‘Not so bad, really. Lot of dealing with bullshit politicians; the people from the Home Office are a particular set of twats, and I seem to be sitting on a hundred national working groups, never seem to get enough time in force, but I’m going to change that. I’m going to pull out of some of the groups, particularly those dealing with sexism and racism, because they bore the crap out of me. Equality this, equality that — fuck!’
Henry chuckled. He knew FB was a racist and a sexist deep down, but had the wonderful ability to disguise both traits when necessary, though he had recently been taken to an employment tribunal from a sexism case going back over seven years. He had emerged unscathed, poohing of roses.
‘Do you really miss being a hands-on jack?’
‘Sometimes, but I do get the odd occasion when I can get a grip again, such as this investigation, so I haven’t lost it completely.’
Settling back into the front seats of Henry’s Mondeo, they set off, driving out under the raised barrier of the police-station car park. Both men glanced up at the building.
‘Shenanigans,’ Henry said.
FB nodded. ‘Shenanigans.’
Sixteen
The estate had one of the worst reputations for violence and intimidation in the country. Situated less than two miles from Manchester city centre, it was a warren of alleyways, a 1970s dream become a nightmare as employment plummeted, minority ethnic populations increased and the trade in drugs went right off the Richter scale — and the cops lost control.
‘Shit,’ FB said nervously, his wary eyes taking it all in: the deprivation, the dilapidation, the suspicion and anger on the faces of everyone on the street. ‘You can cut the tension with a knife.’
Henry gripped the wheel tighter, the palms of his hands damp. He felt very vulnerable. The car might as well have had a big pointy finger hovering over it accompanied by the word ‘Cops’ in bright lights. He had heard horrific stories about this particular area, where, though it would be strenuously denied, the police often feared to tread unless en masse and tooled-up to the eyeballs.
‘Makes Shoreside look like Palm Beach,’ Henry observed, suddenly jamming his brakes on as a big, dreadlocked black guy walked purposely in front of the car — then stopped in his tracks. The bonnet was only inches from the man’s legs. He glared defiantly at the two officers, rolling the whites of his eyes dramatically, daring them to do something.
On the roadside, others began to gather. Lots of teenagers, mostly black, some white faces in amongst them. There was a combination of laughter, sneers and jeers.
‘You got a radio?’ FB said through the side of his mouth.
‘Uh-uh,’ Henry replied.
‘My arse is twitching, half-crown, thrupenny bit.’
Henry wound his window down, slowly poked his head out and spoke to the man obstructing the highway. ‘Can you tell me where Sumpter Close is, please?’ He tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice, tried to inflect a certain jollity into the tone. The black man shrugged. ‘Please,’ Henry added.
The man shook his head, dreadlocks swinging like a maypole.
Another moment of pure, unadulterated tension passed. Then, slowly, the man moved to one side.
Once, during the riots of the early 1980s. Henry had been on duty in Toxteth, Merseyside, part of a mutual-aid contingent from Lancashire supporting their colleagues in Liverpool. He and a small number of other officers had become detached from the main crew and found that their return to safety had been cut off by a gang of stone-throwing, brick-lobbing individuals. The officers had been trapped for about twenty minutes, only a short time in the history of the world, but it had terrified Henry as petrol bombs, bricks and everything else rained down. Another few minutes and they would have succumbed. Henry often shivered at the thought of what might have happened. They were saved by the appearance of another police unit which scattered the rioters. He knew what it was like to be caught by people who wanted to see you dead and he could easily have seen it happening here on the streets of twenty-first-century Manchester. He would have been quite prepared to take drastic action if necessary, but it did not come to that. Not tonight. Maybe the populace was feeling relatively chilled that evening.
Henry drove smartly past with a smile and a wave of thanks.
The man grinned pleasantly.
‘I take it back,’ FB breathed. ‘I’d rather be on a national working group supporting the rights of gays.’
Henry, too, puffed out a breath, his heart hammering.
‘Is this a good idea?’
Henry did not reply. He drove on and eventually found the close he was looking for, fortunately stuck right on the outer perimeter of the estate, away from the core. He pulled up outside the address, looked round carefully. The close was fairly quiet, seemed safe enough.
‘It’s up on that landing, I reckon.’ He peered up through the screen to a first-floor concrete run outside a row of council flats. ‘You staying with the car?’
‘Up to you,’ FB pouted.
‘Might as well. . but then again, we’d be split up.’
FB shrugged. ‘We’re big boys.’
‘Five minutes ago we were vulnerable boys.’
‘True.’
‘But I would like to come back to four wheels and an engine.’
‘I’ll stay here and car watch, then.’
Henry got out and walked toward the stairwell leading up to the first floor. Typical steps. Blood. Vomit. Needles. He stepped over the obstacles and emerged on to the landing. Number twelve he wanted. The door numbers rose one at a time, starting at eight. He glanced over the balcony and could see FB in the Mondeo, seat reclined, fingers clasped across his chest like some sort of Buddha. Henry gave him a short wave of acknowledgement. Nothing came back from the chief.
He arrived at twelve, stopped outside the door and inspected it. It had been forced open fairly recently. Wood was splintered around the lock and the door itself was insecure. This made him pause before carefully toeing the door open with the tip of his shoe. It swung open easily, revealing a vestibule, the inner door of which was ajar. He stepped inside, elbowed the inner door open wider and looked into the living room. It was in darkness. He reached to his right and, using his fingernail, flicked on the light switch. Like the steps he had just climbed, the living room was stereotypical of hundreds of similar council flats he had entered over the years. Cheap, stick-like furniture, a second-hand settee, huge TV with video and DVD player — and that unmistakable council-flat aroma: a combination of mustiness, dope and the toilet.
‘Grace,’ he called softly. ‘Grace? Are you here?’ His voice rose a little. ‘Grace — it’s the police. I’ve come to talk to you about Keith.’
His voice projected into an empty space. He set foot into the living room proper, his experienced eyes taking in everything. He moved through into the kitchen and this is where he stopped abruptly when he flicked that light on.
The kitchen looked as though a snow plough had been through it, destroying everything in its path. A kitchen table had been broken into matchsticks, two chairs smashed beyond repair. The kettle lay on the floor surrounded by the smashed remains of cups, plates and other crockery. And on the linoleum floor was a browny-red swatch of congealed blood. It was splashed all over the lower cupboards, flicked everywhere under two or three feet. There had been a terrific fight here and someone had been badly assaulted. To Henry, veteran of many crime scenes, it looked as though someone had had their head kicked in.
He took it all in, his mind already hypothesizing what had happened.
Behind him he heard a click.
He spun, then froze.
‘Put your fucking hands up!’ the man with the gun said.
Henry’s arms rose slowly, because pointed directly at his chest was a handgun which he recognized as a Luger. It looked an old gun, probably sixty years old, but nevertheless he did as instructed. Old guns were just as capable of killing as new ones.