Nick Oldham - Big City Jacks

In the six weeks he had also drawn the short straw in terms of night cover, having had to cover three weeks in that time. Henry saw this as a less than subtle message from the boss: don’t think for one moment you’re going to have an easy ride of it.

Yes, Henry had no illusions. He would be up against it for a long time. In the past this could easily have fazed him, but now, being physically and mentally balanced, he was up for the challenge. He felt so confident he believed he could take on the world.

Before setting off home, he spent a few moments ticking off a mental checklist to ensure he had done everything necessary; then, positive he had hit all the buttons, he started the car.

The first call came on his mobile just as he accelerated down the slip road on to the M65. Using his recently acquired ‘hands-free’ kit, he kept both hands on the wheel and complied with the law. ‘Henry Christie.’

‘Dave Anger.’

‘Hello, boss.’ Henry had been expecting the call. The Detective Superintendent checking up on him. Yes, he was expecting it, but on the other hand he wondered who had informed Anger that he had turned out to a job. No doubt Anger had secretly briefed the control room inspector to call him if Henry was mobilized. Anger would be eager to keep a close eye on the disliked new boy. . or was it that Henry was being paranoid?

Henry shrugged. Just because you are paranoid it doesn’t mean that people aren’t out to get you.

Anger skipped the pleasantries. ‘What’s the job?’

‘As if you don’t know,’ Henry wanted to say — but didn’t. ‘Domestic murder.’

‘Why haven’t I been informed?’

‘You obviously have been, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me,’ Henry said, too sharply. ‘Or are you just calling on spec?’

‘Don’t push it, Henry. You might well be up FB’s shitter, but that doesn’t mean to say you’re untouchable,’ Anger responded with a dangerous undertone. ‘You haven’t informed me, that’s the point I’m making.’

‘Only because it’s a straight-up, no complications murder. All angles covered. One body, one offender — who is too drunk to be properly interviewed now. You don’t need to be told. The morning would suffice.’

‘Judgement call, eh?’ Anger sneered. ‘We all know about your judgement calls, don’t we?’

‘Procedural call, actually,’ Henry corrected him.

‘I like to be kept up to date.’

‘OK, fair do’s,’ Henry acceded, seeing no mileage in annoying Anger any further. He’d made his point. ‘I’ll tell you in future.’ He did not have the willpower to carry on an argument at that moment in time.

‘So it’s sorted?’

‘Yes. . I’ll go back across in the morning. We’ll have the offender in court by the afternoon.’

‘OK, fine.’ Anger hung up.

‘Twat,’ Henry uttered, feeling himself flush red. He took a deep breath and put his foot down. The motorway was quiet and, just to be awkward, he moved out to the fast lane and stayed there.

The second call he received on his mobile was totally unexpected. He received it as he looped round on to the M6 northbound. The display on the phone told him that the person calling had withheld their number. He assumed it would be control room contacting him with another death, perhaps, as all calls from police numbers were automatically withheld.

‘Henry Christie.’

At first all he could hear was a hollow, metallic emptiness. He repeated his name.

‘Hello. . hello. . Henry?’ came the female voice he recognized instantly.

‘Tara?’

‘Henry — hi.’

He did a double-check of the time on the dashboard clock.

‘Tara — hello.’

The connection seemed to break and then re-establish itself. He knew why it was a poor line. She was calling from Lanzarote.

Her name was Tara Wickson and it was because of a request from her that Henry had become involved in something whilst suspended from duty. A little something, a favour that had ended up in a complex and murderous investigation into Mafia activity and connections across the world. Henry had foolishly become embroiled because he had been bored witless whilst on suspension, then the whole kit and caboodle had got completely out of hand. He could trace his involvement back to the fact that Tara was a very attractive and sexy woman, appealing full-on to Henry’s main weakness in life: the female of the species.

After it was over, Tara and her daughter had gone away to help them recover from the trauma they had undergone.

‘What’s up?’ Henry asked.

‘I’m sorry to call. I half-expected your phone to be off. . I was just wondering how things were going,’ she said weakly.

Why at this time of day, Henry wondered. ‘Oh, slowly,’ he said. ‘It’s all very complicated. Another of my colleagues is actually dealing with it. I’m involved, obviously, but it’s not my job, if you know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ She sounded distant. More than just in a geographical way.

‘What’s the matter, Tara? How are you?’

‘OK — ish. Physically battered, as you know; mentally fucked up, feeling guilty.’

‘Don’t,’ Henry counselled her quickly, firmly. ‘There’s a lot to get over, a lot to come to terms with, but you can do it. I have total faith in you.’

Once again, the line seemed to go dead. Then Tara’s voice came back. ‘No one has ever said they have faith in me,’ she said tearfully.

This time it was Henry who hit the pause button. He gulped. ‘How’s Charlotte?’

‘Bearing in mind what she went through, pretty good.’

‘Nice to hear that.’

‘Henry?’ Tara’s voice faltered. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you. . it’s just that I can’t stop thinking about you. . and what you did for me.’

‘Don’t. . it’s OK,’ he insisted.

‘But I can’t stop thinking about you. . you put yourself out for me and you did something that has deeply affected me. . shit!’ The line then did go dead, leaving Henry open-mouthed, hurtling along at ninety miles per hour, his mind not on the driving, and he almost missed the Blackpool exit off the M6. He could easily have landed in Lancaster, but he veered left just in time and gunned the car west towards the coast, wondering what the hell Tara had meant.

Was it that she had fallen for him?

Or was it that she’d been thinking about what Henry had actually done for her and she was now having mega problems in coming to terms with it?

The former thought was reasonably pleasant; the latter made him shudder, because if Tara bottled out, Henry would be finished for good. He could say ‘ta-ra’ to his pension and possibly ‘g’day’ to a prison cell.

The third call on his mobile was the one that kept him from hysteria. It was another job, this time much closer to home.

In some ways, Henry was relieved. This, too, looked as though it would be pretty straightforward to solve: stolen car, pursued by police, driver crashes and legs it, one dead passenger in the car. They knew who the felon was — local toe-rag, prolific offender — the only problem being tracking him down. Only a little problem, because people like Roy Costain are creatures of habit and sooner, rather than later, he would be caught. This would be an easy one to bottom, Henry thought as he surveyed the wreckage. The hard part here would be dealing with the media uproar that would be caused. Another fatality caused by a reckless police chase. Henry could visualize the headlines now.

Bugger , he thought.

He walked round the stolen Ford Escort, now mashed sideways on to the front end of a black cab. Stopping at the front passenger side window, Henry bent down and looked at the young girl, the body not yet having been removed from the scene.