The sergeant turned to PC Standring, the lucky officer who had been given the job of dealing with Nevison, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Depends on how quickly I can get the file done,’ he said truthfully.
The solicitor peered at him haughtily. ‘Today would be nice.’
‘We’ll do us best,’ the custody sergeant said, coming to the young PC’s rescue. ‘Don’t make no promises, though.’
‘Fine,’ the solicitor conceded, adding again, ‘But today would be nice.’
Standring nodded. A remand file was actually quite a straightforward piece of paperwork. He knew he could have it done within an hour if pressed.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He smiled at the solicitor, who frowned back.
‘Take Mr Nevison down to the cells,’ the sergeant said to Standring. ‘I’ll order lunch for him.’
‘I still want the doctor,’ Nevison demanded weakly. ‘I’ll cold turkey if I don’t get a fix soon.’
‘I’ll give him a ring,’ the custody sergeant promised, ‘but don’t get your hopes up. The days of prescribing methadone willy-nilly have long gone.’
Nevison gave the sergeant a dagger of a look. ‘Just remember what I did last night,’ he warned.
‘That was under the influence of drink and drugs,’ the sergeant pointed out, unruffled by the veiled threat. He’d seen much worse than Nevison in his time. ‘I’ll ring the doctor, see what he says.’ He flicked his thumb in the direction of the cell corridor. ‘Trap number four.’
The ringing seemed distant at first. It came nearer, became louder, encroaching on the pitch blackness in which Henry Christie had been sleeping since his head hit the pillow. His eyes opened grittily. He was deep in the warm bed, the quilt drawn over his head, sleeping in the recovery position with one knee brought up. He slurped back the dribble from his cheek.
The ringing continued. Not the phone. The door bell. He closed his eyes, ignoring it. It persisted. Constantly. Continually.
Angrily he threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. 12.05 p.m. A grand three hours and three minutes of sleep.
He swallowed, almost choked and grabbed his dressing gown which he wrapped tightly around him. Scratching, yawning, rubbing his face and hair, he walked slothfully down the back steps to the flat door at the rear of the premises. The veterinary surgery was closed. Fiona was out making home visits.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Roscoe said as soon as he opened the door and before he could say anything. He dropped his hands to his side in a gesture of submission and edged back a step. ‘Come in.’ Already he had realised it would have been too much to hope that after such an eventful night he would be allowed to get an uninterrupted run of sleep. Roscoe stepped past him and went ahead up the narrow steps. He followed and showed her into the spacious and high-ceilinged lounge and offered her coffee.
‘If it’s no trouble. I’ll try not to keep you long.’
‘Not a problem,’ he lied. ‘I’ll put some clothes on.’
‘Not on my account,’ Roscoe was tempted to say, but held back. She had decided this needed to be a pretty focused, professional meeting and flirting was not on the agenda.
Henry shuffled into the bedroom, dragged on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, slid his feet into his granddad slippers and trotted into the kitchen to brew up.
‘Thanks,’ Roscoe said, taking the coffee. She was standing by the large bay window which had a view over one of Blackpool’s quieter, mainly residential side streets. She dropped down into an armchair, holding the mug tightly as though desperate for warmth. She glanced around the room.
‘Nice pad,’ she commented.
‘Rent’s cheap and it’s better than nothing.’ He sounded sad. ‘Anyway, if you don’t mind me saying, you look dead beat.’ It was not said unkindly.
‘Shattered. Three hours sleep is no good for anyone.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I need to speak to you about Joey Costain.’
Henry gave a light shrug. ‘Fire away.’
‘I’m heading the investigation into his murder.’
The news jolted Henry like a whip-crack. ‘Oh,’ he said coldly, shocked, then tried to cover up the way he was feeling with a bright, ‘Good luck.’
Fleetingly she was tempted to soften the blow to his fragile pride by going belly up, telling him how exposed and vulnerable she felt at being given the job, and pleading for any help and direction he could offer. No bloody chance. ‘With you having been first at the scene and knowing the background about the Costains and the Khans, it seemed appropriate for me to have a chat with you.’
‘Me? A mere uniformed inspector,’ he said bitterly. ‘How touching.’
‘Henry, you and I both know you shouldn’t be a uniformed inspector. You are a detective and this is merely a blip. You’ll soon be back in civvies because they can’t afford for you to be otherwise. Being a detective is what you’re good at — one of the best, according to Karl Donaldson.’
Henry guffawed. ‘What’s he been saying? I wouldn’t believe a word of it.’
‘To say he sang your praises is an understatement.’ Roscoe saw Henry actually blush. She wondered how far to take all this buttering up, but it was evident he needed it. He was in the pits professionally speaking and, looking round this flat, probably personally as well. Yet she did not want to go over the top and allow it to become patronising. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll make an admission, OK? I’m out of my depth here. I need someone to help me out, a mentor, whatever.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Henry maintained with frost, ‘it doesn’t make me feel better, so why don’t you just open your Murder Investigation Manual? That should tell you all you need to know.’
‘Whoa, hold on there, Henry. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Just because you’ve had a bad time of things, are you going to withdraw into your shell and waste all that knowledge and experience you have?’ Roscoe was getting impatient. ‘I’ve come here to ask for your help. OK, I didn’t want it to seem like I needed it, but I do and that’s a hard thing for me to say to you, Mr Perfect, the CID god who all the stupid, macho male detectives look up to like some sort of role model. Well, you might be a good detective, but that doesn’t stop you being an arsehole in the bargain.’ She banged her cup down on the coffee table, angered by the turn of the conversation. He had touched a raw nerve. ‘If you don’t want to help me, fine, I’ll handle it. Wallow in your self-pity. The only person who is going to suffer is you.’ On the last word she pointed accusingly at him.
‘I feel very resentful about the way in which I’ve been treated.’ His voice was like that of a spoiled child.
‘And I don’t blame you, but don’t blame me, either. We’re both in a situation neither of us made. Blame that ultra-tosser Fanshaw-Bayley — then show the bastard he’s made a great mistake. Being awkward will just confirm to him he did the right thing — don’t you see?’
‘Yeah, sure. Easier said than done.’ He stood up and stormed across to the bay window where he sulked. Roscoe sat back and exhaled with frustration. She gave him a few seconds.
‘Can we start again, Henry. Pretty please? I’ve got a job to do and I want you to help me. I’ve had a bad start to the day, including a barney with my bloke, so stop being a prima donna and start being the professional cop you’re supposed to be? Eh?’
Henry groaned in embarrassment. This was not his style and Roscoe was perfectly right. It had all just welled up in him when she had told him she was heading the Joey Costain job. ‘I’m being a prick, aren’t I?’ He came back to the settee and slumped down next to her.
‘A fully erect one.’ She smiled.
By the time the police surgeon got to him, Kit Nevison was in a mess. He was sweating profusely, shivering and shaking, pulling at his clothes and had started seeing serpents coming out of the cell walls, spitting fire and venom at him. He was pleading like a beggar for help. It was an easy option the surgeon should not really have taken, but the look in Nevison’s eyes said, ‘Danger,’ so she prescribed methadone, the heroin substitute in a linctus form, which PC Standring obtained from a local chemist.