Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘And if I’m right, you could be dealing with an honour killing.’

Henry’s heart sank a few centimetres in his chest. ‘An honour killing? Bugger.’

‘Just a gut feeling … I could be wrong, though.’

‘But I’d guess that’s not usually the case?’

This time O’Connell did not hide the smile. ‘No, not usually … now, if you’ll excuse me, the job’s not over until the paperwork’s done, if you know what I mean? I think you’ve probably got enough to progress your investigation. I’ll let you have the report and a copy of the DVD of the PM by tomorrow afternoon.’

Henry took the hint and started removing his mask as he and Rik walked towards the door. ‘Thanks, Doctor O’Connell …’

‘Professor, actually,’ she corrected him.

‘Thanks, Doctor Professor,’ he said. He stopped and looked at her. She shot him a look of amused contempt before returning to the organs. He and Rik went into the office next to the mortuary to hang up their masks and gowns.

‘You shameless flirt,’ Rik chided Henry.

‘Ah, but that’s all I do now,’ Henry said, his mind pondering what the next stage of the investigation would be. He was thinking about his ‘fast-track menu’: the list of things to do that included a combination of investigative actions which, according to the Murder Investigation Manual (which Henry could almost recite), ‘are likely to establish important facts, preserve evidence or lead to the early resolution of the investigation’. He needed to sit down somewhere quietly and jot stuff down in an exercise book which would hopefully get his grey matter on the road to solving the age-old problem of any murder investigation which the manual simplistically states as ‘who killed the victim?’ and the simple problem-solving formula of ‘why + when + where + how = who?’

Dead simple, and all made a bit easier if the victim is identified, although that should not in itself stall the investigation.

Henry had decided there would be a murder squad briefing at 8 a.m. the following morning at Kirkham police station, from where he would run the investigation, that being the nearest decent-sized cop shop to the scene. After that, at 10 a.m. there would be a press briefing — and then the work would really begin. He sent Rik off to start making some phone calls to get a squad together.

The mortuary office was quiet, so he decided to use this facility for a quick brainstorm. Henry had a pen and exercise book in his jacket pocket, which he spread open on the desk, and began blatting down his battle plan.

He was enjoying the process. Mind-mapping, flow-charting, jotting down single words to spark ideas, all designed to foster the thought process. It was a stage of the investigation he loved; those few moments when it was all his; the time before everyone else and their dogs stuck their noses into the pie; the stage when it was all pure and untainted. He felt a bit like a kid at school with a colouring book and crayons, writing with one hand, the other hand curled around to stop anyone else looking at his work.

It was engrossing work, too, and thirty-odd minutes later, he was sitting there staring into space seeking to get some inspiration from the wall in front of him.

There was a noise as the door opened behind him. This brought him back to reality. He twisted in the chair, half hoping to see Professor O’Connell — purely for professional reasons, of course — but caught his breath and sat bolt upright when he saw who it was …

Henry grunted and jumped out of his skin. He had dropped off to sleep, his chin bouncing down on to his chest, and had woken with a start and a shake of the head.

A ripple of giggles came from the back of the van as he sucked back the dribble from the corner of his mouth with a slurp. He looked sideways at the sergeant.

‘You might be mistaken for thinking I dropped off then,’ he said.

‘No probs, boss, we all need power naps occasionally.’ She yawned and stretched in the confined space. ‘Is this going to happen or not?’ She peered at her digital watch. ‘We should’ve gone in twenty minutes ago,’ which made Henry realize he’d actually been zonked-out for at least ten.

His eyes drooped with fatigue. ‘Dunno,’ he said, which was not the most earth-shatteringly incisive thing to say, but was about all he could muster at that time of day as he found himself suddenly very knackered. His brain was becoming spongy, starting to shut down.

In the personnel carrier the tittle-tattle had also waned as tiredness drew a veil over everyone. Which was not good, he thought; raiding a house with a possible terrorist connection should be carried out by officers who were on the ball, not ones who were dim-witted and sloth-like because they had become fatigued from waiting around. That bred mistakes.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply in the hope of getting some fresh oxygen into his bloodstream.

Dawn was creeping in more quickly. Soon it would be a gallop. The sky was starting to turn a pale grey; spots of rain clicked on the windscreen.

Unable to help it, and assisted by the slightly hypnotic effect of the rain, Henry’s heavy eyelids slid slowly closed even though he fought it valiantly …

It wasn’t Keira O’Connell entering the office. It was the bluff, angry figure of Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger and his sidekick, a DI called Carradine who had been seconded to FMIT recently and who, Henry knew, was the man that Anger wished to replace Henry with. All three of them went back a long way, but it was Anger and the DI who were best mates.

Behind them trotted a helpless Rik Dean, making tiny gestures to Henry with his hands and shoulders, which said, ‘Sorry.’ He looked pained.

Anger barged in, Carradine by his shoulder like a parrot.

‘Almost pulled a fast one there, Henry,’ was Anger’s opening gambit.

Henry swung the desk chair round, instantaneously on the defensive. ‘What do you mean?’

‘How did you get this job?’ Anger demanded.

‘What job?’

‘This murder!’

‘I was called out to it — it is on my patch, after all.’ He was responsible for covering Blackpool Division, on which the body had been found.

‘Well, you shouldn’t have been.’

‘Not my problem.’

‘You’ve been relieved of the job.’

The chair flew backwards on its casters as Henry shot to his feet. ‘What?’

‘You heard. DI Carradine is taking it on, so you can hand over everything to him.’

‘ What? ’ Henry was flabbergasted.

‘But there is some good news in it for you,’ Anger smirked. Henry waited, not daring to open his mouth lest what came out of it totally destroyed his career. ‘You’ve been transferred off FMIT as of today,’ Anger said, and let the words hang there for effect. Henry’s mouth dropped open with a little bubble of spit on his lips. ‘Yeah — transferred on to Special Projects at HQ.’ Anger smiled winningly. ‘Hadn’t you heard? No? I’m surprised FB hasn’t called you.’

Admittedly Henry knew he had a series of missed calls on his mobile which he had been studiously avoiding. One of them could have been FB.

‘But then again, why would he call you? It’s usually your divisional commander or department head who gives you that sort of news these days.’ Anger’s smile turned into a snarl. ‘Unfortunately, the transfer comes with a promotion to chief inspector, which completely mystifies me.’ He shook his head and looked as though this news was enough to make him vomit. ‘So you can get lost.’ The smile returned — venomously. ‘DI Carradine is now temporary DCI and despite the fact that I said you’d never make chief inspector as long as I’ve got a hole where the sun don’t shine, I’m a happy man. You know what I think of you, so I won’t go over old ground.’ He gave Henry a little wave.