So thanks a bunch, FB. Thanks a bundle for transferring me from the refined, laid-back, super-cool calm of the role of detective inspector and putting me head first into this Godforsaken mother of a job. Two fights, one riot, arson, an officer critically injured, another slashed open with a Stanley knife. Henry was more used to picking up the pieces, not being there when things were being smashed.
Instead of biting his nails, he ground his teeth, ensuring his headache went up a few more notches on the Richter scale.
The transfer to uniform duties had come out of the blue.
Henry had been off sick for the best part of two months, stressed up to the eyeballs, trying to sort his head out and get his life into some sort of order after almost a year of false starts. He’d been to see his tame GP in the middle of the previous week. With reservations, Henry had said he was feeling better, needed to get back to work, needed something to occupy his time. Yes, I am thinking straight, he’d answered the doctor’s question. Sleep was OK-ish. Still can’t shake off the nightmare, but it was getting less frequent. I don’t snap at everybody all the time now, I’m even coming to terms with being divorced, he’d told him. (That, Henry admitted, had been a very difficult thing to say out loud: ‘My ex-wife.’ It was the first time he had ever actually voiced the phrase. It had felt very uncomfortable coming off his tongue. My ex-wife! Christ!) Blood pressure’s down. Had a few counselling sessions. Haven’t drunk a drop for. . well, three days. Yep, I’m as right as rain.
The doctor had looked at Henry in disbelief. Eventually he had sighed and relented. ‘I’ll sign you back to start next Monday.’
Oh my God, Henry had thought desperately on leaving the health centre, clutching the doctor’s note. What have I done?
With a great deal of trepidation he had phoned his detective chief inspector to announce his imminent return to work. He should have suspected something was not quite right when he became aware of the hesitation in his supervisor’s voice. He had not seemed comfortable talking to Henry, had been evasive, extremely vague and non-committal when it came to answering questions, and it had only been when he had told Henry that Fanshaw-Bayley wanted to see him that the alarm bells had clanged in Henry’s brain.
FB? Why the hell would Fanshaw-Bayley want to talk to him?
‘Dunno.’ The chief inspector had responded sheepishly to the question.
‘OK — see you Monday then,’ Henry had said cheerfully.
‘Yeah.’ The relief at having the conversation over had been apparent even in that short, single syllable.
Henry had hung up thoughtfully. Something just not right.
After a few deep breaths he had phoned headquarters and asked to be put through to FB. He had not expected to be connected, because people at that level are secretary-protected, so it was no surprise when Lucy, FB’s newish secretary, had come on the line. What was of greater astonishment was that she had immediately put him through to FB who spoke in a particularly fawning, falsely caring tone.
‘Henry? How are you? It’s so good of you to call. You must be feeling better — coming back Monday. That’s fantastic. Really sorry I haven’t had any chance to speak to you while you were off. . busy, y’know. Anyway, I do need to have a word with you. I’d love to pop over and have a chat, but I’m tied up all day in meetings with just one window. How about three p.m. for fifteen minutes? Can you make it? Splendid. Look forward to seeing you.’ Clunk. Conversation concluded.
Henry had been left holding a dead phone which had given off bad vibes.
He had made it to headquarters with ten minutes to spare, driving Fiona’s car in through the gates and parking in one of the visitors’ bays outside the front doors of the building. He looked across the rugby pitch and even now, the grass was still charred where the helicopter had exploded.
Lucy let him wait in her office and covertly Henry watched her working. She was pretty and seemed very efficient.
A few people whom Henry knew either by sight or personally trailed in and out of FB’s inner sanctum, often referred to as the burial chamber. A couple of times he caught the dulcet tones of FB’s raised voice coming through the panelled door. Each time the person who had gone in to see FB had come out shortly after, tail between legs, very pale-looking, eyes fixed firmly downwards. FB was known as the constabulary hatchet man with good reason. Today seemed to be one of his ‘people days’.
Lucy had looked up from her work and smiled reassuringly. ‘He’s running a little late, I’m afraid,’ she said pointlessly. It was 3.30 p.m.
At four o’clock FB stuck his chubby face round his office door, nodded at Henry and apologised for his lateness.
Like a black widow spider to her unsuspecting husband, FB beckoned him in with a crooked finger and directed him through the office to a chair by means of digital gestures.
The ACC sat down slowly behind his expansive and very neat desk which had a large clean blotter on it — no spilled blood, Henry noticed — and an in-tray and an out-tray, both empty. This seating arrangement retained the psychological advantage for FB, who was physically much smaller than Henry. The ACC sat back, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the spire, critically appraising the lower-ranking officer.
‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ Henry said, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
‘Yess,’ FB said, drawing out the word. ‘How are you feeling? You’ve really been through the ringer, haven’t you?’
Henry acknowledged this with a slight tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow.
‘And now you’re coming back.’
Henry was not sure whether this was a question or not. To compromise he nodded. He found himself increasingly puzzled: FB didn’t seem quite sure where to begin or what to say. Even so, Henry didn’t liked being here: something bad was going to happen.
‘On Monday,’ FB said.
‘Yes, sir. Back Monday. Can’t wait to get stuck in again.’ He almost punched the air with forced enthusiasm. ‘Too much idle time, too much doing nothing — my head’s cabbaged.’
FB’s fingertips were still supporting his chin, his lips pursed. He took in a huge deep breath through flared nostrils and laid his hands flat on the desk, announcing via body language that things were about to be declared. Henry prepared himself.
‘Right,’ he said with the finality of decision, ‘I’ve pussyfooted around too long already. Can’t stand all this touchy-feely stuff. You know and I know I’m a man who likes to come to the point and I think we’ve known each other long enough to be able to say things straight to each other. You wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?’ Giving Henry no chance to respond he steamrollered on. ‘I’ve looked very closely at what’s happened to you over the last few months, then even further back over the last four or five years. You’ve had to deal with some very high-profile stuff, some dangerous and messy stuff too. And this came to a head for you after Danny Furness died — and the result was that you had a nervous breakdown — a good and proper one.’
Henry stiffened. His mouth dried up and his poor heart began to pound. This felt like the overture to an ill-health pension. The bastard was going to get rid of him. Henry tried to speak but nothing came out.