‘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.’
Nine
In the new scheme of things, being a manager of resources as opposed to an old fashioned jack, it wasn’t actually Jane Roscoe’s job to go round kicking doors down anymore. Which was a shame. It was something she enjoyed doing: bursting uninvited, sometimes even lawfully, into people’s property at unexpected times of day, backed up by a bunch of hairy-arsed bobbies — it was one of the last perks of being a cop these days. Not many things could touch the buzz of seeing a door leaving its hinges in the middle of the night.
The modern DI was expected to be distanced from such front-line activity, to deploy, delegate and plan. But fortunately in the early hours of that particular Tuesday morning there weren’t enough other officers on duty for Jane Roscoe to do that sort of management crap. They were badly understaffed and it would have been criminal for her not to make up the numbers. Nor, she thought selfishly, would it do any harm for her credibility rating in the eyes of her subordinates. This was how she justified leading an arrest squad to hit one of Joey Costain’s known addresses, while a detective sergeant led the other.
She changed out of the suit she had been wearing earlier, which had been damaged during the petrol bombings at Khan’s shop, into the scruffy black jeans and T-shirt she always kept in her locker (formerly Henry Christie’s) for such situations as this: when a skirt and blouse would be totally useless for climbing through half-beaten-down doors or smashed windows. It felt great to get out of the clothes she had been wearing for almost eighteen hours since the previous morning.
Mark Evans, the detective sergeant leading the second team, accompanied her as she strode confidently to the ground-floor parade room where officers had gathered for the briefing. She could sense there was something on his mind and had a good idea what it was.
‘Spit it out, Mark,’ she ordered him.
‘The lads are on pins. They feel they should be getting into that petrol bomber, the one who did Dave. They’re not bothered about Joey Costain at the moment. After all, all he did was whack a Paki.’