Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

She walked towards him, paper suit billowing out, far, far too big for her, giving the impression of a Teletubby bearing down on him. ‘I’m hands-on as you know,’ she said, reaching him, then looking beyond into the room and seeing the wall of blood. ‘Jesus,’ she gasped, recovered and said, ‘What’ve we got, Henry?’

He detailed where he was up to, the deputy nodding and listening carefully.

‘… so we’re just going to have a look at the guy’s face.’

‘And we don’t yet know who he is?’ Cranlow asked. She saw Henry and DC Hall exchange a glance.

‘Not yet formally identified, ma’am,’ Henry said, turning and walking around the outside of the room with Hall in tow. Two and a half walls later, Henry’s knees cracked as he bent down and examined the man’s face, amazed by the smallness of the entry hole just above the bridge of the nose, in contrast to the size of the exit wound.

The dead man’s cheek was resting on the thin carpet. His mouth slopped open, drooling thick globs of blood. One eye was fully open, the other half closed, as if he was trying to wink, and his features had been horribly distorted by the impact of the bullet, reminding Henry of the way that G-forces work on a person’s face.

He could not see the face clearly. The light was poor and the body was lying in the shadow cast by the desk and he didn’t want to touch or move it. A lot of work had yet to be done and he didn’t want to spoil anything.

Henry twisted his head and shoulders, trying to get a better view without getting any closer than necessary.

He glanced around at the two people behind him, both attempting to do the same thing, neither seemingly affected by the sight of such a violent death. The three stooges came to mind and he wondered how long it would be before they all fell over or started poking each other in the eye. He knew he should have had the courage to tell Cranlow to leave, then there would have only been a comedy double act.

A penlight torch appeared in the deputy’s hand, which she offered to Henry.

‘This help?’

‘Cheers.’ He twisted it on and shone the beam into the dead man’s face.

The light did help.

‘Bloody hell!’ he said sharply.

‘See, I knew you’d know,’ Hall said.

‘Who is it, Henry?’ Cranlow asked.

Henry said nothing, but shone the torch into the face again and peered as closely as he dared.

Despite the way in which the features had been misshapen, despite the back third of the head being missing, Henry recognized the man on the floor. He glanced quickly at Hall, who gave him a knowing wink.

‘You were right, I do know him.’

‘Henry!’ Cranlow said, almost stamping her feet in annoyance. ‘Will you please let me in on this little secret?’

‘This guy is an ex-Lancashire detective who was basically drummed out of the force maybe twelve years ago, and I’ll bet this is the perfect example of that old saying relevant to a murder inquiry — find out how they lived, find out why they died.’ He stood up. ‘This is the body of Eddie Daley.’

‘He was a sleazeball cop,’ Henry explained, ‘and I’ve no doubt he was a sleazeball ex-cop too, and because of that I’m pretty sure this won’t take long to bottom,’ he finished confidently.

‘You sound quite heated about him,’ Angela Cranlow said.

They had driven — separately — from the crime scene down to the new police station in the Whitebirk area of Blackburn and were walking from their parked cars to the police staff entrance. They had divested their paper suits, handing them to a Crime Scene Investigator to be bagged and tagged. Trevor Hall had remained at the scene to await the arrival of the pathologist, then to accompany the body to the mortuary in order to maintain the chain of evidence.

Cranlow slid her swipe card down the slot, the door buzzed and they entered the station, which was all white walls, glass and modernity; a complete contrast to the Victorian monstrosity that had been left behind in Blackburn town centre which, for some bizarre reason, Henry preferred. Maybe it was its sense of history he missed, because this new place, flanked by car dealerships and DIY stores, had no character to it. It was just another fancy office complex that just happened to house the police.

‘I am,’ he said, but did not expand. It was quite obvious to Cranlow that something about Eddie Daley had touched a raw nerve in Henry. She didn’t pursue him, just yet, but her curiosity was well-whetted, and she surreptitiously watched him as they strode down the corridor to a witness interview room near to the custody complex. ‘She’s down here somewhere, ma’am,’ Henry said, referring to Jackie Kippax, who they had come to see.

As they turned into the custody area, an interview room door opened and a crime scene investigator emerged carrying her bag of tricks and a cluster of paper and clear plastic evidence bags. Henry knew the CSI and that she had been dealing with Kippax.

‘Sir,’ she said on seeing Henry.

‘Hi, Alex — is Ms Kippax in there?’

‘Yes … very, very distraught.’

‘I can imagine. You got all you need from her?’

‘Yeah — all her clothing — she’s got a change, swabs, DNA, you name it. She’s been very compliant even though she’s so upset.’

‘Think she did it, from what she’s said?’

‘No.’ She shook her head without hesitation. ‘Not for me to say, but no.’

‘Does she know who did it?’

‘I think she has a pretty good idea.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘Good luck boss. Ma’am.’ The CSI moved away, nodding at Cranlow.

‘You coming in?’ Henry asked the deputy.

‘If it won’t cramp your style.’

‘If only I had a style,’ he sighed and opened the door.

Jackie Kippax was seated at the table, her head hanging downwards. A young female constable sat opposite, with her outstretched hands holding Kippax’s for support. The officer looked at Henry, a haggard, emotional expression on her inexperienced face. It looked as though having to deal with Kippax had all but drained her.

Henry acknowledged her with a wan ‘well done’ smile. With a gesture of his hand he indicated she could leave. The officer flooded with relief and almost ran from the room, but Henry caught her before she could scarper and gave her his best little boy look (designed, he hoped, to get just what he wanted) and whispered, ‘Three coffees, white, with some sachets of sugar. Can you manage that?’ then released her.

He eased himself into the vacant chair, still warm. Cranlow seated herself on a chair in the corner of the room.

Jackie Kippax did not move, her head hanging loosely down. Her breathing was laboured.

‘Jackie,’ Henry said softly. ‘Jackie.’

She did not respond.

‘Jackie, we need to talk. I know it’s tough, but we need to have a chat, urgently.’ He reached across and touched her hand. ‘Jackie, it’s me, Henry Christie.’

The words, together with the touch, acted like a charged cattle prod. Kippax’s head shot up, eyes wide. She sat bolt upright and looked at Henry as though he was the devil. Their eyes clashed — hers on fire with rage, her face twisted with anger.

‘That’s all I fucking need,’ she snarled. ‘You! A cunt like you!’

‘I hated you with a vengeance and now you’re the one investigating his murder.’ Kippax and Henry were standing outside the police station on the paved area by the front entrance. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of her right hand, a coffee in the other. ‘Can’t no one else do it?’

Henry shook his head as he took a mouthful of his coffee.

Angela Cranlow stood several feet away, lounging against the station wall, sipping her coffee, listening to the dialogue, watching the interaction with interest.