Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Henry watched him coming towards him. He did not stand up.

FB beckoned him out of his seat.

Despite himself, Henry stood up grudgingly and reopened the cut on his side again.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing. . I’m sure it’ll heal.’

‘Walk with me, Henry.’ FB twisted on his heels and headed towards the exit. Henry tried to keep pace, then thought better of it. It hurt too much.

‘You’d better walk at my speed. I’m crippled.’

Henry could have sworn he heard the new Chief Constable ‘tut’. Even so, he slowed down a gear.

‘I’m told you are suspended. I didn’t know,’ FB said. ‘The question to be asked, therefore, is — why are you involved at the Wicksons’?’

‘Just doing a favour for a friend.’

FB’s lips curled. ‘Keep away, Henry. If you know what’s good for you. I don’t want you being compromised. In your position it would look pretty bad. Know what I mean?’

Henry said nothing.

‘Just make your statement, keep out of Jane Roscoe’s knickers, and get yourself sorted — one way or the other.’

‘What’s going on up there?’

‘Fucked if I know and fucked if you’re going to get to know,’ FB stated categorically. ‘Now leave it be.’

Jane Roscoe had no choice but to comply with the doctor’s orders. The cuffs came off. She watched as one of the firearms officers released them, whilst another officer with his MP5 in the firing position, stood back and made sure that the prisoner did not do anything stupid.

Verner rubbed his wrists, then presented his left arm for the doctor to inspect. There were four puncture wounds in it. Very deep.

The doctor moved in as the firearms officer stepped back.

‘You say you blacked out after the accident?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You banged your head?’

‘No — a cop was smashing my head against the dashboard of the car — that’s where these injuries came from.’ He pointed to his face. ‘That’s why we had the accident. I think I cracked my head on the windscreen, too. I don’t remember much. Next thing I was being savaged by a police dog. I have a screaming headache. Feels very bad.’

‘I’ll have a nurse dress the bites. You’ll need a tetanus injection, then we’ll get you down to X-ray.’ The doctor spoke to Jane. ‘He’ll have to be here at least twenty-four hours for observation.’

She nodded. ‘And he’ll be under guard for every second of that time.’

‘Whatever,’ the doctor shrugged.

Jane looked at Verner. ‘What’s your name?’

He lay back and closed his eyes, making no response, but making it plainly obvious she would get nowhere with him.

‘Suit yourself.’

Verner opened one eye, surveyed her, then closed it.

‘Henry Christie!’

He looked up. Amazingly a nurse was calling his name. He managed to raise his hand and she led him to a treatment room, where she sat him down and left him. ‘Someone will be here to see you soon,’ she promised him with a smile and swished out of the cubicle.

Henry eased himself into the chair and settled himself down for what he imagined would be another protracted wait.

They took the prisoner down to X-ray in a wheelchair. He was making the most of it, playing very poorly and not responding to any questions from the cops. Jane let him go, accompanied by the two armed officers and his handcuffs now replaced.

‘Watch him,’ she hissed to one of the officers. He nodded.

Verner was wheeled into the waiting room of the X-ray department, where a nurse took his newly created record from one of the cops. She went into the little office and began tapping the sparse details into her computer.

‘I have the right to make a phone call,’ Verner said.

The officers did not respond, but stared impassively at him.

‘If you deny me my rights, I’ll sue you both, take you to court. I’ll name both of you in the petition.’

‘Do I look like a guy who gives a shit,’ one of the officers commented.

‘Look, I know I’ve been a bad boy, but I need to make a call, OK? To my solicitor. He needs to know I’m here. He’ll have me back on the streets in no time and you two will lose your jobs because you denied me my rights.’

The officers glanced at each other and shrugged. They were not for budging and neither was going to be drawn into any conversation with this man.

‘It’s not as though you have to release me from the cuffs,’ he said, getting to his feet. The officers backed off. Their hands touched their weapons. ‘Hey, I’m not about to do anything. I’m not stupid. Look, my mobile phone is still tucked down the back of my pants. You lot missed it when you searched me. You found the knife but not the phone.’

They remained wary.

‘Look, guys,’ Verner said reasonably, ‘I honestly won’t do anything stupid. If I turn round, one of you gets the phone from down the back. I’ll tell you the number I’m going to dial and you can listen to my end of the conversation. If you don’t like what you’re hearing, just grab the phone off me.’ He turned round. ‘Come on, guys, be reasonable.’ The officers, tense, did not move. Verner held up his cuffed wrists. ‘I can’t do anything, can I? These cuffs make sure of that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the officer who had spoken to him before.

Verner gripped the back of the wheelchair. ‘I’ll keep my hands here, out of your way, OK? The phone’s down the back of my pants. How you missed it when you searched me, I don’t know. You’ve got to take it off me sometime — why not now and why not let me make my phone call?’

They eyed each other uncertainly, then gave a slight nod. One slid his MP5 off and placed it by the door, well out of reach. The other had his weapon at the ready, aimed at the prisoner, covering his partner.

The phone was hooked down Verner’s combat trousers. It was easily missed, but should not have been, and the officer wasn’t too surprised when he found it. No doubt it would have been discovered once the guy had been taken to a police station, but the quick search in the open had failed to find it. The officer stepped back and had a quick look at the phone.

Verner turned round.

‘Anything other than a straightforward conversation, and I grab it off you — OK?’

‘Sure, anything.’

He handed the phone to Verner, who began thumbing the keypad.

‘This is the number I’m going to call,’ he said.

Henry was being treated at last: the knife slash down his ribcage, having been cleaned, was now being pulled together with strips of plaster. It was not a deep cut and did not require stitches. Henry was assured it would heal easily and scar less, which was nice to hear. His body was a mess of lines and impact marks anyway. He did not want to add another to his history of collateral damage.

‘Your man’s down in X-ray,’ Jane Roscoe said to him. She had appeared as the last piece of plaster was being applied to Henry’s abdomen.

‘I wish I’d smashed his head harder,’ Henry admitted wistfully. ‘Then maybe he’d be in a mortuary.’

‘Then you’d be in trouble, wouldn’t you?’ Jane yawned and stretched, fighting off the tiredness of the long night shift. ‘Once he’s been taken to a ward, I’m off.’ She rolled her neck. She only lived around the corner from the hospital, in Fulwood.

The nurse who had been treating Henry withdrew, her job finished.

‘Have you told hubby you’re busy?’ Henry teased.

‘Yes,’ she said stiffly. ‘Have you told wifey?’

Henry nodded.

A silence fell as they regarded each other, a deep longing there, a big sense of unfinished business.

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said.

‘Don’t be. We all have to make decisions. You decided to be with Kate. I had to stay with hubby, as you call him. . so, no, that’s actually wrong, I didn’t make a decision, Henry. You made it for me, didn’t you? Anyway,’ she tried to sound bright and upbeat, ‘it’s all history now. Onwards and upwards, eh?’ She was close to tears. ‘Trouble is, I still want to hold you. .’