Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Henry’s head bobbed unsurely. ‘And the murder squad consists of?’

‘Ah, well, that’s something else. You haven’t really got one. You can have some Support Unit officers to do some searching and stuff, but that’s about it. Better than nothing.’

‘So, me, basically?’

‘Yep.’

His mind swam, floundered actually. ‘Hell’s teeth!’

‘And me,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll give you a chuck up as best I can.’

‘That’s very kind, ma’am.’

‘You’re not impressed.’

‘It’s just that … it’s a hell of a task … daunting. The Class Act is just a possibility, not a certainty.’ He stared out at the traffic rushing by.

‘Do you want me to tell Dave Anger he can have it back now, then?’

‘Oh, no … that’s just what he’d love to hear. No, let’s see what we can pull out of the bag.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘And in terms of a squad, I have a bit of an idea on that score — that’s if you agree.’

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. Henry gazed across at the shocked faces in front of him and almost wanted to turn and run out of the office. It was as though he had just declared that a nuclear warhead was en route and they had four minutes to live. He glanced quickly at Angela Cranlow, who had approved his plan, and she grimaced back as if in severe pain.

‘So what do you reckon, guys, gals?’ Henry asked, trying to whip up some enthusiasm. The Special Projects team, his mad idea of a murder squad, looked at him aghast and in stunned silence. ‘Look, this’ll be good,’ he said positively, guessing this was what it was like swimming in treacle. ‘Just imagine,’ he said, looking beyond them to the wall and seeing an imaginary banner, ‘the Special Projects Murder Squad. What d’you think?’

They were in their nice, warm, open-plan office on the top floor at headquarters, having all dragged their chairs from behind their desks, and formed a U-shape around Henry in one corner. His eyes moved from individual to individual.

‘It’s been approved by DCC Cranlow’ — he gestured to her with a shift of his shoulders — ‘and it’ll do you all the world of good.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ someone unidentified, but suspected, muttered.

‘Right,’ he began, and perched himself on the edge of a desk, about to launch into his reasoning behind the idea. Before he could speak, a sergeant piped up.

‘Henry, the truth is, that’s real pressure. We don’t do real stress or pressure in here, that’s why we’re in here. We’re the land of misfit cops — and that includes the support staff in here, too.’

There was a general murmur of agreement and nodding of heads.

‘It sounds like you’re proud of it.’

‘No, not proud — we just are who we are.’

Henry gathered his thoughts. ‘This office,’ he declared, ‘is full of people who have got skills, knowledge and experience. Why you’ve all ended up here is not the issue, but the fact is that you are all here and I’ll lay it on the line: I believe that in reality, none of you truly wants to be here, do you? You’ve all got talents and the truth of the matter is,’ he said, using a pointing finger, ‘I’ve got the chance to investigate a murder until next Monday, a chance given to me by Ms Cranlow, and I desperately don’t want to blow it. I need your help and I know you can do this, be part of a team catching a murderer instead of just pushing paper around that no one reads, if truth be known.’

He picked up a thick manila file.

‘In here I’ve got printouts from the HR system of all your careers to date. I know from looking at it that we have the combined ability to run an MIR — which is a Murder Incident Room, for those of you who don’t know.’ Henry opened the folder and looked at the person sitting nearest him. He was a constable nearing retirement, well overweight to the point of morbid obesity, but who had once been a detective locally and regionally. He had worked on numerous inquiries, but had snapped when the force refused to let him stay on NCIS when his three-year contract expired.

‘Graeme — you can be my intel cell. What d’you reckon?’ The PC — Graeme Walling — shrugged, but could not hide a small smile. ‘I know you can interrogate all the computer systems and analyze stuff. It’s what you’ve been doing in Special Projects for months anyway. How about it?’

The PC inclined his head in agreement, not the most loquacious of individuals.

Henry looked along at another PC, this time a female, whose attitude problems had caused her and everyone else around her severe problems, ensuring she was passed from department to department like a hot spud. No one ever got a real grip of her because she always threatened discrimination or harassment, making managers afraid of managing. She had become one of the most disaffected and bitter people Henry had ever met.

‘Jenny — you’ve been a HOLMES indexer.’

‘Years ago.’

‘I’d like you to do it again — only this time you’d be all things combined: manager, inputter, quality control … yeah? I’ll have a machine installed within the hour.’

She pulled a face. Apart from her attitude, Henry also found her to be extremely lazy, but once set off on a task, she usually got it done in her own sweet time, but to a high standard.

‘OK,’ she relented after consideration. Nothing like a volunteer, Henry thought.

He took a breath. This was going to be real graft, he thought, recalling the film The Dirty Dozen , who had nothing on this lot.

By 6 p.m., Henry and Angela Cranlow had managed to convince the Special Projects Team that they were the ideal fodder for a Murder Incident Room. Henry had laboriously worked his way from person to person, glancing at the HR file, extolling their virtues and skills, building them up in an effort to convince them they could do it.

In some cases the argument was pretty thin and he had to use poetic licence.

One of the women, who did word processing, had taken a lot of convincing. She was very old school and had joined the constabulary as a typist even before Henry, and it had taken over ten years to wean her off the Remington, via an electric typewriter, finally on to a computer. This had resulted in her struggling desperately, and because she could not keep up with new technology, no department had any use for her, however nice she was. The constabulary, in time-honoured fashion, did not give her the boot as it should have done, but shuffled her around and around until she ended up on Henry’s scrapheap. She was good at making tea, filing, running errands, manual paperwork and providing emotional support for others.

Mrs Delia Wantage, thirty-three years’ service, all in headquarters departments, therefore became the Murder Incident Room manager.

In front of all the others, tears rolled down her face and she could not control herself. She rushed from her seat and embraced Henry, crushing him to her ample chest and saying he was the best boss in the world. Whilst embarrassed, Henry enjoyed the moment, but only for the wrong reasons. The close proximity of a big-chested woman, even one ten years his senior, did that sort of thing to him.

Delia then went and made tea for everyone.

At 6 p.m. Henry had done his job well, he thought. The department was now buzzing with a childlike delight he had never witnessed in a group of adults before. A warm glow flushed through him, not least at the memory of Delia Wantage and her bosom.

With the best will in the world, Henry was exhausted. He had been on the go since yesterday morning and in another hour he would have been up for thirty-six hours without a break. His brain had gone fuzzy and weariness was invading his body like the slow march of a disease. He could not sustain it any longer and knew that nothing more would be achieved. He decided to call it a day, telling everyone to be ready for a 9 a.m. briefing next morning. He watched his team as they collected their personal belongings and left, still chattering excitedly about the prospect of being a murder squad. He had sold it to them well.