yet,’ Detective Superintendent Greek — known behind his back as Prince Philip — spoke out. ‘They’re being taken to London for questioning by the Anti-Terrorist Branch.’

‘What’s your take on the thing, Henry?’ the deputy chief asked. She smiled pleasantly at him, a bright twinkle in her eye.

‘What do you mean, ma’am?’ he asked, getting, as usual, a perverted kick from calling a woman ‘ma’am’. It was probably a domination thing and Henry was glad, for an instant, to let his mind wander to an imagined scene of debauchery behind her office door, involving him, her and maybe chocolate sauce. Her look hinted she might have had the same thought lines … or was he beginning to hallucinate?

‘Your feeling about it,’ Threlfall said. ‘Say, about this third person, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know anything about the third person,’ he said, dragging his dirty mind back from somewhere it should not have strayed to, back to the more mundane matter of global terrorism. Fleetingly, he thought that maybe he didn’t have the right mindset to be a serious high-ranking officer. Here he was in the middle of a serious debate finding himself thinking about sex. Would he ever mature? ‘But there is one thing,’ he said, visualizing the incident in the back alley, ‘confirmed by the slip Mr Anger just made about a wanted terrorist escaping.’

Anger blanched. ‘Eh?’

‘Which is?’ Threlfall asked, leaning towards him with interest.

‘When we hit the front door, why didn’t all three of them pile up into the loft? That front door had been reinforced and it would’ve taken us a fair bit of time to smash it down — time enough for them all to go, maybe. But it would have been a bit like the three stooges all climbing up there and racing through the rafters.’ Henry applied his mind to this. ‘I think the two who were arrested were ensuring that the third one got away. That’s it,’ he declared, ‘they were protecting him and were quite prepared to kill and die to ensure he escaped, which means …’ It all dawned on him.

But Threlfall finished up for him. ‘It means they were the pawns and he was a player … well thought out, Chief Inspector.’ The spook regarded him warily through half-lidded eyes.

‘I astound myself sometimes.’

The deputy grinned and looked down at her writing pad.

‘Who is he?’ Henry asked bluntly.

‘That’s not something you need to know,’ Threlfall said. ‘In fact, a decision has been made this morning that no mention will be made to the media of the suspected third person because we do not want speculation or scare-mongering.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They could reach the same conclusion as yourself which could cause fear amongst the public …’

‘If it became known that we let him go, you mean?’ Henry said.

Threlfall looked at him with a pained expression. ‘We are simply going to say that two terror suspects have been arrested and keep it low key.’

‘How do you know who it was who escaped?’

‘One of our experts has already looked at the suicide bomb the lad was wearing … and he believes it’s one built by the man we are after. We also have fast-track DNA analysis equipment available, which proves he was in the house, too.’

‘So this whole operation was directed at catching this guy?’ Henry asked. ‘In which case, why was this not outlined clearly at the briefing?’

‘Ahh,’ Threlfall said. ‘It was, actually,’ he went on hesitantly, ‘but only separately to the firearms team who were raiding the house in which we thought he was.’

‘But not to the rest of us,’ Henry spluttered. ‘Talk about bloody pawns!’ Henry realized he was now in a world of spin and lies, which was always the case with the security services and shady government departments. He despised them and his expression probably said it all.

Ignoring Henry’s last words, the man called Beckham, who had said he was from the Home Office, opened his mouth for the first time. ‘What I am about to say to you goes no further than these four walls. Yes, you’re right, he was our prime target and our groundwork prior to the implementation of this operation may have been slightly flawed, but the overall intelligence driving it wasn’t. We have a terrorist of the highest calibre operating in Britain and it remains a priority to apprehend him. As you know, the American Secretary of State is visiting the north of England next week and the fact that this man is still at large is a big worry for us, as Condoleezza Rice is near the top of any middle-eastern terrorists’ assassination list. However, there is an ongoing operation up and running aimed at capturing this man, which is all you need to know. As regards what happened today, it suits us to keep this man’s details and the fact he was even in this region as secret and you are officially gagged, Chief Inspector. If you utter a word of this, then the bureaucratic force of the law and government will land smack-bang on your head. This also applies to all the individuals in the team that raided that house. They will be spoken to separately.

