He ducked under the already descending door, and walked through the dimly lit garage to the rear entrance of the police station. As he entered, the custody office was to his left. He glanced quickly through the bars and, with relief, saw that the place looked reasonably quiet. A major part of the job of the reactive inspector was responsibility under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act for what went on in the custody office. It was a duty he had never performed before, having been promoted directly into the DI’s job from detective sergeant. He knew that he would have to swim rather than sink and by the end of this first night, he intended to be doing the butterfly. The custody office had to be got right straight away if he was to survive with any degree of credibility in his new role.
Shaking his head at the prospect, he walked to the lift and took it up to the level where the CID office was situated. He needed to get a few things from his locker before taking over.
Henry slid his key into the padlock and twisted. The lock did not snap open. He tried again. Nothing. He peered at the key, wondering if he was using the correct one. Yes — the only one of its type on the fob. He put it back into the lock. Again it failed to open. Only at that moment did he notice that his name was not on the locker as it always had been. It had been scrubbed and replaced by the name of the new DI who had superseded him. The next thing he saw was the bulging black bin liner on the floor next to the locker with his name on a tag. He bent down and opened the bag, an acerbic expression on his face. All his gear had been taken out of the locker and dropped into the bag. Now, like a cuckoo, the new incumbent ruled the roost.
The message could not have been more obvious: Henry Christie’s days as a detective were over.
The illusion that the day-shift inspector, who had been on duty for twelve hours, would be pleased to see him was shattered as soon as Henry walked through the door of the inspectors’ office.
Burt Norman gave him one nasty glance, looked pointedly at the clock on the wall, then returned to the report he was reading on the desk in front of him, giving Henry a view of the top of his balding head. Before Henry could say anything, Norman muttered gruffly, ‘What fucking time do you call this? We don’t keep CID hours down here, y’know; we arrive early so everything can be passed over properly and give the one who’s finishing — me, on this occasion — the chance of an early dart.’
Norman turned a page of the report, still not having looked up, though, plainly, he was not really reading it.
Henry sensed there was more to come. He leaned against the door jamb, his lips twisted cynically, and waited for the bollocking to continue. He was not wrong.
‘That happens day in, day out, without fail, whether you want to be here or not. Unwritten rule. Get my drift?’ Norman sniffed superciliously and raised his eyes, inviting Henry to challenge him.
The ex-DI shrugged. ‘Sure.’
Norman was long in the tooth, bitter, twisted, an acknowledged dinosaur. He had never been able to pass a promotion board to chief inspector, having had six unsuccessful attempts in consecutive years which nearly destroyed him and his marriage. But he was an extremely efficient reactive inspector, dealing well with the nuts and bolts of day-to-day policing. He ran a tight custody office and knew his job in terms of the ‘here and now’ intimately. These days, though, that was not enough when so much was expected of someone who earned over thirty-five grand a year. The force wanted strategic thinkers and leaders who could do so much more than be ‘gung-ho’ with the troops. Norman, who did lead from the front, was extremely popular with the officers under him, but that was not what was wanted by the service. So he had been sidelined.
‘Good.’ Burt Norman gave a curt nod, closed the file with deliberation and tossed it into a tray. ‘Anyway, having said all that, good to have you with us, Henry. Just a pity you’re here because you’ve been shafted by the powers that be. . bunch o’ twats. . I know what it’s like. Still, never mind, it’s a good job and at the end of a shift you go home knowing — ’ and here Norman counted using his fingers — ‘one: you’ve earned your crust and two: you can put the job out of your mind until you’re next on duty. In other words, you can forget this shit-hole. . now then, what do I need to hand over to you?’
There was not much. Four prisoners were currently in custody, but Norman had taken care of their reviews, which Henry was thankful for. It gave him some time to play with at the start of the shift to get his feet under the table. As Norman pulled on his leather biking jacket to leave, he said, ‘Obviously there is the conference going on, as you know — but steer clear of it. Not your job to get involved in any aspect of it.’
Henry nodded. It was his responsibility to police the streets of Blackpool. There were enough cops drafted into the town from all over the county specifically for the conference.
Norman scooped up his helmet and gave a quick wave.
‘Bye,’ said Henry, slowly taking off his coat, hanging it behind the door and looking dejectedly round the office. He sighed deeply.
‘Oh — I knew there was something.’ Norman stuck his head back round the door. ‘Forgot to mention it. There’s an ID parade being held at 7.30. You’re running it. Some Asian done over good style by one of the scummy Costains last night. Still alive, but well whacked. Could pop his clogs, I believe. One of the Khan family, I think. Anyway, the suspect is coming back in on part four bail tonight. There’s one witness I think. . see ya.’ He disappeared like a shot, clearly and absolutely aware of what he had just dropped on Henry’s toes on his first tour of duty as a uniformed inspector.
A certain queasiness overcame him. He sat down slowly at the desk, cursing. An ID parade was the bane of a uniformed inspector’s life. Difficult to manage and co-ordinate; so much could go wrong and often so much depended on their success. They had never bothered Henry before because as a detective he just smugly handed them over to uniform and waited for the result. Now he was on the other side of the fence and the grass was not very green. He blew out his cheeks and wondered where the best place to hide would be.
Before Henry could slide under his desk, curl up into a foetal ball and start sucking on his thumb, his senses were invaded by a shrieking, piercing, screaming noise which erupted all round him, stunning him. For the briefest of moments he thought it was the onset of a major panic attack. Then realised the noise was external.
It was the personal attack alarm from the custody office.
Without further thought or hesitation, Henry hurled himself out of his chair, grabbed the personal radio on the desk and bolted through the door towards the origin of the sound, one floor below. Even as he ran he was grateful that his cop conditioning had kicked in so quickly. One of his recurrent fears over the last few days was that he might have lost his edge.
The prisoner had struck without warning, although the custody sergeant had been wary of the guy from the moment he had been presented to him by the arresting officer, PC Rod Phillips.
He had started off placid and compliant, happy to stand where he had been told, a stupid lop-sided grin on his chops, while the PC outlined the circumstances of the lock-up, which was for an assault: whacking a beer glass over somebody’s head and then gouging the broken end into the guy’s face. The heavily blood-stained prisoner intimated he understood the reason for his arrest, and offered his name — Kit Nevison — address and date of birth quite willingly. He seemed to be acting rationally, did not smell too strongly of booze, and kept that inane smile on his face. The custody sergeant did notice he had glassy eyes with dilated pupils and he wondered if the prisoner was on speed. When asked, Nevison emptied his pockets and dropped the contents onto the desk.
As the sergeant listed the property on the custody record, a female duty solicitor was shown into the office. The sergeant glanced past Nevison and smiled at her. ‘Come to see Grant?’ he asked, referring to another prisoner. The solicitor nodded. ‘Be right with you — soon as this chap’s been booked in.’ The solicitor moved to the back wall of the room and leaned patiently against it.