Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘I cannot give you details of this man, but I will tell you he is highly dangerous, he has been behind many atrocities across the world, and his presence in this county is worrying. We missed a chance to bag him, but that’s how it goes sometimes. At least we have some trophies to display to the community and the world, thanks to your heroism this morning, Henry.’

‘I suppose the cheque’s in the post?’

Henry was given the elbow and he rose from the conference table, nodding at FB, catching Angela Cranlow’s eye, and giving the rest of the group a general gesture of goodbye. No one showed him out, not that he expected such courtesy, and he emerged tired, but relatively unscathed from the pit of fire, with the exception of Dave Anger’s remarks, into the bag-carriers’ office. All four members of staff were at their desks, including Henry’s best friend, Chief Inspector Laker.

Henry smiled at him, then swung out into the hushed corridor outside, where he leaned against a wall and breathed deeply.

‘Ah, dear,’ he said to no one and suddenly felt quite shaky and ravenously hungry. It was just after ten, meaning breakfast was still being served down in the dining room. He headed downstairs, his nose following the aroma of bacon.

The dining room was reasonably busy, but there were still plenty of seats and tables vacant. Being self-service, Henry heaped too much of everything on a plate, grabbed a coffee from the machine, paid, and steered a careful course to a free table in the far corner of the room. Because he was feeling unsociable, he sat with his back to everyone and faced a window overlooking the car park. After a few moments’ precise preparation of cutlery, plate, mug and napkin, he tucked into the huge meal which he knew would go a long way to shutting down his arteries, but would also cheer him up.

He scoffed it quickly, finishing off with a self-made toasted crispy bacon sandwich that he folded into his mouth. It tasted tremendous. He washed it down with coffee, then got a refill, and returned to his chair to watch the world of Lancashire Constabulary go by. A huge horsebox drove by, a four-wheel drive BMW traffic car purred past towards wireless workshops, and an array of less impressive police vehicles also passed his window.

His head shook involuntarily as he thought through the last few hours of his life, once again realizing how lucky he was to be sitting here eating a meal which would probably kill him anyway. Still, it was better than a bullet, or being picked up piece by piece. Perhaps it was safer in Special Projects, and he thought he would settle there now, carve a comfortable niche out for himself up on the top floor and hibernate until retirement.

‘Umph,’ he uttered without knowing, not really liking that prospect. Sitting in an office just wasn’t him, but his options were becoming increasingly limited.

Dave Anger sat down opposite him. Henry had not seen him enter the dining room.

The two men regarded each other.

‘I don’t want you thinking that just because you were involved in today’s job that you will be doing any further work concerning it.’

‘God forbid. I know when I’m frozen out. I was just planning a dry flower arrangement for my desk in Special Projects.’

‘Good … I didn’t think it was clearly stated upstairs. You have no further involvement, OK?’

Henry eyed him with disdain. His breakfast was a mere memory. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth now. He picked up his coffee, stood up and walked across to the far side of the room to a vacant table, having no wish to get involved with Anger. When he sat down, he saw that Anger had already left. He hunched over his mug and stared at the coffee, then yawned.

‘My, that’s a big one,’ a female voice said from behind. Henry clammed up and turned quickly. It was Angela Cranlow, the deputy chief, mug of tea in hand, bacon barm in the other. ‘Mind if I join you, Henry?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, flustered, and half-raised himself out of his seat.

‘Don’t get up, duck.’ She plonked herself down, discarding the food and drink for a moment as she unbuttoned her tunic and eased it off, throwing it across another seat, then removed her chequered cravat and unbuttoned her shirt collar. ‘Phew — been a long one already.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he agreed.

She bit into the barm, speaking as she ate. ‘Hate all that secret squirrel stuff, don’t you? MI5, Special Branch … I prefer just good, honest, local coppering.’

‘Comes with the rank, I guess.’

‘Yeah, politics and all that stuff does. Doesn’t mean to say I like it, though.’

She was perhaps two feet away from Henry and he allowed his eyes to quickly take her in. With neatly bobbed light auburn hair and a nice, round face, she was very pretty. There were some lines etched in the corners of her eyes betraying her age in a little way, but her skin was soft and lightly tanned. Henry noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

DCC Cranlow had moved across the Pennines from West Yorkshire, having been promoted to the position after an intense selection procedure in which she fought off some tough competition. Even though there had been a fair amount of coverage about her in the force newspaper, Henry did not know a great deal about her, other than her operational background, which he was impressed with.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come up and see you in Special Projects, yet,’ she apologized.

‘Why would you?’

‘Oh, you might not know — the chief officer portfolios have recently been shuffled around and I’ve got you … in my portfolio, that is, amongst other things, of course.’

‘Oh, right. I didn’t know.’ Chief officer portfolios were shuffled like cards, constantly changing.

‘So I’m your new line manager, sort of … and I intend to come and see you and your team soon.’

‘That would be good,’ he said.

‘Anyway, I just want you to know you did a good job today, Henry, and I’m very pleased, as is the chief.’

‘Believe it or not.’

‘No, he is,’ she defended FB.

‘Me and him go way back when,’ Henry said.

‘I know — I’ve had a look at your personal file.’

‘Interesting reading?’ Henry said, feeling uncomfortable.

‘Yes, it is … quite a history.’

‘I try to put myself about a bit.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Henry, I think Dave Anger has got away with murder and you’ve been shabbily treated. I’m aware of all the problems there.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said pensively. ‘I got that extra pip, bit more on the pension, nice office, cushy job, nine to five …’

‘It’s not about that, though, is it?’

‘You tell me, ma’am.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘You’re a detective, a jack. It’s in your blood. You should be on FMIT or Major Crime or be a divisional DCI, or maybe NCIS. But not Special Projects!’

‘I’m getting acronym overload.’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You shouldn’t be getting shiny pants, not really. I want someone in Special Projects who wants to be in Special Projects …’

‘But no one wants to be in there, they get chucked there cos there’s nowhere else to shove them.’

‘I want to change that.’

‘Ahh,’ Henry said, thinking he realized where she was going. ‘You don’t want me in there, do you? Anger doesn’t want me on FMIT. None of the chief supers want me. Makes me kinda stuffed, doesn’t it?’

She reared back with a chortle. ‘Wrong end of the stick, Henry. Know your problem? Paranoia.’ She dipped her face so that her eyes looked up at him in a rather seductive manner, which sent a rattle through him. ‘I do want you, actually … but that’s another story … but I don’t want you in Special Projects. Round pegs, round holes is my philosophy.’ She bit into her butty, wiped a dribble of butter off her chin with her forefinger which she pushed into her mouth and sucked clean.