‘I cannot give you details of this man, but I will tell you he is highly dangerous, he has been behind many atrocities across the world, and his presence in this county is worrying. We missed a chance to bag him, but that’s how it goes sometimes. At least we have some trophies to display to the community and the world, thanks to your heroism this morning, Henry.’

‘I suppose the cheque’s in the post?’

Henry was given the elbow and he rose from the conference table, nodding at FB, catching Angela Cranlow’s eye, and giving the rest of the group a general gesture of goodbye. No one showed him out, not that he expected such courtesy, and he emerged tired, but relatively unscathed from the pit of fire, with the exception of Dave Anger’s remarks, into the bag-carriers’ office. All four members of staff were at their desks, including Henry’s best friend, Chief Inspector Laker.

Henry smiled at him, then swung out into the hushed corridor outside, where he leaned against a wall and breathed deeply.

‘Ah, dear,’ he said to no one and suddenly felt quite shaky and ravenously hungry. It was just after ten, meaning breakfast was still being served down in the dining room. He headed downstairs, his nose following the aroma of bacon.

The dining room was reasonably busy, but there were still plenty of seats and tables vacant. Being self-service, Henry heaped too much of everything on a plate, grabbed a coffee from the machine, paid, and steered a careful course to a free table in the far corner of the room. Because he was feeling unsociable, he sat with his back to everyone and faced a window overlooking the car park. After a few moments’ precise preparation of cutlery, plate, mug and napkin, he tucked into the huge meal which he knew would go a long way to shutting down his arteries, but would also cheer him up.

He scoffed it quickly, finishing off with a self-made toasted crispy bacon sandwich that he folded into his mouth. It tasted tremendous. He washed it down with coffee, then got a refill, and returned to his chair to watch the world of Lancashire Constabulary go by. A huge horsebox drove by, a four-wheel drive BMW traffic car purred past towards wireless workshops, and an array of less impressive police vehicles also passed his window.

His head shook involuntarily as he thought through the last few hours of his life, once again realizing how lucky he was to be sitting here eating a meal which would probably kill him anyway. Still, it was better than a bullet, or being picked up piece by piece. Perhaps it was safer in Special Projects, and he thought he would settle there now, carve a comfortable niche out for himself up on the top floor and hibernate until retirement.

‘Umph,’ he uttered without knowing, not really liking that prospect. Sitting in an office just wasn’t him, but his options were becoming increasingly limited.

Dave Anger sat down opposite him. Henry had not seen him enter the dining room.

The two men regarded each other.

‘I don’t want you thinking that just because you were involved in today’s job that you will be doing any further work concerning it.’

‘God forbid. I know when I’m frozen out. I was just planning a dry flower arrangement for my desk in Special Projects.’

‘Good … I didn’t think it was clearly stated upstairs. You have no further involvement, OK?’

Henry eyed him with disdain. His breakfast was a mere memory. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth now. He picked up his coffee, stood up and walked across to the far side of the room to a vacant table, having no wish to get involved with Anger. When he sat down, he saw that Anger had already left. He hunched over his mug and stared at the coffee, then yawned.

‘My, that’s a big one,’ a female voice said from behind. Henry clammed up and turned quickly. It was Angela Cranlow, the deputy chief, mug of tea in hand, bacon barm in the other. ‘Mind if I join you, Henry?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, flustered, and half-raised himself out of his seat.

‘Don’t get up, duck.’ She plonked herself down, discarding the food and drink for a moment as she unbuttoned her tunic and eased it off, throwing it across another seat, then removed her chequered cravat and unbuttoned her shirt collar. ‘Phew — been a long one already.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he agreed.

