Is there just the two of them, Gill wondered. Or were they backed up by a bunch of big, hairy-arsed coppers looking for a rumble? It was a calculated gamble, but that was what Gill was about. He reckoned just the two, otherwise why hadn’t they kicked down the door? He picked up his bike helmet and pulled it on. He had one chance and one chance only. The cops continued to bang on the door. It was about time to answer it.
Fifteen
Henry Christie was not a political animal. He did not give two stuffs about councillors and politicians and their sad, power-hungry egos. This was probably why he had not progressed any further than the rank of inspector — as well as being unable to pass the promotion-assessment centres, which was in itself a bit of a stumbling block. He thought it was ludicrous that the police service kow-towed to politicians and found it a huge joke for the claim to be made that the police service was apolitical. Of course it was political.
The truth was that ever since the miners’ strike of 1984 and probably before that, the police had been used as blunt instruments by whatever party happened to be in power to do their dirty work. And to align policing divisions with local political boundaries seemed to Henry to be the ultimate act of self-sacrifice. He waited for the day when there would be an office in each police station for councillors to use.
But that was the way things had progressed and though he hated it with a vengeance, Henry accepted the harsh realities. The government set the policing agenda, chief constables were mere puppets with no real clout whatsoever, and police forces had to remain placid and compliant to keep Whitehall happy. If they were foolish enough to upset the home secretary they went right to the bottom of the queue when the yearly budget begging bowl was rattled under his nose.
So he hated all politicians and resented their continual intrusion into everyone’s private lives as well as the constant nosying into operational policing. All he wanted to do was solve crime, put offenders before courts and hope they got their just desserts — then lock up some more. An old-fashioned concept, he knew, but it was why he joined the police in the first place but somewhere down the line the idea of catching criminals seemed to have been forgotten by high-ranking officers who simply wanted to further their careers by simpering up to politicians.
As in the case of FB.
Henry was extremely displeased to see Basil Kramer in the former officers’ mess where he had been told to report to FB at 5 p.m.
Kramer and FB were deep in conversation, FB nodding furiously, agreeing with everything, eager to please, feathering his nest. Henry hoped it contained vipers.
Also in the room were Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin. They were drinking coffee, idly chatting, both dressed in casual gear.
The Kramer-FB conflab broke up with a raucous laugh and a pat on the shoulder. They looked round guiltily as Henry came in.
‘Come on, take a pew.’ FB waggled his fingers, beckoning him like he was a servant. ‘Managed to get some sleep?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Henry stonily. He felt like a sloth. No energy. No commitment. Not happy. His eyes sported luggage like saddle bags. He flicked his thumb behind him. ‘I’ve brought Sergeant Byrne in. He’s night-patrol supervision. I thought he should be here.’ He was going to add, ‘Hope that’s OK,’ but refrained. He wanted to remain assertive.
‘Sure,’ FB said.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Basil Kramer said. ‘Nice to see you again.’ He nodded to Byrne. ‘Sarge.’
Henry and Byrne sat down.
FB glanced at Kramer, who took the lead and spoke. ‘Just to put you in the picture, Inspector, the PM is in town, staying at the Imperial Hotel tonight.’
Henry nodded, repressing the urge to say, ‘Woopee doo! Bully for him.’
‘And I think he would like to sleep soundly,’ Kramer added, smiling thinly.
‘Which is where you come in.’ FB emphasised the word ‘you’. ‘So what are your plans to keep the peace tonight?’
Twenty minutes later, Henry and Byrne were walking towards the parade room on the ground floor.
‘I think we got through that OK-ish,’ Byrne commented.
‘Surprisingly,’ Henry said. ‘The problem we now have is making our promises come true with the small number of staff we have available. Not easy, Dermot.’
‘We’ll have to be creative, won’t we?’
‘And pray we don’t have another riot to deal with. God give us rain — lots of it.’
Their radios blasted out. ‘Blackpool to DI Roscoe or DS Evans receiving — DI Roscoe or DS Evans.’
Both Henry and Byrne twisted the volume down on their sets.
Dermot Byrne paraded the twelve-hour night shift, due on just before 6 p.m. Henry stayed for the briefing which was short and precise. The team looked haggard from the previous night’s fun, but they seemed raring to go. A riot gave them something to do. Henry was surprised to see PC John Taylor in the line-up, he had expected him to be off sick. He looked as though he had not slept all day and had watery eyes and a sniffy nose. Henry admired him for coming in.
To keep Taylor out of mischief for a couple of hours, Byrne gave him the relatively painless task of visiting all the licensed premises in town known to attract gays. He was to speak to the licensees about suspicious parcels and stick up one or two warning posters which Henry and Byrne had quickly run off the computer before the parade.
After the briefing Henry walked back to the inspectors’ office. He needed to catch up with some paperwork, then find out how Dave Seymour was progressing and about the two murder inquiries. After that he intended to hit the bricks with Byrne. He was keenly anticipating the night ahead now that he was at work.
‘Blackpool to patrols,’ communications shouted over the radio again. ‘Does anyone know the present location of DI Roscoe or DS Evans?’
No one replied.
‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ Henry called up. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ the operator said hesitantly. ‘The DI should be at the mortuary for a post-mortem. The pathologist is waiting for her to turn up, but she hasn’t shown. He’s been on the phone.’
‘Roger.’
Odd, thought Henry. He turned into the inspectors’ office and bumped into Burt Norman who was on his way out, his motorcycle helmet in his hand.
‘Burt,’ Henry said pleasantly.
‘Bye,’ Norman said, brushing past and was gone. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, suddenly putting his head back round the door. ‘Tea fund — need to speak to you — tomorrow, maybe — bye.’ Then he was really gone.
Henry smiled to himself. He kitted himself up with all his equipment and picked up a set of car keys. He decided to visit a friend.
Henry had spent many a gruesome hour at the public mortuary, presiding over post-mortems carried out on murder victims. There had been times when the place had been like a second office to him, but instead of being surrounded by stationary and in-trays, he had been surrounded by hearts, livers, dissected brains, entrails and stiffs. He had become so immune to the process that these days he even failed to recoil at the smell of death, that peculiar, all-clinging odour which escapes from the dissected human body. But he could recognise it immediately.
Joey Costain’s cadaver was on a steel trolley. He was covered by a white plastic sheet. He had not been hoisted across to the slab because the formal identification still had to be carried out before the post-mortem began. It would not have been appropriate to wheel the family in to do the distressing task if he was already on the slab. It was bad enough as it was.
Dr Baines, the pathologist, was sitting chatting to Jan, the mortuary technician. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties, a prettiness totally at odds with her profession. Many police officers were driven wild by their morbid sexual fantasies about her. Obviously not Henry Christie. He was far too clean living and moralistic to harbour any such dreams. Besides which, she scared him slightly with the air of Morticia Addams she had about her.