On Henry’s final word, the sergeant screamed, ‘Kit!’ from behind.
Nevison’s head spun round and the sergeant aimed the CS canister at Nevison’s face, pressed his thumb down on the discharge button and the CS solution sprayed out full into the centre of Nevison’s face. Nevison screamed as the CS took instantaneous effect as he inhaled and the sensory receptors in his skin, eyes and lining membranes of his nose, mouth, upper respiratory and gastrointestinal tracks burned fiercely as if in contact with acid.
Henry moved in from the front, ducking to avoid any excess CS, and grabbed Nevison’s knife hand — the right — forcing it away from the woman. She staggered out of Nevison’s grasp and crashed down onto her knees on the hard, tiled floor. Henry stepped over her, taking hold of Nevison’s right forearm with both hands and driving all his body weight into the prisoner’s chest, bowling him over. He landed on top of Nevison, forcing his arm upwards, squeezing his wrist with all his strength in an effort to get him to release the knife, whacking the back of Nevison’s hand repeatedly against the floor.
All the while Nevison writhed in agony and anger. The pain of the CS had deranged him more rather than subduing him. With an animal-like roar and a surge of strength he heaved Henry off him — though Henry managed to keep hold of his knife hand, refusing to let that go. Even though Nevison could not possibly breathe or see properly, he punched and kicked Henry, who held on as grimly as a pit bull terrier.
There was a ‘crack’: the sound of a side-handled baton being extended, then a ‘swish’ like a whip as the sergeant smashed his baton down across Nevison’s head, narrowly missing Henry. There was no time for niceties, such as aiming for muscle, or the areas of the body less likely to suffer severe damage. He deliberately went for Nevison’s head because the man had to be stopped — and stopped good.
And stopped he was.
The blow had the desired effect: it knocked Nevison senseless. He went limp and ceased to struggle. The fingers of his knife hand curled open and Henry scooped it up and got to his feet. He caught his breath from the brief but intense exertion, standing doubled over, hands on hips. Raising his eyebrows, he looked up at the sergeant and gave a short nod. ‘Well done,’ he acknowledged. ‘Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. . Henry Christie.’ Henry reached across the prostrate body of Kit Nevison and shook hands with the sergeant.
‘Dermot Byrne,’ the sergeant introduced himself. ‘Me and my shift are on nights with you this week. Welcome back.’
‘Thanks,’ Henry said dubiously.
Simultaneously they looked down at the subdued prisoner. Blood pumped through a gaping split in his temple by the hair line. He moaned, his eyes flickered showing yellowy, bloodshot whites. He was alive, if not quite kicking.
‘Nice to be back,’ Henry mused dully. ‘Better get him trussed up and taken to casualty.’ He turned to the woman solicitor, now up on her knees, still groggy and disorientated by her ordeal. Henry assisted her. ‘You OK?’
Plainly she was not. ‘Thanks. . thanks. .’ she mumbled a little incoherently, holding her neck. Blood trickled from the cut.
‘We’ll get you to hospital too.’
‘Thanks. . thanks,’ she continued to say.
Henry checked his watch. 6.15 p.m. Only fifteen short minutes into the twelve-hour shift. He just hoped the rest of the night wasn’t going to be quite so fraught.
Two
Once the shakes had stopped and after his jangled nerves had settled, Henry made his way to the CID office. For many years it had been a sanctuary, his comfort zone. Now, as he passed through the door, in uniform, he felt strange and unsettled. Like an intruder.
The office, with one exception, was devoid of personnel. Desks were unmanned and had been left untidy: papers and files were stacked up or scattered about as though the ‘big one’ had come in and everyone, with that one exception, had rushed to it.
Maybe they had.
Henry cast his mind back to the detectives he had seen earlier tearing out of the garage.
The one detective remaining in the office had his back to the door and was hunched busily over something at his desk. Henry walked towards him and tapped him on the shoulder. Anyone else would perhaps have been startled, but not the slightly slow-witted Dave Seymour. He turned ponderously at the touch, giving Henry a view of what Seymour was working on. It was, unsurprisingly, a donner kebab, everything on — chilli sauce, lemon juice, salad — and lots falling off.
‘Fuckin’ hell, Henry,’ Seymour said, munching a mouthful of the dubious meat, chilli sauce trickling down his cheek. He finished the mouthful and wiped his lips clean, using a piece of the toilet roll on his desk. Seymour, a man of not inconsequential bulk, was one of the longest-serving detective constables in the division, now only three pay cheques away from retirement. It would probably be not one of the most significant losses to the service when he started to draw his pension, but despite his myriad faults — sloth, greed, envy, arrogance among them — Henry had a bit of a soft spot for Seymour, but rarely allowed it to show.
Seymour positioned the kebab carefully on his desk jotter and drew his head back slightly to allow his eyes to take in the sight of his ex-boss in uniform. Henry let him gawk. People were accustomed to seeing him in plain clothes. The spectacle of him in uniform was something they would need time to adjust to.
Seymour’s eyes narrowed. ‘Suits you,’ he said diplomatically.
‘Cheers.’
‘Actually, I tell a lie — you look bloody weird.’ Seymour shook his head. ‘Anyhow — at least you’re back at work, albeit. .’ He struggled to find the words to express his thoughts.
‘In uniform?’ Henry suggested.
‘Mmm,’ Seymour murmured doubtfully. He took a long swig from the can of cola on his desk.
‘Anyway,’ Henry said briskly, deciding to get into gear, ‘one of my first jobs is to run an ID parade. I wanted a bit of background. Burt Norman said something about the Khans and the Costains. Can you fill me in?’ Henry shrugged and opened his arms, inviting Seymour to speak.
‘Yeah. . the Khans and the Costains.’ He lifted one cheek of his backside off his chair, screwed his face painfully, and expelled a slow fart. ‘Been at each other’s throats all bloody weekend.’
There had been a series of skirmishes throughout the weekend between the two factions, Seymour explained to Henry. The culmination was a violent confrontation just after midnight on Sunday on a piece of waste ground near to a poorly run nightclub not far away from the main bus station in Blackpool centre.
More often than not such inter-gang conflicts do not involve the police. But things take on a very serious complexion when someone ends up in hospital with a fractured skull, broken cheekbones, a cracked jaw, a face mashed to a gory unrecognisable mush, broken arms, broken ribs, a collapsed lung and testicles the colour, size and consistency of peeled plum tomatoes, being kept barely alive by a machine and with brain scans that did not bode well. In cases like that, the law cannot help but become involved. At the very least it was attempted murder.
That was the basic scenario as sketched out by Seymour.
‘Who’s in hospital?’
‘Mo Khan.’
Henry raised his eyebrows and gave a short whistle. Khan was the head of a tightly knit Asian family and had a range of businesses operating in Lancashire, such as grocery shops, newsagents and taxi firms. Henry knew Khan well. He was a dangerous, violent individual who had a nefarious underbelly to his legitimacy: drugs, prostitution and importing illegal aliens from the Indian subcontinent, the latter line having become the most profitable of them all.