Henry stood up, looking around, and worked out how the car had arrived at its current location, amazed that, following such a crash, the driver had managed to crawl out and leg it.
‘Where the …?’ he started to say.
‘What, boss?’ the constable said, then took a look. ‘Christ, he’s got out!’
‘He’s gone down there,’ came a voice, which made both officers look up to a bedroom window of a roadside terraced house. It was a middle-aged woman, clutching a dressing gown around her bosom, leaning out and pointing. ‘Canal,’ she added helpfully.
Henry gave her the thumbs-up. ‘I’ll have a quick look-see and if I don’t spot him, we’ll get a dog handler down here. You look after the scene.’ Without waiting for a response, the charged-up Henry Christie trotted to the canal bridge, then cut down a steep set of steps which led on to the canal towpath. It was the Leeds-Liverpool canal, meandering through the once heavily industrialized towns of East Lancashire. As he reached the towpath, he seemed to immediately enter a more serene world, even though he was only a matter of metres away from a main road and maybe a couple of hundred from the M65 motorway.
In the fast clearing dawn light, and even the misty rain, the canal looked wonderful, very peaceful. Two moorhens squawked off as his heavy boots landed, flapping away and launching themselves into the reeds on the opposite bank.
He stopped, listened to the silence, the sound of traffic merely a vague drone.
To his right was the canal bridge, over which the main road ran, and to his left the canal threaded its way towards Accrington. He walked in this direction for a few metres.
There was no sign of anyone.
He tutted as he realized this was definitely a job for a dog. If he started to search by himself, he would either cock things up for the dog or just waste his time. With reluctance he decided to take a step back and let the experts get on with their jobs when they arrived. And anyway, the search would need armed backup if the suspect was indeed one of the terrorists.
He took one last look and his eyes caught something in the darkness under the arch of the bridge. A shape on the floor in the shadow. The hairs on his neck prickled. He did not move, but allowed his eyes to adjust properly.
It was the shape of a body. Someone trying to hide?
His steps were slow and quiet until he was sure what he was seeing, then he did not hesitate, but ran and crouched down beside the body of a male lying face down, spread-eagled, in a dirty puddle of blood and rainwater.
Five
9 a.m.: Henry Christie, feeling grimy and dishevelled, still dressed in the overalls and boots he had worn all night, sat glumly on a chair in the office occupied by the chief constable’s staff officer and other associated staff. He was leaning forwards, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the floor, trying to keep his grit-filled eyes open. He stifled a big yawn, which took some doing and almost broke his jaw, sat up and rubbed his weary face, taking in a deep, slow breath. His eyes flickered around the room. All the desks were occupied: two secretaries, the deputy chief constable’s staff officer and Chief Inspector Laker, the chief’s bag-carrier, last seen by Henry several months before when Henry had been demanding to have an audience with FB. He was pretty sure Laker had not forgiven him for that day, but to be honest, he didn’t give a monkey’s something.
He swallowed. God, his throat was dry. He smiled in the direction of the chief’s secretary, a young lady by the name of Erica, in an effort to catch her eye. She was engrossed in word processing. Henry coughed. ‘Excuse me, any chance of a cup of coffee?’ As there was a kettle, milk and a jar of instant coffee on a table behind her, Henry assumed there was every chance.
‘Yes, certainly.’ She saved her work, smiled at him in a sad way, and spun around in her chair.
Henry noticed Laker looking at him, a scowl of disapproval on his mush. He said, ‘Been up all night — operational stuff, y’know?’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said the bagman.
Henry stiffened. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Laker refocused on his computer. A surge of trepidation rushed through Henry.
The kettle boiled.
‘Here we go.’ Erica handed him a cup of coffee, the colour of which reminded Henry of the tidal water in the Wyre Estuary, a sort of murky red-brown.
‘Thanks.’ He sipped it. Laker’s little off-the-cuff remark had just knocked him off kilter for some reason. He had been summoned to the chief’s office following the less than smooth raid in Accrington, he assumed for a pat on the back, but Laker’s jibe had made him think differently — or was Laker just being a bastard, wanting to wind Henry up? If that was the case, it had worked.
The coffee tasted as bad as it looked and Henry winced, but managed to transform it into a smile for Erica.
Yes, Laker’s remark made Henry wonder, but not for very long because the chief constable’s door opened and FB beckoned Henry in.
There was a polished oak conference table in the centre of the chief’s office and every seat round it, bar one, was taken. The table itself was an untidy mess of paper cups, mineral-water bottles, catering flasks of coffee and tea and lots of documents.
There was silence as Henry was ushered by FB to the vacant space at the far end of the table. He sat, uncomfortably aware of the looks, and nodded to the assembled dignitaries, several of whom he knew; others he didn’t and had never seen before. He wasn’t over the moon to see Dave Anger’s cruel face amongst them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ FB said with the same breath he exhaled as he settled his rump back into his chair, ‘may I introduce Chief Inspector Henry Christie …’ Henry did note that FB hadn’t used the term ‘detective’ on the front of the introduction. ‘And just for his benefit, could we go round the table as a matter of courtesy? I’m Bob Fanshaw-Bayley, chief constable of Lancashire Constabulary,’ he announced, then looked to his right.
‘Dave Anger, FMIT commander … I think you know me.’ He gave Henry a slitty sideways look.
Next along said, ‘Percy Greek, detective superintendent, Lancashire Special Branch.’ He gave Henry much the same sort of look as Anger had.
‘Mary Dearden, Security Services.’
‘John Threlfall, Security Services.’
Henry had spotted those two skulking around at the briefing and had rightly tagged them instantly as spooks. They were both young, mid-twenties, and looked wet behind the ears, as though they’d come straight out of Oxbridge and gone into MI5 or 6 to protect the country without having even seen the place.
Next along was Detective Superintendent Jerry Carruthers from the Metropolitan Anti-Terrorist Branch. Henry knew him by sight, having seen him on TV following the 7/7 atrocities in the capital, but had never met him. Carruthers had also been at the briefing.
‘I’m Angela Cranlow, deputy chief constable, Lancashire,’ the next person said. She was fairly recently appointed and as Henry had previously noted — when FB had been pushing him out into the corridor following his unannounced gatecrash a few months earlier — she did not look anything like the stereotypical high ranking woman cop. In her mid-forties, with soft features, quiet voice, but with an air of cool authority and, Henry guessed, a trim figure under that unflattering uniform. Based on what he had heard, he had nothing but respect for her. She had done her time on the streets, been a detective at several levels, seen some tough times and was nobody’s fool.
‘Martin Beckham, Home Office,’ said the last person, a bespectacled, middle-aged man in a nice suit who looked like he might have walked to work over Westminster Bridge every morning at eight, then back home for seven in some leafy south London suburb. He nodded at Henry.
Without a doubt, Henry knew that these were probably some of the main players in the planning and execution of Operation Enid. They all looked weary, as though they’d been up all night.