‘Ahh, judgement. . that old chestnut.’
‘You were suspended for it, then you foolishly got involved in something that ended up with people dying. You should’ve left well alone, but your judgement let you down again, didn’t it?’
Henry suddenly felt exhausted. He scratched his neck and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you need to ask the chief about my involvement with that particular job. . he might have another tack on it.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Anger said cynically. ‘You’re up his arse, I know. . but don’t use him as your defence, Henry, it’s not a pretty thing to do. Actually, by getting you off this team, I’ll be doing him a favour, protecting him from some other almighty cock-up with your name on it.’
Fuck you, Henry said — but only to himself.
‘Anyway, in the meantime I’ll do my best to get you something not too taxing,’ Anger promised patronizingly. ‘That’s if you get out of this department now. Something you can idle your time away with until retirement. . how long have you left? Three years? How about some nice office job at HQ where you can get a shiny arse, go for fish and chips in the canteen every Friday, work nine to five, ESSO, y’know? Every Saturday and Sunday off. How does that sound?’
Henry rose slowly to his feet. He knew that bright redness had crept up from below his collar. He stepped across to Anger, who, he saw, cowered slightly.
‘Sounds shit, actually.’
It’s funny, Henry thought, how different people can have two completely different perspectives. I thought I was completely right for this job, yet my boss thinks I’m a liability. How does that get reconciled?
He slumped back at his desk and stared glumly out of the office window, through the trees towards the tennis courts.
Anger had got it in for him and there seemed no way in which Henry could change this attitude. He shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another coffee which he sipped thoughtfully, wondering how to play the situation.
The only thing he could think was to keep his head down, work hard and get results.
‘So, therefore, Detective Superintendent Anger,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘you’ll have to prise me out of here with a lever if you want to get rid of me.’ And with that he raised his mug and toasted his boss.
Whitlock was handed a cooked breakfast on a plastic plate with plastic cutlery and a plastic beaker containing hot, strong tea. The cell door remained open as the officer on suicide watch sat down on a chair in the corridor, keeping an eye on the prisoner he’d had to restrain from banging his head on the wall.
Whitlock sat on the bed, looked at his food. He was not hungry, had no desire to touch the breakfast, which was starting to gel obscenely as it cooled. It made him want to retch. He removed the plate from his lap and placed it on the cell floor, holding his tea in both hands, warming himself against the imaginary cold.
He began to shiver.
‘Thanks, Kate. I feel much better now.’ Karl Donaldson kissed her briefly on each cheek.
‘You’re not a good drunk.’
‘Not used to it.’
They gave each other a friendly hug. Donaldson picked up his belongings and turned to leave the Christie household, feeling much better after a few slices of warm toast, a cup of black coffee and, of course, two paracetamol tablets.
‘I need to get going.’
‘Take care and give my love to Karen.’
‘I will.’
Five minutes later the FBI legal attache was on the M55 motorway, heading east away from Blackpool.
‘I need a shower, I need a shave, I need a shit in private and I need a solicitor,’ Whitlock told the constable in the cell corridor.
‘The first two I can sort. You can shit on the bog in the cell. I won’t close the cell door, but I promise I won’t peek. And I can sort out a brief, no probs.’
The cell complex at Rochdale police station was teeming, prisoners being led into and out of doors, corridors, interview rooms and, of course, cells. Whitlock was guided down towards the washing area, where he stripped off his paper suit and stepped into the curtainless shower cubicle. The water was hot and he stood soaping and shampooing himself for about five minutes, emerging clean and scrubbed. He was handed a clean, but grubby-looking towel to dry himself.
He jiggled back into the creased paper suit and tied it at his waist, his heavy gut hanging over the knot.
‘Shave,’ he said.
The bobby pointed to a washbasin on which stood a squeeze tube of shaving foam, soap and a disposable safety razor.
‘Thanks.’
He took his time over shaving his face, hesitating each time he looked at himself in the polished metal mirror attached to the wall with hidden screws. Finally he finished, wiped and dried his face, stood upright and eased the top half of the paper suit over his flabby shoulders. Turning to face the constable, he announced he had finished his ablutions.
Actually, he did not think he would get away with it.
But he did, assisted by the bored and distracted constable.
As he walked back to his cell, Whitlock had a small smile of triumph on his face.
* * *
Henry had the telephone to his ear. ‘He won’t stay out of sight for very long,’ he was saying. ‘People like him don’t. . yeah, yeah. . we do need to get him, though. . I was thinking I’d come across, maybe this afternoon, and put some pressure on the relatives. I mean, after all, it’s one of them that’s dead. . yep. .’ Henry became aware of someone standing behind him. He glanced, saw it was Dave Anger holding a piece of paper, flapping it. ‘OK. . probably see you later, Rik, bye.’ He hung up, swivelled round to his boss.
‘Here.’ Anger handed him the paper. ‘Body turned up in the east of the county. . bit of a boundary dispute with it. Could be ours, could be GMP’s. Go and have a look. . and Henry,’ he concluded warningly, ‘do your best to make sure it’s on them.’
Whitlock was informed that the duty solicitor would be with him in about an hour and that detectives would be interviewing him within a couple.
‘I’d like to phone my wife.’
The constable nodded. ‘Sure.’ He unlocked a cupboard in the cell corridor and took out a telephone which he plugged into a socket on the wall. He held out the phone to the prisoner. ‘Nine for a line.’
‘Thanks.’ Whitlock dialled. ‘Glenda? Honey? It’s me. . I know, I know. . I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know sooner. . but I’m in big trouble. . locked up. . yeah, c’mon, love, it’s OK. . eh? Rochdale. Hm? What have I done? Got involved in something very, very stupid. . you seen the news? I’ll bet it’s all over the news. . bodies, yeah, twenty bodies. . me. . yeah, Jesus!’ Whitlock had to hold the phone away from his ear as, after he had explained his predicament, his wife screamed and wailed. ‘Look, calm down. . no, I don’t want you to come here. . just sit tight, wait. . and whatever happens, remember I love you. . bye,’ he finished weakly and hung up.
‘OK?’ the constable asked.
Whitlock nodded. His eyes were moist, he was close to tears. The PC led him back to his cell and he lay down miserably on the bed, staring up at the graffiti-ridden ceiling, calculating how he was going to make best use of the item he had managed to secrete in his sleeve. He needed the right time and the right place for the best effect.
Henry pointed the remote at the car door, looked over his shoulder and saw the all too familiar figure of Jane Roscoe hurrying towards him. He groaned, his shoulders drooping. What did she want?
Roscoe was the detective inspector tasked with investigating the incident in which Henry had become embroiled which had led to the death of Tara Wickson’s husband and others. Henry had spent many hours being skilfully interviewed by her and he knew she was not convinced by his recollection of events and was determined to get to the truth. Unfortunately for Henry, part of the truth was that he had gone to the wire for Tara by covering up for her and now he was beginning to regret his rather hasty, if knightly, decision. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but maybe his judgement was suspect — again. He knew that if the cops got to the real truth, and could prove it, he could easily be prosecuted for perverting the course of justice. And that could mean up to seven years behind bars.