Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Before he could answer, she was called up on her radio, which was in her shoulder bag.

‘Receiving,’ she said.

‘Just for your information — suspect arrested.’

Jane glanced at Henry. ‘Any further details?’

‘Not yet, except he is en route to PRI, apparently having been “dogged”.’

‘Is he being escorted by armed units?

‘Affirmative.’

‘Received, thanks.’ To Henry, she said, ‘He’s coming here.’

‘I’ll bet the bastard gets treated before I do,’ he moaned miserably.

Henry checked his watch. It was almost 9 a.m. He was surprised it was not later. He felt as though he had been up for a day at least, not just a matter of hours. He and Jane Roscoe were standing outside the casualty department with plastic cups of tea in their hands, getting some warmth out of the sun which was still rising slowly in an ice-blue sky. Sitting in the waiting room had become stifling, particularly as it got busier and busier with more sick and lame people hanging about looking sorry for themselves. Henry had suggested they stand outside and Jane, now a little recovered from her energy-sap, agreed quickly.

They leaned on each other as they walked out of the door, but separated once outside by the ambulance bay.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you have any idea what the hell is going on up at the Wickson’s?’ Henry probed. He watched her face, sure he would be able to tell if she lied. She looked away before answering and he knew he’d got her. She was about to fib.

‘No idea, but as you said, somebody’s obviously got it in for them, though.’

Henry accepted the untruth. He could tell she knew more than she was letting on, but in some respects he did not blame her for not telling him. After all, he wasn’t a cop any more. Not at the moment, anyway.

‘That’s an understatement. They must have some very nasty enemies.’

‘Mm,’ she agreed and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Very nasty.’

Henry chuckled, realizing he would get no further with her. ‘The guy they’re bringing in here is a very dangerous individual. A bit mad, I’d say, but very dangerous. Now why would someone as dangerous as him, whoever he is, be connected to John Lloyd Wickson, local multi-millionaire and celeb?’ It wasn’t a question he expected to be answered. The expression on Jane’s face told him he was right.

‘What exactly went on up the hill and in the car?’ she asked.

Henry’s side twinged. He winced, gasped and then creased over as pain shot through him.

‘Henry. .?’

‘I’m OK.’ His voice was a croaky whisper.

‘Maybe we should sit back down?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

Before they could move, a police convoy drove into the hospital grounds, one armed-response unit on either end of an ambulance. The ambulance cut dramatically into the bay outside Casualty whilst the two police units stopped and disgorged their armed occupants, MP5s draped across their chests, ready for deployment.

Henry and Jane stepped out of the way, but remained in a position from which they could see into the ambulance when the doors opened.

Inside, it was pretty busy. Two armed cops, one paramedic and the casualty on a stretcher.

The hospital had been informed of the arrival previously and a small team of nurses, a doctor and a porter turned out to the back of the ambulance.

‘I didn’t get that treatment,’ Henry said. Jane smiled.

The casualty was handcuffed and strapped on to the stretcher. He was expertly removed from the back of the ambulance and slid on to the wheeled gurney brought by the porter. The paramedic was explaining to the doctor what had happened. Henry caught a few words, ‘Car accident. . been unconscious. . some sort of leg injury. . bitten by a police dog,’ as the stretcher was wheeled swiftly past.

The man on the stretcher did not look particularly unwell, but Henry knew why he had been brought to hospital rather than taken straight into a custody office. His injuries would have meant that he would have had to come to hospital at some stage, so by bringing him in first and getting him sorted meant that his medical condition would be gotten out of the way and the custody sergeant would be booking someone in who would be fit to detain. It was always a royal pain in the bum taking prisoners back and forth to hospital. Best to get it done and dusted before they actually came in if at all possible.

Henry glanced briefly at a fancy Lexus with smoked-glass windows being driven on to the hospital car park, then followed the procession back into the hospital. He needed to sit down.

Jane said, ‘I’ll go and sort this out.’ She hurried ahead, leaving him to hobble along unassisted. When she got a few yards ahead of him, she stopped and turned back. ‘Henry. . I just want you to know it’s great to see you again, even if you did bin me. . and though I was really worried about you in the car and all, I really am over you. Honest.’ She came back and patted his shoulder patronizingly, then legged it.

Henry shuffled on. The painkillers were wearing off already.

He had gone only a matter of feet further when he heard a voice calling him that made his blood freeze.

‘Henry Christie,’ it boomed.

Henry felt the colour drain from his face.

‘Henry! Come here, you shit.’

Slowly, he eased himself round.

It was the new Chief Constable of Lancashire Constabulary calling him. His name was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, often referred to as ‘FB’ by those who loved and loathed him.

‘Fuckin’ bastard,’ Henry breathed.

The hospital staff wheeled the injured prisoner into an emergency treatment room, well away from any public view. It was tight in there with two armed cops, two nurses, a doctor and the patient himself, all crammed in behind the drawn curtains of the ETR.

The doctor was making an initial assessment.

‘These’ll have to come off,’ said the harassed and overworked young man, indicating the rigid handcuffs. ‘I can’t treat anyone who is shackled.’ He shone a torch into Verner’s left eye. Neither of the cops made a move. The doctor’s head swivelled and his tired eyes locked on one of the officers. ‘These handcuffs come off.’ There was no room for argument in his voice.

Henry found a chair in one corner of the waiting room from which he could view the comings and goings. Within minutes of the prisoner arriving the place was swarming with cops. At the head of all this activity and loving every moment of it was the strutting figure of Fanshaw-Bayley.

Henry knew FB well. Over the years Henry had worked for him in a number of different roles as FB had risen through the ranks of the Constabulary as a detective. He had last been in the force as an ACC in charge of Operations but had left to take up a job in Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabulary. Since Henry had been on suspension, FB had applied for and been successfully selected as the new Chief Constable when the old one moved down to the Metropolitan Police as a Commissioner.

And now he was back.

Henry’s nemesis.

His experience of FB had, more often than not, been negative, although Henry secretly believed that FB quite liked him. A bit. It was just that FB tended to use Henry and his skills without consideration of the damage it might do to him. Henry had suffered under FB, but in some respects had also thrived.

When FB left the force for the HMIC, his leaving present to Henry had been to transfer him on to the SIO team. But it was whilst he was a member of that team that Henry had been suspended from duty.

The reappearance of FB on the scene did not make Henry feel any more confident about his future.

FB took no prisoners. He was ruthless and vicious.