She bit into the barm, speaking as she ate. ‘Hate all that secret squirrel stuff, don’t you? MI5, Special Branch … I prefer just good, honest, local coppering.’

‘Comes with the rank, I guess.’

‘Yeah, politics and all that stuff does. Doesn’t mean to say I like it, though.’

She was perhaps two feet away from Henry and he allowed his eyes to quickly take her in. With neatly bobbed light auburn hair and a nice, round face, she was very pretty. There were some lines etched in the corners of her eyes betraying her age in a little way, but her skin was soft and lightly tanned. Henry noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

DCC Cranlow had moved across the Pennines from West Yorkshire, having been promoted to the position after an intense selection procedure in which she fought off some tough competition. Even though there had been a fair amount of coverage about her in the force newspaper, Henry did not know a great deal about her, other than her operational background, which he was impressed with.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come up and see you in Special Projects, yet,’ she apologized.

‘Why would you?’

‘Oh, you might not know — the chief officer portfolios have recently been shuffled around and I’ve got you … in my portfolio, that is, amongst other things, of course.’

‘Oh, right. I didn’t know.’ Chief officer portfolios were shuffled like cards, constantly changing.

‘So I’m your new line manager, sort of … and I intend to come and see you and your team soon.’

‘That would be good,’ he said.

‘Anyway, I just want you to know you did a good job today, Henry, and I’m very pleased, as is the chief.’

‘Believe it or not.’

‘No, he is,’ she defended FB.

‘Me and him go way back when,’ Henry said.

‘I know — I’ve had a look at your personal file.’

‘Interesting reading?’ Henry said, feeling uncomfortable.

‘Yes, it is … quite a history.’

‘I try to put myself about a bit.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Henry, I think Dave Anger has got away with murder and you’ve been shabbily treated. I’m aware of all the problems there.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said pensively. ‘I got that extra pip, bit more on the pension, nice office, cushy job, nine to five …’

‘It’s not about that, though, is it?’

‘You tell me, ma’am.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘You’re a detective, a jack. It’s in your blood. You should be on FMIT or Major Crime or be a divisional DCI, or maybe NCIS. But not Special Projects!’

‘I’m getting acronym overload.’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You shouldn’t be getting shiny pants, not really. I want someone in Special Projects who wants to be in Special Projects …’

‘But no one wants to be in there, they get chucked there cos there’s nowhere else to shove them.’

‘I want to change that.’

‘Ahh,’ Henry said, thinking he realized where she was going. ‘You don’t want me in there, do you? Anger doesn’t want me on FMIT. None of the chief supers want me. Makes me kinda stuffed, doesn’t it?’

She reared back with a chortle. ‘Wrong end of the stick, Henry. Know your problem? Paranoia.’ She dipped her face so that her eyes looked up at him in a rather seductive manner, which sent a rattle through him. ‘I do want you, actually … but that’s another story … but I don’t want you in Special Projects. Round pegs, round holes is my philosophy.’ She bit into her butty, wiped a dribble of butter off her chin with her forefinger which she pushed into her mouth and sucked clean.

Henry swallowed, wondering what the hell was happening here. Was she giving him a come-on? Was she toying with him? Or was he, as usual, living in a fantasy world?

Just in case, he kept his lips tightly closed. The worst thing he could do now was to make a flirty remark to a pretty deputy chief constable because he’d misread the signals. That would truly curtail his career.

She gave a half-grin which he found extremely alluring and it was all he could do not to say anything stupid.

‘What I mean is … I’ll see what I can do for you … I want the people who work for me to be totally committed, not cruising, not put somewhere because that’s the only place there is. I do have some clout as a DCC, even if I am a woman … so I’ll look out for you, if that’s OK.’

‘I get your drift,’ he said with relief. His dithering hand picked up his mug and he took a swig of coffee.