Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

With the last one gone, he said, ‘Shit,’ and walked across to his office in the corner of the room and slumped behind his desk, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Before he left he was going to root out the Standardized MIR operating procedures and Murder Investigation manuals. The MIR manual listed roles and responsibilities and Henry intended that each of his team would know exactly what they were supposed to be doing next day.

Following this he was going to touch base with the CSI people, the pathologist and the forensic lab in order to get as much stuff processed as soon as possible. He knew that unless he struck very lucky, very quickly, he would be fortunate to crack the case of the murder of Eddie Daley with the time and resources available to him. His intention for the days ahead would be to ensure that all the policy and procedural stuff was done correctly; that all intelligence available was accessed and some inquiries surrounding the Class Act were undertaken. When he handed the whole shebang back to Dave Anger, he wanted everything to be spot on.

He opened the murder policy book — the book in which the SIO records all actions taken and decisions made — and began to jot down a few things under headings such as Crime Scene Assessment (location, victim, offender, scene forensics, post-mortem), Evidence and Facts, Mental Reconstruction, Hypotheses, and Lines of Inquiry.

There was not much detail in his notes yet, just a few lines or words, which would be expanded when he came back tomorrow.

At 7 p.m. he closed the book and left the office, wandering through the eerily empty corridors of HQ. As he walked down the steps, his mobile rang.

‘Henry, it’s me, Angela.’

He had to think for just a moment: Angela? Then the penny dropped. It was the deputy chief constable. His backer.

‘Ma’am?’

She had left Henry with his team a couple of hours earlier to catch up on her own work. He hadn’t seen her since and assumed she had headed home, wherever that was.

‘What’s your location?’ He told her. ‘My office — come straight in.’

The first-floor corridor was particularly quiet and dark. Henry walked through the double doors halfway along, then turned right into the outer office, which he expected to be empty. On reflection he shouldn’t have been surprised to see his best friend, Chief Inspector Laker still at his desk, tapping away on his keyboard, impressing everyone by working late. The door to FB’s office was open and it was clearly empty.

Laker looked at him, puzzled. Henry thumbed towards the dep’s door to his right. ‘Ms Cranlow’s expecting me.’ Laker’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Honest.’ Henry winked at him, gave one rap on the door and entered. The office was almost as big as the chief’s and easily housed a large desk, a conference table, coffee table and sofa. Cranlow was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, surrounded by a sea of papers which also covered the coffee table.

She had changed her clothes, having divested the uniform in favour of a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms with running shoes. Her hair had been pulled back into a short ponytail, revealing the true shape of her face. Which was a pleasing oval. She had no make-up on and it was obvious she had recently showered.

‘Sit down, be with you in a second.’ She patted the sofa and Henry eased himself on to it, very aware he now sported a thirty-six-hour shadow and desperately needed a long, hot shower, a shave, and something proper to eat, followed by a JD on the rocks — then bed.

Cranlow scanned a few sheets of a very important looking document, then straightened the whole lot into a neat pile. She turned to Henry. ‘Performance figures … do you know we’re the top performing force in the country?’

‘I’ve heard FB spout it a few times, bit like a cockerel crowing.’

‘He’s very proud of the force.’

‘I know.’

‘So, Henry,’ she said, shuffling herself more comfortable, ‘another big wow from me.’

‘Why?’

‘Special Projects, Mr Motivator. I half expected them to be fighting on the beaches.’

‘They’ll be back to normal next week. Happy, smiling, hard working — not!’

‘And this week they’ll work like demons, I bet. You did a good job with them.’

‘Ta.’

She tilted her head slightly. ‘I don’t usually do this, but do you fancy a drink? It’s been one hell of a day.’

‘I was on my way home.’

‘To your ex-wife?’

‘Yeah.’ The word sounded almost apologetic.

‘Make it a quick one, over at the Anchor? You can tell me your plans for tomorrow.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I’ll see you over there.’

The Anchor Inn, situated a short distance from police headquarters, is just off a roundabout on the A59 which, in its time, had claimed the lives of several police officers, as Henry was explaining to Cranlow.

‘This place used to be crawling with cops on courses at headquarters. A lot of drinking and driving went on, but less so now. A few still come in, but way back when, Tuesday and Thursday nights used to be heaving in here before everyone headed for town. Not much studying got done on courses the day after. Tuesday used to be grab-a-granny night, if I recall correctly.’ He smiled at a hazy memory.

‘I’m nearly a granny,’ Angela revealed.

They had taken their drinks into the conservatory. Henry had gone for his usual, Stella; Angela, a red wine.

He almost choked on his. ‘What?’ he asked incredulously.

‘My daughter’s pregnant.’

‘Well, ma’am, I’m sorry — but you don’t look anything like a granny.’

She smiled at the compliment.

After a slight pause, he asked, ‘So, what’s your story?’

She considered the question. ‘OK — whirlwind tour of life: preggers at sixteen to a bastard who did a runner. Gave birth to a daughter, who I adore; joined West Yorkshire Police at nineteen; did an OU degree in my spare time — and that was tough — then worked my way up through the ranks. Hard graft, but my parents were — are — brill and now it’s kind of worked out, with one exception. The guy I married, also a cop, couldn’t handle me. He upped and left, quite a while back now,’ she said wistfully. ‘No one of any note since.’

Henry sipped his lager, which, after the day he’d had, tasted amazing.

‘You still live over the Pennines?’

‘With Mum and Dad, yeah … but when I got this job, the constabulary paid for a rental house just around the corner. Twelve months, so I’ve still a bit of time to get sorted. Rent? Buy? Not sure yet, see how it pans out.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ll see, but I’m actually looking forward to being a gran, all things considered.’

‘Well, you get a wow from me.’ Henry held up his pint and she chinked her wine glass against it.

‘And I’m looking forward to the week ahead. Should be interesting.’

‘What do you see yourself doing?’

‘Helping you out. Going out, making some inquiries, maybe arresting someone? That’d be great. It’s a long time since I’ve been involved in anything like this and I’m going to play — especially as I don’t have anything to do with Condoleezza Rice’s visit to Blackburn this week. That’s the chief’s baby — and ACC Ops.’ The visit had nothing to do with Henry either, for which he was pleased. Such events were a pain and best avoided. He and his Special Projects team had quality assured the operational order for the event, but that was as far as his involvement went. ‘And if it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t be investigating Eddie Daley.’

‘I realize that. I take it you approve of me just keeping a lid on the investigation — dot the i’s, cross the t’s?’

‘Well, yeah,’ she admitted with a twitch of her nose which Henry found quite appealing. ‘But an arrest would be a bonus.’