Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘My request for a firearms operation was turned down.’

‘It says in the report that you never made the request.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘I’m just telling you what it says, what, in fact, a highly respected detective chief superintendent says.’

‘In that case I’m completely fucked, because I know you’ll believe him and not me. That’s how it works, isn’t it? The organization looks after its chiefs and the Indians can just go and screw themselves?’

‘The discipline hearing is in two weeks’ time.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You could be getting your P45.’

Henry said nothing for a few moments, then: ‘In that case I’m not interested in this Wickson business. I don’t feel inclined to do anything for the Constabulary.’ He sounded sad, broken. ‘Shit,’ he murmured, picked up a palm-sized pebble and lobbed it across the beach. A tear formed on his lower eyelid.

‘I can understand that, except for one thing. . I actually believe your story. I mean, you are a loose cannon, no doubt. You fly by the seat of your pants, but you’ve got great instinct and you’ve always come through for the organization in spite of the way it’s treated you.

‘The Wickson thing is very big, Henry. I knew about it before I came back to the force and I’m keen to get something done about it, especially now that two officers are down and that nurse. I want to catch that killer and I believe that Wickson could well lead us to him and Mendoza, maybe, and some bigger sharks. You could help. You might not discover anything, but so what? At least you’d have helped. You asked me what’s in it for you?’

Henry nodded. ‘Don’t try to blackmail me emotionally about the greater good and all that,’ Henry warned him.

‘I won’t, but what I will do is closely review the discipline case immediately.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Henry, I believe what you’re telling me. I’ll get to the truth of the matter, trust me. I scare the shit out of people, as you know.’ There was a glint of steel in his eyes. ‘But don’t misunderstand me. . if you don’t take on the Wickson job, I won’t help you at all. Even if you do take it on, you’re on your own. Like you said, no resources, no back-up. You’ll be operating totally independently and if anyone asks me, I’ll deny these conversations. I cannot officially condone you getting involved in this and that’s the public line I’ll take. The only thing I will offer is for DI Roscoe to be an unofficial point of contact for you. You two can work that as you see fit. She’s pretty busy because I’ve put her in charge of the inquiry into the deaths at the hospital, which will link into the Cragg inquiry, so you’ll have to balance it out somehow. That’s the deal.’

‘Does Jane know about this yet?’

‘No.’

Henry guffawed and wazzed another large pebble, speechless at the way FB operated. If anyone was the loose cannon, it was he. Compared to him, Henry was a boring, by-the-book, regulation poodle.

‘What’s your answer?’

‘What if Mrs Wickson doesn’t want me back?’

‘Then we’re back to scenario one: you’re suspended and about to lose your job and most of a big, fat pension.’

‘How very persuasive you are in your arguments, FB,’ Henry shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

Henry needed another shot of caffeine. He could have done with something stronger but it was too early and he had made it a point to steer clear of the bottle throughout the stressor of suspension and wasn’t going to start now, even though his stress levels were pretty high on the Richter scale. He felt he had somehow backed himself into a trap, accidentally maybe, but here he was, as his favourite rock band the Rolling Stones put it, ‘Between a Rock and a Hard Place.’

He was alone in the White Cafe now. He had declined the offer of a lift from FB. He needed some time to get his thoughts together and though it was a good six-mile journey home, he told them he would find his own way there.

This time he ordered a black coffee, strong and filtered. He’d had enough of the milky stuff. It had taken him to a place he did not want to go to. He leaned his elbows on the glass-topped table, his hands supporting his chin as he looked out across the sand dunes to the distant sea.

He breathed in deep. Exhaled slowly.

Trapped by accident, he thought. Not my fault. Wrong time, wrong place. But he was under no illusions that he did not have any choice in the matter now. FB was a totally ruthless operator and Henry knew that without him on his side he would be completely stuffed at the discipline hearing. FB could make or break him and if he, Henry, did not help out, he would be snapped like a twig in a forest, a twig that no one would hear breaking.

What niggled him was that Karl Donaldson had put the idea into FB’s noggin. FB had obviously tweaked it and then used it for his own ends. Karl would not have seen that side of things. It was something that Henry felt he would have to address with his American friend. Henry gave a short, inner laugh. Despite Donaldson’s undoubted ability as an FBI field agent and crime-fighter, he was a little naive in the ways of the world sometimes. Maybe that was a trait of all Americans.

In the meantime, Henry had to work out how to get back into the Wickson family home fairly unobtrusively at the same time as a massive policing operation was intruding on them in a big way. One thing Henry knew for sure was that he did not want to know where the cops were up to with their inquiries. His experience as an undercover cop was that it was imperative not to know, then it was impossible to trip yourself up by revealing a snippet of information which you had no right to know, one which might alert a switched-on subject. He had to distance himself from the police, otherwise his credibility with the Wicksons could be jeopardized.

He speculated about how best to go about his assignment. The thoughts made him wonder what it would be like to be a private investigator, acting alone all the time. Henry was used to having an organization of 5,000 people behind him. A Human Resources Department (or ‘Human Remains’ as cops often referred to it), an intelligence unit, cops with guns, dogs and lots of equipment, a Training Centre, numerous support departments — a bloody big, complex piece of human machinery to back him up, or to roll on without him. It worked both ways.

Here he would be alone, with the exception of contact with Jane Roscoe, whatever use that would be, and his own resourcefulness.

He felt like he had been stripped.

And it was not comfortable.

His coffee gave him an extra kick. He looked around the cafe, the people inside it. He took in their faces and returned to one, that of a woman who kept staring at him.

He caught her gaze. She frowned and looked away. Henry was sure he did not know her, but got the impression she thought she knew him. But a lot of people knew him. It came with the territory of being a cop, or, he laughed to himself, a private eye. Henry Christie PI. It had a certain, discordant ring to it.

The woman was staring at him again, transfixed. Henry looked out to sea and sank some more coffee.

Firstly he would give Tara Wickson a ring. Check out how she was feeling. See if she wanted anything more from him. .

‘You don’t know me, do you?’

Henry’s head swivelled. He was not surprised to see the woman from the nearby table standing next to him. Henry put her about his age, but she seemed older for some reason. There was a great sadness around her eyes which immediately touched Henry. He had seen it before. It was the look of loss.

‘No, I don’t,’ he admitted.

‘I don’t actually know your name, but I know you, I recognize you.’ Her eyes were watery, almost tearful. ‘I’m sorry, but could I have some of your time?’