Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

It had once been a huge factory which had fallen into disuse and over the years had become an eyesore. John Lloyd Wickson had seen its development potential years earlier and had kept close tabs on the progress of the building, which had gone through several hands before coming on to the open market earlier in the year. He had bought it for a snip because the owners were desperate to get rid of a useless piece of land.

Wickson knew he could develop it and make money at every stage of the process, from demolition to disposal of the hardcore, to eventually building on it as per his vision: a site combining a housing estate, some retail outlets, a hotel, a small business park and, as far as the council was concerned, the icing on the cake: Wickson’s promise to build a new primary school for free.

At the very least, Wickson would make?5 million personally. If it all went to plan.

Wickson stood in the site office, a portacabin which overlooked Bloomfield Road. A few hundred metres up the road was the football club which, one day, he promised himself, he would own. Just for the fun. He looked across the site, now more or less flattened after demolition. His massive crushers and screeners had moved in, turning the bricks and rubble into saleable hardcore, from which he would make a small fortune.

There was money to be made from everything.

Then his face fell as he locked on to the woman detective inspector who had just been to see him. She was parked in her car on Bloomfield Road, mobile phone to her ear. He watched her, a sneer on his face.

Behind him in the portacabin, Jake Coulton, his head of security, was just getting to the end of a phone call at the desk. He hung up and came to stand behind Wickson, seeing his point of view.

‘Bad news,’ Coulton said, mirroring his boss’s thoughts.

‘Indeed,’ Wickson said. ‘We need to keep the police at arms’ length. They mustn’t be allowed to start sniffing around. . Any thoughts?’

‘Money buys things, people,’ Coulton said.

‘Meaning?’

‘If we get the stables cleared, like now, don’t hang about, I could be doing some ducking ’n’ diving with the Fire Brigade. If we destroy all evidence of arson and the chief fire officer says it wasn’t arson, who could argue with those findings? That would be one less reason for the cops to be nosing around.’

Wickson turned and appraised his employee. ‘The reek of petrol was a bit of a giveaway.’

‘I’m sure that could be explained away,’ Coulton smiled. ‘But what’s a smell? You can’t bottle it and take it to court. If the price was right. . I mean, electrical faults cause so many fires, sadly.’

‘Don’t they just.’ Wickson bit his lip. ‘Fix it.’

‘Will do.’

‘But what about the guy with the gun? There’ll be a lot of pressure from that angle. That could be very uncomfortable. The “why” he was here, shooting at you. Now he’s killed two cops they aren’t going to let it go so easy.’

‘You know why he was here.’

‘I do, but the cops don’t. Thing is, he’ll be back if we don’t sort something,’ he warned.

Wickson nodded, nostrils flaring. ‘Could we sort it?’

‘Let me think about it.’

Their eyes moved to Jane Roscoe, still sat in her car.

‘Bitch,’ Coulton said.

Wickson sighed. ‘Let’s move a crusher and an excavator up to the stables, start getting the place tidied up.’

The call was from an unknown number. ‘You were called at 2.05 p.m. today. The caller withheld their number.’

Henry went on to 1571, the answerphone.

He had never gone so cold in his life. He recognized the voice immediately.

‘Henry, hi, how are you?’ the recorded message began. ‘You’re the only person who has ever got the better of me. I respect that. It also annoys me intensely. So remember one thing, Henry Christie, I’ve got your number and I’ll be calling again — in person.’

Jane Roscoe turned up at Henry’s house next morning at eight. She had brought a pool car for him to use, a Vauxhall Astra with three wheel trims missing and several dents in the bodywork. A very weary-looking vehicle, past its heyday. She knocked on the front door, which was answered by a very frosty Kate Christie.

‘Hello, Kate.’

Kate nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Brought a car for Henry to use.’ She dangled the ignition key in front of Kate’s nose. ‘But I need him to give me a lift back to the nick.’

Henry, unaware it was Jane at the door, trotted downstairs and stepped into the hallway. He was taken aback to see her. ‘Jane, hello.’

‘Said I’d sort something for you,’ she said through Kate, as though she wasn’t there. She held up the key.

‘Oh, thanks.’

Kate glared at Henry. ‘But she needs a lift back in it.’

‘Ahh, right.’

The three of them stood there for an incredibly awkward moment. Kate made the first move, shoving her way past Henry, muttering, ‘You’d better take her.’ She retreated into the kitchen and closed the door — loudly.

Henry shot Jane a look that said it all and followed it up by getting close in to her, almost nose to nose, then finding himself unable to say anything.

‘She doesn’t know about us, does she?’ Jane asked, a glimmer of a devilish smile on her face. ‘You haven’t spilled the beans?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he whispered hoarsely, then shook his head. ‘Stay there.’

He went into the kitchen, where he found Kate holding tightly to the edge of the kitchen sink, staring out of the window, her bottom lip pulled up over her top one, trying not to crack.

‘What’s up, love?’ He touched her shoulder.

He was now absolutely certain she knew about him and Jane. He had not told her, nor had anyone else to his knowledge, but somehow she knew. Kate shrugged his hand off her.

‘You fool, Henry. . Why are you doing this. . getting involved? Can’t you see they’re using you?’

The relief in Henry’s body was almost visible. She didn’t know!

He could have danced a jig.

‘Honey, it’ll be all right. . FB’s sanctioned it. It’s all above board,’

‘Then why don’t they reinstate you properly?’

‘Because what they want me to do wouldn’t work if they did.’

‘They could reinstate you and not tell anyone.’

And that was a good point.

‘Gizza hug.’ He held out his arms and she turned into them just as the kitchen door opened and the Tasmanian devil-like Leanne burst in, all energy. Jane had a clear view of Henry with Kate held close to his chest. ‘I still have to go through a discipline hearing, whatever,’ he said weakly. ‘And I’m still a cop, getting paid a cop’s wages.’

‘I know. . but be careful, Henry. That Fanshaw-Bayley has taken advantage of you in the past and her. .’ Kate looked daggers at Jane. Her voice dropped a semitone. ‘There’s something about her. . I don’t know. . I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole.’

‘OK, you two,’ said Leanne, who had been observing this little scene with a mixture of misunderstanding, puzzlement and cynicism. She’d waited long enough. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

Henry pecked Kate’s cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jane wheel away in disgust. ‘I’ll speak soon, let you know what’s happening.’ He gave Leanne a hug and kiss, grabbed his fleece and followed Jane up the driveway. At the rather bedraggled car, she tossed the key to Henry, who caught it double-handed.

‘You drive.’ She got in and Henry slid into the driver’s seat, starting an engine which blew out a cloud of black smoke of atom bomb proportions from the exhaust. The engine sounded rough and out of sync, such was the fate of Constabulary vehicles close to the scrap heap.